Marty sighed. Her conscience would never allow her to open the envelope now. Not when Brooke trusted her to wait.
I know life threw you a curveball when you found out you wouldn’t get to be a mom like you wanted, but you’re still a wife. And up until that curveball you were a happy wife. I’ve got the letters to prove it. Unless you were fibbing in all those letters, and I can’t imagine my friend Marty fibbing to me. I want you to find your way to happiness again, and I think I’ve discovered the pathway. BUT DON’T PEEK. Wait until Anthony’s home and look at it together. It’s time you did something together again.
How odd for Brooke to want to force Marty and Anthony into collaboration, given her opinion of marriage in general—“Who needs a man, anyway?”—and Old Order Mennonite marriages specifically. Brooke had been aghast—“Sight unseen? Are you crazy?”—when Marty told her she was going to Indiana at her parents’ instruction to meet the man they believed would be a good husband for her. Brooke hadn’t understood Marty’s excitement at the prospect of establishing her own household, raising her own family.
Tears stung again. So much heartache. So many regrets. So much happiness swallowed up by a monster of sorrow. Not even someone as smart and business minded and spunky as Brooke could restore everything that was broken between Marty and Anthony.
Well, my longtime (and, for the most part, only) friend, I will sign off here and get this in the mail. Sure miss your face and wish we weren’t so many miles apart. Ah, wishes…They’re not worth more than the pennies we toss in a fountain, seeking them. Good thing there’s such a thing as Dreams Realized.
Love ya,
Brooke
An unsettled feeling whispered through Marty’s chest. Should she call Anthony, open the letter, and read it to him over the telephone even though Brooke wanted him to be present when she looked at it? She wanted to know what her friend had put inside that envelope.
4
Noblesville
Anthony
Anthony shook hands with the mason. His stomach growled, and he spoke a little louder than usual to cover the sound. “Thank you for your good work, Mr. Johnson.” The man had grumbled quite a bit about redoing the foundation, but Anthony couldn’t fault the finished product. He only wished it had been done correctly the first time. Even though the mason’s crew had worked overtime to pour the new foundation so it would be firm enough to begin construction of the garage on Monday, his summer schedule was a week behind.
“I’m glad it’s finally to your specifications.” Only a tinge of sarcasm colored his tone. “I guess my foreman will read the blueprints more carefully from now on.”
Anthony suspected it wasn’t a foreman’s incorrect reading but a boss’s deliberate attempt to cut corners that created the discrepancy. Romans 12:18—“If it be possible, as much as lieth in you, live peaceably with all men”—whispered through the back of his mind. Expressing his thoughts would only incite anger, so he forced a smile and took a sideways step toward his pickup. Suppertime had come and gone, and his stomach was getting impatient. “Enjoy the rest of your weekend.”
The mason strode in the opposite direction, and Anthony trotted the final distance to his pickup. He climbed into the cab and glanced at the cell phone lying on the dash. It showed one missed call. He hadn’t talked to Marty all week. Had she gotten lonely enough to call him? He flipped open the phone, hoping to see his own home phone number on the little screen. Disappointment sagged his shoulders. Instead of Marty, his longest-term employee, Steve Kanagy, had called. Concern replaced the disappointment. Had something gone wrong at the Brunstetters’? He pushed aside his hunger and punched the button to return the call.
Steve answered on the second ring. “Hello, Anthony. How are things in Noblesville?”
“Good.” Anthony fiddled with the key in the ignition. “What about there?”
“Good here, too. Thought you should know we finished the barn early. A couple of Pat’s nephews helped. As a service. They didn’t expect pay.”
Anthony nodded. Many Old Order parents sent their children to perform work projects for others without expectation of pay, teaching them to possess a servant’s heart. Some projects gave the young people the opportunity to learn new skills. “That was kind of them. I hope you thanked them for me.”
“I did. Since we finished ahead of schedule, I took the men over to Dan Wengerdt’s, and we rebuilt the burned-out summer kitchen, like his wife wanted. The old rock foundation was still sound, so the building went up quick. We finished it this afternoon.”
“That’s good news.” So they weren’t as far behind as he feared. Anthony filled his lungs with air and then let it ease out, tension easing with it. “Everything here is ready for us to start framing on Monday. I was gonna call you later and ask you to tell the team to come on Sunday night so we can get going early Monday morning. I hope we can finish quick and get over to Kokomo close to the date I gave Mr. Packer. He was pretty antsy about getting that second garage built.” Anthony couldn’t imagine having four vehicles. And all for pleasure, none for work.
“Well…”
At once Anthony’s tension returned. “What?”
“I drove over to Kokomo on Wednesday, like you wanted me to, to see if the excavator had leveled the ground.”
Anthony stifled a groan. Had another subcontractor not done his job correctly?
“The excavation was done.”
“Phew. That’s good.”
“So was the foundation. And the framework.”
“Framework?” Anthony’s chest went tight. He sat straight up and gripped the steering wheel. “Who—”
“A new outfit from Marion. They undercut us by almost two thousand dollars. Mr. Packer said he couldn’t pass it up, not with them being able to start right away.”
“Me and him had an agreement.” They hadn’t put anything on paper, but Anthony had never needed a formal contract. A handshake and a man’s word had always been enough. “Why didn’t he call me? I could’ve worked with him on the price.”
“He said he’d planned to tell you but hadn’t got around to it yet.”
Anthony’s hunger fled, and a dull headache built in the back of his skull. He’d been counting on the proceeds from the Packer garage—one of those rare projects where he put his brick-laying skills to work, which fetched a higher price than a simple wood structure—to cover the money he’d pulled out of savings to pay his quarterly taxes. Now how would he replace it?
He searched for a silver lining in the storm cloud. “At least we found out before I took the whole team over there.”
“Yeah, that’s what I thought, too.”
Still reeling from the unexpected news, Anthony fell silent for several seconds. Then Steve’s voice came again.
“I’ll talk to the team at worship tomorrow, tell them to be ready to leave after supper. I doubt any of them will be surprised—we all figured we’d be heading down there pretty soon.”
“Thanks, Steve. I appreciate your help.”
“You’re welcome. I’ll see you tomorrow evening.”
Anthony snapped the phone closed and dropped it into his shirt pocket. He leaned forward and rested his forehead on the steering wheel. He’d lost out on bids before. It was part of his business. But this loss was different. He’d trusted Mr. Packer. More than that, he’d let himself count the chickens before they hatched. Something he knew wasn’t a wise practice.
He needed to call Marty. He’d never gone so long without talking to her. But if he called her now, she’d hear the frustration in his voice and want to know what was wrong. If he told her, he’d only upset her and make her worry. Why should both of them be upset? As much as he wished he could share his concerns with her, he knew he couldn’t. Not the way he had before. He was on his own. Well, not completely on his own. He hadn’t given up on God the way Marty had. H
is heart twisted in his chest, creating a stabbing pain. Would Marty return to faith? Real faith, not the pretend faith she modeled for the community? He’d told her there was a purpose in everything, even in them losing the chance to be parents, but—
He gave a little jolt. Was there a purpose in losing the job in Kokomo? He hung his head. Instead of worrying, he should trust, the way his parents had taught him. The way he preached to Marty. The way he tried to live, even though he failed more than he cared to admit.
He sucked in a big breath. “All right, God. I’m gonna give this to You. That quarterly payment took a big chunk of our savings, savings we need to live on. You’re Jehovah Jireh, the Provider. So provide for us, Lord. Amen.” He couldn’t remember the last time he’d prayed such a selfish prayer, empty of praise or adoration. But God understood everything, so He’d understand the weariness behind this self-serving prayer.
Anthony started the engine and backed onto the street. He’d get something from a fast-food restaurant and take it to his hotel room. After he ate—after he’d had a chance to recover from this latest blow—he’d call his wife.
Pine Hill
Marty
Marty picked up her white linen cap from the bureau and slipped it into place over her thick coiled braid. She secured it with bobby pins, then turned her head this way and that to be certain no wisps of hair escaped. Brown hair, like mud. When she and Anthony were first married, he’d loved running his hands through her long hair. He claimed it was the color of roasted chestnuts and was as soft as a newborn lamb’s ears. She teased him about comparing her hair to nuts and a sheep, and he reminded her King Solomon compared his love’s hair to a flock of goats, and they’d laughed. Now he didn’t even want to spend time with her.
She took a backward step, her gaze locked on the square mirror. The cap’s black ribbons—black to show her married status—looked stark against the dress’s bodice. Her only solid-color dress. Powder blue. Anthony’s favorite, because he said it matched her eyes. And she’d chosen to wear it on a Sunday when he chose to remain an hour away from her at a jobsite. She’d come close to begging last night when he said he was too tired to drive home after his long week. The weariness in his voice squashed her plan to open the envelope and read the contents to him. If he was too tired to talk, he’d be too tired to listen. Sometimes she thought he worked as hard as he did to make himself too tired to listen or talk.
With a sigh, she retrieved her Bible from the nightstand and trudged up the dim hallway, through the kitchen, and to the small mudroom at the back of the house. Car keys hung from a little wire holder nailed to the beadboard paneling. She fingered the keys. Should she walk or drive? When Anthony was home and it wasn’t raining, snowing, or blowing a gale, he and Marty walked to church. Earlier that morning she’d stepped outside to water her potted petunias, and she’d encountered a dry, warm, breezy, beautiful summer morn. Temptation pulled…
She didn’t want to walk alone. She unhooked the key ring. Anthony had left the heavy door open on the half of the garage that housed her older-model Chevy. She started the engine, backed out of the stall, and pulled onto the street. As she drove to the plain, white-painted chapel near the business area, she passed several of her neighbors, who were taking advantage of the nice day and walking. Some parents held their children’s hands, and others allowed their children to scamper ahead. She drove slowly to avoid creating clouds of dust that would choke her neighbors or coat their Sunday clothes with fine powder, even though it meant being forced to acknowledge every person with a wave and a smile her heart didn’t feel.
At the church she parked in the gravel patch next to the chapel and hurried across the grass to the women’s door at the left side of the building’s front. At least inside she could pretend she wasn’t alone, since she never sat with Anthony. Families divided as they entered the place of worship, men filling the rows of pews on the right, and women sitting on the left. She hesitated next to the empty cloak pegs and scanned the pews, seeking an open spot.
Her sister-in-law was in one of the back pews. Baby Audrey drowsed on her shoulder, and Ava wriggled beside her. Dawna beckoned to Marty with her finger. Marty sidestepped through the narrow space between pews and stopped next to Ava. She couldn’t resist toying with one of the little girl’s skinny blond braids. “Good morning.”
“G’ mo’ning,” Ava parroted, offering Marty a nose-crinkling smile.
Dawna repeated the greeting, too, then patted the seat. “Would you sit with us today?”
Ordinarily only mothers with small children took the rear seats.
Dawna’s expression pleaded. “Audrey woke extra early this morning, so she’ll want to nurse again well before the service is over. I can’t leave Ava by herself. It would help me a lot if you sat with us.”
Marty chewed the inside of her lip. Sitting where she couldn’t ignore the babies’ whimpers or coos or sleepy murmurs would be torment. Yet she couldn’t refuse to help. She’d been taught to put others’ needs ahead of her own. But why did so many of those needs have to center around the loss that pained her above all others? “Well, I—”
Ava wrapped her pudgy fingers around Marty’s hand and swung it gently to and fro.
Marty couldn’t deny the child. She sank onto the pew. Ava snuggled close, draping her arm over Marty’s leg and resting her head on Marty’s breast. Marty slipped her arm around the little girl as the four song leaders moved up the aisle and positioned themselves at the edge of the dais. Eli Stutzman, the music director, invited everyone to join in singing “Praise to the Lord, the Almighty.”
The congregation rose, and Marty settled Ava’s feet on the floor as she stood. Dawna and two other mothers with small babies remained seated. Mr. Stutzman blew an F-sharp with his pitch pipe, each of the men at the front hummed a note to harmonize with the pipe’s note, and Mr. Stutzman raised his hand. “One, two, three—” At his down thrust on the next count of one, everyone broke into the opening lines of the hymn in four-part harmony.
Marty sang the alto part, fighting a smile as little Ava squawked out the few words she knew in an off-key soprano. Marty had no doubt the child would eventually learn to sing as well as every other child in the congregation. She’d never encountered a Mennonite who couldn’t carry a tune—a skill that traced back for generations.
They reached the second verse, and the final lines stabbed like a knife.
Hast thou not seen
How thy desires all have been
Granted in what He ordaineth?
Marty’s voice faltered. She’d not seen her deepest desire granted. Could her empty arms be not a result of an illness but perpetrated by the One she’d chosen to trust when she was a child of eleven? Had God Himself ordained her childless state? Had He seen her longing and deliberately—cruelly!—denied her? The thoughts lodged in her brain and refused to leave. Oh, so much worse than thinking He’d said no only to preventing Anthony from contracting mumps.
She couldn’t sing another note. Nor did she want to. She was sick. Sick to her stomach. Sick at heart. She leaned toward Dawna, intending to whisper her need to leave, but her gaze fell on the taut fabric stretched across her sister-in-law’s chest. Evidence of her ability to nourish the baby who only now began to stir to wakefulness. Marty’s chest ached with the desire to nurse a baby at her breast.
Choking back a sob, she covered her mouth with her fist and fled.
5
Marty
Marty scuttled across the churchyard to her car. Guilt bowed her forward, as if it beat upon her back. Not once in her entire thirty-five years of living had she left a worship service before its completion. Until today. She paused and sent an accusing look skyward. “It’s because of You. You did this to me. You—You failed me.”
She gasped. Had she really blasphemed the Lord God Almighty? Inside the chapel, her fellowship members continued to sing, their voices
drifting through the open windows and stinging her with the words.
“Praise to the Lord! Oh, let all that is in me adore Him!”
How could she adore Him, when He’d left her empty and scarred? She closed herself inside the stuffy vehicle and drove home. Quickly. Recklessly. Sending clouds of dust billowing behind her. She turned into her driveway and aimed the car for the garage stall, but midway up the gravel drive she slammed on the brakes. The car skidded slightly, the wheels crunching against the patch of rough stones.
Why go inside? Anthony wasn’t there. No children were there. The empty house too closely mimicked her empty soul. She checked the gas gauge. She’d filled her tank in Lafayette, and it was still more than half full. More than enough fuel to take her to Noblesville. She started to back out. She jammed her foot onto the brake pedal again. What good would it do to drive to Noblesville? Anthony wouldn’t comfort her. He might preach at her, quoting Scripture that only lashed her tender conscience. Or he might clamp his lips and glare, silently displaying his impatience and aggravation. Either way, it wouldn’t help, because he couldn’t fix anything even if he wanted to.
She gripped the hot steering wheel and stared straight ahead, unseeing. Did he want to? If he at least wanted to, she’d have a small measure of comfort. But not once since they left the doctor’s office with the sad words “You cannot father children, Mr. Hirschler” ringing in their ears had he ever said he wished it could be different. After a few days of holding her and murmuring “I’m sorry” in her ear when she cried, he accepted it and went on as if being childless didn’t matter. In a community where raising a family in the way of the Lord was honored and applauded, being childless was a curse. And to him, it didn’t matter.
All that mattered now was his business. Building his business. Giving extra money to the church to send to those serving on the mission field. The first time they’d met, he’d told her he intended to donate a goodly portion of his income to mission work, and her heart had warmed at his benevolent spirit. He could accomplish his dream. But hers was gone forever.
Ours for a Season Page 4