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Amy caught sight of them, emerging from the small woods that separated Plumfield from Orchard House and the Laurence House. Laurie, starched and straight, his hair a little shorter than the crown of beautiful curls he wore so effortlessly gorgeous in his youth; Jo in a shirt that Amy suspected was Friedrich’s but would never ask, and a long skirt, her hair tucked back at her neck, no longer the halo of rebellion she had in girlhood.
Laurie loped behind her as she almost marched towards Orchard House, and though she was out of earshot, Amy imagined she could hear Jo, regaling one thing or another or telling Laurie of some exciting idea she had, holding up her skirts as they walked through the tall grass. Suddenly, he pulled her back by the elbow, as if something jumped out at them, and Jo slapped his shoulder as he walked ahead, pushing her weight into his back, knocking him off balance as he laughed. Amy laughed to herself, wondering if Jo punched or shoved Friedrich like she did her childhood friend, for she could not imagine her dear sister without loose and combative limbs.
She went into the other room to retrieve some plates and silverware for lunch, asking Hannah if there was anything she wanted her to bring to the table, and through the door came Jo and Laurie, the same side of a single coin, laughing loud and pushing up against each other with the ease and familiarity of twins who had not spent a moment apart their entire lives.
“Yes, but Teddy, yes, but - no, listen! He said - wait, listen - he said he would rather die than be married to a girl smarter than he was!”
“I’m listening, I’m - stop - I’m opening the door for you,” and Amy could hear Jo slap him on the arm in response to the chivalry she had always despised.
“Are you going to expel him?” came Laurie’s voice from the hall.
“Well, I wanted to, but one of my fellow teachers said we would do better to show him his foolishness than to force him out into the world where he may never learn better.”
Laurie smirked at Amy as he entered the room, both of them knowing exactly who the other teacher was.
“Hello, my lady,” he said, crossing to kiss her, not on the cheek as she expected, and Amy was caught off guard and laughed into him, playfully pushing him away, returning to her task of setting the table. Jo watched them, attempting to fill the shoes of the woman who left her the house she made into a school, feigning disapproval, but then she tore off a piece of bread and this Aunt March façade was shattered.
“Oh, Laurie, bring glasses in from the kitchen, please,” Amy said, setting down the last plate as he disappeared.
Jo finished chewing her bread and came to lay her head on Amy’s shoulder in greeting. “What have you done today?” she asked.
“Very little besides dressing myself and coming over here,” Amy said. “And you, mistress of Plumfield?”
Jo straightened back up and grinned, betraying her pride.
“I rearranged two classrooms today because they were too stiff. I don’t see how children as young as five can be expected to sit all day in rows and wait to raise their hands and recite lines. My students will not - we’ve had it that way since we began but it is not good for them, I’ve decided.”
Laurie reentered with glasses, and Jo and Amy went into the kitchen to bring butter and napkins out while Hannah finished making lunch.
“Hello Josephine,” she said, teasing her. “Hannah,” Jo said, smiling as she kissed her cheek and reached for a scone leftover from breakfast. “Stop it -” Hannah swatted her hand away.
Jo grabbed a piece and jumped away, taking Amy’s arm and strolling back into the dining room with the napkins and butter. "Thank you Hannah," she grinned over her shoulder.
“How is Friedrich?” Laurie asked, looking like the refined composer he wished he had been, feet on a chair next to him, jacket deposited somewhere else, studying Amy and Jo.
“He is well,” Jo answered, looking from him to his wife on her arm.
“You two are trouble,” she said, shaking her head and mostly hiding a smile at the memory of him in her bed earlier that morning, both of them tangled up in the sheets and each other.
“Oh, Jo, stop it, we all know,” Amy said, stepping happily back into her lovely small shoes as little sister.
Jo tore off another piece of bread, shooting a look at Laurie, who only gazed at Amy.
“We tried to get you to go to the train station when he came to visit, I know you have not forgotten that - but you’re stubborn as ever and you wouldn’t go even though we told you you loved him. Remember - even Mr. Laurence agreed!” she continued.
Jo did not say anything, but ate her bread in silence, enduring her trial. Some things were sweeter in secret.
Mr. and Mrs. March arrived some time later, and as was always the case in the March house, there was a flurry of hello’s: Amy greeting them excitedly, Laurie ever-glowing in his gratitude for his inclusion in the family, Jo with that feigned stoicism that melted a little when embraced by her parents.
They all ate and chattered their way through lunch and afterwards, Father and Marmee said they were going to nap - “because we have an empty house now, we have far more time to nap” - and Jo and Amy laughed a little but couldn’t help but share a glance which immediately told the other that neither of them had fully realized how empty the house was.
Jo flopped down into a chair in the living room and Amy and Laurie followed, arm in arm, sitting opposite her on the sofa. Laurie leaned on Amy, who sat upright.
“When did you get this?” Amy asked, touching the collar of his waistcoat. He looked up at her.
“I bought it in London. Why?”
“It’s a good color.”
“For me?” he said, always a flirt.
“Oh, stop it,” she said, letting out the low, breathy laugh that Laurie was lucky to be familiar with.
Jo watched with her feet slung over the side of her solitary chair how they whispered to each other as if no one else was there, how Laurie, usually quick and playful with her, lingered with Amy, always looping an arm around her waist or finding her shoulder to lean against; always wanting her, Amy always welcoming him on the condition that he be the best version of himself. He always was with her.
Jo felt no pull of jealousy, no small heartache, only a bit of wistfulness when she realized Laurie was lucky enough to keep his loves, to bring them with him into adulthood. Jo was only a short walk away, close enough to constantly shove and fistfight with; Amy, always within reach, good and ambitious and romantic, as she always had been.
So Jo thought of Beth in a soft, grieving daze for a moment before Amy laughed at something Laurie said and brought her out of it.
They looked over at her, Laurie’s head now in Amy’s lap, both of them with ample experience adoring her, and Jo smiled at the two of them, each wrapped around the others’ finger.
“Jo, how many teachers do you have?” Laurie asked.
Jo thought for a moment.
“Si...no - seven, if I count myself.”
Laurie looked up at Amy, raising an eyebrow.
“Why?”
“I think my wife would do the children of Concord well to impart some of her artistic genius upon their young, impressionable minds.”
“Oh - Laurie, stop it,” Amy said, her voice a chord of annoyance, affection, and the memory of a painful goodbye to the art she had loved her entire life.
She ran her fingers through his hair to quiet him.
“I’m not looking for any teaching jobs,” she told her sister resolutely, but Laurie looked over at her from his wife’s lap, rolling his eyes, and Jo knew they had had this conversation before.
“I think the students would love that, if you ever wanted to teach a lesson or two,” Jo said, siding with Laurie but being more sly and gentle than he.
“Well, thank you, but I don’t think I will,” Amy said, and Jo was reminded of herself, saying that before breaking a different promise.
They stayed in the living room for a long time, sharing gossip and stories and lapsing into long and comfortable silences during which Jo watched the early autumn sky through the window, somewhere in that almost-sleepy afternoon state in which one’s feelings become less of their own and more like trinkets laid out on a table for observation.
When Marmee and Father returned downstairs from their much-anticipated nap, Jo realized her own desire to be in her room with the door closed and the sunlight on the floor acting as a delightful reminder of the rebellious nature of day-sleeping. She kissed Hannah and her parents and Laurie and Amy goodbye and promised to invite Friedrich to dinner in two Sundays’ time.
The walk home was short and solitary. When she arrived back at Plumfield, she closed the door behind her and heard Beethoven. Friedrich was playing the sonata he had played at Orchard House when he visited in the rain; simple and beautiful. It sounded like something Beth would have been playing on an afternoon like this.
Jo followed the melody into the large sitting room, standing in the doorway. The song ended and Friedrich looked up to see her listening, almost a little weepy.
“I miss her,” she said quietly.
He rose from the piano and embraced her as he had before in more clandestine settings. After a long moment, Jo looked up at him, a tear or two left on his waistcoat.
So they went upstairs and, after checking to make sure no one else was in the hallway, slipped into his room. It was warm and they left the curtains drawn open, lying face to face in the sunlight. Jo herself slipped in and out of sleep, ending up very close to Friedrich, though he lay on pillows so his head was above hers.
When he stirred, she nudged his chin with her forehead.
“Hello,” she said, sleepy and enjoying the warmth of the sun and him next to her.
“Hello,” he said, putting his arm around her waist.
They were silent for some time. The sonata played in her head.