by Amy Lillard
But she couldn’t keep it from her mind.
What had he been trying to prove? That he could still get to her? That she wanted to kiss him whether she admitted it or not? Just what?
And there was still the matter of all the things left on her porch. If Zeb hadn’t left them—and she still wasn’t sure he hadn’t—then who did?
It was more of a mystery than she wanted to solve today.
She parked her tractor at the side of the house and headed inside. Her grandfather had a fire going in the fireplace, and the crackling orange flames brought her up short.
What if . . .
She shook her head. She couldn’t allow herself to think about such things. He had a couple of off days from time to time, but even then he knew the dangers of fire. She had to get her worry under control or she’d never be able to leave the house.
“Dawdi?” she called. She removed her coat and scarf, then moved to stand closer to the flickering flames.
Her grandfather came out of the kitchen, wiping his hands on a dish towel, his blue eyes sparkling. “What do you think?” He nodded to the mantel behind her.
There among the traditional greenery that her mother had always used to decorate for the holidays sat the plastic Santa from the box on the front porch.
“Get it down.” Ivy didn’t wait for him to comply and took the idol down herself. That was what it was. An idol. They shouldn’t use such things in their decorations for the Lord’s birthday. It was wrong. Wrong, wrong, wrong. How had she not seen it up there when she first came in?
Because she had Zeb on her mind. Zeb and Christmas and her new job that she desperately wanted to keep. She was worried about her dawdi, worried about his memory and how she was going to keep him safe.
Just the thought made her angrier. The Santa seemed to represent everything that was wrong with the Englisch world and all the reasons she had gone to experience it all rolled into one.
She thrust it to her dawdi, who looked a bit crestfallen.
“But I—” he stuttered.
“You what?”
He shrugged. “I thought it was kind of funny. I didn’t mean it serious-like.”
“It was a joke?” Ivy immediately regretted her harsh attitude. Her grandfather was a known trickster. Harmless little pranks, like hiding all her left shoes the night before church or adding green food coloring to the macaroni and cheese to make it look moldy. She thought she had seen them all. In fact, he hadn’t pulled a prank on her in quite some time. Maybe that was why today’s was so unexpected. Where had his sense of humor been hiding these last few weeks?
Maybe it’s not his. Maybe it’s yours that’s been missing.
He nodded. “I wasn’t going to leave it up there.” He tucked the offending plastic statue under one arm and sighed.
“I’m sorry,” Ivy said. She truly meant it, more than he would ever know. Between his memory loss, her job situation, and Zeb returning, she had turned into a regular grump.
“Supper’s on the table.” He tossed the towel over one slumped shoulder and made his way back into the kitchen. Chester trotted behind him, hopeful for an early feeding.
Ivy opened her mouth to speak, to say something, anything, to take the hurt look from his eyes, but she closed it again without uttering a word. How had she let herself get this worked up over nothing? A kiss. A really good kiss. But she had been kissed before. By Zeb, even. And she hadn’t lost her head then.
Okay, maybe she had, but that didn’t mean she had to lose it again this time. Especially not when it meant hurting her grandfather’s feelings.
“Dawdi, wait.” She hurried after him into the kitchen, a new apology immediately on her lips.
* * *
If he wanted to win her back . . .
Zeb scrubbed his hands down his face and stared at his reflection. There was nothing in his expression to give away his inner turmoil, but the words had been snaking through him ever since Clara Rose had uttered them.
If you want to win her back . . .
Did he? Did he want to win Ivy back?
His reflection didn’t answer, just stared blandly at him. Same black hair, same green eyes. The same face Zeb saw every time he looked at his brother. So why did he seem like a stranger?
Because he had a question and he couldn’t answer it. Didn’t even know where to begin to find the answer.
Did he want her back?
Had he ever had her to begin with?
A small knock sounded at the door of his room. Clara Rose. Had to be.
Obie wouldn’t have knocked. His brother would have charged in hoping to find Zeb in an embarrassing way. That was just how brothers were.
Zeb checked the buttons on his shirt, tucked it into his pants, and made his way to the door.
“Jah?”
“Obie wanted me to tell you that he needs you in the barn.”
“His dog?”
Clara Rose nodded, then quickly retreated.
Zeb loped down the stairs, grabbed his hat, and made his way to the barn, thankful to have something other than Ivy Weaver to occupy his thoughts.
* * *
Non-church Sundays were among Ivy’s favorite days. Or they had been once. She loved waking up a bit later than usual, not having to rush through breakfast, then having the entire day to just be.
She used to get together with her youth group, or even a group of friends. There was no work to be done. Not much, anyway, and they could relax, enjoy each other’s company, and . . . simply be.
In the summer months, they would head down to Millers’ Pond to swim and enjoy the afternoon. Maybe have a picnic and play a few outdoor games. But in the winter, when the weather turned cold and unpredictable, they pursued indoor entertainment. It seemed like there was always a volleyball game at the rec center. Sometimes they all got together to make Christmas cards for the elderly, comfort patches for the poor, or even strings of paper chains to decorate their house. It was mostly just silly fun, and before Ivy had taken it for granted. Now that she wasn’t invited to any of these activities, she keenly felt their absence. Especially on Sundays when there was no church.
She could get dressed and head over to Vernon Treager’s district. They had church opposite from Ivy’s district, and a lot of the members of her church went there on their off-Sunday. But she would have to go alone if she didn’t take Dawdi with her. He would go if she asked, but she knew he needed his every-other-Sunday day of rest. Going alone wasn’t an option.
On days like this, when there wasn’t anything for her to do outside her home, and even less for her to do inside, she felt the loneliness closing in.
“You got any plans for the day?” Dawdi asked after the breakfast dishes had been washed and put away. It was about the extent of the work they could do on any Sunday. Now the day loomed before her like a chasm.
Ivy looked out the window at the heavy gray sky. It wasn’t a day for going out. She had checked the paper, and there was no rain in the forecast, just heavy clouds to block out the sun.
“I thought I might go . . . visit friends.” She had almost said over to the retirement home but stopped herself just in time. The idea popped into her head so quickly she almost stumbled. She could go visit Margery and Reva. See what they were doing today. But that would mean her grandfather would be home alone.
He’d been having really good days lately, she argued with herself. The cut on his head was almost healed and might indeed leave an impressive scar. Surely he would be all right for an afternoon. She would have to leave him tomorrow to work at the bakery. A couple of hours. Surely he would be okay for that long.
“Friends, eh?” Dawdi smiled. “I was going to tell you that Tassie Weber and her grandson, Karl, were planning to stop by this afternoon.”
Ivy’s eyes narrowed, and she hid her smile. “Are you matchmaking, Dawdi?”
“Of course not,” he blustered, but he glanced away.
“Then how did they come to be visiting today?”
>
He gave a quick shrug. “I saw them at the auction. Next thing I know, they agreed to come over for pie.”
At least he wouldn’t be alone all afternoon.
“Do you think you could be home by four? I’m making oatmeal pie,” he cajoled.
She found herself nodding. And not just for the pie. She wanted her grandfather to be happy, and she could tell her coming back to see Tassie and Karl would make him happy.
* * *
Driving the buggy to the retirement home took longer than she had anticipated, but it was Sunday, and no tractors were allowed. The buggy was slower by far, which only gave her a couple of hours before she had to head back home. No matter. Something in the home called to her, and she felt compelled to visit once again. It wasn’t just that so many of them would not have visitors for Christmas. There was more to it than that. Maybe she felt a little guilty for even considering adding her grandfather to the mix, but it only showed how desperate she really was.
There was nowhere to tie her horse, so she hobbled him instead, patted his neck, and promised him a sugar cube when they returned home.
The air in the home was warm and scented with cranberry and peppermint. The aroma was soothing and seemed to calm her nerves. She was here for a purpose. She might not know what it was just yet, but God would reveal it in time. For now she just needed to sign her name on the clipboard and see where Margery and Reva were this afternoon.
Another woman sat behind the desk today. Ivy supposed Angie had weekends off. This woman was younger by far, maybe even a teenager working to pay for her class pictures for the year.
She smiled at Ivy, her curious brown eyes taking in her prayer kapp before dropping to her fashion magazine once again. Ivy signed her name on the clipboard, feeling the young girl’s gaze returning to her as she did.
Ivy wrote the date and set down the pen. The young woman shifted her attention back to the glossy pages. She wasn’t as helpful as Angie had been. But Ivy could find her way. To the cafeteria for pudding or to the rec room for crafts. Pudding, she decided. She started down the hallway in the direction Angie had shown her the last time she visited.
The teenager shifted in her seat, but otherwise did and said nothing.
The hallway to the left was nearly identical to the one on the right. Soft lights, pastel paintings, oceans and fruit.
Hallways branched off, leading down other corridors with other pastel oceans. There were also signs with room numbers like a person sees at a hotel. Ivy supposed they were there to direct the residents and help them find their way.
Then she came to a wall comprised of glass windows half covered with horizontal blinds. Double doors were propped open, and she could just see the rows of tables.
Ivy made her way inside, surprised to only see one person seated at the table closest to the door. Otherwise the room was empty.
“Is this the cafeteria?” she asked.
The man turned and smiled. He had hair the color of snow and twinkling blue eyes. He was as handsome as she had ever seen, and for one small moment, she wondered if he might be the infamous Ethan Dallas. “This is the game room.”
Ivy glanced over one shoulder. “I thought the cafeteria was down this way.”
“It is. But you have to take the first turn and go all the way down that hall.”
She nodded.
“Are you Ethel’s granddaughter?”
Ivy cocked one hand on her hip and stared at the man. “Why does everyone keep asking me that?”
He chuckled. “You obviously haven’t met Ethel.”
“Is she Amish?”
His smile deepened and he shook his head. “We don’t get many Amish here.”
Something in his smile, maybe it was those dimples of his, drew her in. Pudding forgotten, she sat down across from him. “But you’ve had Amish here?” She wasn’t asking for her grandfather. She had given up that idea. She just wanted to sit with him and talk to him. She couldn’t say what it was, only that it was there. The desire to find out the happiness behind the smile, the intelligence behind his eyes, the stories behind the wrinkles that creased his handsome face.
“No. Not that I know of. But I haven’t been here long.”
“Is your name Ethan?”
He cocked his head to one side. “Have you been talking to Reva or Margery?”
“Both.”
“Ethan Dallas.” He offered her his hand.
She shook it. “Ivy Weaver.”
“What brings you to Whispering Pines, Miss Ivy Weaver?”
She couldn’t very well tell him the truth. “I felt the need to do some visiting. You know, bring good cheer and all, since it’s the holiday.”
He nodded, but she could tell that he didn’t quite believe her. Not that she didn’t want to bring good tidings, but that wasn’t her primary reason for being there. She couldn’t very well tell him her reasons. She wasn’t sure she understood them herself. But this place, these people, they called to her, and she wanted to know more of them. Plus it gave her something to do when everyone else was out at parties, meetings, and holiday activities. All the events she hadn’t been invited to.
“It’s good of you to come.”
“Well, they told me there was pudding.”
“And there is.” He stood and offered his hand once again. “Shall we?”
“Of course.”
They left the game room and retraced her steps back to the first hallway and on to the cafeteria. Several other residents were seated at the round tables that dotted the large room. Some sat in pairs, while other tables had three or more. They were a mixed lot, all shapes and sizes of grandparents seated around eating pudding and gelatin out of cups and talking about nothing in overloud voices.
Ethan went through the line and got them each a chocolate pudding, then came to sit down next to her.
“So tell me, Ivy Weaver. What brings a nice Amish girl like you to an old folks home on a fine Sunday afternoon?”
Ivy peeled the top off her pudding, taking her time as she unwrapped her plastic spoon. “Who said I was a nice Amish girl?”
He gave a small nod. “Noted.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“What did you mean, then?”
Ivy stirred her spoon around in the little plastic cup and thoughtfully stared at the swirls in her pudding. “There are always rumors,” she said.
“I see.” And from the knowing light in his blue eyes, she had the feeling he knew more than even what she had told him.
“Things happen.” It was all she could say. Tears rose into her eyes, and her throat clogged. Yet what was done was done. There was nothing she could do about it now.
“The love of God,” Ethan said. “That’s the only thing that’s forever. Even the mountains shift and change. What is now, doesn’t have to always be.”
The words lent her hope. Just a small glimmer, but it was there all the same. But she dared not let it take hold. How she wanted to!
“If only that were true,” she said. “If only.”
* * *
After two more pudding cups, Ivy decided it was time to go home. She didn’t want to, but she had promised her grandfather that she would be home when Tassie and Karl arrived. She met a lot of the residents there at Whispering Pines, but still not the mysterious Ethel. Three more people asked her if she was there to see Ethel, and she made herself a mental note to seek her out the next time she went.
She nearly pulled back on the reins to stop the horse, but somehow managed to keep going. The next time she went. Was there going to be a next time? It seemed the thought was there. But why? And how? She worried so much about leaving her grandfather by himself.
You left him alone today.
Today had been different. He was having a good day. She couldn’t count on those good days. But she wanted to go back. No one there looked at her with pity or condemnation. They simply opened their arms, eager to have a new visitor to share their day with. The welcome was
refreshing and oh-so needed.
She couldn’t go back. There wasn’t a way. There simply wasn’t time. She wouldn’t get to meet Ethel, but it would be okay. She had much to do for the Christmas season. She had plenty of hours she could work, and other things . . . Well, she couldn’t think of any right at the time, but they were out there.
She turned her buggy down the lane, checking the small solar clock stuck to the dash. Fifteen till four. She had made it with plenty of time. She’d had a wonderful afternoon, more fun than she’d had in a long time. Never mind that she had spent it doing absolutely nothing; it was still fun and fulfilling.
There was a buggy parked to one side of the yard. The Webers had arrived early. She sighed, some of that good feeling leaking out of her.
It was still going to be a good day. Her dawdi had made oatmeal pie.
She stopped the buggy, only then realizing that the buggy didn’t belong to the Webers. It was Paul Brenneman’s.
And Zeb was standing on her front porch.
Chapter Seven
“What are you doing here?” She said the words without any sort of greeting. She thought they’d had an agreement. He wasn’t going to bother her and she wasn’t going to bother him and somehow they would make it through the holiday season without . . . without . . . well, without starting any more rumors in Wells Landing.
“There’s a get-together tonight.”
Ivy pushed past him and into the house. “That’s nice.”
“I want to go.” He followed her inside, staring off in the direction of the kitchen. “Is that oatmeal pie I smell?”
“Yes. No. Go.”
He blinked and faced her. “What?”
“That is oatmeal pie, and you should go to the get-together.”
He shook his head and seemed to bring himself back into focus. “I want you to go with me.”
“No.” The word landed solid and flat between them.
“Ivy . . .”
She brushed past him and over to the fireplace. Her dawdi had a fine blaze going. That was good, because it was promising to be a cold night. Chester lounged in front of the hearth as if the warmth were for her and her alone. “Don’t do this, Zeb.”
“What if I want to?”