The Deepest Sigh

by Naomi Musch

  Marilla grimaced. Look what all her dreaming had come to.

  Yet...

  Yet, something had happened. Was it just his regrets from the war that made him seem different? Why had he acted toward Delia as though he had never written her that lovesick letter? What was going on with him anyway?

  The bacon she sliced sizzled in the pan, making her stomach growl. She dipped thick pieces of bread into a batter of whipped eggs and laid them in another pan, frying them golden. She warmed a pitcher of maple syrup in a pan of hot water on the back of the stove and turned to boiling coffee, fixing it rich and dark the way Lang liked it.

  Why did it even matter that she made him his favorite breakfast?

  He came through the door a half hour later, a whistle on his lips. Dora was already awake and enjoying her own piece of sticky French toast. Lang tousled her hair. "Mm...that looks tasty. Is it good?"

  Dora nodded. "Daddy eat some."

  "Oh, Daddy's going to, you can bet on that." He smiled at Marilla with a nod. "If Mama made enough."

  She reached for his warm plate on the back of the stove and handed it to him.

  He thanked her.

  She blinked as she turned. "You're welcome."

  After breakfast, he went back outside to work on the house for a while, with the promise that he would finish before lunchtime so they could have their picnic. Marilla heated water to wash the dishes. She added soap to the dishpan as the sound of a car pulled in and blew a horn. She dried her hands and went to the door. Delia climbed out of the car and came toward the house, as Lang passed her by and continued on to the car where Theo sat. Marilla's gaze went past Delia to see Theo open the door and swing his leg out, while he and Lang chatted.

  "Come on in. I'm just cleaning up from breakfast."

  "Are you coming to town?" Delia asked. She wore a pretty, cream-colored dress, banded with light green silk below the bodice and wide, lacy, flounced sleeves. Her hat matched the green sash, and she even wore gloves.

  "You look gorgeous."

  Delia's eyes sparkled. "I'm just so happy to be able to go to the festival with Theo. I'm so, so thankful."

  Marilla sighed and nodded. "I can see you are."

  "We have so much to be thankful for. The war is over. Our husbands are home, safe."

  Marilla turned to collect the dishes off the table. How was she to process that? She was glad Lang was safe, but their relationship was so topsy, how could she be thankful for more? Still, he had hardly given Delia a glance as they passed outside. Marilla cleared her throat. "We decided not to go today. It's just so much work with the babies." It sounded like the excuse it was. "Maybe next year when they're older."

  "I see." Delia's expression was one of understanding. "I'm sorry you won't be there. I was thinking of the year Theo proposed."

  "I was thinking of that this morning too."

  "It was quite a year." Delia caught Marilla's gaze.

  Marilla set the plates by the sink and sighed. "I don't know what to think, Delia. He's different, but it frightens me to hope he's changed."

  "Maybe he really has."

  "Maybe."

  "Is it really that you're so afraid, or is it Jacob?"

  Marilla stiffened and shrugged. "I don't know."

  Delia stepped close and laid a hand on her shoulder. "Give Lang a chance. See if he really has changed."

  Marilla licked her lips and swallowed. Then she nodded, but her heart wasn't in it. "I'll try."

  "Good." Delia moved back toward the door. "We'll miss you today." She smiled with a soft gaze. "But I'm glad you'll be spending it together."

  Marilla watched her leave. Should she be glad? She was afraid to wonder.

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  It was past lunchtime before they settled in to their picnic. Lang laid a blanket on the floor of the new house, and they spread their lunch on it, their view between the studs facing the yard and cabin. The partially finished roof shaded them against the hot sun as though they sat in a very large gazebo.

  "Do you want to keep the cabin once the house is finished?" he asked, before taking a bite of cold chicken.

  She eyed the small dwelling. It had been home for such a long time now and held so much history with her parents, she couldn't imagine tearing it down. She nodded. "Yes. I'm sure it'll be useful somehow."

  "A guest house?"

  She let out a laugh. "For who?"

  "Maybe Archie will come this way again."

  She thought about that. Lang had not mentioned his old friend once since returning from the war. Last she knew, Archie had been drafted. Had he made it through safely?

  "I don't think I told you that I saw him when I got back."

  Shaking her head, she tore pieces of meat into small bits for Dora and offered her a bite of potato salad.

  "When I got off the boat, I took a train to Jersey to see my mother."

  Taken aback, she lowered her hands to her lap and looked at him. "You did?" Memories played through his expression that made her wonder. "How was she?"

  "Surprised”—he poked at his salad with a fork—“but glad I came."

  Marilla dabbed her lips with a napkin. "That was thoughtful of you. I bet she was overjoyed."

  He nodded. "I saw Archie there. My brother knew where to find him."

  "Which brother?"

  "The youngest; Roland. He and my sister Geneva are the only ones left at home. I had hoped to see Bethia, but she's married and moved away now, too."

  Marilla puzzled. "Why didn't you tell us you'd gone to see them?"

  "I don't know." He looked at her. "It didn't seem important in light of seeing you and Dora and meeting Bertie."

  A lump grew in her throat, and she had to look away. "I'm glad you saw them. Family is important."

  She jumped when he laid his hand over hers, caressing it. "Yes. It is."

  She pulled away and reached again for Dora's fork, spearing a small piece of potato for her.

  "You don't always have to pull away."

  She stilled. "I..."

  He reached for her hand. Everything in her wanted to withdraw it, but she forced herself to let him hold it. He studied her fingers, and again she noticed the scrapes on his knuckles, which were scabbed over now. Then he drew her hand upward and kissed the back of it. She jerked in a breath and pulled her hand free. She shook her head. "I'm sorry. I can't—"

  "It's all right."

  Dora jumped from her place on the blanket and began to dance around and sing.

  "Do you want to dance, Theodora?" Lang rose and swept the little girl into his arms. She let out a wild giggle as he swooped her across the floor, spinning and humming.

  Marilla's heart felt like it, too, was spinning out of control. The sensation of Lang's kiss lingered on the back of her hand, and she rubbed it.

  Lang breathed faster when he set Dora back on her feet, and the look of him stirred a thing in Marilla she'd long since hoped to have buried. She turned to gather their plates, her heart pounding an uncertain rhythm.

  "Dance, 'gain, Daddy."

  "Maybe later, sugar. Let's help mommy clean up the picnic, and then maybe I'll take you swimming."

  "Simming?"

  "Yes, swimming."

  Dora jumped up and down and clapped her pudgy hands. Marilla swept a glance toward Lang and found him watching her. He bent down and took the items from her hands. "You take care of Bertie. I'll get this." He tipped a bowl upward and slid the last peach into his mouth before gathering the rest of their picnic things together in the blanket and carrying it off the floor. Marilla picked up Bertie before he crawled over the edge to follow Lang, while she watched him marching off toward the cabin.

  She found herself laughing softly at the antics of her small family an hour later as Lang played in the shallow water with Dora and even splashed at Marilla. The refreshment did its work as well, easing her spirit and reminding her to relax. She could enjoy this day without examining it too closely, without thinking too h
ard about Lang's intent.

  By the time they drove home in the late afternoon, both children slept. Marilla carried Bertie, and Lang carried Dora, settling them into their beds for a nap.

  "They'll sleep hard now and not want to sleep tonight," she whispered as they stepped away toward the kitchen.

  He shrugged. "Oh well. It's a special day. That's okay. I'll stay up and help you with them."

  She glanced at him, trying not to stare and puzzle over the change in him. She needed a drink of water and then remembered the bottle of juice in the icebox. "We forgot to have the juice with our picnic." She pulled it out and set it on the table. She reached for a glass. "Do you want some?"

  He jerked his head toward the door and picked up the bottle. "Forget the glasses. Come on."

  What was he thinking now?

  She set the glass on the shelf and followed him with one quick glance back toward the sleeping babies. They didn't so much as stir when Lang opened the door.

  The sun shone on the western horizon, still just above the treetops, but the house stood in full shade as he led the way toward the back of the cabin and walked up the steps into what would be their front door. He uncorked the bottle of juice. "I'm sorry it isn't a bottle of wine."

  "It was for the picnic. Dora wouldn't have been able to have any."

  "True. And a clear head is better anyway."

  She smiled, unsure. Afraid to let down her guard.

  He took a swig of juice and held it up to the light. "Yep, just juice." He handed her the bottle.

  She put it to her lips and sipped, careful not to spill the purple liquid on her dress, even if it was just an everyday dress she'd changed into behind the car after swimming. As she lowered the bottle, she noticed how he watched her. Time had passed, but she still recognized the yearning she saw in his eyes. Her nerves rattled. She would not let him use her again. She handed him the bottle. He took another sip and set the bottle on a board resting across two sawhorses.

  Then he began to sing. She didn't know the tune, as she didn't get to listen to the new music often. It was a slow song, a love song maybe. He reached for her hands and pulled her arms close into a waltzing position as he led her into a dance.

  It was absurd. Truly absurd. The two of them dancing across the floorboards in the afternoon shade, Lang singing, her heartbeat out-pacing the tune. Fear trickled like sweat down her neck. Hope met it with fingers stretching up her spine.

  He turned her in a gentle spin. She ducked beneath his arm and moved back into his embrace. He tucked her close. Their bodies came together like magnets holding fast. His humming grew softer, and his cheek pressed against her hair. Then he drew back. His gaze pulled her, hungered for her. She could feel it deep inside, and when he bent his head to kiss her—

  The tang of the grape juice was on his mouth. The warmth of his lips blended with the coolness of the juice, dizzying her as if it had been alcohol. She gasped and pulled free.

  "Marilla—"

  She shook her head. "I can't—"

  "Honey—"

  "No." She turned and hurried down the step, away from the house, the heat of the sun disappearing as it dropped below the tree line. She ran breathless toward the cabin, too afraid of what her heart would do if she looked back.

  ~~~~~

  Lang pitched hay onto the wagon, his arms working in a steady rhythm that ate up the remaining windrow, while it covered him in sweat and bits of hay. Then he paused and heaved deep breaths. Reaching for the water jug hanging on the back of the wagon, he took a long, deep draught.

  "You keep working like that, you'll wear yourself out."

  Lang turned at the sound of his father-in-law's voice coming toward him. "I think it's going to rain. Got to get this hay off the field."

  Albert Eckert glanced off toward the sky. "You might be right about that. Elma's keeping lunch for you at the house."

  He hadn't even realized he had worked straight through his usual break time for lunch. Between the need to get the hay up and his all-consuming thoughts of Marilla, he hadn't even noticed the hour. He glanced at the slight angle of the sun. It must be near one. "Nice of her to do that. I'll have to apologize for not coming up."

  "It was no trouble."

  "I appreciate that." Lang finished off the jug of water.

  Albert reached for the jug. "I'll see if Delia will bring you a new jug. She's up at the house with Theodore."

  Lang glanced at Albert and away, reaching for the horse's bridle to turn the wagon about. "I'll be all right. It'll wait."

  "You sure?"

  "I'm sure."

  "You all right, son? Anything wrong?"

  His father-in-law's narrowed gaze scored deep. Lang shrugged. "Nothing out of the ordinary." That much was true. It wasn't unordinary for his wife to rebuff him. He turned back to his work.

  "All right then. I'll leave you to it."

  Lang clicked his tongue at the horse and urged him along, laying into the next windrow with a fury as he glanced at his father-in-law's back growing distant across the field. Half an hour later, and thinking he might be ready to drop, he looked up to see Delia's gait swaying toward him across the stubbled hayfield. Her hips swung in rhythm with the water jug hanging from her hand.

  "Hey!" she called.

  He lifted his head in a half nod.

  "I brought you some more water." She raised her other hand. "And a sandwich too. Mother said you'd pass out if you didn't eat something soon."

  "She might be right," he said, accepting the wrapped sandwich when she drew close. He leaned back against the hayrick and shed the wrapper, taking almost half the sandwich in one bite.

  Delia shaded her eyes and looked across the field. "You'll be done in no time. I should be out here helping."

  He chewed and shrugged. "Feels good to work."

  She glanced at him again. "It must, the way you're going at it. How come?"

  He swallowed and looked her way. "What do you mean?"

  "How come? Why are you driving yourself so? You and Marilla have a fight?"

  He laughed, a dry, cheerless sound. "Fight? We hardly talk."

  Delia frowned. "I had hoped things were better."

  He swallowed and sighed. "Delia..." Did he really want to bring this up? He turned to her. She was still the same Delia. Her hair was golden in the sunlight, her curves those of a man's dreams. Her smile could warm a fellow in a cold, muddy trench, and had warmed one anyway. Delia hadn't changed. That last time he had gone to her and Theo's house had made him certain of that. No, Delia was still the same girl he'd always known. He was the one who had changed. "I want to apologize."

  Her brow curled, and she folded her arms. "What for?"

  "I think you know."

  She bit her lower lip. "The letter you told me to forget?"

  He nodded. "And all my rotten behavior earlier. I want you to forget that, too, and forgive me if you can. The times I…the times I hinted—"

  She let out a gasp that was almost a laugh. "Hinted? If I didn't play dumb, I'd say it was much more than a hint."

  He felt like curdled cream. "I know. And I'm sorry. I'm sorry for trying to come between you and Theo. I was wrong. I was stupid and senseless and a born fool and—"

  She held up her hand. "And you've realized it, so stop. I forgive you. I'm glad for the apology though, because I liked it when we were friends."

  "We were never friends until now."

  Her lips flattened, and she stilled. Hadn't she realized how long he'd thought of her as something more? No. He supposed she hadn't. He took the cap off the water jug and tilted it back, swallowing four, hard gulps.

  "Well...consider it settled. Those things you said, the things you did... I'm sure they won't happen again."

  He wiped a dirty arm across his mouth and shook his head. "I recognize something that I didn't back then."

  "You love Rilla."

  He stared at her for a moment and then looked to the ground and up again. "I didn't even know w
hat love was before Rilla or since. Now I do."

  Delia took a step backward. "Then I hope the two of you find a way to talk again. She's mixed up, Lang. You know about—about Jacob."

  He glanced at the back of his hand and rubbed the knuckles over his pants as if he was drying them. "Yeah...I know."

  "She's mixed up. She doesn't really love him. At least, I don't think she loves him the way she loved you. The way she still does, maybe."

  He shot her a look. Did Delia really think Rilla still cared a wit about him?

  "I think you can win her again. But it has to be with your heart, Lang, not your hands."

  She couldn't have made her point clearer if she'd slapped him.

  "I get it."

  She smiled. A real, true smile. "All right then. I'll be waiting to hear if that's true." She turned to leave, her hips swinging in her familiar gait, but not singeing him the way they once had.

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  August 1919

  Marilla gazed at the new house over the clothesline full of sheets and blankets. Her house. Well, her and Lang's of course. Unless he gets tired of things as they are and leaves anyway.

  So far, he seemed content. He whistled while he laid twelve-inch wide boards to the wall studs, closing them in around framed window openings. Sometimes, upon her approach, his thoughts seemed far away, but he always turned up a smile when he noticed her, and he spoke like he was glad to see her. He didn't seem like the old Lang, and yet there was much about him she remembered as the same.

  A motorcar called her attention. It sounded like Theo's. She picked up her empty basket and carried it around to the front of the cabin where she saw both her sister and brother-in-law getting out of the vehicle.

  "Hi, Rilla." Delia waved. "I came to see if you wanted to come to town with me today. Theo's going to stay here and help Lang."

  "Oh?"

  "I can at least hold boards." Theo grinned as he moved away from the car, a single crutch braced under one arm. "I'm going bonkers at the house doing a lot of nothing."

  "Don't let him kid you. He's keeping busy. What do you say?"