by Kelly Long
“I will make some friendship bread to take to them,” Mamm murmured. “Perhaps the wife will enjoy the recipe as well.”
“No wife, Mamm.” Father smiled. “Only a single man, a doctor of veterinary science, and his hired help.”
Chelsea laughed. “Oh no, just what we need in the area . . . another bachelor to compete with the King brothers.”
“He may well have a hard time of it, though, as a vet and an Englischer. Everybody loved old Dr. Lapp,” Samuel remarked.
“Jah,” Mamm muttered. “He was a good man. Such a sad loss for his family.”
Sarah sat quiet and sober. She could find no interest in either her food or Englisch neighbors with the thought of her new responsibility at the roadside stand.
Her father leaned close and whispered, “The Lord will help you, Sarah. You will see.”
She smiled at him, though her hazel eyes were full of unshed tears.
“Jah, Father. Jah.”
The red sports car made short work of the bumpy dirt driveway to the Fisher farm, and Dr. Grant Williams grinned in his rearview mirror at the shocked expression on his housekeeper’s face.
“Are you still with me, Mrs. Bustle?”
“You know that I am, sir. You might ask Mr. Bustle how he’s feeling, though; he tends to get a bit carsick.”
Grant glanced at the older man seated next to him in the passenger seat. “Bustle?”
“All is well, sir.”
Grant smiled. The Bustles were the type of old-fashioned servants and family friends who were rarely, if ever, seen in the modern world. At nearly a spry sixty-years-old each, they’d been with him since childhood, since his parents had died, and he loved them. But nothing could persuade them from ceasing to call him “sir” or from giving him the formality they believed he deserved as their employer.
“We’re here.”
In the half-light of the late spring evening, the three-story red brick farm estate appeared rather austere, though evidence of a cheerful renovation existed in the piles of new wood and machinery that dotted the front lawn. Large fragrant lilac bushes framed the brick walkway that led to the generous porch, and lightning bugs flashed like tiny lanterns of goodwill.
Grant helped Mrs. Bustle from the car and waited for her inevitable comment.
“Looks like it could do with a good cleaning.”
Grant chuckled. He expected them to speak their minds, and Mrs. Bustle rarely disappointed.
“I asked you both to move with me to this rural mountainous community from Philadelphia because I couldn’t do this without you. Whatever you need to get this place going so I can start practicing . . . well, you just have to let me know.” He was surprised at the emotion in his voice. At twenty-seven, he was focused on accomplishing his goals in life, and establishing a veterinary practice in this area was one of his personal benchmarks. His father had been a medical doctor who was deeply devoted to the Amish people, and Grant felt it was his legacy to continue in serving where his father had left off. Although his father left him enough money in a trust to last two lifetimes, he felt a strange tightness in his chest as he stared up at the old farmhouse that held his name on the deed.
“If I may, sir.” Mr. Bustle cleared his throat. “Your parents would have been proud.”
Grant clapped the older man on the shoulder and then linked his arms around both of them. “Thank you, both of you.”
Mrs. Bustle sniffed. “Could be I’m going to need a hired girl. Maybe one of them Amish girls.” She pronounced it Aim-ish, but Grant didn’t bother to correct her. Everything was new, and it was late.
“Let’s go in, shall we?” He produced an old-fashioned ring of keys and helped Mrs. Bustle up the steps. The heavy door swung open once he’d fumbled with the latch, and he moved to turn on the newly installed overhead chandelier. Cobwebs and dust were in heavy residence as well as boot tracks from workers on the dusty hardwood floors.
“I had to have electricity put in. You remember I told you that the house was previously owned by the Amish.”
“As much of the land hereabouts is,” Mr. Bustle remarked.
“Yes, We’re ‘strangers in a strange land,’ aren’t we, Bustle? But I mean to build a life here, a life that will honor my father and mother—with God’s help, of course.”
“You’ll have to build your bed first, I bet,” Mrs. Bustle announced, returning from her perusal of a side room.
“That’s why we have clean sheets in the car. I’ll get them now, and you . . .” Grant bent to bestow a quick kiss on Mrs. Bustle’s aged cheek. “You will have the first bed we build . . . er, make up. I’ll be right back.”
He slipped outside into the twilight and noticed the warm, far-off light from the adjoining Amish farm. There was something poignant and serene about oil lamps shining through windows that made him think of home, though his parents had long been lost to him. He leaned on the low roof of the sports car and drew a deep breath of the fragrant night air. Life was going to be different here; he just knew it. He felt a stirring of excitement in his soul.
CHAPTER 2
Sarah slipped outdoors at four thirty into the first hint of dawn. It was her favorite time of the day, if the truth be told. It allowed a full half hour of private time with both the Lord and the kitchen garden before the others were wide-awake.
When she had been a little girl, she could remember believing that God came to walk with her in the garden because she could sense Him the most when she was close to the soil and the plants. And today she longed for His company more than ever. The last week of April had flown by in the flurry of planting and hoeing and weeding, and today was her first day of work at the roadside stand.
She sighed as her eyes traced the faint lines of plants and the shadowy layout of the ground. She let her delicate fingers trail along the leaves of the sweet corn, and she wriggled her bare toes in the damp earth. She fancied that the plants always seemed to rustle in response to her early morning greetings as she carefully stepped over rows of carrots and cress, parsnips, radishes, and salad greens. She breathed a silent prayer for the coming day as her toes met the carpet of moss that she cultured as a natural insulator to keep the fruits and vegetables cool for picnics and Sunday gatherings. She supposed she’d need a lot of moss at the stand to cover the produce and hold in the coolness, for the day promised to be as warm as the one before. She passed the kale and the kohlrabi, stroked the green heirloom tomatoes, and then ventured farther into the flower garden. Careless of her clean apron, she knelt next to the wild roses and curled close to the scented blooms, deep in thought.
Dear Father of all, please help me today. Help me not to be afraid but to bring glory to You in my manners and speech. Give me pleasant words to speak and a quick wit to think. Bless all who come to the stand today. Bless the Englisch who come, Father, and the new Englischer who just moved in across the way. Help us to be good neighbors, and—
Her prayers were interrupted by the whispered call of her name. It was Chelsea, swathed in her voluminous nightdress, picking her way barefoot through the garden. Startled, Sarah rose. She knew that her sister and brother-in-law had stayed for the night, but she was still surprised to see Chelsea this early.
“Chelsea, Mamm will be furious if she catches you out in your nightgown. What are you doing?”
Chelsea’s neat teeth flashed white as her gown. “I’m looking for you, and . . .” She lowered her voice. “Wann er schnarit, halt er much waker.”
Both girls burst into giggles at the thought of John Kemp snoring loud enough to keep someone awake. He was so quiet by daylight.
Chelsea caught Sarah’s hand, and they turned toward the apricot trees.
“I’m so happy about the baby, Chelsea. Do you know when . . .?”
“In the autumn sometime, but I didn’t come out to talk about that. I wanted to give you some advice about the stand. And I talked with John . . . If you want, I could come with you this first day, just to see how you get on.”
Sarah considered. It would make things easier, but she should begin as she meant to go on. She knew it, and she could not start by hiding behind her beautiful sister.
“Nee, Chelsea, but thanks to you and John. I must do this alone.”
They had wandered among the apple trees, and now the first streaks of dawn began to appear over the mountains.
“All right, but quickly then, before we go in. The Englisch like to barter for their prices, so banter with them a bit. They will stare at you, perhaps, and your clothes. I always wore my second best to the stand. And I like that wine-colored blouse you’re wearing today. Give all the children free tastes or samples, then the mamms will be more likely to buy. And smile . . . speak English . . . and be prepared for odd questions from the Englischers. They always want to know things like whether they can become Amish.”
The girls laughed together again, though Sarah’s heart thumped at all of the hurried information. They wended their way back toward the house just as lights glowed from the kitchen windows and warned them to hurry inside.
Breakfast was a whirlwind for Mamm and Sarah during spring, and today was no different. Sarah flew through her chores of gathering the eggs, making the biscuits, setting the table, and then helping to wash the dishes and have the kitchen spotless by 7 a.m., so she would have a whole hour to prepare and gather the necessary items to take to the stand. Father had instructed Luke that he would be the one to drive the wagon of goods the mile up the road to the stand daily and to help Sarah unload before returning to the fields.
Sarah was grateful for the help and now stood in the middle of the kitchen garden with baskets at her feet, staring in perplexity at the array of plants, wondering what to take.
“Kumme, Sarah . . . at least let’s dig some potatoes. They always sell.” Luke’s tone was impatient and snapped Sarah back to attention.
“Jah, you gather the potatoes. Dig some onions too, please. Then I will get canned goods from the root cellar . . . Ach, and wash everything clean with the hose, Luke.”
Her brother grinned. “Now you sound like Chelsea.”
“Good.” Sarah took heart at his words and made her way to the outside entrance of the root cellar. Her black shoes and stockings flashed against the whitewashed stone steps as she ventured into the cool, dim interior and made her way to where jars and jars of canned fruits and vegetables stood on shelves in neat rows. She plucked tomatoes, peaches, sweet corn, and mushrooms into a basket, then had to half unload it again because it was too heavy to get up the stairs. By her second trip up, Luke had the small wagon ready, with vegetables dripping clean in baskets. The dark horse, Shadow, stood waiting while eating out of a feed bag.
Sarah peeled layers of moss from the ground and laid them over the open baskets of the more delicate items. Then, on impulse, she scooped up the gray field cat, Grimes, for company and clambered up into the wagon seat next to her brother. She dabbed at her perspiring brow as they started off and hoped her cape would hide any wet stains at her armpits until they dried. They jolted down the dirt road, and Sarah cast anxious looks at the canned goods, but everything held still.
Once at the stand, Sarah paused to admire the workmanship of the long, three-sided wooden building with its four narrow steps. A hearty slanted roof with a generous overhang protected against the elements, and Father had placed heavy tubs of spring flowers on either side of the steps.
Luke helped her unload the wagon, then waved a quick farewell as he drove off, leaving Sarah alone to do the woman’s work of “arranging,” as he called it. It was hard work to haul the baskets up on the tables and then to spill a few items out enticingly, but she hurried on, speaking reassuring phrases to the cat.
“Now then, Grimes. We’ll put the glass jars right up front where the sun can catch their sparkle, and I’ll let some of the carrots trail out like this . . . and then I’ll . . .”
“Hello? Are you open?”
Sarah nearly jumped out of her skin at the sound of the deep masculine voice. She turned with an onion in hand to find a tall, blond Englischer poised on the steps leading up to the stand. His dark blue eyes were set in a strong-boned face, and he was smiling, a cheerful, inquisitive flash of kindness.
Sarah felt as though she were watching herself like a character in a book, struck by some invisible force of accord in her spirit when she looked at the man. She moved to put the onion down, felt it miss the table with a disconsolate thump, and watched it roll over to the stranger. He picked it up and offered it to her with a long, outstretched arm; she took it.
“Um, I could come back later, if you’re not ready yet. My housekeeper needed a few things for today, and I thought I’d just walk over. I guess I should introduce myself—I’m Dr. Williams, from the Fisher farm. We moved in over the weekend.”
Sarah swallowed and supposed he thought her a complete dolt at her lack of response. Her head ached as she squeezed the onion and smiled as Chelsea had instructed her.
“Dr. Williams . . . jah—yes, of course. Welcome. I’m certainly open for business, if you like.”
“Great. Please call me Grant, and you are?” He’d moved up onto the platform near her and she had to crane her neck to see his face, while he ducked his head to avoid bumping into the angled roof.
“I’m Sarah . . . Sarah King.” There. That was nicely said, though Grimes the cat was probably being friendlier by winding himself through the doctor’s long legs.
Dr. Williams scooped up the sleek cat. “Ah, a good mouser, by the looks of him. Please let me know if he gets a litter sometime. We’ve need of a good cat.”
Sarah nodded and blushed. She’d grown up on a farm, but it was unseemly of her to discuss litters with a strange man, veterinarian or not. The thought propelled her to replace the onion and slip onto the tiny hardback folding chair beside the small table where Luke had left the money box.
“Please, Dr. Williams . . . have a look about.”
He put the cat down and smiled at her again. “Sarah King. Daughter of Ephraim King, correct?”
“Yes.”
“Well, we’re neighbors, Miss King—so again, call me Grant—unless . . . wait, are you allowed to call me by my first name? I grew up around the Amish as a kid, but that was a long time ago, and I don’t know how to address a young woman.”
Sarah wanted to smile. Here was an Englisch question that seemed strange. “I may. But it might appear . . . forward. So I won’t. I’m sorry.”
The doctor nodded. “So then, to appear ‘not forward,’ I shall call you Miss King. It is Miss, right?”
Again Sarah was thrown by the man’s question. Standing among the common bushels of potatoes, it seemed too intimate to discuss whether or not she was married, but she nodded an affirmation, then looked away, pretending to concentrate on the money box. Indeed, when she lifted the tin lid, she saw a note written in Chelsea’s hand that read “Smile!” so she plastered a wider lift on her soft lips and hoped the doctor would choose something soon so she could finish setting up before any more customers came.
“This moss is a good idea—a natural insulator. Do you reuse it? You can, you know. Just dampen the root structure again and plant it back in the ground.”
“You grow moss, Doctor?”
He laughed. “No, that’s just me giving out relatively useless facts; vets do that sometimes. By the way, your English is lovely, very melodic.”
Sarah ducked her head and blushed. She’d never been told anything as directly complimentary, and she knew that this was a taste of the world outside. Idle words. It never occurred to her that they might be true.
He lifted a basket of apples and added an onion and several potatoes. “Now I’ve done it, right?” he asked as he approached her table. “You think I’m trying to make you vain by paying you a compliment.”
She shook her head to protest but then decided that would be lying. Her pretty brow knitted in confusion, and she bit her lip.
“Miss King, you are the first perso
n I’ve met from the area, and seeing as though I value the truth in all its freedom, I want you to promise me something.”
She looked up at him and realized he was being sincere, but what could she possibly promise an Englischer and one so much of the world?
“If I can, I will.”
He plopped the basket on the table, which quivered under the weight. “Good. Promise me you’ll always tell me the truth. The whole truth. I need a friend in the area, one who will help me understand more about the Amish—your faith, your ways—or I will never be accepted as a doctor here.”
“That’s true,” she agreed, and he laughed though she couldn’t understand why.
He leaned an elbow on the basket. He was so close she could smell his soaping and could also see the tiny gold flecks in his blue eyes.
“So do you promise?” he asked.
“What are you promising, Sarah King?”
Sarah glanced around the doctor’s tall frame at the sound of Jacob Wyse’s voice; she been so involved in her talk with the Englischer that she hadn’t heard her friend Jacob come up the wooden steps. His overly long chestnut hair brushed his broad shoulders from beneath the brim of his dark hat as he came to stand at the doctor’s shoulder. She vaguely acknowledged their mutual good looks, one dark and the other so fair . . .
“Is it your concern, Jacob—whatever I promise?” she asked, then went on before he could reply. “Dr. Williams, please meet Jacob Wyse. He has a horse farm nearby.”
The doctor immediately turned and offered a hand in the close confines of the space. Jacob shook it with a tightness around his handsome mouth that Sarah couldn’t help but notice.
“Hi . . . I’m the new vet. Just moved into the Fisher farm.”
“Tough business, then. Getting the locals to trust you. The old vet was golden.” Jacob’s tone suggested that this Englischer might fall far short.
The doctor glanced back to Sarah. “Right. That’s what I was just talking with Miss King about.”