“Well, choke on your apples,” Denise hissed, grabbing the handles of her empty bags. “Miserable cheapskates.”
“Have a safe trip, Denise,” Margaret said calmly without rising. “I already packed jam in the children’s backpacks. Two jars each. Just be careful not to break them on the way.”
The farewell was awkward.
Denise walked ahead, making the gravel crunch loudly beneath her shoes. The children followed behind her.
They had almost reached the bend in the road when Connor suddenly stopped, turned around, and ran back.
He rushed to Harold, threw his arms around the old man’s neck—awkwardly and boyishly, but with all his strength—and spoke into the collar of his shirt.
“I’m coming back by myself next summer. I can take the train. We were going to finish the little gazebo, remember?”
“The lumber is in the shed,” Harold replied, placing one heavy hand on the boy’s shoulder. “The boards are dry. Come back.”
That evening, the house was so quiet the silence seemed to ring.
Margaret went into the kitchen to put the kettle on and suddenly stopped.
A wooden stork stood on the windowsill. It leaned slightly to one side, had one short wing, and had been carefully smoothed with sandpaper until the wood shone pale.
Beneath it lay a folded sheet of graph paper.
“Grandpa Harold, I figured it out. We have enough boards if we make the roof sloped on both sides. I’ll come in June.”
Margaret stood there holding the note until the kettle began to whistle.
“Harold,” she called toward the hallway, and for some reason her voice trembled. “Come here.”
He picked up the wooden bird, turned it toward the light, and ran a finger along the uneven wing.
“Look at that,” he said. “A stork. He chose the right bird. Storks always return home, sweetheart. It’s in their nature.”
Outside, August mist rose over the orchard. The air smelled of ripe apples and dry grass, and for the first time in many years, the house that had so often seemed empty no longer felt empty at all.