Page 73 of The Frozen River

“That is why the good Lord gave me two eyes in the first place,” she says with a grin. “It’s you I pity.”

“How so?”

“You’ve got four children of age down there, and only half the eyes needed to keep track of them.”

“Ephraim is here.”

She laughs. “But as usual, he only has eyes for you.”

Abigail isn’t wrong. I can feel the heat of my husband’s gaze as he moves through the mill, and when I look to him, he greets me with a ready smile.

On the other side of the room, Barnabas whispers something to John Cowan. He no more looks like a musician than I a pirate, yet he climbs onto the stump, sets bow to strings with an exquisite gentleness, and begins to play. The tune that rises is every bit as lovely as the one Barnabas finished a few moments ago, though slower.

I recognize “Whiskey for Breakfast” after the first few notes. My father once told me that the song was an ode to those who stayed up so late that they, quite literally, had their whiskey before their breakfast. And based on the determined look in Barnabas’s eyes, I see that he requested it on purpose. He flexes his fingers as he moves around the edge of the room toward Dolly. Her eyes light up at the sight of him.

And there it is, the ask.

Barnabas bows and holds out his hand in question.

Dolly curtsies and receives it.

And then they melt into the crowd of dancers, her arm around his neck and his hand at her waist.

Clever boy, I think.

After watching them dance for a moment, I leave Abigail and return to the main floor and go to stand beside the wide double doors, hoping for a draft to cool me down. When Ephraim sneaks up behind me and kisses me below my ear, I startle, then lean against him when he laughs.

“How long has it been?” I ask.

“Since what?”

“Since we last hosted one of these.”

“Hmm.” He presses his chin against my temple. “Must have been when Lucy was being courted by that Town boy.”

That Town boy, I think. Aaron Town is his name, but my husband has never forgiven “that Town boy” for getting his daughter pregnant out of wedlock. He’d married her well in time for the birth, of course. They were in love, after all. But Ephraim remains inflexibly old-fashioned about such matters. “Do not take what doesn’t belong to you,” he has lectured our sons on endless occasions. I don’t have the heart to tell him that—in one case, at least—I suspect the lectures have been in vain.

“Would have been sooner if your sons could be bothered to court someone.”

“They’re mine now, are they?”

“Only seems fair we trade off taking the blame.”

It’s hard to find anyone in the swirling crowd, but eventually I see Jonathan’s bobbing head and then the flash of Sally Pierce’s auburn hair. She has worn it down tonight, and it gleams in the lamplight. As usual, she looks at him with those ridiculous mooning eyes.

“Sally’s convinced him to give her one dance, at least.”

Her cheeks are round and her smile bright. Sally is a lovely girl. Tall but not towering. Buxom. And I notice that her gown has been cut to enhance these assets instead of her waistline.

“It’s not the first dance,” Ephraim tells me. “That’s the third. You haven’t been paying attention.”

“It’s not Sally I’ve been looking for.”

“Who then?”

“Sarah White.”

Ephraim puts his hands on my hips and turns me around to face him. “I thought you weren’t going to meddle?”