by Anna Schmidt
“We’ll find everything when we haul away the debris,” he reminded her. “There’s no need to...”
“But that would not be nearly so much fun, Luke Starns. Do you not ever consider having a little fun?”
Fun? It sounded like a word from another language to Luke. He had been forced to maintain his focus on weightier matters for so long that solemnity had become a habit. How long had it been since he’d done something just for the pure pleasure of doing it? He moved a charred board with the toe of his boot and quickly uncovered three more small hand tools.
“Three to one,” he called out as he set the tools in a pile.
“Unfair,” Greta said but she was laughing and the sound was like musical notes. “You know what to look for—the shape and size and all.”
“It was your idea,” he reminded her as he held up two nails that he’d forged last week. “There are at least a dozen of these if that helps.”
“Found one,” she shouted and then quickly dropped the nail and shook her hand. “Hot,” she admitted.
“Work in this area,” he advised, motioning to the ruins where he stood. “Everything here seems to have cooled off.” He had to force himself not to go to her and examine the possible burn to her fingers.
“Here’s another—and another,” she said as she took his advice and immediately found two more of the nails. “You’d best start searching, Luke, or I am surely going to be the winner.”
Luke made a halfhearted attempt to search the ground around his feet, but the truth was that the only thing he could look at was Greta’s face hidden by her black bonnet and then turned up to him with that luminous, heart-stopping smile whenever she unearthed a new treasure.
He was considering the possibility that just maybe he might be able to persuade Greta to give her sister’s plan a chance when he heard a shout from across the street and looked up to see Hilda Yoder bearing down on both of them.
“Uh-oh,” Greta muttered. “We’re in for it now, Luke Starns.”
* * *
Greta straightened to her full height and folded her hands primly in front of her as she waited for Hilda Yoder to make her way from the dry goods store across the street to where Greta and Luke had been searching for things to be salvaged.
“Such levity after such tragedy,” Hilda muttered, clicking her tongue in disapproval as she approached them. “Surely, Luke, you find no humor in the loss of your business.”
“But I have not lost my business, Hilda,” Luke explained. “I have only lost the building that housed it. I will rebuild and be back in business by month’s end.”
“Still, it hardly seems proper for the street to ring with laughter at a time like this.” She frowned at Greta. “Do you not have things to do, Greta Goodloe?”
“Things to do?” Greta decided to play the innocent. She blinked her eyes at Hilda and was aware that Luke was fighting a smile.
“Shopping, ironing—whatever it is you do on a Tuesday morning.”
“I had thought that such mundane chores might be postponed in light of our neighbor’s loss,” Greta replied. “I came to see how Lydia and I might best help Luke recover his losses. Lydia extended an invitation for him to lodge in our barn loft.”
Hilda sucked in a breath that said far more than the stream of words she clearly was trying to swallow. But the very idea that two single women might house a single man, albeit in their barn, was clearly news that had shaken Hilda to her very core.
“It is a kind offer,” Luke said, “and one that I have refused. I will seek other shelter.”
“I should hope so,” Hilda muttered.
“Perhaps you and your husband have a spare room?”
Greta had to bite her lip to keep from laughing out loud at the expression that passed over Hilda’s face. So Luke Starns had a sense of humor after all. “The storage room at the back of the store,” Greta suggested. “It would be perfect—close to everything he needs.”
“I suppose that could be arranged,” Hilda hedged. “But there’s to be no cooking on the premises. We’ve had one fire and there’s no need to tempt fate by setting the stage for another.”
“There, Luke, you see. It’s all settled. Hilda and her family will take care of housing for you while Roger Hadwell takes charge of organizing the supplies and labor necessary for you to rebuild as soon as possible. And the women will see to organizing meals to feed the work crews.” She clapped her hands together and beamed at them both.
Hilda pursed her lips and glared at Greta. “Then may I suggest that you get on with your piece of this, Greta? The work crews will likely be here first thing tomorrow to begin clearing away this rubble and they will need plenty of water and sustenance if they are to withstand the heat.”
“Right you are,” Greta said as she turned to head to her house. “I’ll get started right away.”
“I’ll send Esther to help,” Hilda called after her.
Greta’s step faltered only slightly as the full weight of Josef’s betrayal hit her once again. “Yes, please do,” she called over her shoulder, but she knew that her voice was too high-pitched to sound sincere. And she knew that, in her way, Hilda had as usual had the last word.
“Oh, why does she have to be so mean-spirited?” Greta fumed later as she and Lydia sat together, each doing a bit of mending before bedtime.
“We may be Amish, but we are none of us angels,” Lydia reminded her. “You must include Hilda in your prayers for surely her unpleasant behavior comes from some deep-seated unhappiness.”
Greta sighed. “You are too forgiving sometimes, Lydia. How about the idea that maybe she’s just plain mean?”
“There is no such thing as being too forgiving and now I would suggest that you add a prayer asking God to forgive your sharp tongue when it comes to Hilda Yoder.”
Lydia was right, of course. Greta’s feelings toward Hilda—and Esther—were every bit as intolerant as Hilda’s comments to her. “I will pray,” she agreed, and then she smothered a giggle. “I do wish you could have seen the look on her face when Luke suggested that he could stay with her.”
Lydia concentrated on her needlework, but she was smiling. “It would appear that in the aftermath of Luke’s tragedy, you have come to a different opinion of him?”
Greta was surprised to feel herself blushing. “He is more...complicated than I first thought.”
“Truly? In what way?”
“He has a lighter side. One we have not been aware of before now. Before he always seemed so solemn and stiff, but today...” Her voice trailed off as she recalled the lighthearted way that she and Luke had challenged each other to find the salvageable pieces of his business. “And how odd that it should be revealed once he has suffered such calamity.”
“Perhaps it was not the fire and his losses there that stirred this lighter side of his disposition,” Lydia mused. “Perhaps there was another cause—one that was quite unexpected.”
“Must you always speak in riddles, Lydia?”
“All right, in plainer language, I am saying that perhaps his interactions with you—of which there have been several in just the last few days—are responsible for his lighter disposition.”
Greta was struggling to find the words to tell Lydia how ridiculous that theory was when there was a knock at the door. It was past dark—past the time when someone might come calling unless there were some emergency.
Lydia set aside her mending and carried a lamp with her to the door. As she opened the door and lifted the lamp, Greta was surprised to see Luke standing on their front porch.
“Guten abend, Luke Starns,” Lydia said and Greta was sure she did not imagine the hint of humor that brought a lilt to her sister’s voice.
“I have come to discuss your idea,” he announced without bothering with the usual polite greetings. “Could we—you, your sister and I...”
“If you are referencing the suggestion that you and my sister could take advantage of this time when all of Celery Fields be
lieves that it is me you are calling upon to become better acquainted...”
“Yah,” Luke said, cutting Lydia off midsentence.
Lydia turned to Greta. “You know, sister, I find that I am suddenly quite weary.” She set the lamp back on the table. “Be so kind as to offer our guest a glass of that wonderful lemonade you made this afternoon. Guten nacht, Luke...Greta.”
And before Greta could say anything, Lydia had entered her room and closed the door with a firm click, leaving Luke standing on the porch and Greta to deal with him.
“A glass of that lemonade would be welcomed,” he said softly, “that is if you would ask me to stay.”
Without a word she headed for the kitchen as much to gather her wits for this meeting with Luke Starns as to prepare the beverage for him. What could Lydia have been thinking? What was Luke thinking showing up unannounced like this? Had the world gone completely mad? It would seem so. Well, there was nothing to be done but for her to set things right again.
Chapter Eight
While Greta went to get the lemonade, Luke remained standing at the door. He was having serious second thoughts. It had taken him most of the evening to work up the nerve to come here. He should have taken more time to consider his purpose—develop some plan. He had no idea at all what he would say to Greta once she came out to the porch with the lemonade. He had thought it would be the three of them—that there would be the buffer of Lydia’s presence to make the entire discussion take on the trappings of a business meeting. Now he was to be alone with Greta.
Greta—who was certainly taking her time getting lemonade for him. He peered into the darkened hall that led to the kitchen, but could see nothing so he sat down heavily in the wooden swing. He leaned forward, his forearms resting on his knees as he debated simply getting up and leaving. Coming here had been a mistake.
The screen door creaked and she backed her way out, holding the door open with her hip as she balanced a tray set with two tall glasses of lemonade and a plate of ginger cookies. Luke sprang to his feet to hold the door and then relieve her of the tray. “You needn’t have gone to so much trouble,” he said as he looked around for where he might set the tray. Other than the swing, the porch was bare.
“On the step,” Greta said as she lifted the glasses and waited for him to set down the tray before handing him one. Their fingers brushed and for an instant her hand shook and the liquid sloshed dangerously close to the lip of the glass before she steadied it. “Please sit while you have your lemonade,” she said with a nod toward the swing.
He did as she instructed, grateful to have anyone else making decisions about how this encounter might go now that he had come here with no thought other than to accept Lydia’s offer to spend time with Greta. He left plenty of room for her to join him but she settled herself on the top step next to the tray and offered him the plate of cookies.
“Did you make these?” he asked, taking one. Now both hands were filled—one holding the glass and the other the cookie. Luke had never felt so awkward in all his life. He sat back, inadvertently setting the swing in motion and causing the lemonade to spill over his hand and the front of his shirt.
Greta was on her feet at once, using the tea towel that had lined the tray to dab his fingers and shirt, blotting the sticky liquid. Every attempt she made only made things worse as the swing rocked back and forth.
“Hold still,” she ordered as she reached to relieve him of the glass and hand him the towel. But as he clumsily tried to assist her, the swing bolted like a skittish horse and she came tumbling onto his lap as the glass flew out of his hand and the rest of the lemonade showered them both.
At first, as he tried to help Greta off his lap, he thought that the gurgling sounds coming from her were a sign of how distressed and embarrassed she was. “I’m sorry for my clumsiness and for upsetting you, Greta Goodloe,” he said. “I should not have come.”
She raised her face to his then and in the soft amber light from the living room, he saw that she was not upset. She was laughing, her eyes sparkling with a glint of mischief. “Oh, Luke, don’t be so serious. It was an accident—one I had as much part in as you did. As the Englischers might say, it looks like we have broken the ice—or at least the glass.” She nodded toward the broken pieces on the porch floor.
Luke felt the bubble of laughter rising in his throat and before he could stop it, he was chuckling with her as together they bent to pick up the pieces of the glass and set them on the tray. When the deed was done, Greta sat back on the swing next to him and handed him the tea towel. “I don’t think it will stain badly—not if you add a little white vinegar when you wash it.”
With one foot he pushed the swing into motion as he wiped his hands on the towel. “I’ll remember that,” he said.
“Who does your laundry anyway?” she asked.
“I do. My mother died when I was just a boy, leaving my brothers and my Dat and me. We learned to do for ourselves.”
“My Maemm also died when I was little. We had Pleasant though and of course, Lydia was older by a few years, so she taught me.”
“So, we have this in common. Do you remember your mother?”
“Not much. I was only three. Sometimes I think that it’s only the stories I heard about her over the years that I call memories.”
“Yah. I was older than you, but through the years...”
“Your Dat never remarried?”
“No. We kept busy with the farm and the business. Time passed.”
“Your father was also a blacksmith?”
“Yah. He taught me his trade.”
“And your brothers?”
“They took to the farming more. It suited them once they married and started families.”
She was quiet then and her silence made him all that more aware of her closeness. She was so small and slim that if they had sat closer there might have been room for a third person on the swing. She smelled of soap and the zest of the lemons she must have sliced for the lemonade. He was beginning to relax and enjoy the quietness of the night, the nearness of Greta Goodloe, when she spoke again.
“You never married, though. Were you not tempted?”
And there it was—the one topic he had dreaded from the day he’d left Ontario. Should he tell her the entire story and accept the fact that once she heard it, she would want nothing more to do with him? Or should he stick to the plan he’d made the day he’d left a letter of farewell for his father and brothers and left Ontario for good? The plan to start fresh and leave the past behind.
“I mean,” she added when he said nothing right away, “there must have been...opportunities. Surely the single women in your community saw...”
He forced a smile and shrugged. “I never gave them a chance,” he said with a chuckle. “Growing up without a mother—or sisters—I guess I learned to be on my own.”
“Until now. Now your plan is to convince Lydia to marry you.”
She stated this with such assurance that he was momentarily taken aback. Had she not understood why he’d come? Had Lydia not spoken with her about this? Of course she had. Greta had come to the wreckage of his business earlier that very day to discuss the matter.
“I no longer wish to marry your sister, Greta. I wish to marry you—if you’ll have me.” There. It was said. There could be no misunderstanding now. He found he could not look at her as he waited for some response. If she burst out laughing—as he’d noticed she had a tendency to do—he would simply stand up and walk back to the dry goods store where Hilda Yoder had set up a cot for him.
But she did not laugh. In fact she did nothing more than sit there beside him, still as a stone. Then she picked at some bit of string on her apron and he thought perhaps she had at last composed her reply. But she said nothing.
“If you do not wish,” he began.
“Are you always so impatient, Luke Starns?” she snapped. “I am well aware that you and my sister think this the best possible plan for all our futures. What I do
n’t understand is why. You had set your sights on Lydia and just like that, when she rejects you, you have turned them on me?”
“You were not...available for me to consider earlier.” He chose his words carefully, but clearly not carefully enough for Greta.
She was on her feet in an instant, wheeling around to face him, hands planted on her slim hips. “I am not ‘available’ now, Luke Starns. I can understand my sister’s role in this. She has taken charge of my well-being from the time we were both children, but you? What am I to you?”
Several answers to that question sprang instantly to mind—sunshine, loveliness, laughter and lightness among them. But he said none of those things. Instead his wounded pride overcame his true feelings and he stood, as well, towering over her as he brushed past her on his way to the porch steps.
“If you do not wish to even consider...”
“I did not say that,” she replied, stopping him in his tracks.
“You confuse me, Greta Goodloe.”
“Gut.” There was the hint of a smile in her tone. “For you confuse me, as well.”
He fought a smile of his own. Without turning to look back at her, he asked, “And is that a place where we might begin? Perhaps as friends?”
“I have already mistaken friendship for love, Luke. I will not make that mistake again. They are not the same thing.” Her voice was so soft and filled with sadness.
“Do not equate me with Josef Bontrager,” he warned.
“Josef believed we could build a future together. Now, apparently so do you. I really cannot see much difference. In both cases it would seem that you men decide when it suits you to take a wife—mostly for the purpose of starting a family and perhaps companionship...”
He was back onto the porch, his hands grasping her shoulders in an instant. “Stop it,” he ordered. “Your sister is the one who has suggested a match between you and me. She has also plotted out a way for the two of us to become better acquainted without the barrier of gossip and speculation. I have given it considerable thought and it seems to me that this is worth pursuing. Celery Fields is a small community and if, in the end, we only come away with a friendship, doesn’t that carry its own reward?”