A Promise of Grace

by Lynette Sowell

  Matthew entered the kitchen. “I’m going to bed, Dad. Did you have a good Christmas?”

  “Yes, yes I did.”

  “Good. I hope you like the bicycle I got for you.”

  “I do. You did a good job on it.”

  “Thanks. Good night.” Matthew grinned, still looking like a young boy before he left the room.

  Maybe hindsight enabled people to see everything clearly.

  God had still blessed him and Belinda with a son born of their love. For him, Silas would always be thankful.

  As for Lena, the daughter of his heart if not of his flesh, he said one more prayer for guidance on how to help her. Maybe she was only enduring the effects of recuperating from major surgery, but Silas suspected something more lay beneath the surface.

  Maybe Rochelle could help her. Not so she could report back to Silas, but be the listening ear and provide wise guidance to the young woman.

  29

  While the Amish branch of the family celebrated its second Christmas, or Zwedde Grischtdaag, for Rochelle the twenty-sixth was another workday. Several clients had special requests for day-after-Christmas cleaning, so she spent the day at three homes.

  Betsy had left early in the morning to meet her family and Thaddeus. The young woman glowed with anticipation of her wedding day, in four more days on the thirtieth. Her anxiety over the weather dissipated when Rochelle shared the forecast with her: sunny skies, highs in the low eighties, chance of a late afternoon thunderstorm. By then, the sisters would be having their shared reception at the Tourist Church facilities and the rain could come if it wanted to.

  She arrived home to an empty house—no sign of Emma—and made a cup of tea before opening her mail. Bills, end-of-the-year statements of accounts, a Christmas card arriving a day late, but no less appreciated.

  She checked the cupcakes, covering the countertop and breakfast bar. She’d left them to thaw so she could frost them later, and they’d be served up at the wedding reception in a few days.

  A knock sounded at the door, so Rochelle reluctantly got back on her feet to answer it.

  Vera Byler and her daughter Patience stood on the front steps.

  “Hello, Rochelle. May we come in?”

  Rochelle braced herself, then chided herself for the reaction. But with Vera Byler, one never knew what would happen with the woman.

  She glimpsed a wariness in the woman’s eyes. Maybe Vera had learned a hard lesson from the words she’d used.

  “Yes, please, come in. I’ve just put the kettle on for tea. Would you like a cup?”

  “No, but some water would be fine.”

  So, she wasn’t planning to linger. Rochelle opened the door for the pair and they followed her through the entry and front room, then into the kitchen.

  Vera and Patience sat down at the table, almost in unison. Rochelle served them some ice water, then took out a mug for her tea.

  “My, but you’ve made a lot of cupcakes,” Vera observed.

  “For Emma’s wedding.”

  “Ah, so it’s going to happen.” Vera’s eyebrows shot up.

  “Yes, at last.” Rochelle found the teabags. Of course, Vera and Patience hadn’t stopped by to discuss the wedding. She waited for Vera to continue.

  “The reason we’re here is, well, we’re interested in buying your business.”

  “You are?”

  Rochelle hadn’t expected this. Yes, she’d asked Imogene to help find someone, but with preparing for Christmas and closing her books for the year, looking for a buyer hadn’t been high on her list of priorities.

  “Yes.” Patience finally found her voice. “Imogene Brubaker and I were talking recently, and she mentioned you wanted to sell your business. And I’ve liked pitching in, taking care of Lena Fry’s clients,” Patience said.

  “I see.” Rochelle glanced at Vera. Patience was old enough to be Rochelle’s sister, but still followed in her mother’s shadow.

  “Her father and I discussed it, and we know Patience is a good worker. We believe she’s equal to the job of running a cleaning business. After all, you’re an old maid and you’ve been successful.”

  The kettle began to howl, and Rochelle let it make the screeching noise instead of the one she wanted to emit. Teabag in mug, she poured in hot water. She turned around and faced them.

  “Yes, I’m thankful for how the business has gone all these years. It’s had its ups and downs, but I have a file of happy clients and, I hope, equally happy workers.”

  “So, what are your terms? How much do you want for the business?”

  “Well, I’m not quite sure yet. I’ll have to talk to Phineas Beachy to draw up some papers and make you an offer.”

  “Good.” Vera nodded.

  Rochelle carried her mug of tea to the table. “I’m closing out the year’s books this week, and it’s been a good year. However, after this first semester of studies, I’ve decided for the last part of my training, it would be best if I could focus on my studies without the distraction of running a business.”

  “I understand.” Vera glanced at Patience.

  A loud clattering at the front of the house made them glance in that direction.

  Betsy skittered to a stop, almost stumbling on her flip-flops. “Emma? Is Emma here?”

  “No, I’ve been home about thirty minutes or so. I’m not sure where she is. I assumed she was with you and the rest of the family.”

  “No.” Betsy shot down the hallway toward Emma’s room. “Aenti Chelle!”

  “What’s wrong?” Rochelle sprang from her chair and headed down the hallway.

  “It’s true—Emma’s gone!”

  * * *

  They certainly made a sight at Siesta Key Beach, nearly two dozen Plain people spending the day at the shore. What had started out as a family outing somehow mushroomed into a Pinecraft expedition on the day after Christmas.

  Silas sat on one of Uncle Tobias’s beach chairs. He and Aunt Fran even made the bus ride to the beach, and they occupied another pair of beach chairs while Lena reclined on one they’d bought in Siesta Village.

  Matthew and his friend Levi were knee-deep in the surf, trying to find sand dollars.

  How Silas missed having Rochelle with them. He hadn’t heard her mention the shore once during the nearly six months he’d been in Florida.

  He had big news to share with her, something he’d known was coming up but hadn’t thought much about. On Sunday, he would become an official member of the local Mennonite church. He had completed his time of proving, punctuated only by the murmurs of Vera Byler.

  By finishing his proving, he was committing to the local church and all his commitment involved. He wasn’t using the church for his personal gain, and he was making the statement that, yes, the Lord as well as his heart had him here in Pinecraft.

  Rochelle had him here in Pinecraft, too, and had his heart.

  Lena stirred on the chair beside his. She wore a pair of large sunglasses, the color similar to her vivid blue head covering. Some women in the church wore veils, some black, some white, others simple coverings of white lace. Nothing like this, though.

  He might suggest she wear her white covering on Sundays and keep this one for days out like today.

  He reminded himself of the idea he’d had last evening, to ask Rochelle to speak to Lena. Maybe this would be another area where Rochelle could help, if she was willing.

  “Hey, Dad! I found some!” Matthew waved from where he stood in the surf. “Come try!”

  Silas stood, rolling up his pant legs to the knee and adjusting his suspenders. “Here goes . . .” The Gulf waters were cool, but not so cool to make it uncomfortable.

  At the beach the day after Christmas, much like in Mozambique. The waves smacked his legs, soaking him from the waist down.

  “Do it like this, Dad!” Matthew leaned over, his arms mostly submerged in the water.

  Silas rolled up his shirtsleeves as far as they would roll, then hunched over, reaching into
the sand, feeling the pull of the water on his hands.

  Wait. No, it was a piece of shell.

  Then he stood up, stretched. Scrabbling for sand dollars was a young person’s thing. His back complained, so he stretched again, then resumed scrounging on the sand.

  There. A flat, round something. He lifted it up.

  “You got one.” Matthew splashed over in his direction.

  “Yes, it’s not broken, either.” Silas glanced across the rippling water. Levi was back toward the shore, picking up shells and whatnot washed ashore. “I have something I’d like to ask you, Matthew. But it’s important you don’t talk to anyone about it, until I say it’s okay.”

  “What is it? Am I in trouble?”

  “No, not at all.” Silas handed Matthew the sand dollar. “Here. For your collection. Anyway, what do you think of Miss Keim?”

  “Uh, she’s nice. Lena likes her a lot. I think she reminds Lena of Mom.” He shrugged. “But she’s quieter than Mom.”

  “What would you think if I asked her to marry me?”

  “I don’t know. But I like her, too. She’s good at taking care of people.”

  “Yes, she is.” He glanced at his son. “Well, what do you think?”

  “Dad, it’s not important what I think. I’m not marrying her. I’m not trying to be disrespectful. But you haven’t been the same since Mom died. And since we’ve been here, and you’ve spent time with Miss Keim, you seem like my old dad. Except better.” Matthew splashed a few steps away. “Maybe you should see what she thinks about it.”

  Out of the mouths of babes. Well, Matthew wasn’t exactly an infant. But he was young, innocent.

  Silas knew he needed to listen to the simple advice from his son. When the timing was right, he would see what Rochelle thought about the idea.

  He glanced back toward the group. Someone was sitting in his chair. Steven Hostetler.

  Silas sloshed in the direction of the row of beach chairs, the breeze chilling his body where his soaked garments stuck to him.

  “Steven.”

  The young man bolted up from the chair. “Ah, hello, Mr. Fry.”

  The two shook hands, and Silas settled back onto his seat. Lena’s cheeks flushed red.

  “What brings you out to the beach today?”

  “Just visiting like a good chunk of the village is.” He bobbed his head, his focus bouncing from Silas to Lena.

  A phone warbled. Steven pulled it from his pocket. “Excuse me.” He frowned as he pushed a button. His features changed, his frown deepening.

  “Yes. No, I didn’t know. Yes, I’m at Siesta Beach right now, with the Frys . . . she what?”

  Lena shifted in her beach chair, concern on her face.

  He ended the call. “I . . . I need to go. I’m sorry.”

  Steven ran from the beach, sand flying up from his sneakers.

  Silas watched until he disappeared from view, then studied his daughter’s face. “What happened?”

  Lena sighed. “Steven . . . Steven was the one who gave me the head scarf.”

  “What?”

  “He apologized.”

  “Apologized?”

  “He brought it over to the house, then changed his mind. But we’d already gotten home Christmas night, and it was too late for him to get it back.”

  Silas took his seat. “But he’s marrying Emma Yoder in four days.”

  Lena leaned forward, wincing as she did so, burying her face in her hands. “I know.”

  Right now, Silas wanted Rochelle’s input. “The gift wasn’t proper. Not if he’s marrying someone else.”

  “I know, Dad.” She reached for the scarf.

  “No, leave it on for now.” He shook his head. “You can decide what to do with it later, after we get home.”

  Lena nodded. “Oh, Dad. I wasn’t trying to cause any problems. He’s so nice, and kind. He knows a lot about the ocean and animals, and we were talking because I was thinking of changing my studies.”

  Silas wasn’t sure what to say, so kept silent.

  “I . . . I think he likes me, Dad, more than he ought to. And, I like him, too.”

  Silas blew out a deep breath. Now what?

  30

  Rochelle rushed past Betsy and into Emma’s room. Her bed was neatly made, the extra thermal blanket folded neatly at the foot.

  She strode to the closet door and slid it open. Empty, except for hangers.

  “Did she say she was leaving? Why would she go without saying anything?”

  “Someone said . . . someone said they saw her boarding the bus today, the bus to Ohio.” Betsy scurried from the doorway and back down the hall.

  Rochelle went to the kitchen table for her phone. “I’m going to call her,” she called out.

  “Perhaps we should leave,” Vera Byler said, standing as she did so. Patience followed suit.

  “I’ll let you know, Vera and Patience. I apologize for cutting our conversation short like this. But I promise, we’ll speak about the business again soon.”

  “Please, let us know how Emma is,” Patience said. “I like her, and I pray she’s all right.”

  The two scurried from the house, and Rochelle pushed the button on her phone.

  A ring sounded from the bedroom. “What on earth?”

  She trotted back to the bedroom, where Emma’s phone rang from its spot on the nightstand.

  Why didn’t the girl just talk to somebody? Why did she have to be so drastic?

  Rochelle calmed herself as she returned to the kitchen. She could have used the same medicine to cure impulsivity at the same age.

  Betsy’s phone warbled. “Mamm! Nein, mamm, she’s gone.” She continued in German, shaking her head.

  She looked up and frowned at Rochelle. “A moment, mamm.”

  “Have they heard anything?”

  “No, Mamm said she heard, too. They are on their way over here, Mamm and Daed.”

  Rochelle sank onto the nearest kitchen chair. “But the wedding . . . Steven . . .”

  Betsy’s frown deepened and she continued speaking with her mother. She ended the call with a deep sigh, then set her phone on the table.

  “Betsy, did Emma give any signs she was going to leave?”

  “No, Aenti Chelle. At the Christmas parade, even, she was telling everyone how excited she was about the wedding.”

  “What a mess. And your mamm and daed even included a mention of them along with your wedding announcement in The Budget.”

  Still, if Emma hadn’t been sure, it was better for her not to marry at all than to marry with doubts.

  The front door burst open. “Emma?” Steven’s voice rang into the kitchen.

  “She’s not here, Steven,” Rochelle said. “I’m sorry.”

  “Not here? Where did she go?” He paced the kitchen, his sandy hair askew, his face red.

  “Back. Back to Ohio.” Betsy’s voice quavered. She shook her head.

  “What? She told me . . . I should have known . . .” He continued pacing, tugging on his suspenders. “When Lena—” his voice cut off. “Never mind.”

  Rochelle glanced at Betsy, who stood and said, “I think I’ll go see to my kapps,” and headed off in the direction of the bedrooms.

  Steven rubbed his forehead. “Aunt Chelle, she left. She’s gone.”

  Rochelle nodded. The young man, in shock, took a seat.

  “But we were supposed to get married. I don’t . . . I don’t understand. We had a disagreement, and then there was Lena.” Then his brow furrowed.

  “What about Lena?” Rochelle leaned forward on her chair.

  “I like her, a lot. I love Emma, but Lena wasn’t pressuring me. I felt so much . . . pressure with Emma. I don’t know how to explain it.” He groaned, then leaned his forehead on the table. He bolted upright. “Eli Troyer. He has something to do with this. I know. Ever since he got here in Pinecraft, I’ve seen him around.”

  “I don’t think Eli would deliberately sabotage your and Emma’s engagement.
He respects your commitment. You do know Emma had been engaged to him, the end of the summer before this past summer.”

  Steven hopped up from the chair, the action knocking it over. The chair hit the tile floor with a crash.

  “Aw, I’m sorry, Aunt Chelle, it was an accident.”

  “I know.” She wanted to tell him what she’d told Betsy, about this perhaps being a blessing in disguise. He wouldn’t believe it now, wouldn’t understand, but one day, he would.

  Steven set the chair upright. “May I get a glass of tea?”

  “Yes, help yourself.”

  He stalked over to the cabinet, fished out a glass, then found the pitcher of tea.

  No, if Rochelle was the kind of person to wager, she would be willing to wager Emma’s doubts about Steven began to simmer when she quit Keim Cleaning. The young people’s fishing trip set the simmer to a slow boil, followed by Eli’s arrival, then the growing friendship with Lena.

  When Steven and Emma had connected in the early months of the year, Emma had been giggly and charming. Lena connecting with Steven on the fishing trip had been direct and no-nonsense, with a charm all her own, the kind a young woman possessed and likely didn’t realize.

  Steven sat down again on the chair, gingerly this time. “Regardless of who’s to blame, the wedding’s off. If she’s so unsure, I don’t want to marry her.”

  “You’re right. I suggested to her that if she were so unsure, she needed to talk to the man she loved. Not be stubborn or scared, and hide her feelings.” Like I did . . .

  “Well, she didn’t talk to me.” Steven took a big gulp of tea, then set the glass down. “I guess your suggestion backfired.”

  “Yes and no. I was only trying to help. What I guess is, we don’t know what’s going on inside someone’s head sometimes.”

  Steven nodded. “Aunt Chelle, it’s gonna be okay. You’re a helper. It’s what you do. And if you helped Emma and me avoid a big mistake, something we’d have to deal with the rest of our lives, then I’m glad you helped. Even if you didn’t know what was going to happen.”

  Rochelle had to smile at the young man. A helper? Yes, she did like to help. “You’re right, Steven, it’s going to be okay. Like I told Emma, God is good at helping us unsnarl our messes. I’m sorry you’re hurting, Emma was hurting.”