The Harvest of Grace (22 page)

“I am.”

“You’re not taking this the way I thought you would.”

“I don’t like your news, but I love you. That won’t change. You’ve been letting worry talk, and you’ve been listening.”

“Ya, I guess so.”

“And there are ways to prevent getting pregnant. I learned about them in public school.”

“The bishop would never allow that.”

“Are you going to ask him?”

Grey blinked. “I thought … Never mind.” He cleared his throat. “Personally, I believe the union between husband and wife stands before God on its own. If you agree, then whatever decisions we come to on this will be between Him and us.”

“I trust God, and I trust you to hear Him.”

A smile tugged at one side of his mouth. “Pray with me. Then whatever we think our next move should be, we’ll do it in agreement.”

With their heads bowed, she cried to God. The idea of burying their babies hurt deeply. But with Grey holding on to her hands, she already felt strength pass between them.

Nineteen

With a rolling pin in hand, Cara flattened a double portion of piecrust against the countertop. Lori sat on the floor beside her, lightly prancing her homemade cloth dolls over Better Days’s ribcage as he lay still, wagging his tail.

When she’d come downstairs Monday night to meet with Trevor, the bishop, and Ephraim, she didn’t have any anger left in her to lash out with, which was a welcome improvement. But she didn’t apologize either, not really.

Her memory of coming down the stairs and into the room where the men were seated was fuzzy. The God event that had taken place beforehand seemed to have displaced her, as if only part of her were there.

She clearly remembered talking to Trevor. “I’d intended to pretend my way through this,” she’d told him, “but I can’t. And I won’t lie. So if I’ve said things you didn’t deserve or treated you worse than I should have, I’m sorry. Personally, I don’t see how my honesty comes close to comparing to what you did to me, but apparently you think so. And the church leaders seem to agree with you.”

Feeling woozy, she had taken several deep breaths. But as she’d stood there, she’d felt empowered to speak her heart. “I actually do hope I can forgive you one day, for my sake more than yours. That’s all I can offer you right now, and it’s a ton more than I want to give. But I’m willing to aim for some type of bearable reconciliation.”

He’d stepped forward, shaking the way old alcoholics tend to do. “Thank you.” His eyes had misted, a half-starved man gratefully accepting the meager scraps being offered.

Hatred had melted from her, leaving a strong residue of dislike in its place. She should have been more specific about how often he could visit, but it hadn’t dawned on her at the time. He’d rented a room in someone’s house not too far away, which made dropping by easy for him.

The front screen door closed with the familiar rhythm of two thuds, one thump, and numerous taps. Someone had either come in or gone out. Footsteps echoed against the wooden floor. Heavy ones.

He
had entered the house. He’d come Monday and yesterday. Would he visit
every
day until she put a stop to it?

She had no idea what to call the man who was technically her father. Before the mandated visits, she’d called him Trevor a few times. But now even that seemed too personal, and just thinking the word
Dad
made her physically nauseous.

Answering the door when he showed up and having to let him in without really welcoming him was awkward—as if her pride kept her from being able to perform that simple task. So she’d told him not to knock.

Now that seemed like a mistake. This was the only real home she’d had since her mother died, and she’d allowed him to come in at will. Not only did she not know what to call him; she didn’t know how to deal with him.

He opened the swinging door to the kitchen. “Morning.”

She returned his nod. “Hello.”

He knelt beside Better Days and smiled at Lori. “How are you this morning?”

“Okay,” Lori whimpered before getting up, moving to Cara, and wrapping her arms tightly around her mom.

Her behavior reminded Cara of the trauma her daughter had experienced after she’d witnessed the police handcuff Cara and threaten to haul Lori off to foster care. Ephraim had arrived and intervened, despite his reservations. Later that evening, in an effort to soothe Lori’s panic, he’d brought her favorite puppy from the litter in the barn. Lori had taken to Ephraim immediately, but she didn’t like her own grandfather. Cara had no doubts that Lori was picking up on her mother’s feelings toward Trevor.

She kissed the top of Lori’s head and gently unlocked the girl’s arms from her waist. “Why don’t you take Better Days outside for a while?”

Lori picked up her dolls, skirted as far around Trevor as possible, and went outdoors with Better Days.

“Would you like some coffee?” Cara asked.

He shook his head. “I thought maybe we could go for a walk, all three of us.”

“I have lots of work to do.”

He didn’t respond, and she refused to look at him. She cut out miniature piecrusts, wishing Deborah and Ada would get back soon from making deliveries to bakeries and picking up supplies. Someone running interference would be very helpful.

He leaned against the sink and folded his arms. “What are you making?”

She leveled a look at him before focusing on the dough in front of her. It was obvious she was making piecrusts. Thoughts of her mother scurrying up the stairs with her and hiding her in a cubbyhole behind the wall of the attic screamed at her.

Two days. That was all that had passed since her odd encounter while kneeling beside her bed. It was God who’d held her, wasn’t it? It seemed impossible that He cared that much for someone like her. At times she found it easier to believe the whole thing had been her imagination. But, in spite of herself, she knew it had happened.

She tried to apply those feelings of love and acceptance to the man in the room with her, but it wasn’t working. Not yet. Maybe never. God’s intervention had touched her mind and heart deeply, but it hadn’t done much to free her of bitterness and rage.

“Look, Cara, I know this is hard for you,” Trevor said. “From the things you said Monday evening, it’s obvious you think I ran to Emma and Levi to complain about your outburst. I didn’t, but I have no words to describe what your news did to me. It’s my own fault. I know that. But all these years I’ve believed you were happy and safe here with them. I had to know what happened, to separate facts from fiction. I’m sorry that the bishop got involved and that now we’re both stuck going through the motions.”

“If you don’t want to be here, then why not make our lives easier and just go away?”

“For me, I want to be here. For you, I’d leave if I could. But we both need to prove to the church leaders that you’re ready to join the faith this fall. If I walk away now, it’ll make your efforts to become Amish harder, won’t it?”

She hadn’t thought about that, but he was right. Now that the bishop knew about her outburst and her bitterness toward Trevor, if he left without their coming to some sort of peace, she’d not be allowed to join the faith—a faith that believed in gentleness toward those who’d wronged them and forgiveness at all costs.

“I guess it’s best you’re here … for practical reasons.”

“I’m glad we understand each other about this.” He watched her cut another miniature piecrust. “Can I help?”

“I guess.”

He went to the sink and scrubbed his hands.

When he returned to the work station, she passed him a disposable pan. “Lay it upside down on the dough, and slice around it. Getting them up in one piece takes practice, and I don’t have time for mistakes.”

He pressed the pan onto the dough, following her instructions carefully. His eyes rose to meet hers, and she realized they shared the same eye color—golden bronze. Why would he act so humble and willing to follow her directions? What did he hope to gain?

The rolling pin hit the floor with a thud, breaking in to her thoughts. She picked it up, scrubbed it, and dried it. When she turned around, her father had set a row of pie tins along the countertop, brushed each one with oil, and begun putting piecrusts in them. Moving from cutout to cutout, he efficiently fixed each one, including the decorative edge.

“Where’d you learn to do that?”

“Your mom.”

Cara wished she hadn’t asked.

“Don’t you remember any of our Sundays together?”

She shook her head. “I can barely remember what she looked like.”

He pulled his billfold out of his back pocket and passed a small picture to her. “It’s awfully faded.”

The photo showed all three of them in what looked like a park. Trevor was holding her, and she had her arms wrapped around his neck, giggling by the looks of it. Her mom’s smile radiated back at her.

But the image in her hand washed out and was replaced by a more familiar one. “Cara,” Mama whispered, touching her lips with her index finger. “Don’t make any noise.” She turned on the flashlight and put it in Cara’s hand. “You sleep here unless I come back for you.” Cara clutched her doll in one hand and the flashlight in the other.

“Melinda!” Her father’s footsteps echoed like a monster invading their home. Her mother closed the small door to the attic wall.

Cara passed the snapshot back to him.

“You don’t remember?”

“I recall plenty. Do yourself a favor and don’t ask me about it.”

“It wasn’t all bad, Cara.”

She swallowed and managed a nod.

“You know,” he said as he washed his hands again, “there are perks to my being around. I have a car. It’s beat-up, but I could make it easier for you to get back and forth to Dry Lake.”

“Don’t you want to get a job?” Since it was obvious he’d be around for a while, she liked the idea of his doing something that would keep him out of her hair.

“I had one as a school janitor until recently. I get the shakes so bad at times I can hardly stand up, and they let me go.”

“Years of drinking can do that to a person.”

“You have your mama’s sense of honesty.”

“I know of a couple of people who need a farmhand. Aaron Blank and Sylvia something.”

“Friends of yours?”

“I just met both of them Sunday evening. She’s going to help teach me the Amish language starting tomorrow.”

“Another obstacle to joining?”

He acted so interested and caring. If she told him he was a fake, he’d look hurt and argue. Maybe she should test him a little, let him see his own insincerity.

“Yeah, but I can’t let her do that for no cost, and money is always tight for me. If you want to make up for the past so badly, how about paying for the lessons? That’s what dads do, isn’t it?” She talked to Better Days in this same tone when he misbehaved.

A sweet-looking smile crossed his face. “I’ll speak to Aaron Blank about that job opening.”

He wouldn’t last long doing farm work, especially in this heat. But it’d keep him from having so much free time on his hands.

Aaron climbed the ladder to the haymow, looking for Sylvi. He’d gone to the cabin and the pond behind it as well as to the milking parlor but hadn’t found her. The old wood moaned under the weight of his body.

Five days had passed since she’d told him and his parents about having kissed a married man. She had revealed her wrongdoing for his sake, to try to make his father understand that people make mistakes but can change. And other than a brief “thanks,” Aaron hadn’t mentioned a word about it to her. They’d worked from sunup to sundown Wednesday through Saturday, but they’d only spoken when necessary and avoided any mention of that topic.

He’d kept to himself more this week, thinking silence would build a thick partition between them. Instead, an invisible connection had formed—at least for him. No matter how much he tried to deny, ignore, or sabotage the bond, it only grew stronger. He had no idea what she thought or felt other than determination to hold on to this abomination she called a farm.

A quick glance into the haymow said she wasn’t there either. He climbed into the loft, hoping to spot her in one of the pastures. Instead, he found her sound asleep on a blanket against a mound of loose hay. Four kittens were bunched up in her lap, sleeping.