Gust rarely came to the house, and when he did, he, John, and their father, Knute, would argue about business, the bank, the mill, their voices growing louder and louder, until Wilma could stand it no more and would excuse herself to the parlor and the piano. Yet, even as the noise of her music drowned the men out, her ears would perk up when Gust’s voice came through: “… just don’t see how you can …;” “… if only you’d look at it from the other …”

She never intended to listen for his voice, but she couldn’t seem to stop herself. When he was near, she did her best to avoid so much as looking at him—not to the point of being rude, but she did try to remain distant. Yet, she so enjoyed the sight of him. She knew that if she wasn’t careful she could lose herself for hours in just examining the whorls of his hair, the highlights of blond over light brown, and, in wintertime, dark brown; the unruly perfection of it as it tickled the tops of his ears and the back of his neck. She knew she could lose herself in his eyes, too, pinwheels of silver-blue. She had prayed for God to put the same light in John’s eyes, but so far He had not. He was challenging her to sin, she supposed. He was challenging the frog.

The baby kicked. “Shall we go see your uncle Gust, Baby?” Wilma whispered. “Kick once for yes and twice for no.”

The baby kicked once. (The baby always kicked only once, then paused, then kicked again, but no matter: She was crossing the street.)

She squared her shoulders and, clutching her handbag in one hand, lifted her skirt an inch in front with the other, as though that would keep the street’s mud from getting on it. Her only intent was to catch a glimpse of him, and there wasn’t anything wrong with that. Half the women she knew (church women, no less, and just as married as Wilma herself) would have crossed town for a glimpse of Gust Mickelson, and all Wilma was doing was crossing the street.

Her foot was on the bank’s bottom step when Gust burst out of the door, his face flushed, jamming his hat onto his head. When he saw her, he stopped. “W-Wilma!” he said, fumbling with his hat. “I—what a pleasure to see you.”

Someone brushed behind Wilma, passing her. Gust was standing so close, only two steps above her (now one! as he moved even closer, turning his hat around in his hands). “Gust,” she said. “Good day.” And she hurried up the steps, brushing past him, into the refuge of the bank, damning the frog that had so shamelessly sought him out.