he had planted that thick-limbed apple tree capable of bearing such an amazing bounty.
We reached Marigold’s back door and I was glad to go inside. Not that it bothered me to be with Mr. Abraham. There was something very peaceful about him, but at the same time now strangely intense.
Marigold had places set very cheerily with cups and plates and a teapot ready and on the table. Eliza sat prim and still as if taking tea were an everyday occurrence for her. Mr. Abraham seated himself, and Marigold happily served generous slices of her pie as I filled each cup with the fragrant blend that somehow reminded me of flowers.
“What have you put in the tea this time?” Mr. Abraham inquired gently. “It doesn’t smell quite normal.”
“Rosehips. And they’re perfectly kosher, so don’t question me. I checked.”
“Just curious,” he replied. “I trust you, good neighbor. Don’t doubt.”
I took a sip of my tea and watched them, fascinated.
“It’s a very good-looking pie,” Mr. Abraham continued. “The same as the last time?”
Marigold smiled, almost mischievously. “Of course not. The last one was cherry. Your memory fails you.”
“You know that’s not what I mean.” He lifted his fork.
“Of course it’s the same,” Marigold acquiesced. “I learned the kosher pastry from Mrs. Liebwitz just as you suggested. I haven’t even any lard in the house anymore. At least not today, so you needn’t worry.”
“Just curious, as I said before.” He took a generous bite, winking at Eliza at the same time. “Did I hear someone say memory fails you? Did you remember the sugar?”
“Yes!” Eliza was quick in answer. “Yes, we put in sugar. And cimmanum too.”
“You make a worthy pie, ladies. Many thanks.”
Eliza drank milk from a teacup and enjoyed a bigger piece of pie than I’d ever given her, but after all the work today she’d definitely earned it. I’d never had rosehip tea before, not even with Mother on the farm, though she’d grown roses aplenty. It was tasty, and the apple pie was even better. But the lightness of the conversation between Marigold and Mr. Abraham soon faded.
He looked at the floor for a moment and seemed to need to draw in a deep breath. “You should know that my father will return to my house early next week, or perhaps sooner. He’s not been well, and he should be where I can care for him.”
How old might Mr. Abraham’s father be? He must be ancient!
“Is he willing?” Marigold asked. “I mean, are things well between you again?” She suddenly glanced my way, then Eliza’s. “Oh, my. I’m sorry to have completely left you out of the conversation, dears. We shouldn’t be so rude.”
“Oh no. You’ve been talking to us plenty in the midst of everything,” I assured her. “But it’s your first opportunity to sit down and speak with Mr. Abraham all day. Go right ahead. We’d rather eat pie than talk right now, anyway. Right, Ellie?”
Eliza nodded and shoveled a big bite into her mouth. Mr. Abraham took another sip of tea and got around to answering Marigold’s question.
“Papa knows my heart, good neighbor. And he trusts the promise I gave him.”
Marigold stared down at her plate. “Then I suppose I’ll not see you for tea in a good long while.”
“Maybe not. He’s been very ill. When he is in my house, I should not leave his side for long.”
“Then we’ll have to bring the next pie right to your door. And apple butter, when I’ve got it made.” Aunt Mari smiled. “And jelly. Does your father like pear jelly?”
“He does.” Mr. Abraham returned the smile warmly. “Even if it is made by a Christian lady friend, though maybe it would be wise this time not to tell him so.”
By the time our tea was finished, I was sure that Mr. Abraham must be Jewish and that he and Marigold had more than purely neighborly feelings toward one another, though I was not quite sure how to define the sort of relationship they had. I had plenty of
We reached Marigold’s back door and I was glad to go inside. Not that it bothered me to be with Mr. Abraham. There was something very peaceful about him, but at the same time now strangely intense.
Marigold had places set very cheerily with cups and plates and a teapot ready and on the table. Eliza sat prim and still as if taking tea were an everyday occurrence for her. Mr. Abraham seated himself, and Marigold happily served generous slices of her pie as I filled each cup with the fragrant blend that somehow reminded me of flowers.
“What have you put in the tea this time?” Mr. Abraham inquired gently. “It doesn’t smell quite normal.”
“Rosehips. And they’re perfectly kosher, so don’t question me. I checked.”
“Just curious,” he replied. “I trust you, good neighbor. Don’t doubt.”
I took a sip of my tea and watched them, fascinated.
“It’s a very good-looking pie,” Mr. Abraham continued. “The same as the last time?”
Marigold smiled, almost mischievously. “Of course not. The last one was cherry. Your memory fails you.”
“You know that’s not what I mean.” He lifted his fork.
“Of course it’s the same,” Marigold acquiesced. “I learned the kosher pastry from Mrs. Liebwitz just as you suggested. I haven’t even any lard in the house anymore. At least not today, so you needn’t worry.”
“Just curious, as I said before.” He took a generous bite, winking at Eliza at the same time. “Did I hear someone say memory fails you? Did you remember the sugar?”
“Yes!” Eliza was quick in answer. “Yes, we put in sugar. And cimmanum too.”
“You make a worthy pie, ladies. Many thanks.”
Eliza drank milk from a teacup and enjoyed a bigger piece of pie than I’d ever given her, but after all the work today she’d definitely earned it. I’d never had rosehip tea before, not even with Mother on the farm, though she’d grown roses aplenty. It was tasty, and the apple pie was even better. But the lightness of the conversation between Marigold and Mr. Abraham soon faded.
He looked at the floor for a moment and seemed to need to draw in a deep breath. “You should know that my father will return to my house early next week, or perhaps sooner. He’s not been well, and he should be where I can care for him.”
How old might Mr. Abraham’s father be? He must be ancient!
“Is he willing?” Marigold asked. “I mean, are things well between you again?” She suddenly glanced my way, then Eliza’s. “Oh, my. I’m sorry to have completely left you out of the conversation, dears. We shouldn’t be so rude.”
“Oh no. You’ve been talking to us plenty in the midst of everything,” I assured her. “But it’s your first opportunity to sit down and speak with Mr. Abraham all day. Go right ahead. We’d rather eat pie than talk right now, anyway. Right, Ellie?”
Eliza nodded and shoveled a big bite into her mouth. Mr. Abraham took another sip of tea and got around to answering Marigold’s question.
“Papa knows my heart, good neighbor. And he trusts the promise I gave him.”
Marigold stared down at her plate. “Then I suppose I’ll not see you for tea in a good long while.”
“Maybe not. He’s been very ill. When he is in my house, I should not leave his side for long.”
“Then we’ll have to bring the next pie right to your door. And apple butter, when I’ve got it made.” Aunt Mari smiled. “And jelly. Does your father like pear jelly?”
“He does.” Mr. Abraham returned the smile warmly. “Even if it is made by a Christian lady friend, though maybe it would be wise this time not to tell him so.”
By the time our tea was finished, I was sure that Mr. Abraham must be Jewish and that he and Marigold had more than purely neighborly feelings toward one another, though I was not quite sure how to define the sort of relationship they had. I had plenty of
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