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Mama sighed. “Please have your father catch a ride to town with Gil. I need to go home.”
“All right, Mama. I’ll tell him after you’re in the carriage.”
As Ava helped her mother onto the seat, she wondered how much of her mother’s exhaustion was due to reliving the daysAnton’s and Rupert’s caskets were placed in the ground. Ava had hardly taken a full breath since her family arrived at the church this morning for Miss Dirks’s funeral. Now, with the burial complete, Ava could breathe again. But her chest still ached. For Timmy. For Mama and Papa. Even for herself. She believed what the Bible said, that death for the believer was merely a glorious new beginning that would last for eternity. But death for the ones left behind gave a different kind of beginning—a beginning of mourning without a true end despite the hope of being reunited one day.
She patted her mother’s hand. “I’ll go tell Papa you want to go home, and then I’ll be right back.”
As she made her way across the short-cropped grass, her gaze roved across the small, somber group remaining near the graveside. Mr. Willems held Timmy’s hand, Gil on Timmy’s other side with his arm around the boy’s narrow shoulder. Reverend Ediger stood at the foot of the hole, the pages of his open Bible rustling in the mild breeze, watching Papa and two other men transfer shovelfuls of dirt from the mound onto the coffin. Such a picture of finality. She knew the image would sear itself into her heart.
She shouldn’t interrupt Papa in his mournful task, so she went to Gil, carefully avoiding looking into the hole. “Mama needs to go home and rest.” She whispered, unwilling to break the reverence of the setting. “Can Papa ride back with you and Mr. Willems when the dinner is over?”
“Jo.” Gil also whispered, his dark brown eyes sending a silent message of heartache. “Does this mean you plan to stay with your mother and not come to the church?”
Ava glanced back at Mama, who sat slumped in the seat, her head low. “I think it best.”
Gil couldn’t touch her without removing his hand fromTimmy, but his tender expression was like a gentle brush of his fingers on her cheek. “I’ll see you later.”
She offered a sad smile, then hurried to Mama. They were silent on the ride home, and Mama retired to her bedroom after informing Ava she wasn’t hungry. Ava changed from her dark dress into something cheerier, then fixed herself a simple lunch she didn’t eat. While she waited for Papa and Gil, she stitched gold braiding onto the front of one of the jackets—the one Mrs. Plett had sewn for Timmy.
A picture of Timmy clinging tight to Mr. Willems’s hand at the graveside flooded Ava’s mind. The boy had become very attached to Mr. Willems, and the man clearly cared about the boy. She understood Mr. Willems’s feelings about Timmy going to a home with both a mother and father, but she couldn’t help wondering if taking the child away from his good friend would do more harm than good, given what he’d already lost. She intended to speak to Gil about it. Perhaps Gil could convince Mr. Willems to raise Timmy after all.
She bit the thread that secured the braiding from the shoulder to the waist. As it snapped, she heard the connecting door from the barn open. She laid the jacket and needle aside and crossed to the hallway. Papa was coming in, followed by Gil and Timmy.
Papa briefly embraced her and delivered a kiss on her forehead. “Is your mother resting?”
Ava nodded. “She hasn’t stirred since we got back.”
“Let her sleep as long as she wants.” Papa’s eyes seemed haunted, no doubt plagued by the same thoughts that had troubled Mama at the cemetery. “I need to deliver the mail.” He held his hand to Timmy who stood looking bereft and uncertain beside Gil. “Timmy, I could use your help. Would you come with me on the route?”
Timmy glanced up, and Gil put his hand on Timmy’s head. “I think you should go. Then Mr. Flaming won’t be alone.” He leaned down and whispered, “He’s feeling sad, too. You’ll be a comfort to him.”
Timmy squared his skinny shoulders. “Jo, Mr. Flaming. I will go.” He took hold of Papa’s hand, and the two walked out together.
Ava waited until her father had latched the door behind him, then she turned to Gil. “You’re so good with him, Gil.”
Gil slid his fingers along his sling’s edge. “Jo, well, he reminds me a little of myself when I lost my folks, how he needs someone to pay attention to him and make him feel wanted. He’s a good boy. I don’t want him to feel unloved.”
She touched his sleeve. “He is loved. And so are you.”
His tender smile thanked her.
She returned to Mama’s parlor chair, and Gil followed. He sat in Papa’s chair, leaned back, and sighed. “We missed our marching practice this week. But since Herman brings Earl to town every day with the goat cart, we’ll be able to march tomorrow. Then I’ll ask the boys if they can come an hour early on Thursday and Friday for some extra rehearsing on our”—he flicked a wary glance at her—“other song.”
Ava picked up the gold embroidery thread, snipped a length, and threaded the needle. “What are the boys playing for their second song?”
“One of my compositions.” Gil seemed fascinated by the line of connected loops alongside the braid trim. “You’re doing an excellent job with the embellishments, Ava. But then, I knew you would. Has it been difficult for you to get them all done in such a short amount of time?”
She frowned slightly. “No more difficult than it’s been for you, fitting in so many practices.”
“Ach…” He flapped his good hand as if shooing a fly. “It’s not so hard. But I still worry about how it will go. A conductor’s left hand is meant for dynamics and the right for tempo. Without both, the heart of the music suffers. Right now, the song is only half what it could be. I need to hold my baton in order to give the song the life it deserves.”
Ava paused and frowned at Gil, something niggling in the back of her mind. “Gil, are you unable to move your arm at all?”
He slipped his arm from its sling and then bent it at the elbow, raising his hand high. “My arm isn’t the problem. My wrist and fingers are what’s tricky.” He curled his fingers, grimacing. “It’s getting better, but it still hurts too much to keep my hand clasped around something small.”
“Like a baton,” she said.
“Jo.”
