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anger showed plain on Mama’s face. She was going to start yelling in Irish and Papa would bellow back in German and Ingrid would have to shout at them both, or retreat with the little ones out back, when what she wanted was to go up to check on Grace.
    But Mama did not yell. She just collapsed on the reed-bottomed rocker beside the fire, and hid her face in her apron. “Mother Mary, help your daughter,” she whispered. “Jesus, Mary and Joseph, help your child.”
    “That’s enough of that, Bridget Loftfield.” Papa walked up to Ingrid, and all at once, Ingrid was a little girl again and she had to work hard not to shrink in on herself. “I’ve thought many things about my children, but I never thought you would be the liar.”
    “You also can call me what you want. I’ve told you the truth.”
    They stared at each other, neither one blinking, and Ingrid refusing to flinch. Behind them, she was aware of Mama in the rocker, her hands covering her face. Mama believed, and that was something. Surely that was something.
    At last, Papa turned away. “Get into the kitchen. There’s work to be done. Leo, it’s time we were gone.”
    Ingrid turned and marched into the back kitchen. Once there, she gripped the edge of the table so hard she felt that it must break off in her fingers. She listened to the tramp of the men’s boots as they marched out the front door. There was no other sound from inside the house, except the faint squeak of the rocker where Mama sat and wept her useless tears.
    For a long moment, Ingrid let her anger burn. Then, at last, she willed it out of her, willed it through her hands down into the wood of the table, anything to get away from her. It did her no good. It was as useless as Mama’s tears. She had to think. She had to decide what to do.
    A knock on the lintel made her jump. Her hand pressed against her chest, she looked up to see Everett Lederle standing in the threshold.
    “Hello, Everett.”
    “Hello, Ingrid,” he said, pulling off the battered, blue cap he’d worn since he’d come back from the war. “I’d heard Grace had a rough night. I wanted to see if there was anything I could do.”
    Hard labor and time had worked their way with Everett, like they had the men of her family, but with him it was different. Him, they had polished, like a stone on the shore, making him strong, patient, willing to let all the world flow around him and ever able to wait. He was certainly willing to wait for her. Everett loved her. She saw it in every look and heard it in every word. The shame of it was, she found herself unable to return that love.
    “No, I’m afraid there’s nothing to be done at present,” she told him. “But I thank you for stopping in.”
    “I’m glad to, Ingrid, you know that.”
    And she looked at him, earnest, steady, strong and thoughtful, and for her lack of love of him she felt suddenly, deeply sorry. “I do know, Everett, and as I said, I thank you for it.”
    He waited a long moment for her to say something else, but she had no more words for him, at least, she had none he truly wanted to hear. But perhaps, after all, there was something he could do.
    “Everett, there may be something.” I should not do this. I should not use him so. It will give him false hope . Ingrid could not love. To love would mean to leave Grace to be worn down by the burden of caring for their hard family. She’d thought of it, of course, she’d thought of it a hundred times. Everett would at least take her to another house, but to promise him love when she felt none, that would be so much worse than what she did now. “I need you to speak with the fisherman Avan tomorrow. I need to know if he has any message or news for me. He knows what ails Grace, and I would know if there was … news.”
    She saw the curiosity in Everett’s face, and she saw disappointment. He did not want to be running errands to another man for her. But he said nothing of that. “If that will help,