The Harvest of Grace

by Cindy Woodsmall

  She couldn’t help but chuckle. His kindness and humor warmed her.

  “Frani came to say good-bye because she’s going into rehab at some place in Baltimore. The night I returned home, I saw her headed for this cabin, and I figured God had put her in my path for a reason. I now see that I needed her too. As I talked to her, I got fresh perspectives on all the reasons sobriety is so important. When her rebellion reared its head, I understood more of my own. And as it turned out, it was sort of like getting to reach into the past and salvage someone else’s life.” He gently brushed a strand of wet hair from her face, looking at her as if he truly cared. “She and I both needed that. But she’s nothing else to me.”

  “I shouldn’t have gotten upset with you. It’s just—I can’t figure out how I feel about you.”

  He gazed down at her. “I’m confused about how I feel too. Seems all we really know is how we feel about this homestead.”

  She laughed. “It’s a stressful mess on the Blank farm, isn’t it?”

  “Uh, ya.”

  She swiped at her wet cheeks. “So you brought me hopeful news, and I dumped my baggage on you.”

  He flexed his biceps, which looked rock solid under his short-sleeved shirt. “I can carry it.” He lowered his arm. “You were carrying most of my load before I ever showed up.”

  Looking him in the eyes, she saw a true friend standing in front of her. She knew that much. “You’re doing that almost tolerable thing again.”

  He shrugged. “Blanks aren’t tolerable. We’re difficult. You don’t have that figured out yet?”

  “Well, you’re all rather confusing. I’ve got that much clear. I mean, you care about your parents, and they love you, but no one can admit that. You stormed back here, fuming about dumping the farm and trying to corner and bribe your parents to go with you, but you haven’t sat down and told them why it’s so important to you.”

  “You want me to confess that I think they’re not capable of knowing what’s best for them or of accomplishing anything even if they did know?” His half smile and tone signaled his dry sense of humor at play.

  “I want you to admit the truth to yourself and them—that you feel deeply and you rarely know what to do with it. Your parents are the same way, Aaron. And each of you is hiding behind the walls you’ve built.”

  “I hate to disappoint you, but you’re seeing this all wrong. They care deeply about you, and I’m glad for you and them, but that’s where their affections end, Sylvi.”

  He wasn’t convinced that they were invested in him, but he was on the farm to do the right thing, and she admired that loyalty in him. It was past time that someone told him they cared, but she had little proof to back up her statements.

  “Michael put the want ad for farm help in the paper last September,” she said.

  Disbelief registered on his face. “In September?” He mulled that over. “That was even before Elsie died.”

  His forehead remained tight as he stared at her, processing what she’d said. That meant Michael had known Aaron was struggling with the work and had tried to find a solution. It was a tiny peek inside the usually locked door of Michael’s heart.

  Aaron rubbed the back of his neck. “Are you sure?”

  “Positive. My dream of coming here began then, but my Daed wouldn’t hear of it.”

  “You have scary dreams, Sylvi.”

  She laughed. “You never once considered the freedom to farm this land and work with this herd a worthy goal?”

  “Ya, actually I did, but that was a long time ago. A better question is, why didn’t Daed tell me he was trying to get help? Why keep that a secret?”

  She shrugged. “Remember your first Sunday home when you refused to leave the barn? You were angry that your Daed would let me work on the Sabbath by myself, but you couldn’t see that Michael was purposefully giving me the freedom I’d asked for. Later you insisted I have Sundays off, as a break, and even did your part in helping me make friends. That’s not your Daed’s way. If I want to be left alone, that’s what he’s going to give. It doesn’t mean he’s heartless. For him, it means the opposite. You’re all each other has, and I can’t understand why you let your thoughts and feelings push you away from each other rather than drawing you closer.”

  A shadow passed over Aaron’s face, and she wondered if she’d said too much.

  She gestured toward the porch. “Care to sit?”

  He nodded, and they sat on the steps.

  Sylvia drew a deep breath. “Maybe I’m out of line to tell you this, but I’ve been holding my piece, giving your parents and you time to open up on your own.”

  “Not so sure the earth will last that long.”

  She couldn’t help but chuckle when Aaron turned on his parched humor; it wasn’t always what he said but the way he said it that made her laugh. “You may be right about that. But Jesus said, ‘Blessed are the poor in spirit: for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.’ And clearly there’s a lot of inner poverty between you and your folks. Dirt-poor, honestly.”

  “Ya, I guess so. I always thought we fit the part in the Sermon on the Mount about those who mourn and hoped we’d find comfort, but that hasn’t worked out so well either.”

  “Mourning? Because your sister died?”

  He sighed, gazing down the narrow footpath that led from the cabin. “Throughout their marriage my parents lost six newborns, which is why they had only two children … and now just one. Instead of the losses drawing our family closer, each one scattered us to the wind, emotionally.”

  Sylvia studied his handsome face, realizing anew how deep his thoughts ran and seeing the magnitude of the mismanaged feelings that had pulled him toward drinking. “Michael and Dora are very tenderhearted people, even with thick walls guarding that tenderness. They’re sensitive, much like you. Maybe Elsie was too. I don’t know, but it seems that for gentle people such losses here on earth are even harder to bear.”

  His eyes searched hers. “You think we have a gentle spirit?” He sounded skeptical.

  “I see your heart, Aaron. It is tender. You build up your walls with drinking or with biting comments, and now you’re trying to pull them down. Perhaps Michael is so critical of you because he recognizes he’s still hiding behind his walls. I’ve known a few men in my life who didn’t have that tenderness of heart, who lacked sensitivity. No good comes of it. But after watching your family, it seems to me that when people feel deeply and try to bottle it up, it makes a mess of every relationship.”

  “I agree that our lack of communication has created chaos.” He turned to her. “But here’s something that is true. More than coming by to talk about the farm, I wanted to see if you’d care to go for a buggy ride into Shippensburg for some ice cream.”

  It was a bold request. He was making himself vulnerable. As she sat on the steps under the canopy of trees in the cool of the evening, she couldn’t conjure up one scenario where it would hurt to spend a little personal time with him. If he sold the farm, she’d have a few good memories to take with her to the next place. If he set up a business in Owl’s Perch and left her here with his parents, she’d have spent an evening building a bond with the owner’s son.

  She had to admit that beyond her logical reasons to go with him, her heart weighed in heavily. Spending time with Aaron satisfied some part of her she couldn’t understand.

  Despite his feelings about the farm, she wanted a chance to enjoy a romantic relationship with him. She admired his steely determination, his humility in admitting when he was wrong, and his desire to change for the better. His tenderness in understanding her pain and truly caring. His loyalty in returning for his parents and his unwavering faithfulness to them.

  Not to mention his newly found strength of character. It had been seven months since he’d chosen to free himself of alcohol, and regardless of all the problems that had reared their ugly heads, he kept walking that path. She knew his journey wasn’t over, but she felt confident that he would remain honest about
the struggle.

  Was she finally seeing him for who he really was? How would she know if she didn’t give herself at least one evening out with him?

  She stood. “I can’t think of anything else I’d rather do.”

  Twenty-Nine

  Cara pulled a sheet of cookies out of the commercial gas oven. She set the pan to the side to cool and slid another one into the stove. Worry kept pricking her conscience, but Cara attempted to wrestle it into silence. So far her emotions listened to her about as well as Better Days did.

  For several nights she’d dreamed about not being allowed to join the faith for years. Now thoughts of not qualifying hounded her. Instruction classes got harder each session, and in spite of Sylvia doing a great job of teaching her the language, Cara had a long way to go.

  Trevor jerked open the back door. “Need a hand?”

  “Uh …” She looked around for something he could help with. “How about squeezing some lemons?”

  “Sure.” He went to the refrigerator and took out a basketful.

  He used the glass hand juicer to squeeze several lemons while she sliced whole ones into thin strips and dropped the pieces into a vat. Sweat trickled down her chest. She was finally able to respond to her father with patience and compassion—not a ton of it, but enough that they could struggle through the awkwardness.

  Trevor poured the pulp-filled juice into the large vat. “You’ve been quiet the last few days.”

  “Just thinking. I do that sometimes.”

  “I see.”

  She rinsed a rag in cool water and wiped the back of her neck. July temperatures and constant baking in a home without electricity made for a hot kitchen even with the sun dipping below the horizon. But living and working here was one of the best things to have happened to her.

  Voices of children playing outside and of adults browsing in the gift shop down the hall surrounded her. God had brought her back to Ephraim through the oddest of circumstances. Surely she could pass instruction classes and learn enough of the languages to join the faith and marry him before he gave up or they were too old to have children.

  Trevor dumped the lemon rinds into a tin bucket. She and Lori would dry them in the sun along with rinds from oranges and limes, then add them to a mixture of homemade potpourri.

  She moved back to her work station and stirred sugar into a large container of lemonade before putting some of it in a glass pitcher.

  “Your mom used to make lemonade with slices of lemon. Don’t know that it helped the flavor, but it sure makes it look tasty.” Trevor wrung out a washrag and wiped the work station where they’d made the lemonade. “I … I got a letter today.”

  She set a mixing bowl on the counter and measured out butter and sugar, wondering who would’ve written to him here.

  He held out an envelope. “The lady from your apartment building sent you a letter.”

  Cara snatched it, studying the postmark. Trevor had been back little more than a week. The envelope was postmarked a few days after he’d left New York. She ripped it open and pulled out a letter and a newspaper clipping.

  “What does it say?” Trevor asked.

  Scanning the letter, her eyes caught the name Mike Snell, and a wave of dizziness made her sit. Agatha’s words seemed to move about the page.

  “Cara?”

  “It … it’s about … my stalker. Agatha didn’t want to say anything to you, but …”

  Mike had moved into her apartment the night she left. He’d stayed there until the rent was due, waiting for her to return.

  Her hands trembled as she skimmed the newspaper page, trying to figure out what piece of information Agatha wanted her to see. Then she saw it: an obituary for Mike Snell. It listed his date of birth, parents’ full names, and the borough where they lived. It was definitely the same Mike Snell who’d stalked her for more than a decade.

  But she felt no relief, only nausea.

  She returned to reading the letter. Agatha wrote that she wasn’t sure if the letter would reach her, but she hoped it found her safe and happy.

  She laid the letter, news clipping, and envelope on the table, then rose and went to the refrigerator. She pulled out eggs, cracked several on the edge of the bowl, and added them to the butter and sugar before throwing the shells into the sink.

  “May I?” Trevor held up the letter and news clipping.

  “Yeah.”

  She shoved the blades of the rotary mixer into the batter and turned the handle, round and round, faster and faster. Her knees were wobbly. She’d see Ephraim tomorrow after another language lesson, and she wondered if the news would have any effect on him.

  “You’re upset.” Trevor set the papers to the side. “I don’t understand.”

  “Yeah, me either.” She took the hand mixer out of the bowl and slammed it down on the counter, spattering cookie dough. “I spent so many years wishing he was dead … wishing I could kill him. And now I … I feel like I can’t breathe. A man’s life is over.”

  “Did you expect to rejoice?”

  “The old me would have … I think.” Since she was young, she’d known the finality of death. Nothing was as changeless or hopeless as life leaving a body and never returning. After it happened to her mother, nothing was ever the same again. But why did she find the finality of Mike’s death so disturbing? She stared at the letter and newspaper, wondering what he’d died of.

  Relationships were often complicated, disappointing, or even a source of pain, but until someone died, there was always a possibility for change. Whatever condition Mike’s relationships were in when he died, they would remain that way forever—including whether he ever came to know God.

  The bond with her dad wasn’t what either of them had wanted, but they were here and working on improving it.

  Where was Mike?

  It was absurd to compare the two. They were nothing alike. Yes, Mike should have been in jail where he couldn’t wreak havoc. But dead?

  She’d been worried and melancholy over whether she’d join the faith this year or next or the following year, but she had hope—both in this life and the next one. What did Mike have?

  She’d never once thought of praying for him. If Ada hadn’t spent a lifetime praying for her, where would she be?

  She blinked, realizing her dad had gotten the cookies out of the oven and had finished mixing the batch she’d begun. “Trevor,” she whispered.

  He stopped stirring the dough. “Yeah?”

  She wanted to say that she forgave him. That she was enjoying getting to know him and looked forward to his being around so they could continue making progress. Instead she shrugged. “I’m glad you went to New York and brought back pictures for Lori.” She couldn’t even manage to tell him “thank you”?

  He put a dollop of cookie dough on a pan. “Anything like that you need, I’m here to do it, Carabean.”

  Tears pricked her eyes. She cleared her throat. “So, are we still on for you taking me to Sylvia’s tomorrow?”

  Thirty

  Tired of trying to grasp the complicated solutions, Sylvia folded the papers on farming that Aaron had brought to the cabin. She tucked them under the edge of the quilt on the ground beneath her and lay back, staring at the billowing gray clouds. Two kittens were curled up in her lap asleep, and two played beside her. She’d carried them in her picnic basket along with a jar of water, a sandwich, the blanket, and farming information to study. Bringing the cute balls of fur to this private spot had been her best effort to make this nonchurch Sunday as pleasant as possible.

  But the day stretched out like warm taffy, looping round and round and seemingly growing longer with each spin. As a child she’d once seen taffy being made in a candy shop. She hadn’t liked the smell of it, and when the candy maker cut off a piece for her, she didn’t like the taste of it either. She had to laugh at the fact that working in a barn didn’t bother her, but the aroma of artificial flavoring and mass amounts of sugar did.

  That appliance
store of Aaron’s had made her feel much worse. It smelled like fumes from an old bus, and that always made her headachy and nauseous.

  She believed a lot of things about her were odd, but she’d never minded it until Elam chose her sister over her. Beckie was beautiful and dainty and, she guessed, all the things men looked for. Truth was, Beckie could have had her choice of men.

  Trying not to think about it, she focused on the sky. The clouds moved across it, hinting at a possibility of rain. She’d been desperate for the weather to stay dry while she and Aaron baled hay, but now, seven weeks later, she felt as much angst wishing it would rain.

  They hadn’t gotten a second cutting of alfalfa yet. They would soon, but it’d grown slowly because of the lack of rain, and she doubted they’d get a third cutting before fall. The field corn she and Michael had planted days before Aaron returned had suffered too. They needed a good yield from it to help fill the silos for the winter, but it looked rather scraggly from a distance, and she couldn’t make herself walk into the field to see it up close.

  The good news was that, being part of the silage, the kernels themselves needed very little moisture in them. Surely this current weather pattern would help in that department … maybe. She didn’t really know. All she knew was that Michael’s resolve to keep the farm seemed to be evaporating along with the ponds and the creek bed. Not that he’d actually said those words. But she’d walked into the Blank home a few days ago and had seen him reading a newspaper ad for nonelectric appliances. They didn’t need a new appliance of any kind, so he was probably entertaining the idea of a lifestyle change.

  “Sylvi.” Aaron’s voice echoed around her.

  She sat upright. This little spot, nestled in a patch of trees between an unused field and a pond, was supposed to be too secluded for anyone to notice her.

  Aaron crossed the field, carrying something in each hand. Her heart beat a little faster at the sight of him. Something about his ways made her want to know his thoughts and opinions, even if they were his frustrations about the farm or his parents.