“Yes. A shadow. Your father’s shadow. Seeking his approval and never getting it.” She gave him one of her direct, clear gazes. “So I am going to ask you again: are you so very free?”
The question hovered in the air, and Sadie was still waiting for his answer, stepping into the role of the Almighty, trying to stir up Will’s conscience. “You don’t know me well enough to figure that out, do you?” The words came out sharper than he meant them to, but he was irritated. He reeled in his line, took the oars, and swung the boat around, then began rowing swiftly toward the shore.
Wisely, Sadie never said another word. By the time they got the boat tied to the dock and started for home, Will was no longer annoyed with her but furious with himself. He never let himself get defensive. He never lost it. He absolutely never lost it. His fraternity brothers called him the Teflon Guy. Nothing ever bothered him.
Why did he have such a strong reaction to Sadie’s question? Because she couldn’t have been more right.
Sadie was free to choose, and she had made her choice. He was the one who wasn’t free. He wasn’t free at all.
18
Amos was often amazed at the overpowering love a father felt for his children. Each one so unique, so distinctive, so special to him. Julia, with her blunt, forthright manner. Menno, who had the biggest heart on earth. Sadie, with her sweet and gentle wisdom. Mary Kate, who was always up to something and he loved her for it.
If you had asked him which of his children most resembled Maggie, his late wife, Amos would have said M.K. Without a doubt. They shared the same sense of mischief and adventure. Life was never dull with Maggie Zook Lapp.
But after Menno’s baby arrived, that opinion was changing. It startled him to see how much of Maggie was in Sadie. Even her voice had become like Maggie’s. That same rise and dip, the half-amused tone, the way you wanted to keep hearing more, like a favorite melody. Just now, he had passed Sadie’s bedroom and glanced in. He felt a tightening in his chest. She was humming to Joe-Jo exactly the way Maggie had always done with each of their babies. Maggie was always humming. Wouldn’t she have been pleased to know what a fine young woman Sadie has grown into? A strong woman. A respected woman. Why, hardly a day went by without someone coming to Windmill Farm to ask her advice! He overheard Esther tell someone Sadie was the most respected young woman in the church. Imagine that! His timid little Sadie.
Downstairs, the grandfather clock dinged the hour. One . . . two . . .
So fast, he thought. That was how quickly time could get away from you. One moment your children were babies, and in the next breath, they were grown.
Three . . . four . . . five . . .
You could wake up one morning and find out that suddenly most of your life had passed by.
He heard Fern start dinner in the kitchen. Maggie’s kitchen. What would Maggie have thought about Fern? No two women could be any more different. He wasn’t sure if they would even be friends. Fern didn’t have much patience for daydreamers, and Maggie was a first-rate daydreamer. Maggie might have thought Fern’s stern ways were rule bound, legalistic, overbearing. Yet Fern fiercely loved Maggie’s children, and for that, Amos had no doubt, Maggie would heartily approve of her.
But what would Maggie think if she knew Amos had grown fond of Fern? Fond wasn’t the right word. That was the word used for a favorite horse or dog, not a woman. Dare he say it? Could he be falling in love with Fern Graber?
Such a thought astounded him.
What about Ira Smucker? Fern hadn’t said anything after Ira had spoken to her of marriage last weekend, but that wasn’t unusual. She was an utterly private person. And he hadn’t seen Ira since then. That, too, wasn’t unusual. Ira was a busy man.
Wait a minute. It was unusual. Ira had been stopping by on Wednesday nights to play a game of cribbage with Fern. After Ira had confessed his love for Fern to him, Amos had made a point to hang around while they played. He knew it wasn’t right—he felt as immature as M.K. when he eavesdropped—but he thought Ira’s attempts at conversation were mind-numbingly dull.
Wednesday had come and gone this week, and no Ira. Amos knew it was childish, bordering on sinfulness, but he felt rather pleased.
One late May morning, Sadie went outside to fill Menno’s bird feeders. As she poured black oiled sunflower seeds into the opening of the feeder, she thought of her brother without the sting his memory usually evoked. The baby was like a healing balm to the entire family. Even Julia, out in Ohio, wanted to hear every new thing Joe-Jo was doing: his first smile, his first laugh. Last night, her father dandled the baby on his lap and Joe-Jo kept bending his knees and springing up, over and over, like a little kangaroo. The whole family gathered to watch, mesmerized. Sadie thought of the joy of having a baby around—for two months now!—and thanked God for him. For Menno.
Doozy, hanging around by Sadie to lick up fallen sunflower seeds, saw something and woofed. He perked his ears, then flew across the driveway and jumped up to greet a small figure, standing in the morning shadow of the barn. The figure bent down and buried her hands in the fur at his neck. Sadie set down the container of sunflower seeds and shielded her eyes from the bright morning sun. Her heart missed a beat. She walked down the steps and crossed the driveway. The girl was dressed in English clothes: jeans and a T-shirt that said Kowabunga! She wore dime-store flip-flops, and her hair was cut short. But Sadie would know her anywhere.
“Annie,” Sadie said.
Annie took a long, shuddering breath. She was thin, so thin, and pale, with dark circles under her eyes as if she hadn’t slept in days.
Sadie wasn’t sure what to say or how to say it. Annie had come back! A flood of emotions charged through her: sadness, happiness. And anger too. Annie had done a terrible thing. “You probably want to see the baby.”
Annie’s eyes filled with tears. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t trust him with anyone else.” Then the tears began, as if she had been holding them back for months now and couldn’t keep them contained one more minute.
Sadie opened her arms and Annie rushed into them.
Amos couldn’t have been more surprised to come out of the barn and find Annie, weeping in Sadie’s arms. They went into the house and Sadie showed her the baby, asleep in the cradle that Gid had made and Uncle Hank had repaired. Annie knelt by the cradle, tears streaming down her face. She watched Joe-Jo breathe in and out, eyes closed. And that was the moment when any judgment Amos might have felt toward Annie slipped away. He saw her for what she was: a frightened young girl, all alone, caring for a grandfather who hardly knew who he was half the time, while caring for a colicky newborn. It was too much.
Amos went into the kitchen to get a cup of coffee. Fern was whipping egg whites for waffles with her lips set in a straight line. Not that he was especially good at picking up what women thought, but her whipping those egg whites into a frenzy wasn’t a subtle hint as to how riled up she felt. He thought he knew where her line of thought was traveling.
“It’s good that she’s here, Fern,” he said quietly so that Annie wouldn’t overhear. “God always wants to restore his people.”
Fern flashed a stern look in Amos’s direction. She poured the frothy egg whites into the batter and carefully folded them in. “But is she staying?” She set down the wooden spoon and turned to him. “We have to think of the baby’s welfare.”
“One step at a time. For now, I can tell you that she’s staying for breakfast.” He looked over Fern’s shoulder to see Annie and Sadie talking in the other room. Annie hadn’t left the cradle’s side. Amos noticed that she kept glancing at the baby, as if she thought he might disappear. “That girl looks like she hasn’t had a good meal in months.”
M.K. burst into the house with a basket full of eggs and stopped abruptly when she saw Annie. Her eyes went wide as she took in Annie’s appearance. “Annie! You cut your hair!”
Annie put a hand up to her head, as if she had forgotten about her short hair, her absent prayer cap.
&n
bsp; M.K. walked right up to her. “Where have you been? We’ve been looking everywhere for you.”
Amos and Fern exchanged a smile. Leave it to Mary Kate to get the answers they wanted.
“I was working as a waitress over in Lebanon. I have a cousin over there.”
“Can you believe how big the baby is? Sadie’s gotten really attached to him. We all have. We named him Joe-Jo, after Menno’s middle name. We’re just crazy about Joe-Jo. Even Dad has learned to be a crackerjack diaper changer.”
“Only if absolutely necessary,” Amos hastened to add.
A light smile fleeted across Annie’s face. “You have no notion how much I’ve ached to come and get him.”
M.K.’s eyes went wide in alarm. “But . . . you’re just visiting, right? You’re not planning to take him away, are you?” She turned to Amos, a plea in her face.
Annie gave the baby a long, telling look and Amos read everything in that gaze. “We’ll have plenty of time to work things out,” he said. “For now, let’s sit down to breakfast and thank God for bringing Annie back to us.”
During breakfast, Annie explained that she had returned to her grandfather’s house last night and saw that he had been cared for. “The kitchen was spotless.”
“That’s because of me,” M.K. said proudly. “I’ve been going over on Saturdays and working myself to the bone, cooking and cleaning.”
“Hardly that,” Fern added primly. “Jimmy Fisher might like some of that credit too. Hank and Edith too. And don’t forget that first morning when you talked your entire schoolhouse of children and their parents into working.”
M.K. scowled at her and Amos nearly laughed out loud. Fern was always reminding M.K. of her place. His youngest daughter needed constant reminding.
“I figured you all had something to do with it,” Annie said. “I have been so worried about Daadi. I didn’t want to move to Ohio with the colony. He should have gone with them when he had the chance. I thought if I left, he would go with the colony. I never dreamed he would wait for me to come back.”
“Why did you come back then?” M.K. asked, reaching for the jam jar. She took a spoonful of blackberry jam and spread it on her toast, pushing it to the crust and licking the drips on her fingers.
“The baby. I couldn’t stop thinking about him, wondering about him. I wasn’t worried—I knew Sadie would take good care of him. But I couldn’t stay away any longer. I had to come back.” She took in a long breath of air. “So I quit my job. I’m here to stay. I’d like . . . another . . . chance at being a mother.” She kept her eyes on her lap. “For Menno’s sake. For my sake. For the baby’s sake.”
Amos felt tears prick his eyes as he saw the pain shuddering through Annie.
Annie wiped her face with her napkin. “I won’t take the baby from you. I can’t be putting my pride before his well-being. I’ll wait until you’re ready to let me have him.” With another long look at the baby’s sweet face, she rose. She turned to Sadie. “I’d like to see the baby now and then.”
“Of course,” Sadie said. “He’s a precious little boy. You’re welcome to come by any time you like.”
“Hold on, Annie,” Amos said. “How do you plan to support yourself? And what about your grandfather? He needs full-time care. Our deacon wrote to someone in the colony and they said they would send someone to come get him, after the harvest is in. That’s months from now.”
Annie nodded. “I haven’t worked everything out yet.” She lifted her chin. “But I will.”
“I’ll help,” Sadie said. Then, more confidently, “We’ll all help.” She looked around the room at her family. Her confidence faltered. “Won’t we?”
Fern was quiet for a long while. “I’ve been needing another good egg basket. The one M.K. uses is falling apart. I should like to order one or two from you.”
Annie’s face brightened. “I could make you one.”
“And Carrie Miller was admiring the baby’s basket you made,” Fern said. “She’s having her fourth baby. I thought it might be nice to get her something new.”
The baby started to stir then, and Annie’s eyes riveted right to the cradle. Amos noted that her fists clenched tight, as if she was itching to scoop up the baby.
Sadie went over and picked him up, held him close to her heart, then turned and released the baby into Annie’s arms. “Have a seat. I’ll get a bottle ready. You can feed your son.”
Fern hurried M.K. off to school and Amos got himself a second cup of coffee. He leaned back in his chair and studied Annie as she held the baby. He could see that she felt awkward at first, tentative, holding the baby as if he was made of spun sugar. Then Sadie pulled up a chair next to her and showed her how to keep the bottle lifted up high so the milk poured down. Annie’s whole being started to relax, and she even giggled at something Sadie told her. For just an instant, she looked like the young girl Amos remembered, the girl who Menno had fluttered around all last summer. It relieved Amos. It gave him hope. He knew she was facing a very long, hard road as an unwed mother.
“I’d forgotten the delicate sound of Annie’s laugh,” Fern said as she sat next to Amos with a cup of hot tea. “It always reminded me of ice tinkling against glass.” She took a sip of tea. “You were right. God wants his people restored.” She added a teaspoon of sugar into her tea and stirred it. “The sight of Sadie and Annie and the baby, Menno would be pleased, Amos.”
For the second time that morning, Amos’s eyes pricked with tears. He looked down to blink them away. To his shock, he discovered that his hand had gripped Fern’s, just the way he used to hold Maggie’s hand.
The last day of school was right around the corner—just two days away. The scholars had been working hard to prepare a program for the parents. They had learned several new songs to sing. A few students had memorized poems to recite. This was going to be the best program Twin Creeks had ever presented to parents. The children had worked so hard to get everything just right.
Alice Smucker, M.K. thought darkly, had never bothered with doing anything new for the parent programs. Not once. The same five carols were sung for the Christmas program, the same five hymns sung for the end-of-year program. Boring! And poetry, to Alice, was fanciful nonsense. Gideon disagreed. So this year, M.K. volunteered to recite the longest poem she could find: The Raven by Edgar Allen Poe. She didn’t understand much of it, but it fit in nicely with the falcons living on her farm, and she was determined to memorize it.
Just before Gideon dismissed the class, he mentioned that he hoped they could have a picnic after the program, but a tree limb from the big oak tree had fallen on the playground in last night’s rainstorm. “Until we get that limb removed and hauled away, we aren’t going to be able to have a picnic like we had planned.”
Amidst the scholars’ disappointed groans, a crackerjack idea bubbled up inside of M.K. She raised her hand to the ceiling. “We can have it at my house! Windmill Farm is just down the street.”
Gideon looked skeptical. “Maybe you should ask your father first.”
Ask Sadie, was what he meant. “It’s no problem at all! Dad loves having folks over and Fern is a fine cook.”
Gid hesitated. “Are you sure, Mary Kate?”
“Absolutely!”
Reluctantly, Gideon agreed. M.K. was thrilled! It would be so much fun to have the entire class, and parents and siblings, to her house for a picnic! Gid dismissed everyone and she rushed out of the classroom, catching up with Ruthie to walk home together. They had plans to go spy on Eve in the falcon scape and see if they could spot her babies.
And M.K. promptly forgot all about the picnic.
Amos felt like his old, pre-heart-trouble self. So good that he wanted to celebrate. At breakfast, he asked M.K., “After the end-of-year program tomorrow, did Gid make plans for a picnic lunch for the scholars?”
M.K.’s eyes went wide. She grabbed a spoonful of yogurt to plop in her granola, stalling for time. “Actually, I might have . . . possibly . . . voluntee
red our house for lunch.” She gave a sideways glance in Fern’s direction at the other side of the table.
In the middle of spooning out a segment of grapefruit, Fern froze.
“That’s a fine idea!” Amos said, pleased.
Fern gave M.K. a look. “And when were you going to spring that on me?”
M.K. scratched her forehead. “I guess I forgot to tell you.” She dug into her bowl of granola. “Families will bring things! It’ll be easy.”
Amos rubbed his hands together. “Tell Gid we’ll handle barbecuing chickens if everyone else can bring the extras. They can come here right after the program. And tell him Fern will make her good baked beans and coleslaw too. We’ll cook everything.”
“We?” Fern asked, raising an eyebrow. “We will cook everything?”
Amos grinned. “And tell Gid that I’m thinking it would be nice to have a softball game too.” He loved playing sports with children. When his children were little, he would tear around the bases with one of them tucked under his arm. Even when his own children had outgrown the crook in his arm, he would find a neighbor’s toddler to tote. When he became ill, it was one of the things he missed most.
Fern and Sadie spent the rest of the afternoon cooking up baked beans, preparing chickens for the barbecue, cutting cabbage for coleslaw. Amos and Will cleaned out the barbecue pit, swept the volleyball court, and prepared bases for the softball game. Amos couldn’t remember when he had last felt so lighthearted.
The next day, midmorning, parents crammed into the back of the schoolhouse to hear the scholars’ recitations and hymn singing. Even Alice, Gid’s sister, hobbled in on her crutches and the children politely welcomed her. M.K. kept her distance from Alice’s crutches. She was convinced that Alice Smucker had it in for her, and Amos had to admit that Alice wore a pained expression on her face whenever she caught sight of M.K. Especially pained as M.K. delivered her long and unusual blackbird poem.
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