by Anna Schmidt
“This has nothing to do with my family, Lydia,” Pleasant replied brusquely. “We are speaking of you—and John.”
With a weary sigh, Lydia started to rise from her chair to refill their glasses. “It is over, Pleasant. I would expect Greta would continue to live in blind hope, but surely not you, as well.”
“Sit down, Liddy.” She waited until Lydia was facing her across the table. “When John went away before—all those years ago—he did write to you.”
“He didn’t, Pleasant. Are you trying to say that I have forgotten?”
“I am saying that you never knew. Our dat asked Hilda Yoder to make sure anything that looked as if it might have come from John be first given to him. There were letters, Lydia, several of them.”
“But why...?”
“He did not wish to see you hurt and he was afraid.”
“Of what? John is...”
“He was not afraid of John. He was afraid of losing you. He was afraid that you would follow John and be lost to us forever.”
“But I wrote John, as well, and...”
“Those letters were never sent.”
Lydia felt a tightening of her chest that she recognized as fury at Hilda Yoder for her part in this. But when she lifted her gaze to meet her half sister’s eyes, that fury was directed at Pleasant. “You knew and said nothing?”
“I am not pleased with my actions, Lydia. It was a time in my life when I suffered from the sin of envy. You and Greta held such a special place in our father’s heart. You represented your mother to him and he had loved her so very much and grieved for her untimely death. Perhaps if I had known Jeremiah then, I might have—”
“What happened to the letters?” Lydia felt a twinge of hope that perhaps somehow they had been saved.
“He burned them, both yours and John’s.”
“And John never knew? Would not Gertrude have known or John’s mother?”
“No one knew but Hilda, Dat and me.”
“I thought that he had abandoned me—all those years, Pleasant...lost.”
This time when the tears began Pleasant did not sit by and wait. She knelt next to Lydia and wrapped her arms around her. “I know. I am truly sorry for my part in all of this, Liddy. I wish I could make amends. Jeremiah said that I could by telling you the truth, but now I see I have only upset you further.”
“He thinks I don’t care, Pleasant. For eight long years he thought I had turned from him, and still he came back.”
“He loves you in spite of the fact that he believes you turned away from him. He has always loved you, Lydia, as you have always loved him—as you love him now. There may yet be time to salvage this. Write to him at once. I will post the letter myself and this time there will be no question that it is sent.”
“It’s been almost two weeks since he left,” Lydia moaned. “What if...”
“You will have no answers if you do not try, Liddy.” Pleasant led Lydia to the front room and the small desk in the corner. “Write to him. I will clean up in the kitchen.”
“But what can I say that will change anything?”
Pleasant cupped Lydia’s cheek. “Tell him what I told you. Tell him you love him. Ask him to come home to you.”
Lydia sat at the desk for nearly half an hour, the words pouring onto the page before her. Finally she could write no more. She folded the thin pages and placed them in an envelope and sealed it. “We have no address,” she said, carrying the letter to the kitchen, where Pleasant sat waiting patiently at the table.
Pleasant smiled. “That man, George Stevens, stayed at the hotel in Sarasota. Jeremiah was able to get his address. We will send the letter in his care and it is sure to reach John.”
Lydia watched Pleasant head back to town, to the ice-cream shop her husband owned, and a few minutes later she saw Pleasant and Jeremiah in their buggy headed for Sarasota. She closed her eyes and sent up a silent prayer that the words she had written would bring John back to her.
A week passed with no word. And then half of another week.
Finally, one evening after he returned from Sarasota and the ice-packing business he ran there, Jeremiah walked slowly up to her house and handed her an envelope—her envelope, her handwriting. She turned it over in her hands and saw that the seal had not been broken. The letter had been returned to her unread.
She had her answer.
* * *
At the biweekly services that Sunday, Lydia once again endured the barely concealed glances of pity and sympathy cast her way. By now everyone had heard the story. John was gone—again. And this time not a single person in the community believed he would come back, not even Lydia. And yet in the still-dark hours before dawn as she had stood looking out toward the windows of the rooms above the stable, she felt something in her heart that she could only describe as hope.
Foolish, foolish woman, she thought as she bowed her head for the first prayer of the morning. She prayed for understanding, for God to reveal His purpose for her life. The school would be closed in another week and John was gone. What was she supposed to do?
She barely heard the first sermon so focused was she on thoughts of John. Was he happy? Was he well? She prayed that both were true. But oh, how she missed him—his smile and his laughter. Missed his hand holding hers, his arm around her as they sat on her porch swing planning their future.
Every day that he’d been gone she told herself that in time the pain would lessen. In time the memories would not sting so much. In time...
But the truth was that her every waking moment was spent thinking about John. If only she had known about the letters her father had intercepted and burned. Those letters were proof that John had kept his promise. Pleasant had told her that they had come for months after he left—one a day at first and then, later, one a week, and finally they had stopped.
And suddenly she knew her purpose. Her eyes flew open as the decision came to her. This time she would be the one to go and find John. And even if there was no chance of rekindling their love a third time at least he would know the truth as she now did. He deserved that. Yes, as soon as school was closed, she would pack up her things and take the train east. She would leave notes of explanation for Greta and Pleasant, but she would not let anyone know of her plan.
And then?
She closed her eyes and clasped her hands together. She was certain that God had brought John back into her life for some purpose. Perhaps that purpose was only to lead both of them to an understanding of the past that had caused each of them pain and kept them from moving forward in their lives. Now she was certain that God was leading her to John to explain what neither of them had known. And would God be gracious and bless them with a reunion that brought John home to Celery Fields, home to her?
One step at a time.
The remainder of the three-hour service went by in a flash, so preoccupied was Lydia with crafting her plan for leaving to find John. She had the address for George Stevens. He had seemed a kind man. She thought that if she went to him first he would help her arrange a meeting with John. Yes, that was the best idea.
She rose with the rest of the congregation for the closing hymn. And by the time she and the other women had gathered in the kitchen to lay out the meal, she felt a new lightness of spirit.
* * *
John’s first time back inside the large, rambling factory where he and George had built their earlier fortunes brought back a flood of memories, some pleasant and some incredibly painful. There had been the day that the workers they’d hired had completed the first large order of grandfather clocks to be shipped to a chain of department stores in New York. George had declared the day a holiday and given each employee a cash bonus.
Then there had been the day when he and George had called the remaining employees that they had not already had to
let go onto the floor of the factory. Behind the dozen or so men the machinery stood silent and unused. Everyone knew what was coming. They were closing the factory for good. It was Christmas Eve and George had bought each of the men the makings for a turkey and ham Christmas dinner to take home to their families. It was the best he could offer and John remembered how, after the last man was gone and the doors of the factory closed behind them for the final time, George had cried like a small boy.
But when John walked into the factory after the drive across the state, he was surprised to see some of their former employees already at work cleaning and oiling machinery and painting walls—walls they were also lining with patriotic posters. They greeted him with smiles that spoke of trust and optimism and John’s heart was filled with a determination to make this work, if not for him, then for these men and their families.
Refusing George’s offer of a room at his parents’ mansion, John chose instead to set up a cot in the factory office, citing the need to be near the work when ideas for design changes came to him in the night. He did not admit even to himself that the nights were when he did most of his work. At least if he could force himself to focus on the designs and patterns for the pieces the factory would produce, he could get through the night without constantly thinking of Liddy.
Or so he thought.
The truth was that thoughts of her haunted him day and night. He tried to remind himself that he had been in this position before, that in time the memories and the pain of them would lessen. In time he would fill his days and nights with work and the joy of seeing the business that he and George had built together thrive once again. But every time he walked out onto the factory floor to try modeling one of the parts they would be producing his thoughts went back to Celery Fields. The stables that Luke had told him he could use for his woodworking. The smell of fresh-cut wood mingling with the smoky fire of Luke’s blacksmithing. The rocking chair he had made for Greta and the china cabinet he had built for Dr. Benson’s wife.
And there had been the orders from Luke’s customers—orders he had stayed up all night before leaving to finish. He thought about the kitchen table and chair set he had started making for Liddy as a wedding gift. Those pieces sat unfinished at the back of Luke’s stables. Remembering the smoothness of the tabletop John ran his hand absently over one of the worktables in the factory and was stung by a sliver of metal filing that nicked his palm. They would work in metal now, the machinery having already been retooled. They would not build clocks, cabinets, tables or rocking chairs. The assignment was for small parts that would have to fit perfectly with other parts being made in other factories. Parts for submarines that would silently patrol the waters offshore.
In Liddy’s eyes the work he was doing would be used in instruments of war and, as she had reminded him, their faith was rooted in peace and forgiveness. It was hard not to face the fact that war would come, if not to the shores of America then surely to Europe. He could tell himself anything he liked, but he knew in his heart that Liddy was right. And as each day passed he watched his designs and patterns turned into actual parts that the men on the factory floor produced. His certainty that agreeing to George’s plan had been a mistake hardened into a lump of solid regret that lodged in the very center of his chest.
There was no doubt that he could make enough money to secure a future for himself. The government contract had provided separate funding for the creation of the designs and patterns that could be easily transferred to other factories making the same parts in other places. After John had been back only two weeks George had presented him with a check. “With the gratitude of the United States government,” he had said.
But John had refused to take the money. Liddy was right. Any way he looked at it, the factory was running on what George called “war time” whenever he reminded the employees of the urgency of meeting production numbers on time.
Then one night George came to the factory late. John assumed that he had come to be sure the night shift was running smoothly as he often did when they were approaching a delivery deadline. Only this time George came straight to the office and he was carrying a large new toolbox. The men from the third shift crowded into the doorway behind him. For once the machinery behind them that ran round the clock was silent.
“You won’t take the money. I get that—sort of. But without the work you did to make the patterns, John, we would all be unemployed. So, the men and I decided to get you a present to show our appreciation. This has nothing to do with the government, you understand. Just a bunch of once-out-of-work guys wanting to say ‘thanks.’”
He placed the toolbox on the desk. When John just stared, he said, “Well, open it.” Behind George the men pressed forward, their excitement palpable in the small office.
John unhooked the locks and raised the lid. The box was completely outfitted with a set of woodworking tools—hammers, chisels, handsaws, clamps—everything anyone would need to build furniture by hand.
“One day,” George said softly, “you’ll go home again to Celery Fields and we want you to have a good start on that shop you’re going to open.”
“I don’t know what to say,” John whispered as he lifted a tack hammer from the toolbox to admire it, feel the fit of his fingers around the grip.
One of the men broke the uncomfortable silence that fell over the room by starting up a chorus of “For He’s a Jolly Good Fellow” and the others joined in. When the song ended George was grinning broadly as he wrapped his arm around John’s shoulders. “We might be a bunch of outsiders, John Amman, but every man here is your friend.” Then he turned to those crowded into the office and with a good-natured sternness shooed them all back to work.
After the others had left George closed the office door and sat down at the desk watching John go through the toolbox, admiring each implement.
“Go home, John,” George said softly. “Go home to your furniture building and your lady. I don’t think you’ve slept more than two or three hours a night since you got here. It’s pretty obvious to me that it hasn’t been the work here keeping you up at night. You miss her—you miss the whole place. Go home, my friend.”
“What if there’s nothing to go back for?”
“You think she won’t forgive you? She did once before, didn’t she?”
John shrugged. “That was different. We were young and...”
George stood up and put on his fedora as he pulled an envelope from the inside pocket of his suit jacket. “Go home to your people, John. Your work here is done, and once this war comes and goes I’m going to be calling on you for some of those furniture designs we used to make before the bottom dropped out.” He placed the envelope on the desk next to the toolbox. “This is a check, John. It’s from me not the government. I’m buying you out.”
“But...”
“I know what you’re going to say but we went into this together, and you may not have invested money, but you deserve something for the designs you developed. I’m buying the rights to those.”
John thought about all the times that Liddy had reminded him that God would show him the way. And all of a sudden his path seemed clearer than it had been at any time in his life. He grinned at his friend and extended his hand. “Thank you, George.”
“I expect to be invited to the wedding,” George said as he left the office and closed the door behind him.
John stood at the desk long after George and the others had left as he once again examined each tool in the box. They were of the finest quality, especially the wood-carving chisels and knives. He could do excellent work with these replicas of the tools he had once bought with the money he and George had made in their first venture. In those days, as apparently he continued to do now, George had spent his money on clothes and dining out at fine restaurants. He had even bought himself a diamond ring for his little finger. But John had had no such wants. For him
the luxury of a handcrafted tool intended for crafting wood into usable objects was enough.
As he replaced each item in its designated space in the large metal box, he realized that what George had given him was far more precious than the simple hand tools. He picked up the envelope, opened it and found inside crisp new bills totaling more cash than he had ever held before and a one-way railway ticket to Sarasota. Go home, his friend had advised him.
For perhaps the first time in his life, it was advice that John fully intended to heed.
* * *
Lydia was counting down until the last day of school and the next, when she would finish packing up the supplies and books and maps she used for teaching and move them to her house. The morning after that she would board the train for St. Augustine and even if John refused to see her she would tell his friend, George Stevens, the story of the intercepted letters and plead with him to act as an intermediary between John and her.
From the moment she had devised her plan she had thought of little else. Fortunately Greta and Pleasant assumed she was simply mourning John’s departure and the loss of her job. The two of them were constant in their suggestions for what she might do now that she would have no responsibilities for teaching the children. Luke had come by one day to invite her to move in with them if she chose. “Or, if you won’t accept our help, then Jeremiah and I will provide you with a monthly stipend to replace your lost wages so you can continue living in this house.”
She had thanked them and begged for time to attend to her remaining duties before she made any decision about her life going forward. And then she sat up late into the night working out the details of her journey to find John and bring him home. She studied the train schedule, set aside the money she would need for the ticket, packed some spare clothing in the basket she normally used for carrying her books to and from the schoolhouse. That way if anyone saw her, they would not think anything of it.
As anxious as she was to go to John, she had a duty to the community. The school was closing and her students and their families deserved the best she could offer them. But at night she sat at her desk, writing letter after letter trying to find the words that might explain how her late father had duped both of them. She tore up every single letter. From the little she had seen of George Stevens she had no doubt that he would find words far more persuasive than hers could ever be for bringing John home.