The gist of Rome’s message was positive, but the word “transplant” hung in the air between them. There was an awful finality about it; a transplant might be treatment, but it had a ring of desperation to it, a sense of last resort.
“But if a heart is a match for Amos—the right blood type and size, and he said that the donor has to be within twenty pounds of Amos’s weight—then the transplant could save his life. Amos is the right age for a transplant—he’s young and fit and doesn’t have any other health problems.” Rome stopped. “Julia—you have to talk your father into getting on that list. He’ll listen to you.”
Julia looked up and was surprised she hadn’t noticed how the sky had become clotted with clouds that were gray as pewter. When had that happened? One moment, the sky was clear. The next, it was filled with clouds. So like life. She thought she felt a raindrop, then another. More raindrops. Rome didn’t seem to notice.
“If money’s the problem, well, maybe I could find a way to help with that. I’m not saying it isn’t expensive, but even the coordinator said that money shouldn’t be the reason a person doesn’t go on the list.”
She was touched by Rome’s concern for her father. Truly touched. “I appreciate what you did, Rome. And that you’re trying to help. I really do.”
“Just tell me that you’ll talk to him. Soon.”
“All right. I’ll give it another try. Tomorrow. I promise.”
He looked so pleased that she couldn’t help but smile. And then he smiled, and their eyes held for a beat too long. His eyes traveled down to her mouth, as if he might kiss her. She could see him thinking about it, then he shifted his glance away.
Suddenly, he looped an arm around her shoulders as if drawing her in for a hug. She was so surprised she was speechless.
“That,” he whispered in her ear, “is going to drive Paul Fisher right over the edge.” He kept his arm tightly around her so she couldn’t pull away. “Don’t look now but he’s standing about one hundred yards away from us. I can’t be positive, but I think there’s a scowl on his face.”
She looked. Paul stood silhouetted against a tree, his legs braced, arms tensed at his side. He dropped his head, turned, and walked away.
Julia felt a shock run through her. Even though she knew Rome was teasing, she felt a funny quiver down her spine. She was oddly disappointed —for a brief moment, she had wanted him to kiss her. The realization was startlingly powerful. Her attraction to him irritated her, and she pulled herself out of Rome’s grasp. “What do you think you’re doing?”
“I’m trying to help you get Paul back.”
How had so much arrogance gotten packaged in one man? Julia jabbed her finger at his shirt. “I don’t need your help. I can take care of myself.”
He wrapped his hand around her finger. “Aw, now, that’s not fair. You said yourself that you know I only have eyes for you.”
She calmly extracted her finger from his hand. “And I told you that I wasn’t interested.”
As she walked back to the house, she repeated to herself, “I am not attracted to Roman Troyer. I am not interested. No, no, no, no, no.”
Dear R.W.,
You said you are trying to right your wrongs. Well, there are many farms for sale in Ohio, especially after this drought. Why my farm? What could it possibly mean to you?
Cordially,
Rome Troyer
Rome finished writing the letter and went outside to sit on the porch steps and watch the sunset. The last time he was in town, he had done everything he could to get the Stoney Ridge postmistress to reveal who had rented P.O. Box 22. He flirted, he cajoled, he complimented. She acted as if she was guarding gold at Fort Knox and refused to reveal anything. He must be losing his touch.
The light sprinkling of rain had quickly passed through, just a tease. The sky was clear again for the sunset. The sun reminded him of a shimmering copper globe hanging low over the hills. He saw an owl swoop out for an evening hunt, accompanied by the sawing sound of crickets. As he leaned his back against the porch post—which felt warm against his back—he thought about Julia, something he’d been doing with increasing frequency. So many women believed they had to flirt with him to get him to notice them. But Julia didn’t act like that. She was always herself—amusing, bold, gentle and patient with her father’s illness, fiercely protective of her family.
If the timing were different . . . if he had a steady job, a place to live . . . if she weren’t in love with Paul Fisher . . . if he were the type of fellow who wanted to settle down in one place . . . but none of that was true. With autumn only a few months away, who’d know if he would still be around?
Rome was a realist. He could have started a respectable business in any of the towns where he visited. He never did, though. Sooner or later, he started feeling panicky, itchy, and he knew the time had come to move.
He stood and stretched. Then he poked around in the shed for a shovel and hoe to start attacking the weeds growing near the cottage’s foundation. As he breathed in the smell of honeysuckle, he thought about how he loved this land, the way the hills sheltered the farm. What made Windmill Farm feel different to him, like he was part of it? It wasn’t really unusual, not by Amish standards. Those orchards—planted long ago by Amos’s grandfather—were keeping the family going through Amos’s heart trouble, as well as this drought. Rome knew that his bees were a significant help to the Lapps’ yearly income. The cherries were redder, the peaches and apricots were plumper. It felt good to be needed. Was that it? Was that why he found himself drawn to this family?
He wondered how Julia was able to stand Amos’s illness, how she had stood it all these months, watching her father dying, breath by breath. She must know how sick Amos was. There was no denying that the disease had taken its toll. A year ago, Amos weighed nearly 180 pounds. Now he weighed 150. The man Rome had once seen effortlessly pick up a hundred-pound bale of hay and toss it in the back of a cart could barely lift a hayfork. Even in the weeks Rome had been there, he’d seen Amos decline—gasping for breath after six stair steps, now only four. Always coughing. Thin and weak from lack of physical activity, despite Fern’s steady pressure to make him get up and get moving. Julia must see it too, yet she seemed accepting of what was to come.
She was a curiosity to him—why was she fighting so hard to get Paul back, yet not fighting at all about her father’s future?
Normally so strong and determined, tonight Julia had appeared almost fragile. He wasn’t used to being confused about a woman. Watching her stomp away, indignant and adorable, whole parts of him were suddenly alive with possibility. A well of tenderness had grown inside him, and something had shifted. He wanted her. No—that couldn’t be right. He wanted her to want him.
M.K. had read Keeping Bees twice and felt she had a firm grasp on the subject. Rome thought otherwise.
Late on a balmy afternoon, M.K. talked Menno into paying a visit to Rome. It wasn’t uphill work to talk Menno into going; if he wasn’t off visiting Annie, he could be found hanging around Rome. “Why can’t I go out with you to gather honey?” she asked Rome when they arrived at the cottage. “I know plenty about bees.”
“Oh? Then why are you wearing those?” Rome pointed to her outfit. She was wearing Menno’s favorite fishing shirt, his big leather gloves, and his knee-high rubber boots.
“You said to cover up, head to toe.”
“You smell like a fish. That smell will make my bees angry.”
“But I figured the fish smell covered up the human smell.”
“Honey-loving bears have been robbing bees for a lot longer than you and I have. Bees react to any dark, moving object with a strong animal scent.” He raised an eyebrow. “Beekeeping lesson number one: Dress to make friends with your bees. Light-colored clothing, freshly laundered, sun-dried.”
“If I go change, will you let me go out with you?”
“Not today.”
“Why?!” She was indignant.
Rome frowned.
“Mary Kate, you move too fast for bees.”
“I’m always telling her that,” Menno added.
M.K. scowled at him.
“Lesson number two: bees like things slow, gentle, deliberate. Fast movement makes them feel threatened. They know that predators move quickly—darting bee-eating birds, batting bear claws, lapping raccoon tongues. Move slowly and the bees will know you’re a friend.”
“I can move slow! I’m just usually in a hurry.”
“You came crashing down to the cottage just now like your hair was on fire. Until you learn to enter a room quietly and calmly, I will not consider taking you out to gather honey.”
M.K. turned and started to run out the door, then stopped herself. She quietly exited, and as soon as she was out of Rome’s viewing range, she bolted to the farmhouse, ran upstairs, changed her clothing into a pale pink dress Fern had just ironed, dashed back, then stopped at the crest of the hill to walk slowly to the cottage. Quietly, she entered, sat on a chair in the kitchen, and primly crossed her ankles. Rome looked up from writing labels on honey jars and shook his head.
“Now?” she asked.
Rome looked at her for a long while.
“She did come in quiet,” Menno said.
Rome sighed and put down his pen. “The first thing to do is to observe the door to the hives. That’s all. Nothing else.”
M.K. was thrilled. “Can I go now?”
“We will go together. You don’t go near the hives without my permission. Ever.” He glanced out the window. “It’s about dusk. Their instinct is to head for shelter, so you should see a lot of bees returning to the hive.” He handed her a pad of paper and a pencil. “Take notes and write down what you notice. Even the sounds—are the bees hissing? Or humming? They sing, you know. A sweet and low tone is the sound of a contented hive. Music to a beekeeper’s ears. Listen well. That’s lesson number three. Remember, you are to do everything slow and smooth. You keep your distance. And lesson number four: do nothing until you feel safe.”
This was starting to sound like school to M.K.
Rome walked to the door and held it open. “You two coming?”
Observing the bees was a little disappointing to M.K. Or maybe it was the vigilant way Rome watched over her. He wouldn’t let her get closer than twenty feet to the hives. Have patience, he kept telling her. Lesson number 542. He was getting to be like Fern! Even Menno got bored and wandered back to the farmhouse.
On the way back to the cottage, Rome asked M.K., “Well, what did you observe?”
Not much, she wanted to say, but instead she looked at her notes. “Bees fly up high and dive down to the hive entrance.”
He nodded. “They nest naturally in hollow trees or someplace well above ground. What else?”
“The lower the sun was setting, the more bees returned to the hive.”
“Those were forager bees. Their job was to be out gathering nectar and pollen, to bring it back to the hive. Anything else?”
“A couple of bees just stuck around the outside, like they didn’t know what to do.”
“Every bee has a job to do. Those were guards to the hive.”
She snorted. “Guarding from what?”
“From mice. From hornets. From moths. From birds. From skunks and raccoons. From little girls who get too close to the hive—”
“I get it.” She blew air out of her mouth. Maybe beekeeping was harder than she thought.
“Did you notice what kinds of bees they were?”
She knew this one, hands down. “Honeybees.”
“There are all different strains of bees. My bees are brown bees. Most beekeepers don’t like the brown bee. They’re a little more work than other bees, but there’s no better bee to collect thick, wild honey. My great-great-grandparents brought them from Germany. They’ve been in my family for five or six generations. I’m the Keeper of the Bees.”
Maybe that’s why Rome was so fussy about his bees, M.K. thought. It’s his tie to his family.
“A good beekeeper learns to gauge much about the bees’ condition from outside the hive, and that time is spent quietly observing.”
New subject! Enough talk about being quiet. As they reached the fork in the path that led either to the cottage or the farmhouse, M.K. turned to Rome. “There’s something I’ve been meaning to tell you.”
“Go ahead.”
“You’re fired.”
“From teaching you to be a beekeeper?” He whistled, one note up, one down. “That was fast.”
“No! I still want to be a beekeeper. You’re fired from trying to make Paul Fisher jealous. The birthday party provided ample opportunity for you. Ample opportunity! And all you managed to do was to make Julia as mad as a wet hen. Paul took Lizzie home in his courting buggy!”
“I see,” he said, stroking his jaw. “The thing is, M.K., that I don’t like to leave a job half finished. And we had a bargain. A deal is a deal.”
“Well, you can keep the down payment. Besides, I can’t pay you the rest anyway. Fern found out—” She clamped her lips shut.
Rome narrowed his eyes. “Found out what?”
“Never mind. Let’s just say, my income has been temporarily cut off.”
“Seeing as how I’m living rent-free on your father’s land, I’m willing to forgive your debt.”
“Rome, did you hear me? You have done a terrible job of making Paul jealous.”
“I hear just fine. But I disagree. I’m pretty certain that he’s coming around. I think I just need to turn up the heat a little.”
How much clearer could she be? “Julia is impervious to your charms. I know this must be embarrassing to you.”
“Not as much as it should be.”
M.K. shook her head. “I’m sorry, Rome. You’re good at beekeeping, but you’re just no good at making a fellow jealous. I’m moving on to my second inspiration.”
“Mary Kate, are you sure you know what you’re doing?”
“I’m sure.” She wasn’t sure at all.
“Give me another chance. I’ll do better.”
She blew out a puff of air. “Fine. You keep working at it, but I’m going to give my inspiration a try too.” She started to run up the path to the farmhouse, then remembered bee etiquette and slowed to a fast walk. It nearly undid her to move so cautiously.
13
The skies had turned an angry steel gray, but Julia ignored the ominous warnings. She wanted to get out to the southeast corner of the cornfields before the rain broke. They counted on that corn to feed the animals through the winter, when there was no grass left to graze. If they didn’t get some more soaking rain soon, the corn crop would be even smaller than last year.
The distant rumble of thunder surprised her. She’d almost forgotten what a summer storm system could be like as it blew through. It had been such a long time without any significant rain to saturate the fields. She looked up at the sky. Maybe today.
As she walked along the dirt path that led to the north field, she pondered an idea for a quilt top that was brewing in the back of her mind. She wanted to get home and draw it in her journal before she forgot it. That’s what she did with the quilt tops that popped into her mind, unbidden. She filled up her journal with sketches drawn with colored pencils. She wasn’t sure what she would ever do with the sketches—she still hadn’t recovered from the sting of criticism from last year.
I wasn’t being proud, she thought, as she walked through the knee-high corn rows. She had just done the very best she could. She had used an old Lancaster pattern but gave it a fresh twist with explosions of color and design—was that being prideful? If so, she just couldn’t help it. It was the way she gave glory to God. To have Edith Fisher accuse her of pride stung her to her core. She’d lost the joy she felt when she created a new quilt top.
As she stood looking out across the land she knew so well, she felt a flutter of panic. It was no surprise to see the furrows Menno had dug weren’t straight and narrow the way they were
before her father took sick, but it worried her to see brown on the edges of the cornstalks.
The first drops of rain began to fall. With them came that smell of rain, that dusty smell that was like no other. It was synonymous with joy, with renewal, with life itself. After two years of drought, Julia would never again take a drop of rain for granted.
And rain it was, warm and welcome, with fat drops that splashed on the parched ground. A bolt of lightning split the skies, followed by a clap of thunder that made her ears ring. The rain started falling in curtains, fast and furious. She hurried out of the cornfield and back onto the path. She blinked her eyes, wiped her nose on her sleeve. She was so soaked that her dress stuck to her skin, and her woven bandanna felt like a sodden pancake around her head. Another blast of lightning struck. She jumped as something brushed her legs. Lulu stared up at her, her head cocked to the side. Julia sank to her knees and buried her face in Lulu’s wet, musty fur. Her arms trembled as she drew Lulu close. The dog scraped Julia’s wet cheek with her rough tongue. Another blast of lightning struck. Lulu howled, and Julia jumped to her feet. She needed to find shelter. The cottage where Rome was staying was much closer than the farmhouse. She ran, her bare feet making her sure-footed in the gritty mud.
When she arrived at the cottage, she knocked on the door. “Rome?” She waited, then knocked again, and gave the string latch a gentle pull. She took a step inside and waited until her eyes adjusted to the dark. “Rome, are you here?” No answer. She hadn’t been in the cottage since Fern fixed it up. She used to play hide-and-seek here with Sadie and Menno when they were children, but studiously avoided going inside since the day a bat flew down from its rafters and scared her to the other side of Sunday. Today, it looked quite charming. Clearly, Fern’s doings. Just like the produce table transformation. The cottage looked warm and inviting, swept clean and left tidy. The kitchen had been turned into a well-organized honey extracting room: clean jars lined the shelves. Labels for the jars were stacked in a neat pile. The extractor and buckets were spotless.
The Keeper Page 15