“I saw you taking lots of pictures.” His thick eyebrows, above eyes so brown the pupils were nearly swallowed by the color, formed a worried line. “What will you do with them?”
Briley curled his hand protectively around the digital camera hanging from his neck. “Most of them are for my own use—satisfying my curiosity about the Old Order practice of barn raising. A few might end up being used as illustrations in my article. Why?”
Cider Man crunched his lips into a crooked scowl, as if contemplating whether or not to answer. “Some of our members … having photographs taken makes them uncomfortable. They feel it goes against the biblical warning about making graven images. Before you use them in a publication, would you please show them to the men who worked here today and be sure they approve having their pictures printed?”
The stubborn, rebellious side of Briley Forrester raised its head. “I tell you what …” He was prepared to inform the man that this was his article, and he would decide which photographs were used, but the spicy scent of cider rising from the mug—its essence a reminder of the woman who’d tried so hard to straighten his defiant bent—brought forth a different reply. “I’ll get the pictures I took this morning printed and bring them to your church service tomorrow. Anyone who’s interested can take a peek at them, and if someone opposes me using any specific photos, I’ll mark them so they won’t turn up in the newspaper. Fair enough?”
A relieved smile appeared on the man’s face, softening his chiseled features. He nodded. “Yes. Yes, that is very fair. Thank you, Mr. Forrester.” With plate and mug in hand, he headed to the porch and joined the others.
Briley shifted to find Alexa staring at him, wide-eyed. “What?”
She shook her head slowly. “I can’t figure you out. One minute you’re annoyingly obnoxious, and the next you’re understanding and agreeable.”
He placed his hand on his chest and feigned innocence. “Obnoxious? Me?”
She didn’t say anything, but she didn’t have to. Her expression spoke volumes.
He burst out laughing. “Oh, Miss Zimmerman, you are priceless.” With effort he brought his amusement under control. “You’re right, I admit it. I lean toward obnoxious. I always have, and it’s a hard habit to break. You can thank the apple cider for helping me rein it in today, but I make no promises for tomorrow.” He drained the mug, placed it on the table, then took two backward steps and lifted his camera. “I got photographs of the barn workers and the women at the food table, but I neglected to record the lovely lady providing us with beverages. Say ‘cheese.’ ”
She squawked, cupped her hands over her fuzzy earmuffs, and ducked.
He took the picture anyway. And he laughed all the way to his car.
Alexa
Alexa peeked over the edge of the table to make sure Briley really was leaving. When she spotted him climbing behind the wheel of his car, she straightened and glanced around. Had anyone noticed her impulsive dive for cover? She wasn’t opposed to photographs. Mom had a digital camera, and Alexa often made use of the camera on her phone. But being captured wearing her earmuffs and with her nose probably redder than Rudolph’s, given the crisp breeze, would be far from appealing. To her relief everyone seemed engrossed in their own conversations. She blew out a grateful breath, then looked toward the road, where a cloud of dust hid Briley’s departing vehicle.
Good riddance! Mercy, what a tease he was. She bristled, then battled a grin. “I lean toward obnoxious,” he’d said, and he was so right. Or maybe not obnoxious. Maybe just so sure of himself he didn’t care how he appeared to other people—he just was. She couldn’t decide if being overly self-assured was better or worse than being obnoxious.
She poured herself a cup of cider and sipped. Something else Briley had said replayed through her mind. “You people …” He’d said it twice, that exact phrase, lumping her in with the members of the Old Order fellowship. With the mug held beneath her chin and aromatic steam curling around her face, she sent a slow look across those who’d come to share in the work.
The men all wore solid navy or dark-green jackets and work trousers in a variety of browns and tans—a type of uniform of their own. The women’s white caps topping their coiled hair and black hosiery showing beneath the hems of their flowered skirts marked them as a group. “You people …” Her sweater and ankle-length denim skirt, although very conservative from a worldly standpoint, set her apart from the others, as did her ponytail falling along her spine. Even so, Briley put her with them.
A spiral of longing wove its way through her chest. She wished she did belong. With the community members. With her family. Somewhere. Anywhere. Would the truth of her unknown birthright always make her feel isolated? If only she could go back to the days before Mom had told her about her foundling status. If only she could forget she wasn’t Mom’s biological daughter. If only … Her vision blurred, her eyes flooding with tears. She ducked her head and blinked rapidly. A quick swipe across her eyes restored her vision. And her resolve.
Briley apparently saw her as belonging, so she needed to view herself the same way. She needed to make everyone see her as a part of their fellowship. And she couldn’t do that by keeping her distance. In a burst of determination, she filled four mugs with cider, then hooked her fingers through the handles—two in each hand—and turned toward those perched along the edge of the porch. “Who’s ready for more cider?”
Hands flew in the air. She delivered the mugs, then scurried to the table to fill more. As she carried them to others waiting for a hot drink, an errant thought whispered in the back of her mind. A smile grew on her lips. She hoped there’d be some cider left by the end of the lunch. She had plans for it. Briley Forrester wasn’t the only person in the world who could be obnoxious …
Briley
Briley tapped on the back door before stepping into the kitchen Sunday morning. Alexa was at the oven, thick potholders shaped like mittens hiding her hands. She turned as he entered.
“Good morning,” he said. A bibbed apron protected the front of her skirt and blouse, but a spatter of something decorated the apron’s square bib. A rich scent escaped the oven, and he licked his lips in anticipation. “Baking this morning, are you?”
An odd sparkle lit her eyes, as if she held back a secret. “Quiche Lorraine.”
He’d never eaten quiche—egg pie, really? And he was sure he detected a hint of cinnamon. Would cinnamon be in egg pie? But what difference did it make? The aromas flooding the kitchen sent his hunger to a fever pitch. Yesterday evening’s canned ravioli couldn’t possibly compare to what waited in that oven. He slapped his belly. “Bring it on.”
Her lips curved into a delightful smile, and she tipped her head toward the dining room doorway. “Go on in. I’ll serve in just a few more minutes.”
Briley gave a mock salute and strode through the kitchen with an eager step. He rounded the corner to the dining room and moved directly to the long, old-fashioned sideboard where the coffee and mugs were always ready. Except for this morning. He frowned first at the empty top and then at the table, where Mrs. Zimmerman sat across from, of all people, Steven Brungardt.
His mild irritation changed to surprise. “Well, hello, Steven. Are you staying here instead of at your house?”
The younger man shook his head. “The Zimmermans were kind enough to ask me to take breakfast with them until the carpenter gets my kitchen put together.”
Of course they had. These people looked after their own. Briley shifted his attention to the mugs in front of the pair at the table. They had coffee. He pointed. “Is there any of that left?”
Mrs. Zimmerman raised her cup and peered at him over its rim. “You’ll have to ask my granddaughter about that.”
With a soft snort Briley pulled out a chair and sat. Smelling the coffee but not being able to drink any was torture, and he didn’t try to hide his aggravation that none was available. Neither of the other two at the table seemed to notice his surliness, however, which
increased his ire.
Mrs. Zimmerman aimed a bland look in his direction. “Will you ride with Alexa and me to service again this morning, Mr. Forrester?” She took a slurping draw from her cup.
“Not today.” He explained his need to stay after the church service and show the photographs from Steven’s barn raising to the concerned men. “I have no idea how long I’ll be, and I don’t want to keep everyone waiting. So I’ll drive myself to church.” Even if his car did stick out like a sore thumb.
“What about lunch, then?” The woman taunted him with noisy sips from her cup.
He flicked a glance toward the kitchen. Where was Alexa with that coffeepot? “I can fend for myself today.” He gritted his teeth. He might have to fend for himself by visiting the convenience store and grabbing a cup of joe on the way to the church.
Alexa breezed around the corner. She balanced two plates on her extended arm and held a third in her other hand. “Here we are!” She placed the first plate in front of her grandmother, then served Steven and Briley. “I’ll be right out with your drink, Mr. Forrester. My hands were full.” She zipped back through the hallway.
Briley looked at the contents of his plate and changed his mind about quiche in one heartbeat. With chunks of ham and onions dotting the egg mixture and covered with melted cheese, it looked hearty and filling, nothing like he’d expected. Two slices of thick toast, browned to perfection, formed a frame for the wedge of egg pie, and juicy orange crescents and a spattering of cherries added a splash of color. He’d give her one thing—she knew how to make food look inviting. Now if she’d just bring him his coffee before he crawled out of his skin.
As if reading his thoughts, she bustled back into the room with a mug in her hand. She plopped it in front of him, then stepped back. “Anything else?”
Briley frowned. What had she put in his cup? The liquid wasn’t black and pungent. Instead, it smelled suspiciously like cinnamon. And apples. Understanding dawned, and he whirled on her with his mouth gaping. “Is that cider?”
She blinked, the picture of innocence. “Yes, it is. You said cider keeps your obnoxiousness at bay.”
How could she maintain that expression? Briley threw back his head and laughed, delighted beyond words by her unexpected act of impishness. He wagged his finger at her, swallowing his chortles. “Oh, Miss Zimmerman, be careful. If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were flirting with me.”
Her gaze whisked downward and then up again. She looked directly into his eyes and said, completely deadpan, “I never flirt.”
“More’s the pity …”
Had he said it out loud? Apparently he had because Alexa’s face flooded pink, Mrs. Zimmerman clapped her empty coffee cup onto the tabletop, and Steven released a funny little sound like a dry gargle.
Mrs. Zimmerman spoke, her voice loud and shrill. “Steven, would you please say grace? Yes? Good. Pray so we can eat.” Her eyes narrowed into slits of disapproval. “We have a service to get to.”
Briley bowed his head along with the others. Steven’s prayer was pretty standard—asking a blessing for the food and for the hands that had prepared it—but he suspected Mrs. Zimmerman was sending up a different silent prayer, that he would seek forgiveness for his brazen behavior. A useless request, in Briley’s way of thinking. A man couldn’t change who he was. His entire life he’d been called a lost cause. He’d come to accept it. So she could, too.
Briley
At the completion of the worship service, Briley found himself surrounded just as he’d been the week before. But instead of invitations to dinner, he received requests to see the pictures. He laid them out in two neat rows on the last bench on the men’s side, and the workers from yesterday’s barn repair as well as half a dozen men who hadn’t come, including the one who’d delivered the morning’s sermon, crowded close.
Briley moved out of the way and let them look to their heart’s content. He’d examined the photographs and found nothing unacceptable in any of them. Well, except maybe the one of Alexa peeking over the edge of the upside-down mugs, her brown eyes like a deer staring at oncoming headlights. He’d left that one behind. No sense in embarrassing her. Not publicly anyway. After her breakfast stunt, he might find a choice time and place to share that photograph.
The men circled the bench, murmured, pointed, shook their heads, or nodded approval. Steven Brungardt approached, his flat-brimmed hat held against the front of his black suit coat. He glanced at the cluster of men, then turned to Briley. “What are they looking at?”
“My photographs of your barn repair.”
“Oh.” He didn’t move toward the bench.
Briley examined Steven out of the corner of his eye. The young man, although sturdily built like a farmer and attired in the Mennonite style of dress, didn’t seem to fit with the others. He just couldn’t quite decide what made him stick out. Then he looked into Steven’s somber face and discovered the difference. His expression never changed. He always looked … resigned. But why? Briley aimed a pat on Steven’s stiff shoulder, trying to knock some life into him. “You ought to be happy. One day’s work, and that barn is like new.”
Steven remained as still as a statue, no flicker of a smile twitching on his lips. “Yes.”
“Are you going to have a house raising, too? Get the place painted and spruced up so it looks as nice as the barn?”
The young man’s shoulders rose and fell in a shrug. “I doubt it. My dad hired a carpenter. Between the two of us, we’ll get the interior done. I probably won’t try to have it painted until spring unless it warms up again in the next weeks. It was pretty cold for painting yesterday, but Mr. Ohr said they used extra thinner to help the wood soak up the paint.”
“Which one is Mr. Ohr?”
Steven pointed out the one Briley had dubbed Cider Man.
Briley nodded. “Neat trick.”
“Yes.”
They stood in silence for a few seconds while the man who’d approached Briley yesterday began putting the photographs into two stacks with input from those gathered.
Steven cleared his throat. “Were there any pictures there … of me?”
Briley nodded. “A few.” He tipped his head, intrigued by the various emotions flashing in Steven’s eyes. “Did you want to see them?”
Steven shook his head. “No. That’s all right. My dad … he doesn’t approve of photographs. So I probably shouldn’t look.”
“Yield not to temptation?” Briley asked, half teasing.
Steven stared straight ahead. “ ‘There hath no temptation taken you but such as is common to man: but God is faithful, who will not suffer you to be tempted above that ye are able; but will with the temptation also make a way to escape, that ye may be able to bear it.’ ” He flicked a glance at Briley. “That’s from 1 Corinthians, chapter 10, verse 13. I memorized it a long time ago.”
Briley swallowed a chortle. Obviously Steven wasn’t trying to be funny, but he found humor in the response. So much concern over a few photographs! How much damage could looking at pictures of a bunch of men repairing a barn do? It seemed a little silly, and he fought the temptation to say so. “Betcha that’s kept you out of trouble over the years.”
The young man gave him an odd look. Then he turned toward a pair of men—Mr. Ohr and today’s preacher—approaching with the photographs. The other men exited the church, and Briley expected Steven to follow them. Instead, he stayed put, his head low but obviously listening.
Ohr placed a short stack of photographs in Briley’s hand. “These are fine.” The preacher kept hold of the larger stack. Ohr gestured toward them. “These, though, we’d rather you didn’t use. So if you’ll tell me how much it cost you to print them, we’ll pay you that amount and then burn them.”
He reached for the stack of photos, but the preacher pulled them back slightly. Briley raised one eyebrow. “If you’re going to reimburse me, I need to know how many are there.”
“Seventy-two.”
He gawk
ed at the man. Out of the ninety images he’d printed, they’d only approved eighteen? “What’s wrong with them?”
The two men exchanged a glance. The preacher spoke. “Some showed full front view faces. Others seemed designed to draw attention to a man’s strength or muscles. Some just included men who didn’t wish to be photographed. How much do we owe you?”
Briley stifled a frustrated huff. He’d printed them at a one-hour kiosk in a Wichita drugstore, which added the equivalent of four gallons of fuel to the bill, but he stuck to the photo cost. “Fifteen cents per photograph.” He pulled out his phone and brought up the calculator. “Seventy-two times fifteen is—”
“Ten dollars and eighty cents,” Steven said.
Briley poked in the numbers and punched the equal symbol. He looked at Steven in surprise. “You’re right. How’d you figure that so fast?”
The man shrugged. “I taught myself shortcuts. Instead of multiplying by fifteen, I multiplied by ten—that got me seven hundred twenty, or seven dollars and twenty cents. Five is half of ten, so I halved that amount to get the three dollars and sixty cents. I added the two sums together for the final figure.” He shrugged again. “It goes quick in my head.” His tone held not an ounce of boastfulness.
“Huh …” Briley blew out a breath, carried on a chuckle. “I wish I’d learned those shortcuts. Then I wouldn’t have to use this.” He waved his phone, the calculator still showing on the screen.
“I could teach you.” For the first time interest sparked in Steven’s eyes. “If you want. For those days you don’t have … that.” He glanced at the phone.
The preacher cleared his throat. “Do you want the tax, too?”
Briley grinned and pocketed his phone. “If Steven wants to figure it.” To his surprise Steven ducked his head and released a short laugh. Briley said, “No, that’s fine. In fact, you don’t need to pay me at all. It’s a business deduction for me, so I’ll get it back eventually anyway.”
When Grace Sings Page 15