Moder , brother, sister, and her singing while Fader played the flute. Yes, a girl needed her father, and Gabi was blessed to have hers here.
Swallowing the emotion that always came when she thought of family, Maren pulled her flute box from the bottom shelf of the bookcase. While Gabi blew into the recorder, practicing her chords, Maren pieced the wooden flute together and added the metal and ivory head. The instrument was one of the few items she’d brought with her from the old country.
***
Woolly added the last of the pickets to the stack at the side of the barn. A list of things he should’ve said—meant to say—to Mother Brantenberg taunted him. But when he stood before her, words seemed an empty offering. She was right … he hadn’t considered her sadness. Only his own.
He had already unhitched the horses and fed them. All that was left to do was to carry the flour sacks into the pantry and deliver Gabi’s surprise. He patted his shirt pocket where he’d tucked the other two gifts. It wasn’t proper that he give Miss Jensen a gift so soon. For now, he’d hang on to her surprise.
Music met him at the kitchen door. Pure notes from a flute and the hesitating notes of a recorder. Mother Brantenberg had marched off to the garden upon ending the conversation between them, and he’d just seen her bent over collecting squash and beans. The harmony must be coming from Miss Jensen and his daughter. Tears of joy pooled his eyes as he quickened his step to match his racing heartbeat. He didn’t want to miss a note of the music.
He opened the door and quietly stepped into the kitchen. “Home, Sweet Home.” A song he’d heard much on the marches from one battle to the next until it was banned from Union army camps. He’d recited the words to motivate himself as he became too weary to take the next step toward home. And now, though it seemed a bittersweet taunt, he’d never heard a melody so charming. He set the flour sacks on the table and followed the music on light steps. At the doorway to the sitting room, he paused and listened.
Mid pleasures and palaces though we may roam ,
Be it ever so humble, there’s no place like home .
Mid verse, the flute’s music ceased. The recorder continued, at the hands of a less experienced musician.
“Mr. Wainwright?”
He peeked around the doorframe to see Miss Jensen standing beside the piano, a smile teasing her lips. He removed his hat and entered the warm room. “How did you know?”
“You were humming along.”
He hadn’t realized he was humming. Nor had he realized that Miss Jensen had developed especially keen hearing, no doubt due to her failing eyesight. A good thing to keep in mind.
He approached the piano where she and Gabi stood. “Please continue. It was beautiful.”
The grandfather clock sprang to life, sounding its hourly cacophony, a wholly unwelcome intrusion.
Miss Jensen began pulling the flute apart. “I’m afraid I’ve lost track of time, and I’m due to start dinner.”
“Does Oma still have music time after Sunday dinners?”
“We do. Yes.” Gabi’s smile brightened her eyes, the shade of bluebonnets.
“I’ll look forward to it.”
Miss Jensen placed the flute parts in the box, then looked at him. “You’re staying then?”
“I plan to.”
“I want you to.” Gabi set her recorder on the piano bench and gave his leg a hug. “You have to.”
Emotion clogging his throat, he reached into his pocket and felt around for the right gift. “Little one, I brought you something from town.” He handed her the paper-wrapped present.
Her eyes widening, Gabi seated herself on the piano bench and unfolded the paper. “It’s an ornament, Miss Maren!” The metal angel dangled from her finger as if it were hanging on the branch of a Christmas tree.
Miss Jensen stepped toward them and held the angel to her face. “It’s lovely.” She returned the ornament to Gabi then set her flute box on
Swallowing the emotion that always came when she thought of family, Maren pulled her flute box from the bottom shelf of the bookcase. While Gabi blew into the recorder, practicing her chords, Maren pieced the wooden flute together and added the metal and ivory head. The instrument was one of the few items she’d brought with her from the old country.
***
Woolly added the last of the pickets to the stack at the side of the barn. A list of things he should’ve said—meant to say—to Mother Brantenberg taunted him. But when he stood before her, words seemed an empty offering. She was right … he hadn’t considered her sadness. Only his own.
He had already unhitched the horses and fed them. All that was left to do was to carry the flour sacks into the pantry and deliver Gabi’s surprise. He patted his shirt pocket where he’d tucked the other two gifts. It wasn’t proper that he give Miss Jensen a gift so soon. For now, he’d hang on to her surprise.
Music met him at the kitchen door. Pure notes from a flute and the hesitating notes of a recorder. Mother Brantenberg had marched off to the garden upon ending the conversation between them, and he’d just seen her bent over collecting squash and beans. The harmony must be coming from Miss Jensen and his daughter. Tears of joy pooled his eyes as he quickened his step to match his racing heartbeat. He didn’t want to miss a note of the music.
He opened the door and quietly stepped into the kitchen. “Home, Sweet Home.” A song he’d heard much on the marches from one battle to the next until it was banned from Union army camps. He’d recited the words to motivate himself as he became too weary to take the next step toward home. And now, though it seemed a bittersweet taunt, he’d never heard a melody so charming. He set the flour sacks on the table and followed the music on light steps. At the doorway to the sitting room, he paused and listened.
Mid pleasures and palaces though we may roam ,
Be it ever so humble, there’s no place like home .
Mid verse, the flute’s music ceased. The recorder continued, at the hands of a less experienced musician.
“Mr. Wainwright?”
He peeked around the doorframe to see Miss Jensen standing beside the piano, a smile teasing her lips. He removed his hat and entered the warm room. “How did you know?”
“You were humming along.”
He hadn’t realized he was humming. Nor had he realized that Miss Jensen had developed especially keen hearing, no doubt due to her failing eyesight. A good thing to keep in mind.
He approached the piano where she and Gabi stood. “Please continue. It was beautiful.”
The grandfather clock sprang to life, sounding its hourly cacophony, a wholly unwelcome intrusion.
Miss Jensen began pulling the flute apart. “I’m afraid I’ve lost track of time, and I’m due to start dinner.”
“Does Oma still have music time after Sunday dinners?”
“We do. Yes.” Gabi’s smile brightened her eyes, the shade of bluebonnets.
“I’ll look forward to it.”
Miss Jensen placed the flute parts in the box, then looked at him. “You’re staying then?”
“I plan to.”
“I want you to.” Gabi set her recorder on the piano bench and gave his leg a hug. “You have to.”
Emotion clogging his throat, he reached into his pocket and felt around for the right gift. “Little one, I brought you something from town.” He handed her the paper-wrapped present.
Her eyes widening, Gabi seated herself on the piano bench and unfolded the paper. “It’s an ornament, Miss Maren!” The metal angel dangled from her finger as if it were hanging on the branch of a Christmas tree.
Miss Jensen stepped toward them and held the angel to her face. “It’s lovely.” She returned the ornament to Gabi then set her flute box on
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