A Simple Charity (3 page)

Placing the baby on her shoulder to pat out the gas, Fanny rose. She patted Tommy’s back as she walked to the bedroom for a quick peek. Lizzy was breathing her way through a pain.

They exchanged a few words, the short language of labor, and Fanny returned her son to the front room. She swayed back and forth over the budda nesht, lulling him to sleep. How she loved this little one! “Your father was a good man,” she whispered. “I wish you could know him, little Tommy. But it was not part of Gott’s plan.”

She and Tom had enjoyed eight good years of marriage before he passed, and Gott had blessed them with three children, as well as Tom’s three, whom Fanny was still raising as her own. Getting old, those three, but she smiled as she thought of their little family. It was up to her to manage the household now—a big job, but Gott
never gave a person more than she could handle. Fanny’s heart was still heavy, and there was no getting over the emptiness Tom had left behind. But Gott had blessed her with wonderful children.

Setting Tommy back in the budda nesht, Fanny returned to the bedroom, where Lizzy lay on her side, her eyes focused on the picture of the waterfall. All was good.

Just then Lizzy was jolted from her resting place with a fitful cry. She rolled to her knees on the bed, lost in a strong wave.

That was when Fanny noticed the dark stain on the plastic sheet. The once clear waters had turned brown, the color of dried leaves in October. That meant the baby was in some trouble. Without wasting words, she tended to Lizzy, then went to find Joe.

Fanny tried to calm her racing heart with measured steps to the kitchen. A panicked midwife was no help to anyone.

She was relieved to see Joe was back, pacing. “Is the baby coming?”

“Soon, but there could be a problem. We need the doctor, Joe. A doctor or nurse, and there’s no time to waste. Go now, and find Doc Minetta.”

He pressed his straw hat on his head. “Is Lizzy all right?” he asked, his eyes growing round with alarm.

“I’m more worried about the baby. If you can’t find Dr. Minetta, call Doc Trueherz’s office again. Tell Celeste we need help and—” She stopped short of telling him to call an ambulance. There wasn’t an emergency. Not yet.

“I’ll call the doc’s office. And I’ll get folks out on the road to watch for him and send him our way.” As Joe hustled out the door, Fanny pressed her hands together at her chin and said a silent prayer that Gott would bring this baby to them in good health.

Then, with a deep, steadying breath, she turned and went back inside to tend to Lizzy.

2

M
eg Harper beat the hollandaise sauce with a whisk and paused to take a taste. Too much lemon? It wasn’t awful, but something had gone wrong in the prep, and instead of a smooth, fluffy sauce, curdles swirled in the liquid. Not very appealing.

“Remind me to pick up some hollandaise mix next time I get into Philly,” she told Shandell, who was spooning fruit salad into bowls for diners in the next room.

“Does that come in a mix?” Shandell asked.

“It must. Maybe it even comes in a boil-in bag or a spray can.” Meg spooned the tasty but mediocre hollandaise over two poached eggs and garnished it with enough parsley to distract and disguise.

“What is hollandaise, anyway? Did it start in Holland?” Shandell asked. The teenage girl was quick with the questions, but she was learning fast about every aspect of running the Amish country bed-and-breakfast.

Meg shrugged. “All I know is that it can be delicious when prepared properly. Which this is not.”

“Don’t be that way. Everything you make is delicious,” Shandell said.

“This from a girl who spent a month in a cave.”

“A shack, not a cave,” the former runaway corrected Meg. “And from what I’ve seen, you’re a good chef. Did you go to cooking school?”

“Plenty of school, but not for cooking.”

“What did you study?” Shandell asked. She didn’t realize that questions mining the recent past made Meg bristle.

“This and that.” Meg handed over the egg plate, and Shandell added it to her tray. Meg wasn’t ready to talk about her real profession—her calling. Or at least she had always thought that she’d been called to deliver babies, until an early morning last winter that shook loose the foundation of her life.

“For real. I know you and Zoey both went to college. I’m signing up to take some classes at community college in the fall. What did you major in?”

Meg bit her lower lip. Shandell Darby was a sweet kid, but Meg was sick of defending herself, trying to give a complex situation a simple summary. For now Meg was content to be impersonating a cook at her sister’s inn.

“We’ll talk later. Right now I’ve got some veggies to chop for an omelet, and you’d better get that out before it gets cold,” Meg told Shandell, who hoisted the tray and hurried out.

Meg was amazed at the way cooking could fill your mind and suck up your time. The prep work, the whisking of a delicate sauce, the art of cracking eggs. Cooking was the engine that kept her pistons going these days, and though it was a methodical lifestyle, she was glad for the impetus to get out of bed each morning. She
slid the omelet onto a heated plate and added a ruby red sliced strawberry to the corner of the dish. She was removing two fluffy waffles from the iron when her sister Zoey popped in, waving a few handwritten pages in the air.

“Success! I’ve got Amish recipes.” Zoey and her husband, Tate, owned the inn, and their mission was to provide guests with a taste of Amish living. “Real authentic recipes from the Amish girl next door. Well, I guess she’s not really a girl. I think she’s eighteen or so, but she’s a little person, and there’s something youthful about her. Elsie Lapp … have you met her?”

“I think I’ve seen her in town. She runs a shop, right?”

“That’s right. And her sister Emma is the Amish schoolteacher and her mother, Fanny, has some midwife training.” She pushed a strand of blond hair out of her eyes. Zoey had thick, naturally curly hair that refused to be tamed by gels and dryers. It hung in a cloud around her heart-shaped face. “You and Fanny should meet. You have the midwife thing in common.”

Meg tucked her thumbs under the straps of her bib apron. “I’m a cook now. Besides, Amish midwives aren’t interested in talking shop. The Amish tend not to want to talk about pregnancy and birth. I think they find it embarrassing, and they don’t usually need much coaching. When it comes to birthing, they seem to be born experts.”

A proud smile lit Zoey’s eyes. “I love it when you revert to your old self. I miss the confident Meg.”

“She’s gone,” Meg deadpanned. “I had to give her up with the medical license.”

“Ha, ha, not so funny. The investigation still hasn’t been resolved, and the suspension is only temporary. Speaking of … what’s the latest on that?”

“No news is good news,” Meg said, cutting off the topic. “Look at you, Miss Congeniality. Just two months here and you’ve got the
skinny on the Amish women next door, names and occupations. You’ve really made some inroads in this community, and that’s not easy.” Meg had delivered babies for some Amish families in Butler County, and she knew firsthand how difficult it could be to gain their trust. “What’s your secret?”

“I just turn on the old Harper family charm,” Zoey said with a twinkle in her eyes. “And they seem to get a kick out of it when I speak German. I told you that exchange program to Stuttgart would pay off one day.”

More likely it was Zoey’s genuine kindness that won them over. Meg liked to give her sister a hard time, but at the end of the day, no one had a heart as big as Zoey’s. “What kind of recipes did she give you?”

“Breakfast foods. Some one-dish wonders. There’s creamed eggs. Bacon-and-egg bake. And here’s one called egg-in-the-nest. Doesn’t that sound quaint?”

“As long as no twigs and branches are involved.” Meg moved close enough to read over her shoulder. None of these simpler dishes called for hollandaise or poaching skills. “And a breakfast pizza? Snap. Looks like we’ve been serving the guests way too fancy breakfast fare.”

“Who knew? Do you think you could whip one of these up tomorrow?”

“I’ll give it a try.” Meg glanced at the kitchen clock. “How did you extract these from poor Elsie so early in the morning? Half of our guests aren’t even out of bed.”

“These Amish folks keep early hours. Early to bed and early to rise. Elsie is already out there hanging a load of laundry before she goes into town to the shop. She said that Fanny is off delivering a baby. Isn’t that exciting?”

“Mmm.” Why did Zoey always push her to the one thing that brought her pain? Meg couldn’t let her thoughts go there, to the
earnest memories of so many new babies sliding into this world—232, to be precise. A midwife always kept count, each one so special. But now, the memories were blocked by a twisted, thorny memory that made her bristle when she tried to get past it.

Meg picked up one of the recipes. “We’ve got all the ingredients for the bacon-and-egg bake. Tomorrow I’ll give it a try. One size fits all. It’ll be a relief to have something simpler to prepare for breakfast. Something that matches my skills. I’ve been faking it, trying to master these sauces and scones.”

“Fake, schmake. The guests love your breakfasts,” Zoey assured her. “I wouldn’t even think of changing the menu if we weren’t committed to offering a real-life Amish experience. Just yesterday the Albees told me breakfast was their favorite part of their stay, and all the—”

“Please, spare me the false praise.” Meg held up a hand to stop her sister. “We both know cooking is not my thing, but I appreciate your finding a place for me here and pretending that you need me.” Meg had been at the inn for almost two weeks now, and she was feeling stronger and steadier every day.

“We do need you,” Zoey insisted. Her lower lip was puffing out in that expression that came over her when she was bossing her little sister around. “You know there’s a place for you here as long as you want it. Far as I’m concerned, I’d be happy to have you here forever and always, and I know that Tate feels the same way.”

“Well, let’s not push it.”

Zoey reached across the island to touch her sister’s arm. When Meg looked up, concern shone in her sister’s eyes, crisp and blue as the sky. “Honey …” Zoey’s voice was low, almost a whisper. “I don’t ever want to have to pull you out of a dark bedroom again.”

“And I don’t want to be pulled,” Meg responded. “That’s behind me now.”

“Just saying. If I find you backsliding, I’m going to kick your butt.”

Meg gave a soft laugh. Her sister was pushy—always had been—but Meg’s emotional shutdown had been one time when Meg had needed a kick in the pants. These days the depression still nipped at her heels, but more and more she was beginning to feel like she could stay one step ahead of it.

With a lull in the breakfast prep, Meg peeled off the hairnet that reminded her of the lunch ladies in grade school and fluffed her bangs. It felt good to release her long red hair as she stepped out on the patio. Zoey followed with two mugs of coffee, and they sat in two of the Adirondack chairs and stared off over a fenced field of weeds and wildflowers, over distant barns and silos that blurred into purple hills. Earlier in the morning a haze had lingered over the distant hills and fields like floating lace, but now sunshine had broken through. Meg leaned into the warmth, grateful for another beautiful summer day. They were chatting when the pounding of a horse’s hooves turned their heads. An Amish buggy was coming up the lane toward the inn, moving at a swift pace.

“Someone’s in a hurry,” Zoey observed.

Meg was sure she had never seen a horse and buggy move that fast. “Do you know the driver?”

Zoey squinted. “Can’t say that I do, but it’s hard to see inside the buggy.”

Mugs in their hands, the women went around the side of the house to the small parking lot beside the old red barn. The driver halted the horse and quickly hopped out. He was a young man, thirtyish, with a dark beard and black square-framed glasses that would have been nerdy ten years ago but now were the height of fashion.

“Hello, there,” Zoey said in that hearty voice that made friends
of strangers. “Oh, we’ve met. You run the cheese stand in Philly, right? Market Joe, what can we do you for?”