“Eva Gruder.”

There was a spark between them, in that shared hand clench. Eva pulled back as though she’d been scalded. Her stained glass eyes flashed violet and gold. Then she smiled shyly and shut the door.

Arnst walked home, carrying the woman’s flower-like, wool-heavy scent inside his heart. He carried, too, her name on his tongue, like a lozenge, sucking slowly to prolong the taste.

When Arnst arrived home, his mother dropped the book she’d been reading (which, by the way, was the Bible) and clapped her hands.

“I knew it! I told our no-good neighbors this was to be your year, the year that you’d meet and marry your wife! Tell me, my little wunderkid, what is her name!”

“Eva Gruder.”

Arnst hung his coat and sat down next to his mother at the kitchen table. He was still inside his head, so he didn’t notice the nervous flutter of his mother’s hands.

“Eva Gruder? The widow? Are you sure?”

Arnst looked up, his doe-brown eyes no longer stuttering but sure as stone. “I smell a winner, mama. I’m sure.”