Promise Lodge (26 page)

Chapter Twenty-Three

“Queenie, what should I do?” Deborah murmured as she stroked the dog's silky ears. “These next few days will be impossibly long before I either go to Coldstream with Amos . . . or I don't.”

The Border Collie gazed up at her with soulful brown eyes, wagging her tail and whimpering sympathetically. It was early Thursday morning, not yet dawn, but Deborah had given up all hope of sleeping.

“I could send Mamma a letter, explaining that Noah and I are planning to marry soon,” she mused aloud. “But Mamma deserves to hear that news firsthand. If I go with Amos, though—even just for a visit—Noah will worry that I won't come back after the barn's built. He knows how needy Mamma is.”

Queenie nuzzled Deborah's hand, demanding more attention.

Deborah chuckled ruefully. “
Jah,
it's all about staying in
touch,
” she remarked as she rubbed the dog's head. “I want to live with Noah, yet I want my family nearby. But with a three-hour car trip separating us . . . I just don't know.”

Sitting on the side of the bed wouldn't solve anything, so Deborah got dressed. She planned to bake some breads and desserts for the opening of the Promise Produce Stand on Saturday, so it seemed like a good time to start her project. Often when she baked, ideas came to her—and perhaps while the women, Laura, and Phoebe made breakfast together they could help her, as well.

The last person Deborah expected to see in the kitchen was Noah. He looked as miserable as she felt, breaking off pieces of a cinnamon roll left over from yesterday's breakfast and jamming them into his mouth. His hair stood out in clumps and he hadn't shaved.

“Hey,” he said softly.

Deborah stopped a few feet away from him. “You couldn't sleep, either?”

“I—I feel bad about walking away from you last night, and about making it sound like I don't want you to see your family,” he murmured. “I'm sorry.”

Deborah let out the breath she'd been holding. “I know I upset you when I started crying. Do you want to see Mamma's letter?” she asked as she reached into her apron pocket. “Maybe you'll get a better feel for what's going on. You know how folks sometimes write things one way but their true thoughts might be something different. And my interpretation might be all wrong, too.”

Noah took the folded pages. “Maybe I should go to Coldstream with you on Monday,” he murmured. “I could talk with your parents, and help Amos with the barn raising—maybe spend some time with your
dat
then.”

“But what about your work with Truman? Won't your iron and welding supplies be delivered by then?” It touched Deborah that Noah had changed his attitude toward her dilemma. But she didn't want him to jeopardize his job.

“Truman would understand that your family situation is important enough to be ironed out sooner rather than later,” Noah replied.

“That's very thoughtful of you,” she murmured.

“I love you, Deborah.”

There it was, the phrase that made this situation so difficult. It would be easier to decide in Mamma's favor if Noah continued to act angry instead of sympathizing with her emotional tug-of-war. He had come so far from the young man who couldn't—or wouldn't—express his innermost thoughts.

“I love you, too, Noah,” she murmured. “I came over to make some things to sell at the produce stand, because baking can be like praying for me. When my hands are busy making dough or stirring batter, my mind opens to higher thoughts. New ideas God whispers to me.”

“
Jah,
the same happens for me when I'm immersed in my work,” he replied. He kissed her cheek. “When I was drawing up those sketches for the gates and door insets, I was imagining the house Amos has offered to build us. But I suppose I should put those ideas on hold until . . .”

Sighing, Deborah eased away from him so he could start his chores. It was heartening that she and Noah both found strength and solace in their work, yet his observations only made it more difficult to talk to Mamma. Her mother tended to see the glass as half empty—or nonexistent—rather than half full, and Deborah had usually gone along with her wishes rather than disappoint her. The two of them had often consoled and encouraged each other when Dat had gotten impatient.

Deborah began to combine the ingredients for cinnamon rolls, losing herself in the familiar acts of measuring and stirring. By the time her large bowl of sweet-smelling dough was rising, Rosetta and the others had come into the kitchen to prepare breakfast.

After the meal, Noah caught his ride with Truman. Roman was taking Laura and Phoebe into Forest Grove to post notices on the local bulletin boards about the Promise Produce Stand's opening, but Deborah chose not to go with them. “I'll finish baking and then get back to my painting,” she said. “I've only got two cabins left.”

It suited Deborah that Amos was replacing a couple of leaky faucets in the lodge that day. Christine and Rosetta were helping Mattie in the garden, picking green beans, peas, and small zucchini, cutting lettuce and spinach, and pulling radishes and green onions to sell at the produce stand. Painting was another job that allowed Deborah to think while her hands were busy with the roller, even though she wasn't finding any solutions to her dilemma.

When she returned to the kitchen to help serve the pot roast they'd put in the oven for their noon dinner, Christine nodded toward the phone.

“I was just ready to come get you, Deborah. You'd better check the message your sister left,” she said. “Seems your
mamm
's had an accident.”

Deborah hurried over to punch the button on the message machine. Her heart raced as fast as her worried thoughts.
If Lily made the call—if Mamma was unable to use the phone—

“Deborah, it's me, Lily,” her sister's shrill voice came through the speaker. “Mamma was carrying a box of canning jars down the basement steps and she tripped. She fell the rest of the way down, so I'm home with the boys while Dat's taking her to the emergency room, and—oh, Deborah, how am I supposed to do all the cooking? And there's a pile of laundry we haven't gotten to, because we just picked a couple bushels of green beans that need snapping, so we can put them up in jars and—”

Lily's voice broke off in a sob. “Deborah, please, you've
got
to come home. I don't
care
that Dat sent you away.
He's
not going to be taking care of all the things Mamma can't do now!”

Deborah's breath escaped her as she gripped the edge of the countertop. “Oh, no. Oh,
no
,” she rasped. Lily was only thirteen. If their mother was going to be incapacitated for a long time, the poor girl couldn't possibly keep the household running by herself.

She turned toward Christine and her sisters, who wore concerned expressions. “Do you suppose Mamma's got a bunch of broken bones? What if those jars broke and she fell on them? What if she hit her head on the basement floor?”

“Call back,” Rosetta suggested as she poured Deborah a glass of lemonade. “If Lily's there, maybe she'll be waiting to hear from you.”

“Or Lavern and the younger boys might be out in the yard, near the phone shanty in case you call,” Mattie said. “I'm sure they're all worried about your
mamm
.”

“If Dat took her to the hospital, it must've been pretty bad,” Deborah remarked. “He's not one to put a lot of trust in doctors if he thinks bed rest will do the trick.”

Ignoring the lemonade, Deborah dialed her home phone number. It rang and rang, until the answering machine prompted her to leave a message. “This is Deborah, calling back about Mamma,” she said, trying to control her voice. Lily was worried enough, without hearing that her big sister was frantic, as well. “
Please
call back and tell me what's happened. I'll see about arranging a ride to Coldstream, but it might take some doing, as I don't know many folks with cars.
Let me know,
okay?”

Deborah hung up and quickly drank her lemonade.

“Truman would drive you there,” Rosetta suggested.

“But he and Noah are working on their big job!” Deborah protested. “I can't ask him to miss a day with his crew—especially when the weather's so perfect for planting.”

The three sisters nodded glumly.

“And besides,” Deborah went on, “I want to be sure of what's actually happened, and how bad Mamma is. Noah's trying to be a
gut
sport about her wanting me to come home, but . . . but I hate to think about how long I might need to stay. I—I just don't know. I want to be
here,
I want to be
there
—”

“It's a
gut
time to remember that verse that says ‘be still and know that I am God,'” Mattie murmured. “If we all three pray on it—quiet our minds—we'll be readier for the news about your mother when you get a call back.”

Deborah nodded, squeezing her eyes shut.

An immediate answer didn't come to her. Neither did a phone call.

* * *

After another rough night of being awake for more hours than she was asleep, Deborah went to the kitchen early Friday morning. The red light was blinking on the message machine.

“Tell Deborah not to come home,” her father's voice announced through the speaker. He sounded weary but firm. “We've got it all under control.”

So there you have it,
she thought ruefully.
He's not telling us anything about Mamma, but he's saying loud and clear that I'm not to show my face. That makes everything a lot simpler.

But it really didn't.

* * *

When Noah replayed Eli Peterscheim's phone message that evening after Deborah had gone to bed, he scowled. Although deep down he was relieved, because he doubted Deborah would defy her father and go home, the preacher's tone made him very uneasy.

Did Eli expect young Lily to manage the household during Alma's recovery? Why did he still consider Deborah so unforgivable? The preacher might believe he had the situation under control, but Noah sensed nothing was
right
at the Peterscheim place.

Noah joined Amos, who was seated at the small table in the kitchen. Deborah had left them a plate of frosted doughnuts after she'd wrapped the rest to sell at the produce stand. He chose one with sprinkles, nodding his thanks as Amos poured him a glass of milk.

“What do you make of Eli's message?” he asked, and before the preacher could answer he blurted his own opinion. “He didn't even address Deborah directly! And he didn't say a thing about Alma, either, knowing she'd be worried sick about her mother.”

Amos shook his head. “I've known Eli a long time. Always considered him a little on the hard-boiled side, but his message sounded—”

“Cruel. Downright heartless,” Noah interjected. “And when you consider how Alma's letter begged Deborah to come home—to stay in Coldstream and raise her family there—and then Lily sounded absolutely frantic when she left
her
message,” he recounted earnestly, “it seems to me the whole family's a mess. Why won't Eli accept Deborah's help? Is he too proud to admit he needs her? Or too hard-hearted to forgive her?”

Amos's brown eyes sparkled as he broke off a chunk of his doughnut. “Listen to
you,”
he said with a chuckle. “Couldn't pry a word out of you when Deborah first showed up here, and now you're spouting like a geyser. But I'm glad,” he added quickly. “You're worried about Deborah instead of being wrapped up in your own little world. You're a better man with her than without her.”

Noah savored the cakelike texture of the doughnut and its satiny chocolate frosting, deciding how involved he should become in the Peterscheims' predicament. When he'd returned from work this afternoon, Deborah had looked like a rose dying on the vine. While he believed her when she said she loved him, she loved her family, too. She wouldn't be the same open, affectionate young woman he wanted to marry until she reconciled with her father and saw to her mother's injuries.

“I'm going to ask Truman to drive me to Coldstream on Sunday,” Noah stated. “I can visit with Deborah's family. Find out what's really going on.”

“Ah, but riding in a car on the Sabbath flies right in the face of the
Ordnung,
son,” Amos reminded him gently. “And while I admire your intention to check on the Peterscheims, you need to ask yourself if you'll create more of a problem than you'll be solving.”

“Well, I can't go tomorrow!” Noah blurted. “Truman will be finishing another of his landscaping jobs, so he can't give me a ride.”

“I've got a driver lined up for early Monday morning,” the preacher murmured as he chose another doughnut. “You're welcome to come along, Noah . . . although the barn raising might be the furthest thing from Eli's mind right now, with Alma not being well. Maybe I'd better be sure he still wants me to come.”

Amos went to the phone at the far end of the kitchen. He tapped the number pads, looking lost in thought until it was time to leave his message.

“Eli, it's Amos Troyer. Wanted you to know all of us are concerned about Alma's injuries and praying for your family,” he said in his resonant voice. “I've made arrangements to come to Coldstream Monday morning to lead the barn raising crew, but if Alma's condition has changed your plans,
let me know,
all right? Let me hear from you one way or the other, friend. The Lord didn't intend for us to bear our burdens alone.”