Christine wrapped her arm around Gloria’s shoulders. “Jah, I can do that. And I’ll tell Phoebe and Allen something’s detained you side-sitters,” she murmured reassuringly. “Whatever it is, honey, I’m sure you’ll work it out. I’m sorry you’re upset when we all need to eat together and shore ourselves up for whatever happens next with Bishop Clayton. Maybe you girls should fix your plates here in the kitchen and take them up to your apartment—”
“I couldn’t eat a thing, but jah, tell Laura I’ll be upstairs,” Gloria said. “Denki for understanding.”
With a glance at all the covered pans of food waiting to go out to the steam table, Gloria started up the back stairs empty-handed. When she reached her apartment, she glanced out the window. Cyrus and Jonathan were no longer behind their cabin.
Maybe they’re looking for Laura and me. It’ll serve them right to sit at the eck and have folks ask them where we are.
There was a tapping at the door.
“Gloria? What happened when you went outside?” Laura asked as she came in. “Mamm said you needed to talk to me, and—oh my, you’re crying. Where are Cyrus and Jonathan?”
Gloria turned, grateful for Laura’s hug. “Right now, I—I don’t really care where they are,” she replied tearfully. “I hate to spoil Phoebe’s big day for you but—”
Laura waved her off. “What could possibly upset the apple cart any more than Bishop Clayton’s announcement?”
Gloria sighed loudly and wiped her face again. “I overheard Cyrus and Jonathan talking,” she replied sadly. “They have a bet going about being engaged to us by Thanksgiving, and if one of them isn’t, he owes the other one five hundred dollars.”
Laura’s jaw dropped. “Five hundred dollars? That’s outrageous,” she whispered. “And Thanksgiving’s less than a month off! Too soon to say we’ll marry them, don’t you think?”
“Jah, but haven’t you at least daydreamed about that?” Gloria asked glumly. “When I saw Cyrus signaling me during the wedding, I thought . . . but now that I know it’s just a game to them, I’m hurt. And furious.”
Laura looked away, frowning as the details sank in. “I can’t believe Jonathan would make such a crazy bet—especially when our feelings and our—our futures are involved!”
“To be fair, he was the one telling Cyrus to cancel the bet because it’s not right, and because he sincerely likes you and knows you deserve better treatment.”
Laura crossed her arms, frowning. “Even so, I really don’t like knowing that this started as a—a game to them! I don’t like being toyed with, Gloria.”
Gloria appreciated this sentiment, even though at eighteen, blond, blue-eyed Laura hadn’t been rejected by two other young men the way she had. The situation would be easier if they had other fellows to choose from at Promise Lodge . . . and if Gloria wasn’t twenty-three with no apparent alternatives to becoming a maidel. Even though she enjoyed her job managing Rosetta’s apartments, the prospect of doing it for the rest of her long, lonely life seemed very bleak.
“Well, I’m not desperate enough to pretend I don’t know what they’re up to!” Laura stated firmly. “I’m going downstairs to inform them that I want no part of it! Are you coming with me?”
“I’m a mess from crying,” Gloria protested. “I wish I could just get in their faces as though my feelings weren’t hurt—”
“I’ll do that part. Come on, girl,” Laura said as she grabbed Gloria’s hand. “Unless we state our case, folks might think the guys called it off. I want everyone to know that we refuse to play their game!”
The idea of making a scene in the dining room mortified Gloria, but there was no backing off when Laura started for the door. Kapp strings flying behind them, they hurried down the back stairway and through the kitchen, not stopping to answer the questions in the eyes of the women who were loading more food onto the rolling carts. At least the eck table was in the corner closest to the kitchen door so the two of them didn’t have to cross the dining room.
Gloria winced when Laura approached Cyrus and Jonathan, who were sitting together to the left of the newlyweds with their full plates of food. She wanted to disappear into a crack between the floorboards when Laura leaned over the table and smacked it with her hand.
“We know about your little bet, boys,” her friend whispered vehemently. “Don’t think for a minute that we’ll go along with your engagement plan—or that we’ll ever go out with you again! Right, Gloria?”
When Cyrus dropped his fork and stared at her, speechless, Gloria felt a tiny glimmer of gratification—but all she could do was nod at Laura’s remark. She was red-faced with humiliation, knowing that Phoebe and Allen could hear what Laura had said—and because she’d foolishly believed that the Helmuth brothers were sincerely interested in Laura and her.
Jonathan appeared mortified as he grabbed Laura’s hand. “Wait! It’s not that way for me—I tried to—”
“Trying doesn’t cut it!” Laura retorted as she pulled her hand free. “You went along with Cyrus’s bet, and you’re both old enough to know better! We’re out of here. Come on, Gloria.”
Once again Laura grabbed her hand, and Gloria followed her into the kitchen before the brothers or the bride and groom could ask any questions. She wondered if other folks had overheard their confrontation, but there was no going back—and truth be told, they’d done the right thing. What if she hadn’t overheard Cyrus and Jonathan bickering? What if she and Laura had believed the Helmuth brothers were proposing for all the right reasons?
“What was that about, girls?” Ruby asked gently. “We couldn’t hear what you said, but it must’ve been mighty important if it’s kept you from filling your plates.”
The Kuhn sisters, Rosetta, Mattie, and Christine—and her mother—had all stopped what they were doing to listen to the answer. Even though Laura was getting upset enough to cry, she slung her arm around Gloria’s shoulder.
“Gloria overheard that Cyrus and his brother had a five-hundred-dollar bet going about being engaged to us by—by Thanksgiving,” she stammered. “So I told them exactly what we thought of that obnoxious idea, and that we’re not going to see them anymore.”
“Oh, but I’m sorry to hear that,” Beulah said softly. “It was so nice to think you girls and the Helmuth brothers were together—”
“But I can understand why you’re upset,” Rosetta put in. “Maybe it’s not much comfort to you right now, but I’ve never been sorry I called off my engagement with Truman when I thought he was getting too cozy with Maria Zehr.”
“And that situation turned out the way it was supposed to,” Ruby pointed out with a nod.
Gloria nodded glumly as her mother slipped an arm around her waist.
“It’s best to be honest about such things rather than acting as though you don’t know about them,” Mamm murmured. “But I’m sure you’re disappointed, sweetie. I’m sorry this has happened to you.”
“Jah, I’m disappointed, too,” Christine said as she came to stand beside her daughter. “I was pleased when Cyrus and Jonathan showed an interest in you girls—but now they know they can’t get away with such immature behavior, even if they made that bet in fun.”
“We’re on your side, girls,” Mattie put in gently. “In your place, I’d make those boys do some tall explaining before I spent any more time with them.”
Gloria pressed her lips together to keep from bursting into tears again. Although it felt good to have the support of these women, their kindness didn’t mean that she’d ever go out on another date, did it? “Guess I’ll head back upstairs,” she murmured. “I’m not hungry, and I don’t want to be a wet blanket on Phoebe and Allen’s wedding day.”
“Jah, maybe I’ll get something later,” Laura said with a glance at the pans of food.
As the two of them trudged up the back stairs, Gloria’s heart felt heavy. In the close-knit community of Promise Lodge, there was no way to avoid contact with Cyrus in the days to come. If he tried to sweet-talk
his way back into her life, what would she say to him?
As they closed the door of her apartment behind them, the only answer Gloria could think of was a long, sad sigh.
Chapter Sixteen
As Annabelle took the last bite of her apple pie, her thoughts circled like dry leaves in a whirlwind. The folks from Promise Lodge were suppressing their true feelings as they ate, because Bishop Clayton was circulating between the tables making conversation—and the friends who’d come from Coldstream surely must be wondering about the outspoken man who’d announced he was taking over as the community’s new bishop. She was thinking of an excuse to head for the kitchen as Clayton approached her table, but then Phineas, seated beside her, clasped her hand.
“Let’s go for a walk,” he said, scooting back his chair. “I have nothing to say to King, and everything to discuss with you, Annabelle.”
Little red flags shot up in her mind, but she couldn’t deny that all through the meal her husband had been attentive and pleasant. They’d been sitting across from Preacher Marlin and Frances, talking with Marlin about his barrel-making business.
“Excuse us, folks,” Phineas said. “I’d rather spend my time with Annabelle than say something I’ll regret when King gets here.”
Marlin and Frances nodded, and Annabelle followed Phineas sideways down the aisle between the closely arranged tables. When they reached the lobby, he slipped his arm around her and opened the front door, leaning so close that she caught the familiar masculine scent that was uniquely Phineas Beachey. She’d missed the day-to-day contact with him and the little things like the sound of his voice and the feel of his work-roughened hand on hers, yet she felt wary of whatever topic was pressing him to take her off so they could be alone.
Once outside, Annabelle inhaled deeply. “What a day,” she remarked with a shake of her head. “You can just feel the way folks are holding in their reactions to Clayton King—”
“Let’s find a more gratifying topic of conversation, shall we?” Phineas asked with a wink. “It won’t be difficult.”
A nervous laugh escaped Annabelle as they descended the porch steps together. In light of the announcement Bishop Clayton had made, she was even more curious about his true identity, but she hadn’t shared her secret with anyone since she’d talked to Bishop Monroe—and Phineas had just given her the perfect reason not to tell him, either. “Jah, he dropped a couple of bombs today, for sure and for certain,” she said.
Phineas held her gaze. “Will it be all right if we talk in my cabin? I know you’ve been . . . reluctant to be alone with me, but what I have to say is rather private.”
Annabelle swallowed hard. The expression on his lean face made her wonder what Phineas planned to reveal—as though anything could be quite as unexpected as what Clayton had announced after the wedding.
But what did she have to fear? In all their years of marriage he’d never become violent, even when he’d spoken gruffly or complained about something she’d done. “All right. Sure.”
“I think it’s time we settled things between us,” Phineas murmured. “I’ve been here a month now, so we’ve both had time to consider our feelings.”
Annabelle allowed him to steer her past the cabins, his hand warm on the curve of her lower back. As surely as the colored leaves on the maple trees signaled the onset of winter, the next couple of hours might be the most important ones she’d spent with Phineas in many years. As he opened the door of the last cabin, he seemed almost hesitant—and what a difference that was from his usual confident swagger.
The main room of the cabin was neatly kept, and she saw a small bathroom in the back with its door ajar. The bed was made up with a quilt of dark blues; the only other furniture consisted of a small kitchen table with two chairs and an armchair with a battery lamp on a table beside it. As Phineas gestured for her to sit in the armchair, Annabelle realized that he’d been leading a very simple life since he’d arrived, with few of the comforts they’d known at home.
Phineas brought over one of the chairs from the table so he could sit facing her. He looked lean and elegant in his black trousers and white shirt, and with his English haircut and close-trimmed beard, Annabelle wondered if any other women had noticed how attractive he was in the weeks they’d been apart.
“I’d like to explain why I left the church, Annabelle.”
She clasped her hands in her lap to keep from fidgeting. “All right. I’m listening.”
Phineas sighed, leaning his elbows on his knees. “Did you ever wonder why God gave us the intellect to discover and harness electricity, yet the church won’t allow us to use it for running power tools—or even kitchen appliances?” he began softly. “What does electricity have to do with our faith in Him? Do you think it’s all right with God that we can’t sleep because we’re too hot at night, when a simple air conditioner would keep us from being tired and grouchy all summer long?”
Annabelle blinked. This kind of talk wasn’t what she’d been expecting. “I—I don’t know those answers,” she admitted. “I guess I’ve always figured we weren’t supposed to ask the questions.”
Phineas nodded. “Same goes for using zippers and belts rather than fastening our clothes with pins or holding up our pants with suspenders,” he continued earnestly, “and for mandating that married men grow a beard yet we’re forbidden to have mustaches—and for forbidding you women to cut your hair at all. Do you believe God will condemn me on Judgment Day because I’ve been to a barber shop a couple of times instead of coming home so you could cut my hair?”
His sincere confusion took her aback. He wasn’t railing about perceived injustices or defying Old Order ways so much as he was daring to consider. Annabelle sensed he didn’t expect answers, so she merely held his gaze, waiting for him to go on.
Phineas sighed, shrugging. “It’s stuff like that I got really tired of—along with our bishop’s inflexible attitude about me working on his projects rather than my own—that drove me to try the English way. I wanted to see if I felt any different about God, or if God sent a bolt of lightning through the roof to warn me that I really was putting my soul’s salvation at risk.”
“And what did you decide?” Annabelle asked carefully.
A boyish grin relieved the tension on Phineas’s handsome face. “So far so gut, as far as the lightning bolt goes,” he replied. “But truth be told, reestablishing my remodeling business—using electric tools and living English—didn’t give me the satisfaction I thought it might.”
Was he going to elaborate? Again Annabelle remained quiet, waiting to see what else he felt compelled to say. She wasn’t accustomed to watching Phineas shift nervously in his seat—and his gentle, confessional tone of voice was a welcome change from what she’d become accustomed to during their marriage, as well.
“Although I got upset when I returned home to find that you’d moved on,” he continued, “it was partly because I’d been ready to admit how much I missed you, Annabelle, and you weren’t there to talk to. The past month of being here at Promise Lodge has given me a new perspective—a new way of looking at the religion that’s felt like a burr on my backside . . . and a new way of looking at you.”
Annabelle’s heart stilled. “Promise Lodge is a very special place,” she murmured.
“It is,” he agreed without a moment’s pause. “I appreciate the way Bishop Monroe and the preachers here are open to change even as they don’t criticize the Old Order ways. They seem like such practical men, who genuinely care for the folks in their congregation—and I think King is dead wrong to declare himself the bishop here. Who’s ever heard of such a thing? Why does he think he can get away with that?”
Annabelle’s eyebrows rose. Somewhere there had to be an answer to Clayton King’s actions. Although she believed they would eventually ferret out the truth about him, she could only hope that somebody proved him an impostor before he made sweeping changes at Promise Lodge. “I suppose Bishop Monroe and our preachers want some concrete p
roof before they send him packing,” she suggested. “Out of respect, most folks won’t point a finger at a bishop—and who would dream that a God-appointed leader of the church would deceive them? It’s unheard of.”
“Jah, well—enough about King. I want to confess to something else before he takes it upon himself to barge in on us.”
As he rose from his chair, Annabelle wondered what her husband of more than twenty years could possibly reveal to her. Phineas Beachey wasn’t a man to confess to anything unless there was no way out of it. Had he changed? Or was he afraid Clayton King was wooing her away from him? He raked his fingers through his silvery hair until she wanted to reach out and smooth it down for him. When he began to pace, she knew something was weighing heavily upon him.
“Annabelle, I’m sorry I couldn’t give you children—”
Her hand fluttered to her chest.
“—and I’m sorry I let this inability come between us over the years we’ve been together,” Phineas continued in a nervous rush. “There, I’ve said it.”
Tears sprang to Annabelle’s eyes, yet she’d never felt more confused. “Phineas, I don’t understand,” she whispered as he walked to the window. “As time went by and God didn’t bless us with children, I assumed it was me who couldn’t conceive—”
“And I—I allowed you to think that,” he interrupted in a halting voice, “because I was too proud to tell you my suspicions, or to get tested by a doctor. What man wants to find out he’s more a hen than a rooster when he’s spent most of his life acting as though he’s the cock of the walk?”
Annabelle stared at him. He was as serious as she’d ever seen him—not that a good-looking, physically robust man like Phineas would joke about such a deeply private matter. When he glanced at her and then turned away in embarrassment, Annabelle went to him and clasped his hand between hers.
“How do you know you can’t have children?” she whispered. “Did you see a doctor before you came to that conclusion?”
He shook his head miserably. “I caught a program on TV about how some childhood diseases like mumps can affect a man’s ability to—to procreate.” Phineas sighed. “I had a very dangerous case of mumps when I was about twelve; in fact I almost died. By the time my parents took me to the hospital, the damage to my body could easily have messed up my hormones.”
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