He didn't move. Just kept reading, the paper blocking her view of his face. She tried conversation again. "Were the mashed potatoes creamy enough?"
"Ya."
"What about the peach pie? Was that gut?"
He flipped down one corner of the paper, his reddish eyebrows flat over pale blue eyes behind silver-framed glasses. "I already said it was, right after I ate it."
"Oh. That's right."
Maynard went back to reading, and Daisy returned to fretting. It had taken almost three weeks to sync up their schedules so he could come over for supper. He always had an excuse for refusing her invitations. He was too busy at work. He had to get up early in the morning for work. He needed to do more work. And she had no reason to doubt he was telling the truth. He was a carpenter for the number one furniture maker in Dover, Delaware, and they were busy year-round. Their hickory rockers alone had a two-year waiting list.
But every time she was about to give up on him, he would surprise her. Like tonight. When she made a final attempt to get him to come over, he'd easily agreed. It was because of those times that she still held hope that someday, one day, he would come to his senses and realize they were meant to be together. In the meantime, she had to do her part to stoke the flame he kept neglecting.
"Maynard?" she asked tentatively.
After a long pause he said, "What?"
Surely, he wasn't annoyed with her. She had cleaned the house until it shone, had cooked his favorite meal, had fixed warm apple cider and brought it to him, made sure the fire was the perfect temperature, and when he pointed at the newspaper on the coffee table, she'd handed it to him. Maybe that had been her mistake. If she had told him no, he would be forced to at least look at her.
Who was she kidding? She never told Maynard no. In the eighteen months she'd known him after he and his family had moved to Dover from upstate New York, she had always said yes. She wished that someday soon she could give him the ultimate yes after he asked her to marry him. Of course, they would have to hold hands first. And share a kiss or two, at the very least. There would be plenty of hand-holding, snuggling, kissing and... other things...after their wedding. Sigh.
He yanked the paper onto his lap. "Are you ill, Daisy?"
"What? Nee, I'm fine."
"You're not acting like it."
Then maybe you should take my temperature. Slowly. Her cheeks flamed. But the idea of Maynard gently touching her forehead with the back of his hand, then lightly stroking her cheek as he gazed into her eyes—
"You're acting seltsam." He put his feet on the floor, the newspaper rustling as he moved. "Are you sure you're not sick?"
She nodded and folded her hands on her lap, disappointed he hadn't noticed her new emerald-green dress or how it brought out her hazel eyes. At least she thought it did. She couldn't exactly ask her parents that question without them thinking she was, um, seltsam. "Do you like my dress?"
He quickly glanced at her. "Looks like the rest of your dresses."
"Nice?"
Maynard lifted the paper again. "Suitable."
She muzzled her annoyance. For the umpteenth time, she reminded herself that he was the man God had set apart for her. She knew it the moment he and his parents had walked into church service that fateful Sunday morning. Her knees turned wobbly at the sight of him, and she couldn't concentrate on the singing or the sermon. At the age of twenty-five she had finally, finally experienced what her siblings, friends, and cousin Grace already had—the excitement of falling in love. In church, of all places! But it made sense, because Maynard was heaven-sent.
Sometimes it was hard to keep that fact in mind. Like when he was consumed with work, or how he always left with his parents immediately after church service was over, eliminating any possibility of him taking her home or just going for a buggy ride.
