When Grace Sings

by Kim Vogel Sawyer

  The gray-haired Old Order man and the store’s clerk, who’d been leaning against the tall counter and chatting about casual topics for the past half hour, suddenly fell silent. Briley flicked a look in their direction. Their gazes seemed to follow the three women, and not until the trio entered the quilt shop did they start talking again.

  “Do you suppose that’s the girl who’s published to the Brungardt boy?” the customer asked.

  “Ja. I imagine it is.”

  The man clicked his tongue on his teeth. “I wonder at her parents, sending her over here already when the two of them aren’t married yet. It’s a sure way to open the door to temptation.”

  Briley laid the notebook on his knee and began transcribing their conversation while pretending to pay no attention to them.

  The clerk released a throaty chuckle. “Oh, now, she’s staying with Abigail Zimmerman at the bed-and-breakfast her granddaughter started. Aldrich says the boy lives at the farm even without a stick of furniture out there. I figure Mrs. Zimmerman will make sure that mile between the two farmsteads is an adequate barrier to them getting into trouble.”

  “She didn’t do so well with her own daughter, now did she?” A hint of recrimination entered the older man’s tone. “That granddaughter who showed up last spring is proof of it.”

  The clerk cleared his throat. “I don’t think we should talk about that, Irwin. It was a long time ago, and it’s God’s place to judge, not ours.”

  “I’m not judging,” Irwin said, “just stating facts. There’s no husband, and she’s got a daughter, so she fell from grace. And right under her mother’s nose.”

  The clerk muttered something else, but he lowered his voice and Briley couldn’t hear. But he didn’t need to hear anything else. They’d said enough to stir his interest. He could pursue the topic elsewhere on his own.

  Tucking his notebook under his arm, he rose, faced the men, and touched his forehead in a mock tip-of-a-hat. The two nodded in reply, and he left the store, cringing at the loud clatter of the cowbell hanging above the door. There were no cars coming, so he darted directly across the street and entered the quilt shop.

  He ignored the curious look from the woman behind the counter and marched through the shop, turning his gaze right and left in search of Mrs. Zimmerman, Alexa, and Anna—Grace. He found them in the far corner where three round metal tables and chairs with bent wire frames created a little sitting area. The women sat around one of the tables, sharing a banana split.

  He grinned and ambled over. “Well, look at that. Who would have guessed you could buy ice cream in a fabric store.”

  “It’s one of the best-kept secrets in town.” Mrs. Zimmerman spooned up the blob of whipped topping holding a bright-red maraschino cherry. “I’m surprised, though, that you didn’t discover it, given your examination of every store in town over the past weeks.”

  Her statement let him know the townspeople had been talking about his prowling and picture taking. Briley laughed, not insulted in the least. “I admit, I should’ve found it by now. But this is the one store I never entered. I just peeked in the window. All I could see were bolts of cloth, and, no offense, that didn’t interest me much.”

  “Sometimes you have to look deeper to see what’s really there.”

  Briley processed the woman’s statement. Had she intended to present a double meaning or was she only making small talk? He decided on the latter. “Now that I’ve seen what’s really here, I think I’ll order a banana split for myself. It looks great.”

  “Order over there.” Mrs. Zimmerman pointed to a bar straight from the old cowboy movies, complete with tall stools and a low brass rail where a person could rest his feet. He whipped out his notebook, clicked the camera app, and took two snapshots before swaggering over to the bar. He propped one boot on the rail and bounced the peg in an old dome-shaped brass bell. Several hollow jangles rang. The same woman who’d watched him from behind the counter on the fabric side of the store bustled over and asked what he’d like.

  He jammed his thumb over his shoulder and drawled, “I’ll have what they’re having.” A snort and a giggle erupted behind him, and he didn’t even have to look to know Alexa released the snort and Anna—Grace the giggle. He acted as though he hadn’t heard a thing and slid onto one of the stools. The padded seat rotated, so he turned to face the little table and rested his elbow on the scarred wooden counter. “Are you ladies painting the town?”

  Mrs. Zimmerman pursed her lips. “That’s hardly an appropriate question, Mr. Forrester.”

  He grinned. “Sorry, Mrs. Z.” He’d never abbreviated her name before, but this setting—the century-old counter, the little tables, the informality of the three of them dripping chocolate, strawberry, and butterscotch sauces across the table’s top—inspired a casual approach. “I’ll rephrase. Are you two giving Miss Braun here the full nickel tour of Arborville?”

  Anna—Grace answered. “Aunt Abigail had Alexa drive me by the house where my grandmother lived as a little girl. We also went by the school, the church, and the cemetery. Now we’re going into each store so I can become familiar with what’s available in case I end up living here.”

  In case? Briley dove on the statement. “I thought you and Steven intended to live here after you get married.”

  Alexa and Mrs. Zimmerman looked at Anna—Grace in puzzlement, too. The girl’s face turned pink. She gave a one-shoulder shrug. “We haven’t completely decided yet. We’re still … praying about it.”

  Alexa leaned in. “Why fix up the farmhouse if you’re not going to live in it? That doesn’t make sense.”

  If Briley wasn’t mistaken, Alexa seemed more pleased than perplexed.

  “Steven says the house will fetch a better price if it’s fixed up.”

  Mrs. Zimmerman slapped her spoon onto the table. “Well, of course you’re going to live in it. Why go to all that work for someone else?”

  “We’re just not sure yet.” Anna—Grace fidgeted in her chair. “We’ll decide after the house is all done.”

  “Here you are, sir.” The store worker slid a boat-shaped glass dish in front of Briley. “Anything else? Something to drink?”

  The scoops of ice cream were the size of baseballs, and the toppings oozed over the sides. He’d never seen a bigger banana split. “No, thanks. This is perfect.” He picked up the long spoon and chose chocolate smothered in marshmallow sauce for his first bite. The sweetness filled his mouth, and he gave the worker an approving smile. She smiled in reply and headed back to the other side of the store.

  The interruption offered the opportunity to shift topics. He knew what he wanted to pursue. “So, Miss Braun, tell me a little bit about yourself. You’re from Sommerfeld, yes? Is your father a farmer like Steven?”

  “No, Dad builds stained-glass windows.” The girl licked her spoon and set it aside. “He’s a very good artist. You’ll find his windows in churches all over Kansas, Nebraska, and Oklahoma.”

  The little church where the Zimmermans and Paul Aldrich attended had clear glass windows. “That’s a unique occupation for someone of your religious sect.”

  “I suppose. But he loves it.”

  “Does your mom have a job? Outside of the home, I mean.” After watching Aunt Myrt labor at homemaking and raising a half-dozen kids who weren’t her own, he wouldn’t presume taking care of a house and children wasn’t work.

  “No, not officially, although she does take in sewing now and then. But that’s mostly because she enjoys it so much.”

  “I see.” He paused long enough to take another bite, this one of strawberry, which tasted a bit tart after the chocolate. “Alexa, your mom is a nurse—I remember someone saying that. But I don’t think I’ve ever heard what your dad does.”

  She clattered her spoon into the empty bowl and rose. Her focus on her grandmother and cousin, she pushed in her chair. “Are you ready to go grocery shopping now? We should probably get to it since I’ll need to start supper in a little over
an hour. The pork chops I laid out need to slow bake for ninety minutes.”

  “Then let’s go,” Mrs. Zimmerman said.

  The three gathered their things. Anna—Grace offered a weak smile and wave in parting, but Alexa took hold of the handles on Mrs. Zimmerman’s wheelchair and pushed her away without even glancing in Briley’s direction. He watched them depart, his ice cream forgotten. Twice before he’d seen the opportunities for a good story escape him. The Zimmermans had accepted without a fuss losing the land they’d rented for years. They also seemed accepting of Alexa, receiving her into the fellowship even though she didn’t adhere to the dress code. But this subject—the subject of Alexa’s parentage—had the potential to break the facade of perfection.

  Apparently an Old Order Mennonite girl had not only given birth out of wedlock, but she’d decided to keep and raise the child. In a religious group that touted traditional values, her choice was far outside the accepted dictates. And according to the man in the hardware store, people hadn’t forgotten. He could build an entire story around the Zimmerman woman who “fell from grace,” as Irwin had said.

  He tossed a few bills onto the counter to pay for his uneaten ice cream, then hurried out of the shop and to his car. Once he was inside and behind the steering wheel, he pulled out his cell phone and jabbed the button to speed dial Len. His boss answered on the second ring.

  “Len, I’ve got it. They’re not so squeaky clean after all. Listen to what I found out …”

  Anna—Grace

  Anna—Grace sat in the backseat of Aunt Abigail’s car and listened to her aunt and cousin talk, but she didn’t contribute. If she tried to talk, she’d probably end up crying instead. She wanted to go home. She wanted to go home now.

  When Briley Forrester asked about her mom and dad, she’d answered honestly, images of Andrew and Olivia Braun strong in her mind. But then he’d questioned Alexa, forcing her to admit with action rather than words her status as an illegitimate child, and her stomach had begun to churn. Only strength of will prevented her from losing her share of the banana split. Back in Sommerfeld in her top dresser drawer rested letters from her birth mother and father. If they gave her away, it was almost a certainty they weren’t married when she came into the world. Which meant she bore the label “illegitimate,” too.

  The car hit a bump, and she clasped her hands over her stomach. Don’t throw up. Don’t throw up! She brought herself under control, and that unpleasant title returned to taunt her. Why hadn’t she ever considered such a thing before? Probably because Mom and Dad were such stellar members of the community, and in the eyes of everyone in Sommerfeld, she was theirs. But here in Arborville her father resided. And her mother’s family still lived. She might have passed some of them on the street today without even knowing it.

  She closed her eyes and tried to envision the few people they’d encountered during their time in town. Had any seemed uncomfortable to meet her? Had any seemed especially mindful of her? They’d shown various levels of friendliness, some more shy than others, but she couldn’t recall any out-of-the-ordinary reactions when Aunt Abigail introduced her as her great-niece. So in all likelihood she’d managed to make it through today without crossing paths with one of her relatives.

  But now that she’d been reminded of how small Arborville really was—Aunt Abigail said the town’s population was less than seven hundred—she would come face-to-face with them eventually. She didn’t know who her parents were, but they knew her or they wouldn’t have been able to send those letters.

  Her stomach was spinning again. She leaned forward and tapped Alexa on the shoulder. “How much farther to the house?”

  Alexa met her gaze in the rearview mirror. “About five minutes.” She frowned, her gaze flicking between the mirror and the dirt road. “Are you all right?”

  “I feel kind of sick.” She released a half cry, half laugh. “The ice cream isn’t settling very well.”

  “Do you want me to stop?”

  “No.” Anna—Grace swallowed. “I’ll be fine. I just need to … to …” She needed to go back in time before Mom and Dad gave her that envelope of letters so she could be blissfully ignorant again.

  “Pull over, Alexa.” Aunt Abigail barked the order.

  Alexa slowed the car and pulled off to the side, the crunch of the tires on the gravel becoming a hollow sound as two wheels met the grassy ditch. She put the car in Park but left the engine running. Alexa turned sideways and sent a sympathetic look into the backseat. “Maybe if you get out and walk around a little bit—you know, pull in some big breaths of air—it’ll help. Want me to get out with you?”

  How comical. One illegitimate child reaching out to another. For some reason, a memory surfaced from years ago, even before Sunny came along. Their family had gone to the mall in Wichita and she became separated from her parents. A huge display of televisions—something alien in her small corner of the world—captured her attention, and she stopped to gawk at the images projected on the screens. One of the channels was tuned to a talk show, the guests a woman and three men who intended to find out, on live television, which of the men had fathered the woman’s child. Mom found her and yanked her away, scolding, “Anna—Grace, for shame.” At the time she’d thought watching the television was the shame, but now she wondered if the shame was really the uncertainty of parentage.

  She and Alexa could form a club. The “Who’s Your Daddy?” club. A hysterical laugh built in Anna—Grace’s throat. “No. Stay put.” She threw the door open and staggered across the road to the opposite ditch, away from the car’s exhaust, and lifted her face toward the wind. As Alexa had suggested, she drew in great drafts of cool air, filling her nose with the potpourri of rich soil, decaying leaves, and a hint of wood smoke, probably from an Amish farmer’s wood-burning stove. The tactic worked. Her stomach calmed, and the sick feeling faded.

  But she stayed in place for several more minutes, letting the wind tug at her skirt and sweater and toss the ribbons from her cap over her shoulders. If she spread her arms, would the wind pick her up and carry her back to Sommerfeld where she could pretend she had no other parents than Mom and Dad?

  A cloud of dust rose from the road in the east. Another car was coming. She jogged across the road and opened the door to slide into Aunt Abigail’s backseat, but when the vehicle’s nose topped the rise, Anna—Grace recognized the dark-green truck. She threw both arms in the air and waved them in a wild bid for the driver to stop. The moment it came to a halt she raced to the driver’s side and pressed her hands to the glass.

  “Steven!”

  Anna—Grace

  Unshed tears distorted her view of Steven’s dear face.

  He rolled down the window and reached out to touch her cheek. “What’s the matter?” The concern in his voice increased her desire to cry.

  She gulped several times, swallowing the sobs that strained for release, and gathered her thoughts. The longing to go home was still strong, but looking into his worried face sent the selfish desire scuttling for cover. How could she have forgotten the work he’d done on the house? How could she have forgotten so quickly the reason she’d come? She couldn’t run home right away. She had to at least give herself a chance to settle in.

  “Anna—Grace?”

  Instead of begging him to take her home, she told a half-truth. “I’m homesick.”

  A crooked smile appeared on his lips. “Already? It hasn’t even been a full day.”

  “I know.” She forced a short laugh. It sounded strained, but he didn’t appear to notice. “Silly, huh?”

  He shook his head, amusement glinting in his eyes. “Maybe an excursion will take your mind off of it. Do you want to go to the hardware store with me, see what kind of cabinet handles they have?”

  “Let me ask Aunt Abigail.” She trotted to the car. Alexa had already rolled down the window, so she stooped over and addressed her great-aunt. “Steven is going to look at cabinet handles and asked if I could go along.”
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  Aunt Abigail waved one hand and blew out a little breath. “You don’t need my permission. Go if you want to.”

  “Thank you!”

  Alexa said, “Will you be back in time for supper?”

  Anna—Grace straightened and called to Steven. “What about supper?”

  “I’ll have you back in time.”

  Aunt Abigail hollered, “Come eat with us, too, Steven.”

  He raised his hand in reply.

  “I’ll see you later then, Aunt Abigail. Bye, Alexa.” Anna—Grace scampered around to the passenger side of the truck and climbed in. She sank into the buttery soft seat as Steven put the vehicle in gear and pulled forward. He reached across the center console for her hand. She linked fingers with him and released a slow breath, tension easing with the gesture. She hadn’t realized how uptight she’d been over the past few hours until she relaxed in Steven’s stalwart presence.

  Eager to put the worrisome thoughts to rest, she adopted a cheery tone. “I figured you’d stay out at your house until evening since you didn’t go over until after lunch. Are you finished for the day already?”

  “I couldn’t work inside, so I raked out all the weeds from the garden plot. It only took a few hours.”

  “Why couldn’t you work inside?”

  “Paul Aldrich, the carpenter, was varnishing cabinet doors and wouldn’t let me stir up dust.”

  She turned slightly in the seat so she could look at him while they talked. “He redid the kitchen at Aunt Abigail’s house, and it’s so homey yet functional. I can hardly wait to see what the kitchen in your house looks like. When will I get to see it?”

  He worked his jaw back and forth. “Well … probably Thursday.”

  Disappointment struck. “Not until then?”

  He sent her a brief, apologetic look. “I don’t think you’ll want to be over there until we finish sanding the Sheetrock and clear out the dust. Mr. Aldrich said as much, too.”