A Groom for Greta (Amish Brides of Celery Fields)

by Anna Schmidt

  Jacob chuckled. “Only when Roger Hadwell runs out of stuff like the wallpaper paste she likes using for school projects.”

  “Wallpaper paste,” Luke muttered.

  “Yep, she can get pretty annoyed with Roger when he forgets to stock up although, if you ask me, she enjoys the excuse to come into town here now and again. For certain that pretty little sister of hers will find any reason to come here or head down to the bay.” He chuckled and then licked the stub of a pencil as he figured the total. “You and Miss Goodloe have a spat, did you?”

  Luke’s expression must have mirrored the shock he felt at the unexpected question for Jacob hastened to add, “Thought I heard some time back that you and the schoolteacher were...”

  “Neh,” Luke said as he handed over payment for the goods.

  “My mistake.” The clang of the cash register’s bell was doubled by the jangle of the bells mounted above the front door. Both men glanced up to see the new customer. Both men’s eyes widened in surprise when they saw Lydia standing in the doorway.

  “Did you forget something, Miss Goodloe?” Jacob asked, coming from around the counter and walking up the long aisle to where she stood.

  Luke felt rooted to the spot, his hand on the box of goods he’d just purchased, his eyes darting around the store for some other exit that would save Lydia from having to openly shun him twice in one day.

  “I... That is... I wondered if perhaps you might have something to recommend for cleaning seashells, Mr. Olsen? My sister is an avid collector and since I’m in town already, I thought perhaps you might know of something that makes the job easier. I know there are many of the tourists who collect when they are in town and...”

  In all the time he’d known Lydia Goodloe, Luke did not think he had ever heard her string so many words together without so much as pausing for a breath.

  “As a matter of fact,” she continued, focusing all of her attention on Jacob, “my sister is at the bay right now and I thought that perhaps when she got home later I could surprise her.” Luke found the way she had raised her voice and the emphasis she was placing on specific words mystifying. At the bay right now.

  Surprise her.

  Jacob held up a small brush. “This stiff bristle brush can do a good job of removing the barnacles and such without damaging the luster of the shell itself.” He scurried down another aisle and returned with some small instruments. “These nut picks are good for the tighter places.”

  “I can see how they would do the job,” Lydia said as she appeared to study the small tools Jacob held. “I’ll take both the brush and the picks,” she announced as she moved toward the counter, her eyes still avoiding any contact with Luke. She moved past him as if he weren’t even there. “As I mentioned, Greta is even now at the bay. She’s taken to spending several hours there in the afternoons and early evenings. The sunsets are something she especially enjoys.”

  “She stays there ’til dusk? How does she get back to Celery Fields?” Jacob had wrapped the brush and tools and made the necessary change while continuing the conversation.

  For the first time since she’d returned to the store, Lydia’s gaze flicked toward Luke, but then she turned her attention back to collecting her packages. “She usually has the bicycle but I needed it today so she walked. I do worry about her especially since those Amish who go there to fish always leave well before sunset. That and the fact that there are so many motorized vehicles on the road, but she insisted on going.”

  “She’ll be all right,” Jacob assured her. “I hope these work out for her and if not, you tell her to stop by and we can see what else might be available.”

  “I appreciate that, Mr. Olsen. Good day to you.”

  Lydia turned and seemed once again about to sweep past Luke as if he were no more than one of the brooms and mops that Jacob had stacked in a barrel near the counter. But in the instant when they were side by side, she ducked her head as if to avoid any eye contact with him and he distinctly heard her whisper, “Go to her. She needs you.”

  Surely he had been mistaken. The very idea that Lydia Goodloe of all people might go against the Ordnung and actually speak to him was unthinkable. And yet after the evenings he’d spent with Greta, he understood the deep bond the two sisters shared. It was not out of the question that either sister would risk everything if faced with the choice of protecting or comforting the other. Lydia had given him a direct order. Go to her. Further she had provided him with Greta’s whereabouts and the assurance that it would be safe for him to go there.

  She needs you.

  * * *

  All that week Greta had made it her habit to complete her chores as quickly as possible and then bicycle to the bay—the one place where she felt she could think. The bay was the one place where she did not have to see Luke moving in and out of his shop, dealing with the few customers who still came to him from Sarasota. The one place where she did not have to deliberately stay on the other side of the street to avoid the possibility of passing by him.

  The bay had long been her refuge. Her father had brought her there often, once he realized that she enjoyed coming along whenever he went fishing there. He would wade out into the deeper water while she roamed the sandbar and shallow water closer to shore. After his death a year earlier she had started coming alone. Odd, she thought now, that not once had she ever thought of asking Josef to come with her. Odd, that all she could think about lately was sharing the spot with Luke.

  As the announcement of their plans to wed drew closer, she had thought about all the times they would share here. He would learn to fish—and perhaps teach their sons to fish, as well. She and the girls would look for shells and she would teach them to respect the precious life forms that inhabited the conchs and whelks and other species making their home in the calm, warm waters of the bay.

  She stubbed her toe and gave a little cry of surprise mingled with pain. She’d left her shoes on the grass near the narrow sand strip where it was easiest to enter the water. She knew better than not to pay attention to where she was walking. Many of the shells had razor sharp edges and others were round and smooth and slippery enough to cause her to lose her balance. She hopped on one foot for a few seconds until the initial shot of pain waned, then bent to find the culprit.

  Buried deep in the muck with only its spiraled end partially exposed was a lightening whelk that, given the width of its exposed end, was possibly the largest specimen she had ever seen. Gently she tugged at it and knew it still held its tenant when it resisted her pull. She bent down, uncaring that the hem of her skirt was getting soaked, and pushed away the wet sand until the length of it was exposed. It had to be nearly twelve inches in length. With great care she urged it to release its hold and when it came free with a sucking sound that made her smile, she needed both hands to support the weight of it. With care and wonder she turned it over in time to see the slick black foot of the sea animal slide back inside the shelter of the shell and close the hard aperture or door that kept out intruders like her.

  The outside rim of the shell was a pearly opalescent white that caught the late afternoon sun and turned it into rainbows of color. Greta ran her thumb over the shell, marveling at how the exposed part that she had stubbed her toe on was rough and barnacle covered, while this underside was so beautiful that it brought tears to her eyes. Reluctantly she turned the whelk over again and set it precisely into the indented spot it had occupied before she’d disturbed it.

  “Sorry,” she whispered, “but thank you for being there and for reminding me that even when something appears so worn and scarred on the one side, it might just be protecting something perfect and precious underneath.” She stayed there for several long minutes, watching over the whelk as it settled itself more firmly into the sand. It would not be there tomorrow or even an hour from now, she knew.

  Many times she had followed the trails of various species left behind like footprints in the sand, hoping to come upon the creature itself. But usually
the trail eventually disappeared—not unlike the footprints she was leaving as she moved on across the damp sandbar toward the beds of clamshells that marked the place where an inland bayou emptied into the bay. Not unlike the joys of her life had disappeared, she thought now, unable to stem the roil of bitterness and disappointment that rose in her throat like nausea.

  “I know that it is not my place to question You, Heavenly Father,” she said aloud as she walked. “But I am so very confused. What is it that You want of me? And Luke? He is a good man—kind and caring of others. Please take this burden from him—from us both.”

  But she knew that such a thing was unlikely. Lydia had learned from Hannah Harnischer, whose husband Levi was the church deacon, that to go against the ruling of another congregation—even one in Canada—was simply not done. “Of course, there is always the possibility that Bishop Troyer will consider the fact that Luke has already suffered mightily in all of this,” Lydia had hastened to add, no doubt aware of the pain that her news was causing Greta.

  “It hardly matters, Liddy,” Greta had told her. “Even if the bishop recommends leniency, the congregation still must vote unanimously to accept his ruling and we both know that Josef will never vote in favor of such a thing.”

  The way that Liddy had looked down before forcing a half smile and murmuring something about trusting in God had told Greta that she was right. And so her task when she came to the bay was to pray for guidance. What plan did God have in mind for her? And because she had never believed that God was either cruel or vengeful she knew that indeed there had to be some purpose in all that had happened.

  She stared out toward the horizon where the sun was beginning to tinge the clouds with pinks and lavenders. Soon it would be dusk. She should start for home. Liddy would worry, especially since Greta did not have their bicycle for transportation. The walk home would take some time and if she didn’t start right away it would be well after dark when Greta arrived.

  But still she lingered, searching for answers that refused to come and grieving for all that she and Luke might have shared.

  * * *

  Luke was in such a rush to follow Lydia’s instructions that he almost forgot to take the box of goods that Jacob had packed for him. And he did not miss the odd look followed by the sly grin as Jacob called him back to remind him.

  “I expect you can still catch up to her,” Jacob said with a chuckle and a nod toward the street where Lydia Goodloe was peddling past on her bicycle.

  Luke set the box of pans and dishes into the back of his wagon, taking care to pad the box with some old horse blankets to keep them from sliding around. Instead of turning the wagon north toward Celery Fields at the end of Main Street, he turned south and followed the road as it curved along the bay, his eyes peeled for any sign of Greta. He passed fishermen on their way home for the day as well as women from town pushing baby prams. Several drivers honked their car horns at him as they impatiently sped past him, causing his team to shy and stumble.

  Realizing that he’d be better off on foot, Luke found a place to leave his wagon and team and retraced his steps along the calm waters of Sarasota Bay. He had nearly given up when he spotted a movement near the bend where the street curved east and there she was, not twenty yards from where he stood. Her head was bowed as she studied the clear water that covered her ankles and feet and soaked the hem of her dress. Her bonnet obscured her face but he would know her form and movements anywhere.

  He took a moment to pull off his shoes and socks and set them next to hers on the narrow patch of sand that could not be called a beach. Then he waded into the water, surprised at its warmth and at the soft sandy muck that instantly covered his feet. He uttered a grunt as he pulled his feet free and Greta looked around.

  “You do not need to say anything or even look at me,” he said as he worked his way closer to her much as he might have approached a skittish horse. But instead of shying away she splashed her way through the shallow water until she was standing within a breath of him. He had to clench his fists to keep from pulling her into his arms.

  He needn’t have bothered trying to restrain himself for after only an instant she flung herself against him, her arms wrapped around his waist as she pressed her cheek to his chest. “Oh, Luke, what are we going to do?”

  Instinctively he completed the circle of their embrace and rested his cheek against the top of her bonnet. “We will do whatever God wills,” he told her.

  She looked up at him and her expression was one of such fury that he was taken aback.

  “And what if God wills it that...” She seemed incapable of finishing her thought.

  “Then His will be done,” Luke said. “You know that’s the way of it. It is not for us to decide or to know what the future holds, Greta.”

  “But I love you,” she fumed.

  “Enough to let me go?”

  Now she stepped away from him. “You are leaving?”

  “I may have to, Greta. I cannot sustain a business in a community where I am shunned.”

  “You could find another way to make our living—farming. If we farmed then we could live away from town and...”

  Luke pulled her to him again, aware of the last rays of sun streaking the sky behind her. “Sh-h-h,” he coaxed. “Think how hard it would be for you to live so near to Lydia and the rest of your family and yet never be able to visit or share in their joys. Think how lonely life would become for you. In time you would rightly come to resent making such a choice.”

  “Never.”

  “Do not say that, Greta. It is because you cannot know the toll such a decision might take that you must trust in God to lead you in the right way. At this moment I know it seems like everything is going wrong but you have to trust me. I have traveled this road before. It led me to you at a time when I thought that my life was doomed.”

  “And then why would God bring us both such happiness only to snatch it away again?”

  Her logic was simplistic and yet he had no answer for her, nothing he could say that would ease her pain and stress. The truth was that in the still darkness of the night he had asked himself—and God—that very same question. And maybe in that doubt lay the answer. “Greta, I do not have the solution to this struggle we face but I have faith that God does. If we are patient in time...”

  “We don’t have time,” she argued. “The vote is to be taken on Sunday and even if Bishop Troyer recommends forgiveness and leniency...”

  Luke pressed his finger to her lips. “Walk with me,” he invited as he took her hand and stepped onto a sandbar that had formed close to the shoreline. “Let’s enjoy the sunset together.”

  Together they followed the line of the sandbar until they were standing several feet from the shore, water surrounding them, the sounds of the town settling in for the evening behind them. Luke stared at the lines of vermilion and orange that stretched out across the horizon as the fiery ball of the sun appeared to sink into the water. He put his arm around Greta’s shoulder and drew her closer. “There was a time when I stood on the banks of a rushing river, Greta, knowing that Dorie had died there. The day was waning and it had been a day of storms and darkness. But as I stood there I looked up and on the horizon I saw a single ray of light breaking through the layers of thunderclouds. I clung to that ray of light then, Greta, as you must cling to this beautiful sunset today.”

  He looked down at her and saw that she was frowning.

  “Promise me, Greta,” he urged. “Promise me that whatever happens you will not lose faith.”

  “I promise—I will not lose faith. But I also will not lose hope.”

  He framed her earnest face with his palms and kissed her, knowing that this might be his last chance. Her response to his lips meeting hers was almost more than he could bear, but after a long moment he tore himself away. “We have to go.”

  “I know,” Greta sighed. “I am later than usual and Lydia will be worried.”

  “Your sister knows you are with me,
” Luke admitted. “She sent me to find you.”

  Greta shook her head and smiled her first smile since he had found her. “She is always watching out for me.”

  “And that is why I know that whatever happens, you will be all right.” He laced his fingers in hers and led the way back to where they had left their shoes. Greta stooped to wipe his feet dry with the skirt of her apron. When he reached for his socks, she took them from him and tugged first one and then the other onto his feet, then did the same with his shoes.

  All the while the looks they exchanged said plainly that they were performing the sacred ritual of the washing of the feet. In services men washed the feet of other men and women washed the feet of other women, but it felt absolutely right and proper that Luke and Greta should be performing this ritual together. When she had finished, she sat on the grass while he rubbed her feet dry and brushed away the last remnants of sand with his hands, then seeing that she had worn no stockings, he placed first one shoe and then the other on her feet.

  And in the tradition of their faith, once the ritual was completed they clasped hands and kissed each other lightly.

  “Da Herr sei mit uns,” Luke murmured.

  “The Lord be with us,” Greta repeated then added, “Amen, in Peace.”

  “Amen, zum vreda,” Luke repeated as he silently prayed that it would be so.

  Chapter Fifteen

  There was hardly a place left to park their buggy when Greta and Lydia arrived at Levi Harnischer’s farm for services. The crowded yard was certainly no surprise. Everyone knew that on this day Luke’s future in Celery Fields would be decided. For two long weeks Greta’s thoughts had seesawed between wishing this day would come and dreading that it ever would. For today Bishop Troyer would make his recommendation to the congregation regarding Luke’s fate. Then the congregation would vote as to whether or not they would accept that recommendation. The vote had to be unanimous and therein lay the problem.