Courting Cate

by Leslie Gould

  A few minutes later, Betsy’s steps fell across the concrete floor. “Dat sent me,” she said, stopping outside the stall.

  “Jah,” I answered. “But I’m not so sure I’m ready to talk.”

  She wrinkled her nose. “Don’t be so sensitive. I was only joking.”

  “At my expense.” I felt the old anger rising, but this time I wasn’t sure it was a bad thing.

  She balled one hand into a fist.

  I stepped away from Thunder. “Remember what you said about how I raised you?”

  She nodded.

  “You were right.” I opened the stall gate, passed through, and then leaned against it for support. “I did do a horrible job. ”

  She thrust her fist into her apron pocket.

  I didn’t want to rehash all the things I should have done differently. At that moment I just wanted to address what she had done.

  My voice was calm but firm. “You had no right to say those things.”

  A shadow in the open doorway distracted me for half a second, but thinking it was a bird, I forged ahead. “I don’t know if we’ll stay here or go back to New York, but I will follow Pete wherever he goes, whatever he decides.” Even if that meant getting an annulment, but I wasn’t going to share that possibility with Betsy. If that became my reality, she’d find out soon enough.

  I continued. “You know nothing about my marriage.” My voice rose a notch. “I love Pete.” That was true, no matter the outcome of our relationship.

  Betsy’s eyes widened as a deep voice called out, “Cate?”

  Shading my eyes, I made out my husband’s silhouette in the doorway of the barn.

  I froze for a moment before managing to answer, “Betsy and I were just talking.”

  As he strode away, he said, in an apologetic tone, “I’ll find you later, then.”

  I started to follow, but Betsy caught my arm. “I’m sorry,” she said. “Really, I am. For everything. Dat helped me see how badly I’ve behaved.”

  Her eyes brimmed with tears. I reached out and took her in my arms for a quick moment, then squeaked, “I’ve got to go.”

  Outside, I placed my hand to my brow against the afternoon sun but didn’t see Pete. I hurried around the barn. He was gone.

  Near despair and not wanting to face our guests, I snuck behind the shop to the silver maple tree and climbed up onto the bottom branch, my back against the trunk.

  “Help!” I said to God again. No matter what happened with Pete, no matter what Betsy had done to me, no matter all the mistakes I’d made, I didn’t want to go back to being the shrew I’d been.

  That was what mattered most—how I treated God and others.

  In that moment, sitting in the tree, I no longer felt the trunk against my back. Instead I felt God’s arms embrace me and hold me tight as the breeze played the fluttering leaves like chimes. His comfort finally reached me, deep inside. That unlovable feeling that had haunted my soul for far too long was gone.

  God loved me, for sure, whether Pete ever would or not.

  That was where Pete found me nearly an hour later.

  “Mind if I join you?” He wore a serious expression on his face.

  Before I could answer, he pulled himself up quickly, settling onto the branch across from me.

  Pete spoke gently, his voice a murmur above the breeze. “When I sat in this tree the very first time,” he said, “I knew I wanted to court you.”

  “Stop.” My hand gripped the branch above. “You were paid to pursue me.”

  “I never took the money.”

  My heart constricted at his lie. M&M had just apologized to me for paying him. “I don’t believe you.”

  “I was going to, sure. Why not? I figured I might as well let them pay me for what I intended to do anyway. But then I told them no. I said—”

  “What about the envelope?”

  “It was empty. Their parting joke on our wedding day.”

  My eyebrows shot up. Martin had used the word envelope when he apologized, not money.

  “Honest, Cate. Please believe me.”

  Both sorrow and relief filled me. Pete hadn’t betrayed me. Still, I’d ruined everything.

  He shifted on the branch, leaning toward me.

  “What about Jana?” I asked.

  He didn’t hesitate. “I quit loving her a long time ago. Before I ever came to Lancaster County.”

  I thought of him on his journey, his heart breaking . . . and then mending.

  “Then going home made it absolutely clear. My Mamm was right—Jana and I weren’t good together. I truly forgave all of them then.”

  Again, both relief and sadness filled me. I took a jagged breath. “What now?” I craned my neck around the trunk, meeting his eyes.

  “What are you thinking?”

  “Dat said he’d talk to the bishop about an annulment,” I blurted out.

  Pete shifted back against the trunk. “Is that what you want?”

  In the distance, Betsy called my name.

  “I—”

  She called out again.

  “Oh, no!” How could I have lost track of time? “We need to get ready for supper!”

  Now Betsy was shouting. “Cate! Where are you?”

  “I’m coming,” I called back, slipping from the branch and dropping to the ground. “We’ll talk afterward,” I said to Pete, straightening my apron.

  Leaves from the branch above him hid his face, but the tree shook a little.

  “All right?”

  “Jah,” he answered. “We’ll talk then.”

  Torn, I hurried back to the house, running through the list of what needed to be done. Heat the already-cooked pans of macaroni and cheese. Pull out the slices of cold ham. Arrange the veggies.

  I would have rather stayed in the silver maple, but I needed to fulfill my obligation to Dat and our guests, and Betsy too. I’d have the evening meal under control in half an hour. Then I’d be done.

  Pete didn’t show up to help or even to eat. I noted Dat was missing too. Perhaps my husband hadn’t retreated this time, as he had in the past, to escape me. Perhaps, instead, they’d gone to the bishop together.

  By the time darkness began to fall, most of the guests had left, except for those closest to us. The women spilled out into the backyard while the men gathered in the kitchen.

  Nan was telling us about a Plain woman she’d interviewed who had eighteen children, including four sets of identical twins, when Levi’s little brother Ben came bounding down the back steps.

  “Levi wants you.” He pointed at Betsy. “He’s ready to leave.” They were spending their first night at the home of her in-laws.

  “Well,” Betsy answered, her hands on her hips, “I’m not ready to go.”

  Without responding, Levi’s brother turned and clomped back up the steps.

  Some of the other women chuckled, but mortified, I stayed quiet. It seemed Betsy’s contriteness in the barn had all been show.

  Nan finished her story, adding that the first set of twins was born full-term, nine months after the couple’s wedding day.

  Addie elbowed Betsy. “That could be you!”

  Betsy glowed—until the men inside erupted in laughter. Through the window the men slapped Levi on the back. A moment later, Ben started down the steps again.

  “I said I wasn’t ready.” Betsy’s hands flew to her hips again.

  Ben flashed an impish smile, and then his eyes found mine. “This message isn’t for you, Bitsy. It’s for Cate—from Pete.”

  He’d come back.

  A couple of the women giggled. My face grew warm. I looked toward Nan. She smiled at me gently.

  I stepped forward. “Jah?”

  “Pete wants to know if you’re ready to”—Ben’s volume increased—“go home.”

  Home? The word reverberated inside my head.

  I looked toward the window. There was Pete, staring at me, most likely anxious to report what the bishop had said.

  But he�
�d used the word home. That gave me a measure, although tiny, of hope.

  My knees grew weak as I followed Ben up the steps and into the kitchen, aware of the women following along behind me. I wasn’t willing to think the worst, to even speculate, not when it could be my only chance. I held my head high and looked my husband in the eye.

  “I’m ready.” I extended my hand. “Please take me home.”

  His eyes warmed as he stepped toward me. Behind him Martin grinned, and a chorus of sweet murmurs went up from the women. In fact as I glanced around the room, most everyone was smiling—except Levi, who leaned against the counter under the light of the propane lamp staring at Betsy, who stood across the room.

  Pete took my hand and pulled me along. As we passed our new brother-in-law, Pete smiled and said, “God give you a good night.”

  Several of the men chuckled at that. I turned and found Dat standing next to Nan. Neither of them seemed amused, but both had expressions of relief on their faces.

  Out the door we marched and then down the steps in unison. It was as if we were floating, both of us together. But then Pete stopped abruptly in the backyard, dropping my hand and pointing toward the western sky. It was a vivid orange.

  “It’s fiery again,” I said, thinking of the night of the singing when Pete scraped his chin and cut his hand.

  “Jah.” And then he said the same thing, word for word, he had before, but this time in an even stronger voice. “‘Where two raging fires meet together, they do consume the thing that feeds their fury.’”

  “What’s that from?”

  “Shakespeare.” He smiled. Not a sarcastic smile. Or an ironic one. This one was pure pleasure.

  “Really?”

  He nodded. Now he was grinning.

  “And we’re the two fires? Consuming what feeds our fury?”

  “Jah. Us and God.” He took my hand again. “Have you read any Shakespeare?” he asked, pulling me along toward the Dawdi Haus.

  I shook my head.

  “You should. I think you’d like it.” He smiled again as he opened the door.

  Candles, like a thousand stars and the sun and moon combined, twinkled around the room. He must have found Betsy’s stash of tea lights and, I suspected, had Dat’s help in lighting them.

  Too shocked to speak, I simply followed him inside.

  He pulled me down onto the couch beside him. “I never stopped knowing you were the right one for me.”

  “You stopped acting like it.”

  “You wouldn’t listen.”

  “I was hurt.”

  He smiled again. “That’s why I used reverse psychology—to win you back.”

  I wasn’t sure if I wanted to kick him or hug him. But in another second I couldn’t help but grin back at him. “I’ve read about that,” I said.

  “Jah, me too,” he answered playfully.

  The candles flickered all around, bouncing both light and shadows off the ceiling. “What made you decide to do all this?” I spread my arms wide, gesturing around the room.

  “You seeking me out this morning. Listening to those vows again. Overhearing what you said to Betsy in the barn.”

  “Sure, that was a giveaway.”

  He agreed. “Jah, but that was when I knew for sure you loved me.”

  Then he said he wanted us to make a life together—a marriage, a business, a family. A place of our own, full of books. “A home, Cate.” He squeezed my hand. “We’ll live here in Lancaster,” he said. “At your Dat’s.” Pete’s eyes shone as brightly as the flames around us. “Unless you want to return to New York.”

  I quickly shook my head.

  He took my other hand and held them both together in the same manner the bishop had on our wedding day. But instead of saying, “Go forth in the name of the Lord, you are now man and wife,” he said, “Kiss me, Cate.”

  “I thought we were being serious,” I answered.

  “We are.”

  I leaned toward my husband then, our lips meeting, and then our mouths, our hands still clasped as we kissed. It was tender at first, but then grew in passion as Pete embraced me.

  When I finally pulled away, he whispered, “My Sweet Cate.” And for once, I was.

  We stood then, and he led me down the hall, past the empty room where he’d been sleeping. When we reached the master suite he scooped me into his arms and carried me inside.

  With a gentle kick, I shut the door behind us.

  Acknowledgments

  Many thanks to my husband, Peter, for his endless encouragement of my writing, and to our children, Kaleb, Taylor, Hana, and Thao, for their ongoing support—especially when I’m on deadline.

  Thank you also to Laurie Snyder, Tina Bustamante, and Libby Salter for reading the manuscript in its early stages, and to my critique group members, Melanie Dobson, Nicole Miller, Kelly Chang, and Dawn Shipman for your invaluable feedback.

  I’m very grateful to the entire crew at Bethany House Publishers, with a special shout-out to David Long and Karen Schurrer. It has been a delight to work with all of you. I’m also grateful to Mindy Starns Clark for all she’s taught me about writing and about the Amish, and to Susan May Warren for her help in shaping this story. A special thank you to my agent, Chip MacGregor, for believing in this novel when it was nothing more than a wild idea.

  Thank you also to Lynn Ferber and Alan Rosenfeld for providing a much-needed writer’s retreat for me in the middle of this project. The timing was perfect.

  I gratefully acknowledge the many authors whose books about the Amish I’ve read, the Mennonite Information Center in Lancaster County, and the Plain people who have shared their stories with me during my research trips and answered my questions since. Any mistakes in this novel are mine alone.

  Professor Tony Wolk deserves a special acknowledgment for encouraging me, and so many others, to allow Shakespeare to be a creative inspiration. It was in Tony’s class at Portland State University, during my MFA program, that the seeds of this story were planted.

  As a preschooler I remember listening with my mother, Leora Houston Egger, to recordings of Shakespeare’s plays, and I saw my first performance of The Taming of the Shrew as an elementary school student. Although I am by no means a Shakespearean scholar, I’ve loved his stories for nearly my entire life. The older I get, the more I am amazed by his understanding of human nature and the genius of his writing. I am humbled to have borrowed from his work.

  It was also my mother who first shared God’s stories of salvation and redemption with me, stories that have shaped my life. I am forever grateful for her influence—and for God’s constant direction, inspiration, and blessings.

  Leslie Gould is the coauthor, with Mindy Starns Clark, of the #1 CBA bestseller The Amish Midwife, a 2012 Christy Award winner, The Amish Nanny, and The Amish Bride. She is also the author of numerous other novels, including Garden of Dreams, Beyond the Blue (winner of the Romantic Times Reviewers’ Choice for Best Inspirational Novel, 2006), and Scrap Everything. She holds an MFA in creative writing from Portland State University and has taught fiction writing at Multnomah University as an adjunct professor. She and her husband and four children live in Portland, Oregon.

  Learn more about Leslie at www.lesliegould.com.

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