When Hope Blossoms

by Kim Vogel Sawyer

  Bekah turned to Parker. “Budger . . .” She used the nickname Dad had given Parker—his teasing play on Parker’s name. “I didn’t mean to make a mess. I’ll clean it up.”

  Parker gazed at her, unblinking. “You promise?”

  “Yes, I promise.” Parker needed so much reassurance. Why couldn’t he be normal, like other kids’ brothers? Why did everything have to be so hard with him?

  “All right.” He turned and shuffled for the stairway, his movements even slower than usual, and plodded upstairs.

  Bekah folded her arms over her chest and frowned down at Adri. Even though her sister was far younger than Parker, there wasn’t any reason she couldn’t behave normally. Then again, maybe sitting on the floor and howling was normal for a five-year-old. Even so, Bekah’s patience was spent. “Are you done yet?”

  Adri sniffled, rubbing her eyes with her fists. “You hurt my feelings, Bekah.”

  Bekah crouched down to Adri’s level. She knew she should apologize—she’d been rough with Adri, and she was wrong. But she wasn’t really sorry, and she wouldn’t add lying to her list of wrongdoings. Still, she gentled her voice. “You ready to help me make those beds?”

  Adri drew in a shuddering breath. Her lower lip poked out, and tears trembled on her thick lower lashes. Her blue eyes—Adri was the only one of the kids to have Mom’s eyes instead of Dad’s—looked even bluer with all the tears. “I’m tired.”

  Bekah grabbed Adri’s hand and pulled her up as she rose. “If you’ll put sheets on your own bed, then you can take a nap.”

  For a moment Adri stood, shoulders hunched and lower lip hanging in a pout, but then she heaved a deep sigh. “All right, Bekah.” She trudged upstairs, too.

  Bekah grabbed the broom and quickly swept the crumbs into a neat pile. She couldn’t find the dustpan—so many things were still in boxes—so she pushed the crumbs onto a piece of paper and dumped all of it into the waste can. Then she put the broom in the corner and headed upstairs. She glanced into Parker’s room. He knelt in front of the bookshelf, his face puckered in concentration. As she watched, he carefully lifted out one book from the box beside him and placed it just-so on the shelf. Bekah considered telling him he could stack more than one at a time, but she knew he’d say “huh?” and then need her to show him what she meant. And she didn’t feel like showing him. So she moved on to Mom’s room instead.

  Apparently Adri had been in the closet riffling through the sheets, because the stacks were all askew. Mom wouldn’t leave them like that. Mom did everything right. Bekah took a few moments to straighten the stacks of sheets, towels, and pillowcases before removing the pink-striped sheets that belonged on Mom’s bed.

  She smoothed the bottom sheet into place, wondering why Mom needed such a big bed. All of the kids had twin-sized beds, but Mom’s was a queen-size. Wouldn’t the big bed make her miss having Dad on the other side of the mattress? But maybe Mom didn’t miss Dad as much as Bekah did. Mom never talked about him. Neither did Bekah. But she couldn’t help thinking about him.

  With a flick of her wrists, she flipped the top sheet over the mattress. She knew how to tuck the bottom corners so the sheet would hang neatly, and she performed the task without conscious thought, her mind skipping through memories from way back. Before Adri was even born. When Dad was alive, and Parker was normal, and they all lived in their own house instead of with Grandpa, and nobody in town looked at them with pity or—worse—with blame. Bekah hated those looks. That’s why she hadn’t put up much fuss when Mom said they were moving to another town. But now that they were here, away from everyone and everything familiar . . .

  Bekah stuffed the pillows into matching cases and plopped them onto the bed. Then she moved to the window and looked across the landscape. In lots of ways, the view reminded her of Arborville. Square patches of farmland stretched to the horizon, resembling a giant quilt. Lots of open space. Clumps of scraggly trees here and there to break up the expanse of farmland. Except the trees east of their new house weren’t scraggly or clumpy. They stood in neat rows, like a king’s forest from a storybook. The tips of the branches all met each other, creating a lacy canopy of green. It looked like a good place to hide away with a book.

  With a dramatic sigh, Bekah turned from the window. She didn’t have time to sneak away and read. Work awaited. She grabbed sheets for her bed and Parker’s bed and headed for her brother’s room. Mom would be back soon, and she’d expect things to be done.

  Sweat trickled down Tim’s forehead, stinging his eyes. His stomach growled, reminding him he hadn’t eaten since early that morning. Couldn’t the Mennonite lady hurry? He could pedal a bicycle faster than she was currently driving her old blue Buick. Through the back windshield, he watched the black ribbons of her mesh cap dancing on her shoulders.

  An uncomfortable twinge unrelated to hunger crept through his stomach. When he’d seen those black ribbons, he’d assumed she was married. To discover there was a widow—a widow with children—living next door brought long-buried admonitions to the surface. Care for widows and orphans. Hadn’t the biblical mandate been drilled into him along with so many other rules and regulations? He’d fled that life, eager to escape the never-ending lists of do and do not. But now, without warning and without invitation, the old teachings pricked his conscience.

  The Buick’s brake lights flashed. Again. How she loved the brake. Tim tapped the cart’s brake in response. By inches, the Mennonite widow eased the car into the lane leading to Tim’s double-wide trailer house. Dust swirled as they made the turn, but as soon as they entered the lane, the dust settled. Trees on either side of the dirt road blocked the wind. Sweet scents filled Tim’s nostrils, removing some of the unsettledness of the past minutes. His tense shoulders relaxed, and he released a breath of relief. He was home again—his place of security. His place of refuge.

  The woman stopped the car midway between the house and the huge, ancient barn. The Buick’s engine stilled, and she stepped out of the car. Tim hopped out and crouched next to the bumper to untangle the chain connecting the cart to the vehicle. Her shadow fell across him. Gooseflesh broke out on his arms. Julia used to stand so close her shadow touched his, but unlike this woman, Julia was never silent. She even talked in her sleep. Sometimes at night, Tim still listened for the mumble of his wife’s voice. Squatting in the Mennonite woman’s shadow, only the whisper of the trees and clank of the chain in his ears, Tim found himself wishing the woman would speak to chase away the memories of Julia’s cheerful, endless speech.

  “There.” Tim jerked the chain free and rose, holding the thick lump of links toward the woman. “Thanks for the tow.” Then, almost without conscious thought, he added, “But I meant it when I said keep your kids away from here. My trees . . .” His gaze swept across the nearby row of apple trees, full and lush and green. “I won’t have them damaged.”

  “I understand.” Her voice, devoid of condemnation, brought Tim’s focus back to her. A small smile tipped up the corners of her lips. “I’ll do my best to keep the children at home. I’m afraid having an entire forest of trees so near will be a huge temptation for them.” She whisked a glance around, her eyebrows high. “This seems a delightful place to play.”

  “This is a working orchard, not a park.”

  She nodded, appearing unruffled by his curt statement. “I’ll have a firm talk with the children.” She started toward her car.

  Tim took two stumbling steps after her. “There are lots of summer activities for kids . . . in Weaverly.” Now why had he blurted that out? It opened a door to conversation. Wouldn’t it be better to send this lady back to her old farmhouse and get to work? But if her kids had things to do, they’d be less likely to come pester him. He tucked his fingertips into the pockets of his Levi’s and leaned his weight on one hip. “Everything’s listed on a board outside the library doors. Might check ’em out. That is, if you don’t mind your kids mixing with non-Mennonites.” Unbidden, a hint of sarcasm had crept into his to
ne.

  Her smile didn’t flicker. “Thank you, Mr. Roper. I’ll certainly take the children to town and check into the activities after we’ve put the house in order.” A light chuckle escaped her lips. “The children will enjoy meeting others from town before school starts in August.”

  Tim drew back, startled. “You’re sending them to public school?” He hadn’t been allowed to mix with non-Mennonites during his growing-up years. Maybe things had changed some in the past two decades.

  She raised her shoulders in a delicate shrug, the attached cape of her pale pink dress shifting slightly with the movement. “In Arborville, the children attended public school. I see no reason not to allow them to do so here.”

  Why had these Mennonites chosen to move here? Several years back—the year before he’d purchased the orchard from his wife’s uncle—a group of Mennonites had driven over and picked apples. Had they scoped out the area then and begun planning to purchase land? The thought unnerved him. He blurted, “It’s a good school. Small classes, caring teachers.” He recalled her son’s slow movements and delayed speech. “They’ve got a good special ed program, too.”

  Pain momentarily flickered in her blue eyes. “I need to get back. The children are alone, and I have a lot of work waiting for me.” She’d left the car door open, so she slid into the seat and curled her hand over the door handle. “Thank you for bringing Parker and Adrianna safely home, Mr. Roper. I appreciate your kindness.” She gave the door a slam, sealing herself inside. The engine ignited, and she turned the car around then aimed for the road. As she rolled past him at a snail’s pace, she lifted her hand in a brief wave. Then the car headed down the lane and around the corner, disappearing behind the trees.

  Tim remained rooted in place, staring at the spot where his lane emptied into the road. A heavy, stifling feeling filled his chest. He recognized the feeling: loneliness. But why? He’d been alone amongst his trees for four years now, ever since the accident stole Julia and Charlie from him. He’d filled his days with work and had discovered a sense of purpose, if not the joy he’d experienced prior to their deaths.

  Yet, undeniably, standing in his driveway with nothing but trees for company, he felt alone. He shook his head, redirecting his thoughts. Go inside. Eat some lunch. Fuel up the cart, hitch the flatbed, load the hand mower, and get back to work. The plan established, he thumped his way toward the house. But the firm plod of his soles against the ground couldn’t quite eradicate the loneliness that nibbled at his insides.

  4

  Amy stacked the last of the supper dishes next to the sink while Bekah ran hot water. Suds billowed, sending up a clean, lemony scent. Amy paused and inhaled deeply, absorbing the fresh aroma. Somehow the essence revived her even more than the canned soup and grilled-cheese sandwiches had. Maybe she’d conjure enough energy to set up her sewing machines before bed.

  Turning from the counter, she aimed a stern look at Adrianna and Parker, who remained at the now-empty table as she’d directed. She put her hands on her hips. “All right, you two. You have a job to do.”

  Adrianna groaned. “Momma, we’ve been jobbing all day. I’m tired.” She emphasized her statement with a broad yawn.

  Amy’s lips twitched with the effort not to smile. Her daughter’s invented word and the exaggerated slump to her shoulders invited a chuckle. But when the children needed discipline, she couldn’t relent. These were the moments she missed Gabe the most—when she wanted to share a moment of amusement or needed someone else to be the rule-enforcer. “I know we’ve all worked hard today putting the house in order, and you’ll be able to go up to bed soon, but before you do I want each of you to write a note of apology to Mr. Roper for climbing in his trees and destroying several branches.”

  An image of the man’s frowning countenance flashed through Amy’s memory. When at all possible, they were to live at peace with their neighbors. She’d gotten off to a rocky start with their nearest neighbor. It would do them no good to make an enemy of the man whose land bordered hers. She prayed that an apology, along with a promise to keep their distance, would be enough to repair the damage the children had done.

  Parker hung his head, but Adrianna gazed up at her mother, her bright eyes blinking innocently. “But, Momma, I don’t know how to write yet.”

  From the sink, Bekah released a little snort. Of amusement or derision, Amy couldn’t be certain. She chose to ignore her older daughter and focused on the younger one. “You can draw a picture to say you’re sorry.” Shifting her gaze to Parker, she said, “There’s a writing tablet and pencils in the desk in my room. Bring them down, and you and Adrianna get busy.”

  Parker nodded and pushed away from the table. His plodding steps carried him upstairs. Amy moved to the other side of Bekah and reached for a dishtowel to dry the dishes Bekah had washed thus far.

  Bekah nudged her with her elbow. “Leave them. There’s not much. I’ll dry, too.” She didn’t lift her gaze from the sink but continued washing, rinsing, and stacking, her lips set in an unsmiling line.

  Amy appreciated Bekah’s willingness to do the task alone, but she wished her daughter expressed more pleasure in offering assistance. As a child, Amy had gloried in being her mother’s helper, knowing she was relieving a burden from the woman she loved. Bekah relieved much of Amy’s burden, but her sullen expression and negative attitude made it difficult for Amy to appreciate her daughter’s help.

  Even so, she slipped her arm around Bekah’s waist and pressed her cheek to her daughter’s temple. “Thank you, sweetheart. If you’re okay here, I’ll get started setting up the sewing room.”

  Parker trudged back down, paper and pencils in hand. He sat gingerly and pushed two sheets of paper across the table to Adrianna. He lifted his puzzled face to his mother. “What should I write?”

  “Tell him you’re sorry for trespassing,” Bekah said.

  “Huh?”

  Amy sighed. She’d had a firm talk with the children after returning from Mr. Roper’s house about staying on their own property. She hadn’t used the word “trespassing” because she didn’t feel the younger two would understand it. “Tell him you’re sorry for bothering his trees.”

  “And promise we’ll never do it again,” Adrianna singsonged, swinging her feet. She busily scribbled a short, fat tree trunk with a huge ball perched on its top.

  Parker leaned over his paper, his tongue poking out one side of his mouth in concentration. With all three children occupied, Amy moved to the room she’d claimed as her sewing room. Standing in the middle of the scarred wood floor, she turned a slow circle and surveyed the large space designed by the original owners as a formal dining room. Despite their intentions, the room couldn’t be more perfect for sewing.

  Built-in cupboards flanked the door to the kitchen on the north wall, providing ample storage for her baskets of fabrics and sewing notions. A bank of windows faced west, allowing in the evening sun. The wide doorway opposite the windows, which led to the airy sitting room, promised a flood of morning light, as well. She could set up her sewing machine in front of the west-facing windows, and her quilting machine would fit neatly in the southeast corner. The room was large enough to accommodate her cutting table, too. She planned to leave it up in the middle of the floor, ready for use at a moment’s notice.

  A tower of boxes currently filled the center of the room, with the cutting table folded and leaning against the wall. Amy stifled a groan. So much to do before she could set up the machines and sew. The children had helped organize the other rooms, but this room she would take care of on her own.

  She fingered the plastic file holder on top of the stack of boxes. Inside, the sketches for six different projects awaited her attention. Those orders would carry her through the next three months, but what then? Her business, Threads of Remembrance, which specialized in creating one-of-a-kind keepsake quilts, had provided a secondary income for her and the children in Arborville, but she hadn’t needed to rely on it completely. Now, away from
Arborville and her father’s financial support, she’d need a steady income.

  “Momma, we’re done!”

  Adrianna’s voice carried from the kitchen. Amy stepped around boxes and returned to the table. She picked up Adrianna’s drawing of a well-dotted tree—the child’s attempt at drawing apple buds, no doubt—with clouds floating overhead and a line of shaggy grass stretching across the bottom. Amy hid a smile. Adrianna had signed her name in the upper right-hand corner. It read “Abri.”

  “Very nice,” Amy said and reached for Parker’s paper. He handed it over. Amy’s heart ached as she read Parker’s simple message, scrawled in his oversized block print. Mister Ropper I am sory I climed in ur Tree and boke ur branch pleese Forgiv me Parker. One long, painstaking sentence absent of punctuation and sporting many misspellings. Amy battled with herself. Should she correct the paper and have him copy it over?

  She turned to Parker, ready to make suggestions for improvement, but he looked so hopeful she didn’t have the heart to tell him he’d not done it right. His message was sincere. If Mr. Roper couldn’t see beyond the errors to the sweet apology, then it was his problem, not Parker’s. “Tomorrow morning, before we go into town and see what kinds of activities are available for you during the summer, we’ll go by Mr. Roper’s and deliver your apology letters.”

  “Um, Momma?” Adrianna made a face and pointed at her paper. “Mine isn’t a letter. It’s a picture. Of a tree.”

  Bekah turned from placing the last of the plates in the cabinet and caught Amy’s eye. An amused smirk twitched on her lips. The unspoken communication between mother and daughter lifted Amy’s heart. She winked at Bekah and then fixed a serious expression on Adrianna. “We’ll deliver Parker’s letter and Adrianna’s drawing of a tree. Now head upstairs, you two. Wash your faces, brush your teeth, and get into your pajamas. I’ll be up soon to read our verses, and then it’ll be time for sleep. We’ve had a busy day.”