Where the Heart Leads

by Kim Vogel Sawyer

  “Ach, a meal is not a meal without something sour,” Pa said.

  Thomas could imagine Nadine’s sour look at his father’s request for pickles.

  Summer laughed softly. “Very well. I’ll get some pickles from the pantry.” She ran her hand over Pa’s shoulders as she moved past him, her slender fingers tweaking a thick hank of hair behind his ear. When she put the pickle jar in front of Pa’s plate, she leaned forward and delivered a kiss on his whiskered cheek.

  He smiled, forking two fat pickles onto his plate. “Dank, Summer.”

  Another sweet laugh provided her reply.

  Thomas, looking on, experienced a rush of envy. Someday he wanted what Pa had with Summer—a loving, tender, God-ordained relationship with a woman. He had witnessed friendship turning to love between his father and Summer. Over the years of their marriage, despite facing rejection from some community members who couldn’t accept Summer’s non-Mennonite upbringing, the heartache of losing their firstborn child, and now the loss of their home, the love had never flickered.

  From Grossmutter’s stories, he knew his mother and Pa had been childhood friends before declaring their love for one another. It seemed to Thomas that friendship was key in providing a sound base for a marriage. The thought made Daphne flit into his mind. She wasn’t a friend, exactly—more an acquaintance. He thought backward in time and scowled, realizing he’d never really considered a girl a friend. Maybe it was time he looked a little harder at the females in his circle of acquaintanceship.

  Summer picked up a jar from the middle of the table. “Belinda made the gooseberry jam. The Schmidts have a bush growing in their side yard.” She made a face as she spooned thick, seedy preserves onto a slice of bread. “I don’t have the patience to pick berries surrounded by thorns, but I do appreciate Belinda’s diligence. It’s quite tasty.” She offered the jar to Thomas. “Try some. The jam is a thank-you for visiting her mother.”

  Thomas looked at the jar’s contents, seeing instead an image of Belinda—tall, honey-haired, in a simple dress and apron, swishing a broom’s bristles over a wooden porch floor. Then a second picture intruded: Daphne—diminutive, dark-haired, fashionably attired, sipping punch from a cut-glass cup. Two such different images.

  Pa spoke around a bite of pork. “How is Frau Schmidt?”

  Summer put down her fork and sighed. “Not well at all. I understand why Belinda is so concerned. The woman is lost in melancholy. And Malinda is so caught up in her own grief, she doesn’t help at all. Poor Belinda carries a full load between working at the general merchandise store, caring for the house, and trying to maintain a positive spirit. And she’s suffered loss, too. Her mother doesn’t seem to recognize anyone’s pain but her own, however, and we all know how self-centered Malinda has always been.”

  Thomas glanced out the kitchen window. Across the expanse of their backyard and separating alley, the glow of a lantern lit the window of the Schmidts’ kitchen. Was Belinda sitting down to dinner with two uncommunicative women? His heart lurched in sympathy.

  “You keep going over to visit,” Pa said, giving Summer’s hand a squeeze. “Time it takes for hearts to heal, but we know healing comes. Frau Schmidt needs the reminder, and she needs to see Be’weiss of a healed heart.” He smiled warmly at Summer. “What better testament is there than a woman who has been restored to joy?”

  More pictures of Belinda tried to crowd through Thomas’s mind—pictures he didn’t want to explore. Pa had told him not to carry a grudge, and he’d committed to letting go of his past dislike of Belinda Schmidt. But this wave of sympathy was sending his heart in directions he didn’t want it to go.

  Thomas set down the jar without helping himself to preserves. “Dinner was very good, Summer. Thank you. But may I be excused? I believe I’d like to take a walk and stretch my legs.”

  Abby stood up eagerly. “May I go, too, Thomas?”

  Gussie leaned forward, her bright eyes begging. “And me?”

  Lena echoed, “And me!”

  Thomas shot his parents a look he hoped communicated his desire to be alone.

  Pa caught Lena’s waving fist. “You girls go for a walk with me.”

  “But we want to go with Thomas!” Abby and Gussie chorused the complaint.

  Pa shook his head, his expression firm. “Not this time, kjinja.” His tone softened as he added, “If there are letters, I will need your help to get them home safely.”

  The girls sighed but voiced no more arguments.

  Thomas pushed away from the table. “I’ll see you later.” He strode out the back door. Heading to the narrow alleyway between yards, he planned to steer clear of the main streets and walk along the outskirts of town. But as he passed a small shed on the corner of the lot directly behind his parents’, he heard something that brought him to a halt.

  He tipped his head, listening intently. The wind rustled leaves in the trees that lined the alley. Night sounds—a turtledove’s coo, a dog’s distant bark, the gentle lullaby of the wind—tried to mask the noise, but he heard it again. A sound of distress. Weeping.

  He crept to the shed and put his ear against the planked door. The sound came from inside. He considered moving on, letting whomever it was have privacy, but in the end he couldn’t. Someone needed help or comfort.

  He tapped lightly and gave the door a push. The hinges squeaked, and a path of light fell across the dirt floor of the tiny building. In the corner, nearly hidden by shadows, Thomas glimpsed a woman crouching forward over her lap, crying into her apron.

  Belinda Schmidt.

  “Poor Belinda carries a full load.” Apparently Belinda’s load had finally overwhelmed her.

  He cleared his throat, then whispered, “Belinda?”

  She burrowed forward into her lap. Sobs convulsed her, but the sounds that had captured his attention ceased.

  He took a step into the shed. “Is there anything I can do?”

  With a jerky motion, she sat upright and turned her face toward him. Her eyes were red and puffy, her blotchy cheeks moist. She’d obviously been crying for quite a while. The sight of her misery touched Thomas more deeply than he could understand.

  Summer’s comments returned to him. “She’s suffered loss, too.” Although Thomas hadn’t cared a great deal for Herr Schmidt, the man had been Belinda’s father. Now he was gone. Having lost his own mother and Grossmutter, he understood her heartache.

  He moved forward a few more steps but maintained a respectful distance. His hands deep in his pockets, he asked again, “Can I do anything . . . to help?”

  To his surprise, a short, humorless laugh rang out. “Oh, Thomas . . . that’s funny.”

  He crunched his brow.

  Lifting her apron, she mopped her face. The cloth hid her face from view, but he heard her murmur, “How very, very funny.” She dropped the apron and laughed again.

  Thomas took a shuffling step backward. Could she be addle-pated? Her comment made no sense.

  Her shoulders rose and fell in a mighty sigh. Although the crying had ceased, her chin still quivered, as if she had a tenuous grip on control. She faced him again. “You—of all people—asking if you can help, after the way I . . .”

  Thomas removed his hands from his pockets and crouched, propping his elbows on his knees for balance. The minimal light filtering through the open door and cracks in the siding created a gloomy, oppressive setting. He was eager to escape, yet something held him captive. Maybe Belinda was right—something was funny.

  “I’m really all right,” she said. Her voice sounded hollow and stuffy, but the tone was matter-of-fact. “It’s just that sometimes I need . . . release. I can’t cry in front of Mama or Malinda—it upsets them. So I come out here.”

  Thomas thought about the selflessness of her act. He nodded slowly. “My pa says God gave us tears to express the feelings underneath.”

  Belinda blinked twice, looking at him. “My father didn’t have patience for tears.” She dropped her gaze and toyed with
her apron. “Maybe that’s why I have so many tears now. I’ve been storing up.”

  Thomas had no idea what to say in response.

  Suddenly her chin bounced up, and she fixed him with a panicked look. “Please don’t say anything to your parents about finding me here. If your stepmother mentions it to my mother, she—”

  “Don’t worry.” Thomas held out one hand. “Your secret is safe with me.”

  Belinda sucked in her lips, examining his face. Her shoulders relaxed. “Yes. You were always truthful as a child. I can trust you.”

  He met her gaze. “But I do think you need to find some help. Sitting out here crying doesn’t make anything better, does it?”

  Belinda sighed. “Apparently not. Mama has been crying for weeks, and she’s no better than the day we put Papa in the ground. And Malinda . . .” She sighed again, a sound heavy with unspoken burdens.

  From his position near the door, Thomas couldn’t touch Belinda, but he had the urge to stretch out his hand and take hers. To offer comfort. Instead, he linked his fingers together and cleared his throat.

  “I remember when Summer first came to live on our property.” He kept his voice low. Many memories pressed for release, but he pushed them aside. “She was sad. I even wondered if she had lost the ability to smile. But over time, with prayer, with Pa’s patient teaching, and . . .” He hesitated. He didn’t want to take too much credit, yet he knew he had played a role in Summer’s recovery from deep sorrow. Finally he said, “And with me growing to love her and need her, she found a reason to live again. To love again. God planted the willingness to love again in her heart. That doesn’t mean she’s forgotten her other children or her husband, but she’s been able to put the past behind her and move forward. It will happen for your mother . . . and you, too.”

  Belinda stared at him, her expression unreadable. For long moments they remained in silence. The light had dimmed a bit, indicating the setting of the sun. A turtledove cooed his soft evening song, harmonizing with the sweet whisper of wind.

  Finally Belinda said, “Thank you, Thomas.”

  Her voice, soft and tremulous, had a strange effect on him. His stomach turned a somersault. He pressed his palms to his thighs. “Y-you’re welcome. You’ll be all right now?”

  She stood, straightening her skirt with impatient, embarrassed motions. “Yes. I’ll be fine. But I need to . . .” She glanced toward the doorway, which he blocked.

  His neck flooded with heat. “Oh.” He stepped aside.

  She moved past him, but when she reached the opening she paused and peered up at him. Her blue eyes, dark in her pale face, held him captive for three interminable seconds, and then without a word she hurried across the yard and closed herself in her house.

  Thomas remained in the shed’s doorway for several more seconds, trying to understand the odd feelings coursing through him. For the first time, he had looked at Belinda Schmidt and seen something besides his childhood nemesis. He had seen . . . a woman. And an attractive woman, at that.

  Shaking his head, he stalked out of the shed and closed its door with a firm click. A glance at the rising moon told him he’d used up the time he meant to spend walking. He jammed his hands into his pockets and turned back to his parents’ house, but his mind remained on the house across the alley. On Belinda.

  The moment he stepped into the kitchen and closed the door, Abby came running with Gussie on her heels.

  “I want to give it to him!” Gussie squealed.

  “No, me! Papa let me carry it!” Abby responded, holding a square of white—an envelope, he realized—away from Gussie’s reaching hands.

  Thomas strode forward and plucked the envelope from Abby’s grasp before the two managed to destroy it with their tussle.

  Abby stuck out her lower lip. “I wanted to give it to you, and you took it.” She folded her arms across her skinny chest and glowered up at him.

  Thomas tapped the top of her head with the envelope and waggled his eyebrows. “Well, now I’ve got it, so all is well.”

  With a giggle, Abby dropped her sullen pose and scurried away. Gussie chased after her. Chuckling, Thomas watched them disappear around the corner before turning his attention to the envelope.

  In the upper left-hand corner, he read the name—Miss Daphne Severt—and his stomach turned another somersault.

  7

  SEATED ON HIS BED and leaning forward, Thomas angled the pages to catch the lamp’s glow so he could read Daphne’s letter. Once, twice, and then again. By the third time, he nearly had it memorized.

  The letter was surprisingly brief. A mere three paragraphs in length. Short paragraphs. Daphne always had so much to say, and it was a surprise that she didn’t write long, chatty letters. It also seemed wasteful to use an embossed sheet of stationery—which added weight and expense to the mailing—on what could have fit neatly on a penny postcard. But, he had to admit, her three brief paragraphs gave him much food for thought.

  Harry spends every day at campaign headquarters. He looks forward to you joining him in the battle to put Thomas E. Watson in the White House.

  Eagerness made Thomas’s heart thud. Watson’s backing of the Farmers’ Alliance, which worked to prevent deflation of agricultural prices, had won Thomas’s support. Raised by a man who made his living from the bounty of farmers, Thomas had a personal stake in protecting the livelihood of those who raised crops. He puzzled over Harry’s zealousness for this particular candidate, but he supposed Harry’s reasons weren’t as important as his actions.

  My father has several positions at the Boston Beacon for which you would be qualified. I am certain the wage would be sufficient to secure your interest.

  Thoughts of working for the Severt family newspaper brought a rush of excitement. As Daphne said, the wage would no doubt far exceed what he currently made from Herr Barkman. But more than that, it would be a challenge and a chance to use the skills he’d acquired in college.

  Boston is terribly lonely without your presence, my dear Thomas. I await your hasty return.

  The shortest paragraph gave him the biggest jolt. The thought of Daphne Severt longing for his return made him feel flattered. There certainly could not be a lovelier woman than Daphne. And she wanted to spend time with Thomas, the big, clumsy son of a Mennonite miller.

  He looked again at the words my dear Thomas, and his chest constricted until he could hardly draw a breath. Her dear Thomas . . . Her dear Thomas . . . The words made him feel so special. So . . . desired.

  He carried the letter to his nose and sniffed, hoping for an essence of Daphne—she always held the subtle fragrance of oranges.

  But no citrusy scent lingered on the page. Disappointed, he lowered it to his lap. The absence of the distinctive aroma made his heart pine for the presence of the delicate woman. Leaving the page unfolded, he propped it against a stack of books on his bureau top so he could see the neat lines of script.

  Lying back on his bed, he linked his hands behind his head and stared at the simple letter. Plans raced through his head.

  Talk to Pa about the job opportunity in Boston.

  Finish up the last section of the Schmidts’ roof.

  Contact Nadine about moving in with her again—or contact Harry about locating a small apartment.

  Make travel arrangements.

  A light tap on his door interrupted his thoughts. He sat up and called, “Come in.”

  The door cracked open, and Summer’s face appeared. “Were you sleeping?”

  “No, not yet.”

  She pushed open the door a little more and stood in the doorway. “I wanted to say thank you.”

  He crunched his brow. He couldn’t think of anything he’d done to warrant thanks.

  “These past days, having you home again, has brought a measure of peace to your father’s heart. He was so afraid you would be disappointed in him.”

  Thomas opened his mouth, but she held up her hand.

  “As you know, he wanted you to have
the gristmill, and now it’s gone. But seeing you willingly accept the job of roofing and getting to spend his evenings with you has eased his heartache. It’s given him a fresh outlook on his situation here.” She moved into the room and leaned forward to kiss Thomas’s cheek. “I know it isn’t the kind of job you want to have, and he knows it, too, but for now . . . you’re making him very happy. So thank you, Thomas.”

  A lump filled Thomas’s throat. “I’d do most anything for Pa.” But can I forgo my commitment to Watson’s campaign and a job opportunity in Boston?

  A soft smile rewarded his words. She cupped his jaw with her hand, the touch tender. Then she slipped from the room, closing the door behind her.

  Thomas spent a restless night, dreaming repeatedly that his arms were tied to horses being driven in opposite directions. The desire to please Pa battled against the tug of a future in Boston. By the time the morning sun sent light through the slit in his curtains, he still had no firm answers. He only knew he couldn’t leave Pa. Not yet.

  “Good-bye, Mama. Have a good morning.” Belinda placed a kiss on her mother’s cheek. “I’ll be home at noon to fix you some lunch.”

  Mama lay in her bed with her graying hair in tangles across the pillow. Her skin appeared sallow, her cheeks sunken from weeks of refusing food. Although her eyes were open, she didn’t so much as glance at her daughter.

  Belinda swallowed tears. “I love you, Mama.”

  Her mother rolled to her side, facing away from Belinda, and pulled the covers to her chin.

  Belinda sighed and left the room. Across the hall from Mama, scuffling sounds came from Malinda’s room. Her sister was awake.

  Belinda tapped lightly on the door.

  “What do you want?” Malinda called from inside the room.

  “May I come in?” Belinda maintained a pleasant tone.

  “No. I’m not dressed.”

  Belinda closed her eyes, resisting the urge to sigh. “Would you please try to convince Mama to get up and eat some breakfast? I left toasted zwieback on the table.” Mama had always relished dipping the crusty halves of the leftover two-level rolls in coffee.