“You best dish up.” Ida fetched two more plates.
Aven did just that and carried her own portion into the great room that was aglow with the warmth of a sinking sun. The men sat scattered around, busy forks glinting in the early-evening light.
So they didn’t eat at a table. Nor say grace. Might it have been different when Dorothe was here?
Haakon sat on the sofa, and with the opposite end empty, Aven moved that way. Ida sank into her rocking chair and it creaked when she pushed it in slow rhythm. As they ate, Haakon made small talk with both of them, stopping only to fetch a second helping in the kitchen.
Thor fetched another as well, piling up his plate twice as full as Aven had done. Gripping it with one hand, he headed outside. After watching him go, Aven turned her focus back to her meal. ’Twas strange, eating this way. As a young girl she’d grown accustomed to dining alone in her mother’s room. Then in later years, amid the rhythmic clatter of scraping benches and dented plates as hundreds of people dined in poor fashion at the workhouse on watery stirabout and stale bread. Never enough to dent the void in their bellies.
The workhouse walls but a recollection now, Aven ate slowly, guilt tapping her shoulder at this fortune. It was so much for one person. Flooding her memory were hollow eyes and faces, especially those of the orphans who had lined many narrow benches. But Aven could no sooner wing them some of this abundance than she could return herself.
She prayed, instead, as she ate—for those faces. The young ones she’d watched suffer and fade as she had once done until a boat builder had freed her from that place. Benn, with his Norwegian words that she hadn’t been able to understand. But she had understood the simple ring he’d slid onto her finger, and the knowledge that it was her freedom.
Ida’s voice broke her from the memories. “Don’t you think about touchin’ a thing when you’re done.” She rose from her rocking chair. “You saw to this fine meal and I’ll see to the rest.” Her steps, while sure, were uneven, one of her legs seeming to bear pain she didn’t voice. The kind woman took up Aven’s empty plate.
“You’re certain?”
“Out with ya. Enjoy some of this fine air. Lord knows you’ve been breathing dust all the day through.”
With a gentle summer breeze trickling in from the nearest window, the notion of an evening stroll was tempting enough not to argue. The men had asked that she stay near to the house, so Aven would do just that. She thanked Ida, fetched a lantern from a side table, and carried it out into the growing dusk.
From the massive cider barn came the gentle sounds of a man at work. A tool clanged. Something heavy shifted. Hinges creaked. Thor in his world, as Jorgan had put it. Ducking her head, Aven strode past. Spotting the shed Jorgan had indicated, she stepped that way, coaxed the door ajar, and slipped inside.
Kneeling in the cidery that was more sanctuary than any place he knew, Thor rolled a gallon jar of liquor away from the rest of the two-month-old batch. He uncorked the jug, tipped the mouth of it to a tumbler, and set the glass beside what was left of his supper. After a few bites of meat, he drank. The apple flavor rolled over his tongue with the perfect amount of tannin. Not too sweet and not too bitter. A kick on the back end that told him to sip slow with this batch. Even for him.
Meaning to work as he ate, Thor took another bite, then numbered the top of the jug with a charcoal pencil. His number system would look like chicken scratch to most folk, but Haakon knew all the coding—which customer it was to be delivered to. At the workbench Thor lifted his notes and read, then strode over to the shelving that ran the length of the back wall, pulled a quart of table cider down, and numbered the lid. He slid it into a crate and sprinkled sawdust around the sides.
Next on the list—the O’Mally family. If he wasn’t mistaken, their oldest girl was soon to marry, so Thor packed up as much as he thought they’d buy for the occasion. When another crate was filled, he checked his ledgers, eating some of Aven’s oddly seasoned meat as he did. Not that it wasn’t tasty. Just different.
Back at his work, it took him several trips to carry over the last eight quarts of his finest brew that was best served with ice when it was in season. Aged in old bourbon barrels that Jorgan had driven all the way to Lexington to procure, the cider fetched the highest price yet, and though the jars were nearly gone, requests always came in. Thor had to be choosy, so he numbered the tops for his best customers and made a note for Haakon to charge at least a dollar apiece. He also made a note for Jorgan to get more bourbon barrels.
Wanting to take extra care with this batch, Thor wrapped each one in newspaper before crating it. He shook out a page and clamped a jar over a printed address given by President Harrison, then rolled it up snug.
At a flash of white, Thor looked up to see the owl settling onto one of the rafters overhead. Jorgan and Haakon sometimes complained that it screeched. Thor had asked his brothers once to describe S-C-R-E-E-C-H-E-D and Haakon had said it was a sharp, painful sound. Thor always tried to imagine such a sensation whenever his visitor arrived.
Moonlight seeped in through a missing board high up in the wall, allowing the great bird to come and go as it pleased. Thor didn’t always notice the owl, so vast was the cidery. As boys, they used to ride on the rope swing hanging from the center rafter as high and wide as they wanted while Da worked.
Turning back to his supper, Thor broke off a portion of bread and chewed as he consulted his ledger. Another bite and he was glad Aven couldn’t see him wolfing down so much food. But perhaps her intentions hadn’t been to keep him hungry in the night. Likely, she was used to rationing. From the way the waistband of her skirt was folded and pinned, she’d learned to live on very little.
After tugging down his suspenders, Thor grabbed an empty crate. He set it on his workbench and loaded it with pints of table cider. The common drink had a lower alcohol content but settled well with almost any palate. It was also his least expensive variety, so even the poorest of his customers could secure a jar or two each month. Thor tapped each of the metal lids as he counted. If his sums were right, he needed to pack eighty quarts for the next distribution.
They made deliveries three times a month, and those days always made him uneasy. It was always possible that Haakon would run into trouble with that hot head of his. One of the reasons Thor made it a point to ride shotgun whenever he could. It was easier than unseating Haakon from the job; he had a canny way of bartering that always lined their pockets with a thick wad of bills. Something none of them were about to complain over.
Thor grabbed six more jars, then finished a crate and blanketed the pints with sawdust. Eyeing his chart, he marked off the recipient. He was just lifting another crate to the workbench when the door swung open.
Haakon rushed near. “We got trouble!” Grete loped beside him, nearly tripping Haakon. “Bolt the door. Come on.”
Thor did as told, then followed his brother to the house so quick, he wished he could call after Haakon as to what was wrong.
But when they stepped into the kitchen to find Ida’s sister standing there, little Georgie hiding in the folds of her skirt, he knew the trouble. Aunt Cora’s homespun dress was streaked with dirt as if having traveled in haste. Her skin, which was a shade lighter than Ida’s, was slashed across the cheek with an angry scrape. At the window Cora’s grown son and daughter weren’t faring much better. The front of Al’s shirt was soaked in sweat, and Tess checked a scrape on her brother’s neck.
So the warning was here. Confirmed in the way Haakon pulled Grete into the house and shoved her farther toward safety.