Where the Heart Leads

by Kim Vogel Sawyer

  “Ach, what is better than pancakes for Saturday breakfast?” Pa asked.

  Summer looked between Pa and Thomas. “Have you told him about the mill?”

  Pa slapped his forehead. “Nä! I almost forget. I go see my boss last night, and he says he can use you until all harvest grains are ground. It is only a short job, but still a job.” Pa bounced the ruined letter on his open palm, his grin broad.

  A wave of frustration filled Thomas’s chest. He took the letter from Pa and opened his mouth, ready to share about the job opportunity offered on the page.

  “Mama, Papa!” Gussie burst through the back door, her nightgown flapping. Her wide blue eyes matched her excited voice. “Little Lena tried to climb out of her crib and she fell! Komm flucks! ”

  Both Summer and Pa dashed after Gussie, and Thomas followed. Even though Lena’s injury was minor—a bruise on her forehead and scuffed skin on one palm—the fright from her tumble required a great deal of comfort. By the time the little girl had been calmed, Thomas’s sodden letter was forgotten, and he didn’t have the heart to bring it up again.

  By the morning of the Fourth of July, Thomas nearly fumed with frustration, and he didn’t feel much like celebrating freedom. He felt trapped by circumstances, and he wasn’t sure how to fix the situation. Was this God’s way of telling him to remain in Hillsboro? Would he be stuck in this small town forever?

  The morning passed quickly as Thomas helped Pa prepare the backyard to receive guests. With Abby, Gussie, and Lena darting between them and slowing their progress, he and Pa laid boards across borrowed sawbucks to use as tables. Summer covered them with lengths of red-and-white-checked cloth, giving the yard a festive appearance. Pa pounded iron stakes into the ground so the men could play horseshoes, and Thomas set a washtub in the shade and filled it with water so the kids could bob for last fall’s wrinkled apples. Quilts dotted the ground, providing more places to sit, and the smells that carried from Summer’s kitchen made Thomas’s mouth water and his stomach churn with desire for the evening to arrive so they could indulge in all the special dishes.

  Midafternoon, to Summer’s obvious joy and Thomas’s surprise, all three of the Schmidt women paraded across the alley to join the Ollenburgers. Belinda carried a fresh-baked apple-raisin pie, and Malinda presented a basket of cherry plauts that brought a cheer from Abby and Gussie. Although not allowed to drink coffee, the little girls both loved the fruit-laden miniature cakes baked to accompany a cup of the strong brew.

  Summer placed both sweets on the table designated to hold the food and gave hugs to all three women, although neither Malinda nor Frau Schmidt reciprocated. Summer made a show of admiring the pie and plauts. “You didn’t need to bring anything, but these look delicious.”

  “Thank you.” Malinda spoke with stiff lips, as though forming the words was painful. She looped her hand through her mother’s elbow and led her to the side of the house, where makeshift benches of boards laid over barrels provided shaded seating. The pair remained there, perched like two birds on a wire, until all of the guests had arrived.

  Frau Schmidt and Malinda kept to themselves, but Belinda appeared to enjoy mingling. Thomas observed her sitting down on a quilt with two or three other ladies. It gave his heart a lift to see her smile and hear her soft laugh. The invitation might have been offered on a whim, but he was glad he’d followed the impulse.

  He didn’t do a great deal of visiting, however. For the most part, he hovered on the fringes of the groups, playing with his little sisters when they begged and answering questions if someone addressed him directly, but he kept himself detached as much as possible. He couldn’t explain why he needed his distance; he only sensed that if he involved himself too much, it would create a new complication when it was time to return to Boston.

  As the sun neared the horizon and the activities slowed down, Malinda and Frau Schmidt finally left their spots on the bench and approached Belinda. “Mama is tired,” Malinda said in a strident tone. “We need to take her home now.”

  Belinda’s face fell. “But we haven’t seen Herr Ollenburger fire off the Roman candles yet.” She gestured to the tables scattered with dirty plates, empty serving dishes, and crumpled napkins. “And I thought I would help Frau Ollenburger clean up.”

  From his spot where he leaned against a tree, Thomas read Malinda’s aggravation in the pursing of her lips. “She wants to go home now.” Frau Schmidt didn’t add a word but clutched her bony hands at her waist.

  Belinda sighed. “Well, let me get our things, then, and—”

  “Belinda.” Thomas pushed off from the tree and approached the women. Slipping his hands into his trouser pockets, he assumed a relaxed air he hoped would put Frau Schmidt at ease. Once plump and outspoken, the older woman’s skin now hung from a thin frame and she appeared ready to shatter at the slightest provocation. “We won’t be able to fire the Roman candles until it’s full dark. Go ahead and walk your mother home and get her settled for the evening, and then you can come back.” He shifted his gaze to Malinda, who stared at him with mistrustful eyes. “You, too, Malinda. I’m sure you’d enjoy the fireworks.”

  Belinda looked at her mother. The hopefulness in her face tugged at Thomas’s heart. “Would that be all right, Mama? I’ll help you ready yourself for bed, and then I’ll come back?”

  Frau Schmidt didn’t reply, but she did give a quick nod.

  Belinda lifted her beaming face to Thomas. “I’ll return shortly.

  Thank you, Thomas.”

  Thomas, Abby, and Gussie helped Summer carry the dishes to the kitchen; then he and Pa took down the tables. They left the quilts on the ground, and people settled in little groups, waiting for the sun’s glow to disappear over the rooftops so the fireworks could begin. Thomas looked frequently toward the Schmidts’ house. Would Belinda return, or would her sister insist she remain with her mother? She would probably be able to see the fireworks from a window, but it wouldn’t be the same as enjoying the show with her neighbors.

  Pa was ready to begin when the Schmidts’ back door burst open and Belinda emerged. She trotted to Thomas’s side. “Did I miss it?”

  “Not yet. Pa’s just getting started.”

  “Oh, good!” Her voice held pure joy.

  They stood side by side beneath the swaying branches of the oak tree and watched Pa press a thick paper tube into a mound of sand. Thomas held his breath. Pa lit a match, held it to the wick until a sizzle indicated it caught, then backed up quickly. At the first explosive pop! followed by a burst of color about twenty feet in the air, Thomas let out his air in an exultant cry. “Woo-hoo!”

  Similar exclamations sounded across the yard. Pa had purchased six candles, and each candle contained six blasts of shimmering light. All too soon, the last burst faded against the night sky, and it was time for everyone to go home.

  Pa rounded up the little girls, who were tired and cranky, and took them inside. Summer began folding quilts, and Belinda helped her. Thomas took the quilts in turn and made a neat stack beside the back door. Each time he took a quilt from Belinda’s hands, she flashed him a smile as bright as the stars that shot from the Roman-candle tubes.

  When the last quilt was folded, Summer sighed. “That was fun, but I’m exhausted.” A screech sounded from the house, and Summer frowned. “It sounds as if Little Lena is having trouble settling down. Excuse me.” She hurried into the house, leaving Belinda and Thomas alone under the moonlight.

  Thomas stuck his hands in his pockets. “Well—”

  “Thank you for the invitation, Thomas. I had a wonderful time.”

  “I know.”

  She tilted her head in silent query. In the shadows, he could barely make out her features.

  Leaning against the house, he said, “I watched you visiting with the other ladies. I could tell you enjoyed yourself. I . . .” He paused, wondering if he’d said something he shouldn’t have. He cleared his throat. “I’m glad you had fun.” She needed it.

  For
a moment she sucked in her lips. Then she said, “I watched you, too. It didn’t appear you enjoyed yourself as much as I did.”

  He straightened, his hands coming from his pockets. “Why do you say that?”

  A shrug lifted her shoulders. “You were very helpful, but not very . . . involved.” When he didn’t respond, she added, “You seemed many miles away in your thoughts.”

  Visions of Boston—a newspaper office, campaign headquarters, his friends, and Daphne Severt—danced through Thomas’s brain. “I was thinking about . . .”

  “Boston?”

  Her softly voiced query struck like a lightning bolt. “Am I so obvious?”

  She smiled. “I would imagine after living in a large city, coming back here must be very dull.”

  “No, that’s not it.” Could he trust her with information about the job offer? Maybe saying the words to Belinda would give him the courage to repeat them to his parents. “I’m just thinking about something that’s waiting for me in Boston, and I’m eager to explore it.”

  “Oh?” She managed to convey a great deal of interest in the simple query.

  “Yes. A job. At a newspaper office—the Boston Beacon. ”

  “Impressive.” Not a hint of sarcasm colored her tone. “When do you start?”

  Thomas blew out an angry breath and stalked across the yard to the oak tree. Pressing his palm to the rough bark, he cleared his throat. “That’s the problem. I can’t start until I go back to Boston, and I . . . can’t . . . go back to Boston.”

  She followed him. The tips of her fingers landed lightly on his forearm, and he looked at her. Tree branches blocked the glow of the moon, casting speckled blue shadows across her upturned face. Her forehead crinkled in curiosity. “Why not?”

  Thomas set his jaw, battling resentment. “Pa wants me here.”

  “He said that?”

  “Not in so many words, but—”

  “Then what has he said?”

  Thomas snorted in annoyance. “How proud he is of my college degree. How wonderful it will be when I start my business. How happy it makes him to have me under his roof again.”

  “Well, of course.” Belinda’s calm, matter-of-fact tone did little to placate Thomas. “But none of that means he expects you to stay here forever. He knows you have a college degree. He wants you to use it. If that means using it in Boston, then surely—”

  “You don’t understand.” Thomas barked the words. “How can you? You aren’t an only son, carrying your father’s dreams around your neck like a millstone.”

  Belinda cringed, and immediately Thomas regretted his outburst. He reached out to touch her shoulder, then changed his mind, pulling his hand back with a sharp jerk. He swallowed hard. “Belinda, I’m sorry. That was unkind. I didn’t mean it.”

  She blinked rapidly, as if clearing tears. When she replied, her voice was low and measured. “My father had no sons, so he wanted grandsons. He gave up on Malinda—he realized she was onnpaussant . . . unsuitable . . . for motherhood between her health problems and her unpredictable moods. So it was left to me to marry and give him grandsons.

  “Instead I’m taking care of Mama and Malinda. So I understand about not fulfilling a father’s expectation. But I’m doing what is best for Mama, Malinda, and me . . . for now.” She seemed to gain strength as she spoke.

  Taking a step closer to him, she said, “Your father’s greatest dream is for you to follow God’s will in your life, Thomas. I know, because he’s told me. He believes your college education will open the door God has planned for you. So if you believe that door waits for you in Boston, he’ll understand. It will be hard for him to watch you go, but he won’t stand in your way.”

  At that moment a second voice—deep and thick with emotion— sounded across the yard.

  “Ja, boy, she is right. And you should have come to me long ago.”

  11

  BELINDA SIDLED SIDEWAYS a few steps, her gaze darting back and forth between father and son. “I-I need to turn in now.

  Thank you again for inviting me to your picnic and letting me watch the fireworks. Good night, Thomas. Herr Ollenburger.” She turned and scurried off.

  Pa watched Belinda go, waiting until she was inside her house before facing Thomas. “Son, I am shamed.”

  Guilt smacked Thomas. He stepped forward. “Pa, I—”

  “You think I hold you back?”

  The pain in his father’s voice made tears sting behind Thomas’s nose. “Not hold me back, Pa, but . . .”

  “Tell me, boy.”

  Thomas swallowed. “You’re so happy to have me here. I don’t want to hurt you by leaving.”

  Pa’s sigh was laden with remorse. “Ach, son, for sure it makes me happy to have you here. You are my son. I love you. Having you near brings me joy. But keeping you here out of selfishness? That I do not want to do.” He shook his head. “I make a big mistake if this is what I make you feel I am doing.”

  Pa moved forward, stopping a mere three feet from Thomas. Heavy shadows fell over Pa’s face, but Thomas read clearly a mix of pride and anguish in his father’s eyes. “I send you to school—to a college—so you can make best use of the goot head the Lord gave you. A goot head is a gift. Gaining knowledge is a privilege. The Lord does not want us to squander either our gifts or our privileges. If you have chance to use these things at a newspaper office in Boston, then that is what you must do.”

  Thomas whispered hoarsely, “Y-you want me to go to Boston?”

  Pa shook his head slowly. “What I want and what is best may be two different things, boy. You know sometimes God takes us places we do not see as best, yet His purpose must be fulfilled.” He paused, his jaw working back and forth as he peered sharply into Thomas’s eyes. “Do you believe God has opened this door to you in Boston?”

  Thomas sought an honest answer. He felt obligated to return to Boston to honor his commitment to help in the campaign— that much he knew. But was this job God’s plan for his life or was it just . . . happenstance? He couldn’t be sure. He flung his arms wide. “Pa, I don’t know if it’s what God intends for me to do. But I want to go—I want to see where it takes me.”

  For long moments Pa stood silently, seeming to examine Thomas. His lowered brows and wrinkled forehead told of his inner conflict, and Thomas waited for a lecture on seeking and following God’s will. But when Pa spoke in a soft, tender voice, it was far from what Thomas expected.

  “You are a grown man—no longer my little boy. When you were little, I tell you what to do and I expect you to do it. But now? Look at you, standing tall as me and in possession of a certificate from a college that proves you have sense in your head.” Pa licked his lips. “I will not tell you what to do, Thomas. This you must decide on your own. If you think this job in Boston is where you should be, then you must go.”

  Thomas sucked in a sharp breath, but Pa had more to say.

  “See, in the Bible it advises to train up a child in the way he should go. I have done that as best as I know how. My job . . . is done. Now your job begins—to seek God’s will and stay in it. I trust you to do that.”

  As Pa finished speaking, the back door opened, sending a misshapen rectangle of yellow light across the lawn. Summer’s shadow created a black form in the center of the pale rectangle. “Peter? Thomas?”

  Pa turned toward the house. “Ja, Summer, still out here we are. We will come in soon.”

  The door closed, sealing them once more in a cloak of gray. Pa put his big hand on Thomas’s shoulder and squeezed. “Tomorrow, when businesses open downtown, you go send a telegram to this newspaper office to say you’re coming, and you buy your train ticket. You go to Boston. You seek your path.”

  “And . . . and you won’t be hurt?” Thomas held his breath.

  “Ach, son, of course it hurts to see you go. I love you, and I miss you when you are not here. But that is the way of life—people coming and going. A poor excuse for a father I would be if I held you back and kept you fro
m blooming.” The hand on Thomas’s shoulder squeezed then fell away. “To bed now. I am tired, and I must speak to Summer about your leave-taking.” He turned and headed to the house, his plodding steps and sloped shoulders mute evidence of his heartache.

  “Daphne?”

  At her father’s voice, Daphne tipped her head in acknowledgement but continued to press her fingers to the piano’s ivory keys.

  “I received an intriguing telegram message at work this afternoon.”

  Daphne’s hands stilled on the piano keys. She peeked over her shoulder. Harrison Severt, Sr., sank into his favorite parlor chair and fixed Daphne with a piercing look. She turned the stool to face her father, crossed her ankles, and rested her clasped hands in her lap. “Oh?”

  Father snorted, his eyes narrowing. “Don’t play cat and mouse with me, Daphne. You know very well who sent the message.”

  Daphne’s heart pounded, but not in trepidation of her father’s wrath. No, the pounding heart was an indication of excited delight. Placing a finger against her lips, she gave a few thoughtful taps. “Could the sender possibly be Harry’s good friend Thomas Ollen-burger?”

  Her father scoffed loudly, just as Daphne expected. “You are cunning, my dear. I have the sneaking suspicion not only I but this Ollenburger are dancing at the ends of your puppet strings. A shame you weren’t a boy—I could use someone with your expertise for manipulation at the office.”

  Not for the first time, Daphne experienced a pang of resentment. Her father’s cavalier attitude concerning her gender hurt, yet she wouldn’t trade her female status. A woman gifted with manipulation could move mountains no man’s brute strength could touch.

  “So will you put him on staff?” Daphne now asked, using a deliberately light tone.

  “I don’t see where I have much choice, considering the boy already believes a position is waiting.” He shrugged. “As it turns out, one of the men in advertising decided to move back to his home state of North Carolina, leaving me with a proofreading position to fill.”