A swirl of emotions ran through him, including a strong desire for a drink. Triggers that caused a craving for alcohol, that much he had figured out. Triggers of disappointments, one after the other. The only way he knew to cope with disappointment was to pretend it didn’t matter . . . and that took him right to self-anesthetizing.
The problem was, even if he recognized triggers for what they were, he didn’t know how to stop the disappointments from coming at him. He didn’t fit in anywhere—not here among the Amish, not in the world beyond. Maybe this was as much as he could ever hope for; this was as good as it would ever get for him.
Argh. No wonder he was depressed.
Amos scraped his chair back to sit in it, folded his hands in his lap, and tipped his head down in silent prayer. Izzy followed suit, her heart overflowing with gratitude for having a place in this home. She wished she could tell Amos and Fern how much she appreciated being here, how much she cared for them, but expressive words were hard for her to voice. She hoped they knew. She thought they did.
Amos and Fern spoke English at the table for Izzy’s benefit. She understood more of Penn Dutch than they realized she did, but she didn’t mind keeping it that way, especially now that Luke Schrock was a live-in barn guest. Mostly, though, she did her best to avoid him. It wasn’t easy. As big as Windmill Farm was, they seemed to bump into each other several times a day. Everything about him annoyed her. Every single thing he said or did.
Before supper tonight, she’d been out in the pasture, calling to the sheep to herd them into the pen for the evening, as Luke walked up the driveway from the phone shanty.
He stopped to watch her, leaning his elbows against the pasture fence. “Do you mean to tell me you’ve named those sheep?”
“Each one. Same with my hens. They all have a unique personality.”
His mouth curved into a cynical smile. “Oh, I think you’re gonna regret that.”
She frowned at him. “Why’s that?”
“When it’s time for Amos to send them off to slaughter, it’ll feel like you’re sending pets to the butcher.”
Spinning around, she pointed a finger at him. “You’re wrong. Amos doesn’t send his sheep to slaughter.”
“Oh no? Then what does he do with them? He’s sure not raising them for their wool.” He pushed himself off the fence and walked up to the house for supper.
A couple of ewes suddenly butted heads and started a lot of blatting. “Lucy, Ethel! Stop that fighting.” Those two! They were always causing trouble.
Could Luke be right? No. Certainly not. His words felt like a cloud fleeting across the sky, blocking the sun. A chill went down her spine.
After supper, before evening devotions, Izzy was in the kitchen alongside Fern to wash and dry dishes. “What does Amos do with the sheep?”
Fern handed her a rinsed dinner plate to dry. “Do with them?”
Izzy wiped it dry with a dish towel. “They don’t . . . he doesn’t . . .” She set the dinner plate in the cupboard and started all over again. “Does he raise them for their meat?”
“Of course. Each fall, he sells off the lambs that are under one. The younger the better for the price. Flavor too. Over twelve months, they’re sold as mutton.” She looked up at the ceiling. “How does the saying go? My father used to repeat it all the time. Es nemmt en schlecht schof as sei eegni Woll net draage kann.” She glanced at Izzy. “Can you translate?”
“Something about a sheep . . . and wool?”
“It’s a poor sheep that can’t carry its own wool.” Fern swished hot soapy water into a large bowl and stirred. “Each year, Amos sells off the oldest ones for mutton. Don’t you remember? Same thing happened last year.”
No, Izzy didn’t remember. Last year, she was overwhelmed with all she had to learn about farm living. Amos’s sheep had no names, no personalities. This year, she knew each one.
The oldest ewes? But . . . that meant Lucy and Ethel. Izzy couldn’t hide the shock she felt. She hadn’t expected this, the heartlessness. They were living creatures! “Isn’t there some other way?”
“Another way?” Fern handed her the clean bowl to dry. “I know you’ve got a soft spot in your heart for animals, Izzy, but this is a working farm. The flock needs to be culled each year so it stays strong and healthy.”
Later that night, Izzy came downstairs to get a glass of water and there was Luke, awful Luke, seated at the kitchen table, reading a book. He glanced up at her, then did a double take, and she realized that she hadn’t worn a cap and her hair was down, unpinned. It was only a few inches below her shoulders, not nearly as long as the Plain girls who’d never cut their hair. She frowned at him and went to the cupboard to get a glass.
“I can only read by flashlight in the tack room because Amos won’t let me use a lantern,” he said, sounding embarrassed. “Fire risk, he says. The flashlight’s batteries went dead and Fern was all out of new ones. So she said just to stay here.”
Izzy filled the glass with water. “You don’t need an excuse for my sake.” She glanced at the book, wondering what he was reading.
He noticed. Lifting the book, he said, “The Gift of Good Land. Wendell Berry is a poet and a farmer, committed to family farms. He lives in Kentucky. He’s sympathetic to the Amish. In fact, there’s a chapter in this book about Amish farming. That’s what I’m reading.”
She turned toward him. “Like I said, you don’t need an excuse for my sake.”
“I guess . . . you just seemed surprised to find me reading.”
“Actually,” she said as she hurried up the stairs, “I was surprised to find that you could read.”
If there was one thing in the Amish life that most delighted Izzy, it was horse-and-buggy travel. A horse moved along at a steady but slow pace—slow enough that she was able to count the number of horses and foals grazing in fields, to notice the bright yellow mustard along the sides of the road, to see birds in overhead trees. She found herself watching in wonder as the countryside rolled on by.
Amos gave her driving lessons whenever he had some free time, which wasn’t often. So far, this spring, she’d had only three lessons, and last time she had actually held the reins to steer the horse up the long driveway. A victory! She’d learned a lot about horses this last year, and Bob the buggy horse was as calm and reliable as a horse could be, but that didn’t mean she trusted him on a public road. No sir! The first time she’d been in a buggy, a truck went barreling past, and the buggy shook so much she was sure it would blow apart. She wasn’t ready to do much more than sit in the driver’s seat and hold the reins, but she was working at it. Today, Amos had said she could try driving to the Bent N’ Dent. She’d hardly slept, she was that excited.
As they finished the noon meal, Amos told her to be ready to go at three o’clock, so she waited in the shade of the barn for him, dancing with excitement. To her surprise, Luke was the one who led Bob out of the barn. “Where’s Amos?” she said flatly.
“Something came up, he said. He told me to take you to the store. Or rather, to have you take me to the store.”
She frowned. She’d been doing her best to avoid Luke, to answer his abundance of nosy questions in a way that curtailed conversations, to decline his constant offers to help her with her chores. “I’ll wait until Amos has time.”
“Don’t be silly. I’ve been driving buggies since I was eight years old. Let me give you a few tips.”
Izzy recoiled. Let me give you a few tips . . . That was just the kind of remark from a man that made the hair stand up on the back of her neck. “I’d rather wait for Amos.”
He turned away from her and began backing the horse between the shafts of the buggy. “I still have to go to the store for Fern.” He finished fastening the last buckle and looked up. “Why not come along? Keep me company?”
She shook her head and started back to the house when she heard him call out, “Izzy, why’re you so mean to me?”
She racked her brain for a solid excuse. T
hings being the way they were, she was naturally suspicious of him. In her position, who wouldn’t be? Still walking, she turned around for a few steps and lifted her palms in a helpless shrug. “Just can’t find any reason to be nice.”
Well, this was going to take some work.
As insulting as Izzy’s last response to Luke was, he registered that her voice could actually be quite sweet. Normally, she spoke to him in a deadpan voice. He noted again how attractive she was, but today it struck him more forcefully. Even when she scowled at him, she was stunning. The problem, he heard a little voice tell him, was that even though he barely knew her, he’d seen enough to conclude that she did not play games. It was clear that she did not care a whit about him. Less than a whit.
He had pulled out every trick he knew to charm her. He left fresh-picked flowers in her watering bucket. He’d noticed how early she had to get up to get the sheep out of the pen and into the pasture to graze, so he woke extra early to let them out for her. He overheard her rave to Fern about a cinnamon roll from the Sweet Tooth Bakery. It was the best thing she’d ever eaten, he heard her say. So he borrowed Amos’s scooter early the next morning and rode into town to buy a cinnamon roll for her before they sold out. He left it on the farm stand for her to find when she opened up for the day. She thanked him for these gestures, in that flat tone she reserved for him, but it made no difference in how she viewed him. Like he was just . . . some guy. Not the guy. How could that be? No girl had ever been immune to his charms before, not even Ruthie.
That girl, that Izzy. She was a challenge. He grinned. He liked a challenge.
Later that day, Izzy brought Sage and Lemon Thyme up to the barn. Usually Luke milked the cows, but he wasn’t back from the trip to the Bent N’ Dent, Fern and Amos weren’t back yet, and the two cows were bawling with misery.
Amos and Fern had a strict policy at Windmill Farm. The welfare of animals came before people. If it was time to milk or feed livestock, whoever was home was responsible for the animals. They were treated with respect and kindness. Izzy grasped onto and adhered to that principle. She’d seen plenty of situations where animals were nothing but punching bags for angry, frustrated people.
She walked behind both cows as they slowly sauntered into their stanchions to find the mixed feed waiting for them. She sat on the stool, wiped each cow down, and settled into the rhythm of milking. It was hot in the barn, especially so today, but she didn’t mind that much. She enjoyed being alone at Windmill Farm, and the peace that filled the farm at day’s end. Even the barn swallows that rushed in and around the rafters were quiet now. She finished milking the cows and took the heavy milk container back to the tank. As she walked back down the barn aisle, she froze when she heard the familiar snap of a bottle cap—hiss. There, leaning against Bob the buggy horse’s stall, was Luke Schrock, with two open bottles of beer in his hands.
She frowned at him. “What are you doing?”
“You said you have no reason to be nice to me.” He lifted the beers. “I thought I’d give you a reason. I brought you a gift.”
Izzy thought it over, watching him, thinking how good that cold, fizzy beer would taste on a warm afternoon. Cold and bitter . . . and then there were those last few foamy drips. She thought about how many beers she’d had in the last few years, and what they’d brought her. Temporary dulling of permanent pain. She thought about that, all that and much more in that long heavy moment before she made a choice.
Slowly, so slowly, she walked over to Luke and took the bottle from him.
four
A pleased look covered Luke’s handsome face, until Izzy turned the bottle upside down and poured it out on his boots.
“Hey!” He hopped like a grasshopper to get away from the spilled beer. “What’s that for?”
What was that for? How could he ever understand what that was for? In the last year, she had undergone a sea change, inside and out, everything from how she dressed and looked to how she thought and acted. She wasn’t going to let a guy like Luke Schrock take anything away from her. Everything came too easy for him. Nothing had ever come easy for Izzy. If she was going to have a future, a good life, she had to be the one to make it happen. That awareness fired up her determination to stay the course she was on.
“Look,” she said, trying but not succeeding to keep a handle on her fury. “Look, Luke Schrock, you can do what you want with your life. It’s your stupid life to waste. But for me, I have one shot.” She held up one finger close to his face. “This is my one shot to get it right. Can you even understand that? I have plans. There’s something I want. If you think I would jeopardize all that I’m working toward by drinking a bottle of beer, with you, think again.”
“But I’m sure—”
“You’re sure of nothing.” The words, she practically spat them. She stomped toward the door, then thought of something else she wanted to say, so she turned to face him. He had an odd look on his face, shock and pain and disappointment, all swirled together. “Do you ever, ever think past tomorrow?”
She left him with that, a little surprised that he didn’t try to defend himself. As she slammed the barn door, she licked her lips. That cold beer sounded so good, its familiar yeasty scent even smelled so good, but she had said no. She’d said no!
For a moment, everything stood still. Even a barn swallow stopped swooping in and out of the roof vent, disappearing into its nests in the rafters. Izzy felt herself suddenly cloaked in the satisfaction of doing something perfectly right.
It was the first time she’d been offered a drink since she left rehab. First time. And she’d turned it down. She smiled. Turned it upside down! Right on that jerk’s boots.
Luke sat on his cot, holding the beer in his hands, looking at it. Booze—it had always made him feel loose and limber, made him feel better about himself. It covered up his growing disgust with himself. Right now, a sick sensation hit him in the pit of his stomach as he turned the bottle around and around in his hands. What kind of fool am I? What kind of fool?
What kind of a man would offer a drink to a recovering alcoholic? A terrible, terrible man, that’s who. What was the matter with him? Why did he think that would be a way to connect to Izzy?
He’d done his errand for Fern at the Bent N’ Dent and drove the horse past a gas station with a convenience store. He saw a guy walk out of the store with a six-pack, and that was when the idea came to him. At the time, he thought it was such a good idea.
He sickened himself.
“Do you ever, ever think past tomorrow?” That was Izzy’s parting shot, and it hit him like a blow to the jugular. He’d heard it plenty of times before. He’d always had trouble seeing “down the road.” It was like his brain just stayed in the present, looking for fun, for kicks. Did he ever think past tomorrow?
The counselor had tried and tried to impress it on him. Why did it strike him so forcefully today?
Everything Izzy said, even the way she emphasized her words to him, seemed to hint at some stupidity on Luke’s part. And she was right.
If he were smart about women, which he had just proved he wasn’t, he would wise up and write her off as a lost cause. Instead—evidence of his lack of common sense—he felt even more intrigued by her. She had a coldness about her, a lack of emotion that fascinated him. He couldn’t even charm a smile out of her. He had tried to amuse her, tried to make her laugh and notice him. Nothing worked. She was like the Sphinx.
He rolled the bottle back and forth between his hands. Izzy said she wanted something. What was it? And what did it have to do with the Amish? A girl who looked like her could be modeling, or TV acting, or hooking a rich boyfriend. Something like that. He could not figure that girl out.
There was only one thing he knew for sure about Izzy Miller—she hated him. He had tried to be friendly, flirty, complimentary, helpful . . . nothing worked. He glanced again at the bottle in his hands. This was a stupid overture. He had just set back their friendship from zero to negative ten.
What made him think this would create a friendship? It occurred to him that this was just what she meant—think past tomorrow. He laughed scornfully. Drinking together would’ve created one night of kinship—and ruined both of them.
The barn door opened and he heard Amos’s heavy footfalls. He jumped off the cot, jostling the beer so that he got a strong whiff. Man, it smelled good. Luke walked out to find Amos in front of his workbench, looking at a pair of shears. Luke saw him pick up one screwdriver after the other, trying to undo the bolt that held the shears together.
“Amos,” Luke said. “I’ll help you fix those. First, turn around, please.”
Amos set down the shears and turned to face him.
Luke held up the bottle of beer and Amos’s eyebrows shot up. “I want you to see that I bought this, I opened it, I offered it to Izzy—she turned it down, by the way—and I haven’t had a sip.” He turned it upside down so it spilled onto the barn floor. Cats came out of nowhere to lick it up. “I can understand if you want me to pack up and go.”
Amos watched the cats on the ground for at least a full minute. Finally, he lifted his head to glare at Luke, eyes narrowed. “Is that what you want? To leave?”
“No. I want to stay. I . . .” He swallowed. “I made a stupid mistake. But I didn’t drink the beer. I promise, Amos. I didn’t drink it. Not a sip.”
Another full minute passed. Amos’s eyes softened, ever so slightly. Then he did something completely unexpected. He dismissed Luke’s confession with a wave of his hand. “So, then, help me get the bolt out of these shears. They need sharpening.”
Luke’s eyes went wide with shock. “That’s it? You’re not kicking me out?”
“Not tonight. I will, if you ever do it again. Or if you try to drag Izzy down. She’s worked hard to make a new life for herself. I’m not going to let you undo all her progress. Try a stunt like that with her again and you’ll be out of here before you know what hit you. You just used up your one blunder.”
Mending Fences Page 4