A Family Arrangement. Gabrielle Meyer
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Charlotte nodded. “It was taken about six months before—” She paused and finally looked at Abram. “Before she left Iowa City.”
Charlotte knelt before Robert and pointed to Susanne’s picture.
Robert took a tentative step away from Abram and put his hand on the picture. “Mama,” he said in his nasally voice.
Charlotte nodded vigorously and then looked at Mrs. Ayers helplessly. “Is there some sign for ‘mother’? Something that we can teach him?”
Mrs. Ayers held up her hands. “I’m sorry, but I don’t know any sign language. We’ve taught him some basic signs that we created, such as touching his mouth when he’s hungry, but we are at a loss to communicate further.”
“There has to be some way we can learn and teach him sign language,” Charlotte said. She looked back at Robert. “Mama.” She spoke slowly, pointing to Susanne’s image. Next she pointed to her likeness and then to her chest. “Charlotte,” she said, again slowly, as if she wanted him to somehow read her lips.
Robert looked from the picture to his aunt and back to the picture.
“Does he understand?” Charlotte asked Abram.
Abram shook his head. “I don’t know.”
Charlotte allowed Robert to take the picture out of her hands and her face filled with a longing that made Abram’s heart ache.
He quickly put his hand on the baby’s chest. “This is George.”
She looked up at George and stood straight. “The other two look like you. George looks more like Susanne.”
“I think he looks like you,” Mrs. Ayers said. “He has your eyes.”
“Do you think?” Charlotte asked, a sense of hope in her gaze.
George looked at Charlotte with his deep brown eyes and a smile dimpled his chubby cheeks. He reached for Charlotte.
“Oh, my!” She took him in her arms and offered a surprised giggle.
The sound made Abram lift his brows. A giggle? It suited her.
Charlotte snuggled George close, closing her eyes as she placed her cheek against his soft hair.
Realization dawned on Abram. These were Charlotte’s only living relatives. She had no one else.
“Mrs. Ayers,” Abram said, clearing his throat. “Miss Lee has agreed to stay on as my housekeeper for the time being. I plan to take the children home with me this afternoon.”
Mrs. Ayers smiled. “I think it’s a wonderful idea.”
“We’re going home, Papa?” Martin asked.
Abram nodded.
“Is Mama there?”
The question felt like a kick in his gut and he had to speak around the wedge of emotion clogging his throat. “Mama’s in Heaven, remember?”
Martin dropped his chin to his chest and Abram made the mistake of looking up at Charlotte. She still cuddled George but pain glinted in her eyes.
It was hard enough shouldering his grief and that of his children—could he also shoulder the grief of Susanne’s sister?
It was a task he was willing to take if it meant having his boys at home.
It would be hours before the sun rose on another cold November morning, and hours before the boys woke up expecting breakfast. Charlotte sat at the kitchen table, a kerosene lamp making a small halo of light for her to work by. She held Abram’s best trousers in one hand, a needle and thread in the other. Last night, after everyone had gone to bed, she had washed his clothing and set it out to dry.
The potbelly stove radiated heat and boiled the pot of coffee percolating on the burner. Susanne’s irons sat next to the coffee, drawing heat from the fire beneath.
“Are you always an early riser?”
Charlotte jumped at the sound of Abram’s voice. He stood in the doorway wearing the clothes he’d had on yesterday, his hair a mess and his beard just as shaggy as before.
She snipped the loose thread and set the pants on the table to be ironed. His sudden appearance left her heart pounding a bit too hard. “Yes.”
“Are those my clothes?” His sleepy eyes grew wide and he took one pant leg in hand. “They look brand-new, Charlotte. I don’t know what to say.”
She slipped the needle and thread into her sewing basket. “You don’t need to say anything. I’m only doing my job.”
“No. You went above and beyond your job.” He studied her, as if gauging whether or not she had done it out of kindness or duty. “Either way, thank you.”
She couldn’t meet his eyes but simply nodded and closed her sewing box.
He rubbed his beard for a moment and then walked over to the stove, where he closed his eyes and inhaled. “There’s nothing like waking up to the smell of coffee. Before you came, I was the one who made it every morning.”
“Even when Susanne was alive?”
Abram glanced over his shoulder with a knowing smile. “Unlike you, Susanne was not an early riser.”
Charlotte smiled to herself. How could she forget? She had practically dragged her sister out of bed every morning of her life...until she had eloped with Abram.
A stilted silence fell between them.
Abram reached for a speckled mug as Charlotte stood and took a clean towel from the drying rope she’d strung over the stove the night before. She folded it on the table, laid Abram’s pants on top, then hooked a wooden handle to one of the heavy irons and lifted it off the stove.
“Would you like me to do that?” Abram reached for the iron, his hand covering Charlotte’s on the handle. “Susanne’s arms used to get tired when she ironed.”
Charlotte didn’t let go, too stunned to move. She was so used to taking care of herself, the thought of someone else easing her burden made her feel helpless, which she tried to avoid at all cost. “That won’t be necessary.” She gently tugged the iron out of his grasp. “My arms are strong from my seamstress work.”
Abram awkwardly turned to the stove and filled his mug. He walked around her and took a seat at the table.
She swallowed and glanced at him, her insides feeling a bit shaky with him watching her. “I’ll have breakfast ready within the hour. I imagine you have work to do in the barn and then you’ll want to get an early start.”
He took a slow sip of his coffee, apparently in no rush. “The men should be up soon to take care of the animals.” He paused. “I actually came down early to make a request.”
She ran the hot iron over the first pant leg. “Oh?”
“I could use a haircut before I go.”
Charlotte stopped ironing. “You want me to cut your hair?”
“Would you?”
She had cut her father’s hair, after her mama passed away, but she had never touched the head of another man, not even Thomas’s. Somehow it felt...intimate. “I don’t know—”
“I haven’t had a cut since Susanne died.” He put his hand to his head and tugged on a long strand for emphasis. “I want to make a good impression in St. Anthony—and I’m afraid George might be scared of me with all this hair.”
“You do look a bit like a bear.”
He smiled at her and she returned the gesture. It was