It would have been impossible not to [smile back]. To begin with, Iduna didn't move, she floated, buoyant and merry as a pink balloon in the hand of a child at a Fourth of July parade. Nor did she merely smile, she glowed with inner goodness that made him think of the vast iron cookstove in his grandmother's kitchen back on the farm. Here, he knew by certain instinct, was a woman who made wonderful cookies and would give you some.
How had the buggy whip heiress escaped matrimony for so many years? How could any red-blooded South Dakota bachelor sit home on a Saturday night watching Lawrence Welk when he might be camping on Iduna Bjorklund's doorstep with a box of drugstore chocolates in one hand and his heart in the other?