Emma whistled for Rodney, Archie, and Molly. One by one, with Molly moving the slowest, they came up to her. She sat down on the ground and pulled a couple of dog treats out of the pocket of her jacket. The dogs gobbled the treats, surrounding Emma as she petted and gave special attention to each one.
The eggs needed collecting, the kitchen cleaning, the porch sweeping. She had a pile of clothes to wash, and today was the day she baked bread for the week. She ticked off the tasks in her mind, but ignored them. All she wanted was the unconditional love of her dogs, and to hear Dill grazing behind her. For the first time in days, her spirit felt lighter.
Emma’s balloon deflated with the sound of a buggy coming up the driveway. Probably Clara. Emma had avoided her yesterday. She hadn’t wanted to talk about the fabric shop; in fact, she had managed to put it out of her mind completely. Now the thought of it made her stomach turn.
She heard the buggy lurch to a stop, and she got up and brushed the grass off her dress. Archie and Rodney loped off into the woods, while Molly slowly made her way to her spot under the back porch.
Emma checked on Dill one last time, breathed in the fresh morning air as if it would make her stronger, and went to face Clara.
Her sister wasn’t in the kitchen. She went into the front room. “Clara?” she called. No response.
Then she heard a noise coming from the woodshop, metal clanging against metal. She ran to the shop and opened the door in time to see Peter drop a hammer into a wooden crate. “What are you doing?”
“Didn’t Clara tell you?”
“Tell me what?”
“That I was coming to get your grossvadder’s tools today.”
Emma stalked over and looked down into the crate, which was rapidly filling with her grandfather’s tools, then scowled up at Peter. “No, she did not.” She snatched the hammer out of the box and hung it back on the pegboard.
Her brother-in-law lifted his hat and scratched the top of his head. “I don’t understand. She was supposed to tell you yesterday at church.”
“I left early.” Her frown deepened. “What are you planning to do with them?”
“Sell them, of course. What did you think we were going to do?”
“You can’t do that.”
He laid his hand on her shoulder. “Calm down, Emma.”
“Calm down?” She jerked away from him. “You’re stealing Grossvadder’s tools!”
“I’m not stealing anything.” He started to reach out to her again, then stopped. “Listen to me. Clara said you two had discussed this. That you didn’t have a problem with me taking the tools to the Middlefield Auction. We could get a gut price for them there.”
“I don’t care what kind of price you could get.” Pressure filled her chest. “Clara didn’t say anything about selling his tools.”
Peter shook his head. “I wouldn’t have come over if I knew you weren’t ready to do this.”
Emma forced an even tone. He didn’t deserve her anger. He was only doing what Clara had told him. “It’s not your fault, Peter. Please put the tools back.”
She would never be ready to sell these tools. Or change this woodshop.
But instead of complying, Peter tugged on his beard. “Let’s talk about this for a moment, ya? You do know about Clara’s idea about transforming your grossvadder’s shop into a fabric store. Right?”
Emma swallowed. “I do.”
“And did you agree to it?”
Her head started to pound. Had she said something to Clara that put that thought in her sister’s head? With everything that had happened the past week, she wasn’t sure. “I can’t remember.”
“Emma, I understand how you feel.” He looked around the dust-covered shop. Motes danced in the sunbeams coming through the one and only cloudy, smudged window. “If this belonged to mei grossvadder, I’d feel the same way. I’d want to keep part of him around me. But Clara’s idea about turning it into a shop is a gut one. She’s worried about how you and Leona will make ends meet. I am too. And we both know the tools aren’t being used anymore.”
“I see now. Clara sent you over here to convince me to agree to all this.”
He shook his head. “Nee, that’s not what—”
“Get out.” She moved toward him, pointing at his chest. “I mean it, Peter, leave.”
He paused for a moment. “All right, Emma. I’ll geh.” He headed for the doorway. “Believe me, I didn’t mean to make you upset. And I’m not trying to talk you into anything.”
“Ya, you are. Both you and Clara are.”
Peter glanced down, then left.
Emma took in a deep breath. She coughed. Inches of old sawdust and dirt covered almost everything. The tools remained where her grandfather had last touched them. Most of them hung on the pegboard, but there were a hammer and screwdriver on the worktable, two mason jars of nails on the windowsill, and chunks of leftover wood stacked in the corner. Time stood still in the small building. It was the one thing in Emma’s life that hadn’t been changed or taken from her.
She leaned over Peter’s crate and pulled out the wood plane. Her hands shook as she placed it back in its spot on the pegboard. “This is where you belong,” she said out loud, “and this is where you’ll stay.”
“Clara! Clara!”
Mark heard Peter’s booming voice echo throughout the house. He cast a sidelong glance at Clara, drying the dishes at the sink. Mark pushed a few pieces of oat cereal toward Magdalena. She grabbed them off the tray of her wooden high chair and shoved the cereal into her mouth. Drool dripped from her tongue in strings, and tufts of fine baby hair stood all over her head.
It was all Mark could do not to vomit. Children were messy, smelly, useless brats, the lot of them. But he had Peter and Clara convinced he thought their children were blessed gifts from God, to be nurtured and loved and shaped into good Amish people.
“Clara!” Peter stalked into the kitchen, his face red, eyes blazing. His gaze locked on her. “You lied to me!”
She dropped the kitchen towel, her eyes wide with shock. “What are you talking about?”
“Your grossvadder’s tools? Emma?” Peter hovered over her, seeming not to notice that Mark was there. “You didn’t tell her I was coming, did you?”
Mark gave Clara credit for not shrinking back. “She and I had already talked about it.”
“Not according to her.”
“Emma doesn’t know what she wants.”
Peter took a step back. He held on to his hat with a death grip, rolling and unrolling the brim in his hands. “Of course she doesn’t. She’s hurt. She’s grieving. She wants to hold on to the memories she has left. Can’t you understand that?”
“She has Grossmammi.” Clara bent down and snatched the towel from the floor. “She has that big drafty haus that’s going to fall down if it’s not repaired.”
Magdalena banged on her tray for more cereal. Mark tossed a few pieces in her direction, the way he might pacify a dog with a couple of kibbles. He focused on Clara and Peter’s argument. This was getting interesting.
“It’s not a pile of splinters yet.” Peter tossed his hat on the counter. “You’re pushing her before she’s ready. I thought you were worried about her.”
“I am.” Clara twisted the towel in her hand. “But I’m worried about us too.” She moved closer to him.
Mark had to strain to hear her voice.
“Think about what the shop could do for our familye, Peter. You wouldn’t have to worry about finding a job. We would have our own business. The bills would be paid. No more scrimping and saving, hoping we can make it from month to month.”
“You mean praying we make it month to month. Right?”
“Right.”
Mark smirked at Clara’s doubtful tone. She didn’t believe that drivel any more than he did.
“What if this isn’t God’s will?” Peter asked. “What if He has something else planned for us?”
“Like what?” Her voice rose. “This
is perfect, Peter. We have the facility. The tools we sell will help us start the business. We should have enough customers on our road alone to make a profit right away.”
“And what about Emma? What does she get out of this?”
“A part of the profits. Financial security.” She stared at Peter. “A purpose.”
“And it’s your job to decide your schwester’s purpose?” He turned around and froze. “Mark.” He pressed his lips in a grim line. “I didn’t realize you were here.”
“I’m sorry.” He stood, making sure his expression reflected not only the solemn nature of the conversation but enough contrition to ease his cousin’s anger. “I should have left as soon as you came in.”
“Ya. You should have. This was a private argument.”
“That you held in the most public room of our haus.” Clara moved to stand by Mark. “Don’t apologize,” she said to him. “It’s no secret Peter doesn’t have a job. And it doesn’t take a genius to know that when no one’s working, no money is coming in.”
Peter looked ready to explode. He grabbed his hat off the counter, slammed it on his head, and stormed out of the room.
Clara leaned against the chair. She looked spent. Mark hid a smile. It wouldn’t do for her to see him enjoying her suffering. “Are you all right?”
She nodded. “I’m fine.”
“He was a little hard on you. Considering everything you do to keep your familye together and happy.”
“I wish he understood.” Her tone was filled with defeat. “He thinks as long as we pray hard and have enough faith, God will provide.” She looked up at Mark. “He hasn’t provided for nine months. And when a perfect opportunity for God’s provision does come up, mei mann rejects it.” She shook her head. “I don’t understand him.”
“How about if I talk to Emma?” Mark looked at her. They both ignored Magdalena’s yammering in the background. “Maybe I can convince her that this is an opportunity she can’t pass up.”
Clara paused. A shadow passed over her eyes. “You barely know her.”
“But I know you. And you’re schwesters. You can’t be all that different.”
“You have nee idea.” She sighed. “Why would you do this?”
“Because you’re right. You and your kinner deserve to be taken care of, to not have to worry about money. But most of all, because we’re familye.”
“And that’s the only reason you want to see Emma?”
Mark shrugged. “She’s single.” He gave Clara a crooked little grin. “Maybe if she had something else to occupy her mind and time, she wouldn’t be so resistant to what you want to do.”
Clara raised an eyebrow at him. “Maybe you’re right.” Then she frowned. “But, Mark, I don’t want you to feel you have to like Emma. Or pretend to be interested in her. I’m frustrated with her right now because she’s not being reasonable. But I don’t want her to get hurt. She’s had her heart broken before. I don’t think she could take that again.”
Mark looked into her eyes. “Clara, I promise you, I won’t break Emma’s heart.”
Adam shoved the last bite of a sausage and egg biscuit into his mouth as he turned onto Bundysburg Road. He hadn’t seen either of his parents since yesterday evening, and this morning his mother hadn’t come downstairs to make breakfast. When Adam looked outside the window, his father’s buggy was already gone. He must have left before sunrise. Which meant he must have taken care of the animals a couple of hours before that.
Adam would have made his own breakfast, but he didn’t want to mess up his mother’s pristine kitchen. A cherry Danish in a bag sat on the seat next to him, and a Styrofoam mug of coffee in the truck’s cup holder. Cherry was her favorite. She deserved a treat.
A buggy came toward him in the opposite direction. He slowed his speed, remembering his aggravation at rude drivers when they whipped by him in their cars, sometimes honking their horns. Usually reckless teens did that, trying to spook the horse. They had no idea how dangerous that was, not only to the horse and buggy driver, but to everyone on the road. Still, that didn’t keep some morons from doing it.
He parked the truck in the driveway, grabbed the coffee and Danish, and got out. It was an odd juxtaposition, the big black pickup truck and his Amish clothes. He hadn’t been able to wash his Yankee clothing yesterday. Work on Sunday violated the Sabbath, and he wouldn’t do that to his mother. He couldn’t care less about what his father thought.
The smell of perked coffee filled the kitchen. He went to hug his mother. “I see you’re up.”
“I’m sorry I slept in this morning.” Her kapp was perfectly in place, the pleats of her dress pressed and the skirt without a wrinkle. “I should have had breakfast ready for you.”
He noticed she didn’t mention his father. “That’s all right. I brought a treat for you.” He held out the cup of fast-food coffee and the bag with the Danish.
She smiled, yet the emotion didn’t reach her eyes. “That was thoughtful of you, Adam.” She looked him up and down as she accepted the food. Her expression held a little more hope. “I see you decided to wear your Amish clothes.”
He couldn’t bring himself to tell her the reason why. It was a good thing he had only gone through the drive-through to get breakfast. He would have gotten more than a few strange looks at his beard and mustache. Maybe he should shave them off after all. It would make things simpler. Make his mother happy.
She set the coffee and Danish on the table but didn’t touch them. Instead she went to the sink and turned on the tap. “Fried chicken and mashed potatoes okay for supper, Adam?”
“Whatever you fix is fine.” He looked around the kitchen. “Where’s Daed?”
His mother turned off the tap. It took a second before she faced him. “I’m not sure.” This time her smile was too wide. “He was gone before I got up.”
“Probably running some errands in town.”
“Ya. Probably.” She didn’t say anything for a moment. Then she held up one finger. “Could you do a favor for me?”
“Anything,” Adam said.
“I have a pie plate that belonged to Mary.” She opened a lower cabinet and pulled out a glass dish. “Could you take it to Leona? I’ve had it for years, actually. I should have given it back to Mary sooner.”
“Sure.” Adam took the plate. “I’ll be right back.”
“Wait.” His mother picked up the coffee and Danish. “I’m not hungry, and I already had my coffee. Maybe Emma might want this?”
He took the bag from her. Emma probably didn’t want anything from him. But at least he would offer it to her.
CHAPTER 14
Adam headed for Emma’s house with the pie plate tucked under his arm. Steam rose from the small hole in the coffee lid. Even if Emma rejected breakfast, this gave him a good excuse to check on Dill. He’d been thinking about the horse this morning, hoping the pad on her foot had helped a bit last night.
He tucked the folded edge of the bag between his teeth and knocked on the door. Waited for an answer, then knocked again. He didn’t hear any movement from inside the house. His eyes drifted to Emma’s grandfather’s old workshop. He left the porch and walked to the wood shop door. Emma was sweeping with harsh, sharp strokes. A giant cloud of dust hung in the room.
He sneezed. She looked up. Thin white trails ran from the bottom of each eye through the dust on her cheeks. She’d been crying. He hated to see her cry.
Emma turned from him. “Geh away.”
He ignored her command and set the coffee, bag, and plate on the dirty counter. “Emma, what’s wrong?”
“Nothing’s wrong. I’m cleaning up.” She sniffed. “Can’t you see what a mess this place is? I shouldn’t have let it get this way.” She brandished the broom, kicking up more dirt.
Adam shook his head. The shop hadn’t been touched in years. Why was she blaming herself for its condition now? He took the broom from her hand and was surprised when she let him.
“I brought some coffee
. And a Danish, if you want it.”
She turned to him and swiped at her cheek with her hand. The attempt only smeared the dirt all over her face. He couldn’t help but smile.
“What?”
“Remember the time it rained for three days straight? We were like, what, ten, eleven years old?”
She nodded.
“And there was that huge mud puddle in my backyard. You dared me to jump in it.”
“But you were too chicken.”
“I was too smart.” He grinned wider. “Then I dared you.”
“But I was even smarter.” Her lips began to twitch. “When I said I would, I pushed you in instead.”
“And I grabbed you and yanked you down with me.” He laughed.
“What made you think of that?”
“Your face.”
All the humor in her eyes vanished. She rubbed her face again. “I must look a mess, then.”
“Nee, Emma. You don’t look a mess. Not to me.”
Emma couldn’t move. She couldn’t pull her gaze from Adam. His words reached through her embarrassment, through her pain, to the tender part inside her. Worst of all, he didn’t realize how easily he could do it. A kind look. A friendly touch on the arm. An offhand comment, like the one he just made.
She picked up the cup of coffee and took a long drink. The hot liquid scalded her mouth.
“Whoa, careful.” He took the cup from her. “That’s fast-food coffee. It’ll burn the taste buds right off your tongue.”
Her cheeks reddened. She looked away, not daring to eat the Danish. She’d probably choke on it if she tried.
Adam set the coffee back on the counter. “How’s Dill?”
“She’s doing fine. I tethered her in the backyard a little while ago. She needed the sunshine. A change of scenery too.”
“Gut idea.” He picked up the bag. “You going to eat this?” When she shook her head, he pulled out the Danish. “Do you mind?”
She shrugged. She waited for the usual agitation and resentment she felt when she was around him to surface. It didn’t come. Things between them felt almost . . . normal. Or else she was too tired to feel anything at all.
The Middlefield Family Collection Page 10