Becky Brenneman wrinkled her nose. “Daadi is still so stern. I don’t think he was ever young.”
“Never wild, I think.”
“He said you were.”
“Ja, I can’t deny that.” He could only be grateful God and his family had forgiven him for his transgressions, that he had a chance to begin again. Becky Brenneman might have appealed to him long ago, before he’d broken from his people. Even now, maybe, if he had been newly hatched as an eighteen- or twenty-year-old.
But he hadn’t been, and to his eyes she and the others he was meeting were girls. Too young to marry, he thought, even knowing that was an auslander belief he wouldn’t express among his people.
The men ate in the first shift, as always. There wasn’t seating for everyone to sit down together.
He was served by a slender, calm woman named Hannah Beiler. She laid a gentle hand on his shoulder twice as she bent to refill his glass or set down a plate holding a generous slice of rhubarb crunch in front of him. He didn’t see her touch any of the other men.
When Hannah was out of earshot, a cousin sitting nearby told Luke that she had moved home after being widowed. She belonged to the host family. Lowering his voice, Luke said, “Lost her husband, she did. Two years ago?”
He looked around, nodding when several voices said, “More like three.”
“Ja, that’s more like it. Sad day it was. Their boy, Timothy, five years old, knew better than to go in the pasture, but you know what boys are like. He didn’t see the bull and thought he must be in the barn. Perry saw what was happening and got the boy out, but not himself. Thrown up in the air and impaled by the horns. The boy’s screaming brought Hannah out to see Perry die.”
There was a collective moment of silence. That would have been bad. After the others resumed eating and talking, Luke found himself watching her more closely. He expected to see shadows, but her air of serenity never cracked. Not so much as a shadow in her eyes made him think her calm might not be more than skin-deep. But that was their way, he had to remind himself; she would accept that God had called her husband home for a purpose she wasn’t expected to understand.
When the men had finished eating, another childhood friend, Lloyd Wagler, called to him to meet his sister.
“A widow,” he murmured out of her hearing. “Even though my brother Matthew has taken over keeping her dairy farm going, we worry about her. Our hope once she remarries is that he and his wife can buy the farm from her.”
Emma Fisher was sturdy, with a bright smile for Luke. “Your family must be rejoicing to have you home.”
“I think they are,” Luke agreed, a truth that was tempered by the more complicated emotions felt by individual members of his family, from Elam’s initial resentment of the prodigal son to his mother’s bouts of tears and the loss of the trust Miriam had once felt for him.
This Emma seemed a sensible woman, as she had to be with three children ranging from a two-year-old up to a girl who might be eight. The two-year-old sat on her lap, and her attention kept darting to the two others to be sure they hadn’t gotten into trouble in the scant minutes since she’d last checked on them.
Luke grappled with the idea of taking on three children that he would need to raise as his own. For some reason, he hadn’t considered that possibility, although most widows would come with children. His first reaction of near horror shamed him. If he loved a woman, surely he could love her children, too.
Was that God’s will?
If so, Luke thought later as he located his buggy among a line of them, all black, he might need a nudge from Him, because none of the unmarried women he had met today called to him.
He wouldn’t want to admit to anyone he felt relief rather than disappointment.
* * *
* * *
HAVING SURVIVED ANOTHER week of work, aware always that Luke pretended she wasn’t there, Julia appreciated having this Monday entirely to herself.
She gathered stitches on her tiny needle and pulled the thread through the layers of fabric and batting basted together and secured in her quilt frame. Her current project was based on a nineteenth-century pattern called Checkers and Rails, starkly geometrical using plain navy blue fabric against white. It allowed her substantial white spaces for the hand quilting she loved to do.
She’d experimented along the way with appliqué and even what were called art quilts, but her true love was the traditional patterns. The idea that a woman a hundred and fifty years ago might have pieced and stitched a quilt very like this one to keep her children warm, or for a wedding gift, gave Julia a sense of continuity, of comfort. She liked knowing, too, that her new Amish friends would approve of her choice of plain fabrics. Like any other skilled quilters, they admired work of all kinds, but never used printed fabrics themselves any more than the women would wear dresses or aprons printed with tiny flowers or a paisley design. Fancy, they called those fabrics. It was only an extension of their refusal to wear jewelry or hang artwork in their homes that had no purpose but to look pretty.
Julia thought she might have been influenced in her fabric selections for this quilt by the stunning Amish-made quilts offered for sale at A Stitch in Time here in town. And why not? She’d increasingly come to admire the Leit, as they called themselves. The people. Not that she’d say so to Nick, who still wasn’t happy that she was working for Amish employers. His tolerance only went so far; it was clear he feared that, like a cult, they might brainwash her and steal her away.
“You do know the Amish don’t proselytize,” she’d pointed out just yesterday, when she’d made a big Sunday dinner at Nick’s house after they attended church together. “From what I’ve read, they never try to convert an outsider.”
He’d grunted. “They wouldn’t turn someone away.”
Julia laughed at him. “Trust me.”
“I do,” he muttered, but she’d be willing to bet he had his fingers crossed under the table. If he’d thought he could get away with it, he’d probably install a spy camera in her apartment.
Hmm. She’d lost sight of him several times on moving-in day, although his primary interest had been in stuffing his face. It seemed he did approve of Amish cooking, which had delighted the Bowman women.
Now, she paused with more stitches gathered on her needle. So what if Nick was spying on her? He’d get bored in no time. She loved her new apartment, but since that first day, no one but her had stepped foot in it. She’d hoped to make friends at church, but while the women were cordial, they also seemed wary. She was a northerner, and from a big city besides. Julia couldn’t decide if they were afraid she’d look down on them, or whether they imagined she’d contaminate them with the sinful ways she had to have absorbed.
In fact, the Amish she’d met were far more accepting of her than her fellow Englischers.
The pang under her breastbone reminded her that Amish acceptance only went so far. An unmarried man couldn’t be sullied by too much contact with her. She had a suspicion her friendship with Miriam would go only so far, too. Neither her family nor her bishop would approve of Miriam coming over here very often to hang out with Julia.
After a minute, she resumed quilting. It was too hot to go out right now, and what would she do anyway? A few cafés would be open in town, but the library was closed on Sundays and Mondays. There was no multiplex, not that she had ever been a big moviegoer. No shopping mall, as if she had the slightest interest in buying clothes. The young woman she’d once been had loved bright colors even though she’d always been too shy to choose extremes of fashion. Now, well . . . Even her sleep tees and shorts were drab colored. If something happened, she wouldn’t want people to think—
Mad at herself, she cut off the thought. On a conscious level, she knew better than to blame herself in any way for the horrific attack, yet deep inside, that voice still whispered, If you hadn’t worn such a short skirt, or
smiled at guys you didn’t know. Most of all, if she hadn’t left her apartment door unlocked. That was practically an invitation, or so the investigating police officers had seemed to imply.
She’d never told Nick how shamed she’d been by the questions they’d asked. Attitudes had to be changing in law enforcement, but not fast enough.
And why was she thinking about this anyway? It was long past, and she was supposed to be enjoying her day off. Her own company. She couldn’t possibly be lonely. Deep friendships required a trust and willingness to be vulnerable that was impossible for her.
Be satisfied with the changes you’ve made in your life, she told herself, with having a job she liked, closeness with the brother she had missed, and a new circle of fellow quilters who, Amish and Englisch alike, had accepted her with open arms.
She checked to be sure her troubled thoughts hadn’t caused her to add too much tension on the thread and pucker the quilt layers, but her hands knew what to do even when she didn’t.
* * *
* * *
AS LUKE SETTLED Charlie in the paddock across the alley from the back of the store, scantily shaded by the enormous old sycamore, he tried to remember when he’d last worked a day at Bowman’s without his father here for at least a few hours of that day. Certainly not since they’d hired Julia in June. Now, August was only ten days away.
Elam had brought the message today that Mamm didn’t feel well, so Daad was staying home with her. “Miriam offered to take care of Mamm instead,” he added, “but this week is a big sale at the quilt shop and she might be needed. Besides”—he’d smirked—“I think Mamm is only trying to make Daad take a day off. You know how he is.”
Not as young and feckless as his brother, Luke was quicker to worry that his mother might really be ill. It was true she never seemed to get sick, even this spring when that flu went around. Still, at her age, heart conditions became more likely. She worked so hard, never slowing down, and didn’t like even admitting she needed to get off her feet for a minute.
On the other hand, Elam was right; Mamm got exasperated with their daad, who worked even when the store was closed. Since Luke had come home, and it was clear he was here to stay and built furniture that satisfied even Eli, she had hinted that he should take it a little easier.
Luke chuckled at the thought. That was the pot calling the kettle black, for sure.
Once in the workshop, the rising heat of the morning shut out along with the bright sunlight, he immediately began evaluating the work from Saturday and planning where to begin this morning. Only the first sounds in front broke his concentration. Maybe he should tell Julia that Daad wouldn’t be here today, that if she had questions, she would need to come to him. He’d noticed in the past week and a half that she tried not to bother him. While he was grateful, he didn’t like thinking she was still afraid of him.
He let himself through the door into the store proper. Julia was just flipping the sign in the window to Open, turning when she heard him.
A crisp white, sleeveless blouse bared long slender arms with only a faint hint of a tan. The blouse was more formfitting than her usual attire, momentarily pulling his attention to feminine curves he didn’t want to think about.
Stiffly, he said, “Daad won’t be here today, so if you have any questions, you’ll have to come to me.”
Like all the women of his family, her first reaction was concern. “Is he all right?”
“It’s my mother not feeling good, according to my brother, who let me know. Elam thinks Mamm is exaggerating to make Daad take a day off.”
Julia smiled. “I hope that’s true. Your mother usually has so much energy.”
That’s what he’d been thinking, too, without using that word.
He should go to work, but had trouble looking away from her. This was why none of the young women he’d met on the last church Sunday had appealed to him. He had to resist a wish for something that was impossible, and not only because he was Amish and she was not. There was also that fear, the drab colors she wore, the way she so carefully kept distance between herself and any men who came into the store.
Caught up in her despite himself, he jerked when the bell over the door rang. A customer. He wasn’t the only one who needed to go to work.
But once he focused on the woman and child who had entered the store, he knew they weren’t customers. The woman, perhaps in her early forties, wore a pin-striped gray suit, the skirt knee-length, her shoes sturdy to suit her stocky body. Lips pressed together to form a thin line, she scowled at him. Since he’d never seen her in his life, he couldn’t imagine how he’d offended her.
In one hand she clutched a briefcase, while with the other she gripped the very small hand of a little girl whose pale blond hair slithered free of a ponytail. Brown dribbles on her faded pink top might be syrup. Beneath it . . . was that a unicorn? Both her pink sneakers trailed dirty shoelaces. Had no one helped clean her or tied her shoes this morning?
She tried to shuffle behind the woman, who tugged her forward.
“Are you Mr. Luke Bowman?” the woman demanded.
Tempted to pretend he didn’t speak English, he responded politely. “I am.”
“Do you know how hard you were to find?” She made no effort to hide her annoyance.
“I have worked in the same place for over a year.” Why was he defending himself? “Who are you?”
“I’m Melissa Tanner, with the Missouri Department of Social Services, Children’s Division. We have been searching for you for two months while this child waited in a foster home. None of the contact information we had for you was good.”
Suddenly wary, he asked, “I don’t understand why you looked for me, or who told you how to find me.”
She must have had the address for his last apartment, he supposed, and the number for the mobile phone he had given up even before he spoke to Bishop Amos about his desire to be belatedly baptized.
Melissa Tanner’s eyes sparked. “You didn’t think you were obligated to stay in touch with the mother of your child?”
Chapter Seven
LUKE COULD ONLY gape at the woman. The mother of his child? What was she talking about?
“I don’t have any children.” Although he’d had sexual relations with several women during his years away. Confessing that to Bishop Amos had not been among his happiest moments.
Was there any chance—? No, he’d always been careful. And why wouldn’t a woman have told him?
“You’re denying paternity of this child?” Melissa Tanner looked and sounded even angrier. She had made up her mind, although based on what evidence, he didn’t know.
Julia spoke up, startling Luke with the reminder that she was present and hearing all this. “I think she’s scared. I can keep an eye on her while the two of you speak privately.”
Wincing, Luke saw that the girl seemed to be trying to shrink, as if she thought she could disappear. That disturbed him enough that he nodded and said, “Please.” He hesitated. “If you’d come back to my workshop, Ms. Tanner.”
The social worker did glance down at the child, and he saw a reflection of his chagrin. Despite her hostility, she might not be a bad woman. In his years away, he had heard divorced men complaining because they had to help support their own children, and he knew from the newspapers that many men and probably some women hid from the legal authorities so they didn’t have to pay anything. He’d found that kind of thinking and behavior unimaginable. He had never met a man or woman of his faith who didn’t want children, and love and value each and every one. To simply walk away—no. To deal constantly with such people would make a good person angry.
After a moment, Ms. Tanner led the child to Julia and said, “Please stay with this nice lady, Abby. Okay?”
Expression blank even as she continued to make herself as small as possible, she didn’t protest, although sh
e didn’t look at Julia, either. She especially didn’t look at him.
Julia, though, crouched to her level and smiled. Holding out a hand, she coaxed, “I have lemonade and cookies.”
The girl stole a furtive look out of eyes as blue as Luke’s own, and finally, timidly, let Julia take her hand.
Reassured, he led this social worker into the part of the business where he felt most comfortable. Inhaling the sharp scent of sawdust and finishes helped.
Ms. Tanner took in her surroundings, appearing surprised. Did she think of the Amish as so primitive, they barely used tools?
He must learn not to jump to unkind conclusions.
“Have a seat.” He pulled up a stool to a workbench. Grateful for a minor errand to hide his turmoil, he found his father’s and carried it over for himself.
“How old is . . . Abby?”
“Three. Almost four,” Ms. Tanner told him. “As you ought to know.” She sounded less certain now.
He had to know.
“Who is the mother?” He braced himself.
“Elizabeth Miller.”
A stampede of emotions trampled atop his initial reaction. Understanding came last. Yes, he’d known Beth, as she called herself. Calculating, he counted back. Six or even seven years back, she had taken to panhandling near his bus stop in St. Louis. He had given her money, sometimes brought her breakfast. Come early enough to sit and talk to her for a few minutes before his bus arrived. Beth had been pathetically grateful for any kindness.
He’d noticed her first because of the trace of an accent she retained. She’d grown up Amish, there was no mistaking it. Of course he’d been interested. Sometimes he’d felt so lonely, he hungered for that hint of home.
She refused to talk about her roots, but her thin face and haunted blue eyes told him she hadn’t grown up surrounded by love, faith, and security as he had. There were Amish groups far more conservative than his, judgmental and even repressive. It might have been only that . . . but he thought her pain had a different cause.
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