The Thorn (The Rose Trilogy)

by Beverly Lewis

  She gave a slight wave as she neared. "I wanted to say good-bye. Mattie Sue and I are leaving now." Her voice cracked.

  "You take gut care," he said, his heart in his throat.

  She lowered her eyes, nodding slowly. "I never meant to upset you and Mom ... by coming."

  Something welled up in him, and he moved quickly to her side. "You visit us anytime, ya hear? You're always welcome, daughter. Brandon and Mattie Sue, too."

  Hen's eyes glistened in the corners as she blinked away tears. "Oh, Dad ..." She reached for him and embraced him. "For the longest time, I've wanted to say how sorry I am for pushing you and Mom aside ... out of my life." She paused, clearly struggling to speak. "I wish now I'd invited you to my wedding."

  He could not speak but squeezed her hand. He nodded his head thoughtfully.

  "Will you keep me in your prayers, Dad?" Her voice was as delicate as a child's.

  "I never quit," Sol managed to say.

  "Thank you," Hen said before she turned and left the porch.

  By the time Ruth and Arie said farewell, Rose was nearly too full of pie to even think of going over to Mammi Sylvia's for some cold cuts and Jell-O, as they sometimes did on no-Preaching Sundays. Still, it was the appointed time to eat, so Dat wheeled Mamm across the back porch to the Dawdi Haus's separate entrance. Rose pondered Ruth Miller's thoughtful comment about how nice it was to see Hen again - the woman had genuinely seemed to mean it - and if Rose wasn't mistaken, Arie had given a slight bob of her head in agreement.

  But no one said a word about Hen and Mattie Sue's visit during the meal at Mammi and Dawdi's. The closest anyone came to it was Dawdi Jeremiah. "Might be you gave the furniture in that one empty bedroom upstairs to Mose and his wife a bit too soon."

  Rose caught her breath, wondering if Dawdi thought Hen might be fixing to come back home to live. Oh, she could not imagine such a thing. Much as her sister's marriage had broken her heart, the last thing she'd ever want was to think Hen and Brandon's love story might come to an abrupt end.

  She watched her mother reach for another slice of Swiss cheese, Mamm's hand trembling as she did so. If she knew what I was thinking, Mamm would say I've been reading too many romance novels.

  Later, before Mammi served up some delicious whoopie pies, Dawdi leaned back in his chair at the head of the table and told a story about their lippy ancestor, Yost Kauffman. Not only had Yost courted a girl who'd chopped her hair in front, making fancy bangs, but he'd run around with some fellows who had worked some sort of "get rich quick" scheme in Big Valley. "It appears that of mustache we've all heard about wasn't the only thing that got Yost in trouble with the brethren," Dawdi said, smacking his lips and reaching for another whoopie pie.

  Mamm's lips spread wide, and Rose's father chuckled. "There's some real fire in our genes, jah?" said Dat. Then, just as quickly, his face turned solemn, as if he'd suddenly thought of Hen. He changed the subject. "Where would yous like to go visitin' this afternoon?"

  Mamm looked at Dat, as did Mammi Sylvia. Soon they were all looking to him for his opinion. "Since when's it up to me?" He glanced at Rose. "Why don't you pick this time, daughter?"

  "Well, how about the bishop's family?" she said, thinking that perhaps some of the grandchildren might be there.

  Dat's face paled. He shook his head. "Ought to be kin, ain't?"

  Mammi Sylvia spoke up right quick. "They're our neighbors; we can go 'n' see them most anytime."

  Dawdi quickly suggested Rose's brother josh and his wife. "It's been some weeks since we dropped in over there."

  They all agreed it would be nice to see the girls again - fouryear-old Linda, three-year-old Katie, and the baby, Annie Mae. Rose washed Mammi's plates and silverware while her grandmother cleaned off the table, then came and wiped the dishes. Meanwhile, Dat wheeled Mamm over to the front room window, and they sat there for a time together, looking in the direction of the road and the fields across the way.

  When Rose glanced over at her again, Mamm's head had drooped, and she was fast asleep. She couldn't help but think her parents both looked tired enough to simply go back to the main house and rest. Hen's surprise overnight visit had surely caused them a loss of sleep.

  Rose finished up in her grandmother's kitchen, hoping they still might go and see josh and Kate. But thinking about her father's decided disinterest today in visiting with the Petersheims made her ever so curious.

  Early Monday, Hen thanked her sister-in-law Kate repeatedly, then kissed Mattie Sue good-bye. While driving her car to Rachel's Fabrics, she felt as carefree as a schoolgirl. Brandon's silence about her job - and her defiant attitude - at breakfast this morning had her stumped. Yet her nagging guilt disappeared when she pulled into the parking lot in front of the homey-looking store with window boxes on either side of its painted door.

  "Come in, come in!" Rachel Glick called to her, all rosy-faced and bright-eyed. The friendly shopkeeper was probably only a little older than Hen.

  Hen greeted her happily and followed her to the back room, where a quilting frame was set up, and hung up her coat and purse. She'd worn her long skirt with tiny blue and green print flowers and a ruffled cream-colored long-sleeved blouse. Her hair was pinned up in a French twist, but she thought she might roll it into the bun she'd worn before she was married. She could even pick up a Kapp at her father's house, if she had time to stop by later.

  "Don't you look nice!" Rachel said.

  "Next time you see me, I plan to look much more Amish," Hen told her, following her to the battery-run cash register on the counter.

  "Oh?"

  "I want to dress Plain again ... from now on." She needed to say it into the air, to hear the words for herself.

  Rachel squinted her eyes slightly, as if she wasn't exactly sure what Hen meant. But the People, and Brandon, too, would soon know just how serious Hen was about reclaiming parts of her former life.

  The two of them moved about the shop, Rachel pointing out the shelves of quilting fabrics especially, before moving on to the shelves stacked with fabrics for dresses, aprons, and men's broadfall trousers and shirts.

  "I'd like you to reorganize the quilting fabrics, beginning with the darkest hues of color on the top shelves, working down to the lighter shades below," Rachel said, her soft green eyes almost blue as she talked about her store.

  "Sounds like fun." How Hen had missed this world!

  The first few customers entered and appeared astonished to see her employed there at Rachel's. As they chattered together, Hen found herself enjoying the attention, though she wouldn't admit it to a soul.

  Later, when there was a lull, Rachel showed her a picture of the Bars quilt she was working on at home. It was a replica of one her grandmother had made years ago and featured bright red, pastel blue, and black prints. "It's just beautiful, ain't?"

  Hen wholeheartedly agreed, and she immediately imagined making a similar quilt of her own. She set to work arranging the bolts of fabric by color, picturing herself working on the quilt in her mother's front room. Somehow she couldn't see herself quilting in the modern living room in her home with Brandon.

  During her short lunch break, Hen listened to a talkative Rachel, who spoke glowingly of her English cousin, Donna Becker. "She lives neighbors to Gilbert Browning, ya know."

  Rose Ann had told Hen about Mr. Browning, a relative newcomer to the area.

  "Guess your sister has stopped by Donna's for tea a couple of times after her job."

  "That's nice for Rose. I'm glad to hear she's able to take more time for herself again," Hen said.

  "Donna says she seems to like workin' at the Browning house, even if Gilbert Browning is mighty strange."

  "Strange ... how do you mean?" Hen's antennae went up.

  "Oh, I don't think Donna meant it's anything to worry about. The man's just peculiar in his ways, maybe because he's a widower." Rachel chuckled. "Seems a teenage Amish boy has been doing lawn work for Mr. Browning. He was even seen hangin' out the wash
ing this past Monday mornin'. Isn't that an interesting howdy-do?"

  Hen could not imagine a boy taking on so-called women's work. "Are you sure?" It sounded like someone hadn't gotten her story straight.

  "Oh jah ... ever so sure." Rachel glanced at a mail order for sewing notions in front of her, double-checking the numbers. "Once I was at Donna's to deliver some pinking shears and saw the young fella myself."

  Hen had no idea where Mr. Browning had scrounged up such a boy - and one out of school, too!

  Hen put away her lunch bag, then got back to work. The rest of the workday was fulfilling and fun, even inspiring, as Hen helped various Amishwomen who, once they got over their initial surprise at seeing her, were as welcoming and gracious as if she'd never left them for her English husband. As she and Rachel closed up shop that afternoon, Hen could hardly wait to work again on Thursday.

  Despite Hen's brazen move to accept the job at Rachel's Fabrics, Brandon was still noticeably quiet about it by Wednesday, not once confronting her about her outright defiance. And he hadn't said a word about her staying overnight at Dad's house, either. She and Mattie Sue had slipped back quietly last Sunday afternoon, only to find Brandon gone. Just as well, considering everything. Hen had put Mattie down for a nap while she unpacked, though she, too, was tired and emotionally drained. Eventually even Hen had taken advantage of the quiet house and slept for an hour, just as she had often done growing up.

  Now that things had settled back into something of a routine between Brandon and her, albeit a somewhat uncomfortable one, Hen had returned to all the domestic things she loved - shopping for delicious sandwich fixings and other brown-bag food items for her husband to enjoy at work, keeping the house picked up and clean, and doing the laundry, including ironing Brandon's shirts lightly starched just the way he liked them. It was as if they'd swept their concerns under the proverbial rug.

  Now, as Hen cut out a little Amish dress and black apron for Mattie Sue, she wondered if the reason Brandon had remained mum was due to being afraid he might say something he'd regret if he did confront her. Hen, for her part, was both glad and sad to be in such limbo, with Brandon not addressing her leaving or her working at Rachel's Fabrics. At this point, she didn't dare bring either up.

  She'd already said all she could about her desire to re-embrace Amish culture to some degree. She just wished he might try to understand where she was coming from.

  Yesterday she'd worked on the pretty wall hanging for Mattie's room, making brightly colored alphabet appliques for several squares. Mattie had worn the little prayer cap Hen bought for her last week, and asked when she could learn to quilt, too. She'd also asked to help Auntie Rose make rag dolls sometime soon. Her daughter seemed to find her mother's new interests fun - she'd even parroted some of the Deitsch words she'd heard at her Amish grandparents' during their recent visits.

  Hen's heart warmed at this, and she lost herself now in making Mattie's new Amish clothes, her own hair swept up in a smooth bun secured with one of her aunt Malinda's crochet hooks. Never once in the past couple of days did she consider how she looked to Brandon. Blissfully, she embraced the Plain world as she hummed at her sewing machine, stitching perfectly straight seams and wellconcealed hems.

  Rose simply could not understand how Mr. Browning failed to notice his rundown front porch. Each time she entered the door, she was all too aware of the repair and paint it needed.

  Maybe he just doesn't see it, she thought, knocking now. Things can become so familiar that you don't notice the problem any longer. She made a mental note to talk to Nick about possibly sprucing up the place - squeezing it in between his other daily chores somehow.

  Through the front window, she saw Gilbert Browning motioning her inside from his chair. "Is he too weak to answer the door?" Concerned now, she turned the doorknob and went inside.

  "Morning," he said, folding his hands in his lap.

  "Gut mornin'." She set her purse on the table, glad to see the African violets along the windowsill were thriving. "How are you today?"

  "Oh, fine . . . fine." His usual response.

  "How was the cake?" she asked.

  "Uh, very tasty, thanks." He reached back and rubbed his neck, offering no further explanation about the treat's purpose.

  Going to the sink, Rose noticed the cake pan was empty, except for a few dried crumbs still clinging to the sides. "Sure looks like it's all gone," she said.

  Mr. Browning reached for the nearby newspaper, opening it wide. Apparently he was in no mood for conversation today.

  Sighing, Rose turned on the faucet and began to wash the dishes. Suddenly, over the rush of the water, she heard what sounded like a thump on the ceiling. Another followed.

  Shivers went down her spine. She turned off the water and looked up curiously and then at Mr. Browning, who remained with his head buried in the paper.

  "I heard something upstairs."

  He looked up. "Pardon?"

  "Didn't ya hear that?"

  He returned to his paper. "Must be the wind."

  Like fun it is, she thought.

  She thought of Lucy Petersheim's remarks and sighed. Ridiculous. But the shivers came once again. Feeling thoroughly spooked, she was anxious to finish her chores and get home.

  As if to make up for not being permitted to dust or dry mop the dusty front room, Rose cleaned everything within her reach in the kitchen and the adjacent hall. Standing on a chair, she wiped down the tops of the cupboards, then continued with the counters and other kitchen surfaces, sometimes stepping near Mr. Browning, who remained planted in the doorway of the sitting room.

  "Everything okay?" he asked later.

  She swallowed hard. "I've heard stories about this house, is all."

  He dropped his paper. "Stories, you say?"

  "Silly stuff, like ... ghost stories."

  The man stared at her for a moment, then broke into a loud guffaw. "Well now, I can't say I've seen any ghosts."

  "No, of course not," Rose whispered.

  "But it is an old house," he continued, his steely eyes on her. "Every old place has ... a personality, you know."

  "Jah, maybe." She'd never heard this before.

  "Thumps and bumps." He raised his bushy eyebrows. "Not to mention all the strange creaks and groans."

  Rose sighed. "Maybe that's where the stories came from." Must've started with Lucy....

  Yet the man's expression did not convince her one bit.

  When Rose was finished cooking and baking, she let the shoofly pie and apple rice betty cool, as well as a large tuna macaroni casserole and meatball chowder. Besides the hot dishes destined for the refrigerator, there were plenty of green beans, peas, and creamed corn in the pantry. Mr. Browning had assured her from the first day he didn't mind opening cans of vegetables - or heating soup from a can - to supplement the food she cooked ahead for him.

  Making quick work of her morning duties, Rose soon bid him farewell and collected her pay in an envelope on the lamp table near his chair. "I'll return next week," she said, going to the door.

  "Thank you, Rose."

  She waved and reached to open the door, and closed it behind her. Welcoming the sunshine, she made her way down the steps and across the sidewalk to the waiting horse and buggy.

  Suddenly she heard a knocking on a windowpane. Rose spun around to look at the house. Was Mr. Browning alerting her to something she'd left? Oddly enough, there was no one at the front room windows. Then, squinting into the sun, she glanced up at the attic and saw the flutter of two silhouettes move past the dormer window.

  Shielding her eyes, Rose looked again, but no one was there.

  Is it my imagination? She turned, dismissing her spooky thoughts, and hurried to untie Alfalfa. "Let's be gettin' home."

  Following a delicious meal of veal, mashed potatoes, beef gravy, and buttered carrots and peas, Rose got Mamm settled for a rest, then rushed outside to her afternoon chores. She ran so fast, she nearly kicked the rooster. A f
ew feathers went flying as he screeched and squawked and carried on. "Acht gewwe - watch out," she said, laughing at the friendless fowl.

  She slid open the barn door and saw Nick, who smiled immediately. She hastened inside, relieved he was in a much better mood than the last few days.

  They worked together, doing their daily routine. She enjoyed watching George consume his feed and waited until he was finished to stroke the gray and white markings on his forehead. He was so enormous as she stood there, looking up at him. Like a living, breathing wall, his breadth and stature made her feel small, as she did when dwarfed by the vastness of the night sky, sprinkled with more stars than she could count. At such times, Rose found herself pondering how grand and majestic the heavenly Father must be. Are you small enough to hear my prayers, Lord? she sometimes prayed.

  She and Nick had talked about this once while out riding. He'd argued with her that God was much too busy - and far too great - to be bothered with people when He had the whole universe to look after.

  "That's just ridiculous," she'd said. She never felt it necessary to hold back with Nick. She had persisted, arguing what the psalmist David had said in so many words: No matter where I go - whether I try to hide from God or not - He knows right where I am.

  The argument had ended in an impasse, and Nick assured her this was an issue they might never see eye to eye on.

  Rose was rescued now from the glum thought by Dat, who came in from driving Upsy-Daisy. The gray horse headed directly to her stall, covered in sweat. Rose swatted dozens of flies off her back.

  "She's parched," Dat said after Nick had taken the horse's lead. "I had her clear over to Mose's place and back mighty quick."

  "We'll get her watered," Nick reassured him, and Dat gave an appreciative nod before stepping back out into the blinding sunlight.

  Rose tugged on Nick's shirt-sleeve. "Come ... I must tell ya the strangest thing," she whispered. "Lucy said last week she thinks Mr. Browning's place is haunted."