When Grace Sings (3 page)

Because last night when Dad had told him about the land in Arborville and how Steven and Anna—Grace would raise a family there, he realized with greater clarity than ever that what he wanted didn’t matter. All that mattered was what Dad and Mom wanted for him. What the fellowship elders would approve.

He stifled a growl as he turned his truck onto the road leading to his family farmstead. Why hadn’t he told Anna—Grace he didn’t want to farm the land in Arborville? Why hadn’t he shared what he’d thought about last night—selling the land and taking the money from the account built up by the renters and moving to a city where he could finish high school and then go to college?

From the first day he’d entered the little community school and sat in rapt attention under the exuberant instruction of Miss Kroeker, he’d wanted to build a love of learning in other children. No other men in his community had ever become teachers, but in his childish mind he’d decided he would be the first. Until he’d told his brother his dream. Kevin scoffed at the idea.
“If you’re gonna be a Mennonite man, you’ll have to do what Dad and the elders want you to do, and teachers are always women. So forget it, little brother.”
He’d never mentioned it again. But he hadn’t forgotten.

He’d started to tell Anna—Grace what he wanted to do with the land, but he lost his nerve. Anna—Grace’s delight too closely reflected Dad and Mom’s excitement, and he felt trampled and stifled and frustrated. So he’d kept his
thoughts to himself. His cowardice troubled him. Shouldn’t a man feel comfortable telling the woman who would be his wife the deepest longings of his soul?

The sliding doors on the century-old barn were spread wide, letting Steven know Dad had already taken their fellowship-approved tractor and disc to the field to turn under the dried cornstalks. He’d be watching for Steven to come take over the task so he could move on to burning the wheat stubble. Dad had never given Steven responsibility for burning an empty field, claiming if something went wrong he’d rather face the consequences himself than see his son suffer. Dad might mean well, but his actions communicated a lack of faith in him.

Will Dad follow me to Arborville and do the field burning there, too?
The snide thought caught him by surprise.
Forgive me, Lord, for being disrespectful
.

Steven parked the truck in the lean-to behind the barn, then trotted to the house to change clothes. Mom had insisted he wear a button-up cotton shirt rather than a work T-shirt to visit Anna—Grace. He’d considered saying he didn’t think it would make much difference to Anna—Grace what he wore, but fearing his comment would be construed as rebellion, he’d simply done as his mother directed. Because he was the good son—the one who didn’t pierce his mother’s heart.

He clomped directly to his bedroom and hung his shirt in the closet rather than draping it over the end of the bed, then popped a pocketed T-shirt over his head. Still tucking in the tail, he moved into the hallway. Mom was coming from the opposite direction with a load of towels in her arms. Her face broke into a smile when she spotted Steven.

“What did she think?”

Steven needed no further explanation. “She was excited.” Remembering Anna—Grace’s sparkling blue eyes and the firm grip of her slender hand, he tried to conjure happiness. But it failed to rise.

“I’ll bet she was.” Mom beamed as brightly as Anna—Grace had. “It will
seem strange to her at first, I’m sure, living away from Sommerfeld. But she has family in Arborville.”

Steven frowned. “She does?”

“Mm-hm. Remember? Anna—Grace’s great-aunt—her dad’s mother’s sister—and most of her children live there. As a matter of fact, Anna—Grace’s cousin Cletus Zimmerman has been renting Granddad’s land. With family nearby, it won’t take her long at all to feel at home there. And if she’s like every other young woman, she’ll be eager to set up housekeeping and make the place her own.”

Steven released a rueful chuckle. “Yeah. She’s eager all right.”

Mom laughed and shifted the bundle in her arms. “That’s good. Better than fearful, yes?”

“I guess so.”

Mom laughed again, shaking her head at him. Her reaction reminded him of the way Anna—Grace had behaved—amused and maybe a little baffled by his lack of enthusiasm. If he told Mom his concerns, would she understand? He formed the words in his head.
“Mom, what I’d really like to do is sell that land and use the money for college. Would you be proud to have a teacher for a son?”

“Well, now that your errand is done, you’d better head out. Dad left more than half an hour ago already, and he wants to get that field burned before the winds stir to life. So you’d best go on now.”

He held back a sigh. “Sure, Mom.” He headed outside, setting his feet hard against the drying grass. Maybe it was best she’d interrupted his thoughts. He shouldn’t hurt his parents by telling them he didn’t want the land. And he shouldn’t hurt Anna—Grace by telling her there was something more he wanted than being a Mennonite farmer, husband, and father.

Sometimes being the good son was a difficult burden to bear.

Arborville, Kansas

First Friday in October

Briley

This was a town? Briley propped his forearm on the window frame and slowed his fire engine–red Camaro to a crawl in case he might miss something. By the time he reached the north end of Main Street, which was only a block from the south end, he realized there wasn’t anything to miss. A hardware store with oil lamps displayed in the window—oil lamps, of all things!—and a lumberyard on the east side, a grocery store, fabric shop, gifts-and-crafts shop, and postage stamp–sized post office on the west made up the entire business district. What had Len been thinking to send him here? A place this small couldn’t hold a story of interest.

But he sure was stirring interest. Or, more accurately, his car was. The mix of Amish and Mennonite folks—according to his research, the Amish women wore the solid-color dresses and the Mennonite the floral-patterned ones—meandering along the concrete sidewalks all paused to gawk as he rolled by. Little boys pointed, only to have their hands smacked down by their mothers, and little girls hid behind their mothers’ skirts to peek at him with round eyes. Hadn’t they ever seen a sports car before? He tried to summon a bit of sarcasm.
Take a picture. It lasts longer
. But he had to admit he liked the reaction. Who
would’ve thought ragamuffin Briley Forrester would garner such attention? Now if his article would get the same attention from non-Plain folks …

He planted his foot on the brake and stuck his head out the open window. “Hey, there.”

The two Amish women and cluster of kids on the corner outside the hardware store aimed curious faces in his direction. The oldest kid, a boy maybe twelve or thirteen with a bowl-shaped haircut and homemade britches held up by suspenders, raised his hand in a wave and called, “What’cha need, mister?”

“I’m looking for the—” He poked the button on his recordable memo-keeper, and his voice stated the inn’s name. He turned back to the little group. “The Grace Notes B and B. It’s supposed to be in Arborville, but it’s not coming up on my GPS.”

The kid glanced at one of the women, presumably his mother, and waited until she gave a nod. Then he trotted to the side of the car and leaned down, his gaze examining the car’s interior as he talked. “That’s out at the Zimmerman farm. Go back to Highway 96, drive north three miles to County Road 42. Then go east two and a half miles. You’ll see the sign for Grace Notes at their lane.” He made a sour face. “It’s all dirt roads out there, mister, so your shiny car’ll get plenty dusty.”

Briley grinned. “It’ll wash. Thanks, kid.”

The boy backed up slowly, the heels of his clunky brown boots stirring dust that swirled away on the stout breeze.

His foot still on the brake, Briley revved the motor, earning an open-mouthed look of wonder from the kid. The boy’s mother pursed her lips, though. She grabbed the boy’s elbow and yanked him onto the sidewalk. Briley winked at the red-faced mother, mock saluted the boy, and took off, leaving a cloud of dust in his wake.

As he pulled onto the highway, he berated himself. Why had he showed off that way? Who cared if he impressed some little Amish kid in a podunk town? The boy couldn’t do anything for him, and if the townsfolk branded him a troublemaker, they wouldn’t open up and share the information he
needed to complete his article. He’d acted like the cocky seventeen-year-old he’d been instead of the mature, responsible twenty-six-year-old he was supposed to be.

Aunt Myrt’s voice chided in his memory.
“You’re gonna have to bury that wild side of yours, Briley Ray, or it’ll be your ruination.”
But it wasn’t easy to lose the boy who’d hidden his insecurities behind a shield of arrogance. Aunt Myrt had done her best to convince him all he needed to do was let Jesus work in him and he’d be good as new, but Briley’d never been able to grasp the concept. Aunt Myrt was a nice lady—the nicest he’d met over his years in the foster care system—but she was a little simpleminded sometimes. He’d respected her enough not to tell her so, though. Truth was, he missed her.

He spotted a narrow metal sign announcing County Road 42, and he slowed to make the turn. His tires crunched as they left the smooth asphalt and met the gravel-and-dirt road. He hit the button to raise his window before dust flowed inside. He liked the way the dirt billowed in a cloud behind him, so he picked back up to almost sixty. Fields stretched in both directions, only stubble remaining in some, others covered in small, bushy-looking tufts he presumed were soybeans, and still others looking charred from a recent burning. Off in the distance a plume of smoke alerted him to another field being burned. Good thing he’d closed the window. He’d have quite a time getting rid of the smoke smell if it attached itself to his leather interior.

Just as the kid in town had said, two and a half miles in he spotted a sign. He slowed the Camaro and stopped at the end of the lane, examining the sign. Nothing more than a sheet of plywood mounted on fence posts, painted stark white with free-handed letters in dark blue in some sort of flowing script. Black music notes formed a wavy line along the top and bottom, sandwiching the B and B’s name in between. Quaint. Aunt Myrt would probably exclaim over it. But Briley wasn’t Aunt Myrt.

Pressing the gas pedal once more, he eased into the lane. A thick row of trees, scraggly ones with big green balls growing on the branches mixed with
overgrown cedars, had blocked his view of the house, but once he got a glimpse of it, he released a whistle of amazement. The sign didn’t do the house justice. He wouldn’t want to live in an old Victorian farmhouse in the middle of cornfields, but he had to admit the place was welcoming, with its porch running the full width and on around the side and a variety of paint colors showcasing the different trims. They didn’t build houses like this anymore, and even though he preferred his modern apartment in the steel-and-glass building in Chicago, he could appreciate the craftsmanship of the place.

He inched up the lane, taking in the monstrous barn and the half-dozen dried-up flower beds laid out on the lawn. Wire frames, shaped like notes, filled the center of the beds. During the spring and summer, those frames probably held bright-colored blooms. Now devoid of color, they looked stark and empty. Tuneless. He shook his head. This place was making him whimsical, and he was never whimsical. He parked the car in a graveled spot next to the barn and killed the engine. His radio, which he’d tuned to a classic rock station and cranked up full blast, ended midsong.

The quiet struck like a blow. Even with the windows rolled tight, the wind’s whisper and a bird’s cheerful song crept through. Briley knew what wind sounded like—where he lived, it sometimes swayed the highest floors of buildings—but he couldn’t remember the last time he’d heard a bird sing. Reminded him of summer evenings on Aunt Myrt’s sleeping porch. At least it raised pleasant memories even if he didn’t have the time to be skipping down memory lane.

After popping open the door, he swung his legs out and unfolded himself from the seat. He stretched, arching backward to work out the kinks in his lower spine. When he’d bought the sports car, Len told him it was a foolish expenditure.
“Why not just walk or take the bus like every other downtown Chicago dweller?”
Then Len had teased him about needing a pry bar to get himself in and out of it.
“A man close to six foot three with shoulders broad enough to give Atlas some stiff competition has no business cramming himself into a sardine can.”
But Briley was used to close quarters. All his growing-up
years, he’d had little more than a bed and a couple of dresser drawers to claim as his own. And the Camaro’s sleek frame made up for the compact space. He’d keep the car no matter what Len said.

He left his luggage and laptop in the backseat and didn’t even bother hitting the lock on his key fob—who would disturb anything? Then he ambled along a series of steppingstones that led to the porch. Len had made the lodging arrangements for him. Briley had wanted to stay in Wichita, the closest large city, where he’d be able to enjoy a bit of the nightlife, but Len said if he was going to write an accurate depiction of living the Plain lifestyle, he needed to be in the middle of it. Briley paused at the base of the porch steps and turned a slow circle. He was definitely in the middle of “plain.”