drawn instantly into the bright, bright summer day in front of him.
Grandfather shook his head. "We have work to do before your mother cal s us for dinner."
"Yes, sir."
The old man turned to go, muttering to himself.
"Grandpa?" Henry fol owed him down the steps. "What about a game of checkers?"
"Why, I haven't the time for that foolishness at the moment," the old man answered, with a wave of his hand.
"Just one game," Henry said. Even if he did know al of Grandpa's moves, checkers was one way to pass the time and, hopeful y, not think of Amy.
"Tonight after supper, perhaps," Grandpa said. "Not now. We've got more peas to pick."
"Yes, sir."
Henry walked out into the garden, through the rows and rows of trel ised peas, but his eyes were on the path to the clearing. He picked bushel after bushel of the pods. He picked until his hands were dirty and sticky and the sun was high, and then he turned to weeding the potato hil s.
He put off the mowing, unable to stand the idea of being disappointed by Amy's not coming to see him. When the cal came for dinner, he was glad.
After the ham, potato salad, and fresh greens, Henry was nearly stuffed. He forced himself to lift a last bite of leftover birthday cake to his mouth. Vanil a icebox melted on his tongue, the fluffy frosting light and sweet—cloyingly sweet.
"Those were some good groceries," Grandpa said with a nod to Mother. "And now, if you'l please excuse me, folks, the porch is cal ing."
"Thank you, Mother. That dinner was fine," Henry said, breaking the silence that fel at the table.
Mother studied Henry, taking a sip of tea and leaning back in her chair. She gave him an encouraging smile. "Are you going to tel me, son?
Who was she?"
Henry dropped his fork. It glanced off his plate and clattered to the ground. He fumbled for it. "What do you mean?"
"The girl with you the other day in the yard. Strange girl. I was half asleep in my chair. Thought she was a dream at first. I meant to ask you, but it slipped my mind."
Henry stared down at his plate. It was the everyday china, the set with blue flowers. He studied the intricate petals, the twining greenery. His mind raced as he realized that not only had Mother seen Amy—she'd also remembered her.
"Beautiful little gal," his mother continued. "Is she visiting family here?"
Of course Mother would ask that. Al of her life she'd lived here in the val ey, and for people like Mother, the world started and ended in these Cascade foothil s, at the river's headwaters. Here in the val ey they had everything they needed. It was a world unto itself.
People talked the same, cooked the same food, lived the same hard-working lives. To them, there was nothing outside the val ey, and no reason for an outsider to appear, other than to visit a relative. And that was how Henry had thought, too—until Amy.
"She's a new girl," he said, not wanting to lie to his mother.
Her forehead wrinkled and her blue eyes widened with interest. "She's staying with kin up here? Do we know them, son?"
He shook his head. "Moved up with her aunt," he said, "but she's new around here, too." He touched his napkin to his lips and then set it next to his empty plate.
"You know, son, the poor dear could use some new clothes," his mother said. "Maybe the pastor's wife and I could put together a basket of things for the family next Sunday."
Henry tried not to show alarm. "No, no. That's an awful y nice thought, Mother, but it's not necessary," he said in a gentle voice.
"Wel , a girl that pretty can't go through life looking like a ragamuffin."
Henry just nodded.
"Wil you tel me why you didn't ask her to stay for supper?" she said. She poured herself another cup of tea and reached for the honey jar.
"Thought I raised you better than that, Henry."
"Mother, she couldn't stay. She's shy, anyway."
"I only meant it would be nice for you to have a friend's company, son."
"I just saw Leon when school let out," he said, wincing with the memory of his
Grandfather shook his head. "We have work to do before your mother cal s us for dinner."
"Yes, sir."
The old man turned to go, muttering to himself.
"Grandpa?" Henry fol owed him down the steps. "What about a game of checkers?"
"Why, I haven't the time for that foolishness at the moment," the old man answered, with a wave of his hand.
"Just one game," Henry said. Even if he did know al of Grandpa's moves, checkers was one way to pass the time and, hopeful y, not think of Amy.
"Tonight after supper, perhaps," Grandpa said. "Not now. We've got more peas to pick."
"Yes, sir."
Henry walked out into the garden, through the rows and rows of trel ised peas, but his eyes were on the path to the clearing. He picked bushel after bushel of the pods. He picked until his hands were dirty and sticky and the sun was high, and then he turned to weeding the potato hil s.
He put off the mowing, unable to stand the idea of being disappointed by Amy's not coming to see him. When the cal came for dinner, he was glad.
After the ham, potato salad, and fresh greens, Henry was nearly stuffed. He forced himself to lift a last bite of leftover birthday cake to his mouth. Vanil a icebox melted on his tongue, the fluffy frosting light and sweet—cloyingly sweet.
"Those were some good groceries," Grandpa said with a nod to Mother. "And now, if you'l please excuse me, folks, the porch is cal ing."
"Thank you, Mother. That dinner was fine," Henry said, breaking the silence that fel at the table.
Mother studied Henry, taking a sip of tea and leaning back in her chair. She gave him an encouraging smile. "Are you going to tel me, son?
Who was she?"
Henry dropped his fork. It glanced off his plate and clattered to the ground. He fumbled for it. "What do you mean?"
"The girl with you the other day in the yard. Strange girl. I was half asleep in my chair. Thought she was a dream at first. I meant to ask you, but it slipped my mind."
Henry stared down at his plate. It was the everyday china, the set with blue flowers. He studied the intricate petals, the twining greenery. His mind raced as he realized that not only had Mother seen Amy—she'd also remembered her.
"Beautiful little gal," his mother continued. "Is she visiting family here?"
Of course Mother would ask that. Al of her life she'd lived here in the val ey, and for people like Mother, the world started and ended in these Cascade foothil s, at the river's headwaters. Here in the val ey they had everything they needed. It was a world unto itself.
People talked the same, cooked the same food, lived the same hard-working lives. To them, there was nothing outside the val ey, and no reason for an outsider to appear, other than to visit a relative. And that was how Henry had thought, too—until Amy.
"She's a new girl," he said, not wanting to lie to his mother.
Her forehead wrinkled and her blue eyes widened with interest. "She's staying with kin up here? Do we know them, son?"
He shook his head. "Moved up with her aunt," he said, "but she's new around here, too." He touched his napkin to his lips and then set it next to his empty plate.
"You know, son, the poor dear could use some new clothes," his mother said. "Maybe the pastor's wife and I could put together a basket of things for the family next Sunday."
Henry tried not to show alarm. "No, no. That's an awful y nice thought, Mother, but it's not necessary," he said in a gentle voice.
"Wel , a girl that pretty can't go through life looking like a ragamuffin."
Henry just nodded.
"Wil you tel me why you didn't ask her to stay for supper?" she said. She poured herself another cup of tea and reached for the honey jar.
"Thought I raised you better than that, Henry."
"Mother, she couldn't stay. She's shy, anyway."
"I only meant it would be nice for you to have a friend's company, son."
"I just saw Leon when school let out," he said, wincing with the memory of his
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