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Papa glanced at Mama, who shrugged, and he took the tray. “Very well. Thank you. The men will enjoy this.”
When Ava finished cleaning the kitchen, she told her mother she intended to spend the evening in her room, reading.
Mama raised one brow. “Don’t you mean sulking?”
“I’ve spent every evening for the past several weeks stitching the boys’ jackets.” Defensiveness and no small amount of irritation exposed itself with her tone. “Now that they’re done, am I not allowed some time to relax?”
“Jo, you’re allowed.” Mama spoke as sharply as Ava had. She flicked her fingers at her. “So go. Read your Bible while you’re in there. I suggest 1 Corinthians 13. You need the reminder.”
Stung by her mother’s apparent lack of sympathy, Ava went to her room. She bypassed her nightstand where her Bible lay and chose a novel from the few books on the scrolled shelf hanging on the wall. But the story failed to capture her attention. She laid it aside and stared out the window at the distantprairie. Its emptiness reflected the aching emptiness she felt inside.
She rose from her chair and paced the small space, remembering the pain of the first weeks after Gil left for New York. How long had it taken her to accept he was gone? Months, at least. And now she would experience that agony yet again. How foolish she’d been to allow him into her life a second time. Hadn’t he and Joseph both told her that he wouldn’t stay? And she’d offered him her heart anyway.
She stopped and glared at her Bible, directing her anger not at the Book but at its Author. “I asked You to remove this love for Gil from my heart, and instead You let it flourish. Why must You be so cruel?”
Charity suffereth long, and is kind…Doth not behave itself unseemly, seeketh not her own…
She covered her ears, a ridiculous attempt to silence the voice in her head reciting familiar words from the chapter Mama had suggested. But it wouldn’t hush.
Charity never faileth…
She sat on the edge of her bed and put her face in her hands. She whispered, “Nä, God, You are wrong. Sometimes it does…”
—
Over the nextweek, Gil knocked at the front door two or three times a day. If Mama was sleeping, Ava pretended she didn’t hear. But if Mama was awake, Mama answered the door and shared a few quiet words with him, and then he went away. Although Mama didn’t do any more scolding, Ava felt her mother’s disapproval.
On the Friday before the competition in McPherson, Gilreturned for a third time that day. Ava finally stomped to the door and flung it wide to find Gil standing there. His sling was gone, and he held his hat against his front with his right hand. For a moment, delight rose within her that he was able to securely grasp the hat brim. Apparently his wrist had healed in time for the End of Harvest celebration, as they’d prayed it would. But then she deliberately squashed the fleeting joy.
“When will you give up?” she said in her sharpest voice.
“Not ever,” he said, his voice raspy and his unblinking eyes pinned on her face. “I love you too much to give up.”
The sweetness of his words flowed over her, and she inwardly strained to accept them, believe them, cherish them. But the hurt of him using their song to determine his future returned. She drew herself as tall as she could. “What are the boys playing tomorrow?”
His attention didn’t waver. “The marching song they played at the Fourth of July…and the one I call ‘Ava’s Song.’ ”
She closed her eyes for a moment, struggling against a wave of bitter anguish. When she opened them, he was holding out a folded piece of paper. She glared at it. “What’s this?”
“Take it, please.”
She crossed her arms.
“Please, Ava?”
Why must he be so appealing? And so obstinate. She shook her head and tightened her arms across her aching chest. “Gil, I don’t understand how you can have the boys play that song for strangers. You wrote it as a gift to me. That’s what you said when you played it for me and then asked me to marry you.”
“It is your gift, Ava. I—”
“You took back your proposal.” She spoke loudly, drowning out his voice. “It took years, but I came to understand. Toaccept that going to New York was right for you. But then you came back, and I fell in love with you all over again, and I thought you fell in love with me.”
“I did!” He still held the paper, and he crushed it in his hand. “I never stopped loving you, Ava.”
“But you love music more! You want success more than you want to please me!” The hurt in his eyes nearly undid her. She glared at the crumpled note in his hand. “Nothing written on that paper will convince me otherwise. Playing that song at the competition means it belongs to the judges whose decision will determine whether you stay or go. It’s not mine anymore.”
He hung his head, then stood silent and motionless before her. She waited for him to speak, to defend himself, and when he didn’t, she started to close the door.
“Are you coming to the End of Harvest celebration?”
