Waiting for Summer's Return

by Kim Vogel Sawyer

  Summer considered how to answer. Would it make sense to him? “Yes, special. You see, Peter, when I lived in Boston, I had much—a husband who provided well for me, children to love who loved me back, a beautiful home full of fine belongings. Then typhoid and a fire took that all away. I thought I had nothing—no reason to live, no reason to be.” She swallowed as tears flooded her eyes. “But I was so wrong. It is now that I have everything, because God has filled me.”

  She felt warm tears spill down her cheeks, and she allowed them to flow. “This Christmas is my first to truly understand the gift of God’s Son to the world and what that gift means to each of us. Yes, I miss my children. The ache is still here”—she touched her chest—“and I am sure it always will be. But that ache no longer consumes me. The joy of God’s love fills me, taking up all the empty places. It’s the gift He’s given me, and I will always remember this Christmas as special because of what I have learned.”

  Peter sat back, his fingers convulsing on the handle of his cup. Tears glinted in the corners of his eyes. “You are wise woman, Summer Steadman.”

  Thomas’s door opened, bringing their conversation to a close. They both laughed as the boy waddled to the table, his arms held from his body, his wide-legged stance exaggerated for his father’s benefit. In addition to the articles of clothing Peter had dictated must be worn, he had wrapped woolen socks around his neck and pulled them over his arms, hiding his hands. Another thick gray sock, tied around his head, covered his ears with the knot standing up like a bow on his mussed blond hair.

  “Am I bundled enough?” His eyes sparkled.

  Peter chuckled in Summer’s direction. “What is that m word you teach me? Mis-mus-vis?”

  Summer shook her head, her fingers hiding her grin. “Mischievous.”

  “Ja, that is it. This boy is too mis-chie-vous for his good, for sure. But I think I keep him anyway.” He rose, still chuckling. “Boy, can you put your coat on over all that gear?”

  Thomas waddled to the hooks and pulled his coat down. With some struggling—which he played up for his audience—he wrestled himself into his coat, but his sock-covered fingers couldn’t manage the buttons. He turned a winsome expression on Summer. “Summer, will you do my buttons?”

  She released a laugh as she crossed the floor. “I suppose I can do that.” Finished, she gave him a pat. “There you are, ready to ride in the sleigh.”

  “I wish you could come, too.”

  “Oh, I have a busy morning planned.” She placed her hands on her hips. “Lena and I are going to bake cookies—lots of cookies—and sprinkle them with sugar so they’ll sparkle like stars.” Looking over her shoulder at Peter, she added, “I’d like to give them as Christmas gifts to those who have been kind to me.”

  Peter joined them by the door, reaching for his coat and hat. “That is fine idea. I will bring extra sugar. Do you have need for anything else from town?”

  Summer thought about it for a moment. “No, I believe I have everything I need. I do have one more request, though.”

  “What is that?”

  She quirked a brow and pointed a warning finger at him. “About those packages—you don’t peek, either, Peter Ollenburger.”

  26

  THE PAIN SUMMER worried might plague her thankfully remained at bay Christmas morning. Watching Thomas open his gifts one by one brought bittersweet memories of watching her children on former Christmases, although the sweet outweighed the bitter.

  Thomas grinned at her as held up the Authors game. “The next time Pa’s snowed in somewhere, we’ll be able to play something besides checkers. But I’ll still beat you!”

  Summer held up the fine fur-lined leather gloves from Peter. “The next time your pa’s snowed in somewhere, I’ll be able to do his chores without freezing my fingers.”

  Peter patted the flannel shirt that lay across his knees. “I like this, too. Warm, and a color that is pleasing. It reminds me of the night sky full with stars.”

  Summer smiled. When she’d seen the deep blue flannel bearing specks of yellow and white, she had thought the same thing. How many times had she observed this man standing in his yard on widespread legs, hands in pockets, gazing upward? She had known the pattern would please him.

  Lena leaned forward from her chair to pat Summer’s knee. “Danke,” she murmured, cradling the handkerchief Summer had embroidered.

  Summer replied in her limited German. “Bitte schoen.”

  Lena laughed, her eyes crinkling.

  Peter shook his head. “Grossmutter finds your German amusing, I think.”

  “I don’t blame her.” Summer’s heart felt light, seeing the smiles on the faces around her. “And I don’t mind her laughing at me. I enjoy her laughter.”

  “As do I.” Peter’s warm tone matched the expression in his eyes.

  Thomas pointed to a small square package under the tree. “Who is that for?”

  Peter plucked it out and turned a grin in Summer’s direction. “It is for Summer.”

  She took it, unable to contain a smile. “Another one?” She admired the roses on a pale green background before peeling back the paper to reveal a beautifully carved oak frame. Her fingers traced over the delicate rose pattern. “Oh, it’s lovely, Peter. Roses have so many meanings for me. My daughter’s name, the flowers she loved to stitch with floss, the blossoming vines that covered the trellis in my childhood yard … Roses bring good memories.” She caught Peter’s eye. “Thank you so much.”

  “You are welcome. That frame is to hold the page with your children’s names on it.”

  Summer thought her chest would burst from emotion. This man’s sensitivity went beyond anything she’d known before. He truly was a man who followed God in every way.

  “Nick tells me if it is wrong size, it can go back.”

  Even if the page didn’t fit, she would never part with this frame. “It will be fine, I’m sure.” She let her smile beam on all of the Ollenburgers. “What a wonderful Christmas I’ve had!”

  “But we are not done. There is one more gift for you.” A secretive smile played at the corners of Peter’s lips. “Wrapping it was not possible. So … I just have to tell you.”

  His boyish appearance made her heart skip a beat. She released a breathy laugh and held out her hands in silent inquiry.

  “Herr Heinrich Gaeddert says the land is yours.”

  Summer reared backward so sharply the legs of her chair screeched against the floor. She hugged the frame to her chest as her pulse raced. “Oh, Peter! Really? The land—I can build my house there? And I can stay?”

  Thomas looked back and forth from his father to Summer. “You’ll stay in Gaeddert forever, Summer?”

  “Forever!” Summer declared. She bounced from the chair, put the frame on the seat, then caught Thomas’s hands and spun him in a happy circle. Releasing Thomas, she turned to his father. “Peter, you’ve been so kind. I can’t believe how much you’ve done for me.”

  He shrugged and gave her a shy smile. “Is not so much.”

  She snorted—a very unladylike sound. “It is much. And I thank you.”

  “You are welcome.” Their eyes remained locked for long seconds.

  “But, Summer,” Thomas interrupted, “if you have your own house, you won’t be living here anymore.”

  Summer pulled her attention away from Peter. “No, but I was only staying until you were caught up on your studies and could return to school. You’re all caught up and even ahead, I would wager. Your ribs have healed enough for you to ride Daisy to school when the winter break is over. So my time here is nearly done.”

  “But-but …” the boy sputtered.

  “What is troubling you, boy?” Peter asked.

  Thomas looked at the floor. “I wanted Summer to … always stay here. I wanted her to … be … my ma.” His words ended on a hoarse whisper.

  Summer felt as though her heart turned over in her chest. She looked at Peter, uncertain how to answer the boy. By Peter�
��s expression, he was lost, too. Maternal instinct took over, and she pulled Thomas into her embrace. As he had the night Peter didn’t return, the boy clung, burying his face against her shoulder.

  “Thomas, what a wonderful gift you just gave me. It would be an honor to call a boy like you my son.”

  He raised his head to look at her. “Because I remind you of Vincent?”

  Summer closed her eyes for a moment, picturing her son. Darkhaired, slender, with thick curling eyelashes and deep brown eyes. A pensive face, curiosity in his expression. She opened her eyes and looked at the sturdy blond boy who coiled his arms around her waist. The same pensive, curious, want-to-learn desire burned in Thomas’s eyes.

  She answered honestly. “Because you are you.”

  Thomas burrowed again.

  Peter rose and touched the boy’s shoulder. “Thomas, we talked about this, ja? That man and woman must love each other to make a union?”

  Thomas loosened his grip to step back and peer up at his father. “Yes, but don’t you love Summer?” He swiveled his face to look at Summer. “And don’t you love my pa?”

  Peter’s cheeks and ears were turning deep red. Her cheeks burned, and she wondered if she was glowing more brightly than Peter.

  “If Summer’s staying, I don’t know why she can’t stay right here.” Thomas’s tone turned stubborn.

  Peter gave his son’s shoulder a shake. “You are talking of things that are best left to grownups, boy.” While he spoke firmly, the gentleness Summer had grown to appreciate was still very much in place.

  Thomas turned a pleading look on Summer. “Will you talk about it, please?”

  She couldn’t bear to deny the boy. “We’ll talk about it, Thomas.” Did she love this man? What she’d felt for Rodney had been acceptable—a feeling of security, but no real passion. If she married again, she knew she wanted more than she’d had before. She wanted her husband to feel for her what Peter had felt for his wife. Was it possible for him to feel for someone new what he had felt for Elsa? Could she feel that way about him? “We’ll talk about it,” she repeated, “and we’ll pray about it. Whatever happens must be God’s will, Thomas.”

  The big man nodded, approving her words. “But now we must finish with gifts.”

  Thomas’s brow crinkled. “But there’s nothing left to open.”

  “Wait here.” Peter winked at Summer and put on his coat. He headed outside while Thomas stood at the window, his nose pressed to the glass. Summer, knowing what had been hidden in the hay, could hardly wait to see Thomas’s reaction. Watching someone else’s joy was as good as feeling it herself. She felt someone touch her elbow, and she turned to find Lena beside her, her own focus aimed toward the door in anticipation. Summer put her arm around the old woman’s shoulders as they waited together for Thomas’s surprise.

  Summer knew the moment Peter came into sight with the new bicycle. Thomas leaped from the window and flew out the door. He remained on the stoop, his arms crossed over himself, feet dancing in excitement. “You got me a bicycle, Pa? Really? My own bicycle?”

  “Ja, boy, your own bicycle.” Peter slogged through the mushy, leftover snow. He thumped his feet clean on the stoop and then brought the ungainly machine into the house. Leaning it against the wall next to the tree hung with paper streamers and cookies, he said, “You cannot ride it until the snow melts and the ground dries hard again, but here it is for you to look at.”

  “Can I sit on it?”

  Peter laughed and obligingly held up the bike. The boy clambered onto the seat and put his feet on the pedals. Summer, witnessing the joy on Thomas’s face, couldn’t hold back her own grin. Lena, too, beamed and murmured something Summer was sure were words of approval.

  “Thomas, you look quite sporty atop that bicycle,” Summer said.

  “I can’t wait to ride it! I bet it goes faster than Daisy!”

  “It goes as fast as your feet pedal, but I am trusting you to use good judgment,” his father said with a touch of warning in his tone.

  “Sure, Pa. I’ll be careful.” Thomas balanced on the seat, his arms out to his sides.

  “More careful than in trees? Two hands you will use?”

  He wrapped his hands around the handlebars, a sheepish grin on his face. “Two hands, Pa. Honest.”

  “Good boy,” Peter said. “Now hop off there and let us clean up all this mess so dinner we can have. I cannot go on smelling the good smells any more without tasting.”

  As Summer washed the dishes and carefully stacked them away, she listened to the evening sounds of her temporary home: a gentle wind outside the window, the fire crackling from the stove, Lena’s rumbling snore, and voices. She tipped her head, trying to hear better the voices of Peter and Thomas from Thomas’s bedroom. She couldn’t make out the words, but the tone indicated a serious discussion was taking place. Her face flushed again as she remembered her promise to speak to Peter about the possibility of becoming Thomas’s mother.

  Confusion filled her as completely as the lye soap smell filled her nostrils. She wrinkled her nose. The earlier smells of the day had been much more pleasant. She dwelled on those—roast pork, fried potatoes and onions, dried cherry moos, and spicy pfeffernuesse, a gift from the Kraft family. She must have eaten a dozen handfuls of the richly spiced nickel-sized cookies. She sighed. What a lovely day it had been.

  There was a time she would have thought the happiness of Christmas was wrapped up in a huge gaily decorated tree laden with beribboned gifts and a four-course feast, with dozens of people flooding the house to create a cacophony of merriment. But this day—with only the boy, his great-grandmother, and his father—had been happy in its simplicity.

  Christmas, she realized, was recognizing one’s blessings. So much Summer had learned in the short time she had spent with the Ollenburgers. Her heart pattered. Was she meant to be more than their neighbor and friend?

  “Summer?”

  She jumped, splattering the front of her dress and apron with suds. Turning, she spotted Peter standing just behind her left shoulder. “You did it again. One would think feet as large as yours incapable of moving soundlessly.”

  He gave the expected chuckle. Then, without warning, he took the corner of the apron and brushed it across her chin. She felt her face go hot at the butterfly touch.

  “Mark of your surprise was sitting on your chin,” he said as he dropped the apron.

  “W-what?”

  “Soap sud.” He chuckled again. “The dishwater must be too hot. Red your face is.”

  She spun back to face the dishpan.

  “Would you like help?”

  She glanced at him. The eagerness in his eyes reminded her of his son. Without speaking, she nodded.

  He took up a length of toweling and reached for the plate she held out. “And when we are finished, we will sit and talk, ja?”

  27

  PETER LINKED HIS fingers together and rested his hands on the clean tabletop. Everything sparkled in the house since the woman moved in. A fine wife she would make. But his wife? He cleared his throat as she seated herself across from him. “Summer, we must talk about the boy.”

  The woman’s gaze dropped to her lap, then bounced upward. Her eyes appeared wide and apprehensive. She was not making this easy for him, but he would proceed for Thomas’s sake.

  “I think I cause this problem with the boy. I do not consider that bringing you here would show the boy what he has missed by not having a mother. Someone to cook for him, read to him, see to his needs.”

  “But you and Lena have—”

  He raised one hand, silencing her protest. “Ja, caring for the boy we have done. But it is somehow different when you do it. A mother’s care is very different than a father’s, or even a great-grandmother’s. Now the boy knows this, and he has decided he wants the care of a mother, too.” He shrugged, searching for the words to explain his thoughts. “You are first woman to spend long times with him since his mother dies, so only natural it is fo
r him to grow close to you.”

  “So you don’t think it’s me he wants, it’s just that I’m the only one available.”

  Did he hear defensiveness in her tone? He leaned forward. “Nein, Summer, you—you are the one he loves. He loves you because he knows you.”

  A slight frown appeared on her face, but she nodded. “I think I understand what you’re saying. Thomas now realizes what it means to have a mother. I am here, he knows me, he trusts me, so I am the logical choice.”

  Logical. This word puzzled Peter, but the other things she’d said made sense. “Ja, for the boy, you are his choice for mother.”

  She nibbled her lower lip, her brow deeply furrowed. He waited in silence for her to gather her thoughts. “Peter, may I be honest with you?”

  “For sure. I want you to be honest with me.”

  Pink stained her cheeks as she admitted, “I have considered what problems would be solved if I were to marry you. I would have a home, security, a standing in the community. You are a good man, and I admire you.” She drew in a deep breath. “How-how can one be sure the decisions we make are ones God wants us to make and not only our own selfish desires?”

  Peter felt proud that this educated woman would ask him—just a common miller, not a scholar or preacher—such an important question. He gave it much consideration before forming an answer. “I think God speaks in many ways. Inside of us, when we let God’s Son in, lives the Holy Spirit, who helps guide and direct our thoughts. The Holy Spirit prompts us. When decision is right one, you will know deep in your heart.”

  “So my heart will tell me whom I should marry, if anyone?”

  “That is right. You follow your heart.”

  “Then … it is all right that … for now …” The pink in her cheeks deepened to red.

  Peter gave a slow nod. “Is okay. We are friends, and that is enough, ja?”

  A smile broke across her face. “Yes. Thank you.” Unexpectedly, she reached across the table and placed her hand over his. How small hers appeared next to his thick, rough hands. “It’s good having you for a friend, Peter Ollenburger. I don’t know that I’ve ever had a better one.”