A Family Arrangement. Gabrielle Meyer
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with the handle of his mug. “Do you think you could add it to your list of duties?”
Speaking of the boys reminded her of the idea she wanted to discuss with Abram.
“I have a request of my own.”
He took a sip of his coffee and looked at her over the rim of his mug. When he set it down he let out a contented sigh. “This is good coffee, Charlotte.”
His compliment made her blush, though she couldn’t understand why. She turned from him and set the cool iron on the stove, unhooked the handle and then hooked it to the other hot iron waiting. Maybe her cheeks were warm from the stove.
“What kind of request?” he asked, taking another sip of coffee.
She cleared her throat and set to work on the other pant leg. “This past year, two men began a school for the deaf in Iowa City. I read an article in the Iowa City Reporter about their school. It sounds very promising.”
Abram set down his mug. “What are you getting at?”
“I believe Robert is too young to attend, but someday I hope to send him there—”
“Of course I want the best for Robert, but I think the best is to be had here, at home.”
“And I think he needs an education.”
“I would never deny him an education.”
She stopped her work. “How will he get it, if you don’t send him?”
“He’ll get it right here, when we have a school.”
“But how will a teacher communicate with him?” Helplessness weighed down her shoulders. “How will we communicate with him? He must be terribly frustrated and alone right now.”
Abram ran his hands through his hair. “We’ll learn sign language.”
“How will we do that?”
“We’ll make it up if we have to.”
Charlotte set the iron on the stove. “Wouldn’t it make sense to teach him the same signs they use at the school in Iowa City? Maybe they have a sign language book. I’ll ask them to send one if they do.”
“That’s fine—but I have no desire to send my son away. I’ll find a teacher who uses sign language if I have to. I’ll do whatever it takes to keep him here.”
“Like build your town?”
“Exactly.” He indicated his head with a bit of frustration. “Will you cut my hair now?”
She exhaled an exasperated breath. “Only if you shave your beard.”
“Why do you always have conditions and counteroffers?”
She crossed her arms and tapped her foot. “Why are you so stubborn?”
“I don’t want to shave my beard when it’s getting cold. My face is liable to freeze if I don’t have a beard.”
“I’ll knit you a scarf.”
“Why don’t you like the beard?”
Why not, indeed? Was it because a small part of her wanted to see if he was still as handsome as he had been the night of the Fireman’s Ball? The thought sent heat coursing through her—heat of embarrassment and guilt. She shouldn’t think that way about her sister’s widower. “You can trim it, can’t you?”
He rubbed his beard, as if sad to see it go. “I suppose I could give it a little trim. I’ll go get my comb and shears.”
While he was gone, Charlotte quickly ironed his shirt and folded it next to the trousers.
Abram returned, set the comb and shears on the table, and then began to unbutton his shirt.
Charlotte put up her hands, her eyes wide. “What are you doing?”
“Taking off my shirt.”
“Why?”
“I always took off my shirt when Susanne cut my hair.”
She shook her head quickly and grabbed the towel from the table. “Please keep your clothes on and put this around your shoulders. I have no interest in seeing you without your shirt.”
His blue eyes twinkled with mischief and Charlotte was reminded of how charming he had been when he’d courted Susanne.
He sat at the table and set the towel on his broad shoulders with a chuckle.
Maybe it wasn’t just his good looks that had attracted her sister to him.
Charlotte forced the thoughts from her mind and stepped up to the job. Her hands hovered over his head. Father’s hair had been thin and greasy. Abram’s hair was thick and wavy. It looked as if he had washed it recently, too.
She took a deep breath and ran the comb through his hair. She allowed her fingers to slip through the thick waves and assess how she wanted to cut them.
He sighed and his shoulders relaxed.
Charlotte paused, aware of how her touch had just affected him.
“Nothing too short,” he said. “I like to keep a bit of insulation on top.”
She picked up the shears, and with a quick snip, the first lock of hair fell to the floor.
Charlotte worked for several minutes, combing and cutting until she was satisfied. When she was finally finished, she stepped back and admired her work.
“Well?” He turned his head this way and that. “What do you think?”
“I think your beard looks even worse now.”
He grinned and stood, holding the towel so the hair clippings stayed inside the fabric.
“Here—” she reached for the towel “—I’ll take care of that.”
“Then I’ll go see what I can do about my beard.” He grabbed his clean clothes and left the kitchen.
After she swept and threw the cuttings outside for the birds, Charlotte came back into the kitchen and began to make scrambled eggs and sausage for breakfast. Everyone would soon be awake and they’d want to be fed.
She set the table for seven—recalling that she would not be serving Harry at her table. If he couldn’t come down for Sunday breakfast, she wouldn’t serve him the rest of the week. He could take a plate to the barn.
The door opened and Charlotte turned from the hot stove.
There, standing in the doorway, was a handsome stranger—or so she thought for a brief moment. Abram looked like a new man. He had kept his beard but trimmed it close to his face. He wore his clean pants and shirt, tucked in, and had wet his hair and combed it into submission.
He smiled and the effect was stunning.
“I look that good?” he teased.
The room suddenly felt overly warm. She realized she was staring and wanted to spin back to the sizzling sausages, but if she didn’t acknowledge his transformation, she suspected he would tease her incessantly. “You look fine.”
He cocked a brow and swaggered into the room. “Just fine?”
At that, she did turn back to the stove, taking a deep breath to steady her thoughts. “Where will the men sleep while you’re away?”
“The men?”
She looked back at him—she couldn’t help it. “Yes.”
He raised his hand to stroke his beard, but finding it gone, he rested his hand on his chest instead. “Why can’t the men sleep in the house?”
“It wouldn’t be decent.”
“But it’s decent when I’m here?”
“As