Love Redeemed (40 page)

Simon loved to tell her what to do. He took after Daed. Without looking at Michael again, she whirled and flounced back in the house. Why hadn't Edna told her Michael had gone with Tobias and Daed this morning? Every time she thought she might get back on an even keel, she saw him again. She would continue to see him at church, in town, at frolics. She had to learn not to feel as if her world tilted sideways every time he walked into view. She had to stop it from tilting, period.

“Where are the pants?” Mudder took a step back to let her pass. “What did Daed say?”

“Michael's out there.” Phoebe grabbed a hot pad and picked up the coffeepot from the stove. “I didn't know he was out there. Anyway, they want kaffi.”

Edna pulled mugs from the shelf and lined them up on the counter. “I'm sorry. I didn't want to spoil the morning.” She clinked two of the mugs together hard. Her hands shook. “I know you're trying to move on and I didn't want to make it harder. Silas knew. Tobias told him when he invited him to hunt today.”

“I know.” Mudder took the coffeepot from Phoebe. “Silas told me. He bears no ill feelings toward Michael.”

“No one told me.” Phoebe considered running upstairs. Her apron
bore stains from the breakfast dishes and her hair straggled around her kapp. “Don't you think I should have been told?”

“The world doesn't revolve around you.” Mudder's gentle tone softened the words. “This is your community. Michael is part of your community. Our community. You'll see him.”

“He's moved on. I've moved on. I'm teaching tomorrow. I'm helping Bethel with baby John. I'm moving on.”

She didn't know if the words convinced the other women. They didn't convince her.

“What do you mean, he's moved on?'” Edna's eyebrows cocked. “I have the impression he still cares for you.”

“There's another girl.” Her voice cracked. Phoebe stopped. This was private. She had no right to mention anything that happened in Springfield to Michael's mother. “I mean, he's not meant for me. Things changed in Springfield.”

“If there were another, I'd know.” Edna shook her finger at Phoebe. “A mother knows these things. Besides, there've been no letters.”

“It doesn't matter. I've moved on.”

Irene put an arm around Phoebe's shoulders and squeezed. “You have indeed, and that's good, but sometimes you have to stop and face your fears. You can't run away from them.”

If anyone knew how she felt, Irene did, but she'd had years to recover from the tragedy of losing her baby. Phoebe used her apron to wipe her face. She wasn't crying. The cold northern wind made her congested—that was all. She wiggled from Irene's grasp. “My apron's dirty. I'll be back in a minute.”

“Phoebe…”

She flung herself up the stairs and into her room. Breathing hard, she peeked from her window overlooking the yard. Michael was handing a knife to her daed. Daed said something. Michael nodded and laughed.

Her father and Michael talking and laughing. Life moving on. Marching forward. When would he tell them about the girl in Springfield? A girl named Sophie. Would she visit? Or would Michael go back?

Michael turned away from Daed. He glanced up, squinting against the sun. After a second, he placed one hand to his forehead and waved with the other.

Phoebe jerked from window and hid in the shadows. She wanted to see him. She wanted to talk to him. She peeked out again. He stood looking up as if transfixed.

He was taken, wasn't he? He courted another.

So why was he here?

But the fact remained: He was here, not in Springfield. Not with Sophie.

She waved, a small quick flap of her hand.

He waved again, a big, floppy, exaggerated wave, and then turned and went back to work.

A start?

A start of what she couldn't be sure. Friendship? A Plain man and a Plain woman of their age could never be friends.

What then?

“Phoebe, get down here. We need you to start trimming the fat and chopping the meat.” Her mudder's voice carried up the stairs. “There's work to be done. Stop mooning around and get down here.”

If she stayed in the kitchen she wouldn't see him. She couldn't see him. Not until she could be sure she would be able to maintain her composure.

That might be never.

Chapter 38

P
hoebe slid the eraser across the blackboard, back and forth, back and forth. Chalk dust flew. She coughed and ducked her face away from the board. Not her favorite part of the day. She should've assigned a scholar to do it, and in the future she would. But today had been her first day and she'd watched the students trot out the door, relieved and satisfied and uncertain all at the same time. She would do it all again tomorrow and do it better.

It still surprised her to think that this would be her future. This she could do. She could still have a place in this community. Here she stood on her own two feet, still going forward.

God had given her this second chance. She'd made it through her first day at the front of the classroom. No major disasters. Not even any minor ones. The scholars had been on their best behavior, it seemed, giving the new teacher a small reprieve before settling into their regular antics. Not that there were any problem children. Not during Deborah's tenure, anyway. It remained to be seen how well Phoebe handled the classroom on her own. Some of the oldest scholars probably remembered when she had been a student. She dropped the eraser on the rack under the chalkboard and picked up a piece of chalk. She glanced at the tablet on her desk. Algebra, English, Geography. Tomorrow's assignments.

Carefully, in her best penmanship—the teacher had to set the
example, after all—she began to write the assignments in the upper right hand corner.

“You spelled
geography
wrong.”

She jumped and dropped the chalk. It broke into three pieces at her feet. She whirled. “Michael! You scared me. What are you doing here?”

He stood at the back of the classroom, his hat clutched in fingers that curled, then loosened, then curled again. Something about his bare head made him look younger. “I came to talk to you. We didn't get to talk at the butchering frolic last week. Every time I tried to find you, you were gone.”

She'd managed to avoid him throughout the frolic. An entire day at her house and she hadn't run into him a second time. Now here he was in her school. She raised shaking hands to brush tendrils of hair from her face and said the first thing that came to her mind. “
Geography
is not misspelled.”

“I could be mistaken. It's been awhile since I've been in a classroom.”

“Not that long.”

His expression tentative, he rolled the brim of the hat in his hands as he inched forward between the rows of desks, his work boots smacking on the bare wood. In his black pants and his blue work shirt and his suspenders, he gave the outward appearance of being the same Plain man, but his hair was cut differently. Englisch, and his hands were raw and red-looking. He didn't have that tanned outdoor look anymore. But mostly his expression was different, more closed, subdued, wary. Before he'd been quiet, but there had been a certain assuredness in that quiet. As if he knew his place and felt comfortable in it. This man didn't know what to expect from her or from the world.

Needing a chance to collect her thoughts and steady her breath, she knelt and picked up the chalk. With deliberation, she stood and placed the pieces on the rack, her back to him.

“Phoebe, please.”

His voice had a husky timbre she didn't recognize. It sounded rusty, as if he hadn't used it in a while. She dusted her hands and turned to face him.

“I wanted to talk to you.”

“Here? When there's no one about but us?” She couldn't keep the sarcasm from her voice. “You don't learn, do you?”

“We could've talked at your house. Your daed wouldn't have minded. Instead, you did everything you could to avoid me.”

“He told you that?”

“He did. He told me not to wait too long.” He took another step toward her. “You came for me in Springfield. Why?”

“It doesn't matter now.” She wanted to take a step back, but she was wedged against the chalkboard. “None of it matters.”

“It matters to me.”

“Why? You have your friend Sophie.” She put her hand to her mouth. She sounded jealous. She had no right to be jealous. “You've moved on.”

“Moved on?” He snorted in a half laugh that held no mirth. “Sophie was a friend when I needed a friend. She could never be more than that because my heart is already taken.”

Dangerous grounds. Sinking, shifting sands. “I went to Springfield because you needed to come home to your community, your people. Your eternal life was at stake.”

“But it had nothing to do with what you want?”

“What I want or need isn't important. If I learned anything from what happened, it's that.”

“That day in the park, I felt…It seemed that you cared for me.”

“I don't just kiss anyone.” What was wrong with her? She couldn't get a grip on her raging emotions. So much sarcasm. She'd wanted Michael back and now he was here. He was trying. “I've never kissed anyone but you.”

“You don't have feelings for Richard?”

“Richard already told you he has no claim on me.”

“I wanted to hear it from you.” His voice gained strength. “Do you feel something for him?”

Her throat felt so dry she couldn't form the words. She went to the pitcher and poured herself a glass of water. Cool, sweet water. Her back still to him, she spoke. “There is no one else. My heart's already taken also.”

Much as she wished she could be freed of this bond between them, she knew, seeing him now, that it could never be. She loved Michael Daugherty and nothing could change that.

She felt rather than heard his approach.

“I came to say something. I'll say it and then I'll go.”

Straightening her spine and lifting her shoulders so she stood as tall as a five-foot-three girl could, she faced him. “Say what you have to say.”

He met her gaze squarely, his blue eyes somber, the eyes of an older, wiser man. “It's not about the kiss. It was never about the kiss. The physical part that happened between us. I know that's what you think about and what you remember from that afternoon. We were doing that when you should've been watching Lydia.”

“That's right.”

“Let me talk. I'm not good at it so let me get it done.” He held up his hands, palms out. They were steady. “I've had months to think about this. So let me talk and then you can send me away, if that's what you want.”

She nodded. She had no choice. Her voice had stopped working. He motioned with his hat toward her chair. “Sit. It might take me a minute or two. It's been building up a while.”

Phoebe understood, having practiced her own speeches in the dark of night when sleep wouldn't come. Now that Michael was here, she couldn't remember a single word.

“All this time I've been away, I've been missing you something awful.” There was a catch in his voice she hadn't heard before. “Like an arm or a leg had been cut off. Or both.”

He cleared his throat, his gaze on the hat in his hands. “I didn't dream about kissing you. I didn't dream about touching you. I dreamed about hearing your voice. I'd wake up in middle of the night, sure I'd heard you say my name. Nobody says my name like you do.”

Phoebe's cheeks burned. She wanted to bury her face in her hands, but she couldn't look away. She was caught by the sight of him, wanting to drink him in, to slake a desperate thirst. His words were like a page from her life, her nights, since Lydia's death and his departure. “Michael—”

“I missed you. I missed seeing you. If I could never touch you again, I would still want to be right here where I can see you.” He gritted his teeth, his breathing ragged. “I'm not much of a talker, so I never talked to you. About all the things I think about. I never heard what you think about. I'm sorry I left. Forgive me. I want you to always be where I can see you. Every day. Please.”

He ducked his head, his broad shoulders bowed, and took a long, deep breath as if the words had drained him. “I won't lie to you. I liked kissing you—”

“Michael—”

“We did something at the wrong time, but what we did wasn't wrong.” He met her gaze. “I want to marry you. After I'm baptized. I'm planning to ask you. Then. Not now.”

His skin darkened, but his gaze didn't waver. “That's all. That's it. All I have to say.” His Adam's apple bobbed. “Do you have anything to say?”

“You're going to ask me to marry you?” She knew she sounded stupid. “You already know what the answer to that question will be.”

“A fellow doesn't take anything for granted when it comes to the woman he plans to have as his fraa.”

Phoebe rose, her legs unsteady, and met him halfway down the aisle. “Your fraa?”

“Jah.” He took a few more steps in her direction. She stopped out of arms' reach, yet she felt as if their hands touched. More than that, she felt his heart beat the same rapid staccato as her own. She put her hand on her heart as if she could steady it. His gaze followed her movement. “If you'll have me.”

“You know I will.” Her voice sounded husky but steady in her ears. “I've been waiting for you.”

“This time we have to do it the right way.” He laid his hat on the desk, his face steeped in sadness intertwined with a determination that told her how much he meant these words. “Do you think we can do it differently? Is it too late?”

“I don't know.” She wanted to say they could, she wanted it so badly, but she honestly didn't know the answer to that question. “I don't know if we
can
go back.”