The Sisters of Sugarcreek

by Cathy Liggett

  She noticed he didn’t mention the time the two of them had sat there talking into the night, until she’d finally fallen asleep with her head in his lap. She wondered if he even remembered that. Or any of the talks they’d had.

  “Well . . . ,” he said after a pause. “I should go. I don’t want to hold you up from your knitting.”

  “Oh, I wish you could hold me up all night.” As soon as the words left her mouth, her cheeks flushed.

  He glanced at her and grinned. “Don’t worry, Jess. I know you didn’t mean that the way it sounded. You’re far more circumspect than that.”

  “Circumspect?” She arched her brows. “You make me sound calculating.”

  “See, you always go to the dark side. I meant circumspect as in discreet.”

  “Oh . . . discreet. Like sneaky?” She pretended to be appalled. “Don’t even go there, Derek, not when you were the one who was always pulling a fast one on the librarian with your overdue books. Oh, and on the cashier in the school cafeteria. Those women let you get away with anything.”

  “You don’t forget a thing, do you?” He laughed. “Maybe we can get together sometime soon and reminisce.”

  “I’d like that. Do you want to come for dinner?” she asked on a whim as they both stood up. “I can’t promise anything as good as what Aunt Rose used to make.”

  “You used to fix a mean grilled cheese sandwich.”

  “Well, hopefully I can do better than that.”

  “Why? It’s a good memory.”

  He was right. It was a good memory. And one she didn’t want to lose. A memory of a time when she was a lot more innocent and hopeful about the future.

  It had been a winter night when Derek had been locked out of his house once again. Not knowing where else to go, he’d thrown stones up to Jessica’s bedroom window to wake her. Without even hesitating, she’d let him inside. While she made a midnight grilled cheese sandwich for him, she told him about the acceptance letter she’d gotten from Ohio State University that day.

  She’d held off until then, reluctant to tell him, knowing when she did say the words, it would all become too real. She’d be leaving him in the fall. Every concern she’d been struggling with internally registered on his face when she told him the news. But supportive as ever, he quickly recovered, offering his sincere congratulations. Then he glanced out the window, where the first snow of the year was falling.

  Without even bothering with coats, he grabbed her and they scampered down the outside steps. Dancing and swirling with him in the midst of the huge flakes, all her anxiety about leaving him seemed to dissipate. Just being with him felt like a promise. An unspoken promise that no matter what, everything would be all right.

  “Okay,” she agreed. “Grilled cheese. That sounds perfect.”

  “It does.” He nodded, then leaned forward and placed a light brush of a kiss on her cheek. She felt an unexpected tingle course its way along the curve of her jawline.

  “’Night, Jess.”

  “See you soon, Derek,” she managed to say.

  As he reached the front door of the shop, he turned around to look at her. “Lock the door behind me, will you?”

  “Yes, Deputy.” She smiled at his concern. “I’ll be sure to do that.”

  She could’ve said more as he left the Cottage. Could’ve told him how just being around him made her realize how much she’d missed him. But why say anything else? As it was, she knew she was going to have an even harder time concentrating on her knitting than before.

  IN THE PAST COUPLE OF WEEKS, pumpkins had started to dot the sidewalks and storefronts of Main Street. Some were wholly intact, having escaped the knife, while others had been carved with faces ranging from menacing to humorous. Usually Liz would have delighted in taking some time to pull her car over and amble up and down the walkway, checking out many of those faces, relishing the time of year the way she did. But today wasn’t one of those days.

  What had looked like all the makings of a positive week when she’d written down everything in her organizer on Sunday surely wasn’t ending up that way.

  Not only was her ceiling crumbling and falling more each day, but when she’d stopped in at the office earlier in the morning, she found out that a major sale had fallen through too. Quite disappointing, since she’d been working with the young couple for over a month, showing them all kinds of properties, only to find out they’d decided not to move to Sugarcreek at all.

  After that, she’d still managed to get to her dentist on time for her cleaning, and sad as it was, she’d almost enjoyed sitting quietly and listening to the soft, relaxing music while the hygienist did her job. But after learning she needed a new crown to replace the one that was only two years old, her frustration mounted all over again.

  Luckily, Lydia had given her the name and address of her neighbor’s handy uncle over the weekend. Since Lydia seemed to think her neighbor was a hardworking, trustworthy man, maybe his uncle would be too. Feeling hopeful of that at least, Liz headed north on Main Street, then turned right at the end of the strip before the road fed into the major state route. After that she drove a block and turned right again onto Trader Lane.

  Having lived in Sugarcreek all of her life, and having been in real estate for years, Liz would’ve thought she’d have at least noticed the small shop that shared the block with Tuttle’s Garage. Although in her defense, there was no sign above the door and nothing in the window to disclose whatever the shop might be selling. There wasn’t even any indication as to whether it was open to the public. In a way she was surprised to find the door unlocked, but not at all shocked when she walked into the establishment and didn’t find anyone manning the store.

  But she didn’t mind in the least. In a glance she could see the shop was filled with handcrafted furniture, and at once she felt at home, immersed in the smells of fresh-cut wood and furniture oil that clung to the air. The combined scents had been longtime favorites of hers ever since she was a young girl visiting her grandparents and her grandma would send her out to her granddad’s workshop with a glass of iced tea or a plate of oatmeal cookies.

  Happily distracted, she took her time strolling through the shop, dipping in and out of the sunshine that poured through the windowpanes. Like spotlights, the warm rays shone on the gleaming surfaces of one-of-a-kind tables, chairs, desks. Stopping to run her hand over the smooth top of a cherry side table, she stood admiring the beautiful wood and flawless craftsmanship. She was just wishing she had a need for a new table when a male voice came up from behind, startling her.

  “Can I help you?”

  She turned to see a man close to her own age, brushing at the sleeves and chest of his flannel shirt. He seemed more concerned with the sawdust gathered there than with her.

  “Oh, yes. Yes. I’m looking for . . .” She fumbled in the pocket of her Regency Real Estate blazer for the piece of paper Lydia had given her. “Daniel Kauffman,” she read from the wrinkled scrap of paper. “Jonas Hershberger sent me to see him.”

  “Ah, Jonas.” The man’s eyes lit, and he appeared to give up on the specks of sawdust. Instead, he pulled a bandana from the back pocket of his jeans. “I haven’t seen him for a while.” He grinned openly, rubbing his hands with the cloth. “How is he doing?”

  “Good.” Liz assumed Jonas must have visited the shop from time to time for the man to know him. “All seems well with him . . . I suppose.” At least from what she’d seen of him at Lydia’s house, he seemed to be all right.

  “I’m glad to hear it.” The man stuck the rag back in its place. “That’s a good thing.”

  “Yes, it is.” She politely paused a beat. “So do you know where Daniel might be?”

  “Ah, yes, I do.”

  His direct answer gave her hope. “You do? Can you tell me where to find him?”

  “He’s right here,” he said.

  “Great! Do you mind getting him for me?” she asked, glancing around him toward the workshop at the rear of the
store.

  “It’s not necessary.”

  Ah, this had all been too easy up to this point, hadn’t it? Much too easy. Liz sighed and took a deep breath, ready to assert herself. “Look, if the furniture in here is any testament to your skills, I’m sure you’re a great craftsman, sir. It’s quite exquisite.”

  “Not all of it is my work,” he admitted. “I’m in partnership with some other furniture makers part-time. But thank you for the compliment.” His eyes shone. “It’s nice of you to say so.”

  “You’re most welcome.” His sincere appreciation took her aback, causing her to lose track for a moment. “But, um, anyway, Jonas said I should specifically ask for his uncle. For Daniel. Said he can make and fix anything. And, well . . . if you wouldn’t mind getting him for me? Please?”

  The man nodded. “Like I said, it’s not necessary to go get him. Because I am him. I’m Daniel.”

  “Oh. Oh?” She blinked. “But I thought—” She didn’t even pretend to be discreet as she glanced up and down at the man’s—at Daniel’s—clothing once again. She couldn’t have been more confused. Loose-fitting blue jeans. A red plaid flannel shirt. Clean shaven. Clipped hair. How could he be Jonas’s uncle and not have on black broadfall pants, a plain shirt, and suspenders? “Are you . . . sure?” she asked, which made him laugh in such an open, friendly way that a smile crept onto her own lips.

  “Yep. Quite sure. Sorry I kept you going like that. But it was kind of fun.”

  “Well, I just assumed that Jonas’s uncle would be—”

  “Amish.” He finished the thought for her. “And rightfully so.” He paused and added more seriously, “Would you prefer an Amish for your job?”

  “You know . . .” She relaxed into a full grin. “I really don’t think my ceiling will know the difference.”

  “Ah, I know where you’re coming from. It’s been my experience that ceilings usually don’t.”

  Already she liked his sense of humor. “I’m Liz Cannon, by the way.” She held out her hand, and he grasped it lightly before letting it go.

  “And how may I be of service to you, Liz?”

  “Oh, Daniel Kauffman, that may be a question you’ll be sorry you ever asked.”

  “That bad, huh?” He winced.

  “It’s my kitchen ceiling. And pretty bad. I can’t even cook.”

  “Some people would be happy about that.” His mouth curled upward.

  “Well, not me.”

  “Any burst pipes from an upstairs bath or anything?”

  “Unfortunately, no.” She shook her head in dismay. “Nothing that’s covered by my homeowners’ insurance.”

  “That is unfortunate. What street do you live on?”

  “Trellis Lane. Why?”

  “The cottage homes built in the thirties?”

  “Yes,” she said, feeling as if she were in her doctor’s office, going over a list of symptoms.

  “That explains it, then. Those ceilings weren’t built to last forever.”

  In her line of work, she’d been in enough homes to know what he was saying was true. Many of the houses also hadn’t been built to code, or at least the codes mandatory for builders today. She should’ve been more proactive and updated the kitchen years earlier. But something else always seemed to get in the way. “Well . . . can you help?” she asked tentatively.

  “I’m fairly certain I can. But of course, I’d need to check out the problem first.”

  “And when is the soonest that would be?”

  He glanced around the shop, and she was sure he was thinking of all the other projects on his docket. She couldn’t help but hold her breath, waiting for his reply.

  “I’d say as soon as I put away some things in the back and lock the doors. Would that be soon enough?” he asked, a twinkle in his eyes.

  She wanted to reach out and hug him, but of course she held herself back. She hugged her purse to her side instead. “I’ll be waiting outside,” she said excitedly. “You can follow me over to my house if that’s all right.”

  “Great. The surest way to get somewhere is to know where you’re going,” he said, repeating an Amish proverb she thought she’d read in her planner.

  Liz eyed him quizzically as he walked away, wondering about his past and his heritage. But more than that, she simply felt thankful she’d found help for her kitchen at last.

  THE LANTERN CAST A GLOW upon the mantel clock, making it easy for Lydia to see the time from where she sat on the love seat.

  Nine forty.

  Ten minutes past bedtime.

  Or at least it was ten minutes past the bedtime Henry had imposed on her during the years of their marriage. Would there ever come an evening when she’d look at the hands on the clock and think differently?

  Henry certainly wouldn’t have approved of her sitting in her jacket, staring out the front window, waiting for Jessica and Liz to pick her up, as she’d been doing for the last twenty minutes. More than his disapproval, he would’ve forbidden her to go traipsing out into the night with her friends, sneaking onto someone’s property—no matter if it was for a charitable reason or not.

  Bedtime was an indisputable time, written in stone. No arguing. For her own good.

  Or . . . had he imposed the routine because it also kept him from having to interact with her?

  The thought had been weighing on her mind a lot lately.

  Each time she glanced around the room, she had slowly come to realize what their time spent together had really been like. Oh, how she’d romanticized their hours together. But it hadn’t been like that at all, had it? She had been such a small part of Henry’s daily life.

  An early bedtime didn’t leave much time for him to spend with her in the evenings after getting home from work, eating a quick supper, doing chores, reading the Bible, and then getting ready for bed and the next day.

  Now that she really thought about it, how many nights had she gone to bed wishing that she had someone to talk to into the night . . . someone to pray with when old fears kept her awake . . . someone to hold her close simply because he wanted to?

  Beginning to feel her emotions get the best of her, she took in a deep breath. A long, cleansing breath to muster her strength.

  Well, she certainly had not been ending her day at nine thirty for a while now, she thought a bit defiantly, and she wished she could tell Henry she was feeling just fine. More than fine, actually. She was feeling excited and useful and necessary. Especially tonight, anticipating the venture ahead of her.

  Oh . . . and maybe slightly nervous, too. As a girl who’d never taken part in Rumspringa, she was about to embark on the most adventurous thing she’d ever done.

  Suddenly hearing the crunch of Jessica’s tires on her gravel drive, a rush of heart-ticking adrenaline shot through her veins, replacing her sad thoughts. All at once, feeling like a young, giddy schoolgirl, she picked up the brown paper bag sitting alongside her chair and rushed out to her friends, locking the door behind her.

  Liz waved to her from the passenger window and Jessica apologized the minute she slipped into the backseat of the SUV. “I’m sorry we’re so late.”

  “I was hoping you were still coming.” Lydia settled in with the bag on her lap.

  “I didn’t want to leave until Cole went to sleep, which seemed to take forever.” Jessica eased down the driveway. “And then Marisa was slow getting to the apartment.”

  “And I had a showing tonight,” Liz turned around to inform her.

  “Did you make a sale, I hope?”

  “Not even close.” Liz grimaced. “I spent practically all afternoon with a couple, then most of the evening. At the end of it all, they informed me the wife has a cousin who’s in real estate and their family’s upset they’re not using him. So they’re switching on me, midstream.”

  “That sounds verra disappointing.” Lydia felt for her. “I’m surprised you still wanted to do this tonight after a day like that.”

  “Trust me, the thought of a ni
ce, hot bath did cross my mind,” Liz admitted. “But I couldn’t back out. This was my idea, and I shouldn’t be complaining. My circumstances can’t even compare to poor Norm Fletcher’s. He’s got to be devastated about his son.”

  “Wait a minute.” Jessica tapped the steering wheel. “Now I remember the Fletchers. They used to go to our church, right? Ryan was a few years younger than me?”

  Liz nodded. “Their family went to our church for the longest time until Norm’s wife ran off with a fellow parishioner. Once that happened, Norm never showed up again.”

  Lydia could certainly understand that. Gott forgive her, she’d barely been able to make herself go to Sunday services without Henry, and her circumstances weren’t anything like that. “How did you find out about Mr. Fletcher’s son?”

  Liz twisted around to look at her again as she explained. “I ran into one of Norm’s neighbors at the grocery store. I’d sold her a house down the street from his many years ago. She’s the one who told me about Ryan being in intensive care at a military hospital in Germany.”

  “Where had he been stationed?” Jessica sounded curious.

  “I have no idea.” Liz shook her head. “All she said was Norm was having a rough time of it, understandably. He’s retired, all alone, and not in the best of health. He’s just waiting for Ryan to be okay and to get back home.”

  “I sure hope all is well with him. . . .” Jessica’s voice drifted. “I ended up bringing a scarf for him.”

  “You knit an entire scarf?” Lydia asked in shocked unison with Liz.

  “I wish! You guys are great mentors, but that hasn’t turned me into a world-class knitter—not yet anyway.” Jessica laughed. “It’s a taupe-and-gray striped scarf that Aunt Rose made. I found it in her treasure chest.”

  Lydia smiled, remembering the morning she and Jessica had gone through the antique cedar chest at the back of the shop, filled to the brim with incredible hand-knit pieces and quilts Rose had made and stowed away. Most likely for times just like this.