She watched me with suspicion as she peeled her next potato. “And you called the village carpenter to catch them?” She was teasing again. “Janus would do anything for you. I dare say he will catch those mice barehanded for a smile. I might stay just to watch.”

I shook my head at her and set a worm-eaten potato next to the peels I’d saved for the neighbor’s pig. “I hired him to frame more paintings.”

My words did nothing to put Anna, an incurable romantic, off the scent. “Just how many paintings do you need to have framed?”

“All of them. Galleries won’t take an unframed canvas.” I was having the work done in stages. The rent from my borders covered repairs to the old house and provided a small income to take care of myself and Wil, but the money hardly stretched to the kind of frames Vincent’s paintings deserved, and I refused to give them worse.

“Will Janus be here all afternoon?” Anna’s tone was suspiciously innocent.

“It’s not as you think.”

“He is not taken with you?” she asked just as a knock sounded on the door, Janus’s distinct, masculine rap.

My friend jumped up with a muffled squeal to answer, pausing only to wipe her hands and whip off her apron.

“Anna!”

She put her finger over her lips, a silent promise that she wouldn’t drop hints and embarrass me. Then she flew to let the carpenter in with a speed that belied her condition, as if torturing me energized her.

“Good afternoon, Janus.”

“Ladies. G…good afternoon.”

Anna pressed a hand to her heart. “My goodness. I must rush. I just remembered. I left the ham in the oven.”

She hurried back for Saskia, then grabbed her shawl and swept out of the room with the flair of a trained actress.

Janus closed the door behind her, hat in hand, his shirtsleeves rolled to his elbows. He carried his materials, the lumber strapped to his shoulders, his box of tools under one arm. He had carpenter arms, muscles built for swinging the hammer. I was used to softer, more civilized sort of men.

Janus’s formidable figure was only saved from being intimidating by his light hair that stuck up like a child’s in the back. I had to turn for a moment to hide my smile as he strode inside.

“Front gate was s…starting to stick again. Fixed it on my way in.” He stopped by the table, pulling a pumpernickel roll wrapped in wax paper from his pocket, and setting it next to me. “For the little one.” Then he walked on. “I’ll b…be in the back.”

“Thank you.”