At Home in Pleasant Valley (54 page)

And then a few years later, Samuel had gone, too.

She hesitated, but the pressure to ask was too strong to ignore. “Was that why Samuel jumped the fence?”

Myra's face clouded. “I don't know, not for certain-sure. He never talks about it. But I think he wanted to find Daadi. To find out why he left.”

“Did he?”

Myra shrugged. “He doesn't say. He came back when Mammi got so sick. He tries to act as if everything is the same as before, but it's not. I just wish he could be happy again.”

Anna's throat was tight, and she couldn't seem to come up with anything reassuring to say. Whatever was going on with Samuel, it was all tied up with his father's desertion. She couldn't begin to understand him, but she knew enough to be sure that giving in to their mutual attraction would be a big mistake for both of them.

“Mrs. Beiler?” A nurse, clipboard in hand, looked inquiringly at them. “We're ready for you now.”

Myra stood, her face white and set, and walked toward the woman.

Apprehension shivered through Anna, and she murmured a silent prayer as she followed them. If this was bad news, how would sweet, gentle Myra find the strength to cope with it?

•   •   •

Anna
took a deep breath and slid down from Daad's buggy, reaching up to take Gracie as Daad handed her down. Already, a boy in his early teens was running up to take the horse and buggy and lead them off—that would be his duty at the worship service this morning. The buggies would be parked in neat rows, while the horses were tethered in the shade, content to stand there for as long as it took.

If she could have found any excuse to avoid attending church this morning, she'd have grabbed it. She'd suggested that she stay home to take care of Joseph, allowing Myra to go to worship, but Myra wouldn't hear of it.

Probably Myra was happy for some time alone with her family. She'd been unusually quiet in the two days since her amniocentesis, taking a nap Friday afternoon at Anna's urging and spending most of yesterday making a new dress at the treadle sewing machine.

Worrying, most likely. Anna dropped a light kiss on Gracie's forehead. Gracie smiled and patted her face in return.

The loving exchange heartened Anna. She glanced at her father. “I'll join Leah, Daadi. We'll be fine.”

At least, she hoped they would. Sitting with a baby through a three-hour worship service could be a challenge, to say nothing of the fact that this was her first appearance at church since she'd returned.

“I'll walk over to her with you.” Daadi held out his hands to Gracie, and the baby lunged toward him, smiling, already delighted with her grossdaadi after such a short acquaintance.

Daad must know Anna was apprehensive. Carrying Gracie, walking with her to where the women assembled before the worship service . . . that was a gesture of his support. Some of the tension eased out of her.

The service today was being held at the Stoltzfus barn. During the week, the family would have spent hours sweeping and scrubbing until it was as clean as any church building.

Anna still had vivid memories of how much work that preparation had entailed when they hosted church at the farm. Mammi had enjoyed it, though, almost as if all the preparation was a part of worship.

The benches would have come by wagon from the last host family. They'd be arranged in rows in the barn, along with copies of the Ausbund, the hymnal, even though most people knew the hymns by heart.

The white barn gleamed in the September sunshine. Beyond it, in the hedgerow, spires of sumac had already turned color, looking like so many flames.

Men stood in quiet groups or shook hands soberly, their white shirts, black pants and vests, and straw hats setting them apart from the world. When the weather grew colder, they'd add black jackets, and the straw hats would give way to black felt.

Daadi marched across the stubble of grass toward where the women were gathering, grouping themselves by age. Fortunately, Anna would
be seated with other young mothers who'd probably be sympathetic if Gracie started to fuss.

She hoped so, anyway.

Heads turned to watch them as they passed. Probably her cheeks were pink. She kept her gaze down, trying to ignore their interest. It would be a poor repayment for Daadi's thoughtfulness if she gave in to the desire to glare at people.

Her story would have spread throughout the church district by now. Did they believe it? Or were they thinking, whispering, that Gracie was probably her out-of-wedlock child?

“Here is Leah.” Daadi greeted Leah and her little daughter, Rachel, before handing Gracie back to her, kissing the baby's soft cheek as he did. “I will see you after worship.”

“Denke, Daadi,” Anna said, but he was already moving off toward the group of older men.

“Wilkom to worship.” Leah touched her sleeve lightly. “It's gut that you are here.”

“Brave, don't you think?” Anna lifted her eyebrows in a question.

“Ach, don't say that,” Leah said. “Folks are just happy to see you back, that's all.”

“I hope they'll still be happy after they see how Gracie is during the service.”

Anna bounced the baby in her arms. She wiggled, reaching toward the ground, reminding Anna of how Samuel read the body language of the horse. Gracie was certainly making her wants known.

“You can let her down now, if you want,” Leah said, glancing down at her two-year-old, Rachel, who was busy pulling up blades of grass.

“If I do, I'm afraid she'll scream when I pick her up again.”

Leah smiled. “We've all heard that before. If you need to bring her out during the service, Mary Stoltzfus has a bedroom ready on the ground floor for changing and feeding.”

“We'll probably have to use it.”

The commonplace exchanges made Anna feel better. Leah was talking to her easily now, more like her old self again. Maybe all it would take to relax the constraint between them was time.

Leah had understood, at least a little, when she had left. Would Leah understand why Anna had come back?

Her mind backed away from that thought. She couldn't tell Leah all of it, any more than she could tell anyone else. If the community knew that Gracie's father was after her, what would they do?

She glanced at the sober faces around her, at the quaint, old-fashioned clothes, at the barn where they would worship. They wouldn't understand. How could they? They didn't have experience with anyone like Pete, and couldn't envision the ugly underbelly of society where he lived. They might think that as Gracie's father, he had a right to take her, no matter what papers he had signed. Even Daadi, with his innate fairness, might think that.

Anna's arms tightened around Gracie, and she recognized the truth. She'd been thinking that Leah was putting barriers between them, but she was just as guilty of that herself.

Anna was the one who didn't dare cross the boundaries. She couldn't trust Leah or anyone else with the truth about Pete, because she didn't know what they might do.

However she might wish it otherwise, the chasm between her and Leah could not be mended. Not now, at least, and maybe not ever.

G
racie
slept on Anna's lap, lulled into an early nap by the long, slow unison hymns that had opened the service. The first time Anna had attended an English service, a praise band had led the congregation in music so loud and fast that it had made her head spin.

She'd come to appreciate the lively songs in time, and now the long, slow, quavering notes of an Amish hymn sounded almost like bagpipe music. She patted the sleeping baby gently. Gracie appreciated Amish hymns, it seemed, just as she did buggy rides.

Next to Anna, Leah sat with her head bowed. On her lap, Rachel folded and refolded a handkerchief, totally absorbed in the task. For just an instant Anna could feel herself at that age, sitting on Mammi's lap, doing the same thing.

On the other side of Leah her dearest friend, Rachel, for whom Leah's daughter was named, sat with her little ones close to her side. Anna had been cautious, seeing Rachel again, knowing that if Leah had talked to anyone about her rebellious sister, it would be Rachel. But Rachel had greeted her with a smile and a kiss.

Anna had never been quite so content as the teenagers here seemed to be. She glanced toward the section of benches where teenage girls sat, their dark dresses neat, white aprons pinned over them, heads bowed. Behind all that conformity, someone must feel as restless and rebellious as she had at that age.

And now here she was again, not restless or rebellious, just out of place. She was as separated from everyone else here as she was from Leah.

She bit her lip, staring down at her shoes. Maybe she was wrong
about Leah. Maybe she could trust Leah with her fears about Pete. And even if she didn't, why did that have to keep them from being close? Everyone had secrets they didn't want to share.

And if you do, what then?
her conscience asked.
Someday, when it's safe, you'll leave, going back to raise Gracie in the English world.

When she did, she would break her sister's heart again. It would be even worse than the first time, worse than not being here when Mammi died. Grief took hold of her throat, so sharp and hard she could barely breathe.

Bishop Mose stood to deliver the long sermon. She tried to focus on his words, blocking out every disturbing thought.

The bishop began to speak about forgiveness, that cornerstone of Amish faith. Forgive as you would be forgiven. His voice was firm, but gentle and compassionate as always.

She hadn't expected to be bothered by the service today, beyond a little awkwardness. She'd assumed she could sit through it, saying her own prayers, thinking her own thoughts.

She couldn't. The detachment with which she'd been able to view the singing had vanished. Bishop Mose seemed to be speaking directly to her, and when he mentioned the Prodigal Son, she felt as if she'd been dipped in boiling water.

She tried to shut out his message. She couldn't. Her emotions battled, tearing at her, and she had to fight to keep back tears.

Gracie jerked awake on her lap, probably sensing her emotions, and started to cry. Anna cradled her, patting her, but it was no use. Gracie wailed, and Anna wanted to wail with her.

Murmuring an excuse to Leah, she slid out of the row, carrying Gracie quickly toward the door and out into the sunshine.

The moment they were outside, Gracie stopped crying as abruptly as if Anna had thrown a switch. She inhaled deeply, feeling her own anguish subside—still raw, but eased.

She jumped when Leah slipped an arm around her waist.

“Are you all right?”

“Ja. We're fine.” She bounced Gracie in her arms as she started walking toward the farmhouse, pretending that Leah's concern was for the baby, not for her. “She stopped crying as soon as we came out.”

“Gut.” Leah walked beside her, holding little Rachel's hand. “But it was not Gracie I was worrying about. It was you.”

Apparently Leah wouldn't let her get away with evading the question. Anna took another deep breath, trying to compose herself. She mustn't say anything, not when her emotions were so raw. It would be too easy to say more than she should.

She shouldn't, but the words burst out of her anyway. “I'm sorry.” Her voice choked. “I wasn't here for Mammi. I'm so sorry.”

“Oh, Anna.” Leah's arms went around her, warm and strong and comforting, as they'd always been. “I know you must grieve over Mammi, but she loved you. She didn't blame you.”

“I should have been here. I don't even know how—” She stopped, not sure she wanted to hear details.

Leah drew back so that she could see Anna's face. “Mamm was very peaceful at the end. I think maybe she always knew the cancer would come back, and she'd accepted it. She died at home, with Daadi holding her hand. She just seemed to slip away between one breath and the next, like stepping through a doorway.”

Anna felt as if her heart were breaking. “I should have been here. How could she forgive me for not being here?”

Leah wiped the tears from Anna's cheeks. “You know the answer to that question, now that you have a child of your own. You never stop loving. Never stop forgiving.”

“Ja, I guess so.” She glanced at Gracie, who was staring at them with wondering eyes. “I just wish I had been here to say good-bye.”

Leah patted her arm. “You're here now,” she said simply. “That's enough.”

She should say now that she'd be leaving. Say it quickly, before she hurt Leah again. But she couldn't. Gracie's safety was at stake.

You could stay
. The voice spoke quietly in her heart, startling her with a possibility she hadn't even considered.
You could stay
.

No, she couldn't. She fell into step with Leah, moving toward the house.

She couldn't go back to living this way. Her independence was too important to her. She couldn't give that up.

But they love you here. They love Gracie. You could be safe.

They mounted the steps toward the porch. The scent of coffee floated out of the open door, announcing that someone was anticipating the end of the worship service. Voices came with the aroma, clearer as they moved into the house.

“. . . should be on her knees before the congregation, she should, not sitting there as if she's done nothing wrong—”

The speaker, realizing she had company, cut off her words.

Too late. Anna stopped, vaguely aware of Leah's arm going around her.

She couldn't deal with this. Clutching Gracie, Anna pulled free, turning to flee across the yard, stopping only when she realized that there was nowhere to go.

Leah reached her a second later, taking her hand. “Anna, it's all right. Don't listen to them. They don't know—”

Anna shook her head violently. “Don't. They only said what everyone else is thinking. I don't belong here anymore.”

•   •   •

“Wait,
here is another handful of receipts.” Samuel passed the papers over to Anna, who sat next to him at Joseph's desk in the shop, trying to make sense of their bookkeeping.

She took the receipts, raising her eyebrows a little. “Are you sure that's all?” She obviously wasn't impressed with their system.

“I hope so.” He hitched his chair a little closer to the desk, frowning at the stacks of papers. “I did tell you that I'm no gut at the paperwork, ain't so?”

“You did.” She sorted through receipts, her face intent on organizing. “But you're not the only one. Some of these date from before Joseph was hurt.”

“We get so involved in the work, you see.” That wasn't much of an excuse, but Anna nodded.

“I didn't realize how busy the shop was. You have almost more work than you can handle,” she said.

“Ja. Between the needs of dairy farmers to use machinery to meet government regulations and all the small businesses our people now run, it's
commonplace to use hydraulic and air pumps powered by diesel engines. So that means more machines to be repaired or converted all the time.”

“So Joseph's love of tinkering has paid off, I guess.” But her face was shadowed when she said the words, and he suspected she was thinking of the accident. She didn't speak of it, though, just focused more intently on the receipts.

The activity did give him a chance to study her face and wonder how much she was hiding behind her concentration on the work. Myra had told him about Anna overhearing Mary Stoltzfus's unkind words, having heard about it in her turn from Leah. If Anna had thought to keep it quiet, she'd be disappointed.

Myra had been near tears when she told him. With all her tender heart, she wanted to see Anna settle down and be happy here.

Anna will not talk about it,
she'd said.
She should. You try to get her to speak, Samuel. You've been through it, so you know.

Ja, he knew. And he cared, but it was dangerous, talking to Anna about his time away. Talking would reveal his own still-raw places. And whether Anna would be helped if he did—that he didn't know.

Anna tapped a stack of receipts into neatness and fastened them with a paper clip. “You've got to do better,” she said, frowning sternly at him. “You and Joseph both. These tax records have to be in order for the quarterly payment.”

“Ja, I know.” He ran his fingers around his collar. He had a healthy respect for the IRS, and he didn't want to make any mistakes, especially with Joseph laid up. “You tell me what to do, and I'll try to do it.”

“I think the simplest thing would be for you to put every scrap of paper for the business into the boxes at the end of every day.” She gestured to the small cardboard boxes she'd placed on the desk, one marked for income and one for expenses. “Don't try to enter them into the ledger. I'll take care of that.”

“Gut, gut. Nothing would make me happier.”

“I hope Joseph feels that way.” A faint line appeared between her brows. “I wouldn't want him to think I'm interfering.”

“He'll not think that. And even if he does . . .” Samuel hesitated. “You'd know it was just the pain and frustration speaking, ain't so?”

She nodded. “It's hard for him to be laid up this way, I know.”

“He should be happy you understand so much about keeping the books. I'd be lost in a blizzard of paper if I tried.”

A smile chased the worried look from her eyes. “My boss used to say that. The owner of the restaurant where I worked. He was a wonderful chef, but he couldn't keep track of finances at all, so I helped him with that. He liked to say that was why he gave me time off for my college classes.”

“It sounds as if he was a gut friend,” Samuel said, wondering how he could possibly lead the conversation into what had happened at worship. Myra was counting on him to do it.

“Antonio always said the people who worked at his restaurant were like family, and that's how he treated us. Jannie worked there, too. That's how we became close.”

“I'm glad you had friends there,” he said. “It can be lonely out there among the English.”

She nodded, her eyes darkening, and he thought she'd experienced that loneliness, too.

“But you decided to come back,” he ventured. “I guess, with the boppli, you wanted to raise her with your real family.”

For a moment something a little startled showed in her eyes and was quickly hidden. Then she nodded. “Gracie has loved it here.”

She almost sounded as if she were saying good-bye. Maybe he'd just have to be blunt about it.

“I heard what happened with Mary Stoltzfus yesterday. You are upset.”

She pressed her lips together. “It was nothing. Do you have a copy of the last quarterly tax form?”

He passed the form over. “Ironic, that was. Seems to me Mary Stoltzfus would have been better off in the barn hearing Bishop Mose talk about forgiveness. Maybe she'd have learned something.”

Anna's hands stopped moving on the ledger. She pressed them flat against the pages, staring down. He heard the soft inhalation of her breath.

“It's not easy to forgive,” she murmured. “Or to be forgiven.”

“No. It's not.” He thought about his own return. Forgiveness was never easy, especially when it was yourself you had to forgive.

“When you came back . . .” she began, but then stopped, shaking her head. “Never mind. It doesn't matter.”

“It does matter.” He startled himself, as much as her, when he put his hand over hers on the ledger. He could feel her tension in the taut muscles. “I don't know that it helps you, but when I came back, I had doubts about belonging again. Fears about how other people would accept me, but mostly doubts about why I came back.”

She looked up then, eyes surprised and intent. “You doubted yourself?”

He wanted to back away from it, deny that he doubted, then or now. It seemed a weakness, admitting it. But how could he help Anna's struggles if he didn't?

“I came back because my mamm was sick. I had to, and I wanted to. My family needed me.” He paused, not wanting to put it into words. “I came back for gut reasons, but not because of faith. When I knelt before the congregation, I knew they forgave me, but I felt like a fraud.” His voice thickened. “Sometimes I still do.”

It was very quiet in the shop, so quiet that all he could hear was the sound of his own breathing.

Then Anna gave a little sigh. “Denke, Samuel. Thank you for telling me. For being my friend.”

Friend
. The word echoed in his mind. He had thought he wanted to be Anna's friend, but all at once he knew he wanted to be more than that. And the idea scared him half to death.

•   •   •

“No,
no, Sarah.” Anna gently removed the toddler, who was trying to reach the squeezer they'd set up on the picnic table in the yard, ready to do a big batch of tomatoes. “That's not for little ones. You and Gracie play with your ball.”