A Time for Peace

by Barbara Cameron

  Turning to Jenny, Hannah giggled. "Oh, I'm so awful talking like that. You must think I'm terrible."

  Jenny smiled into her coffee cup. "I already know you are.I'm just hanging around with you trying to reform you."

  Fern set her plate on the table. "What was all that commotion?" she asked, jerking her head at Malcolm and Officer Lang.

  Hannah hesitated. "Did Chris tell you about Malcolm?"

  "Name doesn't sound familiar," Fern said as she sat down.

  "You know how Chris testified against a fellow officer when they were serving overseas?"

  "Sure. We heard about it. Chris didn't let us know but it was in our paper." Fern put a forkful of shoofly pie in her mouth and chewed with obvious enjoyment.

  "Malcolm's the man Chris testified against."

  Fern swallowed and glanced over. "He's the one who tried to rape one of the Afghan women?"

  Hannah nodded. "He was drunk and he'd done some drugs."

  "No excuse," Fern said bluntly. "Chris was right to step up and speak out against him."

  "It's not our way to judge," Hannah said quietly. "Anyway, you know that Chris's fellow officers didn't agree and they made things difficult for him. Then he was hurt and returned home. When Malcolm's sentence was overturned, he came here to have his revenge, to hurt Chris for all he felt he'd done to him."

  Fern's eyes grew big. "He didn't hurt Chris?"

  "No, he hurt Hannah," Jenny told her. "She stepped in front of the gun when Malcolm aimed it at Chris and got shot."

  "Why, you could have been killed!" Fern cried.

  "Jenny's making it sound worse than it was," Hannah said lightly, "The bullet hit me in the arm. It wasn't that bad."

  Jenny started to speak, to tell Fern that Hannah could have bled to death from the bullet hitting an artery but Hannah sent her a warning glance.

  Fern's eyes filled with tears and she reached across the table to grasp Hannah's hands. "I'm so glad you're all right."

  Sighing, Hannah shook her head and looked at Jenny. "I shouldn't have told her."

  "So did he go to prison and he's already out?" Fern demanded.

  "You have a wonderful daughter-in-law, Fern. She forgave him and saw that he got parole."

  Fern looked dumbstruck for a long moment and then she shook her head. "I've heard of the Amish and how they forgive. I couldn't have done that. I have to tell you, I'm not feeling so charitable about him right now."

  "He's gone to counseling and he doesn't drink or do drugs any more," Hannah said simply. "He's a wonderful man. He's even volunteering at the veteran's counseling center a couple of days a week around his construction job."

  "And you'd know all this because?" Jenny asked her.

  Hannah blushed. "We talked some last time I came to town."

  "Ignoring the restraining order Chris insisted on," Jenny muttered.

  She held up her hands when Hannah gave her a look. "Don't worry, I'm not going to tell Chris." She looked at Fern. "He's turned his life around. He gets to see his son now because of Hannah."

  Fern patted Hannah's hand. "You're a saint, my dear. I'm a God-fearing woman and I know we're supposed to forgive and all, but I couldn't have done it."

  "I'm not a saint," Hannah told her. "Really, don't even say such a thing. Malcolm was a good man who made some mistakes.It's not our way to judge," she said, repeating her earlier words.

  The waitress came to take away plates. Fern handed her the plate with half of the serving of shoofly pie.

  "I want to save room for some of your pie later, Hannah."

  She peered at Hannah over her glasses. "I did see one of your pumpkin pies in the kitchen before we left, didn't I?"

  Hannah tried to beat Jenny to the check when the waitress dropped it on the table, leaning forward and grabbing for it.

  She won. Smiling, she turned to her mother-in-law.

  "You did see a pumpkin pie. On the other hand, William and Chris are at the house."

  "And Matthew's close by," Jenny inserted. "You know how he loves your pumpkin pie."

  Fern took a last sip of coffee and wiped her mouth with the napkin. "Ladies, I think we need to get moving."

  Picking up her purse that looked the size of a small suitcase, she deftly plucked the check from Hannah's fingers and sailed toward the cashier.

  Jenny and Hannah stared at each other and then they laughed.

  "I love that woman," Hannah said.

  They followed Fern to the cashier.

  Sometimes Jenny wondered why she didn't just buy ten thimbles for her fingers.

  It surely would save her fingertips from all the pricking they got at a quilting. She'd never been particularly interested in the activity; she didn't seem to have the patience for it even though there were a lot of parallels to writing. Both took quite an attention to detail, piecing together random bits to make up a whole, focusing on something for an extended period of time.

  But while writing was necessarily solitary, quilt-making was quite a social activity and she willingly threw herself into it so that she could be with other women and chat about the important things—children, home, the community.

  A fire blazed in the fireplace, creating a warm, cozy atmosphere.Cups of tea and plates of cookies had been passed around along with stories and news and yes, even a little gossip.

  Young and old mixed, friends and family. Today, even Englisch and Amish.

  "Reminds me of quilting circles back on the farm in Kansas," Fern remarked as she cut up pieces of material she'd bought yesterday at Stitches in Time.

  Hannah wore a dreamy expression as she stitched on a crib quilt, one with a tumbling block pattern of many colors—not exclusively pink or blue since she didn't want to know the sex of the baby.

  A crib quilt. Did she know that Chris labored over a cradle for their baby? Jenny wondered. No, she couldn't. Of course, she sewed on a crib quilt. What woman expecting a baby here wouldn't?

  And Phoebe stitched on one, too. Jenny couldn't help feeling a little pang in her heart at that. She wished that Phoebe was making it for her.

  Determined to focus on something besides herself and a little self-pity, Jenny took a deep breath and looked around the room. There were more women than usual today. It was all in honor of the extra quilts being sewn and donated for the Haiti auction held in Sarasota, Florida, each year.

  Jenny had innocently asked why they were sending quilts to a country she thought was too warm to need such and the ladies had all giggled at her. Leah had quickly explained that it was one way for the Amish to contribute to an auction where the quilts were sold and the money sent to help the people in Haiti.

  So she sat like the others and tried to make a contribution to the cause. What she got were pricked fingers and crooked stitching she had to keep pulling out and re-doing.

  She knew more of the names of the patterns the other women stitched. One sewed a Grandmother's Fan. Another pinned the patches that formed a Trip around the World quilt. Jenny wondered how far the quilt would travel to a new home.

  The Crazy Quilt with its random pattern and bright fabrics was the one she'd chosen. Mistakes didn't show as much and she felt she wouldn't get as frustrated trying to make order of the more complicated patterns the other women were used to after sewing them for years. She loved the one that Lydia worked on with patches from pieces of clothes she'd made for her children.

  Fannie Mae's little girl, Lizzie, was lying under the quilt frame where her mother and several other women were stitching a really big Sunshine and Shadow quilt, a popular design.Jenny remembered how Hannah had made such a quilt for Chris before they got married. Little legs stuck out from beneath the quilt. When she didn't move for the longest time, Jenny became curious about what was so fascinating.

  She got up and tiptoed over, holding her finger over her mouth to warn the others not to say anything, and got down on the floor beside Lizzie. When she peered underneath, she saw that Lizzie was lying there looking up at the needles busily
going in and out, in and out, of the quilt overhead. Lizzie glanced at Jenny, her eyes wide, her thumb in her mouth, and Jenny lay beside her, watching them, too, enjoying the rhythmic motion for a few minutes until she crawled out, straightened her dress, and went back to her seat.

  "Was it fun?" Fannie Mae inquired, grinning at Jenny.

  "Fascinating," Jenny told her, picking up her needle. "You see things from a whole new perspective."

  She told Fannie Mae how Lizzie had watched the needles and touched the fabric scraps on the floor, holding them up to study with her blonde eyebrows drawn together.

  Fannie Mae nodded. "That's my Lizzie. She seems to look at life differently than my other kinner."

  "That's my Annie, too," Jenny told her, and they were off discussing children like mothers do.

  Like mothers do, thought Jenny, and tears stung the backs of her lids. But it wasn't pity this time, she thought. She was a mother. Matthew's children had embraced her as one and she knew it was the greatest blessing along with his love that she'd ever received.

  She sighed. No, she wasn't a saint, she thought, watching as Lizzie got out from under the quilt and climbed up into her mother's lap to nurse. She'd told herself that some time ago as she watched Hannah looking so blissful at being pregnant. She loved her sister-in-law and wanted her to be happy. Hannah not only had been thrilled when her brother married Jenny, she'd done everything she could to make her feel welcome and adapt to the community. She'd even helped her at every opportunity when Jenny needed to go into New York City for meetings with her editor.

  And things could have turned out so differently for her beloved sister-in-law when Malcolm had come after Chris and tried to hurt him. She'd been lucky to only be wounded, the bullet missing vital organs. Hannah had been so worried she might not be able to have children. Jenny had reassured her otherwise. And now Hannah sat here so happy. So pregnant.

  But Jenny had had to deal with the knowledge that her injuries from the car bombing had likely scarred her inside and rendered her infertile.

  That word. It made her throat close up. Suddenly the room felt like it was getting smaller, the walls closing in like special effects in horror movies she'd seen years ago.

  She must have gotten to her feet too quickly, for some of the other women looked up and gave her curious stares.

  "Just remembered something I need to do," she told them and hurried from the room.

  In the kitchen she stood at the sink, clutching the cold porcelain in her hands, and stared, unseeing, through the window. The sky was darkening and rain began to fall, matching her gray mood.

  "Jenny?"

  She spun around at the familiar voice. Phoebe stood in the doorway.

  "Yes?"

  "Anything wrong?"

  She shook her head. "I just needed a drink of water."

  As Phoebe continued to watch her, Jenny realized that she hadn't moved to get a drink. She got a glass out of the cupboard and filled it with water from the tap. It took little effort to drink it—her throat was dry, so dry.

  Phoebe moved into the room. "Jenny, I've been wanting to talk with you. Something's wrong. You've been acting strangely."

  Jenny turned and refilled the glass so she wouldn't have to meet Phoebe's eyes. They always saw so much.

  "Nothing's wrong."

  "You're sure?"

  "Yes. I've just been tired. It's been a busy time."

  "Not helped by me being sick for so long."

  "It wasn't your fault." It took a big effort but Jenny forced herself to turn and meet Phoebe's eyes. She hadn't minded taking care of her grandmother. It had been an act of love.

  Even after seeing evidence of her betrayal.

  There had to be a good reason for her going to her son and telling him that his daughter was in love with the boy next door. There had to be.

  Lydia walked into the room and smiled brightly at them, not noticing the stiff way Jenny and Phoebe were behaving toward each other.

  "I thought I'd make some more coffee."

  "Gut idea," Phoebe said. "Let me help you."

  The two women worked in tandem preparing the coffee, an ease between them that came of years of performing such a task together.

  Jenny used the opportunity to slip from the room but not before glancing back and seeing that Phoebe watched her, a worried expression in her eyes.

  Yes, they needed to talk, thought Jenny. But now wasn't the time.

  She wasn't sure when it would be.

  Matthew found Jenny sitting at the kitchen table, scribbling on a big yellow pad of paper.

  "Are you coming to bed soon?"

  Jenny glanced up, blinking at Matthew. "In a little while."

  "You're working on the book?"

  She nodded, meeting his eyes but with a faraway, unfocused expression. She was in what she called "the zone"—the place where she was so fully into what she was writing, so into the words that were flowing, that she wasn't aware of her surroundings. Sometimes she could sit and write with so much noise from the kinner that he wondered how she could do it.But she'd explained they were little distraction after writing in a war zone with bombs exploding in the near distance.

  "Where's your laptop?"

  "Battery ran down. Janie stopped by on her way home to charge it for me. I just had a few ideas I wanted to jot down so I didn't forget them."

  "So you'll be coming to bed soon?" he repeated.

  "Soon," she promised.

  "Promise? You said that last night and didn't come up for hours."

  He didn't say that he suspected that she'd waited until she was sure he was asleep before she crept up the stairs and into their bed.

  He touched her shoulder and then his hand dropped when she stiffened.

  "It's just that I'm so behind on my deadline. You know that, what with Phoebe getting sick and all."

  "I know." He sighed. "Don't wear yourself out or you'll get sick, too. I'll take the kinner for an outing after schul tomorrow so you can get some writing in."

  "Thanks."

  He kissed the top of her head and made the lonely walk up the stairs. Suddenly the memory of the first night they'd walked up them, side by side, as a newly married couple, flitted through his mind. The memory came so suddenly, so vivid and precious, that his throat tightened and he blinked rapidly when his eyes filled.

  Turning, he glanced back at her, bent over her writing at the kitchen table. He felt so alone, so lonely, and wondered if she did. He'd left her alone to write other times and not felt this way.

  Oh, he'd been selfish enough to want her to come upstairs with him for their time together, but those other times she'd been sitting there with her laptop, her fingers flying across the keyboard, looking as if she were playing a silent word music on it that only she could hear. He'd loved how blissful she looked and when he read what she wrote later, he'd been so proud of what she created.

  But now, when she looked so tired, it seemed to him that it just looked like drudgery, almost a penance she was doing instead of joyful creating.

  As if she felt his gaze on her—or maybe she just heard his steps falter on the stairs—she glanced up and saw him.

  "Soon," she said.

  He hoped she meant it. Turning, he began the solitary climb again.

  Jenny kept looking for the children, for Matthew, as she climbed the grassy hill. It seemed so strange to be alone. Surely they were just ahead, too impatient to explore to wait for her.

  But when she got the top of the hill, she found her father sitting on a big rock.

  He turned when he heard her indrawn breath of surprise.

  "There you are, Jenny Rebecca," he said and he grinned and held out his arms.

  "What are you doing here?"

  He frowned and his hands fell to his sides. "That doesn't sound very friendly."

  "It isn't," she admitted and she felt terrible about it. "What did you expect? I found the letter you wrote Grandmother."

  His face sagged and he tur
ned to look at a tree in the distance. "Wish she'd torn up that letter."

  "Did you think I'd never find out?"

  When he didn't answer, she shook her head and sank down on the grass a few feet away from him. "You wish she'd torn up the letter. Not you wish you hadn't written it."

  Turning back, he shook his head. "I'm not sorry."

  Jenny felt her heart pounding. She leaped to her feet, feeling anger rising in her. "You're not sorry? I lost years with Matthew. Years! I got hurt, almost died, and I'll probably never have children, and you're not sorry you kept Matthew and me apart?"

  "You have children now," he said reasonably. "And you have Matthew."

  "They could have been my children—"

  "They are your children."

  "But I want one of my own." Even to her ears it sounded whiny. But she couldn't stop herself. "I lost all those years!"

  "Did you? Are you sorry you went to college? Helped people know what's happening to children in war zones? Probably have a better relationship with Matthew now than you might have had as a teenager getting married too young back then? He loves you despite your scars. He loves you whether you can have a baby—"

  "But I want a baby—"

  "You didn't use to only think of what you don't have instead of what you have," he said as he stood and regarded her sadly.

  Jenny sat, watching him walk away, and didn't call him back.Okay, she wasn't a saint. She knew that. But his disapproval stung. Didn't she have every right to be upset with him?

  She woke and found she'd fallen asleep at the kitchen table. Her cheeks were wet with tears.

  12

  The dream hung over Jenny the next morning like a dark cloud.

  Falling asleep over her writing had given her a crick in her neck too. Jenny winced as she lifted a skillet at breakfast.

  Matthew laid a hand on her shoulder. "Are you allrecht?"

  "Yes." She met his concerned gaze. "I fell asleep at the table.Got a crick in my neck. I'll be fine."

  His fingers drifted to it.

  "The children," she whispered and indicated with a jerk of her head their watchful eyes.