“We should probably go say ‘hi’ before she convinces herself she’s hearin’ things and checks herself into the loony bin too soon.”

“Yeah,” I agree, slowly nodding my head. “We should.”

I don’t really agree, simply because I want to stay in his eyes, but I follow him out of the room and down the narrow hall anyway. The floors are wooden, and they creak with each step. But with each step, I’m also a little more excited. I know I’m still nervous for some reason because I still keep trying to brush out my hair, but at the same time, I also can’t wait to find out more about this man, whose stare and lips have taken over my mind.

We get to the end of the hallway, and suddenly, there’s an overwhelming smell of apples and cinnamon.

“Jorgen!” I hear a woman exclaim.

Jorgen hugs the woman and then goes to hug a shorter, older woman with gray hair.

“And you must be Ada.”

The younger of the two women closes in on me and instantly throws her arms around my shoulders.

“Hi,” I say, as she squeezes me tight.

The woman pulls away and then goes to brushing off one of my shoulders.

“Oh, I’m sorry, dear. I’m covered in flour. We’re baking for the church picnic tomorrow. That’s why I don’t have a sit-down dinner. But I did whip up a salad, and there’s some pasta that Grandma made in the Crock-Pot.”

She points to a table in the center of the room.

“Mom,” Jorgen says, “it’s fine. We’re just stopping by. We’re headed to the fair.”

“Hogwash,” the older woman chimes in. “You can’t feed this beautiful girl candy apples and popcorn for dinner.”

The old woman ambles over to me and takes my hand with both of hers.

“Hi, dear, you’ll stay and eat something before you go, won’t you?”

I look up at Jorgen. His eyes are already on mine as if he’s waiting for my response. I send him a smile to let him know it’s okay with me.

“All right,” he says. “But she’s got to save room for dessert. So, no tempting us with any of whatever you got back there.” Jorgen gestures toward a counter lined with baked goods.

“Oh, we won’t,” the older woman says, squeezing my hand, and at the same time, giving me a sly wink.

I try to hold in a laugh. Something tells me this woman was a force to be reckoned with before her first gray hair.

Jorgen and I sit down at the little table, and Jorgen fills my plate, and we eat and listen to the older woman talk about the key to a perfect pie crust, which somehow involves keeping the men out of the kitchen. And every once in a while, Jorgen’s mom finds an open space in the conversation to ask about me and what I do and where I’m from, but I get the hint that she already knows all the answers. She reminds me a lot of my mom. She seems gentle on the outside but also like one of those people, who, if you pulled back a layer, all you’d find was pure strength and determination.

“Oh, and Jorgen, your dad and grandpa finally found your old toy riding tractor. How on earth did it get to that old house on the Steelman’s place?”

Jorgen almost chokes on his salad. “I completely forgot about that.”

His mom is staring at him now, presumably waiting for his answer.

Jorgen swallows and then moves his head back and forth a little, as if he’s trying to play it off. “Lindsey and I threw it on the back of the five-wheeler one day and took it over there.”

His mom doesn’t look satisfied, and Jorgen seems to notice that.

“Okay,” he huffs. “We put a piece of plywood on the steps and took turns ridin’ down it.”

I force myself not to laugh as the woman instantly tosses her hand to her heart and shakes her head.

“I swear, I’m not asking any more questions. I don’t even want to know how many times you kids could have killed yourselves growing up.”

“They were kids, Diane,” the older woman chimes in. “They survived. You don’t want me to get started on half the shenanigans you and your sister put me and your father through when you were little.”

Jorgen’s mom hardly bats an eye at the older woman, but she does smile at me before she goes back to kneading her dough. I can only guess that smile confirms the truth in the old woman’s words.

“Why were they lookin’ for that old thing anyway?” Jorgen asks.

His mom pats the dough and then lets out a breath. “Oh, they want to ‘restore’ it.” She uses her fingers to make quotation marks. “You know, paint it, oil it, whatever they do.”

“A toy tractor?” Jorgen asks.

“Well, it was yours when you were little,” she says, bringing a plate of brownies to the table and setting them down in front of us. Jorgen takes the plate and pushes it aside.

“We’re getting dessert at the fair,” he whispers to me.

He winks then, and I just smile to myself.

“So, why are they fixin’ it up again?” Jorgen asks.

His mom stops and touches his shoulder. “They’ll never admit it, but they miss it sometimes.”

“It?” he questions.

“You’ll understand when your kids are grown someday, dear.” She walks back to her station behind the counter. “God knows your father and grandfather didn’t worry half as much as I did about just getting you and your sister to adulthood in one piece.”

Jorgen narrows one eye at me, and I just snicker. I’m beginning to see that our childhoods really weren’t that much different.

We finish our meals a few minutes later, and Jorgen takes my plate.

“Mom, where’s Dad?”

“We sent him outside,” the older woman puffs.

Jorgen looks at me and then at his mom. “Okay, well, we’re going to take off so we can get there before they shut the fair down.”

We say our goodbyes and then head out a back door off a little room attached to the kitchen.

“Dad.” I hear Jorgen say before we’re even out the door. “Truck’s in town. Can I borrow yours?”

“Sure, Son.” The man squeezes Jorgen’s arm but continues toward me.

“Victor,” the man says.

“Ada,” I say, meeting his outstretched hand.

“Well, now I can finally say that I’ve met someone famous.”

My eyes dart to Jorgen. He just smiles, and I shake my head.

“And Son, you didn’t warn me of how pretty she is.”

My smile quickly turns bashful, and heat rushes to my cheeks. I pray that I don’t turn beet red right in front of him.

I manage to find Jorgen’s stare again through my hooded eyes. It’s locked on mine, and for the first time, I notice a certain softness in his eyes that I don’t think I’ve ever noticed before.

“You meet Grandpa yet?” Jorgen’s dad asks me.

I start to shake my head. “No, not yet.”

“Where is he?” Jorgen asks.

“In his rocking chair,” his dad says.

Jorgen takes my hand. “Okay, we’ll head over there. But then, we’re takin’ off.”

“Ada, it was so nice to meet you.”

I smile at his dad and then feel Jorgen tugging me along toward a big, unattached shed or garage or something. Its bay doors are open, and the first thing I see is a little, old man sitting in a green, wooden rocking chair.

“Ada, this is my Grandpa E,” Jorgen says, gesturing toward the aged man.

“Hi,” I say. “Nice to meet you.”

“No, no, dear, the pleasure’s all mine,” the old man says with a sweet smile.

“Grandpa E, how’s it going?” another younger voice calls out from behind us.

“Still vertical,” Grandpa E shouts over his shoulder and then goes back to his rocking.

“Did those women kick you out of the house again?” the younger man asks.

“No, I left on my own accord.” The old man chuckles to himself.

The younger man laughs too and then sets his eyes on Jorgen and me.

“Hi,” he says, planting his feet in front of me. “Marcus.”

He holds out his hand, and I habitually place my hand in his.

“Ada,” I say.

“Ada, this is the buddy that plays on the softball team I think I mentioned before,” Jorgen says.

I take a second, remembering.

“Oh, yeah,” I say, starting to nod my head. “How are you guys doing?”