Sophie's Dilemma (6 page)

Never would she have believed Hamre would say so many words, and without digging them out of him. Sophie watched his hand on the stick, leaning close enough to almost touch him. Rich blond hair curled slightly from behind his ear, circling the lobe. He was clean-shaven and his square jaw moved beneath his skin. If she leaned just a mite closer . . . She inhaled his scent of soap and . . . and . . . She sniffed again. Man. That’s what it was. Hamre’s own manly scent. Her knees threatened to quit on her.

Surely he could hear her heart, it thundered so hard . . . as if it wanted to leap out of her chest and dance with his. If his wanted to dance, of course.

He turned to look at her. His eyes, those Bjorklund eyes, blue as the deepest sky, eyes one could get lost in. She swallowed and tried to break away, but her eyelids refused to flutter in the way that enticed the boys she’d known. He held her gaze and straightened, rising so she had to tip her head back. Her legs turned to mush, and she feared she might fall against him. Even her fingertips tingled.

He stepped back, breaking the mood and causing her to sniff.

‘‘Ah, Sophie, I . . .’’

She had waited for him to continue, her breath catching. . . .

Even the memory caused a like reaction. She cleared her throat, hoping Grace, already in bed, hadn’t seen her flush, and ordered her heart to get back to normal.

Once in bed Sophie watched Grace’s face, outlined by the moonlight streaming in the window. She knew Grace was either praying or thinking hard, because her breathing had not slipped into the evenness of sleep. But talking in the dark was not easy, and she knew Grace didn’t want to hear what she wanted to talk about.

Why couldn’t she tease Hamre like she did the others? Why did she not feel that power over him that she knew over the other boys? Down bone deep, she knew males of the species found her attractive, and what she could get away with, she did, always a breath from the edge that would incur a scolding from Mor, a look from Pa, and a lecture about nice Norwegian girls. Then, what her parents didn’t know wouldn’t hurt them. Or so the old saw went.

Grace did not see things the same way she did.

Sophie studied her sister’s profile. Of the two of them, Grace was growing into a real beauty, while she . . . There was a wide river of difference between the two sisters. Grace lived up to her name, beautiful deep down like their mother. Once Sophie had looked up the meaning of her own name, and when she discovered it meant wisdom she’d laughed for weeks.

If Hamre came and tossed rocks at her window, would she go down and walk with him in the moonlight? She made herself roll over and close her eyes. She knew both Grace and her mother would say she needed to pray about her feelings for Hamre. She thought about what to say.
Dear God, make him love me?
That wasn’t it.
Dear God, keep him
from going back to Seattle until I can go with him?
No.
Dear God, help
. At the thought of real help, she matched the rhythm of Grace’s breathing that led her into sleep of her own. Better not to ask if one didn’t want to hear the answer.

The next day at school she took the teasing of her friends with a flip of her hair and a saucy look. Let them think what they wanted. But she could tell Grace was still upset with her, and that let in a niggle of fear that tormented her far more than she’d ever thought it would. What if she really was on the wrong track? So she plied her books with more concentration than usual and even raised her hand to answer a question, bringing an astonished look from both her sister and Pastor Solberg. Astrid gave her a secret smile of congratulations. Little did they know that her mind answered every question with Hamre.

On the wagon ride home she wrapped her new navy serge skirt around her bent knees and laid her cheek on her knees.
Let Hamre be
at our house. Let me see him today
. Was it a prayer if she didn’t say ‘‘Please God’’ first or ‘‘Our Father’’?

No Hamre. No, he hadn’t been there. No, no one had heard from him. He was probably visiting the rest of his relatives, Ilse suggested. Sophie thought up reasons to go visit Tante Ingeborg.

When she cleaned the schoolrooms, she checked the windows to see if Hamre was coming. Sitting out on the porch peeling potatoes, she had a clear view of the road and lane. No Hamre, and she hated peeling potatoes anyway, along with most other homemaking things like cooking, sewing, knitting, cleaning. Although she did them at her mother’s insistence, she always dreamed of adventures far away from Blessing.

By bedtime she’d still not seen Hamre.

The next afternoon when the wagon stopped at their house, she saw a familiar figure talking with her pa at the machine shed. Her heart picked up a beat and her feet a skip. ‘‘He’s here,’’ she signed to Grace, nodding toward the men.

‘‘I can see even if I can’t hear.’’ Grace didn’t bother to speak, just signed back, her fingers flashing.

Sophie stomped up the porch steps and into the house. Why couldn’t Grace be happy for her?

‘‘Hamre will be staying for supper, so set an extra place,’’ Kaaren said. She glanced over to see Sophie staring out the window toward the barn. ‘‘Perhaps you should milk all the cows. All by yourself tonight. In an hour.’’

Grace rolled her lips together to keep from laughing.

The banter between Grace and Mor laid a background as Sophie’s thoughts ranged far afield.
Mrs. Hamre Bjorklund. Sophie Marie Bjork-lund.
We will own ships instead of farmland. Hamre will be a fine father,
teaching his sons about the sea
. She leaned against the window frame.
Hurry up, Hamre
.

‘‘Sophie!’’

Returning from her dreaming, Sophie turned at the insistent tone of her mother’s voice. ‘‘What?’’ She knew her voice was not the most pleasant, and the raising of her mother’s eyebrows said she recognized that too. ‘‘Sorry.’’

‘‘You have your good dress on?’’

‘‘I . . . ah . . . well, we’re having company.’’ Sophie refused to look at Grace. She could feel her twin’s secret laughter. She sucked in a breath and slapped a smile on her face. ‘‘What was it you wanted?’’ Sweetness worked better than snapping, in her mother’s outlook.

‘‘We need some help here. Would you go out to the well house and bring in the jug of cream? Also I have a new mold of butter we’ll use.’’

‘‘Yes, of course.’’ She flew out the door. The springhouse was closer to where the men were leaning into part of the steam engine. Perhaps she could go ask if they wanted anything. She thought of taking cookies down to them, but that might be a bit obvious.
Please be thinking of
me, Hamre
.

As she opened the door set in the stone wall that helped keep the well house cool, Sophie eyed the two men still talking. They were spending too much time talking about farming, she was sure. Why didn’t they come up to the house? Didn’t Hamre want to see her? If he knew she was waiting and he was tormenting her . . .

Water ran from the windmill into a pipe that poured into a concrete trough and ran out the other end via a pipe into the watering tank for the cattle. Crocks and jars set in the cold tank stayed fresh. Eggs filled a basket with straw in the bottom. Smoked meat hung from hooks in the rafters, as did spekekjøtt, haunches of mutton dried in the top of the barn in the hot summertime. It would be sliced paper thin and served on bread or with cream. Like the cellar under the house, the springhouse spoke well of the larder and the hard work of the family. When the weather cooled enough for butchering, crocks of sausage patties and headcheese would line the floor against one wall. Ropes of sausages would hang in loops from the rafters. On a hot day the well house was a great place to work.

Sophie took the wooden butter mold and the jug of cream her mother needed and closed the door carefully behind her, dropping the bent nail into the hasp to lock it. She glanced around, only to see the men were no longer by the machinery. Had they gone to the house? Surely Hamre would visit with her before he returned to the boardinghouse. What had they been talking about all that time? If only she could read lips long distance.

Supper at the Knutsons’, when the deaf school was in session was always an adventure, especially at the beginning of the year while everyone was still in training. The older students took turns helping with the meals and serving; the younger ones set the table and helped with the cleanup afterward.

With Lars at the head of the table and Kaaren at the foot, closest to the kitchen, Sophie, Grace, Trygve, and Samuel, along with Ilse and George, spaced themselves along the long table to help the students, who were required to use the proper signs to ask for what they wanted.

Sophie paid more attention to Hamre sitting next to her pa than to the children around her until the milk from an upended glass flowed into her lap. She pushed back her chair and leaped to her feet, ready to scream at the offender, but her mother’s clearing her throat stopped her.
Here I have my good dress on for company, and this happens
. She’d taken off her apron, which added to the mess. But since looking at her mother would yield nothing but a note of censure, she fetched a couple of towels, one to hand to the child to wipe up the mess on the table and another to clean her dress. Now she’d have to rinse out the skirt tonight because she’d hoped to wear this to school the next day.

Smiling sweetly on the outside, she took her place again and passed the bowl of potatoes to the person on her right.

When supper was finished, the adults moved into the parlor while Ilse oversaw the cleanup and homework time.

Hamre, look at me
. Sophie tried to catch his attention, but he followed her family as if he had all the time in the world. Surely this wouldn’t be an ordinary evening with homework and casual conversation. She felt as trapped as a mouse caught by the tail.

Kaaren picked up her mending and Grace the sweater Sophie had started knitting but quit weeks earlier after dropping some stitches. Lars indicated a chair near him for Hamre, leaving Sophie to finally flounce into a chair by her mother. If Hamre had just paid attention to her, they might have gone out on the porch to talk or walk, and perhaps she would take his arm and he would cover her hand with his and hold her snug against his side. Instead she had to endure another look of reprimand from her mother. What a wasted evening, and she had yet to rinse the milk out of her dress.

‘‘So how long do you plan to stay in Blessing?’’ Kaaren asked.

‘‘The schooner will leave for the Bering Sea about November first, and we have some work to do to get it ready. So another week at the most.’’

Sophie felt her jaw drop and snapped it shut before her gaffe should become obvious. Only another week. She tried to smile, but her chin quivered in spite of her attempt.

Lars cleared his throat and looked at his wife. ‘‘Hamre has asked me if he can court our Sophie.’’

Her heart stopped, fluttered, and raced off. Had she heard right? Court our Sophie?
Oh Hamre . . .
She looked up and into his eyes. Finally. Could he read her soul? The happiness in her gaze? Sitting still took all her will when she only wanted to fling herself across the room and into his arms. Hamre!

Lars shifted his attention to his restless daughter. ‘‘But I told him you are too young and have promised to finish school. You may write to each other with our blessing, and we’ll see what all comes by next summer.’’

Sophie stared at her father. No! He couldn’t do that to her.

6

‘‘
B
UT I WANT TO GO with you!’’

‘‘Sophie, you know what your pa said. I was hoping we could be married now, but we can wait. It won’t be long.’’

‘‘It will be forever.’’ Sophie spun away and went to stand at the porch railing, staring out over the moon-washed fields. Frost was in the air, causing her to pull her shawl more closely around her shoulders. She felt his hands cup her upper arms, and heat poured through her body. What if she turned into his arms? Would he kiss her? What would his lips feel like?

‘‘Sophie, I dreamed you would feel this way, but we must abide by your pa’s wishes. I will go to sea for these months, and if all is well, I will come to visit again between the seasons. Do I dare to believe that you love me?’’

‘‘Oh, Hamre, I do.’’ She turned and stared up into his eyes, darkened now in the night. She paused. ‘‘Do you really love me?’’

‘‘Would I have asked to court you did I not?’’

‘‘But I need to hear you say the words.’’ Her voice softened, and she put all her heart in her eyes.

‘‘Ah, Sophie, I think . . .’’ He sucked in a long breath, and his voice deepened even more. ‘‘When I was a boy, I believed I loved Ilse, but I went away and couldn’t even remember her face. I wrote to you because your face, your laughter, never left me. I believe I have always loved you. But I was waiting for you to grow up.’’ He stroked the line of her jaw. ‘‘And now you have.’’

‘‘You never said. All those years.’’

‘‘I could not say anything. Words never came easily for me. And you were a little girl.’’

‘‘But now they do?’’
And I have grown up. So romantic, waiting for me
to grow up. Writing to me as a friend. Ah, this is what stories are made of
.