Stranger's Gift (10 page)

Hester couldn't help it. In spite of the chaos all around her, she started to laugh. “I would say in addition to being a good man, Samuel Brubaker, you are an excellent judge of character.”

“Ja, Ich bin,” Samuel replied, and he looked at her so intently that Hester stopped in her tracks and gave him her full attention. “I am also well aware that others have their ideas of why your father brought me into his business, Hester, and I know that those are not necessarily ideas that you agree with. But perhaps in time …”

He smiled at her, then left the thought hanging as he walked away. Hester watched him go, wondering if she had misjudged him. It had never occurred to her that Samuel might have his own doubts about a future for the two of them. The thought gave her an unexpected sense of relief.

“You should perhaps go,” Samuel called out over his shoulder. “Your friend Grady might need your help.”

But Arlen was already there ahead of her. Seemingly from out of nowhere he appeared, stepped between Grady and John, and murmured a few quiet words that had the potential combatants eyeing each other warily and then shaking hands. Hester saw her father beam with his usual delight; then he took hold of John's good arm and started across the parking lot, taking shelter under Hester's umbrella. Little good it did either of them as the wind had started to pick up again and the rain seemed to come at them sideways.

“Ah, Hester,” Arlen called out when he spotted his daughter. His hand remained on John's elbow. “Our friend here has had quite an ordeal. Show him the way to our house so that he may shower and rest.”

“I really need to …”

Her father's impressive white eyebrows shot up, and his blue eyes narrowed as he handed her the umbrella. Hester knew that look, and she knew it was useless to defy it. “But that can wait,” she amended. Her father's gaze softened with approval. “Come along, Herr Steiner. It isn't far.”

I
n spite of her polite smile, everything about Hester Detlef told John that she would prefer to be anywhere other than escorting him down the lane bordered on either side by what just a day earlier had to have been pristine white cottages set in well-maintained yards. Now the streets and yards were pocked with pools of muddy water and littered with debris. Every house had some degree of damage from the storm.

She stepped around a neatly stacked pile of flattened picket fencing and into a yard that held the remnants of what must have been a lush tropical garden. She bent and rescued an orchid plant and carefully hung it back in the sheltering branches of a tree.

“I thought I had gotten them all,” she murmured more to herself than to him, and seeing that Hester and her father had suffered their own losses, John turned his attention to her.

“It was obviously a lovely garden,” he said as he followed her, taking care not to step on any other plant that might have survived.

“Danke.” She led the way up a shell-lined path through an obstacle course of puddles to a front porch that stretched across the width of the cottage. “Normally when a storm's on the way, we move the orchids inside. I must have missed that one.”

“Are you the gardener?” He was determined to somehow make a dent in that prim facade that she wore like armor.

“My father and I take our turn,” she replied.

He couldn't help but notice that she simply turned the knob of the front door. The house was not locked. If they were on a farm in Indiana, he might not think anything of it. But Pinecraft was located right on the borders of Sarasota, a growing and changing city with its fair share of petty crime. More than once he'd had to chase would-be vandals from his property.

She slipped off her shoes and stood aside to allow him to enter. The foyer, if one could call it that, was made darker by the absence of sunlight from outside. He took a minute to get his bearings. A cozy living room to his left furnished with a plain but comfortable-looking sofa and two upholstered chairs. Rag rugs brightened the polished hardwood floors. Next to one chair—hers he assumed—was a basket of sewing. A side table next to the other chair was loaded with books and papers. Both chairs faced the fireplace.

Across the hall was a small room that must be Arlen's study. An old-fashioned wooden desk took up most of the space. John caught a glimpse of a small television set and a telephone on a side table next to a leather recliner. He noticed a hallway that he assumed led to the bedrooms and a shorter hallway leading straight back from the front door, where he was certain that he would find the kitchen. He turned his attention back to the living room, where one wall was lined with bookcases, every shelf crammed with volumes of every size and description. He felt immediately at home. His mother had loved books.

“If you'll wait here,” Hester said, starting down the hall toward the bedrooms, “I'll make up your bed and put out fresh towels for you. You can use my brothers' room, and Margery will stay with me.”

“You have a brother?”

“Four of them. All married with families of their own and living in Ohio now. We see them often; they come here or we go there. They have a better opportunity to build a good life for their families there. Work is limited here. Of course it's not the same as being all together, but we make it work.” She paused briefly to deliver this bit of information.

“Let me help you,” he said, starting down the hall after her.

She stopped so suddenly that he almost ran into her. When she turned, her cheeks were flushed, and she seemed to focus on some point just past his left shoulder.

“Or not,” he said, retreating back toward the foyer. “I'll just …” He glanced around for a place to sit. “I'll just wait here,” he said, indicating the living room.

She nodded once and continued on her way.

As John scanned the titles that lined the bookshelves, he could hear her moving around, making the necessary preparations for hosting overnight guests. A dresser drawer was opened and then closed. He heard the snap of fresh sheets as she made up the bed. He heard her move across the hall, where she opened a closet or cabinet for some new purpose. She poured water from one container to another. His mind followed the sounds of her actions as surely as if he had followed her all the way down that hall.

He'd been in the
English
world for far too long, he realized. He should have known that even for a woman who seemed as sophisticated and streetwise as Hester Detlef, she was clearly dedicated to the conservative ways of her faith. The idea that she might find herself alone in any bedroom with a man she barely knew was unthinkable. He pulled a thin volume from a shelf and absently read the title without really seeing it, all the while wondering if he should apologize or just let the matter drop.

“My mother wrote poetry.” She pointed to the book he was holding.

As attuned as he'd been to her movements, he had failed to notice that she had finished her work and come back to the living room. He ran his fingers over the cloth cover of the book, trying to decide if opening it would be an invasion of privacy.

“The garden was hers,” she added, inclining her head toward the front door. “My father and I try to keep it in order to honor her memory.”

He recalled Margery offering her sympathies to Arlen earlier and nodded. “May I?” John asked, indicating the book of poetry.

“Yes.” She waited while he opened the book to a page about a third of the way through. He scanned the contents and could not disguise his surprise. “She was quite …”

“She was a plain woman,” Hester interrupted, and he knew that she was reminding him that in her world as in his, compliments were unnecessary and unwanted. “She recorded her observations of God's handiwork as a way of showing her appreciation and gratitude.”

John nodded and replaced the book on the shelf. “She died recently?”

“Yes.”

“I'm sorry for your loss.”

She accepted his condolences without comment and turned her attention back to the business at hand. “I left towels for you in the bathroom. Your room is the second one to your left. There are dry clothes in the closet and bureau. You're thinner and taller than my brothers, but the clothing there should do for now.” She delivered these bits of information as if she were reading from a prepared list as she edged toward the open front door. “I should go and find Margery and see that she gets some rest as well. My father would want you to make yourself at home, so please refresh yourself, and, of course, if you are hungry or thirsty …” She waved her hand in the general direction of the kitchen.

She was halfway out the door and clearly anxious to be rid of him when he called out to her. “I still need to know when I might be able to return home.”

She stood on the path and made no move to return to the shelter of the porch away from the steady drizzle. “That depends.”

“On?”

She let out a soft sigh that he surmised was about as close to an expression of exasperation as she was likely to display. “Many things, Herr Steiner. Surely you're aware …”

He felt more certain than ever that it was important to get on this woman's good side. He gave her his most engaging smile. “Could we make that
John?
Calling me Herr Steiner makes me want to turn around and look for my late father.”

“Your father died?”

“When I was thirteen, farming accident.”

“And your mother?”

“Couple of years ago.” He took a step closer. “It seems we have that in common, the loss of our mothers.”

“Yes. Please accept my condolences. Both parents gone.” She shook her head. “That must be especially difficult.”

“Thank you, Hester—like the hurricane.”

She stared at him for a long moment. “I don't mean to be rude, Herr…
John
, but I have responsibilities that go beyond …” He guessed that she had come very close to saying something like
babysitting you
. But she caught herself, took a deep breath, and said, “The short answer to your question about returning to your home is that it will surely not be today.”

She was backing her way toward the missing picket fence, but he was determined to make his point. “I am going back, Hester. I'll stay the night here, but …”

“I understand that you are anxious to return to your property, John. What you need to understand is that going back is not the same as going home to stay. Once you accept that, then the day you can return may come sooner than you think.”

“Meaning?”

“It's possible that Samuel Brubaker along with an engineer from the county and a crew of MDS volunteers could make a visit to your property as soon as tomorrow to assess the damage and give you a better idea of when you might—” “MDS?”

“Mennonite Disaster Service.” She pointed toward his shirt pocket, where the pamphlet her father had given him lay damp and limp.

“Yeah, well, understand this—nobody's going to my place without me, Hester.”

She had taken two determined steps back toward him when a red-haired woman about Hester's age but not in plain dress came rushing down the street. “Hester! Zeke's gone missing.”

Jeannie Messner was Emma Keller's younger sister. Hester had known her since the three of them had played hopscotch and jacks together in Pinecraft Park as kids. Emma and Hester were the same age, but Jeannine—better known as Jeannie—had always tagged along. Emma and her family still lived in the same house where the sisters had grown up just across from the park. But Jeannie, ever the rebel, had left the Palm Bay church that her family preferred after marrying a man from the more liberal congregation. Her husband, Geoff, worked as the athletic director at the Christian school, and Jeannie had taken a job as the activities director at a local senior center. Generally she was a happy-go-lucky sprite with her curly red hair that framed a heart-shaped face featuring an impish smile. But Jeannie was not smiling now. Her brow was deeply furrowed with worry, and her lips were pencil thin and pale.

“Jeannie, calm down and tell me what's happened.” Hester led her friend to the shelter of the porch, her heart hammering with this fresh evidence that while she had been tending to John Steiner, people with real problems were being neglected.

“It's Zeke. He's missing.”

“Who's Zeke?” John asked with a hint of irritation.

“Zeke Shepherd. He lives on the beach down near the bridge,” Jeannie explained. It was a clear measure of her distress that she showed not the slightest curiosity about who John was or why he was standing on Hester's front porch.

John's eyebrows lifted slightly as he focused his attention on Hester, waiting, she assumed, for her to dispense with this interruption and get back to the subject of his property.

“He's homeless,” Hester added, hoping to elicit a drop of sympathy from the man. “He camps on a seawall concealed by several mangrove and sea grape trees along the bay downtown.” She motioned toward the porch swing, but Jeannie shook her head and kept pacing. “Surely when the storm hit …”