“So much for that plan,” she muttered, climbing awkwardly out of the buggy, clasping her purse to her side and walking bravely to the front door of the bank.
Ten minutes later she found herself in the office of the vice president. Jayden Webb looked to be in his forties. He had dark skin, his black hair was cut close to the scalp and tinged with streaks of gray and he wore a suit and tie.
What had she expected?
That he’d be wearing farming clothes like Thomas?
She shook the thought from her head and took a deep breath. Time to explain her situation to this stranger.
“My name is Abigail...Abigail Yutzy. My husband, Asher, died on the twenty-ninth of last month.”
“I’m sorry for your loss.”
“Danki. I mean, thank you.”
His tone was truly sympathetic, which caused tears to sting Abigail’s eyes. She looked down at her purse, gathering her thoughts once again.
“The thing is, Asher was only forty-eight. We had no idea that he had a medical condition. The heart attack was... It was a surprise. We weren’t...” She studied the wall behind Jayden Webb, searching for the right word and finally settled for “prepared.”
That was the understatement of a lifetime.
“Asher was a valued customer of this bank. I’ve met with him several times myself. He was an aggressive businessman, but as you said...there was no indication that he knew of the heart condition.” Mr. Webb picked up a pair of glasses, opened a folder and stared down at the papers there.
Abigail had an insane urge to snatch them away and run out of the room. Instead, she cleared her throat and pulled out the stack of bills along with Asher’s checkbook.
“The thing is that I have all these bills, and I have Asher’s checkbook, but my name isn’t on the checks.”
Now Mr. Webb shuffled through the papers, searching for something. Not finding it, he flipped the stack over and checked again, then pivoted to his computer. After he’d tapped a flurry of keystrokes, he shook his head once, and turned his attention back to her.
“He didn’t put you on the account.”
“Excuse me?”
“It’s not that uncommon with our Amish customers. Often the man takes care of the business side of things, and in many cases the wife doesn’t even want her name on the account. You wouldn’t believe how many times I’ve counseled families about the need to have both names on the account or at least to have a beneficiary form filled out. Asher didn’t do either of those things.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means that I can’t give you access to the funds in his account.”
“Our account.”
“Technically—his, for now.”
Panic clawed at Abigail’s throat as she pictured giving birth to her baby out in a field because she’d been kicked off the farm, or worse yet...going home to her parents. It was an unkind thought, but there it was. She would have chosen the field over her parents’ farm. She didn’t want to birth her child or to raise her child in a home that didn’t know how to show affection.
“What do you mean for now?”
Instead of answering her question, Mr. Webb pressed the tips of his fingers together and studied her. Finally, he asked, “Did Asher have any other children?”
“Nein. He’d not been married before.”
“Which isn’t the same thing, but for now we’ll let that be. Are his parents still alive?”
Abigail shook her head. Asher had told her very little about his parents, but she knew they’d perished in a bus accident when they were visiting cousins out of state.
“Then based on my knowledge of the laws of Indiana, you will inherit all of his estate.”
“Which includes what?”
“Everything—the land, monies in his accounts, etcetera.”
“I can use the funds in the account to pay these bills?”
“No. You can’t.”
Abigail wasn’t very good at hiding her emotions, and she had no doubt that her dismay was written across her face. She sensed that Mr. Webb was a compassionate person and understanding of her situation. She also recognized that a bank was a business, not a charity. He would go by the book.
He opened his desk drawer and pulled out a business card, then passed it to her. “Mrs. Yutzy, I suggest you speak with a probate lawyer.”
“I don’t want a lawyer.” She stared down at the small business card, her frustration growing as tears blurred her vision. “I just want to pay my bills.”
“But you need a lawyer because you won’t have access to Asher’s money until his estate is probated.”
“How long will that take?”
“Generally? Two years.”
Now anger replaced her dismay. “What am I supposed to do until then? How am I supposed to pay these bills? How do I provide for my child, for Asher’s child?”
Mr. Webb’s tone softened. “I can only imagine how hard this is for you, Mrs. Yutzy. Contact the name on that card. An attorney can request an emergency injunction and petition the court to give you access to Asher’s funds until the matter is settled.” He waited until she nodded, then he stood, effectively dismissing her.
She’d barely made it to the door when he called her back.
“May I make a suggestion? Speak to your bishop. He’ll help you through this. You’re not the first young woman, young wife, to be in such a situation. It’s best if you don’t try to navigate what lies ahead alone.”
Abigail fled the bank, ignoring the gazes that turned her way as she rushed out the door and into the parking lot. She stood there, trembling and lost and angry all at the same time. She should have felt better back out in the sunshine.
She didn’t.
So instead, she walked over to her mare and stood there a moment, brushing Belle’s neck and breathing in the smell of her. She was in this alone—with only the baby and the horse to help her through the days ahead. It was as if her mother’s dire warnings had come true.
Learn to handle your own messes.
It looked like she would have to, though she had absolutely no idea where to start. Her only idea had been the bank, and that had gotten her nothing other than a business card for an attorney that she couldn’t possibly afford to hire.
* * *
Thomas kept an eye on the lane. He wouldn’t put it past Abigail to attempt to unharness the horse herself, then sneak into the house. And he suspected she could handle the mare, but he couldn’t shake the image of her in her freshly laundered apron and kapp, wearing a pretty blue dress and her husband’s shoes. A woman who was about to birth a child shouldn’t be struggling with a mare’s harness.
His own father had done little to instill in him the proper way for a man to handle responsibilities, or perhaps his lack of example made him work harder to understand responsibility. Maybe it was because he’d had to be the man of the house sooner than most that he understood the importance of helping one another, of standing together, of being supportive. Regardless of the reason, he couldn’t leave until he saw the horse cared for and pastured, and Abigail safely in the house.
The other men broke off work at three in the afternoon since they needed to go home and tend to their own chores before dark.
“See you tomorrow.”
“Don’t finish the field without us.”
“Ya, no hogging the work.”
There was laughter and waves as they walked toward their buggies.
Thomas had only met the men that morning. The bishop had put out a call the night before and they’d shown up carrying a lunch pail and wearing a smile. That was the way of Plain communities. Thomas wasn’t a bit surprised, and he’d immediately liked Jonas, Benjamin and Abe.
So why hadn’t they already harvested the field?
Why were Thomas’s services even req
uired?
The deacon in charge of benevolence should have already taken care of everything that Abigail needed. He hadn’t, though, which left two possibilities. The first was that the deacon was incompetent, but after two conversations with Bishop Luke, the man didn’t strike him as someone who suffered fools. The other possibility was that Abigail had refused help.
Why would she do such a thing?
He couldn’t come up with a single answer to that question that made sense.
Instead of brooding over it, he focused on making himself useful. He cleaned out Belle’s stall. It wasn’t in terrible shape, which meant someone was stopping by to take care of mucking it out. Still, he cleaned it again, spread fresh hay, filled the water trough and made sure oats were in the bucket for the mare.
Everything progressed smoothly despite the goat. The goat was a real pest.
He stuck his head in the oats bucket, spilling a good bit on the floor of the stall.
He managed to climb into the water trough.
“I was warned about you.” Thomas studied the goat. Something was agitating the beast—even for a goat, his behavior was beyond obnoxious. He’d come across troublesome animals before, but this one was winning the prize for Most Irritating. Why was he so intent on being around people?
Thomas leaned against the wall, crossed his arms and watched the animal. The goat raised his head high and made a sound like a child, then lowered his head and butted a bucket until he’d succeeded in knocking it over.
“I saw hay in your feeder outside, so I know someone’s feeding you.”
The goat again bleated loudly.
“Okay. I take it you’re not impressed with the hay. Let’s have a look around.”
As he walked through the barn, the goat followed him. The structure was larger than most and well organized. Even from the outside, it looked to be in better condition than the house. He’d yet to see the inside of the house, but the inside of the barn shouted that this was Asher’s priority. It didn’t take Thomas long to take an inventory of Asher’s supplies. He found what he was looking for within ten minutes. On one of the higher shelves—where goats couldn’t reach it—was a large bag of black oil sunflower seeds. Thomas had barely managed to pull it off the shelf when the goat began nudging him.
“This is what you want?”
He reached into the bag and pulled out a handful. The goat made fast work of it and looked at him as if to say, “That’s it? I’ve been waiting for weeks.”
“I guess you were a little spoiled.”
He spied an old Tupperware container, filled it with the seeds and walked out of the barn. Sitting down on an overturned crate, he put one more handful on the ground.
“That’s it, though. Obviously, you were overindulged by Asher Yutzy. Wouldn’t be right for me to go and make the matter worse.” As he snapped the lid back on the container, he heard the sound of a horse coming down the lane, and then Abigail came into view. He held up a hand so she’d see him, and he motioned for her to stop outside of the barn.
“I’ll take care of Belle.” One look at her tear-stained face told him that the day had not gone well. “What happened?”
“What happened?”
She tumbled awkwardly out of the buggy—moving faster than he would have thought possible, considering her size—then she proceeded to lead Belle into the barn.
“I’ll tell you what happened. I’m destitute, that’s what. Broke. My pantry is basically empty, I have no money left in the cash jar, and now I have to hire a lawyer.”
Belle tossed her head, agitated by Abigail’s tone.
“I can’t even write a check. How’s that for wonderful news?”
Belle jerked her head away from Abigail. Thomas put a hand on the horse’s neck and spoke gently, calming her. If only he knew how to calm the woman standing in front of him. He didn’t, though. All he knew was that when his schweschdern were agitated, they drank tea.
“Want some tea?”
“What?” She looked at him as if he’d slipped in Belle’s stall and covered himself in muck.
He glanced down. Nope. No dirtier than usual.
“Tea won’t fix what’s wrong here.” Her bottom lip began to tremble. “I don’t know of anything that will fix it.”
And then the tears were streaming down Abigail’s face, and Thomas had the irrational urge to pull her into his arms. Instead, he tightened his hold on Belle’s harness. “I’ll take care of the mare. Maybe you could go inside and...make some tea?”
“You want me to make tea?”
“Ya. That would hit the spot. I’d love some.”
She rubbed her eyes with the palms of her hands, reminding him of a child. But she nodded. And she turned and walked from the barn.
Thomas turned back toward the mare. “Whew. I don’t know what that was about, but seems as if we barely avoided a full meltdown.” He’d never have said that to his schweschdern. They’d have taken him to task for it and reminded him of all the times that he’d lost control of his emotions—which hadn’t been often but also hadn’t been never.
Belle nodded in agreement, so he knew he was right. He took extra care putting up the harness, checking the buggy to make sure everything was fine and settling the horse. Best to give Abigail a few minutes to pull herself together. When he estimated that twenty minutes had passed, he shooed the goat out of the barn, shut the door and walked across to the house.
Abigail wasn’t sitting in the rocker on the porch, so he knocked on the front door.
When she didn’t answer, he opened the door and stuck his head inside. “Hello? Abigail? Can I come in?”
The only response was more muffled sobs.
He hadn’t given her long enough.
He couldn’t very well walk back over to the barn now. It was obvious he’d finished with the work there. He honestly didn’t have a lot of experience with crying women, but there also wasn’t anyone else around to take care of the situation. Maybe he could pour her a cup of tea.
He wiped his feet on the mat and called out that he was coming inside. Peeking into the kitchen, he saw Abigail sitting at the table, her arms crossed on the smooth oak, head on top of her arms, and sobbing sounds coming from her general vicinity.
Fortunately, the teakettle whistled at that very moment, so he didn’t have to think of anything to say. Abigail didn’t act as if she’d heard it, so he strode across the kitchen, found two cups and a tin of tea bags—noticing as he did so that there was very little food in the cupboard. He plopped the bags into the cups, added hot water and then took them to the table. He’d like to have put out some crackers or cookies, but he didn’t see any. What was this woman eating?
He sat down across from her and waited.
Finally, she raised her head, but she still didn’t speak.
“Try the tea. It’s gut.”
She shook her head, but then apparently changed her mind. After she’d taken several sips, she blotted her eyes with her apron and thanked him for the tea.
“Well, technically it’s your tea.”
“Ya. Probably the last of it too.”
“There’s three more bags in the tin.” Why had he made himself a cup? He was an idiot. He made a mental note to bring tea from the mercantile when he came back the next day...and groceries. Would that be crossing a line? But plainly she did need groceries. Perhaps he should simply stop by Bishop Luke’s on his way home and let him know the situation.
“I don’t know what I’m going to do.”
“Maybe you should tell me what’s wrong. Or better yet, I could fetch the bishop for you.”
“What’s wrong? You want to know what’s wrong?” She found her kapp strings and wrapped them around her palm—forward and back, forward and back. “What’s wrong is that my husband didn’t bother to put my name on the bank account, so I have no mo
ney. According to the bank’s vice president there are funds in the account, but I won’t be able to access it for maybe two years.”
“Asher didn’t have a will.”
“He did not.”
“And now you have to probate the estate.”
She looked at him quizzically. “How do you even know about such things?”
Thomas shrugged. He didn’t want to go into the fact that his father had left his mother in the same situation after his years of drinking and disappearing for months at a time. His father had a sickness, and he understood that, but at the same time that sickness had hurt a lot of people. Settling his estate, which contained precious little, had put an added burden on his mother both financially and emotionally. He understood all too well what the woman sitting across from him was going through and what she had ahead of her—at least financially.
Abigail covered her face with her hands. Her shoulders shook, and it sounded like she was weeping again. Thomas felt real pity for this woman, but he didn’t think that her present attitude was very helpful.
“You need to stop crying.”
Her head jerked up, and she stared at him. “Excuse me?” There was a bite to her tone, but he preferred it to the expression of hopelessness she’d had on her face since coming home.
“I said you need to stop crying.”
“I can’t believe you’re speaking to me in that manner. What are you? An ogre?”
Thomas rubbed his chin, then attempted a smile. “I’ve never been called that before.”
“Surprising.”
“It’s just that crying isn’t helpful.”
“You’re not helpful.”
“Actually, I just harvested your field, stabled your horse and, by the way, I also took care of your goat problem. Turns out he was used to getting a handful of sunflower seeds every day.”
“Sunflower seeds?”
“Ya. I left a container full on the shelf where you put the horse brush.”
Abigail stared at the ceiling, her brow furrowed. “I couldn’t buy peppermint for Belle, but he could buy sunflower seeds for the goat?”
“I don’t understand.”
An Amish Baby for Christmas Page 3