She stared at him. “No . . .”
“You were afraid of the horses the first day. But by the end of the week, you were holding your hand out and feeding them peppermint candy just like Lydia and I did. Only you laughed the whole time.” He unwrapped the candy, placed it in his palm, and held it up to the black mare eyeing him curiously from the other side of the stall door. Before Dani could even blink, it was gone. “Which made me and Lydia laugh, too.”
His own laugh, sparked by the memory, echoed around the barn. “I still hear that sometimes when I’m handing out peppermints even now.”
“Hear what?” she asked as the tightness in her throat began to recede.
“Your laugh. It was contagious.”
Unsure of how to respond, she stayed silent as Caleb continued, his words, his very gaze, suggesting he was reliving another time. “Your laugh even got to my dat. Saw it myself.” With a shake of his head, he was back in the barn—back in the present day. “Anyway, did you ever find a way to get one of your own?”
“You lost me.”
“By the time you drove off that last day, you were determined you were going to get a horse of your own one day.”
She had to laugh a little at that. “Uh . . . no. I’m pretty sure my dad squashed that idea before we’d hit the highway. Apparently, landlords in New York City don’t allow horses in third-floor apartments.”
“The nerve,” he joked back.
“I know. I mean, did you foresee that little tidbit being an issue?”
“If it was a tidbit I’d truly grasped, yeah, I would’ve put two and two together.” He reached into his pocket for another peppermint candy and, again, held it out toward Dani. “But considering I had no idea what living in the city meant, I had no reason to stamp on your dreams.”
When she didn’t move, he brought the candy to her while pointing his free hand toward a pair of field mules. “They like peppermint, too.”
“I really shouldn’t,” she said, tucking her hand behind her back.
Caleb jerked his head toward the mules. “I’m pretty sure they disagree with that statement. Profusely.”
“I’m not sure I remember how to do it, exactly.”
“Sure you do. First, you unwrap it—which I’ll do for you now.” When the candy was free of its plastic wrapper, he guided her hand upward so her palm was parallel with the ceiling and then placed the candy in its center. “Now, hold it steady and—yep—there you go!”
She looked from her palm to the floor and back again. “Where did it go?”
“In Leo’s stomach.”
“Leo?”
Caleb pointed at the mule. “Meet Leo.”
“But I didn’t even feel it.”
“He’s fast.”
“Clearly.” She nudged her chin toward the second mule. “What about that one? Shouldn’t he get one, too?”
“He thought you’d never ask.” Caleb dug his hand into his pocket and retrieved yet another piece of peppermint candy. “You got this one?”
Nodding, she unwrapped the candy, stuffed the plastic wrap into her own front pocket, and lifted her candy-topped palm toward the second mule. One quick burst of air on her skin later, the candy was gone.
Caleb’s rich and hearty laugh rang out around the barn. “Look at you, just as much of a pro as ever.”
“Olympic level, no doubt.” She wiped her hand down the side of her jeans and then wandered over to a barrel not far from where they stood. “I loved everything about your farm when I was a kid—playing hide-and-seek in the barn, jumping in the hay, chasing chickens, getting pulled in that little cart while your older brother learned to drive a horse . . . All of it. In fact, truth be told, the next time I got to blow out a birthday candle, I actually wished I could be Lydia.”
“And Lydia and me? We’d seen English kids from the back of Dat’s buggy a time or two. But we’d never actually gotten to play with them before. But you came around and you were just like us, only your dresses had flowers on them and you didn’t wear a prayer kapp.” Leaning against a nearby wall, he rubbed his thumb and index finger along his stubbled jaw. “You smiled and laughed all the time, and not just when you were feeding peppermints to the horses. Swinging on the front porch, finding another cat in the barn, and even eating a piece of my mother’s bread made you happy.”
“That bread was good,” she quipped.
He held his finger to his lips, looked left and then right, and then modulated his deep voice down to an almost whisper. “You didn’t hear it from me, but Lydia’s might be even better. Especially with her cinnamon butter on top.”
“She left me some of that this morning. In a basket.”
“Then you know what I’m talking about, right?”
Shifting from foot to foot, she glanced down and shook her head. “I didn’t try it.”
“Why?”
“I wasn’t hungry. I”—she swallowed—“haven’t been very hungry lately.”
When he didn’t respond, she looked up to find him studying her closely, the lightheartedness of their banter no longer reflected in his expression. “Look, I know just being around each other is going to be good for you and for Lydia, but this whole not-eating thing isn’t good.”
This whole not-eating thing . . .
Like she had a choice.
Then, as if he sensed he’d overstepped some invisible line, he retrieved a large oval-shaped brush from a hook on the wall and began to groom the black mare with long, even strokes. “I remember your mom so clearly, even after all this time.”
“You remember my mom?” she rasped.
“Sure do.” He stopped, whispered something in the mare’s ear in Pennsylvania Dutch, and then continued on with the brush. “Her laugh sounded very much like yours.”
Had it? She’d never really noticed . . .
“How is she?” he asked, squatting down beside the horse. “Still pushing you to try new things?”
His question slapped her back so hard, she practically toppled over the barrel from the force of her answering gasp. In her haste to steady herself, she bumped against the stall on her left, startling the pair of mules inside as well as a pregnant cat traveling the rafters above.
“Danielle?” Caleb said, jumping up. “Are you okay? Did I say something wrong?”
She tried to wave him off, to excuse herself and run outside, but it was as if the walls of the barn were closing in on her so tightly she could barely breathe, let alone respond in any measurable way. Grabbing hold of a nearby hook, she held on for dear life while everything around her began to spin, faster, and faster, and—
“Danielle!”
Chapter 9
He was carrying her across the driveway when she came to, his hurried pace and the morning air filtering through the fog that hung heavy in her head. “Put . . . me . . . down,” she murmured. “I-I . . . can walk.”
“Just a few more feet and I’ll have you inside. Hang on.”
She willed her eyes to open, to focus, but it was difficult. “What happened? Did I fall?”
“Dropped like a brick is more like it. But I think I caught you before your head actually hit the ground. I’ll know for sure when I get you inside and can take a closer look.” Turning her slightly to the left, he ascended two steps. “You’re staying in the grossdawdy house, yes?”
“I . . . yeah. Yes.” Reaching up, she felt around her face, her forehead, and the crown of her head as he pushed open the front door and strode into the tiny kitchen. “I’m fine. Nothing hurts. You can put me down.”
His eyes locked on hers before straying toward the bedroom and back. “I’d feel better putting you down on the bed. You did pass out, after all.”
“I’m fine,” she repeated, wiggling free. “Really. I just”—she swayed into the kitchen table—“whoa. Sorry about that. Maybe you’re right. Maybe I should just sit for a little while.”
In a flash, he was beside her, his hand on her back, guiding her onto the bench seat. “When
was the last time you ate?”
“I’m not sure.”
He pulled a face. “You’re not sure?”
“Yeah . . . I tried to eat a little of the chicken Lydia brought over last night, but I wasn’t hungry.”
“So in addition to skipping dinner, you’ve had nothing yet today, either?”
“I . . . suppose,” she said, shrugging. “But I’m not hungry.”
“I think your body is trying to tell you otherwise.” He crossed to the refrigerator and looked inside. “I could make you some eggs.”
Just the word made her stomach flop. “No. Please.”
He glanced back at her briefly, his left eyebrow rising. “Okay . . . Your plate from last night is still here and it doesn’t look like you touched anything on it.”
“I told you. I just wasn’t hungry.”
“You want some of that now? The chicken looks really good.”
She covered her stomach with her hand and shook her head.
“Okay, moving on. Oh, here’s Lydia’s cinnamon butter,” he said, holding up the small white bowl. “Where’s the bread?”
“On the counter, next to the sink.”
He pushed closed the refrigerator door, set the bowl of cinnamon butter on the counter, and peeled back the blue-and-white-checkered cloth. “Problem solved. For now, anyway.”
“No, I can’t. I’m just not—”
“You passed out, Danielle. That doesn’t just happen.” Grabbing a knife, he sliced a piece from the loaf and put it on a plate. “And it’s like I said earlier, Lydia’s bread—with this butter—is the best. You can’t not eat it.”
She wanted to argue, even opened her mouth to do just that, but the room was beginning to spin a little again. Leaning forward against the table, she forced herself to focus on the plate Caleb set at her spot along with a small glass of fresh cow’s milk.
Breathe in . . .
Breathe out . . .
Breathe in . . .
Breathe out . . .
Slowly, the spinning began to subside. “Thanks,” she whispered, motioning toward the waiting slice. “For this, and for catching me.”
“Which reminds me.” He came around behind her and slowly parted her hair at the crown. “This doesn’t hurt?” he asked, pressing ever so gently.
“No. Really. You must have caught me before I hit.”
“Okay, good.” He pulled his hand back to claim a seat on the opposing bench. “Try a bite. Just one. With this”—he scooted the bowl of butter and a knife in her direction—“on it.”
Reluctantly, she took the knife, dipped the tip in the butter, and spread a very thin coat across the slice of bread. When he prompted her yet again, she took a small bite.
“Good, right?”
The bread felt odd in her throat, but he was right. She took a second bite.
“I said something wrong, didn’t I?” Fisting his hands in front of his bottom lip, he leaned forward, his gaze moving between the bread in her hands, and her face. “In the barn,” he clarified. “Before you fell.”
A third bite led to a fourth and a sip of milk.
“Danielle?”
She lowered her milk glass and looked at him across the top. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You passed out because of the food,” he said, lowering his hands to the table. “But your gasp? That was because of me, wasn’t it?”
“My gasp?”
He nodded, his eyes trained on hers. “Yeah. In the barn. When I asked how your mom is doing.”
Stopping, mid-chew, she pushed the rest of the bread and the plate into the center of the table and tried to rise up on legs that weren’t ready to support her just yet. “I’m sorry,” she mumbled. “I-I think it’s time for you to leave.”
Caleb’s mouth went slack. “Wait . . . Why? I wasn’t meaning to pry if you two had a falling-out or something. I just remember her as being really nice and always talking you into trying new things and—”
“My mom is dead, Caleb! She was in the car with my husband and my children instead of me! And why? Because I let her talk me into staying home and having”—Dani crashed her hands down onto the table—“time for me! But I didn’t ask for time for me! I didn’t want . . .”
This time, when she struggled to her feet, she was able to hold herself up, cross to the door, and smack it open against the wall. “I really need you to leave. Now.”
* * *
It was nearly five o’clock when she heard the clip-clop of the buggy as it made its way down the driveway. Gapping the edge of the shade, Dani peered out her bedroom window and watched as the horse stopped outside the barn door. Seconds later, Elijah, Lydia, and their four children exited onto the hard-packed dirt and scattered in different directions.
Elijah and the youngest boy headed inside the barn while Luke and the next tallest boy walked to the front of the buggy. With the ease of children who knew what was expected of them, they unhitched the mare, stroked her head, and then gently led her through the same door their father and brother had gone through.
Lydia and Nettie were halfway to the house when Luke popped his head out of the barn, clearly yelled out something to the pair, and then, after a little hopeful bouncing on Nettie’s part, Lydia nodded. In the blink of an eye, the little girl was off and running toward her brother, and when she disappeared into the barn Dani felt her whole body sag in unison with . . . Lydia’s?
No.
Lydia had everything . . .
Her husband, her—
Parting company with the glass, Dani released the shade from between her fingers and watched, through tear-filled eyes, as it drifted back into place. Part of her wanted to grab her suitcase and head for home right then and there. But another part of her—the part that doubled over in agony at the very thought of walking back into that empty house—wanted to hide away forever.
It wasn’t that she didn’t think about Jeff and the kids constantly in the grossdawdy house, because she did. They were there every time she closed her eyes, every time she opened them, every time she took a breath, every time she released it. Geography had nothing to do with any of that. But at home, when she looked out on the comings and goings of the neighborhood, it was as if Jeff and the kids had been photoshopped out of life, while here, in Amish country, tucked away behind the walls of what had once been Elijah’s parents’ home, the only one linked to Jeff and the kids was Dani. There was no one to continue on as if they’d never existed.
A soft knock broke through her thoughts, pulling her quietly toward the bedroom doorway and its view of the front door. On the other side, just beyond the door’s single panel curtain, she could just make out the top of a white gauzy prayer kapp bent downward ever so slightly.
Lydia . . .
Wiping at her eyes, Dani used the time it took to retrieve the empty basket from the table to compose herself and then crossed to her friend. “Hi, Lydia,” she said, cracking the door halfway open. “I heard you come back just now. Thanks for the breakfast food you left this morning.”
“Yah.” Lydia nodded, her eyes searching Dani’s face like one might search a map after making a wrong turn. “Did you eat any of it?”
“Not much. But it wasn’t anything about what you left.” She looked up at the ceiling and then beyond Lydia to the barn. “It’s just that . . . I don’t know . . .”
“The sadness sits heavy, yah?” Lydia said, drawing her hand against her own aproned chest. “It leaves no room for food.”
Surprise dropped Dani’s gaze back to her friend. “That’s it. Exactly. I know I should eat, but I just can’t.”
“Yah. But you must try. Even if it is just a nibble here, and a nibble there.”
Nodding, she rested her head against the edge of the door. “I did that. With your bread. For a few bites, anyway.”
“Something is better than nothing when it is difficult to eat.” Lydia fidgeted her hands at her sides for a moment and then, after a quick glance at the
barn, lowered her voice. “I am sorry Caleb did not know. But it is my mistake, not my brother’s. If there is to be anger it should be at me, not Caleb. Please.”
“I wasn’t . . .” She felt the familiar lump working its way up her throat and tried hard to swallow it down. When it didn’t budge, she played, instead, with the handle of the basket. “How did you know about that? I thought, when he left here, he left the farm altogether.”
“He left a note on the table. He feels bad that he upset you so, and he does not understand why I did not tell him about your mamm.”
A swell of unshed tears blurred the basket from view and she thrust it toward Lydia. “Here,” she murmured. “This is yours.”
“Danielle, I—”
“I am very tired. I think I should try to nap for a while.”
Lydia’s hand came down on Dani’s. “I need you to know I did not forget her when I spoke of what happened. It is only that I meant her when I said your family.”
She tried to speak, but her throat was so full of emotion all she could do was close her eyes and try to breathe.
“I did not forget her,” Lydia repeated.
Something about the thickness in Lydia’s voice unleashed a pair of tears down Dani’s cheeks. “I . . .” She stopped, took another breath, and waited a beat or two until she could complete an entire sentence. “I don’t know how to do this without her, Lydia. My mother was the person I called to talk my way through tough times. It didn’t matter how big or how small, Mom was my rock. Always.
“When this new girl came into Maggie’s classroom and tried to come between Maggie and her friends back in the fall, I did everything to be calm and reassuring in front of Maggie, but the second she finished her homework that day and went out to play, I was on the phone with Mom, venting. The same was true when Spencer was sick with the flu shortly after he started kindergarten. I-I was worried because he wasn’t getting better as quickly as he always had in the past and I was heartbroken at the thought he was missing out on the making-friends part of school. So I called Mom—not because I thought she could do anything different than I was already doing for him health-wise, but because I needed to get out my worry and my frustration. And she always listened. It didn’t matter if it was early in the morning as I was running out the door with the kids, or while I was pulling dinner together in the evenings—if I called, she always picked up, ready to listen.
Piece by Piece Page 8