Love in Unlikely Places

by Linda Byler

  “Yes, of course. I never met the husbands. Either one, of course. I knew Anna for only a short time.”

  “Yes, yes,” Clyde shook her head, affirming her words.

  The lawyer hurried in, made the proper introductions before immediately applying himself to the job at hand, opening a file, shuffling papers before sliding his glasses down his nose and clearing his throat.

  Emma sat, stunned and shaken after the reading of Anastasia’s last will and testament.

  Anna had owned a sprawling estate in Alexandria, Virginia. A breathtaking amount would be gathered from the sale of it, which would be divided equally between the gardener, Clyde Armstrong, and the caregiver, Emma Beiler. The small house on an acre of ground would be deeded to Emma Beiler on the day of this reading, with both vehicles, the Cadillac and BMW, going to Clyde.

  The remainder of the estate, which was vast, would be presented to John Hopkins University Hospital and Penn State University.

  Emma kept her eyes downcast, her heart pounding, her hands knotted into fists.

  “There is no mistake?” she asked, in a voice bereft of strength. The lawyer shook his head, said no, there wasn’t.

  Clyde Armstrong reached over and took her hand, squeezed it gently with his own dry gnarled, work calloused one, and said, simply, “Be thankful.”

  The lawyer wasted no time before exiting, leaving the promise of signing documents and a deposit made in their accounts, and was gone.

  Emma found her knees without strength, had to sit back down after leaving her chair. Clyde reminded her to give ten percent to the Lord, as he surely would, then his old mouth trembled and wobbled as tears coursed down his withered cheeks.

  “Forty-two years of love. It wasn’t work. It wasn’t a job. I loved every minute of it. Mowing and digging and trimming. I planted, washed windows, replaced things, built things. My heart was content with the wages I earned. My children grew up, went to college on scholarships, my Barbara never needed a job. They were good to me. Everyone was always good to me, and now I’m blessed with all this money I’ll never know how to spend.”

  Emma returned his clasped hand with pressure of his own.

  “I don’t know what to say.”

  “It’s a bit of a shock, I know. But praise God. I’ll retire, buy my own place, with my own garden. I’ll putter around in it till God calls me home.”

  “I guess I own a house, too.” It felt unbelievable, saying that.

  “Not just a house,” Clyde chuckled.

  They exchanged addresses and phone numbers, then said heartfelt goodbyes. Emma walked down the steps and to the waiting vehicle as if she was in a dream and some unexpected noise would break the quality of it.

  At home, it was bedlam, her father trying to insert words of wisdom, her mother absolutely sure she would go “English” with all that money, and what earthly good could ever come of it? This was said with her eyebrows raised and her mouth in a tight line of anxiety that bade no well-wishing for anyone within eyesight, not even the family dog or the slinking barn cats.

  Dena said she was going to buy a car, a green Jeep with the top down and drive it to California to become a surfer. Her father eyed her with distaste, opened his mouth and closed it, before sinking wearily into a chair. Her mother gave up collecting her wits to cook a decent meal, made a stack of pancakes and scrapple for supper, served sliced bananas and peanut butter to make up for the unhealthy fare, then came down with a whopping migraine and went to bed.

  Steven and Abram came home from work, were incorporated into the chaos, and responded with raised eyebrows that hovered over rounded, disbelieving eyes and mouths opened with astonishment. They too planned the lucrative maneuver of purchasing the best Friesian stallion in the world, said they would raise colts of world renown, or perhaps open a welding shop to make the most competitive railing anywhere.

  Dena told them the stallion would die and they couldn’t weld a stitch, which led to a whole new level of contention, till their father put a stop to it, saying no one was going anywhere or doing anything without Emma’s consent, and if she knew what was good for her, she’d put the money away to draw interest, to which Emma agreed and everyone eventually ran out of steam and fizzled off to their showers and beds.

  In the morning, a whole new chapter began, with her mother coming to the realization that this was unfadient gelt, unearned money. She frittered away as they washed the breakfast dishes, spouting off Bible verses and dire premonitions sprinkled with myths and old wives tales.

  “It’s like gambling,” she said. “It’s forbidden! Suddenly there is this pile of money you did nothing to earn, this little house dumped in your lap, and Lord knows what will happen. You might get cancer or something if God truly does not want you to have this unfadient gelt.”

  “Mam!” Emma shrieked, her hands over her ears. “You are so Amish!”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” Mam looked shocked, hurt, confused.

  “So wary of everything. So sure everything comes with a warning label. Perhaps, Mother, this is a gift from God. And did it ever occur to you that this might not mean very much to me? That I would rather be happily married with children than anything else? Do you think Esther and Ruth ‘earned’ their good husbands, and I just haven’t earned one yet?”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be sorry. Just stop. Okay? We don’t get to choose which blessings God gives us.”

  Spring was a soft, colorful benediction, a blessing that rode in on a warm breeze and gentle rain. Smiling daffodils and laughing tulips swayed and danced in the breezes. Lawnmowers buzzed across arrogant growth of bold green grass, leaf blowers and rakes made short work of winter’s leftover debris, brown leaves that had been abused by strong winds, harsh snow banks, and a violent spray of salt and calcium to melt ice on the treacherous country roads.

  Emma had never been happier. The small green house was a little haven, a place to make her very own. The necessary papers had been signed, the amount put in a trust fund, and the small green house was hers to enjoy.

  She hired contractors, after her father’s advice. He said he was a farmer, not a carpenter, but that she should give Steve and Abram a chance, which she did.

  The green siding was removed and replaced with dark gray, with wide white trim around the newly installed, larger windows. The front porch posts and steps were replaced, stone laid on the front walls and down the steps. Partitions were removed, new plumbing and wiring put in, old carpet taken away to reveal narrow boards of hardwood.

  All this took up Emma’s time, her energy and thoughts. Matt was fading from her mind all through the summer, like a painting exposed to the elements too long. He was still in her heart, and often in her mind, but a relationship unattended will fade away of its own accord, especially when the nurturing is directed to another project. She stopped checking voicemail, the letter box at the end of the driveway held no excitement.

  But she knew that what they had shared had been real. The love had been built of honor and respect, not merely attraction, and sometimes when she allowed it, a rush of anguish and lost hope overwhelmed her.

  The brothers persuaded her to build a screened-in porch with a stamped concrete floor, build a brick walkway to a garden shed a few steps down, surrounding it with trees, shrubs, and flowers.

  “That could wait, couldn’t it?” she asked.

  “Why wait? It’ll be done before the snow flies,” they answered, eager to keep collecting the bonus wages they made by working every evening and on Saturday.

  So Emma agreed, but only after the new cabinets were installed and the painting finished.

  The interior of the little house now held an open floor plan, with freshly painted white woodwork and doors, soft beige walls and the original hardwood flooring. She had white kitchen cabinets with a small island, a large, low window above the sink, and she was absolutely thrilled with the results.

  Her family helped her move in, lingered in the glow of
a golden autumn afternoon before making their way home across the ridges and fields between them. Dena threatened to run away from home, go against her parents’ wishes and live with Emma, but finally compromised on just spending most of her weekends at the little house.

  The first night Emma stayed there by herself, every popping sound, every creak or rattle startled her into a rigid state of wakefulness. She checked the lock on the front door twice, stopped to watch the shadows created by the pine trees in the side yard, the moon sailing uninhibited across a starry sky, shivered, and scuttled back to the safety of her bed.

  The next morning, her mother dropped off a letter that had arrived for her.

  The single piece of notebook paper said he still loved her and would never forget the times they spent together, but that he could not give up his vehicle or his job. He did not believe he had to return to the Amish to fall into God’s good graces, but that His love would expand his world beyond the confines of tradition.

  That was all.

  Emma wept. She sobbed out loud in the shower, her tears mingling with the shampoo that ran unheeded down her face. For at least a week, she woke every morning with red swollen eyes and a large purple nose, drank her coffee as her nose burned in the way it does before another onslaught of fresh sorrow.

  She missed Matt a hundred times more than she had ever missed Ben. Or Sam King, for that matter. She missed the dark curly hair that smelled of wood and pine trees and wet soil. She wanted those massive arms around her, a promise he would return to the Amish and drive his horse and buggy without looking back.

  Would she ever be enough for anyone?

  Dear God, what am I supposed to think anymore?

  She was horribly tempted to leave the Amish tradition. She even thumbed through the catalogues that came in the mail, still addressed to Anna, all touting their English clothing—the stretch polyester pants in lavender and mint green, the sandals and T-shirts in colorful hues.

  What would Matt say if she showed up at his door, dressed in English clothes, her long hair flowing around her shoulders?

  Oh, what was this world, anyway? Why did everything have to be so complicated, so out of kilter? She cried into her coffee as she stared blearily out across the unfinished back porch.

  This screened-in porch and brick sidewalk deal was dragging on far too long. What were these guys thinking? Already, the red and yellow leaves were being dashed to the ground by a good strong wind, which meant winter was not far behind. She did not want a poorly done concrete job, or bricks that were slapped down in a hurry, to be heaved out by winter’s freeze.

  She turned to the kitchen table, sat and surveyed her small home with appreciation. Everything about it was so perfect. She was surrounded by objects that she loved—a potted fig tree, a healthy fern in a gray, stonewashed pot, a painting of the sea grass she loved, a blue pottery vase holding a single late-summer black-eyed Susan from the yard.

  She had no idea she missed Matt so horribly until all hope had been crushed. Yet she reminded herself that she had never been more joyful than working on this house, never felt more complete than when she was in the middle of dust and dirt and the whine of saws and the dull thump of hammers.

  Suddenly, it occurred to her that perhaps she could put to use all these skills she had acquired and make a living by it. She didn’t need to make money anytime soon, but she needed a purpose, and perhaps this was it.

  CHAPTER 22

  A YEAR PASSED AND SHE PURCHASED A SMALL CAPE COD–STYLE FIXER-UPPER with swaths of shingles torn loose by years of blustering winds, shutters in disrepair, a rusted mini-van in the backyard, and trails of rodents and feral cats along the perimeter. There were broken windows, screens that hung in shreds, busted walls and a kitchen blackened with grease.

  She employed her two brothers, Steven and Abram, and together they started their journey as house flippers. They shouldered their way into the front door and took stock of the situation, disappearing down to the cellar, knocking around on the floor joists and talking loud and fast. Energy flowed as they took the stairs two at a time, walked around the tiny rooms discussing insulation, flooring, outlets.

  Once they had a plan, Emma worked side by side with them, caulking, painting, cutting siding, learning how to wield a hammer with the proper swing. Since the house was situated only a half-mile away, she rode her scooter over every day, a Thermos of ice water in the basket.

  She became quite attached to her brothers and Dena, who was quick to offer her assistance, which meant a day away from the vegetable fields. The time spent with her younger siblings helped her to accept the loss of Matt, who had now largely faded back in time with Ben and Sam. At least until Dena had her first date, which was cause for joyous celebration from most of the family all week long. But Emma found herself saying cutting remarks she regretted later.

  At one point Dena growled, “Stupid old grouch.”

  “Well, you can’t let that white smear of paint dry on the off-white wall. Get that wet rag.”

  “If you don’t like the way I paint, do it yourself,” Dena yelled, throwing down the brush, and stalking off.

  Emma fumed, wiped the offending paint off the wall, and burst into tears of frustration. Nothing was going as planned, the drywaller having been delayed two weeks, the ancient varnish on the plank floors gumming up the sander belt until everyone had to admit the floors had to be painted or covered with vinyl. Emma said she absolutely would not allow carpet.

  She was happy for Dena, wasn’t she?

  But she fought jealousy all week. Here she was, thirty years old in a few months, with lines appearing around her eyes and mouth, her hair less luxuriant, aging in recognizable spurts that seemed to seal her fate.

  Dena was outwardly disobedient, hopelessly fancy as far as her Amish sense of conservation went. She owned dresses in colors and fabrics that Emma would never have been allowed in her closet, and here Dena was parading around the kitchen for her younger sisters to see, with Mam turning a blind eye and Dat with his nose in the Botschaft. Her shoes were simply unbelievable. An array of white, orange, pink, and blue. How many pairs of shoes could she even wear?

  If Emma complained, her mother set her straight by saying they had to take care of Dena, she was a rebel and could not be confronted with the same stringent rules that worked for the boys. If they lost the love and respect between them, all was lost.

  Emma justified her grumpiness as she worked side by side with Dena, made attempts at small talk which fell flat, and finally accepted the stony silence as a boomerang of her own making.

  But there were good days with Dena. Days when Emma listened for hours on end to Dena’s descriptions of her boyfriend, dizzying accounts of the whirlwind weekends racing around in their horses and buggies, the carefree inhibitions of being sixteen years old.

  One day Dena spoke up out of the blue. “Why don’t you date Elmer Zook? He’s not half bad.”

  They were seated at the white folding table, eating bologna and lettuce sandwiches, a bag of chips on the bench between them. They had been finishing the doors of the kitchen cabinets, one of the last tasks to be completed before Steven would assemble them and cleanup could begin.

  “You want to ask him if he’ll agree to go out with me?” Emma said, her voice sarcastic and full of weariness.

  Dena looked at her. She saw that Emma’s eyes contained a deep inner sadness that was staggering. She looked away. “I see what you mean. Amish girls don’t go around asking guys out, do they?”

  Emma shook her head, gave a short laugh.

  “I’d be labeled as desperate, and there goes any chance that might have been lingering somewhere.”

  “Absolutely,” Dena said, nodding her head. “But who knows? I could pull a few strings, put a bug in a few ears.”

  And that’s exactly what Dena set out to do.

  Young, popular, already dating, everyone loved Dena, and Dena loved everyone else. She made a perfect matchmaker.

  Meanwhile
, Emma went on her way, working long days toward the completion of the now-charming house. It was truly a stunner, with white siding and the original wooden shutters painted a perfect shade of gray, the brick walkway pressure washed and adorned with hydrangea and roses, clusters of boxwood and daylilies. They painted the front door a rich shade of green, put urns on each side and filled them with caladium.

  The real estate sign was put in the front yard and cars began to creep past, curious onlookers pressing their faces to windows.

  When the cold winds blew down off the ridge, the realtor had so many showings, he called Emma about possibly raising the price.

  She had kept a careful account of all the expenses, the hours of labor she had paid out, so she knew she was well ahead of all the money she had invested. She didn’t feel right raising the price. “Let’s let some young couple have it,” she said. “No sense sinking them into deep debt.”

  So the deal was done, leaving Emma with a tidy profit, even after giving her brothers and Dena extra money beyond the wages for the hours they had put in.

  And then they went on to the next house, a derelict old brick rancher that sat in the woods about five miles to the east of Emma’s house, over along Pottstown Road. Emma’s first thought at the sight of it was the fact that it looked ashamed of itself, the junk and the weeds and the rusted cars like a giant “keep away” sign. She pitied the house, which was an emotion so silly she’d never tell anyone. The house was in foreclosure, so she was able to purchase it for a song, she told the boys.

  She never gave away the price, or the amount of profit, knowing the family’s tendency to give their opinions, wanted or not. It was simply so much easier to keep things to herself.

  It was a cold dark evening in December when Elmer Zook walked up to her front door and placed a well-directed knock on the side of it, stepped back, rocked on his heels and waited. When there was no sound, he repeated the maneuver before stepping back.