Autumn Winds

by Charlotte Hubbard

  Miriam’s face went hot. “Well now,” she stammered, “this is the kind of thing younger folks have no idea about when they start out together—”

  “Does it bother ya that I’ve never been married, Miriam? No doubt I’ll do things ya don’t like, or do things wrong because I don’t know any better.”

  She laughed, loving how the sound floated out into the night as they rolled along the road. “Like your Aunt Jerusalem was sayin’ just before ya knocked on the door, ya probably still stand a gut chance of bein’ . . . trainable.”

  “Trainable?” he protested.

  “And in that respect, it’s nice that ya haven’t been married, used to the way your first wife did things,” Miriam added quickly. “Maybe it’s you who’ll have to deal with a woman who runs her home a certain way because her husband expected it.”

  “I’ve got the answer to that.”

  Ben looked out ahead of them as though watching the road was all he had on his mind . . . as though he expected to give no further explanation of such a statement. For the longest time he ignored the way she squirmed and sighed and waited.

  “And?” she finally asked, jabbing him in the ribs with her elbow. “Don’t think I’ll let ya get by with havin’ all the answers, Mr. Hooley! I’ve got an answer to that, ya know!”

  He chuckled until his whole body shook. “I bet my answer’s better.”

  “Try me! I’ll be the judge of that.”

  Ben gave her the sweetest smile she’d ever seen. “When I was talkin’ to Derek Shotwell after we finished the mill arrangements, I asked him about the price of land and the cost of buildin’ houses hereabouts.”

  “But I’ve got a house. And it’s plenty big enough for—”

  “And it was Jesse’s house. And you’ve told Rachel and Micah it’s theirs now.”

  Miriam raised her eyebrows. “Jah, there’s that—not that it’s an unusual situation for two or three generations to live together.”

  “But wouldn’t ya like your very own home, Miriam? Wouldn’t ya like to have a say in how your kitchen was set up . . . which way your porch swing faced for the best breeze, or the pertiest view?”

  Her heart pounded at this possibility. “I . . . I never thought much about it.”

  “Maybe ya should. I intend to marry only once, Miriam. I’d like my home to be a special place where we can be even happier than kids just startin’ out—”

  “Instead of livin’ in another man’s shadow? Or havin’ another set of newlyweds in the house?” She smiled. The idea was growing on her . . . glowing inside her. “I like the way ya think, Ben. I’m startin’ to see how latchin’ on to you is probably the finest idea I’ve had since—well, since I started up my bakery and café!”

  He chuckled. As they rode in silence for a bit, Miriam’s mind filled with all manner of possibilities and new ideas. It took an unconventional fellow like Ben Hooley to make her realize how many different ways she could look at her life now, even as she kept her traditional faith and remained close to her girls. “So . . . where were ya thinkin’ to build a place?” she asked. “It’s been so handy, walkin’ down my lane to the shop of a mornin’, at any hour I choose to go.”

  “And ya still could, if my plans work out the way I’m hopin’. It’s important for me to stay close to my brothers, too, ya know.” Ben shook his head, chuckling again. “And while it’s anybody’s guess what my maidel aunts might do, I can’t rule out the possibility that they’ll want to live in Willow Ridge. In case ya haven’t noticed, Aunt Jerusalem took the bishop’s kids under her wing not five minutes after she met them.”

  “Jah. She said those four goats were for Hiram, but it’s the boys takin’ care of them.”

  “Oh, that was her plan all along, when I told her the bishop’s kids needed somebody ridin’ herd on them. She and Aunt Nazareth got a lot of practice at that, bein’ schoolteachers—and bein’ around us boys when we were little.” Ben looked at her, his eyes shining in the moonlight. “But there was no missin’ the way Hiram fell right into step when she gave him his marchin’ orders, either.”

  “And who would’ve thought that would ever happen?” Miriam agreed. “Wouldn’t it be a gut thing if Hiram got so sidetracked by your aunt that he forgot I was supposed to marry him?”

  “I’ve thought that a time or two lately, jah.”

  Miriam grinned at him, loving the way the moonlight played upon his handsome face. “Do ya really think your Aunt Jerusalem would get hitched at this point in her life? I’m thinkin’ she’s somewhere near sixty.”

  “She and Aunt Nazareth don’t discuss their age, but jah, they’re within spittin’ distance of sixty. And when it comes to those two gals, I’ve learned never to second-guess them,” Ben replied. “But after all this time of them livin’ together—doin’ everything together—I don’t look for one to get married until the other one’s got her hooks in a fella, as well.”

  “Hmm. Maybe I could do a little matchmakin’.”

  “They got tired of folks tryin’ that, years ago, Miriam,” he said with a laugh. “But who were ya thinkin’ of for Aunt Naz?”

  She shrugged, happy to have this little puzzle to work on . . . happier yet to be seated so close to Ben that each time the buggy swayed to Pharaoh’s gait, she bumped against him. “Tom Hostetler would be a mighty fine catch—except, until his former wife passes on, he can’t marry again. Lettie ran out on him with an English fella early last spring, ya know. Divorced him, she did.”

  “Divorced Preacher Tom? Why would any woman leave a nice fella like him?” Ben scowled. “He’s got himself a real fine dairy operation . . . perty farm, with prime pastureland for all those black-and-white cows to graze. Nice enough house, from what I saw of it.”

  Miriam shrugged. “That’s what all of us wondered. His married kids are scattered around in other Plain settlements, so his girls look in on him and see that he has some meals, and that his laundry is done,” she replied. Her mind raced ahead a bit, matching personality traits between the man and woman in question. “For a while there, we were worried about him. Looked thirty years older, he did, and all tuckered out—like somebody’d been beatin’ him down with a big stick.”

  “He’s had a bitter pill to swallow, for sure and for certain. But it explains why he takes his meals in the Sweet Seasons—a lot of the time with Preacher Gabe, it seems.”

  “Gabe’s wife, Wilma, is all but bedridden. He takes togo boxes home for her most days.” Miriam laughed softly. “The preachin’ service is at Tom’s this Sunday, so the Brenneman boys will help him set up the pew benches while we women fix the food for the common meal. Maybe somethin’ along that line fits into Nazareth’s schedule . . .”

  “Always one to help those in need, Aunt Nazareth is. Well”—Ben halted his horse, and right there in the middle of the road he kissed her again—“almost back to your place, perty girl. And you can bet the curtains’ll be a-flutter with folks peerin’ out when we drive in.”

  Miriam smiled in the darkness as the lighted windows of her home came into view. She so rarely got out in the evenings, she hadn’t thought about what a comfort that sight could be—just as it had always made her feel safe to look out her bedroom window and see the lamps lit over at Naomi and Ezra Brenneman’s place.

  Yet Ben talked as if that might change. “So where did ya have in mind for that new house you’re thinkin’ about? Ya wouldn’t even have to buy land, ya know. Plenty of room on our farm for another home.”

  “When I’ve got the details worked out, you’ll be the first to know, Miriam.” He playfully kissed the tip of her nose. “But for now, that’s my secret and I’m stickin’ to it!”

  Chapter 24

  By Friday in the Sweet Seasons, all the talk was about Bishop Knepp’s car and how he hadn’t been in to eat with Tom and Gabe since Jerusalum Hooley had taken him down a few pegs in front of his boys. Rhoda listened to the menfolk talking about this, not surprised that most of them thought it was Ben’s aunt
who needed a talking-to: What proper woman would be so brazen as to confront the bishop in public rather than wait until he got home?

  Rhoda, however, suspected that Jerusalem was just made that way. The Ordnung was meant to be followed, so it was her natural inclination to keep her students—of whatever age—pointed along the higher path. And while Nazareth Hooley went about instructing folks in a quieter way, she, too, saw that everything was done according to her teacherly standards.

  It made for interesting conversation when the two sisters came home from the Knepp house of an evening, although Jerusalem hadn’t mentioned Hiram and his car since Monday. She talked as though the four youngest children were her main focus . . . yet Rhoda, Rachel, and Mamma all suspected the maidel was carrying a torch for Hiram.

  “So, Sister—we’ll be back sometime Sunday from the visits out and around,” Rachel said as she closed the dishwasher to run it. “We’ll be at the Raber cousins’ for dinner and stayin’ over tonight, then it’s on to Uncle Paul’s for Saturday noon. I’m sure Uncle Mose will be preachin’ in Bowling Green on Sunday, and we’ll start home after the common meal there.”

  “It’ll be a long ride back for ya. We’ll miss ya, Sister.”

  Rachel shrugged, but she still had that starry-eyed look about her. “It’s not such a bad thing, collectin’ our wedding gifts and showin’ up at everybody’s house as married folks. Adults now, for sure and for certain!”

  So . . . if I’m the same age but I’m not hitched, does that mean I’m still a child?

  Rhoda bit back this remark. Rachel looked so happy as she sat on Micah’s left at the table and as they rode in their buggy, as befit an Amish wife. Micah was in the shop putting the top on his courting buggy to convert it into a carriage, the way most young men did when they married. Like the new beard that framed his face, it was a sign they were husband and wife.

  Rhoda stood with Mamma outside the café to see the newlyweds off, waving as the shiny black carriage rolled smartly past them behind Micah’s finest bay—a retired racehorse with a proud gait and conformation to him.

  “Well, there they go,” Mamma murmured. She slipped her arm around Rhoda’s shoulders as they went back into the kitchen. “It’s gut we’re goin’ to Preacher Tom’s to redd up for him after the café closes. And I’m kinda glad the Hooley sisters’ll be around for dinner. We won’t feel so much like two loose peas rollin’ around in a shoebox that way, ain’t so?”

  “Jah, it’s different not bein’ in the room beside Rachel, and comin’ to work without her in the mornin’s. But we’re doin’ what we’ve gotta do, I suppose.”

  “Oh, Rhoda, someday it’ll be you ridin’ off to collect your presents. But meanwhile”—Mamma got a wistful look on her face, like she might cry—“I’m mighty glad to have ya with me yet, child of mine. You’re a blessin’ like ya have no idea about, every single day.”

  Rhoda smiled, but it was good that two o’clock was rolling around—and that on Fridays, the dining room usually cleared out a little earlier. By the time she’d wiped down the tables and taken the last English couple’s money, Mamma and Naomi were putting away the lunch buffet leftovers.

  “How about we take home these green beans and the last of the pork roast?” Mamma asked her. “There’s enough for all of us here.”

  “That’ll be easy to whip up after we spend the afternoon at Preacher Tom’s,” Rhoda replied. “Want me to put it in the fridge at home and meet ya over there?”

  “Gut idea. See ya in a few.”

  With the big covered bowl of beans in the crook of one elbow and the plate of sliced pork roast in the other hand, Rhoda walked down the lane toward the house. She saw Ben as she passed the smithy, wearing a safety mask exactly like her dat’s; with the welding torch in his gloved hands, he could’ve passed for her father at first glance—a startling thought. He was forming some ornate curlicues in a wrought iron gate Micah’s brothers had brought from the historical home they’d been refurbishing. He was so engrossed in his work, she didn’t interrupt him. He looked completely caught up in what he was doing . . . in restoring the beauty of a bygone day.

  It was another reminder of how everyone around her had found a purpose for their lives—a reason to work every day at something that was useful and fulfilling. And what was her purpose? As she continued up the driveway without Rachel, she wondered if she would ever get past this feeling that the other half of her was missing.

  When she arrived at Tom Hostetler’s, just one farm beyond the Brennemans’ on the gravel road, her mood shifted; the lingering aromas of cattle and manure and silage disappeared when she stepped inside the modest white house. Nazareth and Jerusalem Hooley had scrubbed down the kitchen and tossed all the towels in the wringer washer out in the mud room.

  “And how’s our Rhoda today?” Nazereth asked. Sweat was seeping past the band of her blue kerchief, yet she smiled sweetly. “Busy at the bakery?”

  “Jah, Mamma made her pies to stock the shelves with at Zook’s Market for the weekend, and most of the usual breakfast and lunch crowd was there,” she replied as she took up a tea towel to dry the dishes in the drainer. “Not as many tourists, now that school’s on and the days are coolin’ down. And we can’t help noticin’ Hiram’s not been there all week.”

  Jerusalem got up off the floor she’d been scrubbing at the end of the kitchen. “Your bishop’s finally figurin’ out that he might not be able to wiggle out of this business with that black car,” she remarked. “Bishop Mullet and Bishop Shetler have both been there for visits, alone and together—and a couple times with Tom and Gabe Glick, as well.”

  “I hear Wilma Glick took a tumble outta bed in the night, though,” Nazareth added with a worried scowl. “Guess Gabe and their granddaughter, Millie, got a driver and took Wilma to the emergency room to check for broken bones, brittle as she is.”

  Mamma came in through the mud room then, catching the last of that conversation. “Jah, they’re sayin’ she might’ve punctured a lung when some ribs broke. Poor old thing hasn’t been well for so long.” She went to check the front room. “Looks like the fellas got all the partitions down and have us set up with benches and hymn books. And I can’t recall the last time I saw this kitchen gleamin’ this way. You ladies have been workin’ at it awhile.”

  Nazareth and her sister shrugged at the same time. Somethin’ they’ve done all their lives, like Rachel and me, Rhoda thought. “It’s what we can do to help out,” Nazareth remarked. “It’s not easy for a man alone to host the Sunday service—and probably preach one of the sermons as well—while he’s takin’ care of his cattle chores and the milkin’, too.”

  “Micah’s brothers have always set up the pew benches for Tom when it’s his turn,” Rhoda replied. “And Jonah Zook and Aaron generally come real early in their chorin’ clothes to milk on those Sunday mornin’s.”

  “Many hands make light work,” Jerusalem quipped. She wiped her forehead against the inside of her elbow and took a long drink of ice water. “What we weren’t sure about, though, was the food for Sunday’s meal. Should we be checkin’ the cellar downstairs—or thawin’ somethin’ from Tom’s deep freeze?”

  “All the women bring side dishes for passin’ around,” Mamma replied. “Naomi and I usually get some sort of meat cooked and sliced up for—”

  “Oh, could I do that for you this time?” Nazareth asked. Her grin turned almost girlish. “We’ve lived in the dawdi haus at our brother Zion’s for so long, I rarely get to cook, so it’d be a pleasure to contribute that way. Tom seems like such a nice fella—”

  “Oh, I’ve got ya fooled then,” a voice teased from the porch. Tom chortled at the surprised look on Nazareth’s face as he slipped out of his muddy work boots. “But I can’t thank you gals enough for gettin’ me ready for Sunday.”

  He stepped into the kitchen then, gazing around at the walls and the countertops. “My word. I can’t recall this room lookin’ so neat and tidy even when Lettie lived here. This is a real
big favor you’re doin’ me. I—I don’t know what to say.”

  “Then suggest what you’d like us to bring for the main part of the common meal.” Nazareth folded her hands in front of her, smiling sweetly at him. “Back in our district, we serve a lot of cold cuts. I’m thinkin’ ya might eat sandwiches so often that it’s not much of a treat to have the same for Sunday’s dinner . . . even if ya don’t have to fix them yourself.”

  When the dairy farmer removed his hat, his wavy brown hair was crushed and damp from the afternoon’s work in his barns. Yet Rhoda thought she detected a delight in his eyes she hadn’t seen for a long while.

  “Truly, Nazareth, whatever ya make’ll be a welcome switch from my own fumblin’ in the kitchen,” he admitted. “I’d even drive ya over to the market if ya give me a minute to find some clean pants. I need a few things there myself, ya see.”

  “Since you’re goin’ that direction,” Mamma suggested, “could ya pick up the apples and peaches Leah’s set aside for Sunday? She’s happy to provide the fruit if I’ll make the pies. Naomi’ll be helpin’ me with that at the café tonight—”

  “And I’m makin’ cinnamon applesauce for Sunday, too,” Rhoda added.

  “So we can just meet ya there with whatever I find at the market?” Nazareth clapped her hands together. “A pie frolic! And so much easier, workin’ in the bakery kitchen where there’s room to spread out. I’ll see ya there, Sister.”

  Jerusalem was fumbling in her skirt pocket. “Here—pick me up some fresh lettuce and what-all for that overnight salad we like so well. If there’s space in Miriam’s fridge, we can make them in salad bowls, all ready to pass around.”

  “We’ve got just the bowls ya need and the space to keep them cold for ya,” Mamma assured her.

  Tom was following this rapid-fire conversation with an awestruck expression. “So—just like that, ya have everythin’ figured out for the common meal?”