His brother grimaced. “I stepped in—” He spotted Abby. “Who is this, bruder? Did you find her by the road?”
“Nein, in Charlie’s manger.”
Elam chuckled. “What is your name?”
Abby peered through her unkempt hair at him. This morning, when Luke had approached her with his comb, all he had, she’d scuttled backwards as if he held a whip. He’d left it alone, just as he’d accepted the mismatched leggings and shirt she had put on herself, along with her one pair of shoes on the wrong feet—laces dangling. The first word that would come to his mother’s mind at seeing her would be strubly. Disheveled, in English. He couldn’t be bothered with embarrassment, saving his worry for the fact that Abby had barely nibbled at the eggs he cooked for breakfast.
Worst of all, she hadn’t yet spoken a word to him. He wished he’d thought to ask Julia when they closed yesterday whether Abby was talking to her at all.
Unless her mamm had spoken to her in Pennsylvania Dutch, she wouldn’t understand what he and Elam were saying now. Luke switched to English. “Her name is Abigail Miller. She goes by Abby. I don’t think she speaks our language.”
Elam’s expression changed, puzzlement replacing amusement. “I don’t understand. What are you doing here so early? Why do you have an Englisch girl?”
“I came to see if Mamm is better.” Luke drew a deep breath. On the way here, as the buggy swayed and the wheels droned their song on the pavement, as he kept reaching out to ensure Abby didn’t lean so hard against the door that she fell out, he had made a decision. Another decision. This one might be wrong, but he would rather Abby was accepted as his from the beginning. “She’s my daughter,” he said. “A daughter I didn’t know I had.”
Elam’s mouth fell open.
Unexpectedly enjoying the sight, Luke waited.
“Mamm doesn’t seem sick at all. She made a huge breakfast for us.”
Luke nodded, flicked the reins, and clicked to Charlie, who started forward toward a hitching post. He’d tie him up until they were ready to leave. Daad could ride with him to work.
Walking beside the buggy, Elam said, “I’ll take care of Charlie. You need to talk to Mamm and Daad.”
“That’s true. Denke.” Luke hopped down and lifted Abby out, hating that her body went rigid as a board only because he was touching her. He’d almost rather she cried. Setting her down and laying a hand on top of her head, he said, “Abby, this is my brother. His name is Elam. He’s your uncle.”
She stuck her thumb in her mouth. Not so good at three years old, if Luke remembered right, but understandable given the loss of her mother and being cared for by strangers ever since. And, in his case, a male stranger. He wondered if she even understood what a father was. Had she ever heard the word Daddy?
If not, she would learn it.
His greater fear was that Beth had called each of the men who came and went Daddy.
He took Abby’s hand and they walked slowly down the packed dirt lane to the sprawling farmhouse where he’d grown up. He had to catch her several times when she stepped on loose laces and tripped.
His father had always leased out much of the land to someone else. The fields of corn were a perfect place for boys to play, although spooky at night. Mamm maintained a large garden, though, as well as an orchard of old fruit trees that bore cherries, apples, and peaches. The cherries had already been picked and canned, but this was peach season, and the apples would be ripe soon.
Smiling down at Abby, he asked, “Have you ever eaten a peach?”
She remained silent and solemn, although he knew from her reactions that her hearing was fine.
Tension rode his shoulders when he reached the back door. His parents would never let Abby see anything but love and acceptance. That was their way. They would be disappointed in him, fathering a child out of wedlock, not even knowing she existed. Because it could have happened with one of those other women he’d known, he had to accept the reminder that he had violated his parents’ values. He wanted to believe his mistakes had led to him being the person this sad girl needed.
He sighed and murmured, “Face the music,” which Abby heard with no more visible comprehension than for anything else he’d said. He opened the door and walked into the kitchen.
Which was filled with the rich, sweet aroma of cooking peaches, and women working at the table, counter, and stove.
Why hadn’t Elam said? Mamm and the others must have wanted to start their canning early, before the house became too hot. Luke felt the impulse to run—but it was too late.
Mamm was the first to turn, Aenti Barbara next. Something in their stillness and the way they stared had his cousin Katie turning to look, too. Miriam wouldn’t be happy to have missed this scene. His sister had been snoopy from the time she was Abby’s age, always in the middle of everything.
His mother beamed at Abby. “And who is this?”
He took in the other two women, wishing he could say this first to his parents, but knowing word would spread like wildfire anyway. Ach—Daad appeared in the doorway from the living room.
For the first time, Abby huddled close to him.
He remembered an Englisch saying: Better the devil you know.
“This is my daughter, Abigail Miller. Abby is the name she knows.”
Three mouths fell open at once. His father’s, he thought, tightened instead. Abby buried her face against his thigh. Feeling her terror like a silent scream, he crouched and picked her up. She grabbed onto his shirt and shook. It seemed instinct to bend and kiss the top of her head lightly.
Something sizzled fiercely on the stove, and Aenti Barbara cried, “Ach, it’s boiling over! We’re ferhoodled for sure, forgetting what we’re doing!”
Katie and his aunt leaped into action. His mamm advanced on him, smile restored. “A new kinskind! And such a blabbermaul, ja?”
Luke laughed. “I can’t get her to stop talking, can’t you tell?” He lowered his voice, spoke gently in Abby’s ear. “This is your grandmother. My mom. My mammi, your grossmammi.”
Abby tried to scrunch herself even smaller.
He met his mother’s eyes over the top of the curly blond hair. In Deitsh, he said, “Her mamm died not so long ago. Nobody knew how to find me.”
“Will she let me hold her?”
“Why don’t I sit down with her instead? She can watch you all work.” He forced a smile. “She didn’t eat much breakfast, but she does like her sweets. Yesterday she ate two of Miriam’s snickerdoodles without stopping.”
“I’ll cut up a fresh peach for her. Ja, that’s a good start.”
Nodding, he sat in a straight-backed wooden chair at the table, settling Abby’s slight weight on his thigh, holding her securely with an arm around her. The other two women stole glances at him and his little girl—his dochder, he thought in renewed shock—even as they lifted sterilized jars from an enormous pot full of boiling water, or cored and sliced peaches. Now Abby was refusing to look at anyone.
A moment later, his mother set down a plastic cup of milk and a plate with a sliced peach in front of them, followed by a cup of coffee for him.
“Denke, Mamm.” He lifted a slice for Abby. “Try this, little one. You’ll like it.”
She shook her head hard and continued to burrow into him.
Sad and scared for her, he set down the piece, wiped his fingers, and said, “In a minute.” He didn’t know her, this little girl, and already he would do anything to keep her safe. If only he could go back, find her before life had stolen the optimism a kind should feel. Luke had to remind himself that she was only three. Memories of those first years faded and, most often, were forgotten. He had to trust God would be so merciful.
His father gestured toward the living room, and Luke nodded. He carried her on one hip, the plate with the peach in his free hand. His mamm brought the cup of milk
and followed. He had no doubt his aunt and cousin would burst into whispered speculation the minute he was out of earshot.
In the living room, he chose one end of the sofa, beside an end table and the propane-fueled lamp that allowed his mother to do her mending or hand quilting in the evening, his father to read passages from the Bible to his family. As a teenager, Luke had grown impatient, sure he’d go mad if he had to sit here while his parents did the exact same thing they had done every other night of his life. Now he felt a pang. He wanted to give Abby the same. The bedrock that had brought him home after his long absence.
Mamm took the recliner, Daad the rocking chair that he had made himself.
Daad frowned. “Where is Elam?”
“He met Abby. He’s taking care of Charlie.” Gently rubbing Abby’s thin back, he thought she was relaxing some. Continuing to speak in Deitsh, he said, “The social worker brought her yesterday. I didn’t ask how she found me. She said it wasn’t easy, me without a phone or a driver’s license anymore.”
His parents both nodded in understanding.
“She came to the store. We had just opened. I would have closed and brought her here then, but Elam had told me you were sick, Mamm.”
“Only tired, I think.”
Was that evasive? He couldn’t decide. If it happened again, he would push her to see a doctor.
“Abby liked Julia.”
The little girl’s head lifted at the familiar name. He smiled at her and switched to English. “Will you drink some milk?”
She didn’t bury her face again, so he held out the cup. She wrapped her tiny hands around it and sipped as he tipped it up slightly.
Luke’s mother wanted to snatch this new grandchild from him and cuddle her, he could tell. It was all she could do to stay seated, her hands folded on her lap.
Back to their language, he continued, “She has been afraid of me. Maybe of all men. Julia offered to watch her yesterday, so I worked some. We had lunch together, all three of us. I hoped Abby was getting used to me, but once we were on our own . . .” He shook his head. “We didn’t have a very good night. Now, she’s thinking at least she knows me.”
“She’ll know all of us soon,” Mamm said.
He tried a slice of peach again. This time, Abby touched her tongue to it and then took a big bite. To his satisfaction, she ate the first slice and reached for another herself.
“This was a good choice,” he said to his mother.
They said little as Abby ate, drank more milk, and then curled up comfortably in his arms. He watched as her eyelids drooped. She probably hadn’t slept any better than he had. Thumb in the mouth—no, he wouldn’t pull it out—and with a child’s astonishing ability to fall asleep anywhere, she sagged. When her thumb slipped out, he laid her on the sofa beside him, keeping a hand on her.
That gave him a chance to tell his parents about the woman he had considered a friend and how she died. In Amish society, men pretended not to notice that women were pregnant. He was blunt, though. “I never knew she was pregnant. She . . . disappeared. Beth was a troubled woman. She was raised Amish, but I think her father or someone else hurt her.” He didn’t know if hurt was a euphemism either of his parents would understand, but it wasn’t as if he could be sure what had been done to Beth to cause such deep despair.
“At least she did the right thing for her daughter,” Eli said.
“It’s . . . a little frightening, becoming a father this way.”
As he could have predicted, his mother said immediately, “Glad I’ll be to take care of her during the day. Miriam can help. Work fewer hours at the quilt shop, maybe.”
Knowing how much his sister loved her job, he hoped to find another solution. She wasn’t like most maidals, working only until she married. He couldn’t tell whether she was interested at all in marriage since her come-calling friend died. Even their parents hadn’t pushed her, thinking she needed time but probably not guessing that years would pass.
Luke wished Miriam would talk to him, but regaining her trust would take time, too.
Perhaps he could hire Katie or another young woman in their church group. Even that worried him, though, because Abby had drawn so deep inside herself. He wished he knew if she’d been like this before her mamm died, or whether this was temporary, a reaction to the bewildering circumstances. Until he knew how the next few days would go, he was reluctant to leave her at all.
“The bad choices you made could have led to even worse consequences for Abby,” his father said sternly.
True humility didn’t come easily to Luke. He had to unclench his jaw to say, “They’re already bad enough. I wish Beth had looked for me.”
“Did she try?” his mother asked. “Do you know?”
He shook his head. “If so, she didn’t find me. The social worker had her computer and all the government records.” Beth might have been afraid he wouldn’t be willing to take Abby. Had she kept putting it off, until it was too late?
She might have answered his questions in the letter he hadn’t yet read. He wasn’t sure why he was so reluctant to hear those last words. Her hopes or regrets.
He couldn’t tell his parents how long it had been since he’d seen Beth, or they’d know she wasn’t his child. He was already second-guessing his decision not to be honest, but what if they felt he had no right to keep a little girl who must have other family out there somewhere? He could almost hear his mother saying, They lost their daughter. Having their grandchild could fill the hole left by grief.
Luke wouldn’t call them naive. Perhaps his mother more than his father. But he would never let Beth’s family have her daughter. She’d wanted him to raise Abby. He wished she had come to him before she died and asked him in person. His agreement might have given her peace.
He had to trust she was in heaven, happy in her faith that the time would come when she and her daughter would be reunited.
“How old is she?” his mother asked.
“Three. Her birthday is in November.”
“I see. Tiny even for that age, ain’t so?”
“I don’t know. You’re the one who had daughters.”
Deborah said, “At this age, Miriam made two of her.”
He chuckled. Hearing that, Miriam would have been indignant. “Saying she was fat, are you?”
Mamm laughed. “Roly-poly.”
Luke smiled. “I remember.”
Funny that now his little sister was slim and not very tall, either, only five foot three.
Mamm insisted, “We need to feed this one up until she has a chin that jiggles, too.”
Looking down at Abby’s delicate features, he couldn’t quite imagine that happening.
He told them about the doctor visits and the evaluation by a psychologist. “I think—I hope—she is mostly scared right now. That social worker says her foster mother heard her singing, but she hasn’t said a word to me yet.”
“Give her time,” Mamm said comfortably. “Shy, and with reason.”
With good reason indeed.
Already he and his father would be late to the store, although he knew Julia would guess why and wouldn’t be alarmed. A part of him wished he were taking Abby with him, knowing she’d be happy with Julia. He had to push back at that wish. He’d be taking advantage of a woman who had been hired to do an entirely different job. Privately, he knew that was the least of his reasons. Yesterday, seeing Julia’s ease with his little girl, her warmth and tenderness and something he could only call grief, had awakened complicated feelings in him.
Feelings he could allow to go nowhere.
Abby would be safe here. His mother was beloved by her grandchildren, always ready with a smile and a comfortable lap, a story and good food.
He thought of waking Abby to say goodbye and reassure her that he’d be back to get her at dinnertime, but decided to slip aw
ay. By the time he came back for her, she’d likely be clinging to the women of his family and afraid of him again.
Mouth twisting at that image, he took a last look at this small, vulnerable girl, and left her.
* * *
* * *
JULIA WAS THE first to arrive at the store again. She’d fussed all night about Abby and Luke, worried that the little girl was terrified, wondering if he’d gotten Miriam or another sister or cousin to spend the night. She had hated hugging Abby yesterday and saying goodbye, knowing she’d be lucky to see her again. Then it would only be in passing when—if—she was invited to another quilting frolic or the like.
Even as she checked phone messages now, she kept an ear tuned for any sound from the back. The first message ended with a beep; a second began, Julia realizing she hadn’t taken in the first.
It was stupid to feel this ache in her chest, as if . . . Abby should be hers.
The phone dropped out of her hand and landed with a clunk on the counter. A small, distant voice continued to talk as she dealt with her shock.
She’d begun to hunger to have a baby of her own, that’s what was wrong with her. Abby had reached out and touched that increasingly sensitive place inside Julia. She’d enjoyed playing with friends’ kids, but that was usually only for a few minutes at a time. Their parents were there, firmly in possession. Some of those children had probably been too old to trigger this primal need. But Abby . . . Abby had needed her. Clung as if she never wanted to let go.
I didn’t want to let go, either.
Before making this move to Tompkin’s Mill, Julia had thought about ways to start a family. She couldn’t imagine ever marrying. If she’d made more money on her own, she might have gone ahead, one way or the other. She just wasn’t sure she could afford all the costs that came with having a child. Her parents would help, she knew they would, but their love and worry had begun to feel suffocating.
Thus the move. She was determined to prove she could be independent—if you could call it that when she’d run to her big, tough cop brother. Having him five minutes away should she need him made all the difference.
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