When Grace Sings

by Kim Vogel Sawyer

  Grandmother smoothed a few stray wisps of hair from Alexa’s face. “Couldn’t you tell?”

  Alexa sighed. “No. Not really. Sometimes I think he is because that’s just who he is. He’s good looking and he knows it, so he can’t help himself. Other times I think he’s doing it just to tease.”

  “Teasing and flirting … aren’t they the same?”

  “No.” She’d been at the receiving end of both in junior high and had learned the difference. “Flirting can seem like teasing, but it’s done to capture the other person’s attention. Teasing is purely to rattle someone.”

  “And are you rattled?”

  She was. But she didn’t know whether it was his behavior or her reaction to his attention that had rattled her more. She rose and crossed to the waiting lunch boxes to begin cleaning them. “It doesn’t matter, I guess. Flirting or teasing, whatever he’s doing, he’ll probably keep it up until he leaves so I just have to learn to ignore it.”

  Grandmother chuckled.

  Alexa angled a look over her shoulder. “What’s funny?”

  “I was just remembering …” Grandmother chuckled again, her face crinkling with merriment.

  Alexa turned around and leaned against the counter, smiling even though she had no idea what had tickled her grandmother. “What?”

  “The way you two were going at it in here—both acting hopping mad but trying so hard not to laugh.”

  Alexa’s embarrassment returned with full force. She battled hiding her face behind her hands.

  “You reminded me of Clete and your mother when they were young, always cooking up schemes to outdo the other one. Except in reverse, of course, because Clete was the littler of the two. But my, how they sparred, and always in good fun.” She sighed. “I miss those days. You and Mr. Forrester—or should we start calling him Briley?—just carried me backward in time.” She sat for several seconds, staring into nothing, then shifted her gaze and winked at Alexa. “You know, I’m going to stop worrying about that young man’s effect on you. You just proved to me you can hold your own.” She caught the wheels of her chair and pulled, rolling the chair backward and out of sight.

  Alexa chewed her lip, thinking about what Grandmother had said. “Always in good fun …” Her teeth lost their grip as a smile took control. She grabbed the lump of coal from the windowsill and held it in front of her, envisioning Briley’s smirking grin in its place. “Okay, Mr. Obnoxious, you started it, but I intend to finish it. Consider the game ‘on.’ ”

  Briley

  While Briley fixed his supper—cheap, off-brand canned chili heated in the microwave—he replayed Alexa’s reaction to finding that photograph, and he chuckled. She’d played right into his hands, as he’d known she would. She reminded him of an eager puppy digging up a fresh bone when she opened that lunch box tonight. He chuckled some more. Maybe it was wrong to tease her. Aunt Myrt would probably call it a childish thing to do. But he couldn’t help it. The girl was too serious, and somebody needed to get her to lighten up. Otherwise she’d be as sour and sullen as Brungardt by the time she reached her midtwenties. “And that would be a travesty.”

  He carried the chili to the table, sat, and dipped his spoon. But instead of raising it to his mouth, he stared into the bowl and lost himself in thought. An entire week … He’d spent an entire week side by side with Steven Brungardt, and not once had he witnessed the man smile. Aldrich smiled. A lot. The carpenter was like those dwarfs in the old Disney film, whistling while he worked. But Steven? Oh, he worked. With unwavering efficiency. But not with any joy. And even though his unsmiling face told Briley the man wasn’t happy, he wouldn’t say anything to confirm it. Until Steven lost his reserve and talked, Briley had nothing to add to his article. So he’d stick around until he finally gained Steven’s trust enough to find out why he didn’t reflect the peace people expected the Plain folk to exude.

  The spicy scent of the chili broke through his reverie, and he took a bite. He made a face. The beans were soggy, the sauce flat, and he’d never encountered beef with such a grainy texture. But he had to eat something. Would Alexa give him some leftovers if he asked? The kitchen had smelled like fresh bread and something Italian. He huffed out a brief laugh. What was he thinking? After he’d made fun of her, she wouldn’t share anything good with him. He muttered, “Just eat the chili.”

  He took a second bite of the bland chili as his thoughts rolled onward. He’d enjoyed watching the transformation of the kitchen at the old house. His first day in there as he stared at the crumbling plaster walls, the rusty plumbing pipes sticking up from holes in the floor, and the single light bulb hanging from some weird, twisted wire in the middle of the ceiling, he couldn’t envision the room being anything except a disaster. But that Aldrich knew what he was doing.

  Even though it wasn’t finished yet—probably wouldn’t be for another week—Briley could now see the potential. In a week’s time Aldrich repaired the plaster and painted the walls and ceiling an eggshell-like off-white that brightened the space better than a hundred-watt bulb, replaced the old linoleum with gray-and-white tiles in a checkerboard pattern, and refinished the woodwork so it was as smooth as silk and glowed with the color of spun honey. If he proved as adept at building cabinets as he had with plaster, paint, and stain, there should be no complaints about the kitchen when he was done.

  Briley finished his chili and washed the bowl in the bathroom sink. The porcelain gleamed from a recent scrubbing, letting him know Alexa had come in during the day to clean. He pinched his forehead. Were B and B’s like motels, where you should tip the maid? Not that Alexa was a maid, technically, but she did come in each day while he was away to sweep the floor, give his bathroom a going-over, and put out fresh towels if he left his wadded in the tub.

  A grin pulled at his cheek. No, he wouldn’t tip her. At least not the way he’d tip a maid in a hotel. But he had some ideas on what to leave for her to find. He plunked the bowl with the others in the painted cupboard and then retrieved one of the prints he’d made of Alexa’s frantic duck for cover. There weren’t many opportunities for entertainment in Arborville, so he’d have to design his own. Fortunately, he’d always been creative.

  Sommerfeld

  Steven

  Mom and Dad welcomed Steven home after his brief time in Arborville as enthusiastically as if he’d been away at war. Not that any of his community members would serve in the armed forces as anything other than a medic—the Old Order Mennonites were strict pacifists. But maybe in a way he had been fighting a battle. An emotional one.

  Lying in the bed he’d slept in from the time he was old enough to leave the crib, his stomach achingly full from Mom’s good cooking, he played back over his first days in what his parents presumed would be his new home. He couldn’t honestly say he’d had a bad two weeks in Arborville. The fellowship members were helpful and kind. Mr. Aldrich offered advice on fixing up the house when Steven asked for it but left him to his own devices when he didn’t, unlike Dad, who tended to follow him around and give unsolicited advice that left Steven feeling inadequate to the tasks. He liked being in charge of his own projects.

  Living out of boxes wasn’t a lot of fun—he missed his neatly organized-by-Mom dresser drawers and closet—but he could do it. He’d memorized the contents of each box by the end of the second day, making it a little easier to locate what he wanted. Once Anna—Grace made up her mind, he’d know whether or not to completely unpack those boxes.

  His chest went tight, his body hot. He kicked aside the covers and sat on the edge of the mattress, staring into the shadows of the room. He’d been so busy the past days he hadn’t stopped long enough to really think. But all the suppressed worries and wishes and wonderings now rose in a mighty torrent. In his busyness there was something else he’d pushed aside. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d prayed. Really prayed. Not just a thank-you for the food or a quickly uttered request for strength or patience.

  When he was very young, Mom
had always come in and sat on the edge of the bed while he and Kevin knelt side by side and prayed. Kevin prayed first, and then Steven, because Kevin was older. For years Steven had mimicked his brother’s prayers. When Kevin reached his twelfth birthday, Mom deemed him old enough to pray without supervision, so she’d only listened to Steven’s, and he’d finally learned to form his own praises, confessions, and requests.

  After Kevin left home, Steven told Mom how Kevin had stopped the practice of prayer once she left him on his own. The look of pain on her face remained cemented in his memory. Determined not to inflict that kind of anguish on his mother, he’d never skipped a night of talking to God. Until now. The remembrance of her stricken face drove him to his knees beside the bed. Head bowed, eyes closed, he turned his attention to the One he’d claimed as Father when he was eight years old.

  “God, my heavenly Father, forgive me for neglecting You. Being busy is no excuse. Forgive me, also, for any displeasing words, thoughts, or behaviors, whether intentional or unintentional. Thank You for sending the fellowship men to the farm”—he couldn’t bring himself to call it my farm—“and bless them for the work they did on the barn. Thank You for giving me the strength to work hard in the house and accomplish much. Thank You for Briley Forrester’s helping hands this week, and thank You for helping me hold my tongue around him. I don’t want my confusing thoughts to make me say anything that would lead him to think less of Your faithful followers.”

  He took a deep breath, gathering his concerns to lay at God’s throne. “Father, about living in Arborville … It’s a nice town with nice people. A good place to live and worship with fellow believers. But am I meant to farm my grandfather’s land? Dad and Mom think so, and I know I need to honor them just as Your Word commands. If this is Your will for me—to live and farm in Arborville—then let Anna—Grace find her peace in the community. And if Anna—Grace finds her peace, then I trust You …”

  For long seconds Steven gritted his teeth together and held back his final words. He wouldn’t say them if he didn’t mean them. He wouldn’t lie to God. He carefully examined his heart before completing his prayer in a breathy rush. “To give me the desire to be a farmer so I can be at peace, too.” His shoulders wilted.

  He pushed to his feet and flopped back onto the bed. Pulling the covers to his chest, he sighed. A sigh of contentment? No, more one of relief for finding the courage to openly state his trust in God. He couldn’t imagine being as enthusiastic about farming as he felt about teaching, but God had performed miracles in the Bible. He could perform one in Steven’s heart, too.

  Saturday morning Steven awoke at seven thirty—much later than he’d intended. He leaped out of bed and scrambled into his clothes so he could hurry out and help Dad with the chores. Mom handed him a bacon, egg, and cheese-on-toast sandwich as he passed through the kitchen. He thanked her with a kiss on the cheek, which made her smile, then headed through a gray, damp-feeling morning to the barn.

  Dad was lifting the milk pail from beneath Old Blossom, their trusty cow, when Steven entered. He gulped down the last bite of his sandwich, then trotted forward to take the pail. “I hoped to catch you before you started milking. I was going to take care of Old Blossom this morning. Milking was always my chore.” Well, not always. Once it had been Kevin’s. But it became Steven’s a long time ago.

  Dad gave the cow’s rump a light slap, encouraging her to step toward the feed trough. “She got used to my fingers this past week. Your hands would feel like a stranger’s to her now.”

  The comment was meant to tease. Steven recognized the rare glint in Dad’s eyes. But for some reason it pricked like a burr under his skin. In such a short time had he become a stranger? What would he be by the end of a month—forgotten? He turned to carry the pail to the house where Mom’s hand-operated separator waited on the back porch.

  “Steven?” Dad’s voice followed him. “You can stay in the house and visit with your mother. I hired Henry Braun’s boy, Theo, to come out and help in the mornings. He’ll be here by eight.”

  “Henry Braun’s son …” Steven sent a puzzled look in Dad’s direction. “But I thought his boy helped in his automotive shop.”

  Dad paused in stabbing a forkful of hay into Old Blossom’s box. “Oh, he did. But Theo decided he didn’t much care for getting grease under his fingernails. So I told him he could come out and get good old-fashioned dirt under them instead and see if he liked it better.” He shook his head, chuckling indulgently. “Sometimes these young men need to experiment with different things until they know for sure what they want to do with their lives.”

  Joy leaped in Steven’s chest. If Dad understood the Braun boy’s desire to do something other than his dad’s vocation, would he understand his own son’s desires? He licked his lips in anticipation of finally spilling his secret. “Dad, I—”

  “I was glad to give Theo a chance to explore farming. Maybe it will keep him around while he figures out what he wants to do with himself.” Sadness tinged Dad’s features. “I’m glad you aren’t restless like Theo Braun. He’s given his parents a few reasons for worry in the past years. That’s one thing your mother and I are grateful for. Our younger son doesn’t make us stay up nights, fretting and praying over his future the way Henry and Marie do over Theo.” He scraped the fork clean on the edge of the box, hung it on its hook, then scuffed to Steven and squeezed his shoulder. “Our prayers for you are only ones of gratitude. As much as we miss you around here, we’re too happy for your secure future to bring you back.”

  Steven swallowed the words he’d hoped to say and nodded.

  “That land in Arborville has put out a good yield every year for the renters. No reason to believe it won’t do the same for you.” Dad clapped his shoulder, then stepped back, his smile wide. “Thank the good Lord above, you have a bright future ahead of you.” The sound of a car’s engine intruded. Dad looked out the barn doors. “There’s Theo now. Head on in and enjoy a morning of leisure. You don’t get any of those when you’re the farm owner, you know.”

  Yes, Steven knew. He left the barn, giving Theo Braun a nod of greeting as the younger man raced past him. On the back porch he poured the milk into the aluminum bowl of the separator. He situated clean basins beneath the spouts and grabbed the wooden handle to begin spinning the liquid in the bowl. As a boy he’d enjoyed watching the milk spin outward while the cream remained in the center, thinking it somewhat magical that the milk knew to depart down one spout while the cream flowed down the other. He watched the liquid now, trying to recapture some of that wonder.

  “Steven, what in the world are you doing?” Mom’s startled voice came from behind him.

  He glanced over his shoulder. “Separating the cream, Mom. I’ll bring it in when I’m done.”

  “Will you stop that?” Mom waved both hands at him, as if shooing off a cloud of flies.

  “But—”

  “That’s my job.”

  “But I—”

  Mom propped her fists on her hips. A mock scowl formed on her face. “Young man, are you going to argue with your mother?”

  Steven released the handle and stepped away from the separator.

  Mom laughed. She took over the task. “I saw Theo pull in. Did Dad send you up from the barn?”

  “He said he didn’t need me.”

  The corners of Mom’s eyes crinkled with her smile. “I think that’s his way of saying Theo needs to earn his keep.”

  Dad could have told Theo to stay away this weekend—that his son was home and could help. “I suppose.”

  “It isn’t often a farmer gets a weekend off. Why not take advantage of this one?” Mom kept pumping while she spoke, the squeak of the hand-crank machine sending out an offbeat accompaniment to her words. “Anna—Grace doesn’t expect to see you until service tomorrow, right? Why don’t you drive into town and surprise her?”

  Steven offered a slow shrug. “I suppose I could do that.”

  Mom’s eyebrows rose. “Do
n’t you want to see her?”

  Of course he did. He just hadn’t quite set aside his hurt feelings over being so easily replaced out here. Which was pretty ridiculous when he stopped to think about it. He hadn’t wanted to be stuck on his dad’s farm in the first place. He gave himself a mental shake. “I always want to see Anna—Grace.”

  Mom’s smile returned. “So go. Stop and pick up a box of chocolates from the gift shop before you go to her house.”

  “What for?”

  Mom burst out laughing. She released the handle long enough to swat Steven’s arm. “For Anna—Grace! You’ve been away. Bring her a little present to show her you missed her.”

  Seeing her beau show up a day early should be present enough, to his way of thinking, but he wouldn’t argue with Mom. “All right. I guess I’ll see you at lunchtime.”

  “I guess I’ll see you later than that.” Mom shook her head, her eyes twinkling with suppressed laughter. “You know as well as I do Olivia Braun will insist you stay for lunch, and then Anna—Grace will probably want to spend the afternoon with you.”

  Steven frowned. “So you don’t have any need of me around here today at all?”

  “Not one bit.” Mom had no idea how much her glib reply pierced him. “So go on and have fun. Enjoy your day.”

  Steven drove to town under a cloud-filled sky that threatened rain. The gray color of the heavy clouds too closely matched his mood, and he sent up a quick prayer for God to brighten his spirits. He didn’t want to greet Anna—Grace with a somber face.

  Anna—Grace

  The doorbell rang, an intrusion against the cheerful melody of raindrops on the roof.

  Sunny let out a squeal and dropped her crayon onto the coloring book. “I’ll get it!” She jumped up, bumping the table in her rapid movement.

  The tea in Anna—Grace’s mug sloshed over the edge and spattered the papers she’d been grading. “Sunny, please be careful!” She reached for a napkin from the little basket in the center of the table. Sunny didn’t pause in her dash for the door. Shaking her head, Anna—Grace mopped up the mess. Miss Kroeker always said weather changes made the students fidgety. Sunny proved the teacher’s words true—she’d bounced from activity to activity this morning, and it wasn’t yet nine o’clock.