Waiting for Summer's Return

by Kim Vogel Sawyer

  SUMMER TURNED FROM the window and blinked blearily at the boys, who sat together at the table creating a picture of a lamb with the pieces of a jigsaw puzzle. Although the boys had been well behaved, her nerves felt frayed by the red-haired boy’s constant scrutiny. The tension had worn her out. “Thomas?”

  “Yes, ma’am?” Thomas looked up, but his friend’s focus never wavered from the puzzle.

  “Do you suppose you boys will be all right if I turn in early? I can hardly keep my eyes open.”

  “Sure, we’ll be fine.”

  The other boy lifted his face just enough to send Summer another look full of suspicion. She shivered and forced a weak smile. “It’s dark, so I’m sure your fathers will be here soon.” She pointed to the stove. “I left some salt pork and potatoes in the skillet. Remind your father to eat, will you?” She felt a blush build as she remembered the boy’s father prodding her to eat.

  A secretive smile tipped up Thomas’s lips, and he sent Rupert a knowing look that gave Summer an uneasy feeling. “Yes, ma’am, I’ll tell him you said so.”

  “Thank you.” She hesitated. Was it negligent to leave the boys unattended? The grandmother had toddled off to bed nearly an hour ago. A yawn pressed at her throat, and she knew she wouldn’t be able to stay awake much longer. Thomas was a responsible boy—surely they would be fine. She crossed to the table and touched his shoulder. “You sleep well tonight, Thomas.”

  “I will, ma’am. Schlop die gesunt.”

  “Thank you.” She looked at Rupert. “Good night, Rupert.” He didn’t respond.

  Summer closed herself in the bedroom and leaned against the door, her eyes closed. Thomas’s good-night message echoed in her ears. How much the boy was like his father in appearance and mannerisms. Yet, with the typical openness of children, he was much less restrained than his father.

  She smiled, remembering the brief conversation they had shared when Rupert had visited the outhouse.

  “Mrs. Steadman, do you have a first name?”

  The question had taken her aback, and she had stammered out, “Well, of course I do. It’s Summer.”

  The boy’s eyes had widened. “Summer? I like that name.”

  She had shared the reason for her unusual name, watching his eyebrows rise. When she was finished, he had exclaimed, “You’re like me, then. You don’t have a ma, either.”

  She had shaken her head. “No, I don’t.”

  Abruptly, he had turned the conversation back to her name. “May I call you Summer? When it’s just us, I mean? Not in front of Rupert.”

  It had pleased her to think of the boy using her name, so she had given permission. Now she wondered if she’d done the right thing. Would his father approve? Even now, after a month with the family, he still referred to her formally as Frau Steadman, except that one time he had called her woman. Her face flamed with the remembrance. What would her name sound like spoken by his deep voice?

  When her thoughts ran in those kinds of directions, she knew she needed rest. She made a pallet of blankets on the floor, lay down, and quickly fell asleep.

  Ach, it had been a long day. But the Ratzlaff barn was rebuilt, the offending tree now lay stacked as firewood, and his own animals munched hay in their stalls. Peter could turn in. He entered the house as quietly as his big feet would allow so he would not wake anyone. He was surprised to find Thomas at the table.

  “Son, you still are awake?”

  “I was waiting for you. Rupert went home over an hour ago.” The boy went to the stove and raised the lid on a skillet. A good smell greeted Peter’s nostrils. “You’re supposed to eat. Summer went to bed, but she left this for you.”

  Peter frowned. “Summer?” He hung up his coat. “Of what do you speak?”

  The boy blinked, his expression innocent. “Mrs. Steadman. She said I could call her Summer.”

  “But why?” He plodded to the table and seated himself heavily.

  Thomas shrugged as he scooped food onto a plate. “It’s her name.”

  The woman’s name was Summer? The word brought images of blooming flowers and golden wheat, of cottony clouds and whispered breezes. Summer … Ah yes, the name suited the woman. “How did a woman get an unusual name as that?”

  “She told me how.” Thomas placed the plate and a fork in front of Peter. Pressing the heels of his hands on the edge of the table, he explained. “Her folks had a boy—Summer’s brother, William—but after him, they lost four babies in a row. So when Summer was born in early summer, her mother said they maybe shouldn’t name her since she probably wouldn’t live. They called her Summer for the season.”

  Peter thought about this explanation. It did not seem as though the parents cared a great deal if they had no hopes of her living. But perhaps they only shielded their own hearts from possible pain. He knew the woman did this—tried to shield herself from Thomas. The boy had weaseled his way into her heart anyway. He suspected Grossmutter had found a spot there, too. The thought warmed him.

  “Summer’s Ma died when Summer was ten years old, almost the same age I am now,” Thomas went on, bringing Peter’s attention back. “Her pa, too. Both of them died in a carriage accident.”

  She was an orphan? The thought pained Peter. She had lost her husband and children after losing parents? What a great deal of sadness she had borne.

  “Her brother and his wife took care of her after that.” Thomas scowled. “And even though she didn’t say so, I felt like she wasn’t very happy with them.” He shrugged. “Sometimes I don’t think she’s very happy with us, either, but she did smile today. Twice.”

  A smile was still rare on the woman’s face. If she had smiled twice today, Thomas was working miracles. “I think your friend is just careful, Thomas.” Peter paused. How should he word his thoughts? “People who have lost much are always worried about losing more. So they guard their hearts. It is not that she does not feel the happiness; she only wishes to hide it so as not to be hurt should she lose something more.”

  Thomas seemed to consider what his father had said. Finally he nodded, his expression somber. “I think I understand. Is … is that why you haven’t found another wife?”

  Peter felt his lips twitch. The boy was growing up fast. “What is this? You want to be matchmaker for your father?”

  “No.” Thomas grimaced. “But Stuart and Fannie Jacobs got a new ma when their pa married Martin Hett’s ma. So Martin got a new pa, too.” He gave another shrug. “Grown-ups just seem to get married. Why don’t you?”

  Peter chewed his lower lip thoughtfully as he examined his son. “Do you want a new mother, boy?”

  A blush stole across Thomas’s cheeks. “Sometimes.” His voice was so soft, Peter nearly missed the single word answer.

  Peter did something he had not done for many years. He lifted his son onto his knee. The boy had to curl his back to nestle his head on his father’s shoulder. Peter wrapped his arms around him.

  “Ach, boy, you are almost too big for this, but I think for now we both need it.” Peter kissed the top of Thomas’s head. “You know I love you, and I want to give you the things that will make you happy. But a mother …” He chuckled. “Well, that is not something I can order from Nickels’ Dry Goods, for sure.”

  “I know.” The boy’s breath stirred Peter’s beard.

  “The Hett woman and Jacobs married for good reason. Frau Hett had a farm she could not run by herself. Jacobs has fine strapping boys to help. By their marriage, they solved problems. But …” How much could the boy understand? Although he was growing up, he was still very much a boy inside. The way he curled on his father’s lap proved that.

  “But …?” Thomas lifted his head.

  “But to me, son, if a man proposes marriage to a woman, he should feel about her like he feels for no other. God means for a man and a woman to cleave to one another. How can they do this if love does not exist between them?” Peter looked intently into his son’s face. “Do you understand this, Thomas?”

/>   “Yes. I know how much you loved Ma.”

  Peter swallowed. Elsa had been his light, his God-chosen love. No other light would ever shine as bright for him again. “Ja, my love for her went deep. I still feel it inside my heart. Until I feel for someone else the way I felt for your dear mother, I cannot think of proposing marriage.”

  Thomas twiddled with the buttons on his father’s shirt. “Do you think it’ll ever happen?”

  Peter answered honestly. “I do not know, son. I know God gives gifts, and love is one of them. If He wishes for me to have a wife, He will let the love to bloom again.” Peter took Thomas’s chin in his hand. “But no matter if I marry again or I do not, one thing does not change, and that is my love for you, boy.” His voice turned gruff with emotion. “You are one of my God-given loves.”

  “I love you, too, Pa.” Thomas threw his arms around Peter’s neck and clung.

  Peter clasped the back of Thomas’s head, his fingers in the boy’s coarse hair. “I know, Thomas. I know.”

  They sat together for several minutes, until Thomas’s hold loosened and his arms slid from Peter’s shoulders. The boy had fallen asleep. Peter carried him to his bed, threw back the blankets, and laid him on the sheet. After untying the boy’s boots and tugging them from his feet, Peter covered his son’s snoring frame, kissed his forehead, and tiptoed from the room.

  He returned to the chair, staring thoughtfully out the dark window. His bedroom door was closed. Behind it, the woman no doubt slumbered. What kept her here? She had family. He had mailed two letters for her to the parents-in-law who lived in Boston. Why did she choose to remain in this town rather than return to them? She said it was her children’s graves, but there must be more.

  Peter thought he knew. Love for the boy. He had watched it blossom between the pair. The boy’s questions tonight were not idle ones. Thomas looked at this woman—Summer—and saw her as more than his teacher.

  Peter thought back on the years since Elsa’s death. Having Elsa’s grandmother here had always seemed to be enough. The woman had mothered Elsa through her childhood and young adulthood. She had done the same for Thomas. Peter had never considered that the boy needed anything more than his father and great-grandmother to care for him. Now, though, Thomas’s words made Peter realize the boy longed for a mother.

  Peter searched his own heart, bringing forth an image of Frau Steadman. There was much about her to admire. Her way with the boy, her kindness toward Grossmutter, her willingness to help in his house and assume chores that were not part of their bargain. Her appearance was also pleasing. Now that she was eating and filling out, she had lost the gaunt look. Frau Steadman was an attractive woman.

  Peter rubbed the back of his neck. He wished to give his boy all the things that would make him happy, but on this one thing, should he not think of himself? While marriages of convenience were not uncommon, a marriage of convenience was not for Peter Ollenburger. Marriage for love—the same as he’d had for his dear Elsa—was all he could accept.

  On Sunday morning, Summer awakened before dawn lit the room. She frowned, trying to determine what had pulled her from sleep, and then she heard it—the sound of a cough. She rose to her feet and left the bedroom. With her ear pressed against Thomas’s door, she waited. The sound came again.

  Alarm filled her breast, and she entered the room without knocking. She touched the boy’s forehead. “Thomas? Are you sick?”

  The boy opened his eyes and squinted upward. “Oh … Summer, I don’t feel good.” He coughed again.

  “I’ll get your father.” She pulled on shoes, but she didn’t take the time to button her coat—just slipped it on over her nightclothes and dashed through the frost-laden predawn to the barn. Pushing through the door, she called, “Mr. Ollenburger, come quickly!”

  A scuffle sounded from a stall in the shadowed corner, then the man stepped into the murky light. He was attired in pants with suspenders over long johns, and his hair stood on end; his eyes appeared wild. “Was? Was ist es?”

  “It’s Thomas—he’s sick.” Summer choked back a sob as fear pressed like a weight on her chest.

  Mr. Ollenburger turned back into the shadows. Summer danced with impatience beside the door. It seemed ages before he emerged with untied boots covering his feet and his coat flapping. “Come.” He took her arm, and together they ran back to the house. When they entered Thomas’s bedroom, Grossmutter was there, stroking the boy’s hair and murmuring to him in low tones.

  Whispering to her, Peter took the old woman by the shoulders and gently shifted her to the side. He leaned over his son. “What is wrong, boy?”

  “My throat,” he croaked. “It hurts.”

  The man sat on the edge of the bed. “Only your throat?”

  The boy nodded.

  Mr. Ollenburger looked up at Summer. “It is only his throat. Sore throats he gets when chilled he has been. He will be fine.” He covered Thomas to the chin. “I will fix you a gargle, son. You rest.”

  The grandmother resumed her spot and continued to stroke Thomas’s hair as Mr. Ollenburger guided Summer out of the room. Looking down at her, he smiled. “Come now, Summer Steadman, you must not look so troubled. Boys get sore throats. There is no need for such worry.”

  The sound of her name on his lips, delivered in the deep, gentle roll of thunder, touched Summer in a way she hadn’t expected. She felt tears spurt into her eyes, and she covered her face, abashed by the reaction. His large hand touched her back, guiding her to the table, where he pulled out a chair and pressed her into it. Sitting across from her, he took her wrist.

  “Frau Steadman, you must not worry so. Thomas will be fine.”

  She nodded but found she couldn’t speak. A large knot of emotion blocked her voice box. She stared at his hand, which continued to hold her wrist. Could he feel the beat of her pulse pounding faster and faster?

  “I must fix the boy a gargle, but first I think we pray together, ja? This will make you feel better?”

  His concern for her brought a fresh rush of tears. What a good man he was—a good, gentle, caring man. She raised her gaze and gave another wordless nod.

  A slight smile tipped his lips, then he lowered his head, closing his eyes. The prayer, delivered in German, washed over Summer like a healing balm. Although she understood not one word, the reverence and familiarity of the tone reached deep into her soul. I want this for myself. I want the relationship with God Mr. Ollenburger has.

  At his amen, she opened her eyes. Giving her wrist a pat, he rose. “I fix Thomas his gargle now. You … go dress.” Pink appeared on the tops of his ears. “We will not attend Kleine Gemeinde this morning, but I think we study together, ja?”

  Summer pulled her coat snug across her chest, suddenly realizing she was still in her nightclothes. As she dashed to the bedroom, though, her heart tripped faster for a reason other than embarrassment. They would study together. Summer would ask him how she could form a relationship with his God.

  18

  THE PROMISED BIBLE study was delayed since Mr. Ollenburger spent the morning with Thomas. The boy, cranky from his fever and sore throat, wanted his father close. So the man sat on the bed and read aloud from his Bible while the boy drowsed. Grossmutter sat in her chair, her familiar shawl over her shoulders and her Bible in her lap. Occasionally the old woman’s eyes slipped closed and her lips moved in silent communication. Praying, Summer assumed, and her heart caught each time. Oh, she longed to feel able to speak so freely with God!

  As she sliced cabbage, potatoes, and onions for soup, Summer listened to the gentle flow of words from the bedroom, but to her frustration, she couldn’t understand what was said. If she was going to stay in Gaeddert, perhaps she should learn to speak their language.

  When the soup simmered on the stove, steaming the room with pleasant aromas, Summer retrieved her own Bible. She sat at the table and opened the Bible to the last place she had studied with Mr. Ollenburger. As she reread the passages from Philippians, she
discovered her repeated readings had committed several verses to memory.

  She particularly liked verse thirteen of chapter four: “I can do all things through Christ which strengtheneth me.” She wondered if that knowledge was what helped Mr. Ollenburger maintain his positive attitude in the face of discouragement.

  The sound of a wagon intruded in her thoughts. Grossmutter looked up and sent Summer a look of puzzlement. Summer raised her shoulders in silent response, then rose and peered out the window. Mr. Penner and the man who had argued with Mr. Ollenburger on the road after her visit to town—Mr. Schmidt—pulled into the yard. What were they doing here?

  Both men got down, stood for a moment beside the wagon in conversation, and then started toward the house.

  “Mr. Ollenburger?” Summer moved to open the door. “You have visitors.”

  Mr. Ollenburger appeared in the boy’s doorway as Summer opened the door to the two men. Both men froze when they found Summer waiting inside the house. Their faces wore twin frowns of displeasure.

  “Hello.” Summer stepped back. “Won’t you come in?”

  The men entered, removing their hats.

  “To what do I owe the honor of this visit?” Mr. Ollenburger asked as he shook their hands. Although he usually used German when addressing those from town, today he spoke in English.

  “Ollenburger, we need to speak with you.” Penner also used English. “But outside. Out of the hearing of … her.”

  Mr. Ollenburger frowned. “Frau Steadman is guest in my home. Rude it would be to exclude her. Especially since my thought is this visit concerns her, ja?”

  The two pursed their lips, and for a moment Summer wondered if they would leave without speaking. But then the one who had argued stepped forward, his eyes snapping.

  “All right, Herr Ollenburger. I speak in front of … your guest.” The way he said guest sent a chill down Summer’s spine. “We hear that this woman now stays in your home, not in the shariah. We hear that she stays”—the man’s face turned red—“in your sleeping room.”