by Kelly Long
She backed against the counter and turned, reaching for a bag of spices. “It’s time for the cinnamon and allspice.”
He returned to the canning jars and whistled, ignoring her turned back.
He sensed when she turned back to him and he pretended not to notice. “All right . . . last jar. Now what?”
“We stir the mixture on the stove and stir and stir . . . otherwise it will burn.”
“I’ll stir, then.”
He took up the long wooden spoon and stood over the large pot, whistling and stirring, enjoying the warm feel of the steam on his face.
“Do you want me to take over?” she asked.
He grinned at her over his shoulder. “Nope. I’m having fun.”
He ignored her sigh and continued to stir, all the while concentrating on her gentle flurry of movements behind him as she continued to clear up the kitchen. He wondered if it would make any difference in her behavior if he backed off in his attentions; he smiled as he considered the innate curiosity of a hummingbird.
Sarah concentrated on the sandy grains of brown sugar as she scraped the counters clean. She didn’t want to think about the fact that the doctor was so close behind her that she only needed to take a step and her skirt would brush his long legs. She closed her eyes against the sudden desire to turn and touch his back, to rub her fingers against the pale blue cotton of his shirt, which matched his eyes. She shook herself and decided that she was flustered in her excitement over Chelsea, not the doctor . . . or Grant, as he’d asked her to call him.
Then she became aware of the sudden, palpable silence in the room and sneaked a glance over her shoulder to find him staring at her.
“It’s done, I think.”
“Take it off the heat, then,” she instructed, her voice strained.
He smiled at her, a knowing look. “Yes, we definitely need less heat.”
She couldn’t look away. She watched him close the single-step distance between them and extend his arms to reach the counter on either side of her. She was caught, trapped by the warmth of his body and her own yearning to press herself closer to him.
“You have apple butter on your cheek,” he murmured, and she tried to reach a hand between them to wipe her face.
“Don’t.”
She froze, somehow knowing what he wanted, and she arched her neck upward.
He put his mouth on her cheek, and she blinked at the sensation, knowing that he tasted her skin. He pulled back and she felt like crying out at the loss of his touch, but she watched as his thick lashes lowered, and he bent his head. He brushed his mouth across hers, and she thought of sunshine, and green leaves, and boiling maple syrup. She responded, a tentative foray of her lips that provoked a small sound of approval from the back of his throat. She moved her mouth with abandon, wanting him to make the noise again, when the rattle of a doorknob forced them to turn from each other in haste.
The bedroom door opened wide and Mrs. King emerged, her face wreathed in smiles, just as Sarah managed to grasp to the counter, clutching its edge with white-tipped fingers.
Mamm . . . how is Chelsea?” “
Wunderbarr . . . and you are now Aunt Sarah to a boppli “boy . . . and on your birthday too!”
Grant looked over his shoulder at her. “It’s your birthday?”
“Jah.”
Mamm nodded in satisfaction. “Our first grandchild . . . John Kemp Jr.” She turned her comfortable frame back to the door. “You may come in shortly, Sarah.”
She shut the door behind her and only the sound of the slow bubbling apple butter broke the silence between them as they faced each other once more.
Grant cleared his throat and spoke hoarsely, “Happy birthday.”
She looked at him and reached trembling fingers to her lips to savor the sensation of the kiss.
“You . . . kissed me.”
“You kissed me back.”
“Ach,” she exhaled. “This cannot go on; it cannot. I am Amish; you are Englisch.”
“Are we so different, then, Sarah?”
“No . . . I mean, yes . . . we are. I cannot have you, not without losing my faith, my home. I will not do that.”
He pursed his lips. “I don’t want you to lose anything.”
“Then why kiss me?” she whispered in desperation. “How many Englisch girls do you kiss like this? Is it your way?”
“No, I don’t go around kissing just anyone. I’m going to talk to your father.”
“What?” she hissed. “Are you narrish? Nee, you will not talk to Father.”
“Why not? You know I care about you, and I think you care about me. Why shouldn’t I tell your father, so we can stop hiding what is the truth?”
She dropped her face into her hands and gave a faint sob.
“Don’t cry, Sarah.”
“I don’t know what else to do.”
“I don’t want you to cry; I want . . .” He stopped as the front door opened and Luke and Mr. King entered.
“Well, little Sarah . . . you are now Aunt Sarah! And Dr. Williams, you’re here to share the good news as well!” The older man exclaimed jubilantly, and Sarah watched as Grant moved to shake his hand.
“Yes, sir. It’s a boy.”
“A boy . . . a grandson!” Mr. King reached to embrace Sarah, then stretched out an expansive arm to encompass the room. “Jah . . . it’s a good day for the King family and for the Kemp house. Der Herr blesses us, eh, Sarah? What more is there to ask for?”
Sarah tried to avoid Grant’s eyes as he smiled wryly at her. What more indeed?
CHAPTER 11
Ach, Dr. Williams,” Father clapped his hands. “I forgot in all of the excitement—the Bilder farm sent word. They’ve a sick old dog at their place and wondered if you might come.”
“Of course. I’ll go at once.” Sarah watched him unroll his sleeves, trying to ignore the sight of the strong, tanned forearms splattered with apple butter. She scuffed one small toe of her shoe at a flour spot on the floor.
“Congratulations again, sir! Uncle Luke . . . Aunt Sarah.” She looked up to meet his eyes, but he’d already turned and was headed out the door. In a few moments, the sound of the automobile receded into the distance.
Sarah concentrated on filling the sterilized jars full of the rich apple butter and setting the seals while Luke ran an appreciative finger around the hot edge of the pan. She slapped his hand away and listened to Father’s cheerful pacing before the closed bedroom door. Then she checked the paraffin, which was melting in a double boiler. When it was done, she ladled the hot wax over the warm apple butter, making sure that the wax touched all sides of the glass jar to ensure a proper seal; then she screwed on the brass tops and lids and carefully dried each jar. The familiar process soothed her for the moment, and she felt like she could breathe again without thinking of Grant.
Mamm soon emerged from the bedroom carrying a bundled armful and went straight to Father. Her eyes were filled with happy tears as Sarah and Luke clustered around to see; John’s mamm soon joined them from the master bedroom. Father took the baby and gently lifted the quilt Sarah had made with his work-worn hands to reveal a pink, sleeping face with a rosebud mouth and a thatch of black hair.
Ach . . . Mama, how Der Herr has blessed us.” “
Sarah watched the loving exchange of glances between her parents and knew that she longed for such a relationship for herself when she’d been married as long as they had. She slipped away from the group admiring the baby and went to Chelsea’s doorway. John Kemp’s head was bent over her sister’s, and his shoulders shook as he cried tears of happiness while his wife stroked his hair. Sarah drew back, not wanting to interrupt when Frau Knepp saw her and thrust a bundle of sheets and quilts at her.
“Sarah, danki . . . These need to be washed.”
There was no tomfoolery with Frau Knepp, so Sarah turned with the staggering load and headed out back to the washtubs and wringer. Long laundry lines were strung between two oak trees and a h
andful of carved stick props leaned against a nearby shed. Sarah sighed as she began by pumping the water from the nearby pump to fill the aluminum wash bins. She put several sheets in to soak, then added crumbles of handmade oil soap. Chelsea’s soap held the rich scent of both almonds and berries that was pleasant to smell, so the scrubbing seemed to go by more quickly than usual. She’d just run her second sheet through the wringer washer when Mamm came out to join her.
“Sarah . . . you are a good girl, but I didn’t forget that this is your birthday too. Go in and visit with Chelsea for a few minutes before she falls to sleep. I will do the washing.”
Sarah was only too glad to relinquish the task as her hands were already freezing from the pump water. She skipped indoors to find Luke and John talking at the kitchen table while Father rocked the precious bundle with a look of peace on his wrinkled face. Sarah dropped a kiss on his forehead and patted the baby before going to her sister’s room. Frau Knepp had gone, and Chelsea appeared to be dozing, her long chestnut red hair unbound and flowing against the pillows. She opened her eyes at once when the door squeaked and smiled wearily at Sarah.
“Come in, Sarah, please.”
Sarah approached the bed on silent feet. Chelsea’s face looked pale but luminous, and Sarah felt she was in the great presence of new life, a new touch from the Lord’s merciful hand.
“How was it, really, Chelsea?” Sarah whispered.
Chelsea grinned. “Hard . . . but worth it. Did you see him?”
“Jah. He is very handsome.”
“Come and sit down. You make me feel like I’m ill. And I want to thank you again for his first quilt. I know how much you labored over it.” She patted the edge of the bed beside her and Sarah perched gingerly.
“I actually grew to love the time I spent doing it; I’m so glad to give it to you.”
“Danki. Now, tell me what’s bothering you, little schweschder.”
“Me?” Sarah was shocked. “I don’t want to talk about me. It is your special day.”
“It’s your birthday, remember? Go over to the top drawer of the bureau and open it. You’ll find your gift inside.”
Sarah rose and went to the wooden bureau. She opened the topmost drawer and withdrew a brown-paper-wrapped package tied with a red ribbon. She went back to sit on the bed as she unwrapped it.
She withdrew a bound leather book embossed with the words For Thoughts on the outside. She flipped through the pages and found them to be lined but empty.
“It’s a journal,” Chelsea explained. “I had one before I married. I used to write all sorts of poems and thoughts inside. I thought that you might like to do the same since you loved writing in school.”
Sarah hugged the book to her chest, then clasped her sister’s hand. “Danki, Chelsea. I will use it.”
“But who will you write of?” Chelsea’s smile was knowing.
“No one special, of course.”
“Ah well, perhaps you will use it for your plants.”
Sarah frowned at her sister. There was no doubt that Chelsea knew something, and if Chelsea knew it, then others might suspect too.
“What do you know?”
Chelsea attempted a casual stretch, then winced so that Sarah hurried to straighten the bedclothes.
“Well?”
“I know you, little sister. And your eyes are never so big, not even for your garden. John told me that he asked Dr. Williams to come in. I’ve heard that the doctor is quite good looking for an Englischer.”
Sarah could not contain her blush and stared down at the journal, unsure of what to say.
“Sarah, I wouldn’t tell a soul . . . you know that. But he’s Englisch.”
“I know that. Do you think I haven’t thought of that a million times over?”
“Don’t worry.” Chelsea patted her hand, then yawned. “Der Herr will send you a good Amish man and you will forget your fancy for the Englischer. I thought I’d marry a half dozen men before John. But when I met him, I knew it was right. The same will happen for you, I know.”
Sarah nodded, watching as her sister drifted off to sleep, but in her heart, she wasn’t sure she liked the idea of a good Amish man. After all, did one have to be Amish to be good in God’s eyes? The thought shook her and she rose just as Mamm entered the room.
“I’m going to stay tonight, Sarah, and Father and Luke will take you home. Make sure you get up extra early to do the breakfast before you go to the stand.”
“Yes, Mamm.”
“Chelsea got you a journal, eh? It’ll be good for you to put down your thoughts. I’ve worried that something has been troubling you.” Mamm caressed her cheek as she passed.
“I am fine, Mamm,” Sarah responded, hurrying to get out of the room before anyone could make any other observations about her personal life.
She gained the door and had her hand on the knob when her mother whispered to her softly. “Hallich gebottsdaag . . . Happy birthday.”
She smiled and nodded and left the room before Chelsea’s next wakening.
Grant drew up before the Bilder farm and found it to be more ramshackle than its neighbors. Little boys, dressed so much like Amish men, ran about in small black hats playing kick the can, while a woman hummed and strung laundry haphazardly on a sagging line.
He grabbed his bag from the back, trying to pick out a dog from the parade of chickens, ducks, and geese that seemed to dot the place like confetti, and finally went over to Mrs. Bilder and her wash.
“Hello, ma’am. I had word that you have a sick dog?”
The woman spoke without removing the wooden clothespins from between her thin lips. “Dead already.”
“Oh, I’m very sorry. I would have come sooner had I known . . .”
“Dog’s been dead for two months.”
“All right . . . I guess I’ll move along then.”
He turned to go, chagrined at wasting his time when the woman called out to him, “I do have a sick cow in the barn, though.”
He turned back with a sigh. “How bad off is it?”
She pulled the last clothespin from her mouth and started walking to the barn, cutting across the array of children and animals like someone negotiating a New York City street at lunch time. Grant followed reluctantly.
They entered the murky barn and Grant was surprised to see an Amish man with a thick beard, tilted backward in a chair, sound asleep against one of the stall doors.
“That’s Mr. Bilder. He’s got a sleep problem. Sleeps all day, is up all night. Always been that way.”
The man suddenly let out a roar of a snore that sounded somewhere between a bobcat and a woman screaming. Grant shivered in spite of himself.
“Strange, ain’t it?” Mrs. Bilder remarked. “I make him sleep out here’cause he scares the young ones with his snoring.”
“Have you tried seeing a physician?”
“Nah . . . what for? Ain’t no way to change a man’s snore; it’s part of who he is.”
Grant nodded, unable to keep from whispering in case he brought on the snore again. “Where’s the cow?”
“Over there, far stall. She’s cast her withers.”
Grant nearly groaned in despair. “Cast her withers” was the polite Amish way for saying that a cow had expelled her uterus following a vigorous birth. It wasn’t anything painful for the cow, but for the vet, it meant a lot of trouble getting things back inside.
“Leave you to it then,” Mrs. Bilder announced, turning to exit the barn and slide the door closed behind her.
“Yaowwwwhmmmmhrrrrrr!” Mr. Bilder snored again and Grant jumped. He’d just have to get used to it.
He walked over to the stall to find the cow eating at the trough while a giant, pink organ protruded from her backside. Her tail flicked with goodwill, though, and she didn’t even seem to notice that she was missing half of her insides. Grant rolled up his sleeves, then, recalling numerous fretful battles with “cast withers” during his training, he stripped his shirt off entirely.
He hung it on a convenient nail, then set about scrubbing up his hands and arms and chest with a bottle of antibacterial lotion from his bag. He washed away the apple butter and thought of his kiss with Sarah.
“Yaowwwwhmmmmm . . . hrrrrr . . . hmmmmm!” Grant jumped again and shook his head. He had a good notion to go over and squeeze Mr. Bilder’s nose until he choked awake but decided that wouldn’t quite be professional. So he finished lathering his arms and slipped into the stall.
“All right, old girl. Let’s see how we get on, okay?” He began to soap the bulbous organ, which was covered with bits of hay and afterbirth. The cow continued to chew contentedly.
“Ya . . . wwwwaawaaaahmmmmhhrrrrrr!”
“I hear him, old girl. Let’s just think about us.” He took a deep breath and grabbed hold of the giant organ, filling his arms and chest with it. It was heavy but relatively easy to position so long as the cow cooperated, and the cow was cooperating. He had things back in place in no time, relieved that it was an easy go, and moved back to a nearby bucket of water to soap down his arms and chest once more. He pulled his shirt back on and gathered his instruments back into his bag.
“Yaaaahmmm . . . yahmmmm . . . yahmmmhrrr!”
He’d had enough. Sleeping problem or no, somebody had to stop Mr. Bilder from terrorizing the animals in the barn, let alone his own children. Grant caught up his bag and stalked over to the sleeping man. In his best attempt at imitation, he leaned close to the sleeper’s ear, drew a long breath, then hollered like a wild banshee. “Yaaaahmmhrrrwawawawahrrrrr!”
Mr. Bilder opened his eyes and let the feet of his chair fall forward so suddenly that Grant jumped back a step.
“What is wrong with you, Son?” the older man asked, staring at Grant with an injured frown.
“What’s wrong with me? What’s wrong with you? Get up, man! It’s daylight! You’re missing your children grow up; you’re missing your wife. You snore like a . . . like a . . .”
The Amish man laughed. “Ach, you mean this—Yahmmmmmmhrrrrrhmmmrrr!”
“Yes,” Grant said, deflated. “That’s what I mean.”
“Well, that’s just to get me some peace from the young’uns. Once they grow up, I’ll go back to sleepin’ regular and snorin’ regular too.”