A Killer Carol
Page 12
Nodding, Ruth carried the bread-topped plates to the table, setting one down in front of Claire, the other in front of the opposing bench. “Yah. Perhaps twelve.”
“Wow.” Claire bit into the still-warm bread. “Wow . . . I still can’t believe Annie wasn’t snatched away from me when you left Shoo Fly. She would have been a natural replacement.”
“Annie would not come,” Ruth said, her tone matter of fact.
Claire grinned. “Does that mean you tried?”
“I spoke with her about it one day. It is no secret Annie likes to bake or that she likes to take recipes many have tried before and turn them into something better. But it has always been a quiet thing. Someone will say, ‘Who made the chicken soup,’ or ‘Who made this bread, it is quite good,’ and Annie will say thank you so quietly many do not hear her.”
“I know what you mean. There were times, those first few months she worked with me, she would share something with me from her lunch pail. I would go on and on, gushing about how wonderful it was, but she would not tell me she made it until I asked who did.”
Ruth’s slice of bread remained untouched atop her plate, her fidgeting fingers moving between the edge of the plate, her glass of milk, and the table. “Yah, that is Annie.”
“She clearly loves it, though. Her face just lights up whenever I try something she’s made.” Claire took a second bite, the banana flavor popping in her mouth. “That’s why, as wonderful as I’m sure Hannah is, I can’t help but wonder if maybe Annie would have been a better fit to replace you when you and Samuel got married.”
“Perhaps. But as much as Annie likes to bake and to cook, it is working with you that has her smiling again after her mamm’s passing. Even her father, Bishop Hershberger, says that is true.”
Claire paused, mid-chew, and stared at Ruth. “Me?”
“Yah. Your kindness and your friendship have put smiles where there were none—for many in my district.”
Claire set the remaining bite of bread back on her plate while Ruth continued. “For Annie, for my brother Benjamin, for”—Ruth’s voice quivered—“your Jakob.”
“They did the same for me, too,” Claire rushed to say. “As did you . . . and Eli . . . and so many others.”
If Ruth had processed Claire’s words, it didn’t show. Instead, the newlywed’s high cheekbones and ocean blue eyes dropped behind the curtain that was Ruth’s trembling hands.
“Ruth?”
When there was no response, Claire pushed the remaining piece of Annie’s bread to the side, left her spot on the bench, and made her way around the table to sit beside her troubled friend. “Ruth, please talk to me. I can be a good listener if you let me.”
Dropping her hands to the table with a soft thud, Ruth looked past Claire to the kitchen’s lone window and its sweeping view of the next-door neighbor’s land, the muted green of the cover crop a welcome contrast to the stark brown of winter’s earth. “I do not want to be a burden on Samuel, but I am.”
“A burden?” Claire echoed, guiding Ruth’s eyes back to hers. “What are you talking about? Samuel loves you, Ruth.”
“But it is because of me—our marriage—that he must buy this house.”
“That’s what you do when you get married, Ruth. It’s normal.”
“I see the way he worries, the way he paces when he thinks I am not looking. And pie does not help when he sits at the table with pencil and paper, adding and subtracting numbers.”
She weighed her friend’s words, turning them over in her thoughts. “Wait a minute. Are you saying Samuel is worried about money?” At Ruth’s nod, she felt her stomach begin to churn. “But how? When? The tourists talk incessantly about his furniture.”
“They may talk about it, but a bed or a desk is not like a pie from Shoo Fly, or a tool belt from Glick’s. People cannot put such things in their car or take them on a bus the way they do place mats or dolls from your store.”
It made sense, it really did. But—
“Yoder’s Furniture has been on Lighted Way for longer than I’ve had Heavenly Treasures,” Claire protested. “If it wasn’t successful, how has Samuel kept the store open this long?”
“It is the orders that allow Samuel to keep the shop.”
“Orders? You mean custom orders?”
“Yah.”
“Oh. Wow. I guess I didn’t realize he did that. I mean, I know he can build anything, I just didn’t know people could hire him to make something a certain way.” She reached across the table, pilfered another smidge of bread from her abandoned plate, and popped it into her mouth. “So, okay, what’s different now?”
Ruth swung her long legs over the bench seat and wandered over to the window. “The orders do not come like they once did. At first, he was not worried. He said there was enough work for many. But soon there was not enough work. And now, instead of four hand-carved headboards as there were before we married, there has not been one. There have not been any cribs or kitchen tables, either. Just one rocking chair and one small dresser.”
“Maybe it’s just the time of year and it’ll get better after the holidays, when people aren’t thinking about the kinds of presents they can put under a tree.”
“It is not the holidays,” Ruth said, leaning her forehead against the glass pane.
“You can’t know that.” Claire stood and joined Ruth at the window. “I’ve had slow periods at the gift shop, too. Everyone on Lighted Way has at some point or another, you know that. Early November is a particularly tough time for Harold because raking season is over, but there’s no snow to be shoveled yet. It gets better for him as the holidays approach because wives tend to flock to hardware stores when trying to figure out what to get their husbands for Christmas. And Drew, at the bookstore, has his light seasons, too. But then summer draws closer and folks start going on vacations and suddenly they think about reading again. I think it’s cyclical for all of us, even if our cycles don’t necessarily match up with one another’s.”
Ruth ran her finger across the window’s sash, her breath rising and falling against the glass. “But when people that visit Heavenly want to buy books—they go to Glorious Books. When people want to shop for tools—they go to Glick’s. It is no longer that way for Samuel. Now they go to others.”
“Others? What others? Yoder’s is the only furniture store in Heavenly.”
“It is the only shop, but it is not the only maker.” Ruth rocked back on the heels of her simple lace-up boots and released a sigh so protracted, it seemed to sag her entire being.
“Okay, so then maybe Samuel needs to run a sale—something to put himself back in people’s minds.”
“That is what I said last week, when Samuel could not sleep. But he did not seem to hear me.” Ruth lifted her hands to her cheeks, only to let them drop down to her dress in short order. “I even told him I could go back to the bake shop, but he did not like to hear that.”
“Because you’re married now,” Claire said. “That is when Esther stopped working for me, too.”
“But the baby will not be here for many months.”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa, hold on a minute.” Setting her hand on Ruth’s forearm, she gave her friend a gentle shake. “Are you pregnant?”
Ruth’s milky white skin flamed red just before her gaze dove toward the floor. “Yah. But there is much time to go—eight months, Mamm says.”
“Oh, Ruth—this is wonderful news!” She pulled her friend in for a hug and held her tight. “You and Samuel are going to be wonderful parents!” Then, stepping back, she let loose a quiet squeal. “And Sarah? She’s going to have a little cousin close to her age to play with!”
The answering smile she expected to see stopped short of Ruth’s eyes. “Yah.”
“Ruth, this is exciting! For you and for Samuel.”
“It is also more worry for him. Like these q
uestions from your Jakob.”
“A baby is not a worry, it’s a joy,” she said, pulling Ruth close once again. “And these questions from Jakob? We’re going to make them stop.”
Ruth drew back. “How?”
“We’re going to put our heads together and find the thing that will point Jakob in the right direction.”
“We will?”
“You bet we will.”
“When will we do such a thing?”
Claire peeked at her wristwatch and shrugged. “I still have a little time before I have to be at the shop. So how about we start now?”
“Yah,” Ruth cocked her ear toward the front of the house and, when she was satisfied with whatever she was seeking, led the way back to the table. “What can I do?”
“You can tell me about your visit with Mary and Daniel. What you spoke about, who else might have been on the farm at the same time, who you may have passed in your buggy when you were leaving . . . Basically anything and everything you can remember.”
Ruth swung her leg over the bench and sat, her forehead creased in thought. “It was a Sunday, so there were no cars at the Esch farm that day.”
“And there had been no church service that day?”
“No. Bishop Hershberger was in his other district. That is why it was a perfect day for Samuel and I to finish up the last of our visiting. We saved the Esch farm for last because we knew it would be a longer visit.” Swallowing quickly, Ruth cast her eyes down at the table. “Visits always made Mary happy.”
Claire leaned forward against the table. “I need to ask you something . . . Did Samuel know Daniel was going after that Breeze Point job when he threw his hat in the bidding ring?”
“At first, he did not. But soon, he did.”
“I would imagine that upset him?”
“It surprised him,” Ruth corrected softly. “Like many in our district, we did not know Daniel was working again. It had been many years since he stopped making his cabinets, and he did not put his sign by the mailbox as it once was.”
“I imagine a job like that would’ve more than offset the drop in custom orders Samuel has been encountering the past—” Claire sat up so tall and fast, the legs of the bench scraped against the wood planked floor. “Wait. Daniel just made cabinets, right?”
Ruth’s cheeks flamed pink, but she said nothing.
“Ruth?”
“When we were at their house on Sunday, I . . . I saw cards,” Ruth whispered.
“Cards? What kind of cards?”
“Business cards. Like Samuel has for Yoder’s Furniture, but more fancy.”
“Okay . . .”
Ruth brought her hands to her cheeks and held them there for several beats. “They were nice cards—black with gold letters and trim. They said Esch Custom Woodworking.”
“Oh. Wow. Okay.” Claire let Ruth’s words sit in her thoughts for a few moments. “Did . . . did they say anything else that you can remember? Or was it just—”
“They said Furniture done the right way.”
Claire drew in a harsh breath as she stared at the woman on the other side of the table. “What did Samuel say?”
“I put Mary’s dish towel over them so Samuel would not see them.”
“Why? Isn’t the fact that he had new competition something he’d want to know?”
“Perhaps. But I knew, if he saw them, my news would be met with more worry than joy.”
“Your news? You mean about the baby?” At Ruth’s answering nod, Claire leaned forward again, her gaze seeking and holding her friend’s. “You hadn’t told him yet?”
“I wanted to tell him that afternoon, on the way home from visiting. I thought maybe we could take the road across from my dat’s farm—the one that goes over the stream.” Ruth let loose a long, tired sigh. “But that did not happen.”
“Why not?”
“Mary moved the dish towel.” Rising up and onto her feet, Ruth gathered their plates with quick, jerky motions, her sudden need to be busy not lost on Claire. “At first, I did not think Samuel saw the cards, but when he no longer heard the things Daniel and Mary said, and offered only a polite nod at their gift, I knew that he had. I tried to talk to him about it on the way home, to tell him it did not matter how many furniture makers there were, but it was as if I said nothing.”
“Surely he was still excited about the baby, though, right?”
The clatter of the plates against the inside of the sink did little to disguise Ruth’s answering silence.
“Ruth?” Claire repeated. “He was still excited about the baby when you told him, though, right?”
“I did not tell him,” Ruth whispered, her back to Claire. “I couldn’t. Such news should bring joy, not more worry.”
“Oh, Ruth, you have to tell him!” She touched the woman’s shoulder, the tension she felt there both surprising and heartbreaking all at the same time. “He’s going to be so excited!”
Ruth reached for the soap and a sponge. “I want to believe that is so. But news of another mouth to feed will bring even more worry.”
“Whoa, whoa . . . wait.” Claire took the soap and the sponge out of Ruth’s hands and then gently turned the woman until they were facing each other. “You can’t keep something like this to yourself for long. In another few months, you’ll be showing.”
Ruth’s blue eyes sank to the floor, only to return, ever so slowly, to mingle with Claire’s. “When your Jakob is done with his questions of me and of Samuel, I will tell him then.”
“Okay, good. Because joy trumps worry. Always.”
“When the questions are done, there will be no more worry for Samuel,” Ruth said, her voice unusually hoarse.
“I don’t understand . . .”
“With Mary’s and Daniel’s passing, there will be many orders for Samuel’s custom furniture again. When there is, his worry will be gone.”
Claire didn’t need a mirror to know she’d flinched. She’d felt it just as surely as she did the chill working its way up her spine and outward toward her fingers and toes. Closing her eyes, she willed herself to breathe . . . to think . . . to see her friend’s words as the innocent statement of fact they surely had to be . . .
“Would you like to see their gift?” Ruth asked, her words like ice water on Claire’s burning-hot cheeks. “It is on the desk in the other room. Come, I will show you.”
Ruth led the way out of the kitchen and into a den-like area nestled off the back of the house. The room itself was quite small, with the simple wooden desk and chair easily taking up half the square footage, while Ruth’s sewing machine, a small end table, and a pair of rocking chairs took up the rest. “See?” Ruth said, pointing toward the desk. “Daniel made the box, and Mary painted the pretty heart and the words.”
Claire mentally inventoried the pencil cup and the pad of scratch paper beside it before aligning her attention with the narrow yet deep box now in Ruth’s hands. Sure enough, painted in pink and white across the top of the wooden lid was a whimsical heart. Beneath it, in careful black lettering: ALWAYS CLOSE AT HEART.
“It is for sending and receiving letters from faraway kin.” Slowly, almost reverently, Ruth traced the outer edges of the heart with her long, delicate fingers, her trademark shy smile tugging at the corners of her cupid bow lips. “I always looked forward to the letters Mamm would get in the mailbox from her sister in Ohio. She would gather Ben and Eli and the rest of us around the table after dinner to hear stories of our kin—the weather they were having, the crops they’d planted, the new baby animals in the barn, and silly things that made us laugh. And Mamm always looked so happy when she read them aloud. When I asked her about that one day, she told me those letters made it so she and her sister were not so far apart. That is why, many times before the next letter would come, I would see Mamm reading the letter again and again.
Claire knew Ruth was waiting for some sort of reaction to the letter holder, but it was hard to concentrate on much of anything beyond the pounding in her head. Everything she knew about Ruth was standing right there in front of her—the sweet smile, the shy enthusiasm, the love of family. Yet suddenly it was like they were standing in front of a fun house mirror and everything was distorted. Only instead of her eyes doing the distorting, it was Ruth’s words, playing in a continuous loop in her head, that were messing everything up.
“Claire? Are you okay?”
Shaking off the troubling thoughts, she made herself focus—really focus—on the woman looking at her with a mixture of confusion and uncertainty. Ruth Yoder was a good person, a kind person.
She knew this . . .
“Yes, yes, I’m fine, Ruth,” she said finally. “I’m sorry, I think I just zoned out there for a moment. Your letter box is lovely. Truly. And the place to keep your special letters? Such a neat idea.”
Ruth beamed. “There is more.” Again, Ruth moved her fingertips down to the second of two small knobs and gently pulled. “This is where I will keep the envelopes and stamps I will need to send letters back to Mamm’s sister in Ohio and my cousin in Wisconsin. And see? Mary even put some inside to get me started.”
Leaning closer, Claire peered inside the shallow drawer, her eyes following Ruth’s finger as it moved down the outer edge of the waiting envelopes. “I just hope I remember to write Yoder, instead of Miller. That is hard to do when I have been Ruth Miller for so long.”
“I’m sure it will become second nature soon enough.” Claire’s gaze skipped to the bottom of the drawer and the book of stamps peeking out from beneath the edge of a pale yellow envelope. “What’s that one, there?”
Ruth peeked around the back side of the holder. “That is just an envelope. That is what goes in this drawer—envelopes and stamps. The paper to write the letters is in the last drawer. See . . .”