the instant he read hurt on her face.
They’d fought about that once. He wanted her full attention during a picnic, and she wanted to write down her impressions of some incident she had witnessed in town before she forgot them. He could not understand how the sight of a policeman and a shopkeeper chasing a ragged boy with a basket of strawberries was more important than paying attention to him. Mia had given him a scathing glance, murmured something about how he had never wanted for anything, and continued to write, much as he had found her the night of the train wreck.
He should have known during that picnic that their future together was doomed.
He should have known better now than to bring up the subject. He should apologize. Instead, he turned toward the table. “Has all that writing not paid off well enough for you to now be famous?”
She did not respond, for which he did not blame her. The query did not deserve an answer. It was mean, born of a hurt he thought he no longer felt.
“I am sorry,” he said.
When he still received no response, Ayden turned to see Mia had left the dining room. He sighed. He deserved her silent abandonment. Without her presence, the room felt colder.
Seeking nothing more than warmth and food, he followed Mia into the kitchen. Heat, the scent of fresh ground pepper on the potatoes, and female voices swirled around him. “So what do you plan to do today?” Ma was asking.
“Work.” Mia lifted slices of fried ham from the skillet and slid them onto a platter. “Rosalie should be down any minute. I’m not sure about the lady with the children and that little boy I took off the train. Should I go up and wake them?”
“Let them sleep,” Ayden said at the same time as his mother.
“I can keep food warm for them in the oven,” Ma added. She pulled open the oven door and lifted out a sheet of biscuits. “Once we’re done cooking here. Ayden, take this platter into the dining room.”
Ayden took the platter of fried potatoes from Ma. “I’d rather fix a plate for myself and eat in here. It’s warmer.”
“The dining room will be warm soon enough, and there’s not enough room in here.” Ma pointed her spatula at the table only large enough for two. “Now take that platter in and come back for Mia’s plate.”
“I can manage.” Mia lifted the platter with one hand, but it tilted far enough for a slice of meat to slide onto the worktable. She set the platter down again as her face flooded with hot color. “I’m sorry. My wrist should be better in a day or two, the doctor told me.”
“I’ll get it.” Ayden took her platter in his other hand. “With the way you hang on to that portfolio of yours, you would think you would have hurt your other wrist.”
“Ayden.” Ma rapped his knuckles with her spatula as though he were a small boy stealing sweets. “That was unkind.”
Mia fingered her wrist but looked Ayden in the eye. “I probably wouldn’t have hurt my wrist if I’d been holding on to my portfolio.”
“Likely you’d have bumped your head instead, which might have—” He stopped.
The days of gentle teasing were over. After his rather unkind remark about her holding on to her portfolio, a remark about a blow on her head knocking sense into her, a remark too easily taken wrong, was not the right conversational gambit.
“I’m glad nothing’s broken.” He swung around and marched into the dining room in time to hear a giggle and a whisper and the patter of small feet on the steps.
“Come on in here,” he called to the children.
A boy and girl peeked around the edge of the dining room door. He hadn’t paid much attention to them before. They looked near three years apart in age, but their relationship to one another was apparent in their big brown eyes and wild black curls.
“Hungry?” Ayden asked.
They nodded.
“Is your mother coming?” he pressed.
They nodded again, then the girl whispered, “She’s bringing that boy without a
They’d fought about that once. He wanted her full attention during a picnic, and she wanted to write down her impressions of some incident she had witnessed in town before she forgot them. He could not understand how the sight of a policeman and a shopkeeper chasing a ragged boy with a basket of strawberries was more important than paying attention to him. Mia had given him a scathing glance, murmured something about how he had never wanted for anything, and continued to write, much as he had found her the night of the train wreck.
He should have known during that picnic that their future together was doomed.
He should have known better now than to bring up the subject. He should apologize. Instead, he turned toward the table. “Has all that writing not paid off well enough for you to now be famous?”
She did not respond, for which he did not blame her. The query did not deserve an answer. It was mean, born of a hurt he thought he no longer felt.
“I am sorry,” he said.
When he still received no response, Ayden turned to see Mia had left the dining room. He sighed. He deserved her silent abandonment. Without her presence, the room felt colder.
Seeking nothing more than warmth and food, he followed Mia into the kitchen. Heat, the scent of fresh ground pepper on the potatoes, and female voices swirled around him. “So what do you plan to do today?” Ma was asking.
“Work.” Mia lifted slices of fried ham from the skillet and slid them onto a platter. “Rosalie should be down any minute. I’m not sure about the lady with the children and that little boy I took off the train. Should I go up and wake them?”
“Let them sleep,” Ayden said at the same time as his mother.
“I can keep food warm for them in the oven,” Ma added. She pulled open the oven door and lifted out a sheet of biscuits. “Once we’re done cooking here. Ayden, take this platter into the dining room.”
Ayden took the platter of fried potatoes from Ma. “I’d rather fix a plate for myself and eat in here. It’s warmer.”
“The dining room will be warm soon enough, and there’s not enough room in here.” Ma pointed her spatula at the table only large enough for two. “Now take that platter in and come back for Mia’s plate.”
“I can manage.” Mia lifted the platter with one hand, but it tilted far enough for a slice of meat to slide onto the worktable. She set the platter down again as her face flooded with hot color. “I’m sorry. My wrist should be better in a day or two, the doctor told me.”
“I’ll get it.” Ayden took her platter in his other hand. “With the way you hang on to that portfolio of yours, you would think you would have hurt your other wrist.”
“Ayden.” Ma rapped his knuckles with her spatula as though he were a small boy stealing sweets. “That was unkind.”
Mia fingered her wrist but looked Ayden in the eye. “I probably wouldn’t have hurt my wrist if I’d been holding on to my portfolio.”
“Likely you’d have bumped your head instead, which might have—” He stopped.
The days of gentle teasing were over. After his rather unkind remark about her holding on to her portfolio, a remark about a blow on her head knocking sense into her, a remark too easily taken wrong, was not the right conversational gambit.
“I’m glad nothing’s broken.” He swung around and marched into the dining room in time to hear a giggle and a whisper and the patter of small feet on the steps.
“Come on in here,” he called to the children.
A boy and girl peeked around the edge of the dining room door. He hadn’t paid much attention to them before. They looked near three years apart in age, but their relationship to one another was apparent in their big brown eyes and wild black curls.
“Hungry?” Ayden asked.
They nodded.
“Is your mother coming?” he pressed.
They nodded again, then the girl whispered, “She’s bringing that boy without a
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