When Maggie reached the front of the house, she saw Tim, his back and elbows braced against the fence as he stood gazing out at the lake. Her heart leapt.
He’s come to walk me down to the pier! she thought.
Her silent footsteps cut across the lawn, and she caught him by surprise.
“Hi, Tim,” she said shyly.
Startled, he turned. “Boy, you sure know how to sneak up on a fella.” His smile gave her that same queasy feeling she’d experienced in church. “I expected to hear you coming out the front door.”
“You’re kinda a surprise yourself. I was expecting to see you down at the pier.”
Never having called on her before, he realized that his unannounced appearance probably did seem a little strange to her, and his face reddened with embarrassment. He wanted to tell her he’d been looking forward to seeing her ever since he’d left church that morning.
He should just blurt it right out, he knew. Tell her how he’d felt every time he’d seen her in town this past year, ever since the last July 1st picnic on Canada Day, when she’d looked up at him with those beautiful green eyes, breathtaking, filling his dreams, haunting him.
She couldn’t know how many times he’d walked by her house, hoping to catch a glimpse of her out in the yard, longing for the chance to get to know her better. Then there was that day he’d seen her pegging up the wash on the line, but his heart had begun to race so fast all he could do was wave and say Hi as he raced on by, fearing he’d trip over his own tongue if he stopped to say more.
No, he couldn’t tell her those things. Not yet. But walking her down to the pier was a way to spend some time alone with her before they met up with Rosemarie.
“I just came from the Thurstons’, up on Huron Street,” he said, using it as his excuse, covering his uneasiness with an insouciant grin.
He continued talking as they fell into step, walking to the corner of Erie. “Charlie Thurston works with me down at the quarry. He used to love to fish, but now, with his four kids and all, his time’s pretty well tied up. He’s always asking me to bring him up some bass if I have a good catch. Pays me good for them, too. Anyway, I just took him two beauties. Caught them right after Mass this morning. Had enough to fry up for my dinner, with two to spare. Delicious. That’s why I was up this way. So I figured I might as well wait around and walk down to the pier with you—since it was around that time, anyway.”
At the corner of Erie and Center Streets, they could see the lake, a canvas of watercolor in tints and hues of all shades. Sailboats and small fishing craft dotted the water. To the right of them, the Point reached out like a mother’s arm, embracing large ships under its wing. Its artistry was not lost on them as they strolled down the hill in silence.
Never had that walk down Center Street been so beautiful. Maggie was ebullient. She couldn’t remember ever feeling this happy and alive.
Still, she’d never thought of herself as unhappy. No. Life had always been whatever Mam wanted it to be. And she dutifully obeyed day by day, content with knowing it ran smoother that way—although there was a restless longing she had noticed in herself, lately, a sense of elusive mystery that caught her off guard sometimes when she was the busiest, when she found herself wondering about life in general and her future in particular. If Mam happened to catch her dreaming or staring into space, she would yell, “Mary Margaret, quit your dawdlin’! There’s work ta be done.” “Dawdlin’” seemed to be one of her favorite words.
More and more, Maggie was beginning to question Mam and her ways. Not that she could ever thwart her. But today—today was different. Today was new and exciting, and Mam had no share in it. Today was hers.
She considered the strange twists that life seemed to turn. Life was just about as predictable as the lake’s moods. She’d known Tim ever since she could remember. In school, he was one of the older boys. And she’d had a crush on him ever since that time in the second grade, when he’d retrieved her jump rope from the three nasty tormentors who were holding it over her head, teasing her. His size made it no contest as they quickly dropped the rope and ran away. “Don’t worry about them none,” he’d said as he wiped her tears with his handkerchief and handed her the rope. “They don’t mean no real harm. You’re such a pretty little thing. Just trying to get your attention, I figure.”
But then life seemed to go on without another notice from him. There were times when they’d see each other around town and would speak quite cordially. That was all. She’d been so young, then, looking at him from afar with adoring eyes, but as with so many other things, that was her little secret.
Then, this past year, he’d begun behaving in a much more affable manner. Probably because of what she’d done for him at the July 1st picnic, when she’d cleaned and wrapped that terrible gash he got on his leg. He’d been running to catch a ball and tripped over a horseshoe spike sticking out of the ground just as she was passing by. She immediately ran to get the iodine and bandages from Mr. Clarkins, the chemist, who always came prepared for the usual July 1st accidents, and she saw to it that the cut was cleaned and bandaged. That had finished the picnic for him; his leg was really hurting, so he took himself home.
Whenever she’d see him after that, he was especially friendly, but she interpreted this amiable behavior as his gratitude for helping him that day. And now, here he was beside her. How extraordinary life could be.
She wished she could think of something interesting to say as they walked the few short blocks to the pier. The only thing that came to mind was the weather.
At the bottom of the hill, Center Street divided into two short walkways that surrounded a green. In the center of the green was a large bronze statue of Carl Herron, founder of the town. On either side of that statue was a wrought–iron bench. Both walkways took you to Water Street, where a narrow cobblestone path led up the center to the statue. Each year, a border of perennials grew on either side of the path. Maggie could see the green tips of tulips forcing their way out of the soft, soggy ground. Two tall, ornamental lampposts, each with three large, glass globes, guarded the entrance. If you crossed Water Street, you would enter the pier.
Almost all of the shoreline along the coast of Water Street was rocky. A wide strip of grass had been planted to border the shoreline to prevent erosion. A long pier at the bottom of Center Street extended a hundred feet out into the water. Today this entire shoreline was littered with driftwood and other debris washed up from the past week’s storms.
Kelly’s Bar and Marina were located at the far east end of Water Street, right before the entrance to Alexandre & Arnaud Shipping and the Point harbor. Sailors coming into port could wander over and quench their thirst at Kelly’s. The east end of Water Street ended at Division Street. The west end of Water Street stopped at Frontier Street. The north side of Water Street was also divided at Center Street. The east side was grassy and wooded, filled with four apple, four peach, and four cherry trees. Four dogwoods bordered Center Street, and four bordered Division Street. Tall arborvitae bordered the entire back of the property, dividing it from the buildings on Commerce Street.
The west end of Center Street was a park. It was also grassy. There were swings, slides, teeter totters, a maypole, and picnic tables, and the back of that property that bordered Commerce Street was also graced with arborvitae. There were maple and oak trees for shade, as well as four dogwood trees bordering Water Street and four bordering Frontier Street.
Benches were nestled intermittently beside each of the lampposts that lined Water Street’s boardwalk. The entire quarter–mile area that was maintained as a park was where the town’s celebrations were held, and its inhabitants could come to shed the burdens of their days while refreshing themselves with nature’s beauty and the soothing rhythm of the lake. Children came to play, accepting it all as part of their estate in life, questioning nothing.
Maggie and Tim were not alone in their desire to enjoy this beautiful day. The entire area buzzed with activity: squealing, running children; barking dogs; babes in prams pushed along by doting mothers wanting to give their cherubs the benefit of warm sunshine; people on benches enjoying the view; and fishermen, big and small, out on the pier with their poles extended, staring into the water, mesmerized by the invisible activity of marine life below.
Rosemarie had managed to get there ahead of them and find a spot at the far end of the pier. She was lying belly down, head hanging over the edge, one arm dangling in the cold water, when she heard the clattering vibration of footsteps on the weathered planks. She rolled over and sat up, waving. “Hey, you two.” Her impish smile revealed freckles that had been tucked away by winter’s gloom. The water’s mist had created a halo of golden ringlets around her cute, snub–nosed face.
“Hey, yourself,” Maggie said as she and Tim joined her.
The trio sat on the edge of the pier, removing their shoes, swinging their legs over the side of the pier with their bare feet in the water, soaking up sunshine and watching in silence as the water dipped and rose, lapping against the rocking boats moored alongside.
A freighter moved slowly away from one of the docks over at the Point, its huge hulk dwarfing the other crafts bobbing up and down at Kelly’s Marina. Insatiable gulls flew in circles overhead, begging for crumbs. None were offered.
Almost in unison, the three lay back to look up at a sky now filled with puffy white clouds. The game began as the sun moved slowly westward.
“I see a castle with two turrets,” Maggie said.
Where?” Tim asked.
“See it? Over there on the right.” She pointed.
“Oh, I see it,” Rosemarie answered.
“I still can’t see it,” Tim puzzled. “But I see a horse with a rider on its back. Look straight ahead.”
“That doesn’t look like a horse. It looks more like a camel to me,” Rosemary retorted.
They all laughed.
The game went on. An hour passed, an hour of giggly, laughing fantasy. Maggie was the first to sit up.
“My, it’s warm.” She wiped glistening beads of perspiration off her brow.
Tim and Rosemarie sat up and agreed.
“What shall we do now?” Rosemarie asked, standing, smoothing her long skirt. Those freckles had truly blossomed.
“We could go back to my place, get my dinghy, and go fishing. I’ve got enough poles and plenty of bait. How’s that sound?” Tim offered. He glanced at Maggie’s face for approval.
Maggie looked at Rosemarie. “Shall we? I haven’t been fishing in so long.” She saw Rosemarie’s grin; she approved. “That sounds like great fun, Tim.”
Tim lived at the bottom of Frontier Street and the end of Water Street, about a quarter of a mile west of the pier. His house was one of a number of one–room plank houses built during the early development of Herron’s Point. His was the only one left. The thick, wide boards of the house were set in a vertical position, unlike the conventional horizontal method of building. There was a small window in each of the two side walls of the house and plank doors in the front and back. Most homes of this type had one large fireplace for cooking and heating. In Tim’s house, there was a big, black iron stove used for heating and cooking. The grassy stretch that ran about fifty feet from the back of the house led to a small dock on the waterfront, where Tim kept his boat. Several outbuildings were on the far side of the house.
At one time, Frontier Street had been the western boundary of the town. Then the discovery of limestone a few miles further to the west resulted in the establishment of the Harrison Mining Company. With a demand for labor to work the quarry, more people had settled, and the town had begun to spread westward. Water Street had not been extended, as the other streets had, to accommodate the need for homes. All of this new territory had been incorporated with Herron’s Point.
The short walk from the pier took only a few minutes, the three friends walking barefoot, swinging their shoes as they skipped and jumped along the cobblestones.
Maggie and Rosemarie ran down to the dock as Tim disappeared around the far side of the house and returned with poles and a tackle box.
He handed each of the girls a pole. “Now, be careful. I put the hook in the cork bobbin so you won’t get yourselves all snarled up. Later, if you need help putting the bait on, I’ll give you a hand,” he said with the expertise of a seasoned fisherman.
Maggie stood the long pole in front of her and surveyed it with curiosity. “Do you really think I’ll catch something with this thing?” Her green eyes flashed with excitement.
“Never can tell. I went out early this morning and had great luck. Maybe it’ll be the same this afternoon. Maybe not. The one thing about fishing is, you gotta have patience.”
Tim helped each of the girls climb into the boat. “Rosemarie, you sit at the far end. Maggie, you’re at this end,” he directed.
The boat teetered and the girls squealed, precariously making their way, settling themselves on the wooden seats at each end of the dinghy. Tim climbed into the middle and took hold of the oars.
Maggie covertly watched as he dipped and pulled at the oars, pushing them out into the lake. His muscular arms worked with familiar ease. She thought, I love that dimple in his chin.
Stretching her legs, she could feel the warmth of the sun through her skirt, her body alive with an excitement completely unfamiliar to her. Dismal days filled with work and responsibility seemed to fade.
Sighing with contentment, she looked toward the diminishing shore and the picturesque town with its welcoming park and gently sloping hill where houses nestled, one row after another, clear up to the ridge, where tall pines offered protection from the world beyond—so peaceful. Then she looked at Tim—so handsome.
“The last time I was in a boat, I was with my brother, Jack. That was such a long time ago,” she said wistfully. “He’d take me out fishing every once in a while, but I always got my line tangled up. And he’d laugh at me. I loved his laugh. One time, I caught a really big fish. I don’t know what kind it was, but we took it home and had it for supper. Mam can really cook up a delicious fish.”
Tim gave her a quizzical look. “How is your brother? Do you ever hear from him?”
“He’s fine. Living in Buffalo and doing right well for himself—or so I’ve been told.” She wasn’t sure it was safe to say more. She’d never told anyone about Jack’s letters.
“Look! Look over there!” Rosemarie shouted, pointing toward the shore. She started to laugh and clap her hands. “Can you see that bunch of otters playing? Do you believe it? They’re sliding down the muddy bank into the water.”
Tim pulled up the oars as the three of them watched, fascinated by the childish play of five otters splashing into the water, then climbing out and back up the hill to do it all over again.
Soon tiring of the sport, the otters swam along the shore, diving for fish, bobbing up and down like small logs floating upstream, oblivious to the three observers who watched until they were out of sight.
Tim realized they had drifted out quite a way. “I think this is as good a spot as any to put our poles in. Don’t want to go too far out.” He turned. “Rosemarie, there’s a large can filled with cement back there. Would you drop it over the side? That way, we won’t drift too much.”
She began to struggle with the heavy can under her seat.
“Can you handle it?”
“Don’t know why not,” she said indignantly. “I have to carry my mum’s basket of wet laundry outside sometimes. It’s sure heavier than this can.” The boat rocked as she heaved it over the side with a spray of water that sprinkled her face. The can sank.
After the hooks were baited—not an easy task with two squeamish girls—they all remained silent, intent on watching bobbins bob up and down. This was what Tim had said it would take—patience.
“I…I think I have a nibble. Something’s on my line!” Maggie said with disbelief.
Tim moved up behind to help her. “Now watch. Wait till he takes it under. There! Now pull.”
Maggie yanked on the line. “I think he’s hooked.”
The fish leapt out of the water, startling her, causing her to almost let go of the pole.
Tim grabbed her hands to hold them steady. “Take it easy, now. You don’t want to break the line and lose him.”
Maggie’s body was electric. Tim’s arms were around her, holding her hands, his gentle voice in her ear and a fish on the other end of the pole connecting them. Completely unstrung, she let him take over and watched as he pulled it in.
“Boy, he’s a big one. Your mam’ll enjoy cooking him up tomorrow,” he said as he strung a line through one gill and out the gasping mouth, throwing the fish over the side.
“Yes, but what I want to know is, how do you know it’s a he?” Rosemarie asked.
They all laughed.
By the time the sun met the west, they had managed to pull in five good–sized fish. The girls wanted no part of them. It had been fun, but they weren’t about to carry those smelly things back home.
The air had taken on a slight chill. It was late afternoon, and as soon as the sun went down, they knew it would probably get cold, since the earth hadn’t stored up enough heat, yet.
“I think we’d better be heading in,” Tim said. “When we get back, I’ll make us a cup of tea.”
It wasn’t proper for two unchaperoned girls to go into a house alone with a male companion, but neither Rosemarie nor Maggie considered this as Tim opened the door and proudly ushered them into his domain.
The one–room house was as neat as a pin—and warm, even though he hadn’t rekindled the fire in the stove after returning from church. There were no curtains on the windows. Instead, green potted plants grew profusely on the sills, allowing the afternoon sunshine to pour in, making the waxed plank floor gleam. The walls and ceiling were whitewashed and clean. To the left of the door, pressed flowers framed under glass were arranged in a wall grouping around the table. The table and four chairs sat on a large, oval braided rug. On either side of the room, two large lanterns hung down from the dark beams bracing the ceiling. Tim’s bed, which was covered in a colorful quilt, the washstand, a high chest, and a large easy chair took up the right side of the room. All the furniture had been handmade from honey–colored pine. His clothes were hung neatly on hooks on either side of the window in the front wall. The kitchen area was to the back and left part of the room, with cupboards and the sink on the back wall. The big iron stove seemed to fill up most of the middle of the left wall. The loft above could be reached by pulling a folding ladder down by a rope. This was where Tim had slept as a young boy. Now that he lived alone, he used the space for storage.
Tim offered the girls a seat at the table and went out the back door to fill the teakettle from the pump that stood on a cement slab by the door. He left the door open, allowing the breeze to come in from the lake.
“It won’t take long for the water to boil,” he assured them, and then proceeded to adjust the heat on the stove. Gathering cups, saucers, and a plate of chocolate biscuits, he set them on the table.
All the while, Rosemarie and Maggie looked around, amazed that anyone could put a whole house into one cozy room.
“How long have you lived here by yourself, Tim?” Rosemarie asked.
Tim screwed up his face, thinking. “I guess it’s been almost four years, now, since Da died.”
“You were awful young to have to live by yourself, weren’t you?” Maggie commented.
“Naw! Not really. I’ve been pretty much taking care of myself since I was ten. Ever since Mam died of influenza. She’s the one that pressed those flowers hanging on the wall and braided this rug and made me that quilt.” He pointed them out proudly. “She put a big piece of her heart into this place. I think of her a lot—even though she’s been gone almost ten years, now.”
He paused for a moment, his face softening. The mention of her seemed to evoke tender memories.
“Da wasn’t much good for anything after that. Took the life right out of him. Like she took part of him with her.” He paused as though deep in thought, then continued. “I sort of had to fend for myself after that. Been working ever since.”
Both girls knew about Tim’s father, Liam Ryan. He’d been the town drunk for years. Maggie had often seen Mam scowl when they were out somewhere and he would come staggering up the street.
“The good fer nothin’. Been like that ever since his wife died. No backbone in that’n, I tell ya. The shame’s fer that young’n of his. I don’t envy his lot in life. Probably end up just like his da.”
But Tim was made of better stuff. Not only did he take care of himself, but his father as well, dragging him home when he found him asleep in the park or some dark doorway, but mostly from Kelly’s Bar. Tim sold fish, chopped wood, delivered parcels from Baughman’s—any spare job he could find.
Then there was his kind neighbor, Mrs. Orwell, up on Frontier Street, who made sure there was always a pot of soup or a loaf of freshly baked bread that she wouldn’t be needing. Tim would take it with gratitude. It made her heart ache to see a lad so young growing into a man before his time. When he got a job working in the quarry, he was only thirteen.
The steady money solved many problems and created others. Liam Ryan managed to drink a lot of it away.
It was brutally cold the winter Roger Evans found Liam frozen to death in the doorway of his pharmacy. He’d fallen asleep there in a drunken stupor. Tim was almost sixteen at the time. A handful of town folks turned out for the funeral. Brigid sent two loaves of her homemade bread and a large pot roast surrounded by tender onions and carrots to the house. “Fer the livin’,” she said.
The tea was brewed and poured. So as not to squander the rest of the day, they decided to go out back and sit on the dock to watch the sunset. Juggling their cups, they sat on the edge of the dock, feet dangling, wiggling their toes, sipping tea, and marveling at the beauty of it all. Just minutes before, the blue sky and drifting clouds had cast a blanket of warm serenity over the countryside. Now it was alive, rife with color. A spectrum of reds and oranges enveloped the heavens in a spectacular display as the setting sun, with fingers of scarlet–crimson fire, saturated the clouds and gilded the lake. An ore ship inched across the horizon, leaving a trail of snaking black smoke to briefly mark where it had been. It was a breathtaking sight, a perfect finish to a marvelous day.
Maggie, overwhelmed at the spectacle, her voice soft and pensive, said, “This reminds me of when I was little. Da would bring me down here sometimes to watch the sunset. He called it Heaven’s doorway because it was so beautiful. Said it was God’s gift to us, a teasing taste of the glories that would be ours when we got to the other side. I just know he’s over there watching.”
Had she looked, she would have seen the love in Tim’s eyes as she spoke.
The girls knew it was time to head home. It was that time of day when the light was soft and ready to go out. Tim said he would accompany them.
Rosemarie’s house was on Superior Avenue, the last street before the ridge. The three decided to race the six blocks up Frontier Street to see who could reach it first.
Tim had given both girls a head start, but before he got too far, he saw Mrs. Orwell on her knees, working in her garden, readying it for the summer season. She straightened her back, waved, and gave a big smile and a yell. “Hello, there, Tim!”
There was always time to talk to this kind lady who had befriended him as a child, and he knew the girls would wait.
Mrs. Orwell, just curious as to how his life was going, asked questions as she continued to pull out the young weeds that aspired to stake an early claim on the garden patch. She commented on the fine weather and remarked about the two pretty young ladies she’d seen with Tim at the pier earlier as she strolled along the boardwalk. Occasionally she’d look up with loving tenderness to listen to the responses of the handsome young man she had taken under her wing so many years before. She had been widowed at the age of thirty–seven, childless, and Tim had become and still was a source of great joy in her life.
Tim responded to her inquiries, told her she shouldn’t be working so hard, and promised to come by the following week to give her a hand with the yard work. He couldn’t remember how many times he’d sat in her kitchen, drinking tea and eating biscuits as she went about preparing dinner for herself and making sure he had his.
The girls waited. Tim caught up, and the three continued walking toward Rosemarie’s house, giggling at the recollection of those silly otters sliding down the hill.
The scent of new life permeated the air; a soft tinkling of piano keys wafted through an open door and danced along the street; lights flicked on behind curtained windows; the sound of squealing children could be heard as they played somewhere in the distance behind one of the houses; a woman’s voice, shrill and loud, called out for her son; and somewhere a dog barked.
Completely taken up with laughter and each other’s company, they were unaware of absorbing the beauty of the atmosphere that surrounded them, yet they became silent and their steps slowed as though to make the day last just a little longer. At a later time in their lives, these memories would return, unannounced, as a haunting bit of youthful nostalgia, triggered by a fragrance, a sound, or the whisper of a warm spring breeze.
The homes on Superior and Michigan Avenues boasted of affluence, this part of town having been developed last by the wealthy businessmen with establishments down on Commerce Street. Frank Brewster, who ran the shipping yard, and Elmer Harrison, owner of the quarry, had bought up the available land after the town and their fortunes began to multiply. With time, money, and planning, these homes were built on a much grander scale, outshining the clapboard houses clustered as closely as possible to Commerce Street during the laborious birth of the town. Through the years, the people who now lived on these broad avenues became the elite of Herron’s Point. That was because, when the town began to spread westward, the demand for most housing came from the common working man and his family. Only the Herron estate on Erie Street, built ten years after the town was founded, remained unequaled by any other in that area.
Maggie had once lived on Superior Avenue, right next door to the Stuarts. Rosemarie’s father, Doctor Robert Stuart, a native of Scotland, had established himself down on Commerce Street. Maggie never approached her old neighborhood without experiencing memories of her life here and her da. Nothing had been the same since he’d died.
“Gosh, Maggie, you’re going to have a birthday pretty soon,” Rosemarie said as they neared her house.
“In two weeks,” she replied while concentrating on avoiding the cracks in the sidewalk. “May sixth, in fact.”
“I’m sorry I won’t be around to wish you happy sixteen. Remember the great birthday parties we had when we were little?”
“That seems so long ago. But they were fun, weren’t they?”
“When’s your birthday, Tim?” Rosemarie asked, not wanting to exclude him from the conversation.
“I was nineteen in February,” he said.
It was all so peaceful as the three young people stopped in front of the Stuarts’ large Victorian house. At first there was an awkward silence as they faced each other, not knowing how to break the spell of happiness they’d all shared.
Finally, Rosemarie looked at her two friends and said, “Well, it’s been a wonderful day, you two. I don’t know when I’ve had a better time. But Easter vacation is over, and it’s back to school for me. Lucky the boiler at school broke down, or I wouldn’t have had today. I’d have been back there already.”
She gave Maggie a big hug, wishing her friend could go with her, sadly aware of their different lots in life. “And have a magical birthday. You deserve all the happiness you can get,” she said, giving her another misty–eyed hug.
“Thanks, Rosemarie. And you have a safe trip to Toronto.”
“I will. Trouble is, I don’t know when I’ll see you again. After the term’s over, I’m going directly to the States to stay with my Aunt Eleanor. She’ll be having her fourth baby, and they can’t afford much help, so Mum wants me to go over to Buffalo and give her a hand for the summer. But I’ll write.”
“Be sure you do,” Maggie said, tears in her eyes.
Tim watched the two friends part and was touched. He had never spent much time with Rosemarie before, but she’d turned out to be great fun, with a wonderful sense of humor. He leaned forward and shook her hand. “Best of luck to you. It’s been grand fun today,” he said.
She waved goodbye again as she walked up the gravel driveway toward the house.
Maggie wiped her eyes, slightly embarrassed by her display of emotion. “I’m really going to miss having her around, even though we haven’t seen each other much lately. She’s always been my very best friend.”
“Well, at least you still have me. I’m not going anywhere,” Tim said, looking into her troubled green eyes.
It thrilled her to hear him say this, but she didn’t know how to answer. Since when did she have him? Today was the first time they’d ever spent any time together. Well, there was last year at the picnic.
As they walked over to Center Street and down to Erie, Tim talked about his work at the quarry. He liked what he did, especially since he’d been made foreman of his own crew, giving orders to some who were twice his age. He’d been there almost from the very beginning, so he had learned just about all there was to know about the job.
At one point, they brushed against each other and their hands touched. Tim took Maggie’s hand in his. She didn’t object. It felt strong and wonderful, warming her entire body with a thrilling excitement.
They continued on in silence, soaking up the last precious moments of the day. It was a day that would be branded in their minds forever, the sweet ecstasy of first love.
Finally, Tim spoke. “Maggie, I can’t tell you how grand today has been. Would it be all right if I came to call next weekend? Say, next Friday?”
Maggie immediately thought of her mam and knew it would be impossible. “I’m sorry, Tim, but there are the boarders to think of. We serve them dinner at six. By the time the dishes are done, it’s already dark. In fact, I’d best be getting in now. We have a cold supper on Sundays because of having our big meal at one. It’s just about time I should be setting it out. It won’t be long till it stays daylight longer, though. Until then, there’s only Sundays. I’m usually free after two. That’s about all the time I have for now.”
“Then Sunday it will be.” He smiled as he gave her hand a squeeze. “I’ll meet you at the back gate around the same time as today. How will that be?”
Her face was radiant. “Sunday around two, then.”
The dusky part of the day had vanished into darkness and shadows as they walked up to the back gate on Ontario Street, lingering, looking into each other’s eyes. They were one with the night, the moon and stars as observers, twinkling their silent approval.
They didn’t see Brigid’s face at the window, observing them from the unlit kitchen. Her eyes did not twinkle.
Maggie stood and watched until Tim melted into the shadows, then turned to go into the house.
A light went on in the kitchen. Brigid was not happy.