Rachel's Garden (7 page)

Success, of a sort, he supposed. He followed her into the haus, and Mary trailed after them, crooning a soft lullaby to her imaginary infant.

Obeying Rachel’s gesture, he spread the plan out on the table, smoothing it down, while she poured coffee from the ever-present pot on the stove. She carried two mugs to the table, handing one to him, and stood for a moment staring down at the simple plan.

“You’re right,” she said. “I’ve hesitated about this long enough. If this is a gut time for you, let’s go ahead already.”

“Fine.” He kept it matter-of-fact and leaned over, tracing the shape with his finger. “Here’s the area we talked about adding along the side. It’ll make the greenhouse a bit bigger than the original plan, but it’ll give you more light, especially early in the spring. ”

She bent over the plan next to him, studying it. “I didn’t think about it being bigger—will we need more materials, then?”

He heard a trace of anxiety in her voice, making him wonder if the cost was an issue. “I don’t think so.”

And if they did, he’d take care of that himself. She need never know.

“That’s gut.” Her fingertips glided over the outline almost lovingly. “I was just thinking that—” She hesitated, as if reluctant to voice the thought.

“What?”

“Well, it could be a little extra income for me, ain’t so? Growing the plants and selling them. If I had more, I could maybe go to all the spring Mud Sales, even the farmer’s market, ferleicht.”

“No ‘perhaps’ about it. You could do that.”

Now it was his turn to hesitate. Had Ezra not left her provided for? He’d always assumed this was a prosperous farm, but Rachel sounded as if finances were a worry.

He had been Ezra’s closest friend. He had the responsibility to ask. “Is the money a problem? I thought the dairy herd brought in a gut income.”

Rachel sighed, a little catch of breath that brushed his heart. With her eyes fixed on the plan she wasn’t looking at him, and his gaze traced the clear line of her profile. She stood very close, and the air around them was so still it seemed even the room held its breath.

“I never had to worry about it when Ezra was taking care of things.” She stopped, shaking her head. “But with Isaac and William doing all the work for the dairy herd, it’s only fair that they share the money from the milk.”

His own breath seemed to be strangling him. Fair? Well, they deserved something for their work, but—

“How big a share?”

She didn’t have to answer, but he hoped she would.

“We go halves.” She glanced at him then, troubled. “That’s only right.”

“Does Isaac also pay half the expenses—the feed, the taxes?” Because it would be Isaac who expected the payment. He felt sure that young William was doing this because he had a gut heart and because he’d loved Ezra.

“Well, no. I mean, it’s not his farm.”

No, it wasn’t. And if anyone accused Isaac of taking advantage of his widowed sister-in-law, all he’d have to say was that she’d pay as much or more if she had to hire the work done.

And saying anything to Isaac would only cause trouble in the family and dissension in the church. It was better, much better, to keep his opinions of Isaac’s doings to himself and find some other way to help Rachel.

“I think your plans for the greenhouse are very sound. You might go a little further, if you wanted.”

“Further?”

“Fresh flowers for the farmer’s market, say. My brother Aaron and his wife go twice a week in the growing season. I’m sure he’d be willing to take them for you. And if you potted up some of the perennials you grow, that would be another thing to sell.”

His enthusiasm for the idea built as he talked. A fine gardener like Rachel had plenty to offer that folks, especially the English, would pay for.

“Those herbs of yours, too,” he added. “You might even go into growing some ornamental shrubs and raspberry or blackberry bushes and such-like for sale.”

Rachel’s eyes had widened, as if she could see all the possibilities. For a moment her face lit with enthusiasm, but then the light went out like a snuffed candle.

“There would be expenses. And besides, I don’t know anything about running a business.”

“I can help you with that.”

He saw in an instant that he should have stopped at offering the ideas. Those she might take. Actual assistance, at least from him—that she didn’t want. She was only accepting it with the greenhouse because she couldn’t find a way out.

She pulled away from the table. “That’s kind of you, Gideon. But I can’t let you do anything else for me.”

“Can’t?” If he didn’t do some plain speaking, this would always stand between them. “Or won’t, because you don’t forgive me for Isaac’s death?” There. It was out, though his heart hurt with it.

Her face blanched. “It was an accident. You’re not to blame. And even if you were, I would forgive.”

It was the Amish way. They both knew that. Forgive as you would be forgiven. God didn’t offer His forgiveness on any easier terms, no matter how much His children might want it.

“Forgiveness is more than words.” He paused, but maybe it was best to say the rest of it. “The truth is that you didn’t like my friendship with Ezra long before the accident. Every time he went off with me, I could see it in your face.”

“No.”

He ignored the denial, because they both knew what he said was true. “You resented our friendship. I never really understood why. And now you resent it that I’m still alive.” The face of his dead wife flickered through his mind. Ja, he was still alive, for a reason only God understood.

He took a harsh breath. “I loved him, too, Rachel. I mourn for him. And I am going to do everything I can to help you and his children, so I hope you can find a way to live with that.”

CHAPTER FOUR

F
olks
in the outside world probably had people they went to when they had a problem. Doctors and other advisors, Rachel shouldn’t wonder. When the Leit, the Amish of Pleasant Valley, needed someone to talk to, they went to Bishop Mose. So that was where she was headed today.

The weather had turned gray and chill again, as the end of March often did, and the wind had whipped at the brim of her bonnet as Brownie clip-clopped along the narrow blacktop road to town. If March was going to go out like a lamb, it had best start warming up. But she was here now, and Mose’s workshop would be warm.

She swung down from the buggy seat and fastened the lines to the hitching rail. She reached back under the buggy seat for the piece of harness with the loose buckle. That needed mending anyway, so it gave her a good reason for coming to Mose Yoder’s harness shop, just in case her courage failed her and she couldn’t bring up the thing she wanted to talk with him about.

Bishop Mose, like all ministers and bishops among the Amish, worked at his trade as the apostle Paul had, accepting their Christian duties in addition.

There were two steps up to the little wooden porch, hollowed with the passage of many feet over the years. The glass-paneled door bore a hand-lettered sign.
Horse People Only, No Tourists,
it read. Beneath those directions Mose had added, in firm black-marker letters,
No Picture-Taking.

She smiled a little. Once, the signs wouldn’t have been necessary, but in recent years tourists had discovered the Amish of Pleasant Valley. Bishop Mose did business with the English horse-owners in the area, some even coming from as far away as Mifflinburg to get good handcrafted tack. But he could do without the tourists.

She opened the door, the bell jangling, and stepped inside. Bishop Mose stood behind the cash register, busy with a customer, but he gave her a quick, welcoming smile. Since the customer was English and not anyone she knew, she moved to the side counter, keeping her gaze politely averted from the business they were transacting.

The rich scents of leather and oil transported her back through the years. She’d been coming to Mose’s harness shop since her father brought her and Johnny when they were little more than Mary’s age. The shop fascinated her—the harness and tack hanging from pegs and lining shelves up to the ceiling; the mysterious, to her child’s mind, machinery that Mose used on the leather; and most especially Bishop Mose Yoder himself.

She slid a sideways glance as he bent over the counter, listening courteously to some story the Englischer was telling. As always, Mose wore a heavy apron over his black trousers and blue shirt to protect them from his work.

Had he really not aged since she was a child? Somehow she’d always thought him old, with his long beard and hair a snowy white and his face a patchwork of tiny wrinkles, much like a piece of his own leather.

Running her fingers along a fine Western saddle with elaborate leatherwork, she tried to figure out how old Mose must be. Close to eighty, surely, wasn’t he? An Amish bishop was a bishop for life, just as the ministers were, chosen by lot through God’s guidance. Had Mose started out looking like a patriarch of the Old Testament, or had the look grown on him as he ministered to his flock?

The customer finally headed for the door, apparently satisfied with the new bridle he had slung over his shoulder. He gave her a polite nod as he passed.

The door closed behind him, and Mose turned to her.

“Rachel. It’s fine to see you today. How are you? And the kinder?”

“We’re all well.” Now that she faced his keen gaze, she was doubly grateful she’d brought the harness. She handed it across the counter to him. “I hoped you might have time to fix the buckle on this for me.”

“Ach, I always have time for you, ain’t so?” He took the harness, running it through his hands as if he saw with them, as well as with his eyes. “I mind when I made this for Ezra. Five years ago, it must have been, at least.”

“About that.”

She glanced past him, toward the alcove behind the counter where the big sewing machines sat, all connected to a massive belt that ran through a hole in the floor to a generator in the cellar. Sometimes Mose had several men helping him there, when he was especially busy, but today all was quiet.

She was alone with him in the shop. She wouldn’t find a better opportunity to ask for his advice, if she could just get the words out.

Mose adjusted his glasses and began picking out the loose stitches that held the buckle, staying at the counter probably because he guessed that she wanted to talk.

She felt tongue-tied. How could she just come out with her mixed-up feelings about Gideon?

“Have you seen anything of John lately?” Mose gave her a keen glance, as if to assess whether her English brother was the source of her worry.

“A few nights ago.” She remembered too well Johnny’s annoyance at her for keeping to the Ordnung. “He is doing well, I think. I just wish—”

She paused, but Mose probably knew the rest of that thought.

“Your daad still refuses to see him?”

She nodded. “I don’t bring it up much, because it upsets Mamm. Even though Daadi knows other Amish parents find a way to have a relationship with their children who have jumped the fence, he won’t consider it.”

“Ach, your daad always was one to do everything the hard way. No doubt he still hopes being cut off from his family will push Johnny into coming back to the church.”

“It won’t.” Once she might have hoped that, too, but she’d seen enough of her brother in recent months to know the truth. He was committed to the English world and to the work that seemed so important. He would never come back.

“No. I never thought he would return.” Mose’s face showed regret and acceptance. “Some just aren’t a fit for the life, even when they’re born to it.”

She’d never thought of it that way, exactly, but Bishop Mose was right. “From the time we were little, Johnny was always restless, always wanting more. Impatient.”

He nodded. “I think-”

The bell over the door rang. Mose glanced that way, and his face stiffened. “No tourists,” he said.

She darted a quick look. A man and woman, both with cameras hanging from their necks, had just come in. Surely they couldn’t have missed the sign on the door.

“We just want to look around.” The woman lifted her camera. “Just take a few pictures.”

“No pictures. No tourists.” Mose’s tone was polite but firm. “That’s what the sign says. I ask you please to leave.”

Rachel stole another glance. The man’s face had reddened. “Listen, if you people want to have any tourist trade in this town, you’d better be a little nicer when folks come in here.”

“My harness shop is a business. Not a tourist attraction.” Mose’s face was as stony as Moses’s must have been when he’d broken the stone tablets.

“Come on, Hal.” It sounded as if the woman was tugging her husband toward the door, but Rachel didn’t turn around again to see, wary of the camera the woman still held up. The brim of her bonnet cut them off very nicely. “There’s a cute quilt shop down the street. I’m crazy about Amish quilts.”

The door slammed, and footsteps thudded on the wooden steps. Rachel glanced around, just as the woman raised her camera to the glass and snapped a picture. Then, smiling in satisfaction, she went off down the street.

Mose grunted. “It spites me when they do that. Some folks don’t have the sense the Lord gave a chipmunk. Can’t they read?”

The flash of the camera had unsettled her, but she tried to shake it off. “They think they’re the exception to the rule. If they try that on Ruth Stoltzfus at the quilt shop, she’ll chase them out with a broom.”

Mose chuckled, his good humor quickly restored. “I’d like to see that, I would.”

“So would I.” She smiled, picturing plump, irascible Ruth’s reaction.

“Now, then.” Mose returned to the buckle, but his wise old eyes surveyed her over the rims of his glasses. “I think you did not come all the way to town today just to have this buckle replaced or to talk about the ways of tourists. Or even of your brother.”