the practice, which he’d begun out of a sense of duty, had become the highlight of his day. No matter how tired he was, spending a few moments quietly with his sons brought him deep contentment. Asa, in particular, seemed to enjoy the poetry as much as Neziah did. It wasn’t something that Neziah would have willingly admitted to anyone, but he found the sounds of the rhyming words pleasing. Joel preferred the stories, the longer the better, but Neziah suspected that it was simply a way of delaying bedtime.
Tonight, Neziah chose a short and funny poem about a squirrel that stored up nuts for winter and when he had finished it he said, “Sleep well,” as he bent to rest a hand lightly on each small head. Joel’s hair was light and feathery; Asa’s thick and curly. “God keep you both,” he murmured.
“Dat?”
“Jah, Joel, what is it? No more about cookies tonight.”
“Nay, Dat. I was wondering. Is Ellen going to be our new mutter?”
Neziah was surprised by the question; he had wondered how much his sons had understood from the conversations he and Micah had had with their father and later at the Beacheys’ table. Apparently, they’d caught the gist of it. “I don’t know,” he answered honestly. He made it a point never to be dishonest with his children, not even for their own good. “Maybe. Would you like that?”
“Grossdaddi said she might marry you,” Joel said, avoiding the question.
“Jah, and...and Uncle Micah, too,” Asa supplied.
Neziah chuckled. “A woman can only marry one man, and a man only one woman. Ellen might marry me or your uncle Micah, or she might not marry either of us.” Neziah slid the chair back under the table and retrieved a crayon from the floor. It was almost too dark to see, and he wouldn’t have noticed it if he hadn’t stepped on it. “Good night, boys.”
“But will she?” Joel persisted.
He stopped in the doorway and turned back to his boys. “We’ll have to wait and see. If she marries your uncle Micah, she’ll be your aunt.”
Joel wrinkled his little nose. “Is that like a mutter?”
A lump rose in Neziah’s throat. Joel had been so small when his mother died, and Asa only an infant. Neither of them could remember what it was like to have a mother. Neziah felt a faint wave of guilt. Had he been selfish in waiting so long to remarry? His sons deserved a mother; everyone in Honeysuckle thought so. But would Ellen be right for them? For him?
“Ellen makes good pie,” Joel said.
Asa yawned. “I like pie.”
“Ellen does make good pie,” Neziah conceded. “Now, no more talking. Time for sleep.” Pretending not to hear the muted whispers behind him, Neziah made his way out of the boys’ room and down the stairs. He didn’t need a light. He knew the way by heart.
He continued on through the house, past the closed door to the parlor, where a thin crack of light told him that his father was still awake reading the Bible or working on correspondence as part of his duties as a church elder. He walked through the kitchen and outside, making his way to the old brick well that stood near the back porch. The windmill and a series of gears, pipes and a holding tank delivered water to the house and bathroom, but the coldest water came from the deep well. Neziah unlatched the hook and slid aside the wooden cover. With some effort, an overhead pulley, a rope and a wooden bucket rewarded him with an icy drink of water scooped out with an aluminum cup that was fastened to the iron frame.
Neziah leaned against the old brick and savored the water. This was another habit of his. Every night, if it wasn’t raining, sleeting or snowing, he’d come out to the well and draw up fresh water. He liked the sensation of the liquid, the rough texture of the bricks and the familiar curves of the bucket and cup. He’d always loved the well. It was a good place to think.
He was still standing there, one hand steadying the bucket, when he heard the rhythmic sound of a stone skipping across water. Instantly, he knew what it was. He finished his water, hung the cup back on the hook and walked across the yard, past the grapevines. At the edge of the small pond in the side yard, he spotted the outline of a figure. The figure tossed something just so and again Neziah heard the familiar splash, splash, splash of a rock skipping across water.
“Only three. Can’t you do better than that?” he called, walking toward his brother.
“It’s not about how many hops. I’m practicing my technique,” Micah explained.
“Ah.” By the light of the rising moon, Neziah picked up a stone from the water’s edge and slid it back and forth over his fingertips, judging its shape and weight. A good rock had to be flat and oval and just the right weight. “Your spin’s still not right.”
“My spin is fine.” Micah picked up another rock, crouched and threw it.
Four skips.
“You should try standing up to start...like this.” Neziah lifted his hand above his head, his wrist cocked, and then swung down and out in one smooth movement. The stone hit the water and skipped one, two, three, four, five times before disappearing beneath the surface.
“Okay, that was just practice. Best two out of three tries,” Micah challenged, picking up another rock.
Neziah smiled. The two of them had been competitive for as long as he could remember, mostly because of Micah, he liked to think. To Micah, everything was a game. But the truth be told, though, Neziah had a small competitive streak himself. Or maybe it just bugged him that his little brother was so good at everything. Nothing ever came hard to Micah.
“Best score of three,” Neziah agreed. He leaned over to find three perfect rocks. “How was fishing with Ellen?”
“Great.”
Neziah could just make out Micah’s face; he was grinning ear to ear. “And Ellen really is agreeable to marrying one of us?”
Neziah saw Micah shrug in the darkness as he picked up a stone, ran his fingers over it and rejected it. “It makes sense, and she’s a sensible woman. Or haven’t you noticed that?”
“You’re not usually so quick to seize on one of Vadder’s ideas.” Finding a near-perfect stone, Neziah passed it to his left hand for safekeeping.
“He’s right. It’s past time I married. I look at you with your two boys and...” Micah turned to Neziah, casually tossing a stone into the air and catching it. “You know what I think of them. Scamps or not, it’s time I had a few of my own. And for that I need a wife. Why not Ellen?”
“She’s older than you.”
Micah laughed. “That’s what she said. Wasn’t our mutter older than our vadder?”
“A year, I think, but there’s more than that between you and Ellen.”
“If it doesn’t bother me, it shouldn’t bother you, brother.” Micah stared at Neziah for a moment. The grin came again. “Not having second thoughts, are you? Wishing you hadn’t called things off when you did?”
“Of course not,” Neziah said a little too quickly. “We walked out together, that’s true, but there were differences that we couldn’t seem to...” He sighed and stood at the edge of the water. “Your turn.”
Micah squatted down. “If my courting Ellen is a problem for you, now’s the time to speak up. I like her, but I won’t let a woman come between us. Not even Ellen.” He let go of his first stone. “Yes!” he cheered when it hopped five times.
“Dat’s idea is that she choose between us. I agreed to it, same as you.” Neziah tossed his stone and it skipped five times. “I just don’t want you to hurt her, Micah. Don’t make promises you can’t keep.”
Micah tossed his next stone. Three skips. He didn’t cheer. “Sounds