Turning Home

by Janice Kay Johnson - His Best Friend's Baby

  Amos made an acknowledging sound. He stroked his beard, as Luke had seen him do before.

  “I knew Beth had been raised Amish, too. That gave us a connection from the first. But she absolutely refused to tell me where she’d grown up or the names of her family. She wouldn’t speak a word of Deitsh. I never knew for certain if hearing it would sting because of what she’d lost, or if she hated everything she’d come from.”

  Luke told him about Beth’s letter, begging him to raise Abby as his own. “I think I may have been the only person she met after running away whom she trusted. That was partly because I’d been raised Amish, too, but also because I talked about my family and sisters and brothers. I told funny stories, about times I’d hurt my mother’s feelings or Daad lost patience with me. She must have heard about the love I’d taken for granted. In her letter, she said she wanted for Abby what I’d known.” The last thing she’d written was, I love her, I do, but I look at her and know how I’ve failed her. You’re not a man who would ever fail anyone who depends on you. I wish I could have trusted myself to you.

  “So she either had no family left, or she didn’t want her parents to have her daughter.”

  “That’s what I think.” Luke wondered how much the bishop knew about the terrible things human beings could do to each other. Possibly not much, but it had occurred to Luke that terrible things happened among any group of people. Amos might well have had to deal with families where cruelty or a sick form of love or alcohol or drugs had done damage. He wasn’t a man to gossip. “I had the impression that Beth hated herself, that she felt shame or worse. That she thought her body was all she had to offer a man.”

  Amos’s mouth tightened. “The social worker believes you are Abby’s father.”

  “Yes. I let her think that I could be.”

  “As you let us think.”

  Luke rolled his shoulders. “I’m sorry. Abby was so traumatized. I was afraid for her, and in my arrogance thought I had to protect her.”

  “From anyone who might suggest we look for her real family. That’s what you fear, ain’t so?”

  The sun had yet to drop over the wooded ridge that backed Amos’s land, but when Luke looked around, he saw that the color of the sky had deepened with the first shades of violet.

  “Yes. The lie has eaten at me—” Julia’s words, but true. “I don’t want to live a lie. I need to be honest with God, with you, and with my family.”

  “And Abby?”

  “I can talk to her when she’s older. She would misunderstand if I said now, ‘I’m not your father.’ I am her father in the ways that matter most. I will always be.”

  “I’ve seen that,” Amos said slowly. “What if we were to find her family, talk to them?”

  “If they went to Englisch court, they could sue for custody and win.”

  “If they are Amish, they wouldn’t do that.”

  “No, but what if their bishop said to you, ‘The loss of their daughter left a hole in the lives of this couple. Only their granddaughter can fill that. This Luke Bowman stole that little girl.’”

  “But we have the birth certificate. We have the letter Abby’s mother wrote, giving her child to you.”

  We. Never had a word been so heartening. Amos was allying himself with Luke, saying, I will help you protect her.

  “It could cause trouble,” he said nonetheless.

  “Ja, that is possible,” Amos agreed. He resumed walking, and Luke caught up with his longer stride. “May I read that letter?”

  “It’s in my buggy.”

  They turned around and started back toward the house, neatly painted white as most Amish houses were. Luke knew that the fields were farmed by Amos’s youngest son, who lived in a small house on another part of the property. It had been built early in the nineteenth century, long before the Civil War, and had been long vacant when Abraham and his wife Rachel had decided to scrub it out and make it a home again. As a good Amish housewife, she’d have tolerated no shades of the past.

  “You haven’t told your parents yet?” Amos asked as they approached the buggy.

  “No.” Luke ran his hand over Charlie’s side and patted his sleek rump before reaching beneath the seat cushion and taking out the precious letter.

  The bishop unfolded it and read in silence. When he handed it back, his expression showed pity. “I, too, wish she had let you help her,” he said heavily.

  “I shouldn’t have moved without finding her,” Luke said. “She wouldn’t have been pregnant yet, but that doesn’t excuse me.”

  “Would she have let you take care of her?”

  Luke squeezed the back of his neck. “She refused any help but a meal now and again, and a small amount of cash. I tried to give her a hundred dollars once, and she refused it. Twenty was the most she’d take.”

  Amos laid a hand on Luke’s shoulder. “I think this is guilt you should not have to carry. We can do no more than try.”

  He nodded, unable to speak.

  “In the end, the blessing is that she accepted what you offered,” Amos said. “Not for herself, but for her daughter. And I believe she was right. That is a trust you will never betray.”

  Luke was close to tears.

  “I regret the fear that kept you silent, but I understand it. Turning back to the ways you grew up with hasn’t always been easy for you, has it?”

  “I would have said it was, until—” He couldn’t finish. And that had been arrogant, too.

  “Abby was brought to you.”

  “Yes.” And his father had hired Julia, but he couldn’t, wouldn’t, say that.

  “You’re a good man, Luke. I will trust what your heart tells you, and Abby’s mamm’s wishes. They could not be clearer. We will not speak about her other family again, unless something changes.”

  “Denke.” Incredulous, Luke felt the dampness on his cheeks.

  Amos smiled. “Go home and tell your dochder that you love her.”

  No promise was easier to keep. “I will.”

  Amos felt no need to say anything else. He simply walked away, going around the side of the house to the back door. Using the front door wouldn’t occur to him. Family didn’t, except for rare, special occasions.

  Luke wiped his cheeks with his shirtsleeves before untying his gelding, getting back in the buggy, and turning for his childhood home.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  UNUSUAL SILENCE SEEMED to have a weight as Luke sat on one side of the kitchen table, facing his parents on the other side, the two men with fresh-poured cups of coffee. Once again, he struggled to find the right words.

  Miriam had packed earlier this evening to stay with Rose until the baby was born, which left Elam to entertain Abby out of earshot. He’d set Abby on his shoulders and taken her outside to pet the animals and round up the chickens. Back in her leggings and one of her pink shirts, to Mamm’s dismay, Abby had bounced and drummed her heels on her onkel’s chest. Elam laughed, although Luke understood that he hated always being shut out of important talks. He wasn’t even the youngest. Yet Luke had the sense that their parents treated Miriam, two years younger, as an adult in a way they didn’t Elam, perhaps because of the depth of seriousness in her that belied her years.

  At twenty-five, he was a man, but at home it seemed he would remain a boy. In most Amish families, as the youngest son, he would take over the farm when his father retired. But here there was no farm, and Elam didn’t want to be a furniture maker.

  Luke had been thinking about that. Even after buying his own place, he had enough money from his years working in the outside world to buy some good farmland, if Elam was sure that’s what he wanted.

  Running a hand over his now bristly jaw, he grimaced. There he went again—this time, thinking about his younger brother to put off the moment he must disappoint his parents again.

  But there wa
s no avoiding it. No fancy words to wrap it up in. At last he said bluntly, “I haven’t been honest with you. Abby is not my daughter.”

  His parents didn’t so much as blink for long enough to make him twitch. If his father’s expression changed at all, it was to become stern.

  Mamm was the first to speak. “Not our kinskind?”

  “I hope she still will be. But by blood . . . no.” He explained, as he had to the bishop, about his attempts to befriend Beth, her destructive lifestyle, how he had lost touch with her and never known she was pregnant.

  “You didn’t share a bed with her,” Daad said. It wasn’t exactly a question.

  “No. I would not have. I felt sorry for her. Because we’d both been Amish, I felt that helping her was right.”

  “So why did the social worker say Abby was your daughter?” Daad asked.

  Luke explained that, too. About the birth certificate and the letter from Beth and the frightened little girl who looked so much like her mamm. And his thinking that at last he could do something for the sad woman who wouldn’t take his help, and for this little girl who had no one else.

  His father wanted to know what Amos said. He was quiet after Luke told him.

  “Did you think we couldn’t love her if we knew she wasn’t related to you?” Mamm asked.

  “I never thought that. I’m sorrier than I can say that I lied to you. I took it on myself to protect Abby, thinking I was the only one who could.”

  His father turned the coffee mug around and around, never lifting it to take a sip. “What changed your mind?”

  His first instinct was to lie again. Deeply ashamed, Luke told them the truth, although that, too, would worry them.

  “Julia. She knew.”

  “Because she was there when Abby came,” Eli said slowly.

  He shook his head. “I think I had to tell someone. She cares about Abby, and was willing to listen. Talking to her seemed . . . safe.”

  “Because she’s not one of us.”

  “Yes.”

  They waited. His parents were good at that. Their children never succeeded in keeping a secret from them for long.

  “At the auction, she overheard Bishop Amos talking to me, saying people think Abby looks like Miriam and that she has my eyes. I could tell Julia was thinking something she didn’t want to say. So I asked her Tuesday, when I got to work. She said the lie would keep eating at me, making me hold myself back from my family, friends, and God. That it would get harder to tell the truth the longer I waited.” He paused. “I knew she was right. I should have trusted all of you, not taken that decision on myself.”

  They talked for another twenty minutes. Once, Elam started to open the back door, saw their expressions, and retreated with Abby. When he opened the door the second time and poked his head in, he said, “Abby wants to go home. She’s getting sleepy.”

  In fact, she was rubbing her eyes and visibly drooping.

  Luke pushed back his chair and stood. “It’s been a long day for her. Come to your daadi, little one.”

  She cast herself from Elam’s shoulders into Luke’s arms with complete faith that he would catch her. Which was as it should be. As he knew his Lord wouldn’t let him fall, when the time came.

  “Tell Elam what I said.” He nodded at his brother. “Thank you. When you have a chance, let’s talk. I had an idea that might appeal to you.”

  His brother stared at him in outrage. “You’re not going to tell me? Anything?”

  “Not tonight. Sorry, bruder.”

  * * *

  * * *

  JULIA WAITED WITH increasing anxiety for Luke to tell her what decision he’d made, and what if any outcome there’d been to his admission. It wasn’t as if he owed her anything, but he had to know she worried about Abby. What if she was taken away from Luke and sent to the people whose daughter had run away and refused even to name them? What if they were as horrible as Luke feared?

  She was still torn over whether she should have kept her mouth shut. For Luke, she still thought honesty was best. For Abby, Julia wasn’t so sure.

  Wednesday came and went. Thursday the same, then Friday. Her tension rose. He made no effort to get her alone, gave her no significant looks.

  She was also very conscious that this was a church Sunday. Nobody had suggested she attend again, as why would they? Visitors didn’t come back over and over. Her presence might even have made some people uncomfortable, especially those who had next to no contact with Englischers. Many women, especially, never worked outside the home, and therefore had little reason to interact with outsiders. Then, there she was, head uncovered, with her faltering Deitsh, acting as if she belonged.

  She had offered to come into work early Saturday morning so that a shipping company could pick up a dining room set being transported to Jackson Hole, Wyoming. The man at the shipping company said importantly that the wife of the couple who’d bought it was a well-known actor, that she’d won at least one Emmy Award, but Julia didn’t recognize the name. She didn’t follow the awards shows. At most, she might read in the paper about which movie won the Academy Award for Best Picture in a given year. Usually, she hadn’t seen it.

  The truck was to arrive before eight. All she had to do was let the men in and show them the right furniture to wrap and transport. This wasn’t a company they commonly dealt with, because the buyers had hired them.

  Following her suggestion, the truck pulled up in front, temporarily blocking most of the street. Air brakes squealed, giving her a minute’s warning. She hurried to the front door and unlocked for the two men, who wore matching navy-blue uniforms.

  “Good morning,” she said with a smile. “You’re right on time.”

  “We do our best.” The older of the two men looked friendly. At five foot ten or so, with a little extra weight around the middle and graying hair, he made her feel comfortable.

  The younger man assessed her in a way that would have bothered her if they’d been alone, but within minutes, the two men were carefully wrapping the china cabinet, chairs, and table.

  “Nice-looking furniture if you can afford it,” the older man said.

  “I can’t,” she admitted, “but now that I’ve seen the extraordinary work that goes into every piece, I think if anything the Bowmans are underpricing their furniture.”

  “Underpricing?” The young guy twitched a price tag on a glass-fronted display case. “You’d think this was made out of solid gold.”

  “But it’s beautiful, you must admit,” she countered.

  He snorted. “I thought the Amish didn’t bother with anything fancy.”

  “They make most of this furniture for Englischers, not their own people. Even so, they think first about function. Drawers slide like silk, the proportions are never awkward, and most of the furniture would blend with antiques or more modern stuff.”

  “Quite the little saleswoman, aren’t you?”

  Coming from him, it didn’t sound complimentary, but the older of the two called brusquely for help, and in a surprisingly short time they were gone.

  Since the store wouldn’t open until nine, she locked the door behind them and turned to go back to the office.

  Luke stood not twenty feet away, his expression grave.

  Startled, she exclaimed, “You’re early.”

  “I got here a little while ago. I don’t like you meeting strange men by yourself.”

  She blinked. “It’s part of the job.”

  “It shouldn’t be.” He sounded uncompromising.

  “They were completely professional.”

  “Were they? It didn’t seem so to me. I’m not sure that one likes the Amish.”

  “I doubt he’s ever met one,” she retorted. “My impression is that he doesn’t like rich people. He may haul things for them, but he resents them.”

  Luke v
isibly turned that over in his mind before nodding. “That may be. He was right about one thing, though. You are very good at selling our furniture. Daad knew what he was doing when he hired you.”

  Naturally, she blushed. A woman who tried to travel under the radar didn’t garner many compliments. “I’ve never tried selling anything before. Your furniture is so well made and beautiful, too, I don’t have to work very hard to sound enthusiastic. I don’t think I’d be very good at it if the product was cheaply made or I suspected it would disappoint the buyer.”

  “You wouldn’t stay in that kind of job.” He sounded certain, as if he believed completely in her integrity.

  “No.” She twined her fingers together. She’d sworn she wouldn’t ask about the thing with Abby, but they were alone unless Eli had come with Luke but stayed in back. Even then, they weren’t likely to be immediately interrupted. “Did you talk to your family?”

  “I did.” He gestured toward the office. “Let’s sit down, shall we?”

  As anxious as she was to hear what happened, she was standing just inside the plate-glass window, visible to any passerby. She nodded and hurried past him and behind the counter to take a chair.

  He strolled after her, already having shed his coat, if he’d started the day with one, as well as his hat. His hair showed the print of the hat brim until he shoved his fingers through it. Instead of taking a chair, he half sat on the long counter, one booted foot braced on the floor.

  “I went to Bishop Amos first and told him the truth, then my parents. I need to thank you for your advice. You were right—keeping such a secret bothered me more than I let myself realize. Letting myself trust in God, telling the truth, has released the poison that was eating at me, as you put it.”