January arrived cold and hard and long. Margaret was still at her pie table every Sunday. She had started taking orders now. Special requests, specific flavors, things people wanted for occasions. Agnes's daughter had asked to watch her bake one Saturday afternoon, and Margaret had said yes.
And the girl had stood in the kitchen for 3 hours asking questions and writing answers in her own small notebook with the seriousness of an apprentice. And Margaret had taught her the cold butter rule and the not stretching rule, and three other things her mother had known that she had been carrying alone for years. It felt good to pass them on. It felt good in the specific way that things felt good when they were right. Not exciting, not loud, just settled.
Correct. February brought snow. That meant the Sunday market moved inside to the church hall, which was smaller and warmer and packed with people who were glad of it. And Margaret set up her table along the east wall and sold out faster than she ever had outdoors because the smells had nowhere to go. and they simply accumulated in that hall until the whole room smelled of her kitchen and people bought things they hadn't planned to buy because the smell had made the decision for them before their minds caught up. Nathan came that Sunday at his usual time.
He bought two pies he paid. He stood at the edge of her table in the warm crowded hall and he said, "Walk with me a minute." She looked at the table. Two women were approaching. She held up one finger in their direction just one moment and they nodded and she stepped around the table and walked with Nathan to a quieter corner of the hall near the side door where the noise was lower.
He said, "I want to say the thing now." She looked at him. He said, "I've been showing you for 4 months. I think you know what I mean, but I want to say it plainly because you deserve to hear it plainly." He held her gaze the way he held it when he was serious, without evasion, without decoration.
I love you, Margaret. I love the way you show up when it would be easier not to. I love the way you answer a question like it deserves a real answer. I love that you gave my daughter a cold butter rule and changed the way she understood what she was capable of. He stopped.
Let that land. I want to marry you. I want you in that house with the east window. I want Sunday mornings with you in the kitchen and the girls coming in and out and the whole rest of whatever time I get a breath. I have the farmhouse deed in my coat pocket.