In the Woods When First We Met

110. A Winter Picnic

"Are you finished with that article about Sasquatch?" Anne asked.

Gilbert did not look up at her. Intentionally keeping his face and tone completely neutral and expressionless, he said, "Almost, but not Yeti."

Anne's face crinkled up...and suddenly she was laughing. She hadn't laughed so heartily in a very long time, and it felt wonderful.

The joke hadn't even been that funny, but once she started laughing, she couldn't seem to stop. She rocked with laughter.

Gilbert looked up now, grinning at her.

"That was so bad," Anne said, the words escaping amidst the laughter.

"It made you laugh," Gilbert said, laughing himself.

"It made me laugh because it was so bad!"

She was still laughing as Gilbert's dad walked in.

Gilbert stopped laughing and jumped up. "Dad," he said, "You should have called me, I would have come and helped you. You shouldn't be up by yourself."

"I'm quite all right," he said, smiling, "I feel perfectly fine, son, just like I've been telling you for the past three days."

"But I should've checked on you," Gilbert insisted. Then he looked at the clock. Where had the time gone? "Wow, I'm sorry, I didn't even notice it was long past lunch time...I didn't even fix anything to eat yet. Do you feel all right?

Anne stood up. "I'm sorry if I disturbed you, Mr. Blythe...I should have been quieter..."

He smiled. "I like to hear your laughing," he said. "Don't be quiet on my account."

"Here, let me help you to your chair, dad," Gilbert said, "And I'll get lunch now."

Mr. Blythe looked back and forth from Anne to the quilt and pillows in front of the fire. Then he said, "Actually, come to think of it, I don't feel much like sitting up; I think I'd rather eat in bed, if you don't mind."

"But you just said you felt fine," Gilbert asked, worried, "Are you sure you're not worse?"

His dad replied, "I do feel fine, but it probably wouldn't be a bad idea to eat on my own. I mean, to eat in bed. You two have lunch out here."

Gilbert helped his dad back to bed and then he and Anne went into the kitchen to fix lunch together. After Gilbert brought lunch to his dad, then they took their own lunch to the parlor to sit on the quilt again.

"It's a picnic," Gilbert realized, looking at the quilt underneath them.

"We're lucky, then, most people don't get to have a picnic in the wintertime," Anne said happily.

"I wanted to tell you how much I liked your story," Gilbert finally said.

"Oh, did you?" Anne asked, suddenly feeling a bit shy about sharing that with him.

"Yeah. When I saw you left a story for me, I knew it would be good, but I had no idea. I hope you keep writing, Anne. You've got a real future in it."

When it got close to the time school would let out, Gilbert's dad wanted to come out and say goodbye to Anne.

"Thank you so much for letting me stay here, Mr. Blythe. Your home is lovely, and I am exceedingly grateful for your hospitality." She said, hoping she had made a good impression.

"Any time," he said. "You come back and see me, all right?"

Then he said, "Gilbert, you two didn't finish all the magazines, did you? Why don't you get one for her to take home with her so she has something to read later?"

"Oh, you don't have to do that," Anne said, even though she would love to take one home.

"Nonsense," his dad said good-naturedly, "It would be my pleasure."

Gilbert brought one over. "How 'bout this one? It talks about the history of the printing press, and how books are made. Someone who's going to become an author ought to know those things."

Anne took it, a pleased smile flushing her face. Gilbert smiled back.

Mr. Blythe stood watching them smiling at each other.

Gilbert suddenly said, "Uh...well...I better get you home. I'll be right back, dad, it'll only take a few minutes."

"No hurry," his dad responded, "You take your time getting this little lady home safe, I'll be just fine while you're gone."

Gilbert opened the door for Anne and then stepped out himself. His dad patted him on the shoulder as he left, and then watched the two walk through the snow together, growing ever smaller in the distance.