Chapter Fifteen
Amy watched, trying to hide a smile, as Maggie enthusiastically stirred far more batter onto the table than into the bowl. Beside her, Noah carefully measured flour into a cup before leveling it with the back of a knife like she’d showed him, concentrating on being as precise as possible.
Amy smiled despite herself. A few weeks ago, she'd struggled to bake anything fit for supper, but practice and two determined little helpers had made the kitchen feel far less intimidating.
"Easy, Maggie," she laughed, steadying the bowl before it slid across the table.
Maggie looked up innocently. "I was helping."
"You certainly were."
Noah added the butter to the mix with quiet focus while Amy mixed the apples with cinnamon and sugar, letting a comfortable rhythm settle over the kitchen.
Sunlight poured through the window, warming the room until it smelled of fresh dough and apples instead of wood smoke.
Together they filled the pie shell, Maggie proudly pressing the crust with a fork while Noah watched to make sure every edge stayed neat.
Noah rested his elbows on the table and poked at the scraps of dough. "Papa said Mama used to make pies."
Amy looked over with a smile as he brought up Sarah. That hadn’t happened as often in the last few weeks as it had when she first arrived. "Did he? What kind did she like to make?"
Noah frowned at the dough beneath his finger. "I don't know." He thought about it a little longer before giving a small shrug. "I can't remember."
Maggie stopped rolling her little ball of dough and looked up. "D’you think Mama made apple pie?"
Noah tilted his head in thought. "Maybe."
"You said she made honey cakes," Maggie insisted, certain she'd caught him making a mistake.
"Maybe she made both." Noah looked less certain now. "Or... maybe Papa made the honey cakes." His forehead wrinkled as he searched for the answer. "I don't know anymore."
Amy's heart pinched at the look on his face. He wanted so badly to remember, but Noah had been so young during those memories. Yet he looked almost ashamed that the memories kept slipping through his fingers.
Maggie turned hopeful eyes toward Amy. "D’you think Mama liked apples?"
Amy dried her hands on her apron while she searched for words gentle enough to answer.
Sarah had become part of the house through little pieces left behind, like her name inside a well-loved book and a faded ribbon tucked into the back of a drawer.
But Amy didn’t have the memories to answer a question like that.
"I never had the chance to meet your mama," Amy said, pulling Maggie's chair a little closer. "But I wish I had." Maggie nodded solemnly, as though she wished the same thing. "I do know she loved books," Amy continued. "Caleb gave me one that used to belong to her."
Maggie's face brightened. "The green one?"
Amy smiled at her. "That's the one."
Maggie's lower lip wobbled as she stared at the uneven ball of dough resting between her palms. Amy's heart squeezed so sharply it almost stole her breath. No child should have to ask a stranger what her own mother had been like. Maggie was mourning not just the memories she wouldn’t have in the future, but the ones that had never been given to her in the first place, and there wasn't a single thing Amy could do to hand them back.
“She went away before I knew her,” Maggie whispered.
Amy set the pie plate aside and crouched beside her chair, brushing a streak of flour from the little girl's cheek. Maggie leaned into the touch immediately, trusting her in that simple, thoughtless way children did when they believed they were safe.
“You might not be able to see her,” Amy said softly. “But that doesn’t mean she isn’t a part of you.”
Maggie's eyes filled with disappointment. “So…I'll never know her?”
“You'll know her,” Amy said gently. “Just differently.”
Maggie frowned.
Amy smiled gently at her. "Noah remembers things about her. So does Caleb. Russ does, too. Every person who loved your mama carries a little piece of her, and they'll share those pieces with you."
Maggie looked toward Noah. "Mama smelled like roses," he said quietly.
Amy squeezed her hand. "See? That's yours now."
Amy felt her throat tighten. She hoped with everything in her that these children would never have to wonder whether they belonged to the people who loved them.
Silence settled comfortably between them until Noah spoke again. “Mama sang when she made bread.”
Amy looked toward him. “What did she sing?”
He scrunched his face while he searched for the answer. “…I don't remember.” His nose wrinkled with frustration. “It was about a river...I think. She forgot part of it sometimes. But Papa said she sang real pretty.”
Maggie listened carefully, smiling now.
“Papa used to lift me up so I could touch the beam in the barn,” Noah added. “He said I’d reach it myself before long.”
“You nearly can,” Maggie said with loyal certainty.
Noah looked toward the ceiling, as if measuring the distance in his mind. “But…Papa won’t see it when I do....”
The grief in his words sent another pang through Amy’s heart.
She placed her hands on the table for a moment, gathering the courage to offer part of herself in return.
“When my father died,” she said quietly, “I kept thinking about all the things I wanted to tell him. Every happy moment reminded me he wasn’t there to see it, and I felt terribly lonely. ”
Noah and Maggie watched her closely, listening without speaking.
“My mother and I talked about him often,” Amy continued.
“We told stories, laughed over little things he used to do, and somehow that made him feel close to us again. Missing him never really stopped, but talking about him made it easier to carry.” She smiled gently at them. “That’s how love stays with us.”
Noah looked down. “ I keep forgetting things.”
Amy reached across the table and rested her hand beside his. “That doesn’t mean you’ve lost your parents,” she said softly. “Love isn’t measured by how much you remember.”
As they talked, Amy guided Maggie through making the final marks along the crust, and they cut two narrow openings near the center so steam could escape. Noah helped clean by brushing the loose flour from the table while Amy lifted the pie toward the stove.
Faint movement near the doorway caught her attention. Caleb stood with one shoulder against the frame, his hat hanging from his hand while his gaze moved between Noah and Maggie.
Heat rose along her face as she wondered whether he had heard her speak about people showing love through actions. Caleb had an unfortunate talent for appearing whenever her thoughts wandered too close to him, and she prepared herself for a teasing remark.
Maggie noticed him and brightened right away. “We made pie!”
Caleb stepped farther into the kitchen, and his worried gaze settled on Amy before moving toward the pan in her hands. “I could smell it from the yard.”
Amy opened the stove door and slid the pie onto the rack, grateful for the task because it gave her an excuse to look away from him. “That may have been the cinnamon, although Maggie insists the sugar deserves equal credit.”
“I checked it,” Maggie explained.
"Smells nice," Caleb told them all with a smile.
Amy blinked, surprised by the simple compliment. "Thank you. "She held his gaze as warmth spread through her, and she understood that there was more to his compliment than what he’d said.
The kitchen carried the scent of apples and cinnamon as Noah began gathering the bowls, and Maggie explained exactly where Eloise planned to sit during supper.
Caleb remained near the doorway, watching them as though he had returned to a house he barely recognized.
Amy turned toward the table before he could see how deeply his smile had affected her, although she carried its warmth long after he returned outside to continue the chores.