Love in Unlikely Places

by Linda Byler

  Emma’s hands flew, clearing the long breakfast table, washing dishes, wiping countertops, grabbing the broom to sweep the kitchen. Then she ran to the shed where the telephone rested on a shelf inside the door.

  Amish homes were without the use of a telephone, using public pay phones or a neighbor’s phone until the call booths became obsolete, or an English housewife became irate at the Amish neighbor’s intrusion, mud or manure caked on to his work boots. Change occurred slowly, but eventually a neighborhood shanty sprang up on the edge of someone’s field, a telephone placed on the wall which accommodated four or five families. Even more slowly, but eventually, each family was granted the wish to have their own telephone, as long as it was away from the house. No Amish housewife had the luxury of sitting on a comfortable chair in the warmth of her home to spread gossip throughout the community. Better to be without that. Cell phones brought a whole new set of serious concerns and warnings.

  It was another gorgeous day, so lovely in fact that Emma’s heart leaped within her at the sheer joy of being alive. She glanced at the fading tulips, their petals dangling among the waxy olive-green leaves that had been displayed in all their glory a month before. She felt real sympathy, knowing they’d be smashed beneath a layer of mulch after the petunias and snapdragons were planted in their place.

  Poor things, such a short time in the limelight, she thought.

  She felt new appreciation for her health, her youth and anticipation, the God-given ability to thrive.

  She placed her call, waited anxiously for the voice of her employer- to-be.

  “Hello?”

  “Hello. Good morning. I’m calling to answer your newspaper ad about someone to help with your children.”

  Somehow, she couldn’t bring herself to say the word “nanny.” She was not trained or certified and really had no idea if one had to be in order to use the term.

  “Yes. Yes, of course.”

  “My name is Emma Beiler. I am an Amish schoolteacher who is, um . . . looking for work . . . for the summer.”

  “Did you say ‘Amish’?” The woman’s voice asked. Emma affirmed, and then there was an awkward silence.

  “Oh, yes. Well, I’m having quite a time of it here,” she said wryly. “I have not found anyone suitable, and it’s been months since I started looking online. The ad in the paper was a stab in the dark, I suppose. What kind of experience do you have? You said you’re a teacher?”

  Emma told her how many years she’d worked at the schoolhouse, then mentioned her younger siblings and nieces and nephews and how she’d helped care for them. And then she paused, waiting for a yay or nay or whatever was to come.

  “Hmm, well . . . we’re actually spending the summer in North Carolina, where we purchased a beachfront property and are renovating extensively. We’re actually renting a house beside it in order to oversee the proceedings. I am a lawyer, actually, and my husband is a surgeon in Harrisburg, so we will be coming and going. You can see the need for a trustworthy applicant.”

  “Of course.”

  What? North Carolina? Beachfront? She’d never seen the ocean. Never been allowed to accompany her gaggle of girlfriends to the rented beach house at Rehoboth or Lewes or Chincoteague Island. No way, her mother had said, in that purse-lipped way where Emma knew her mam and dat would stand united and she may as well give in immediately.

  “No child of mine will ever be subject to that fearsome place. The ocean has strange currents no one understands except God, so don’t even think about it.”

  That was the end of Emma’s proposed ocean going.

  But she was an adult now. That evening, she confronted both parents, laid the facts before them without hesitation. She decided not to ask their permission, exactly. She just said, “I think I should give the lady a chance,” and then waited for their reply.

  Her mother’s mouth opened in protest, then snapped shut as her father jumped in and said he couldn’t see why not. It might give her a chance to see a part of the world she hadn’t seen before. She was twenty-six years old and had a good head on her shoulders.

  Emma had ended the call with Kathy Forsythe saying that she would give it some thought, as she hadn’t planned to move so far away, but that she’d get back to them that evening. She wanted to yell “yes!” right then and there, but she didn’t want to appear too desperate. Plus, it was only fair to at least mention it to her parents before moving ahead. But as soon as she finished speaking with her parents, she practically ran to the shed and called Kathy back. They made arrangements for her and her husband to bring the children the next afternoon so they could all meet and get a feel for each other.

  The next day, she asked her family as gently as possible to give her space during the interview, a request that her mother met with raised eyebrows. But she acquiesced. Emma dressed in her best everyday clothes, made sure the kitchen was spotless, the porch swept, and Rover the German shepherd tied in the barn. She sat on the sofa with her perspiring hands knotted tightly in her lap, waiting.

  When the white Cadillac SUV came slowly into the drive, Emma wished she would never have answered that ad. This was way out of her league. Who did she think she was, really? But she answered the door, welcomed them into her parents’ home, and without a thought, got down to the children’s level to greet them warmly, a practice that came as naturally as breathing.

  “Hello, little people. And what is your name?” she asked.

  She was met with a thin little boy with a dusting of blond hair cut short, his huge blue eyes radiating curiosity and good humor, with a smaller female version of him carrying a tattered elephant with her thumb in her mouth.

  “I’m Brent, and this is Annalise.”

  The boy spoke softly, then looked at his father for reassurance.

  “Hello, Brent. How are you, Annalise? I’m Emma. It’s so good to meet you. I was looking forward to this.”

  The thumb popped out and the elephant presented solemnly.

  “This is Charlie Brown.”

  “Well, hello there, Charlie Brown. You are the best-looking elephant I have ever seen. He’s very handsome, Annalise.”

  “He eats peanuts and M and M’s.”

  “Oh good. Does he share?”

  “Sometimes.”

  Kathy shared a look with Roger, her husband, that said, This is it. This is it! They went through the formalities, the summer plans presented in detail, with Kathy doing most of the talking. A slight woman with blond hair cut in the latest fashion, with quick intelligent eyes that missed nothing, she presented her case like the negotiator she was. Her husband was also short, thin, and well spoken, with reddish hair and the sharp quick eyes that almost duplicated the color of his wife’s.

  He spoke with a low, self-assured voice, telling her how much they could offer for pay.

  The wages were astronomical. Three times the amount of her schoolteacher’s pay!

  “I’m . . . I’m a bit uncomfortable with that amount,” Emma managed awkwardly.

  “Oh,” Kathy glanced at Roger, who nodded. “We can do a bit more,” she assured her.

  “No, no,” Emma laughed, ashamed suddenly. “It’s just too much. It is money I will never earn, fairly. I am not trained in the sense . . . I mean . . . I am not a real certified nanny.”

  “You have nine siblings, taught eight grades for ten years. I can think of no better certification,” Kathy said, followed by the rumbling assent of her husband.

  Emma tried protesting again, but Kathy waved her off, saying they could discuss it later.

  “Charlie Brown isn’t allowed in the bathtub,” Annalise said earnestly.

  “Why is that?” Emma asked, her full attention turned to the serious little girl.

  “Because.”

  Brent rolled his eyes in big brother fashion, then told Emma it was on account of being a stuffed animal.

  “He goes in the washer,” Annalise informed him.

  “That’s different,” Brent said.

 
The parents smiled indulgent approval from their seats around the kitchen table as Emma assured Annalise if the elephant was put in the bathtub, he might drown, whereas a washer spun him so fast the water couldn’t go up his trunk. This was met with Brent’s vigorous agreement, while Annalise inserted her thumb and stared at Emma with doubtful eyes.

  “So, your most pressing duty will be the children, of course,” the mother continued. “Renovating this old house is taking up too much of my time and patience and we’ve hardly even started.”

  She threw her hands in the air in an affected manner, which brought another smile from her husband.

  “We are taking a two week vacation, of course, but will be flying to and from Harrisburg throughout the season. So there will be occasional nights when you’ll be alone. I’m assuming that will not be requiring too much.”

  “No, no. That should be fine.”

  “Good.”

  The date and time of her departure was discussed, and they rose to their feet, thanked her for the interest she showed in the job, herded the children through the front door, and were gone.

  Emma watched them go, noticed the careful arrangement of the many belts and closures of the car seats, before they drove slowly away. A mixture of excitement and apprehension made her heart flutter, her breathing accelerate, as if she’d been running from the house to the barn.

  Should she do this? Was she capable?

  The two children appeared well trained, with caring parents. It was not exactly a recipe for disaster, but still. She knew a lot could go wrong.

  Well, she’d ask the Lord to go with her, keep her in His care, as well as the little ones and their parents. She believed God loved them all the same, and therefore had no reason to count herself more than her prospective employers.

  Her family appeared as if by magic, stepping out of the woodwork with a hundred questions, especially her mother with all her newfound imaginary catastrophes. She had seen that the family was (gasp!) rich.

  “Oh my, Emma, do you have any idea how worldly you could turn out to be? What an influence? You are old already and have no boyfriend. You already seem to think there’s no Amish man good enough for you. I mean, think of it. You’ll get used to the life of convenience. Electric lights, television. Soon you’ll think of driving that big car. Get your license. Just say no, Emma. It’s that simple.”

  Emma frowned, and told her mother she was exactly like the story in the old reader where the bride-to-be sat and cried herself into a miserable state as she stared at an axe stuck in a ceiling post and all the dangerous things that could happen to her beloved bridegroom if it fell out.

  Her mother narrowed her eyes, laughed with a short barking sound and said cheerily, “Ach. Whatever.”

  “I want to do this, Mam. It’s quite an opportunity.”

  “But . . . what about your rumschpringa?”

  “What about it?”

  “Well, at the end of summer you’ll be almost twenty-seven. And . . .”

  Her mother turned to the stove, lifted the corner of her apron, and swiped at a spattering of grease she had missed.

  “And . . . you’re terrified of me becoming an old maid, aren’t you?” Emma asked, trying to keep the laughter at bay.

  “No no. That’s not true. I’d be happy to have you here till you’re thirty years old. For always, actually.”

  “Admit it, Mam. It would be awful hard on your pride.”

  “Stop it, Emma.”

  But both were smiling, and both knew the truth.

  Dena threw a bag of Henry’s hard pretzels on the table, then opened the door of the refrigerator to pull out the schmear kase.

  “Why are you so worried about Emma being an old maid? She already is one.” She dunked a pretzel and held it aloft, a glob of cheese like icing. She plopped the plastic container on the table, then fell into a chair, propping the sole of her foot on the seat.

  “Dena, net so govverich.”

  Down came her foot, with eyebrows lowered in rebellion.

  “No one can see me.”

  “I can,” said her mother.

  “I’m going to the ocean with you,” Dena announced.

  “Wish you could.”

  “Why can’t I?”

  “They don’t want you. Besides, who would help Mam?” Emma asked, suddenly feeling a wave of guilt. Would Dena really rise to the challenge? Would she help with the gardens, the canning, the wash, the little kids? Currently she seemed to be determined to do as little work as possible.

  “Well, rest assured, Emma,” said Dena. “There will be no available men in North Carolina. No Amish settlement for miles around.”

  “Why are we even discussing my love life? Maybe I like being single.”

  This sent her mother scuttling straight into nervous breakdown mode, with eyebrows that shot above the tops of her glasses, her mouth compressed into a tight line of disapproval.

  “Let me tell you something, young lady. All this independence is not good for the young generation, and I mean it. You would be blessed to have a husband and children.”

  “Of course I would, mother dear. But that doesn’t seem to be in the Lord’s will right now, does it? I have not had one man ask me for as much as a buggy ride—or at least not one who comes close to being suitable.”

  “See? That’s your entire life, right there.”

  A lecture of mammoth proportion followed, with Emma and Dena exchanging winks behind their mother’s back, then throwing an arm across her shoulders after she had worked herself into a fine dither, berating herself for not having taught Emma to be a virtuous woman. When they kissed her cheek, she laughed aloud in spite of herself.

  CHAPTER 3

  SHE SIGNED A CONTRACT OF SORTS. SHE WAS BOUND TO THESE CHILDREN and their parents for the summer. After that, they’d reassess.

  She packed her clothes in the largest piece of luggage she owned, going down the list she had made for herself. Seven or eight dresses in various colors, all made with the same pattern, cut and sewn according to traditional ordnung, plus four black bib aprons, the typical everyday wear for young girls. She added two clean white head coverings and a small stack of dichlin, the cotton fabric cut and hemmed into triangles and wound around the head to be tied in the back. There were sneakers for walking, and the sandals and flip-flops she had purchased at the Shoe Department, footgear that was frowned on by most ministers and the elderly, but accepted by many families. Any change was always slow to be allowed, but each individual home followed their own consciences in some matters, too.

  Mam took one look at a pair of sandals she brought home, and told her flatly those things were going in the trash. Of course, Dena loved them, begged Emma to give them to her. Emma apologized to her mother, but packed them along with everything else, much to Dena’s glee.

  “Dena, I’m twenty-six. I’m going to the beach. I don’t mean to be a poor example, but . . .”

  “But you are.”

  “But I am.”

  Dena sat cross-legged on Emma’s bed. Did she ever sit in a ladylike position? She peered into her luggage and sighed regularly to let Emma know this was the hardest thing she had ever gone through in her life.

  “I mean, it wouldn’t be so bad, but you know the battle I’m going to have just to get her to let me go with my friends.”

  “I never went out with friends at your age.”

  “You are now.”

  “As an employee, Dena.”

  “Still. It’s not fair.”

  Emma clucked a sympathetic sound. “Poor baby.”

  “Well, I’d be scared out of my wits to go with those people. What if you can’t handle those rich kids? I guarantee they’re nothing like Amish children.”

  “But you don’t know.”

  “Neither do you.”

  “Ach, Dena. I wish I could take you with me. I’ll miss you so much.”

  “I’ll miss you, too. But Emma, how can you possibly enjoy yourself sitting on a beautiful beach,
knowing I, your own flesh and blood sister, will be slogging away in the produce fields?”

  In Dena’s dramatic fashion, she leaned forward and slapped the lid of the suitcase with the palms of her hands.

  “I know, Dena, I know. And I do feel bad. But you know how many summers I have labored in those fields, side by side with Dat and our brothers?”

  “All you did was throw tomatoes.”

  Emma grinned. “It was fun. I’ll miss Abram and Steven. You know, Dena, working together builds character. It creates a . . . you know, a bond.”

  Dena rolled her eyes, and then a silence fell between them.

  Emma stopped packing and sat down next to Dena. “I’m nervous.”

  “I’m surprised you admit it.”

  “I’m really scared, actually. But excited, too.”

  She thought of everything that could go wrong. What if one of the children got hurt or went missing while they were in her care? She thought about how there would be no other Amish people, no weekends of rumschpringa or evening singings. She would miss a few of the girls, but she couldn’t think of any boys she’d think much about while she was gone.

  There was Eli, twenty-eight, with a receding hairline and an arrogance that bordered on rudeness. She knew he wanted her, but . . . well, perhaps someday. She did feel a fondness, a sort of friendship. But there was no spark of romance.

  It was just that she couldn’t forget the way she felt when she fell so hard and so fast for Sam King. It wasn’t that she wanted Sam at this point—she had long since accepted that he and her sister were meant for each other. But she wanted to feel like that again about someone— and to have that person feel the same for her. What was the point of settling for anything less?

  There was Paul. Slight of build, he was kind, but so bland. His eyes held an obvious longing for her, so she avoided meeting his gaze whenever she could. Besides, her friend—tall, gangly Annie Riehl— was waiting for the day when Paul would finally come to his senses and realize what a fantastic wife she would be.

  John was too young, too wild and immature, although she admitted to herself he held a certain fascination with that long dark hair, the way he went to Colorado every year and came home with some trophy elk or sheep. He’d asked her to accompany him once, and she asked him if he was crazy. Girls didn’t go on a hunting trip with a group of guys.