Rose listened, not knowing what to think or say. Beth’s so naïve, she realized anew.
Beth’s eyes were filled with an appealing light. And Rose did not want to discourage her, especially if God had put it in her heart to pray for Mamm. “The Lord knows all of our thoughts and the intent of our heart,” Rose told Beth.
“Will you read my prayer?” Beth handed the notebook to Rose.
She accepted it but held Beth’s gaze, not wanting to intrude unless Beth was absolutely certain. “Are ya sure?”
With eyes shining, Beth nodded. And Rose began to read aloud.
Dear God,
Daddy says you never sleep, so I wonder if you’re looking over my shoulder while I write this prayer. There’s someone in this house who’s suffering. She needs your help. Every time I look at Rosie’s mommy, I feel like crying. I wonder: Do you cry for Mrs. Kauffman, too?
In my mommy’s Bible, I read once that you healed people when you lived on earth. That’s why I’m writing this prayer, because you see everything. When you read this, will you help Rosie’s poor mother? If it’s in your will, I know I’m supposed to say.
I hope you read this prayer very soon!
Love,
Beth Browning
Brushing back her tears, Rose struggled to see the last few lines. “Oh, Beth . . . this is the sweetest thing.”
Beth touched her hand. “I didn’t want to make you cry. Are you all right, Rosie?”
Rose blinked and smiled, trying to regain her composure. Why can’t all of us be more like Beth?
Solomon hitched Upsy-Daisy, one of his driving horses, to the family carriage and headed for Quarryville to the land-development office that morning. Brandon had worked there for at least four years now, but Sol had never so much as stopped by.
He had known today upon waking what he needed to do. Regardless of the result, he must at least try to make a connection with his son-in-law. But when he neared the street where Brandon’s office suite was located, Sol suddenly wondered how he was going to secure his horse. Standing outside the buggy, he looked around for someplace to tether the mare. Unlike other business establishments, there was not a single hitching post to be seen.
Just then, a sports car crept in next to the horse and carriage. And Sol must’ve been wearing concern all over his face, because the lady driver hopped out and pointed to her side mirror. “Tie your horse here,” she said with a toss of her reddish hair. “I’ll be parked here all morning.”
“Denki. Mighty kind of ya.”
She smiled. “My grandpa’s Amish. Maybe you know him.”
“Oh?” Sol felt awkward talking to this pretty young woman who looked about Hen’s age.
“My Dawdi Dan lives up near Smoketown, though.”
He knew more than two handfuls of Dans, but he shook his head. “We rarely get up that way.”
Sol wanted to ask why she wasn’t Plain, too. “Have a gut day, and thanks again.”
“Any time,” she said, and hurried toward the small building.
Sol turned to his horse now, telling the mare he wouldn’t be long. Then he tied her to the sports car’s sideview mirror, looking about him to make sure someone didn’t think he was as crazy as he surely looked.
Mattie Sue had been pestering her mother since breakfast about making a batch of cookies. Without Mattie’s knowing, Rose had happily offered to put both girls to work making the cookie dough for the upcoming common meal this coming Sunday. It was then she realized Beth would be present for church. How would she manage the nearly three and a half hours of the Lord’s Day gathering?
Has she ever been to church anywhere? Rose wondered.
She recalled Mattie Sue’s recent introduction to Preaching service and hoped Beth might do all right sitting in back, where Hen and Mattie sat, since they were not members.
Rose called the girls to come and measure out the ingredients, and Beth stood up and swayed, seemingly dizzy. Mattie Sue tried childishly to steady her, looking up to see if Beth had regained her balance . . . something Rose had observed twice before this morning.
Mamm let out a moan and Beth frowned deeply, her face sinking as if she was heartbroken. Beth looked first at Mamm, then back at Rose. “I better not help make cookies,” she said. “I’m going to sit with your mommy . . . all right, Rose?”
Rose felt sorry for her mother and for Beth, who appeared overly preoccupied with Mamm’s condition. “Why don’t you sit with her while Mattie Sue finishes measuring, then help Mattie mix all the ingredients?”
But Beth planted herself next to the wheelchair, hovering near like a mother robin. “I want to stay right here.”
Rose didn’t have the heart to try to persuade her away, not with Beth’s own grandfather in such poor health and the girl clearly missing her father. So she said no more. She was conscious of Beth’s remarkably gentle way with Mamm as Beth and her mother—with heads nearly touching—talked softly, about just what Rose did not know.
Being around Mamm must make Beth long for her own mother!
Reflecting on this, Rose was both glad and sad for Beth. To think Mamm, in her great pain, was able to extend this kind of comfort.
Rose suddenly thought of her friend Nick and the recent loss of his mother, whom he’d known for only a short time. Indeed, Nick had come to mind several times since she’d heard from Mandy Esh about his being spotted in Philly. Nick must surely be in trouble if he was living at such a place. If so, shouldn’t she try to help him? Maybe someone could go there and try to find Nick—talk sense to him? For the life of her, Rose didn’t know if she could stand idly by. If what Mandy Esh’s mother saw was true. She hoped against hope Laura Esh was quite wrong.
Hen broke the silence and interrupted Rose’s musing. “There’s a lot of turkey left over from yesterday, if anyone’s hungry for a sandwich later.” Hen was helping Mattie Sue with the cookie making, glancing now at Rose . . . and then at Beth. Rose could tell that Hen, too, was wondering how to get Beth’s mind off Mamm.
“Would ya like that, Beth?” asked Rose. “Some delicious turkey?”
Beth turned. “I’m not hungry.”
“Well, later, maybe?”
Beth shook her head slowly, looking back at Mamm.
Hen frowned and Rose sighed. Was it a mistake to have Beth stay here? “I know for sure Mamm’s goin’ to eat a nice dinner at noon,” Rose said, hoping that might set Beth’s thoughts on the big meal of the day—and stir up an appetite.
“Can I sit beside her at the table?” asked Beth.
Rose and Hen exchanged glances. “Don’t see why not,” Rose said.
“We’re going to cut out some dress patterns after the dinner dishes are washed and put away,” Hen said casually. “How would you like an Amish dress to wear . . . just while you’re here?”
Beth’s eyes gleamed. “Oh, could I?” She got up and walked over to Hen and Mattie Sue, who were carefully spooning out the dough onto the cookie sheets.
Mattie Sue grinned up at her as Beth stood watching. “We can be sisters together, ain’t so?” said Mattie Sue. “With matching dresses.”
Beth gave her a winning smile.
“Will it be all right with your father?” Hen asked suddenly.
“I think so,” Beth said, then added, “Jah.”
Rose smiled at the expression and recalled that Beth had worn Amish attire before, although a boy’s britches, suspenders, and straw hat. A dress and apron will be far better!
Soon Beth was helping Mattie Sue—both of them counting the dozens of mounds of cookie dough. Rose was so taken with the sudden change in Beth that she was reminded of the unexpected shift in Silas’s demeanor last night, though a far less pleasant change than Beth’s. To this moment, she felt chagrined by the surprising scolding he’d given her for offering Rebekah a ride home.
Silas had been strangely quiet for a good portion of their ride afterward, once Rebekah had hopped down from the open buggy, waving cheerfully before hurrying up the
long lane to the Masts’ farmhouse.
What was I thinking? The last thing Rose wanted was to cause a problem between herself and her fiancé. After all, Silas was as good as his family’s name.
The peculiar things Cousin Melvin had told Rose crossed her mind again. But . . . didn’t she know better? Besides, Rebekah was much too nice to be a threat to any girl in the church district.
Let alone to a friend like me.
Even though it was the next to last day of November, Sol thought the present cold snap was tolerable. Not nearly as miserable as some years around this time.
He smiled inwardly at the way the young woman had offered her car’s side mirror for a hitching post. How humorous the situation must look to clients coming in and out of the parking lot west of the building where Brandon worked.
Sunlight filtered in through the glass windows in the lobby of the land-development office as Sol entered. Not having come here before, Sol looked at the wall directory to find the correct suite number. When he’d located it, he moved to the elevator and pressed the button indicating the second floor.
He leaned against the wall, holding his felt hat in front of him. If Hen knew what I was up to. He hadn’t told anyone his plans, and he didn’t know what even dear Emma would think of his desire to sit down with their son-in-law and discuss such important matters. No, it was better that Emma didn’t know. She hadn’t been sleeping at night here lately. In fact, he was sure she hadn’t slept well for weeks, and he worried she might never get the rest her weakened body badly needed. Poor thing, she scarcely had a minute of relief. There were times when he wished with everything in him that he could get Emma to see a specialist somewhere.
The elevator doors opened, and Sol spotted the suite number on the door directly across the hall as he stepped out. He pushed his shoulders back, crossed the wide hall, and opened the door.
Chapter 10
Solomon’s gaze swept Brandon’s impressive suite as he entered the lobby area, where several comfortable chairs and end tables were placed along one side of the room. He was met by the cheery-faced receptionist—the same young woman who’d offered her car’s side mirror for his horse. “We meet again,” she said, her eyes wide as he removed his black felt hat. “How may I help you?”
“Name’s Solomon Kauffman,” he began. “I’d like to see Brandon Orringer.”
She glanced at her computer monitor, then back at him. “Might this be for the purpose of building or land development?”
Brandon’s also a builder now? He was surprised; he hadn’t heard this from Hen. Then again, she might not have known. “Brandon’s my son-in-law,” Sol said, still holding his hat.
“No kidding!” she burst out, then quickly softened. “Excuse me, sir . . . I had no idea.”
“Quite all right.”
“So . . . I don’t mean to pry, but is his wife also Amish?”
He didn’t know exactly how to respond. “Well, she was raised that way but left . . . to marry Brandon.”
The woman’s eyes rolled drolly, as if she fully understood. “Marry Amish to stay Amish, jah?”
Sol was startled—that saying was used all the time by the bishops in the area. But Sol was wasting his time making small talk. It was Brandon he wanted to speak to. Plenty of wood needed chopping, among other chores. And Emma . . . goodness, but he could scarcely be gone from home even a short while, things were that bad for her.
The receptionist squinted at the monitor. “I’ll see that you get in right after this appointment, Mr. Kauffman. Do you mind waiting?”
He shook his head, turned, and wandered to the water fountain up the hallway. Just as he returned, he heard what must have been Brandon’s angry, raised voice, complaining about an upcoming zoning hearing that was dragging on too long.
Sol cringed. Has Hen ever borne the brunt of his temper at home?
He scanned the narrow coffee table, making note of several magazines and newspapers there. Headlines regarding trends in real-estate development and land-use policies, zoning laws . . . and land-development ordinances. Restless, Sol went and took another long drink from the water fountain, trying to block out Hen’s husband’s continual spewing. The man sounded incensed over cost overruns for a cluster of townhouses he was in the process of building, as well.
Sol heard a door closing and Brandon’s voice disappeared into a soft muffle. The receptionist was standing near her desk, offering a rueful smile. “I do apologize for Mr. Orringer. It’s already been a rough day around here. Actually, a rough week. Mr. Orringer even worked yesterday—on Thanksgiving.”
Sol went to sit near the receptionist’s window and placed his hat on a nearby chair. “How long has Brandon been a builder?” he asked the woman.
“Not long.” Her curious gaze met his, as if to question him: Didn’t you know?
He wasn’t willing to own up to not knowing much at all about his own son-in-law.
“He acquired a partner just recently. A Bruce Kramer.”
“I see.”
“I’m sure he’ll be happy to fill you in.” She looked Solomon over. “Brandon’s been walking around here like his shirt buttons might pop right off,” she added.
Sol wouldn’t have expected Brandon to be a man of humility. He was English, after all.
Sol took his time choosing a magazine to read, wishing his father-in-law were here to talk to. As it was, Jeremiah might be wondering what was keeping him and start splitting logs without him. With winter coming on, they’d need plenty of wood for the cookstove. Sol could only hope the bishop might’ve wandered over from next door to help . . . or one of Sol’s sons, maybe. Jeremiah was hard to keep down. He’d recovered nicely from his stroke last spring, but now he liked to think of himself as a new man. Which, of course, he was anything but.
“Mr. Kauffman,” the pleasant receptionist said a short time later. “Mr. Orringer can briefly see you now.”
Sol picked up his hat and moved quickly past the man who was leaving Brandon’s office. “Hullo,” he said kindly. The man blew out a breath and said nothing, but Sol sensed the irritation seeping through his dark suit.
Brandon looked perplexed as Solomon entered the office. “Well, Mr. Kauffman,” he said cordially. “I didn’t expect to see you here.”
“Thought I’d drop by.”
Brandon didn’t rise as Sol might have expected him to. Instead, he motioned for Sol to take a chair on the opposite side of the well-polished desk. “Any chance you’ve got some farmland to sell?”
“Pardon me?”
“Just joking,” Brandon said. “I assume you came to see me about something?”
Solomon cleared his throat. “I’d like to invite you to dinner. Something I should’ve done years ago.”
Brandon leaned forward, elbows on the desk, his hands folded beneath his chin. “What would that accomplish?”
“We might get to know each other.”
Brandon regarded Sol carefully, his eyes penetrating. “So . . . I take it Hen isn’t coming home.”
“On the contrary. I fully expect she will return to you.” He paused. “When she’s ready.”
“Well, I can’t wait forever. At some point I have to protect my interests.”
“Your interests?”
“My daughter, Mr. Kauffman. I can’t have her growing up Amish, now, can I?”
Sol rubbed his beard, ignoring the slight. “But you did tell Hen to get the Old Ways out of her system, didn’t you? I assume you meant her Amish upbringing.”
Brandon glanced downward, where his fingers tapped against the desk. “She told you that?”
“Is it true?”
“In so many words, but—”
“Then she’s going to need time. Are you a man of your word or not?”
Their eyes met, and Brandon’s lips tensed into a firm line. A moment passed as the two men regarded each other. “I’d like her to return home tomorrow,” he said. “But as I’ve stated in the letter, she has until one week from
tomorrow. If she’s not back by then, I’m filing for divorce.”
Sol placed his hands on his knees and shifted forward. “Can ya give your wife a bit more leeway . . . show her some extra patience?”
“I’ve given her nearly two months already.”
“Well, then, what’s a little more time?” Sol truly wished for a better resolution to all this. “But in the meantime, you’re always welcome for dinner. You might find we’re not as backward as you’ve been led to believe.”
“I work late, Mr. Kauffman. No time for pointless dinners,” Brandon replied tersely. “Thanks for the invitation, though.”
“So, another month, then?”
Brandon shook his head no. “For what reason?”
“Well, to get some wise counsel instead of rushin’ into a divorce . . . just maybe?”
“Do you have a counselor in mind?” asked Brandon, eyeing him.
“Our bishop’s a wise man—chosen by God, in fact.”
Brandon blew air out of his mouth. “I’m acquainted with that man, and let me tell you, I’ll never set foot in an Amish bishop’s house. And I’m sure Hen would never consider going with me to a marriage counselor of my choosing.”
“No . . . prob’ly not.” Sol sighed. What was the answer to this terrible dilemma? “But . . . will ya give it more time, at least for Mattie Sue’s sake?” he asked.
“What . . . so you can indoctrinate my daughter further?” Brandon practically sneered.
“More time, Brandon. Is that too much to ask?”
Breathing loudly, Brandon stared at his desk. Then, quite reluctantly, he said, looking at Sol, “Two weeks, and not a minute longer.”
“All right, then.” Sol got up and put on his hat. “I’ll let Hen know,” he said as he headed for the door.
Rose looked across the front room at her mother, whose gaze was focused out the window, at the sky. Seeing Mamm grow weaker as each day passed, Rose’s heart was filled anew with compassion.
Hen had suggested they set up a long folding table nearby, so they could work together in the same room. Already, they’d begun to lay out yards of Amish-green fabric and different-sized dress patterns cut from brown grocery bags. Some scraps were large enough for Rose’s market dolls.
The Judgment Page 7