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ALICE HATED BEING UNABLE to do for herself. It had been three weeks since the influenza came to Pine Lake, two weeks since it claimed her parents’ lives. She choked down a sob thinking about them. They were buried in a hasty funeral she’d been too sick to attend. Some days it hardly felt real. Other days it was painfully so.
Jack was a Godsend, caring for them, comforting her, but she wished Harry were home. Jack told her about the telegram his father received at the bank, how Harry and Fin were making the slow trek north from Chicago on horseback. They were expected any day.
She pushed her lap rug aside. “I can get my own dinner, Jack. I truly don’t need you waiting on me hand and foot.”
“Yes, you do. Doctor’s orders.” He handed her a glass of water and spread the blanket back over her legs. “Now, promise me you’ll stay here while I heat the rest of the soup Aunt Caroline left for us.” He went to the kitchen.
She’d never been so sick she couldn’t go on with her day. “But I refuse to eat in the parlor. I’ll eat in the kitchen.” She hollered over the racket Jack was making with the pots. “Mother would never allow . . .” Her voice cracked. Darn it. She was going to cry again. And crying made her cough.
The banging stopped and Jack stuck his head out the kitchen door. “Alice?”
“It’s just . . .” She tried to take a slow shallow breath to stop the cough. It was the same if she talked too much, laughed at Jack’s stories, or took too deep a breath. Doc Peterson said it would be like this for a while. Her lungs needed time to recover.
He carried a chair over from the dining room to sit with her.
Alice took a sip of her water and waited for the coughing to stop. “I never got to say goodbye, to tell them I loved them.” He handed her the handkerchief from his back pocket. “Thank you.” She wiped her eyes and blew her nose.
“Doc says they were buried next to your grandparents. All together in the shade of the big old willow. I’ll take you when he says you’re well enough.”
She smiled and squeezed his hand. “I’m glad you were here, even if it meant being stuck in quarantine. I can’t imagine what it would have been like to be alone, with nothing but my memories and sadness. I probably would have died, too.”
“But you’re not alone. You have Harry, and until he gets home, you have me. You’ll always have me.”
Alice had a flash of memory—Jack telling her he loved her? Was it true, or merely a fever dream? And had she told him she loved him, too?
He leaned forward and pushed back the stray hairs hanging over her eyes. He let his hand rest softly on her cheek and wiped a last tear away with his thumb.
Her breath caught in her throat. They were so close his warm breath puffed short and fast on her face. Her heart beat loudly against her ribs. She’d never felt this way with Harry.
“I might still be contagious.” Her voice came out barely above a whisper.
“If I haven’t caught it by now . . .”
A knock on the window made them jump, sending her into another coughing fit. Jack’s cane clattered to the floor.
A second knock was hard enough Alice feared the glass would break. She took a drink of water to calm her coughing and soothe her scratchy throat.
“Open up! It’s me.”
“Harry?” Alice let her lap rug fall. Stumbling to the window in her haste, she grabbed onto the fireplace mantle for balance. “Harry?” She leaned against the cool glass. Where was he? His boots shook the front steps. The doorknob turned, but the door didn’t open. She remembered Jack locking it after Doc left.
“It’s me. Harry. Let me in.”
Jack blocked her way from opening the door.
“Please,” she begged and tried to push past him. “I have to see Harry. I have to know he’s all right.”
“It’s too dangerous. You could make him sick.”
Alice stopped. Jack was right. She pressed her body tight against the door. The wood was warm in the mid-day sun. “You can’t come in, Harry. We’ve had the influenza here. My parents died. I’m still sick.”
Silence. The door moved ever so slightly. He must be leaning against his side. She imagined they were in each other’s arms. “Harry? Are you there?”
“I heard about your parents. I’m sorry.” His voice sounded tired, sad. “We saw Doc Peterson in town. Then there’s the sign . . .”
She had forgotten about the sign, was so sick when Jack hung it his hammering was more like a dream than a memory.
Alice’s heart ached with her need to see him. “Come to the window. I want to know this isn’t one of my fever dreams where I think I’m talking to you, when you’re not here at all.”
He hesitated.
“I know about your injuries, and I don’t care.”
“How?”
Jack stepped forward. “I showed her the letter you sent to our parents.”
Harry was silent.
“Please.” Alice waited for a response. “We’re going to be married. Do you really think you can go the rest of our lives without letting me see your face?” She laughed, trying to lighten his worries with a joke. Sometimes he was so stubborn he couldn’t see the obvious right in front of him.
His answer was the sound of his footsteps down the front steps and around the side of the house.
Jack took her arm. “Are you certain? Perhaps I should see him first, prepare you.”
“You’re both acting ridiculous. Of course, I’m certain.”
But she wasn’t. Not really. Her heart raced, and she struggled to control her breathing. Not because of her illness, but because she didn’t want to show even the slightest shock or horror, no matter how bad Harry’s injuries. His face might be scarred, but his heart remained unchanged. Of this she held no doubt.
He stood with his back to the window. Alice took a deep breath to steady herself. “Harry?” Her voice was so quiet she wasn’t certain he heard her through the glass.
Harry slowly turned and removed his hat. There was a black patch over his right eye. An influenza mask covered the bottom of his face, leaving only a hint of the scarring beneath. Alice smiled and nodded encouragement. Jack’s fingers tightened on her shoulder, trembled when Harry untied his mask.
The last thing she remembered was the unveiling of a tight red scar puckering Harry’s cheek and pulling at the corner of his mouth.