Courting Cate

by Leslie Gould

  “Pete wants to go to New York. . . .”

  “To live?” Betsy gasped.

  Dat put the bowl of beets down hard, and a little splashed over the side. Betsy was on her feet in a split second, retrieving the dishcloth to wipe it up before it stained the table.

  “I don’t think so,” I said.

  “Just to visit, probably,” Dat said, “is what Pete said.”

  “Oh, thank goodness.” Betsy gave me a wary look.

  It didn’t make sense for Pete to want to stay in New York. Not if he wanted Dat to set us up in a business here. I hadn’t taken a bite of food. I mashed the end of my baked potato with my fork and then pushed it around my plate a bit. I didn’t think I could manage to swallow.

  Thankfully Betsy chattered away about the wedding. “I’ve been thinking about it all day. You won’t have to worry about a thing.”

  If only it were that simple.

  The days slowly crept by, one by one. Betsy seemed to be doing better, buoyed by the upcoming wedding and the hope that her problems would soon be over. A couple of times I asked her how she felt, and she simply answered, “Fine.”

  Pete was cordial with me but didn’t make an effort to talk. I figured he wouldn’t until the letter arrived from his bishop. Then we could speak with Bishop Eicher and have the wedding published—announced at church—as soon as possible.

  By Friday I was as restless as I’d ever been in my entire life, but for once I was leery of going to the bookmobile. I wasn’t sure I could face Nan and not tell her what was going on. But by midafternoon, I talked myself into it. Surely she wouldn’t have heard anything unless Pete had told her, and I couldn’t quite imagine that.

  It was the Friday for her to be north of Paradise, not the location closest to us. As I left my office, Dat called for me from his.

  “Off for some books?” he asked.

  “Jah.”

  “Tell Nan hello,” he said.

  I told him I would.

  “Is Pete going with you?”

  I shook my head.

  “He can if he wants to. Tell him the boss says he can leave an hour early. I can cover the showroom.”

  “Okay.” I told Dat good-bye and then started for the barn, intending to ignore Dat’s instructions, but my conscience got the best of me. I backtracked and then veered left, into the showroom. Pete stood at the counter, filling out a form. His face seemed paler than usual, and he appeared tired.

  “Want to go to the bookmobile? Dat said he’d cover the showroom.”

  He put his pen down. “Do you want me to go?”

  I shrugged. “It was Dat’s idea.”

  He held my gaze. I shifted my feet and then looked away. Finally he said, in a subdued voice, “I think your Dat has enough to do without adding my work to his load.”

  “Suit yourself,” I said, relieved not to have to spend the time with him.

  I arrived just as Nan was pulling down the steps to the panel van. I returned my books, including the biography of Mary Todd Lincoln.

  She handed me biographies of Andrew and Eliza Johnson.

  I thanked her and started browsing through the shelves as she tucked a pencil behind her ear.

  Nan cleared her throat. I turned toward her.

  “I had a phone call last night,” she said. “From New York.”

  My heart began to race. “Oh?”

  “From Pete’s mother.”

  I hugged the books against my chest.

  “Is it true?” Nan’s voice was low. “That you and Pete are getting married.”

  I nodded my head like a marionette.

  “I thought you two stopped courting.”

  “We changed our minds,” I squeaked.

  “Do you love him?”

  I didn’t answer. The truth was, at one point I thought I might, or at least thought I could. But now I knew I wouldn’t love someone who didn’t love me. I certainly wasn’t going to confess to Nan that we’d decided on a marriage of convenience, a decision based on a bribe, Betsy’s needs, honoring Dat, and Pete’s destitution.

  “Cate?”

  My eyes filled with tears, and I quickly stepped away.

  “I have a verse for you,” she said. “It’s in Proverbs, from a modern translation. It goes something like this, ‘Under three things the earth trembles, under four it cannot bear up . . . including an unloved woman who is married. . . . ’” She took a step closer to me. Her eyes were kind and sincere. “I don’t know what’s going on with you and Pete, but if either of you doesn’t love the other, please don’t marry.”

  I averted my gaze and pretended to be looking at the top shelf of books. “What did you tell his mother?”

  Nan didn’t answer, and for a long moment I could only imagine what she’d relayed. Finally, she said, “Well, I couldn’t answer any of her questions about your relationship with Pete, because I don’t know. I concentrated on what I do know. That you are a smart, resourceful, and beautiful young woman.”

  I leaned my forehead against the metal bookcase.

  “And that, yes, your father is quite wealthy.” Nan sighed. “That was actually her first question.”

  “Pete must have told her.” I imagined him calling his folks or perhaps writing a note. My heart dropped, again, at my ongoing realization of being nothing more than a dowry to Pete.

  I managed to ask if Pete’s mother said whether or not his family would come to the wedding.

  “She said she and Pete’s father would like to, and perhaps one of his brothers.” She took her pencil out from behind her ear and gripped it tightly.

  I thanked Nan for the information and continued my search for books, although it was a lackluster hunt for once. Nan sat at the little desk and did paperwork while I browsed the shelves. I ended up checking out only half a dozen books.

  As I got ready to leave, she said, “See you next week.”

  “I don’t think so,” I answered. “I’ve got a lot to do.”

  “Wedding preparations?”

  “Jah.” I slipped the books into my bag. “We’ll let you know as soon as we have a date.”

  She pursed her lips.

  “In case you want to come . . .”

  She nodded.

  I left quickly, feeling like a fraud. I imagined Nan at our wedding, quoting the verse from Proverbs when the preacher asked if anyone had an objection to us marrying.

  Clearly she disagreed with what we were doing, but anything she believed was purely speculation—and spot-on intuition. I had no idea how far she might take it.

  CHAPTER

  14

  The letter came back from Pete’s bishop the next week, and I couldn’t help but think that his people were as anxious to see him a groom as mine were to see me a bride.

  That was confirmed when our district deacon, Stephen Ruff, came to call. He assisted in marriage arrangements, besides seeing to the needy in the district. Dat and Betsy vanished as soon as the man appeared on our porch. I asked him in and offered him a cup of decaf and a slice of Betsy’s banana cream pie. He accepted both.

  We sat at the kitchen table—me picking at the whipped topping on mine, barely able to concentrate, while he devoured his pie. I quickly offered him a second piece, which he accepted.

  He asked all the usual questions, starting with, “So you want to marry Pete Treger.”

  I nodded, barely.

  His face reddened a little. “And you’ve remained pure during your courtship?”

  I swallowed a laugh and simply nodded again.

  Then he asked if there was any reason for us to marry so soon besides the need to go to New York.

  I shook my head.

  “You won’t have time to plan a big wedding.”

  “Jah,” I answered. “That’s fine with us.”

  Most Amish weddings took place in the fall, but there were so many in that season that some guests were invited to four or five in one day. It wasn’t common, but it wasn’t forbidden, either, to have a s
pring or summer wedding.

  “Well, then,” he said, “I’m not used to you being so quiet, but nevertheless, I accept all your answers. I’ll publish your wedding this Sunday.”

  “Denki,” I managed to say.

  “How soon would you like the wedding to be?”

  “Two weeks.”

  “You’re that prepared?”

  “Jah.” We would be, thanks to Betsy.

  He took the last bite of his pie, declared it delicious, and stood. “Tell Bob hello. And congratulations.”

  As I walked him to the door, I felt certain he hoped to have the whole wedding said and done before Pete came to his senses.

  A moment later Betsy came through the back door and into the living room, a notepad in her hand. “Is everything gut?” She was breathless.

  “Jah,” I answered.

  “Then let’s get to work!” She took my hand and pulled me into the kitchen. First she cleared the deacon’s plate and my unfinished pie. Then she ordered me to sit.

  “So I made a list of people to invite. I kept it to two hundred,” she said. “I hope you don’t mind.”

  “Not at all,” I said. The fewer people who were there to witness my deception, the better I’d feel.

  “I’ll ask the chicken cooks and potato cooks tomorrow. It’s too late to get chicks to raise for fryers, but I’ll order what we need through the grocery.” She smiled. “It will save Pete some work.” Usually the groom butchered the chickens. “I’m assuming the deacon will arrange for the church wagon, but I’ll double-check.”

  Betsy chattered on and on, jotting down notes as she did. She would make my dress for me—blue to match my eyes. Addie and she would be my attendants—my Newehockers or side sitters, as they were also called. Dat would invite everyone in our district at services on Sunday. There were a few others, including Nan, that Pete and I would need to invite in person.

  By the time we were done Betsy had filled pages and pages with notes. Thankfully, when it was time for her to marry I could simply redo what she was doing for me.

  That was all the more reason for us not to stay in New York for long. I would need to get back to help with Betsy’s wedding, however it worked out, as soon as possible.

  By the time Dat came into the house, my eyes had glazed over.

  “Well, well, well,” he said, standing at the head of the table. “We should get started on the planning.”

  “It’s all done,” Betsy said. She tore a piece of paper from her tablet. “Here’s your list.” She handed it to him with a flourish.

  Dat took it with a grand gesture. “Mission accomplished,” he said.

  I groaned.

  He wrapped his arm around me. “This is going to be the best thing that’s ever happened to you.” His beard tickled my neck. “Just wait and see.”

  The next two weeks were a blur of activity. I tried to stay in my office as much as I could, but even though every aspect of an Amish wedding is prescripted and expected, Betsy kept dragging me into the details of the planning.

  I allowed Pete to drive when we took the buggy to Nan’s house to invite her. I noted he was still clean-shaven. Usually the groom began growing out his beard in anticipation of the wedding. I couldn’t help but wonder if maybe he didn’t intend to go through with it at all and asked him as much.

  “I gave you my word,” he said, turning Thunder into Nan’s driveway.

  She came out to meet us, and when we announced our wedding she simply said she would be there to support us. I’d expected her to challenge us and breathed a sigh of relief when we left. On the way home, I asked Pete if his family would need to stay at our house, and he simply said no.

  I asked how many of them were coming, and he said his mother hadn’t gotten back to him yet about his brothers and their families. “I don’t imagine they’ll come, though, except my oldest brother, maybe. I expect he’ll travel with my Mamm and Dat.” He kept his eyes on the road.

  “And where will they stay?”

  “The Zooks said they had room.”

  “What about your uncle? The one with the publishing business.” He was the relative of Pete’s I was looking forward to meeting the most.

  “Uncle Wes?” He glanced at me quickly.

  I nodded.

  Pete rubbed his chin. “I doubt he even knows about the wedding.”

  Perhaps Pete thought the fewer of his folk who met me the better. I kept quiet the rest of the way home, feeling absolutely alone.

  Sure, Pete acted cordially toward me. He continued to be a gentleman. But I couldn’t help but miss the banter of our past trips, the talk of books, and the snippets we’d shared about our lives. How would I endure the loss of that for a lifetime?

  The day before the service, Betsy mixed up the filling for fifteen apple pies. I peeled and sliced the apples while she made the dough for the crusts. After I had a gallon of slices, she cooked them until they were nearly soft and then thickened it all up, adding butter and vanilla when she was done. Other women would also bring desserts, mostly cookies and cakes.

  Oftentimes the groom would stay at the bride’s parents’ house the night before the wedding, but because his parents would be at the Zooks’ place, I didn’t think Pete would want to stay at ours. Besides, it would be more comfortable for me not to have him in our home. The less Dat saw Pete and me together before the wedding, the better.

  That evening, while we were setting up the benches delivered in the church wagon, Dat asked me where Pete was.

  “With his family,” I said.

  Dat seemed to be fine with that. “Must have been quite a shock to them to have Pete getting married—and so soon,” he said. “At least we know Pete’s a good person. They have no idea about you.”

  I knew Dat was joking, but I wasn’t in the mood to laugh. I did manage to smile, though.

  “I hope you’re okay with a smaller wedding,” he said.

  “Of course.” Weddings in Lancaster County were getting so large, more and more often families held them in places like cleaned-out shops to accommodate all the guests. Although we would need two sittings at the meal, we would be able to handle all of the invited guests in the house. And because it was late May, if the weather held, people could spill out onto the lawn and the grounds.

  Sadness gripped me as I retreated to my room that night. I walked to the window and looked out over the yard, my eyes falling on the silver maple tree, which was fully leafed out now. Beyond it was the creek. Over the next hill was the cemetery where Mamm was buried.

  “I’m sorry,” I whispered. How ironic that my getting married was pleasing others but pressed on me like a heavy weight. And the thing was . . . most of them wouldn’t have cared if they knew I didn’t love Pete and that he didn’t love me. They just wanted me married.

  But my Mamm would have cared. And Dat would too, if he knew. And Nan cared.

  I caught Dat out of the corner of my eye, walking toward the church wagon. When he reached it, he opened the bottom compartment and pulled out a stack of pans. As he turned toward the house, he looked tired . . . or sad. Or maybe both.

  “What are you looking at?” Betsy had just stepped into our room.

  “Just thinking,” I said, turning toward her.

  “About?”

  “Leaving.”

  “You’ll be back. Dat’s talking about building a Dawdi Haus for himself.”

  “He shouldn’t,” I said. The house was plenty big enough for Pete and me to live with him when we came back.

  Betsy put her arm around me. “I didn’t expect this to be sad,” she said.

  In a firm voice, I said, “Don’t get sentimental.” If she started to cry, I was apt to fall apart.

  “You’re the best big sister ever,” she said.

  I leaned my head toward her. “How are you feeling?”

  She pulled away. “I still need to hem your dress. Try it on, okay?”

  “Betsy . . .”

  “I’m not going to talk abou
t any of that now. Tomorrow’s your wedding.” She marched out into the hall, presumably to her sewing room, and returned with my dress.

  “It looks lovely,” I said, taking it from her and putting it on.

  She pinned the hem quickly, and neither one of us talked, except for her to tell me when to turn. When she’d finished, I took it off and handed it to her. “Want me to keep you company?”

  She shook her head, a pin still in the corner of her mouth. “You’ll only make me sad. Get some rest.”

  I could hear the whir of her treadle sewing machine as I tried to sleep. Sometime later she crawled into bed beside me.

  “I’ll miss you,” she whispered.

  I nodded, and then finally fell asleep.

  We were up by four. Even so, Dat already had the chores done. The three of us sat down to breakfast together. Most families would have already had a houseful, and it seemed a little sad to have our numbers so low.

  “Did you invite Pete and his family over for breakfast?” Dat asked.

  My voice was meek. “I forgot.”

  “When are they coming?”

  “Pete didn’t say,” I answered.

  Betsy’s voice was full of her usual cheer. “They’ll be here soon.”

  “Did he tell you that?” I couldn’t help but ask, she sounded so certain.

  She shrugged.

  I took a bite of oatmeal, but a cold panic gripped me and I barely swallowed it. Finally I pushed my breakfast away. Dat asked if my nerves were getting the best of me.

  “I suppose so,” I answered.

  Between Dat and Betsy, there wasn’t much for me to do after I finished up the dishes, so fighting back tears, I went ahead and put my wedding-day clothes on, including my new boots, purchased special for the occasion.

  I couldn’t help but think how happy I would be if Pete actually loved me. I swallowed hard.

  My mind switched to Betsy and her Bobli. A tear slid down my cheek.

  I swiped it away.

  Determined not to let my emotions get the best of me, I stepped out of the bedroom I’d had my entire life and headed down the stairs.

  The service was scheduled to begin at nine. By eight o’clock I began wondering what had happened to Pete and his family. It was customary for the bride and groom to greet guests as they arrived. I had no idea what to do with myself, and finally locked myself in the bathroom.