38. George
George
July’s sweltering weather kept my bedroom windows flung open to any passing breeze.
The dark of night provided a brief reprieve from the oppressive heat.
But the tricky darkness sent soft sounds skittering through my window.
My imagination envisioned Sarah as the cause of every single one.
Fragments of her singing floated across the gap in Latin or Italian, so I only understood bits and pieces. Yet I strained to catch every word.
My sleep was viscous with dreams.
She was everywhere and nowhere. Haunting me. My own blasted ghost of mistakes past…
Viola and I had been home for more than three weeks.
In all that time, Sarah had not looked at me.
Not even by accident. Not once. She’d walked past me with Viola.
So close that I shivered from the iciness of her dislike.
But she didn’t glare. That would’ve required looking at me.
She went walking and biking again with the oaf in the park, though I also saw Higs walking with Tessa Milton more than once—maybe all was not lost.
After hours at my desk, I climbed to Father’s office via the furnace-like stairwell.
If I could convince him to throw a dinner party, it might provide an opportunity for my long-overdue apology to Sarah.
Sweat trickled down my back beneath my linen shirt.
My lucky pennies jingled in my pocket. I pushed out of the stairwell, and Mrs. Kirkegard nodded me toward Father’s half-open door.
I knocked as I entered.
“George.” He glanced up from where he leaned over his desk, proofing the first copy of this week’s paper before the full print run. His shirtsleeves were rolled up past his elbows.
I moved to stand next to him.
He took a half step to the side. We looked down at the Star together. He handed me a pen and tapped the right half of the page.
I scanned the print, eyes sharp for any error. “Jacob will be here in a week.”
Father moved his finger down the left half of the page and asked, “You think he can do it?”
I considered the two days I’d spent with Jacob in Harmony Lake, Minnesota.
Even if he hadn’t rescued Viola when she fell off the train, I would have liked him.
But plenty of likable folks can’t talk themselves out of a paper bag.
Jacob wasn’t one of them. He drew me in with the weave of his stories.
“He’s got a gift,” I said. “Natural talent for putting words together.”
Father’s finger reached the bottom of his side of the page, and he waited for my nod. He turned the page, and my lifestyle section covered the desk before us.
He said, “He’s a young cub. No experience.”
“The real question is, will he do it?”
Father pinned me briefly with his steely gaze, then turned to the next page after a cursory glance at my page. “We owe him and his family for all they did for Viola. But if he’s not up to snuff, we can’t keep him on payroll out of gratitude.” His finger moved down the next page.
“I know. But sometimes you’ve got to take a chance on someone. Go with your gut.” I skimmed over my side.
“That you do.” He turned another page, which we reviewed in silence. Turning to the next page, he asked, “Did you tell Viola about it before she left?”
“Nah. She was too focused on her trip to Uncle’s farm. Didn’t want to distract her from planning her visit to his Wisconsin paradise.” However, I did make her promise to stay inside our train car until Uncle picked her up. No chance for her to get lost again. For once, she agreed without arguing.
“Probably good she doesn’t know. Might have influenced his decision.”
“She does like to control everything. But she’ll be back before he leaves.” Hopefully, it would be a happy surprise for her to find Jacob visiting from Minnesota.
Father asked, “Think there might be something between them? She spoke highly of him.”
I laughed. “Would serve her right to fall in love while she fled from the whole idea. Yet… I got that sense. The hint of a beginning. But I’m no expert.”
“No such expert exists, my boy. We make it up as we go.” He flipped to the last page. “Time will tell. I must say I’m looking forward to meeting this poet-farmer.”
I leaned my hip onto the edge of the desk and folded my arms. “I like him. Bet you will, too.”
He nodded. “Did you need something?”
“I’m wondering if we should throw a dinner party on Jacob’s last night with us.
If so, we need to start that ball rolling.
” The nonchalance in my voice made it seem like the idea had only just occurred to me—no hint that I’d been brooding over it for days.
Whoever heard of throwing a party because a woman wouldn’t look at you…
Father scanned to the bottom of the back page. “Good idea. You do it. Warm up for planning the banquet.” He called out to Mrs. Kirkegard, “Send word downstairs. We are a go.”
A party.
And Sarah.
Yes—we are a go.