She stiffened and looked very uncomfortable. “I don’t have time to do much quilting anymore.”
Rome was puzzled. Why was that such a bad thing to ask? Last summer, Julia’s quilt had been auctioned away in a fundraiser for a clinic benefit. That one quilt raised three times as much money as any other quilt auctioned off that day. Folks talked about it for weeks afterward. He had figured quilting was a safe topic, but her face had a tight look on it, like she had just tasted something bitter. Rome decided to try a fresh tack. “I just saw your father.”
“Really? Was he outside?”
Rome nodded. Julia’s face brightened with that piece of news, which told Rome that Amos must not be getting outside much. That explained the neglected condition of the farm. “That’s good. He has been a little . . . under the weather this winter.”
“So I heard.”
Julia lifted her palms. “But of course. The Bee Man knows all.”
The silence between them lengthened. Rome braced himself. Here it was . . . he was in the eye of the storm and he hadn’t even realized it. “Julia, I didn’t set out to talk Paul out of the wedding.”
She took her time answering. “Again. You forgot to add the word ‘again.’ You didn’t mean to try to talk Paul out of the wedding again.”
“It just happened. One minute we were talking about how well his hens were laying eggs this spring, the next minute we were talking about—”
“About thinking of marriage as a ball and chain. About a man taking time to enjoy his freedom. About seeing the ocean. And traveling. ”
Rome winced and rubbed his chin. “That’s . . . about right.”
“Well, once again, you have influenced Paul to postpone the wedding.”
“Julia,” he started tentatively, “it wasn’t like that—”
She put up a hand to stop him. “Rome, I think I understand something about this situation. Something about you. It suddenly became so clear. Two springtimes in a row, you arrive in Stoney Ridge, you hear whispers about my engagement to Paul—and you convince him to postpone the wedding.”
“That’s what I’m trying to explain.” He pushed his hat off of his forehead, uncovering a hank of thick salt and pepper hair. “I didn’t set out to change his mind—”
“I realized why you’re so intent on making sure I don’t marry Paul.” She looked away, a faint blush on her cheeks. “I hope you don’t mind if I speak plain.”
Rome nodded, curious. “Please do.”
She glanced down at her hands and paused for several long moments, as if collecting her thoughts or her wits or both. When she finally looked up, her eyes were simmering with emotion, but he could not tell if she was deeply embarrassed by what she was about to say or if she simply found it uncomfortable to share it. What could be so hard to say?
Her dark-fringed eyes were cast down modestly. “I realized that you might be . . . sweet . . . on me yourself.”
Rome choked on the piece of peppermint gum that had been lurking in the corner of his mouth. Julia ended up pounding him on the back. Unfortunately, she pounded like she was hammering a stubborn nail, and he was sure he felt a rib crack. Maybe two. When he got his breath back, he coughed out a weak, “Pardon?”
Emboldened, she looked him straight in the eyes. “It makes perfect sense. After all, I’m the only girl in this town who is immune to your charms. Maybe the only girl in Pennsylvania. I certainly understand why that would be . . . a . . . challenge . . . to you.” Her cheeks flamed a deeper pink, reminding him of the blush on the yellow apples just before harvesting.
“But—” He felt dizzy. Part of it might have been his busted ribs, but most of it was trying to get his mind to make the connection between Julia Lapp—Amos’s eldest girl—and this bold young woman who stood before him.
“I should have realized it sooner. I mean . . . I’m aware that you’ve always been attracted to me.”
“Wait. What?”
“But my heart is set on Paul. I suppose if I were in your shoes, I’d be feeling a little . . . threatened myself.”
“Attraction?” Was that his voice? It sounded squeaky. He cleared his throat. “Threatened?”
“Thank you, Rome, for letting me clear the air on this sticky situation.”
Rome was speechless. “Julia, there might be some kind of misunderstanding . . .”
She gave him a pitiful smile. “Trust me, I know it can hurt to be rebuffed. But I felt I had to be truthful with you.” She patted him on the arm like a child. “You’ll be fine. Really.” She brushed past him, cap strings dancing as she jumped a row to reach the spiky asparagus.
Rome stood there for a moment, thoroughly flummoxed. What just happened? Although the words coming out of her mouth seemed ridiculously . . . naïve. Absurd! He was shocked by her forwardness. So bold! So audacious. After all, Julia was four or five years his junior. A child, really. Still, there was a willful tilt to her chin that surprised Rome. She was a woman and a girl at the same time. He looked at her in a new way, as if he had seen her for the first time. His mouth lifted with the beginnings of a new smile.
How had he never noticed? She was darling.
5
Sadie had been working indoors most of the day, ironing for Fern. Before dinner, she wanted to sneak off to see the cherry orchards in bloom. She walked between the long rows of cherry trees and finally sat down in the middle, under her favorite tree, and lay on her back to look up at the sky through the pale pink blossoms. If she squinted her eyes, it seemed as if the blossoms were like a lace tablecloth that covered the cerulean sky. She drew in a long breath, inhaling the woody scent laced with a subtle fragrance of sweet cherry flowers.
For just a moment, she could pretend that everything was fine, that her father was getting better, that Fern would return to Ohio, that life could go back to the way it was. And that Sadie would find something she was good at. Was everybody born knowing what they were good at? She wasn’t good at anything, not really. Julia could do everything well. Menno had a way with animals. M.K. was smart as a whip. Sadie was . . . what? Polite? Even-tempered? A friend to all? Boring.
She saw Julia cross from the garden to the house. Julia had chestnut-brown hair, smooth and shiny as a satin curtain, and a twinkly smile. Her body was tall and slim and perfect. Best of all, most important, Julia could talk to anybody, parents or boys, and everything that came out of her mouth—the words and the sound of the words—was always just right. It was hard to believe that she and Julia were related. She was flat where Julia was curvy, large where Julia was small. Usually when Sadie got upset about her appearance—which even her own sisters described only as “nice”—she reminded herself to be grateful for her good features: a pair of very nice blue eyes, thick lashes, and a peaches-and-cream complexion—give or take a few zillion freckles.
She knew she shouldn’t feel jealous of her sister. Her mind drifted to a proverb Julia would tell her when she was in a funk: “Compare and despair.” Or had she said, “Despair and compare?” It was difficult to remember these things when there were so many proverbs jostling in her head, eager to spout advice. Was meh as zwee wisse, is ken Geheimnis. Three are too many to keep a secret. Wammer Dags es Licht brennt, muss mer nachts im Dunkle hocke. Burn the candle by day and you’ll sit in the dark at night. . . . so on and so on and so on. All of these sayings were undoubtedly true and just as easy to dismiss—until the moment you found yourself doing the very thing that the proverb warned you against.
She heard someone call her name and she popped up. The Bee Man! She didn’t know that he had arrived in Stoney Ridge. Her heartbeat kicked to double time. He’d still had the same effect on her that he’d had since she was nine. And now Roman Troyer was less than eight feet away from her. Eight feet!
“How are you, Sadie?”
Roman Troyer walked right up to her and offered her his hand to help her stand. The Bee Man was talking to her! She scrambled to her feet. She wheezed for air, choked, and started to cough. He waite
d patiently. Her eyes began to tear. She pressed her fingers to her throat, trying to clear the air passage. No words came out of her mouth. Seconds ticked by. Sadie had to say something. Anything! But she couldn’t adjust to having the man she’d had a crush on since she was nine years old stand in front of her.
Finally, somehow, Sadie managed to squeeze out a wheezy, “H-hello.”
“I’ve brought my bees,” Rome said. He pointed to a towering stack of wooden beehives, humming with life, situated in the center of the orchards. “Found just the right spot for them. There’s a water trough nearby, and they’ll get full sunlight in the morning. The sooner the hives warm up in the morning sun, the sooner they’ll get to work.” He wiped the sweat off his forehead. “What are you doing out here?”
Her eyes went wide. Her mind reviewed several witty responses, but in the end she could only seem to spit out, “I . . . I don’t know.”
“You don’t know?” Rome looked at her as if she might be somewhat addle brained.
She took a deep breath. “I’d better go.” She ran down the long corridor of blossoming cherry trees that led to the barn, mortified.
Although Julia considered herself a mild-tempered person, quick to make allowances and slow to anger, she felt indignation rise within her when she heard that her father had invited the Bee Man to stay for dinner.
Earlier this morning, it had taken every ounce of grit and determination Julia could muster to try to act nonchalant when the Bee Man found her among the asparagus spears. The nerve of that man. How dare he act as if he was apologetic about Paul’s decision to postpone the wedding. Everything seemed to be progressing so nicely, right on schedule—and then along came Roman Troyer, with his buzzing bees and his silver tongue and that way he had of convincing a fellow that his life of freedom and independence was the best possible life. He may not have meant to instigate the breaking of her heart, but intention was irrelevant. Once a heart was broken, the words “I didn’t mean to” afforded little relief.
And now she had to see Rome again for dinner, thanks to her father. Amos had a fondness for the wandering Bee Man, as did so many girls in their church. Julia had never understood what made people go to such great lengths to befriend Rome. Mothers washed and mended his clothing like he was a long-lost son. Fathers invited him home for dinners to meet their eligible daughters. Julia was always amused at how eagerly her friends gazed at Rome, making fools of themselves. Young boys followed him around and picked up his swagger, imitating the way he wore his hat slightly tilted over his forehead. Close to looking like a cowboy hat but not enough to draw the attention of the ministers.
That was the way with Rome. He stayed safely within the Amish framework but lived a solitary life. And rather than raise controversy, folks tried to think of ways to please him, to entice him to stay. Julia saw that on the first day, six years ago, when Amos found Rome camped out at Blue Lake Pond.
As Rome was with her in the garden this morning, she had tried to study him objectively. His was a handsome face, with its thin blade of a nose and strong cheekbones, and a wide mouth that held a certain wild charm. And his eyes—the color of a cup of Fern’s rich coffee. His hair was the same hue as a winter storm, and it curled a little over the back of his collar. But none of that mattered to Julia. What bothered her about Rome—what had always bothered her about him—was how he kept himself detached from others, uninvolved, unencumbered. Julia thought the only things Roman Troyer might truly love were his bees.
Last summer, when Rome first influenced Paul to postpone the wedding, Julia’s feelings about Rome turned from mild disdain to downright dislike. To her way of thinking, Rome Troyer was a blight on the landscape, a pox on their district. And still, people welcomed him with open arms.
Well, she was not going to let Roman Troyer get to her. Nor would she let him distract her from her objective—convincing Paul to keep the wedding date. She was sure that once she and Paul married, all of those silly doubts of his would disappear. She wasn’t quite sure how to make that happen, but one thing her father had always said, “First the vision, then the plan.”
When Julia heard Fern clang the dinner bell that hung by the kitchen door, she closed the roadside stand for the evening. She walked up to the kitchen, carrying the vegetables and early cherries that hadn’t sold, plus the honor jar, in a woven basket. Rome was coming in from the orchards and met her halfway along the drive. He took the basket out of her hands. “Looks like you didn’t have too many customers.”
She shrugged. “It’s early in the season.” She picked up her pace.
Rome kept her pace. “What would you think if I sold some honey at the stand while I’m here? I’ve started making beeswax candles too.”
She didn’t respond.
“I was thinking, maybe I’d give you ten percent. You know, for the trouble of selling them.”
If anyone else had offered her this, she would have readily agreed, just to be kind. But there was something about Rome’s manner that made her act as stiff as Fern. As starchy and prickly as a boiled shirt. “60/40,” she said curtly.
He stared at her for a long moment, then opened his mouth to speak. Shut it. Opened it again. She watched the muscles in his throat work as he swallowed. He was obviously surprised. She could almost read his thoughts: He thought she would be grateful to receive a ten percent cut. He thought he was doing her a favor. “Once folks hear you’re selling my sweet honey, they’ll come from miles around. Why, they’ll be lined up, all the way to town!”
“Excellent point.” She started up the hill. “50/50. That’s my final offer.” Why, she was even sounding like Stern Fern.
“Highway robbery,” he muttered. “Fine.” Rome hurried to catch up. “Julia, I am sorry. About Paul. Maybe I could talk to him. Get him to change his mind.”
She stopped abruptly. “Roman, you give startlingly bad advice. Why would I ever want you to try and convince Paul to keep our wedding date?”
He seemed a little puzzled. “Maybe I could talk to Edith Fisher. You know, sweet-talk her a little. So she isn’t quite as standoffish toward you.”
Julia looked at him as if a cat had spoken. “No. I do not want you to talk to anyone about me.” She spoke in a tone as if she were addressing a very young, very dense child.
M.K. came flying down the drive with Menno right behind her. She ran behind Julia as Menno tried to grab her. “M.K., what did you do to Menno?” Julia asked.
“I didn’t do anything!” M.K. said.
Menno pointed at her. “She threw a water balloon at me!” His shirt was soaked.
“No, I didn’t!” M.K. peered into the basket in Rome’s arms. “Dibs on the leftover cherries.”
“You can’t just call dibs, Mary Kate,” Menno scolded. He looked woefully at Rome. “She puts dibs on everything.”
Something at the house caught Rome’s eye. “Look up there, Menno. There’s your water balloon culprit.”
Their gaze turned to the Grossdaadi Haus, an apartment-style house above the buggy shop. Uncle Hank was leaning over the windowsill with a red water balloon in his hand, the size of a softball, aiming directly for Fern as she hung some dish towels on the clothesline.
“Uncle Hank! No!” Julia shouted. “Don’t do it!”
Too late. The small red water balloon hurled through the air, splattering on the lawn after barely missing Fern’s head. She didn’t miss a beat. She finished clipping the wet dish towel to the line and crossed the line to head to the house.
“Well, well,” Rome said. “Good to see Hank is still the same.”
Julia sighed. “He’s the biggest child in the neighborhood.”
And then, because Uncle Hank wouldn’t be satisfied with just one balloon, he wound up his arm to toss another at Fern. Again, it missed and splattered at her feet. She stopped, looked at his window, and calmly said, “You, Hank Lapp, have terrible aim.” She walked up the porch stairs to the kitchen, cucumber calm.
Julia thought Uncle Hank se
emed a little disappointed that he didn’t get a more flustered reaction out of Fern.
Menno cupped his hands around his mouth. “Uncle Hank, you shouldn’t do things like that to Fern. She’s not used to us yet. And she’s trying to help us.”
Fern spun around on the porch and pointed to Menno. “No wonder that boy is the pick of the litter. He’s the only Lapp male with a lick of sense.”
“She’s right,” Menno said earnestly. “Uncle Hank gets in as much trouble as M.K.”
“Hey!” M.K. said, arms on her hips, a little general.
“I heard that, young Menno! Try and catch this!” Uncle Hank tossed a balloon in Menno’s direction, but at the last second, Rome pushed Menno out of the way. Unfortunately, Julia was behind Menno. The balloon hit Julia right in her midsection and burst, showering her with cold water. After the initial shock wore off, she seared Rome with her gaze.
A cackling sound like dry leaves floated down from the porch. It was Fern, laughing.
The family went ahead with supper as Julia went upstairs to change into dry clothes. She hadn’t said a word after getting hit by the balloon; she just glared at Rome as if he had engineered the entire incident.
Rome had been thinking about Julia a lot today, maybe because he felt more than a twinge of responsibility for Paul Fisher’s decision to back out of the wedding. But he was also thinking about Julia because it baffled him that she didn’t seem at all interested in impressing him. It was odd being with a woman who wasn’t interested in him. Odd and appealing. Oddly appealing.
When she came into the kitchen, she avoided any eye contact with Rome; he was invisible to her. The only time she even acknowledged his presence was when M.K. mentioned that she had heard at school today that two more courtships had been broken and that the bishop considered there to be an epidemic of broken promises among the young people.
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