The man that hath no music in himself,
Nor is not mov’d with concord of sweet sounds,
Is fit for treasons, stratagems, and spoils;
The motions of his spirit are dull as night,
And his affections dark as Erebus:
Let no such man be trusted.
Emilie set the pages of Shakespeare’s play on the kitchen table. She’d been assigned The Merchant of Venice for her oral presentation on Wednesday, and Mrs. Barbour had stressed the importance of capturing the emotional essence of Shakespeare’s writings.
If it was emotion she wanted, Emilie had it in spades. Quaid McFarland was a man with music in him. And she missed hearing him play the harmonica. She missed his easy smile and rippling laugh.
She missed Quaid.
Deliveries were the only time afforded her to see him, and he hadn’t made any recently. At least not on the days she was at the college or in the store. Not since he’d lifted the dollhouse out of the crate. She knew he had taken on side work. That must be what was demanding his time.
Tired of sitting still, she walked to the window. The gas lanterns on the road below cast a golden glow on the falling snow. The temperatures had dropped last night. By midday, snow had begun to fall and hadn’t let up. Walking in the snow had been enough of a challenge, but driving a freight wagon in it could be treacherous. She breathed a prayer for Quaid’s safety, then added a selfish request, asking God to bring him back to her soon.
Quaid had bragged on how she was no longer a girl in braids but had become a handsome lass. A lass who had behaved like a giddy schoolgirl the last time he’d seen her. It was no wonder he hadn’t come around for three weeks, himself being all grown up after serving in the war.
PaPa had sold the dollhouse to the banker and ordered two more, along with another crate of cookware. Hopefully the order would arrive this week, and her wait to see Quaid would end. As it was, she was fighting the temptation to make a batch of brats and red cabbage and deliver it to the freight house for his lunch. Not childish behavior, but neither was it proper behavior.
Emilie pressed her finger to her chin. It wouldn’t be unreasonable for her to visit McFarland Freight Company as a businesswoman with an inquiry about a delivery. Minus the meal, of course. She shook her head. She needed to set her thoughts of Quaid aside, finish reading, and prepare her speech. Letting the curtain fall on her own drama, she willed herself to return to the table.
PaPa stepped into the kitchen, his tailored blouse billowing above his belt. Had he dropped pounds? He’d been eating well, hadn’t he?
“It seems the snow has decided to persist.” At the stove, he poured steaming coffee into his favorite cup.
“Yes.” She settled into her chair. “I’m thankful I don’t have classes tomorrow.” Especially if Quaid had a delivery for the store. She kept her favorite reason to herself.
PaPa stood at the table, looking at the pages spread before her. “Your studies look tedious, Em. I’d say you could use a cup yourself.”
“I could.” She started to rise.
He pressed her shoulder. “I’ll get it. It’s the least I can do, as hard as you’re working.”
“Thank you.” She swallowed a twinge of guilt. She’d spent most of the evening distracted.
She knew PaPa wasn’t in favor of her spending her attention on Quaid. She thought to ask him if he knew Quaid had given her a ride from the college on that day that now seemed so long ago. Or if he’d misunderstood her gaiety over the dollhouse. She could almost suspect him of keeping Quaid away from her, but that was an unfair notion. When PaPa returned to the store after helping Quaid unload the wagon, he was pleasant, even complimentary of the man.
Besides, the Irish were known for persistence. If Quaid truly valued their friendship, he wouldn’t be dissuaded by an overprotective father.
Which left her with one terrible conclusion: Quaid McFarland just didn’t want to see her.
“You have to draw from the boneyard.” Mattie wiggled in the armed chair. “I’m going to win you like Maggie did.” Her green eyes sparkling, she glanced at her twin sister.
Quaid wagged his finger in front of her. “Not so fast, fair lass. I’ve not given up the game yet.” He studied the maze of dominoes stretched across the table, following each of its legs to the foot.
Was that what was going on with Mr. Heinrich? Was Emilie’s father waiting for him to make the next move? To call his bluff? He’d much prefer to do that than what his heart told him was the right thing.
But his friendship with Emilie was not a game.
He studied the soapstone game pieces. It was bad enough that one seven-year-old sister had beat him. He couldn’t let it happen again. When he found his opening, he set his piece at the end of a spotted leg and leaned against the chair.
Mattie tsked, her smile gone.
Maggie squealed. “I knew he was going to do that. That’s what I’d do.”
“Don’t tell him how to play.”
“It took me awhile,” Quaid said, “but I found it on my own.”
Maggie hugged his neck. “I’m glad you’re home.”
He patted her hand. “You’re happy to have someone around you can beat at dominoes?”
Both sisters bounced red curls in boisterous nods. When he feigned a frown, their giggles filled the room.
Father ambled in with Mother close behind him. “Me son must be losing again.”
“I’ve taught me daughters well.” A sly smile tipped Mother’s mouth. “ ’Twas what we did to pass the time while you were gone.”
“You couldn’t mention my disadvantage before I agreed to a tournament?”
Father laughed and wrapped his arm about Mother’s shoulders, pulling her close. “I’m a blessed man, Missus McFarland.”
“Indeed you are, Mister. Best you keep that memory close.” She tapped him on the nose.
Quaid felt pangs of longing. He wanted a wife to hold and a houseful of children. Only one woman came to mind. One whose brown eyes sparkled with delight at the sight of a child’s dollhouse.