“The one pretending it wasn't a look.”
Elias leaned back.
“I don't know what you're talking about.”
“Coward.”
His eyebrows rose.
Clara reached for the knife.
Elias watched her cut through the crust.
The blade cracked it softly.
Steam escaped.
The filling underneath shone in thick brown syrup.
Tender pale pieces lay beneath cinnamon.
From three feet away, they looked exactly like cooked apples.
Elias leaned closer.
“You are a liar.”
Clara lifted a slice onto a plate.
“Eat.”
She set it in front of him.
He looked at her.
Then pie.
Then her again.
“No.”
Clara frowned.
“No?”
“You first.”
She laughed.
“You think I've poisoned it?”
“I think you're enjoying this too much.”
She cut a small piece from the edge and ate.
Elias watched her mouth.
Clara deliberately chewed slowly.
He knew she had noticed.
She knew he knew.
Neither looked away.
Finally she swallowed.
“Alive.”
He picked up the fork.
“Disappointing.”
Clara narrowed her eyes.
He smiled.
Then took a bite.
His expression stopped.
Clara waited.
Elias chewed.
Slowly.
Swallowed.
He stared at the pie.
Then at her.
“What?”
Clara asked.
He pointed at the plate.
“That is apple pie.”
“No.”
“It is.”
“No.”
“I grew up with apple trees.”
“Did you?”
“My mother baked twelve pies every harvest.”
“How exhausting.”
“I know apples.”
Clara leaned one hip against the table.
“Apparently not.”
Elias took another bite.
He shook his head.
“Apple.”
“No.”
“Clara.”
She froze.
He noticed.
“That's your name, isn't it?”
“How do you know?”
He nodded toward the wall.
A framed sampler hung near the shelf.
CLARA & THOMAS WHITMORE, 1857.
She looked.
“I should hide that.”
“Too late.”
Elias tasted again.
“Mrs. Whitmore.”
“Clara.”
“Better.”
He smiled.
She regretted correcting him.
Maybe.
“What happened to Thomas?”
The question was soft.
Not intrusive.
Clara looked toward the pie.
“Fever.”
“I'm sorry.”
“It was four winters ago.”
“That doesn't make me less sorry.”
She nodded once.
Accepted.
Then Elias pointed at his plate.
“Still apple.”
Clara laughed.
“You'll have to earn the answer.”
“How?”
“I haven't decided.”
“What if I wash dishes?”
“No.”
“Cut wood?”
“Closer.”
“Rebuild your barn?”
“Too ambitious.”
“Marry the cook?”
Clara stopped.
Elias did too.
Silence sat between them.
The words had been joking.