Chasing Paradise (A Paradise Novel Book 1)

by Cindy Patterson

  She stared into his eyes and his rudeness was forgotten. “I thought about putting it by the barn.”

  She paused to make sure he wouldn’t disagree. He would definitely know more about this than she would. But he said nothing.

  Rachel advanced toward the barn and pointed to the area she'd already chosen. “Can you make it about this wide and this long?” She walked off the small twenty-by-fifteen foot garden, feeling awkward with each step. It had felt like the perfect spot earlier, but now she wasn't so sure.

  In his presence, she was sure of nothing.

  Six

  Careful not to look directly at her, Paul set the tool on the edge where he'd planned to start. How long would she care for the garden? She said herself she’d never had one. It would only be a matter of time before the weeds overtook it. And all of this would be for nothing.

  The tiller eased into the soil, gas fumes elevating from the machine. It worked into the ground effortlessly. She'd chosen the exact spot where a garden had been before. Had she known that? It wouldn’t take long at all.

  He must have seemed extremely rude earlier. This wasn't the first time he’d worked around Englisch families with teenage daughters his age. It had never mattered. Not like this. She could be no different than any other spoiled Englisch girl. After all, he’d only met her this morning. Of course she would put on a front for a first impression. And he knew better. It was an Englisch girl who'd destroyed his best friend's life.

  When she spoke, Paul had expected to see her shallow side, but that hadn't happened. She seemed nervous. Like him.

  Then she did the unthinkable. She stood right there.

  “Can I help?” She spoke but over the machine, he had trouble hearing her. His gaze drifted to her mouth with every intent to read her lips. That was a big mistake.

  She shouldn't be here with her long tan legs, waves of sunlight dancing through her thick, brown hair. Far too pretty. Far too distracting. If he wasn't careful, he would enjoy her company. “Nein. I can manage.”

  Taking a few steps back, he thought she would change her mind and head toward the house, but she stopped—in his direct view.

  When her brown eyes attached to him, a jolt shot through his chest, causing a lump to lodge in his throat. He directed his gaze toward the tines, locking his focus on something else. With each thrust of the tiller, he gained a portion of control he'd lost since the beginning of this unlikely meeting with Rachel.

  A film of dust covered her black shorts and top. “You're getting covered. Maybe you should wait over there.”

  “Oh.” She swiped at her bare leg and a layer of sand scattered in the wind. “A little dirt never hurt anything. I might as well get used to it if I'm going to be out here every week working in it.”

  “You're different than any Englischer I've been around. That's for certain sure.”

  A smile that was downright breathtaking slid over her lips. “What did you say? That sounded just like ...”

  “Like what?” He wanted to see that smile again.

  She didn't give him what he wanted, but the color in her cheeks deepened. “Nothing. I love your accent. Maybe it will be better if I get out of your way.”

  “I’ll have this ready for you in a couple of hours.” Paul strained to keep his focus on the tiller, when all his impulses urged him to look at her. No, it was too dangerous. Those deep brown eyes with specks of gold that were impossible to read would grab a hold of him for sure. And he wasn't all that certain, he would be able to resist it again.

  “I really appreciate this. I hope I’ll be able to grow something.”

  Regardless, he had to be friendly to her. It wouldn’t be right to treat her different than he would other Englischers. “Jah. I'm sure you will.”

  After thirty minutes, he wiped the sweat from his brow, stretched out his arms behind his head, and gave into his yearning to look in her direction. Kicking the swing back and forth with her foot, the young woman concentrated on the book in her hands. The leather bound book could only be one thing. Her Bible.

  He yanked his hat farther onto his head.

  ~

  Watching Paul work was nothing like watching the man in the field earlier. The comparison wasn't even close. His shirt sleeves were rolled up over his muscular forearms, the first few buttons unfastened below his collar. Rocking to the rhythm of the steady hum of his big metal tool, a warm breeze swept across her face. She forced herself not to stare as he worked, yet her eyes were disobedient and flickered again and again in his direction. She’d finished her devotional reading for the day, the Bible still lying open across her lap. She couldn’t move from the spot though. Not with Paul working in her perfect view.

  A few minutes later, he loaded the tiller onto his wagon. Rachel looped a few strands of hair around her finger and hurried to grab her new gardening tools and seeds. With awkward steps, she wandered out to the garden, holding a basket filled with supplies. His work was beautiful, but he had disappeared. Rachel studied the perfect rows and hated to touch it. He’d even raked and swept the outside corners.

  She shouldn’t have asked her mom to have Paul do this. If she'd met him first she definitely wouldn’t have. That’s for certain sure. She laughed out loud at the common phrase she'd read in the Amish novel─the phrase that Paul had just used. Thank goodness she hadn't blurted it out. She would've ruined everything.

  Staring at the flawless rows of soil was getting her nowhere. She should've bought a garden manual. The vision of Paul doubled over in laughter, expecting her to fail, spun circles in her mind. He believed her to be weak. Unable to care for a garden. She saw it in his eyes. And she had to do whatever it took to prove him wrong.

  Rachel opened a small pack of squash and read the directions before she buried them in the first section. After only a few minutes, she had all the packets of seeds dispersed. Her back ached and her hands were filthy. She pulled the water hose attached to the barn, unraveling it with each step, praying that she’d spread the seeds out far enough, buried them deep enough, and now hoped she watered them enough.

  Sweat beaded on the back of her neck and gathered around the inside corners of her sunglasses. With a swipe of her hand, she brushed the sweat away, leaving a trail of burning in its wake. She placed the glasses on her head, then returned the hose, rolling each heavy loop across the bar before heading inside.

  Her mom leaned against the door. “This isn't going to work.”

  Paul stood on a ladder in the living room. He was shaking his head and looking down, but then his gaze shifted and in the briefest of moments met hers.

  Rachel hurried upstairs. She should thank him, but that could wait.

  She entered her room and closed the door behind her. Why was her heart pounding through her chest?

  Two gallons of paint and utensils were already set against the wall. With each stroke of lime green, she thought of Florida and how different everything would be now. What was Samantha doing today? What would she say about planting a garden?

  And she thought of something else she wanted to share with her best friend right this very minute. There was no doubt in her mind, Samantha would flip if she saw Paul.

  An hour later, Rachel ran downstairs to fix something to drink. Paul was still painting, so she poked her head into the living room.

  Rachel waited, trying to find the nerve to speak when he turned toward her. “I wanted to tell you thank you.” Her words came on a rushed inhale.

  “You're welcome.” He gave her the same smile as before, but this time she fought against it.

  “Would you like something to drink? We have lemonade or sweet tea.” How stupid she must sound. Of course her mom had already offered him something.

  He took one step down and faced her. “Jah, danki … yes, thank you. Lemonade sounds gut.” He cleared his throat. “Good.”

  Rachel turned quickly toward the kitchen, her legs were moving in a quirky way, her gait unusual.

  “You’ve been painting t
oo,” he spoke, sounding closer than she expected him to be.

  A surge of blood heated her cheeks as she spun around and found him standing in the kitchen doorway. “Oh.” Streaks of green paint stained her arm. “I’m painting my room.”

  “Jah, your mom told me you would be.”

  Rachel managed to get the glasses filled without spilling any of the yellow liquid. Paul took his lemonade from the counter, sloshing the lemon around his glass, the ice clinking against the sides. She waited by the sink for him to leave, but he stayed until he emptied his glass.

  “Danki … um, thank you.” He rubbed the back of his neck before meeting her gaze. “That was refreshing. Did you make it yourself?”

  “Yes, the lemons I bought ... I mean, I bought the lemons yesterday.” Rachel tried to keep eye contact with him without losing her concentration. It was impossible. She took a sip and a cool rush soared through her body, but she wasn't convinced it had anything to do with the drink.

  “It tasted delicious. Some of the best lemonade I've ever had.” He placed his empty glass on the counter next to her. “Thanks again.”

  With a brief smile, he walked away, and she raced up the stairs trying to escape the strange flutter filling her stomach.

  Seven

  Rachel drew in an invigorating breath and braced herself for another day in the restaurant. The shine of a new job was wearing thin, and though it gave her some purpose, it did little to ease the persistent ache. As always her gaze roamed the tables, searching for that same Amish man she'd seen the first day. The man who was working at her house, right now, while she was here, avoiding the steely eyes of one of the guests.

  Kelli nudged Rachel when she stepped through the kitchen door. “That guy sitting in the corner booth keeps staring at you.”

  Rachel cringed. “I know. What’s his problem?”

  “I don’t know, but he’s got it bad for you, girl. Didn’t he come in yesterday?”

  “Yeah, I remember seeing him.” It wasn't unusual for guests to visit several times a week. “Do you know him?”

  “Not really. He doesn’t live around here. I heard he visits his aunt every year.”

  Rachel sighed. It was a little creepy. “Maybe he’s leaving. Today.”

  Kelli's laughter rang through the kitchen. “You’re crazy, girl. He's gorgeous.”

  Rachel gave a half hearted laugh before walking through the double doors leading to the dining room.

  The second time she passed by, he grabbed her wrist. His gaze roamed her with an appreciative grin. “I’m Jason. Let me take you out tonight.”

  He released her, letting his fingers trail down the length of her arm. She snatched away from the intimate touch.

  “Sorry, but I’m busy tonight.”

  He sat there for over an hour and she wanted to scream in frustration. Her anger had tripled since the time he'd made his advance. What was he looking at anyway? She wore the sourest looking face she could muster every time she passed him and never, not once, did she glance in his direction. Why, she had a mind to march over there and─

  He stood to leave. Finally. She released a deep, satisfying breath.

  Please don’t come back tomorrow.

  ~

  Paul entered Rachel’s room and stared at the walls. She'd done a great job. Her color choices were feminine yet bold. The lime green was striking against the white crown molding. Her room stood empty of any furniture. He had hoped to learn something about this girl he'd tried so hard to ignore, other than she wasn't too bad at painting and didn't mind getting dirty.

  Light colored fibers clung to Paul's dark pants as his two helpers stretched the beige carpet. It would look like a brand new house by the time they finished.

  An hour later, he strolled downstairs to find Mrs. Adams sitting in her office. She continued to type unaware of his presence. “I’m sorry to bother you, but we've finished the carpet in Rachel’s room.”

  Deep creases filled her forehead as she stared at the computer. “Okay, that’s great.”

  “I wanted to move her furniture back in for her.”

  She leaned back. “No, that’s okay. She wants to do that herself.”

  “I don’t mind. And I have plenty of help.”

  “That’s nice of you, but I’ll help her. You go ahead and finish the rest of the upstairs. Except of course for the room where her things are stored.” She left no room for further argument. “You should be able to get in there by tomorrow.”

  Mrs. Adams focused again on her computer.

  Paul stepped outside and, like most days, glanced at the road as a car drove by, expecting it to be Rachel. But it never was.

  If only he could listen to headphones with music like all the other guys, maybe he’d quit daydreaming so much. But he shouldn’t listen to their worldly songs, no more than he already did when his crew listened to music on the job. He already sang the lyrics in his head. He had enough trouble with his uncle.

  Where could Rachel be spending so much time? They just moved here. He’d been working here for a week and a half, but had only seen her a couple of times. It was probably best their paths hadn’t crossed much. A slight smile roused his lips as the nudging in his gut took flight. He longed to see her, but just as suddenly as the notion appeared, it dissipated.

  He didn't want to think about the Lord purposefully bringing her into his life. Not the way that Englisch woman secured her hooks on his friend, only to leave him months later. His friend loved her, gave up everything for her. He was devastated when she left.

  No, God had nothing to do with this. It was selfish desires creeping into his life. And he knew better. It was against their rules to court and marry Englischers. And that was the reason why.

  Paul arrived at the Adams’ at his usual time on Friday morning. His cousin needed to borrow the buggy, so she dropped Paul off at the road.

  Something was different this morning, something very different than every other day this week. Rachel’s car was parked in the yard, but her mom’s car was missing.

  Once Paul reached the other side of the barn, he pulled the first piece of wood across the table and carved the design into the crown molding by hand. It took more time, but Mrs. Adams requested a design not found in stores. When she painted a picture with words describing what she was looking for, he drew the design and she agreed to pay him well for the extra work.

  The sun rose to its highest peak at noon, and Paul moved his supplies inside the barn adjacent to the big shade tree. He carved through another piece of wood, desperate to empty his mind of chestnut-brown eyes, that eloquent accent, a carefree smile. Long, tanned legs covered in a layer of dust.

  He rearranged his tools along the table. Not even his most passionate desire, his construction company, could free him from the images.

  A tiny chuckle halted his action. The object of his distraction was standing next to her garden.

  Ach! How was he supposed to stop daydreaming about her now?

  Though she seemed unaware, he worked only yards from her. He stayed seated inside the barn near the door where he could catch the breeze but still linger in the deep shadows. She lifted a hoe and whacked a row of weeds, then bent to retrieve them and threw them into a pile. Why was she using that hoe? She could easily pull the few blades of grass by hand.

  He shouldn't keep glancing.

  Paul quietly whittled and skinny, curled tendrils of wood gave way beneath his carving tool. He tried to give his full attention to the detail, but couldn't help the occasional glance in her direction.

  Time after time, she readjusted her gloves. That simple action distracted him, amused him, made her even more appealing.

  Before moving to the next row, she propped an arm against the hoe and wiped her face with a towel. Her hair had been pulled back in a ponytail, but a few dark strands had fallen loose around her face.

  This was his territory. She shouldn't be out here. The sun blazed and the temperature rose quickly.

  Her ey
es were weary, her face beet red. She wore a pair of ragged edged jean shorts with an oversized T-shirt.

  She dropped her hoe and grabbed the tail of her shirt. He cleared his throat to expose his presence, but she didn't hear him. She tugged the shirt over her head and threw it. He looked away, but back again quickly, his eyes widening.

  Why was she undressing in the yard? She wore a white tank top that fit so snuggly it unveiled every curve of her body. It wasn’t appropriate, but he couldn’t steer his eyes away. She lifted her hoe and started swinging again, oblivious to the fact that he was there.

  Apparently, she saw nothing wrong with working outside in her underwear. He would hate himself for it later, but he wanted to memorize every inch. Her long slender arms bulged slightly when she lifted the hoe. Everything about her was beautiful. Paul followed the length of her body until his gaze came to rest on her feet, and the squirming object behind them. Terror stricken, he bolted from the barn.

  Eight

  It had been seven days since her conversation with Paul in the garden. Seven days since she'd seen that smile that smothered her skin with goose bumps. Seven days of admiring his handiwork and longing for Friday. The day she'd be home to see him again.

  It had finally arrived, but he wasn't here.

  Maybe that wasn't a bad thing. Her nerves were like frenzied tentacles coiling through every vein when she found herself anywhere near the man. Serving wrong orders would've been a sure way to lose her job her first two weeks of work.

  Feeling faint from the heat, Rachel stopped to rest and admired the first few rows free of weeds. Would Paul approve?

  Where is he?

  The sun burned her shoulders, and her parched throat ached. She had already taken her shirt off, but that produced little relief.