The Sisters of Sugarcreek

by Cathy Liggett

“I can’t see any bad dreams that it caught,” he said, examining every part of the circular web.

  “Well, you really can’t see a dream,” Jessica tried to explain.

  “Uh-huh.” Cole looked at her like she was ten kinds of crazy. “I can see them when I’m sleeping. That’s why I get scared.”

  She couldn’t deny there was some kind of strange logic in what he was saying. She just wasn’t sure how to respond to it.

  “Well . . .” She paused, feeling far more weary than wise. “Maybe . . . it’s like . . . when a person plays baseball.”

  He gave her a puzzled look.

  “Do you catch every ball that’s thrown to you?” she asked.

  He shook his head.

  “But it helps you catch better when you practice catching, doesn’t it?”

  He nodded agreeably.

  “Maybe the dream catcher just needs more practice.”

  He stared at the leather-covered circle in his hand and stroked the attached dangling feathers, as if considering her explanation. He must’ve taken it to heart because he got up on the bed and placed the dream catcher back onto the hook.

  “Okay. Time to settle in,” she said as he got under the covers again. “And time to tuck you in.”

  “Real tight,” he said.

  “Real tight.” She scrunched in the blankets all around him just the way he liked, then bent over, did a quick Eskimo kiss, and then kissed his forehead good night. “Love you, Colester.”

  “Love you, Mommy.”

  She started to turn off the light, but even with all the tucking, he quickly drew out his hand from under the blankets and clutched her arm.

  “Will you stay?” He looked at her plaintively, his eyes searching hers.

  “Oh . . .” She didn’t know if it was bad parenting to cave in this instance. If it was, she supposed she wasn’t going to win a best mommy award anytime soon. Because she couldn’t help but think how he wouldn’t be a little guy for long. Couldn’t help but think how he might not need her for long either. Certainly the years would fly and soon enough he’d have fears and feel like he was too old to talk about them—especially with her. Soon enough he might even think guys shouldn’t act like their fears existed at all.

  Besides that . . . he sure knew how to use his baby blues on her.

  As she retrieved the afghan from the bottom of the bed and settled in next to her son, wishing him sweet dreams once again, she found herself thinking of someone else’s baby blues too. Remembering that special night in May so long ago all over again. And how she’d stood under the trellis waiting . . . for the kiss that never came.

  LYDIA STOOD IN THE CENTER of the Cottage, waving good-bye to a pair of customers. The women had come into the shop as strangers to her and weren’t feeling quite that way as they were leaving. “Thank you for coming in, ladies.”

  “Thanks for helping us find easy afghan patterns, Lydia.”

  “You’re verra welcome,” she replied, touched that one of them had remembered her name.

  “If we have trouble, can we come back to see you?” the other woman asked.

  “Jah, of course,” she said, beaming even more. “Please do.”

  Lydia watched the ladies depart with their bags full of yarn, still not quite believing that Jessica had left her in charge of the shop for the past couple of hours.

  When Jessica had mentioned she was leaving to go to Cole’s soccer game and then to drop him off at a friend’s birthday party, Lydia had felt her heart lurch. She’d never been in charge of anything in her life. Not anything beyond her kitchen and vegetable garden, anyway. That’s the most Henry had ever let her manage on her own. And even with those things . . .

  She could feel her smile fade as she remembered how he always had a remark to make: The rows of greens in the garden weren’t quite straight enough. There were too many jars of tomatoes in the pantry and not enough beets. When would she learn how to cook eggs the way he liked them?

  He’d said he was trying to be helpful. And she’d wanted to believe him. But if he only meant to help, why had his words always made her feel worse about herself?

  Trying hard not to think about how weak those words could make her feel sometimes, she glanced around the shop, reminding herself how well things had gone so far in Jessica’s absence. Surely the good Lord must’ve heard her prayers. She hadn’t had any trouble with the register or the credit card reader, and thankfully He’d only sent friendly customers her way.

  Sighing with pure relief, she wound her way to the midsection of the shop. Before she did anything else, she needed to straighten the mess she and her most recent customers had made at the worktable. Scooting the padded chairs back in place, she was gathering up the pattern books strewn across the tabletop when Jessica came up from behind, startling her.

  “I’ll take care of this, Lydia.” Jessica patted her shoulder. “You’ve already done enough today. Go get some fresh air and relax before Liz shows up and we put you to work again.”

  Since the evening at Liz’s house had turned into a cleaning event instead of a knitting night, Lydia had offered to help Jessica and Liz at the Cottage after the shop closed. But that wasn’t for another twenty minutes or so.

  “I don’t mind working till closing time.”

  “I know you don’t mind. But I do.” Jessica laughed. “I mean, look at this place. The bins are all neat. The windows are shiny. I just saw a pair of women leave here looking totally happy,” Jessica rattled off a list. “And the best part is, I got to go to Cole’s soccer game. This is the first Saturday that’s happened for me all season. You’re making me feel guilty. You deserve to take a break.” She smiled.

  “But . . .” Lydia balked. Where would she go? What would she do?

  “Just get out and take a walk,” Jessica suggested. “Trust me, you’ll be glad you did. The weather is awesome.”

  Before Lydia knew what was happening, Jessica slipped the pattern books out of her hands, leaving her with nothing to do but what her boss had suggested. Getting her jacket from the closet in the back, she wrapped it around her and went out into the street.

  Jessica was right—it was a beautiful day, for sure. The late-afternoon sun still gleamed brightly, canceling out any chill in the air. But even so, she had a hard time relaxing. The sidewalks of town still didn’t feel altogether like a natural fit for her. Outside the haven of the shop, she felt somewhat displaced. Not sure which way to turn, she finally chose to go right, which felt more familiar. Minutes later, she found herself in the place she knew second best in town—the Good for the Soul Bakery.

  “Hey, you’re back.”

  It was nice to see Rebecca’s familiar face. Lydia hadn’t been sure if her new acquaintance worked Saturdays or not.

  “Jah. How are you doing, Rebecca?”

  “I’m sorry to say the person taking over my position hasn’t backed out yet. We still don’t have any openings.”

  “That’s okay. Believe it or not, I was lucky enough to get a job at Rose’s Knit One Quilt Too Cottage.”

  The afternoon Jessica had caught her leaving the bakery and offered her a job, she’d been in such a state of shock, not believing her good fortune, that she hadn’t mentioned it to Rebecca when she’d gone back into the bakery to buy thank-you cookies for Jonas. In too much of a stupor, she’d left the bakery without saying a thing.

  “That’s wonderful!” Rebecca looked truly excited for her. “The lady who runs the Cottage comes in here sometimes. She seems verra nice. I heard she was Rose’s niece, right?”

  “Jah.” Lydia nodded solemnly.

  “Aw . . .” Rebecca sighed. “It’s such a tragedy the church fire took those two lives. I feel sorry for that girl losing her aunt, and my heart goes out to the widow of that volunteer firefighter too.”

  Lydia hesitated, not sure whether to share or not. But the incident with Jonas and how she’d put off telling him flitted across her mind. She decided it best to say something. “That widow . . .
is me.”

  Rebecca looked stunned at first; then quickly her expression turned apologetic. “I’m sorry, Lydia.”

  “It’s all right. You couldn’t have known.”

  “Did you and your husband—do you have any kinner?”

  “No, we didn’t.” Even now as she spoke the words, a familiar melancholy settled over her, leaving her feeling empty. Leaving her with a void in her heart where she’d always believed love for her child should have been.

  But Henry had never wanted children. Not that she would tell that to Rebecca because as sure as anything Rebecca would want to know why. Wouldn’t she? Wouldn’t anyone be curious? Just as Lydia had been . . .

  Quickly as she could, she changed the subject. “I forget. When did you say you’re having your baby?”

  “Somewhere near Christmas.” Rebecca smiled, looking relieved to be speaking of more pleasant things.

  “That’s not so far off.”

  “Nee, it’s not, for sure,” she said as she slid open the back of one of the bakery cases. “I’m not sure what kind of treats you came in for. But since it’s Saturday and nearly closing time, I have some lemon squares you can have for free. Oh, and some caramel chocolate bars too. Otherwise they’ll go bad before Monday comes around.”

  “Jah? That would be a nice thing, danke. I’m helping Jessica and another woman with their knitting tonight. I’m sure the ladies would appreciate some sweets.”

  “Do you know how to make baby booties?” Rebecca asked as she gave shape to a pink-and-green box and began loading it up with treats. “I need to learn how to make them.”

  “I’ve never tried booties before,” Lydia confided. “But I’ve made socks, so I’m sure I could figure it out. Would you like me to show you how?”

  “Jah.” Rebecca’s eyes lit up. “Maybe we could get together on our lunch break sometime. My husband would like me to make as much as I can for the baby. His job is going well, but we already have three other kinner to feed. And let me tell you, my little Matthew already eats like a teenage boy. Actually, sometimes he even eats more than my husband.”

  In a haze of thought, Lydia barely heard a word Rebecca was saying about her children as she chatted on, packing up the bakery goods. She didn’t notice a soul on the sidewalk, either, as she left the bakery and walked up the street toward the Cottage.

  All she could hear was the roar of Henry’s voice when she’d asked him about having children. All she could feel was the hurt from his reaction again and again.

  All over again.

  She’d never questioned him about other things. She’d done everything just the way he wanted. She had listened to him—always. But had he ever heard her? Had he ever heard her when she said how she yearned for a child?

  During their first several years together, when she’d told him about her disappointment in not having a family, he’d seemed to take her wishes in stride, acting as if the day would come soon enough and there was no need in her rushing things. But as more years passed and she expressed her desires and concerns again, his reaction changed. Almost like a man who had something to feel guilty about, he didn’t seem able to look her in the eye or to offer a reassuring word or two. Instead he became quiet and seemed anxious to retreat from her, as if there was something in the barn or in town far more pressing that he needed to do. Something more important than her needs and wants.

  And maybe she would’ve stopped asking if he’d only given her an answer. Never once had he given her a reason. Never once did he seem to care how much she wanted a baby. How much she wanted to hold and nurture and make a home for a child—just as she’d been happy to make a home for him. When she turned to reach for him at night, he rarely ever reached back. She had no blushing stories to tell like the new brides she’d sometimes overhear talking to one another.

  The last time she’d questioned him was a year earlier, and he hadn’t just grown silent or withdrawn. Much to her surprise, he became explosive and angry. His face twisted up in the ugliest way as he commanded her never to ask again. With the harshest tone, he reminded her that he was the head of the household. That he was her authority. And that he was never, ever to be questioned.

  His cruel words were so jarring, so unlike him, they silenced her for good. She never questioned him again. Until now, she’d pushed aside the memory the same way he’d pushed aside her desires.

  Now she wished once again she could’ve known his reasons. Now she wished she didn’t have to wonder why.

  As she reached the entrance to the Cottage, Lydia took a deep breath and tried to get ahold of her emotions, not wanting Jessica and Liz to know all that was going through her mind. But apparently her attempts didn’t work. The moment she walked through the door, the two women exchanged glances.

  “Are you okay?” Liz asked.

  “Nee.”

  “What happened?” Jessica asked.

  “I . . . I . . .” How could she say all that was wrong?

  “You need to come over and sit down.” Liz took her by the elbow and led her to the worktable.

  Less than an hour earlier, she’d been busy and happy at the worktable with customers, but now she wanted to collapse into one of the chairs. The memory of Henry—of him raising his bitter, angry voice to her in such a hurtful, frightening way—made her feel weary, taking all the energy from her just as the incident had that evening.

  She definitely did want to sit. To crumple into the chair.

  As Jessica helped Lydia out of her jacket, Liz took the container of sweets and set it on the table.

  “I don’t understand. Did something happen at the bakery?” Jessica asked, glancing at the box.

  “Oh, nee. Nee. Rebecca gave those to me for free, in fact.”

  “Well, do you feel all right?” Jessica eyed her. “You look pale.”

  “I’ll be all right, danke.”

  “You’re really not feeling sick?” Liz felt her forehead.

  “No. I was . . .” She glanced between the two of them, not sure of what she wanted to share. “I was just thinking . . . about Henry.”

  “Oh, Lydia . . .” Jessica groaned, making a heartfelt, hurt-filled sound that was everything Lydia was feeling inside herself. “You know what?” Jessica reached out and squeezed her hands. “I’m going to make us all some chamomile tea. It’s just the thing you need. It will help, I promise.”

  Lydia could tell Jessica wasn’t sure at all that the tea would do any good. But Jessica’s efforts did make her feel a little better.

  As Jessica ran up the stairs, Liz pulled up a chair next to Lydia. Reaching out, she took Lydia’s hands in her own. “Oh, honey, how I feel for you. I do. I know just what you’re going through.” Her touch was warm and reassuring, and she let the silence surround them for a moment before asking, “How long were you and Henry married?”

  “Eight years.”

  Eight years of asking a question he would never answer.

  She began to tear up. In response, Liz let go of her hands and in a motherly way pulled her into a hug. But it was so much more than the hug her mother had given her eight years earlier as she was sent off from her home. Clearly Liz understood and wasn’t afraid to show how much she cared.

  “That’s just not enough time, is it?” Liz said. “Though it never seems like enough time when you lose your best friend. Karl and I dated in college and were married for over twenty-six years before he passed away five years ago. It still didn’t feel long enough.”

  Pausing, Liz tucked a stray hair back into Lydia’s kapp for her. “And losing your husband . . . Well, it’s more than losing your best friend. He’s supposed to be there all your life to grow with. I mean, even when we didn’t agree on things, Karl and I still grew together in our differences.”

  “You and your husband didn’t always agree on things?” And they’d still been good friends?

  Liz laughed. “Are you kidding? But communication is the key, don’t you think? Communication, compromise, and caressing. That�
�s what my mother told me. And of course, whenever we’d have a disagreement, Karl couldn’t stand it.”

  “You mean he got angry?” Lydia had to ask. Maybe she’d misjudged Henry?

  “Oh, sure.” Liz nodded. “But many times Karl got mad at himself—which was nice for me. Because after we’d argue, he’d bring home a huge bouquet of flowers for me, asking my forgiveness. Guys think flowers are the answer to everything.” She smiled. “They don’t hurt, that’s for sure.”

  Obviously Liz assumed the same kind of things had gone on in Lydia and Henry’s marriage. But their time together hadn’t been like that. Henry wouldn’t have even had to give her flowers. She would’ve been happy if he just would’ve held her hand. If he just would’ve told her why. Why he didn’t want her to be the mother of his children. Wasn’t she smart enough? Didn’t he like the way she looked? They may have shared the same bed, but did he find it too distasteful to be close to her in that way?

  Lydia could feel the sting of tears in her eyes start all over again. She was thankful when Jessica came down the steps, carrying a tray of steaming mugs along with napkins, forks, and plates.

  Jessica looked at her so sympathetically, though, that it was hard to hold back those tears. Plus she almost felt guilty Jessica was extending her compassion so freely. Without a doubt, Jessica thought she was mourning a love . . .

  But even sadder than that . . . she was questioning the very existence of it.

  Appreciative of Jessica’s caring heart, Lydia tried to muster a smile. “Danke for the tea, Jessica.”

  “Oh, how Rose loved her chamomile tea,” Liz commented as she scooted her chair up to the table. “You’re getting to be just like your aunt, Jess.”

  “Ha. Don’t I wish,” Jessica replied as she distributed mugs and plates all around before sitting down at the table.

  Lydia had to admit she felt oddly soothed simply holding the warm cup in her hands. “I feel bad because I’m supposed to be helping you with your knitting and here you both are spending the time helping me.” She sniffed.

  “I don’t feel bad at all.” Jessica smiled. “The longer I can put off knitting, the better.”