by Kelly Long
She’d been fourteen then and could hardly believe that her father would trust her with such a treasure as the desk, but he did. He’d moved his feathers and pins out accordingly, and gradually, over the years, Sarah’s seeds and labels and journals on gardening had taken over nearly all of the space. Sarah knew of the Englisch fascination with the so-called heirloom seeds, but she did not know if they valued a seed as a treasure, a heritage, a wealth. She could not judge, though, and she would bring her very best seeds to the doctor. She ignored the pang of excitement that shot through her at the thought of sharing her ideas on gardening with someone who seemed genuinely interested, and she concentrated on the seeds.
Choosing from among the wooden drawers was more fun than choosing from the fabrics at the dry goods store when it was time to sew a new blouse. She hand-picked, parceled and labeled, and then tied all with a piece of string just as she heard the faint call of her name from downstairs. She closed the drawers and flew down the steps and outside, straightening her kapp and climbing with Luke and Mamm into the lighter buggy. Father and the boys were crowded into the wagon with Shadow and Hairs at the pull. Father slapped the reins as soon as Sarah was seated, and Luke clicked to the dark brown Morgan, called Lightfoot, and they all moved briskly forward. The Loders’ farm was nearly five miles down the road, and families came as far as twenty miles off to attend services.
“Where’s the root beer?” Luke asked, and Mamm gestured to the tin washbasin ahead of them in the wagon, ensconced between several pairs of black-clad legs. The weather was cool, and the horses made short work of the miles. Father made sure the animals were well rested and impeccably curried for the Sunday drive; he had a particular disdain for other Amish men who did not take as much care with their horses.
The air was sweet and fragrant with the burgeoning of summer, and Sarah breathed in the mingled scents of lilac and laurel and let her gaze drift to the gently rounded curves of the Allegheny Mountains, which encircled their community. Before she knew it, they were pulling into the Loders’ lane, where many other buggies were unloading. Sarah saw that the large black covered “bench wagon” had already arrived, bringing the necessary seating for the worship. Every other week it was driven to the hosting family’s home and dutifully unloaded and reloaded by the men. The Loders’ front rooms were not large enough to house everyone, so the meeting was to be held in the barn, which was common for the smaller farms.
Sarah smiled at friends, nodded to Jacob, and then slipped into her section with the unmarried girls. Father and the married men sat in another section while Mamm and the married women did the same. The young, unmarried men and teenage boys tended to stay in the back rows, where they could “eye” everything, as Luke put it. Sarah was just glad to have a place to worship. Though the three-hour service could sometimes be long in the heat of high summer, it refreshed her soul to listen to the sermons and to sing from the hymnal, the Ausbund, the unchanging musical core of her faith. She wondered what the doctor would think if he could hear their plain singing, unadorned by harmony or musical instruments so that their worship might be without vanity. She jerked her thoughts up when she knew that her attention was drifting but nonetheless patted her apron pocket to make sure the packet of seeds was nestled there.
Then she realized that one of the elders had called upon Luke to lead the singing of the traditional second hymn, the Lob. Sarah tensed as she half turned to look at her brother’s pale face. It was an honor to be called upon to lead a hymn, especially “Das Lob Lied,” but Luke had not yet had the privilege conferred. He rose to his feet and walked to the front of the congregation. Sarah could tell he’d like to throw up; he’d had the same expression on his face when he’d gotten into a ground wasp’s nest and had been stung more than two hundred times. She knew he’d rather take the stinging all over again rather than risk the Lob. The song was twenty minutes in length, and if a young man didn’t get off on the right foot on the first syllables, it was all over.
Sarah saw Luke’s Adam’s apple work reflexively, and she closed her eyes and prayed for him as hard as she could. Then she heard the first warbled syllables, the “OOooOOooOOooOO” dribble out of his mouth. She thought he’d never looked so young, but he hung on, moaning and droning until the restless shuffling from the back row let her know that her brothers were not being easy on Luke. Infinitely later, Sarah’s neck was sweating and Luke had led them all through the fourth and final verse. There was a distinct moment of silence as he made his way, heavy-footed, back to his place, looking grim. The service went on, but all Sarah could think about was Luke’s face.
After the meeting, things broke up as the women began to set out food, using the backless worship benches as both seats and tables. Sarah knew it wasn’t proper, but she sidled her way closer to the young men and was at Luke’s elbow before Mamm could notice her missing.
“You were . . . unique,” Sarah whispered.
“Go away,” Luke whispered back, and she did, but not before she heard her older brothers good-natured teasing and Luke’s reluctant laughter. She smiled to herself and resumed her place to eat a rushed luncheon.
“Why the hurry?” Jacob asked, as he straddled the bench where she was eating.
Sarah glanced at him, the light green of his shirt picking up the mixed color of his eyes. She had no desire to tell him of her afternoon plans because she could imagine his reaction.
“How about a buggy ride?” he asked when she didn’t answer right away. “I’ve got a new colt that’s a little wild. I know you like to drive.” He smiled at her, and she ignored the thrill in her chest at the thought of driving a colt that wasn’t fully broken. She’d done it many times with Jacob, and it was exhilarating.
“I can’t. I have other plans. My father asked me to do something for him.” There. That wasn’t a lie.
“What?”
“Hmm?”
“What are you going to do?” he persisted.
She took a sip of her lemonade and knew he wasn’t going away until she told him.
“Oh, all right. I’m going to Dr. Williams’s house to take him some seeds. Luke is driving me. It’s not a big deal.”
His eyes flashed. “No big deal, huh?”
“Nee.”
“Guard that heart of yours, Sarah. It’s too trusting.”
She frowned at him. “I trust myself to know what I want and what I don’t.”
He laughed. “Jah, but the problem is that you know, and I know, that you’re wrong half the time. Remember the summer you wanted to raise potbellied pigs and you lost a whole radish growth to wilting? Don’t make the mistake of trading a passing fancy for long-term growth.”
She smiled sweetly at him. “Potbellied pigs and radishes will get you everywhere in conversation with a lady.”
He got up and stared down at her. “Just remember what I say.”
“How could I possibly forget?”
“Well, that colt won’t wait. I’d better be going.” He turned and walked off, and Sarah sighed at his broad, retreating back. She had no desire to hurt Jacob; she valued their friendship a great deal. She’d known him forever, and she also knew that he was handsome enough to have his choice of any girl. Last year, when he began to show his intentions toward her, she’d backed away, and he’d patiently persisted. Maybe today would change his mind, she hoped. She rose to find her brother, meeting Father on the way.
Luke wasn’t ready to go, though. Having gained some notoriety for his impromptu performance, he bantered with his friends until Father approached them, holding Sarah’s hand.
“Ach, Luke, your sister needs a ride, and now I know, should one of the cows go missing, that you’d be the one to sing her along back home at night.” Father didn’t smile; he simply patted Luke’s back, squeezed Sarah’s hand, and moved off into the crowd.
“Come on,” Luke said, and Sarah followed happily.
Mrs. Bustle had discovered a plastic bag lined with peanut brittle crumbs and had strived to outdo
any possible question of her baking skills. She outfitted the tea table with a mountainous chocolate cream cake, finger sandwiches, petits fours, and crystal tumblers of Moroccan iced tea.
“There,” she declared, just as the clock struck three. Grant stood near the picture window he’d just had installed and watched the dust stir from the horse and buggy coming up the lane.
He turned to smile at her handiwork. “Thank you. It’s lovely, but I don’t think they expect all this.”
“All the better.” She nodded, heading off to do another round of battle in the kitchen.
Mr. Bustle answered the knock on the front glass door, and Grant came forward to greet his guests.
He was struck anew by the purity of Miss King’s gently curved face and clear eyes and her brother’s skin, though tanned, which also shone with good health.
“Welcome.” He shook hands with Luke and then with Sarah, glad that she seemed willing enough to do so. “Please come in and excuse the carpentry mess . . . Mrs. Bustle’s put on quite a tea in your honor.” He led the way into the dining room and grinned at Luke’s boyish whistle of appreciation upon viewing the table. Sarah frowned at her brother and looked as though she’d like to scold him.
“I’m sorry,” Grant said. “But I just have to understand, Miss King—do you want to lecture Luke on the whistle or just in general?”
Sarah frowned as Luke laughed. “Caught,” he told his sister.
“Yes, I am.” Sarah sighed. “If you must know, it’s that my bruder is like all the boys . . . he could eat forever. He just ate less than an hour ago . . . Ach, that sounds ungrateful . . . I’m making a mess of things . . .” She spread her hands with a helpless gesture as Luke grinned.
Dr. Williams waved an arm toward the table. “Please, both of you, come and sit . . . and please, eat or don’t eat, as you like.”
He drew out a chair for Sarah, who took it with gracious thanks.
Grant filled Luke’s plate and let Sarah choose as she liked, then he took a piece of cake himself. He moved the beautiful flower arrangement off the table and onto the floor, the better to see his guests’ faces.
“Sorry,” he explained. “I want to look at you as we talk. Your own table was so pleasant in its simplicity.”
“Thank you,” Sarah murmured, toying with her ornate fork.
“Well, if you’ll excuse my ignorance, I’d like to hear all about your kitchen garden and about what you might grow for healing or natural remedies—for both animals and people.”
“I brought your seeds.” Sarah produced the paper packet from her apron pocket.
“Ach, Sarah, not from the desk?” Luke groaned.
“Yes, from the desk.”
Grant raised his brow and she continued. “I sort my seeds in a big old desk, though most are not truly mine. They’re from my grossmudder . . . excuse me, please, I mean my grandmother and her mother before her.”
“Aha,” Grant exclaimed, pleased that he could contribute. “Heirloom seeds!”
“Well . . . the Englisch call them heirloom seeds, but maybe for a different reason than we do.”
“Not just because they’re old?” Grant ventured.
“There’s that, but also the word heirloom . . . it’s an older word, in English, jah? So I truly think of each seed as an heirloom, a valuable piece of history that—”
“Ach. And we’re off,” Luke muttered, helping himself to more cake.
“Let your sister be,” Dr. Williams adjured good-naturedly.
“You haven’t got her talking tomato varieties yet . . . just wait.”
“Tomato varieties? I thought there were only a few.”
“Oh no.” Sarah’s eyes glowed, and Luke shook his head.
“There’s the ox-heart variety, the striped tomato, and the phantom tomato, or white tomato. And, you see, an heirloom plant usually has time as well as a story behind how each seed came into a garden.”
“I’m intrigued,” Grant exclaimed, pushing aside his plate.
“And I’m happy to go and pace off your garden for you, Doctor, while Sarah explains.” Luke rose. “I brought some shovels and a pick. Do you want it right outside the back kitchen like we have?”
“Yes, and if you don’t mind, tell Mrs. Bustle what you’re doing. She’ll give you some more direction. Thank you, Luke.”
When he’d gone, Sarah fingered her seed package, then gave him a direct look. He marveled at the way her hazel eyes seemed to change colors depending on what light she was in. Now they were a translucent light brown, like the early coat of a young fawn.
“Please, go on, Miss King. I’d love to hear some of the heirloom stories.”
“Well, there are the husk cherries, we call them juddekaershe . . . they’ve been grown for nearly five generations in my family. Sometimes they’re called ground cherries or winter cherries. The seed comes from a distant relative who moved here from Schoeneck, Pennsylvania. In Pennsylvania Dutch, Schoeneck means ‘beautiful corner,’ and these pretty fruits are related distantly to the tomato family. They look a little like tomatillos, and we use them in pies, jellies, and jams. When the boys pull them up at harvest, they pull the whole plant and hang them upside down in the attics. The winter cherries have to ripen and slip out from their little husks. They also can be harvested all winter and their vines spread out nearly three to four feet on the ground.” Her eyes danced as she described the plants, and he watched as she became aware of how animated she’d been.
“Please, don’t stop,” he encouraged. “I love to hear you speak, and I do want to learn. You see, I can remember kitchen gardens from my childhood. I’d go with my dad on calls to the Amish farms and get to wander around. I always liked the profusion of the gardens and ate more than one ripe tomato straight off the vine.”
“Your father was a vet too?”
“No, he was a medical doctor, a general practitioner. He had many Amish patients and was deeply devoted to the Amish people. He passed that on to me, I guess.”
There was a brief silence while she seemed to consider his words, then he smiled.
“So tell me about some other seeds before Mrs. Bustle thinks we’re not enjoying tea.”
She slanted a curious glance his way, then went on. “Well, there are also peppers—the sweet yellow stuffing pepper . . . you might fill it with spinach or a chicken salad, and the pimiento pepper, which is truly as sweet as an apple, ach . . . and I brought seeds for pretzel beans, which really do look like green pretzels when they mature, and the purple burgundy lima bean. It makes a better stew, I think, than just the lima bean itself.”
Grant listened, fascinated by her lilting voice until it seemed more charming than the aged crystal they drank from.
“And there are a few flowers, but useful ones . . . like the oyster plant, which looks pretty, but we use its roots for a mock oyster soup.” She spilled a single seed out into the palm of her small hand to show him. “Then of course, I brought some herbs. The specific ones you like I can give you as time goes along. I’m not sure of all of the medicinal uses as far as animals go.”
“I’ll find out . . . I’ve also enjoyed finding out how much a steward of the land you are, Miss King. You and your family, of course. And I respect what you say about the seeds. If you’ll show me how to plant them correctly, I’ll cherish them. You have my word.”
“Thank you.” She smiled.
Mrs. Bustle came into the room to clear the table, and Sarah rose as if to help.
“No, thank you, dear. You go on outside with the doctor and see what your brother’s got dug.”
Grant gestured toward the kitchen and Sarah went along, her dark shoes and dress seeming to match the timeless quality of the antique oriental runner Mr. Bustle had just laid that morning.
Sarah noticed that the kitchen was still in haphazard condition while Mrs. Bustle explained that she was still adjusting to the stove and relative lack of space. The back screen door was open, and Luke dug heartily. He’d paced off a fair r
ectangle of land with three neat paths and overturned the sod.
“So how do I go about planting the seeds?” Grant asked, as he and Sarah walked outside and surveyed the rich soil.
“Well . . .” Sarah knelt near the edge of the dirt and he did the same, making her pulse jump with his closeness. She opened her hand, which still held the oyster seed, and reached out to give it to him. The seed stuck to her hot palm and he clasped her hand until his warm fingers slid it free. She looked at the earth and tried hard to think of what Father had told her. He trusted her, but she was beginning to not trust herself when it came to this charming Englischer.
“You just stick the seed in a hole in the dirt and cover it,” Luke interrupted in a laconic tone, leaning a boot on his shovel.
Sarah glared over at him, half-embarrassed. “There’s more to it than that.”
Luke shrugged and turned his back, going back to his digging. “Whatever.”
“So what else is there?” the doctor asked with a faint smile.
Sarah slid her slender fingers through the rich earth, its coolness restoring her calm, until the doctor placed his hand over hers, following her movements in the ground.
“Like this?”
“Jah,” she murmured.
He threaded his fingers through hers, and she could feel the weight of his large hand. “And then the seed?”
“Yes . . . point down, if it has one.”
“All right.” He still held her hand in the cover of the dirt and used his other to push the seed into the small opening.
“And then we . . . you just cover it.” She swallowed as she watched their twined fingers moving through the rich earth. She let her hand relax against the pressure of his own and felt her breath come out in a rush when the hole was filled and he still held her hand against the ground. She looked over at him and felt like she might drown in the intensity of his eyes. She dropped her gaze to his firm mouth and wet her lips.
“Water,” she managed.
“Hmm?” His voice was a deep, timbered rumble.