Mending Fences

by Suzanne Woods Fisher

  Izzy had never considered it that way. “I told Luke to have Amos choose whatever he thought was best.”

  “It might be a good exercise for you to figure out what you do want, Izzy. You’re the one who spends her days in the farm stand. Amos and I, we think you need some practice making decisions.”

  “No, no. Fern, what if I make a mistake? It’s not like it can be rebuilt.”

  “But you can make a mistake. That’s part of the experience of decision-making. If it isn’t right, we’ll fix it. Like ripping out a seam on a quilt block and starting again.”

  Fern made it sound easy, but it wasn’t. “Shouldn’t Amos be deciding about this farm stand?”

  “No. He agreed with Luke. This is your call. I think it might be a good idea to let Luke know that you’re new at decision-making.”

  “He must think I’m crazy.”

  “No, he thought he’d said something wrong and he feels badly. That boy, he’s making some progress. He was never one to feel much empathy for others. I do believe he’s finally coming around.”

  “I wish the first farm stand hadn’t gotten wrecked. I know it was meaningful to Amos.”

  “It was falling apart and in dire need of repair. Those boys did us a favor, in more ways than one.” Fern smiled. “So, what do you think, Izzy? Shelves or counters? What are your plans for that stand? Do you want to expand and add baked goods?”

  Izzy shook her head. “I’m not a good enough baker. Tonight’s batch of zucchini bread sunk in the middle.”

  “Too much shredded zucchini. Another crop of zucchini and you’ll be an expert.” She patted Izzy’s knee. “When you first got here, you didn’t know the difference between adding salt or sugar. Look at all you’ve learned, from me, from Jenny. You’re a fast study. A real smart girl.” She smiled and headed for the door.

  Izzy wanted to smile in return, but instead her eyes blurred with tears. She’d never been told that she was smart, not once. Mostly, she’d been told she was stupid, far behind other students—and she was! Changing schools as often as she did had made it hard for her to catch up. She had hated school.

  But Fern didn’t say things unless she meant them.

  The next morning, Izzy apologized to Fern and Amos for being in such an odd mood last evening. They said they understood and not to worry on it. That left only Luke. She found him in the orchards on the top of a ladder, thinning apple buds. She watched him for a while. When he noticed her watching him, he started down the ladder.

  “No,” she said, lifting her hand. “Stay there. I just came to say one thing.”

  He peered down at her. “What, then?”

  She cleared her throat. It felt as if she had ground glass in there. It wasn’t easy for her to be conciliatory to Luke Schrock. It took everything she had to be polite and ladylike and apologetic for acting crazy as a loon last night. “Number four.”

  “Number four?”

  “The sketches. For the new farm stand. That’s the one. I liked that one best. So don’t mess it up.” She pivoted on her heel and hurried down the hillside.

  Izzy and Fern spent all day Saturday over at Mattie Riehl’s house with half the women of Stoney Ridge. Today they were piecing together blocks of fabric to make comfort quilts for teenagers in a group home in Lancaster. This quilt wouldn’t have pieced blocks like the other quilts. This one would just have big squares of fabric sewed together, then knotted with yarn to keep the filling in place. Not fancy, but useful. And cheerful. As Mattie said, a comfort quilt meant that somebody cared.

  As she pinned two pieces of fabric together for Edith Lapp to sew—Edith could be fussy about seams, so she knew to make them line up perfectly—Izzy thought about who might be on the receiving end of this quilt. It could’ve been me, she thought. Not so long ago, this would’ve been me.

  Now and then, boxes from well-meaning organizations would arrive at the group home where Izzy had lived. Hand-me-down clothes, books, cereal, and soups. She’d never thought about the people who gave, only the things they gave. It felt strange to be on the giving side. It felt good, like she was filling a hole inside herself with every block of fabric. Stitch by stitch.

  And then Fern insisted Izzy drive the buggy home, which shocked her. Amos still hadn’t let her take the buggy on any public road. She’d thought it was because he was so protective of Bob. But it occurred to her just now that maybe she was the one he was protecting. Fern was always the one who pushed and prodded Izzy to try more and do more. Not Amos. He treated her as if she was as fragile as spun sugar.

  She climbed into the driver’s seat and they were off, bouncing down the bumpy road, turning off the main road, rumbling past fields and pastures. She took extra pains to manage the horse well, slowing him to a walk as a truck barreled past them, then flicking the reins to urge Bob to trot again, just like Amos drove him. She glanced at Fern to see if she had noticed how skillfully she handled the big horse. Then she glanced again. Fern had a look on her face like a cat in the cream.

  “You feeling all right?” Izzy said.

  “I’m right as rain.”

  “You look a little funny.”

  “That’s because there’s a surprise waiting at home.”

  Izzy didn’t like surprises. They were never good. She liked to be prepared for whatever she had to face. “What kind of surprise?”

  “Well, now, that takes away the very essence of a surprise, doesn’t it?”

  Izzy kept casting sideways glances at Fern. She seemed pleased, which helped Izzy relax a little.

  As she rounded the last bend in the road that led to Windmill Farm, Fern clasped her hands together and let out a soft, “Well, well, well.”

  Oh my soul. It was the new farm stand.

  Izzy pulled Bob to a stop and handed the reins to Fern. She walked up to the farm stand, breathing in the smell of fresh-cut lumber. Cedar, she thought. Freshly stained. The stand was twice the size of the old one, with a metal corrugated roof to keep the rain and sun off the produce. Shelving along the back, just like she’d wanted. A large, wide counter in front. And an easy-to-open-and-close window.

  By now, Fern was out of the buggy and beside her. “Big Teddy Zook helped Luke build it.”

  “Oh my soul,” was all Izzy could manage to say, over and over—an expression she had picked up as a small girl from a kind neighbor lady.

  Fern pointed to a painted sign that Izzy hadn’t even noticed. “Look at that.”

  IZZY’S FRUITS AND VEGETABLES

  NO SUNDAY SALES

  Again she was at a loss for words, this time overwhelmed by the wonder of it all. Oh my soul. This farm stand . . . it was perfect.

  Luke jerked awake to whiskers tickling his face.

  Bob! Not again.

  He stumbled out of bed and grabbed a harness hanging on the wall. Leading the big horse back to his stall was no easy task in the middle of a pitch-dark night, but he was getting used to it, which seemed weird. Back the horse up at a tight angle, then turn him around to lead him to his stall. Once he had him in the stall, he locked the latch and checked it three times before heading back to bed.

  The next night, it had been just long enough for Luke to fall deeply asleep and wake up disoriented to find Bob in his tack room. Luke led the horse back to his stall, and this time, he tied a rope around the stall’s steel poles, attaching it to the doorjamb.

  Over breakfast, Luke brought up the idea of adding a metal lock through the latch.

  Amos looked at him as if he’d lost his mind. “No. Absolutely, positively not.”

  “But why?”

  Pouring maple syrup over a tall stack of hotcakes, Amos said, “Plenty of reasons.”

  “Can you give me one of them?”

  “In case of fire. That horse is too valuable.”

  “Then, could I let Bob stay out in the pasture for a night?”

  “Absolutely not. Wolves. Coyotes.”

  “Just one night.”

  “That horse, he’s like
a family member to me. I’d never let a family member sleep in the pasture.”

  And yet Amos didn’t mind that Luke slept in a barn. He clasped his hands over his face. He was losing it.

  The next night, it happened again. Luke staggered into the kitchen, bleary eyed, sat down at the table, and put his head down on it. “I give up. That horse keeps outfoxing me.” He was so tired that the room swam.

  Izzy was setting the table. “Have you considered that it might not be the horse’s doings?”

  Luke lifted his head. “What do you mean?”

  “Might be the mischief of another animal.”

  Luke leaned back in the chair. “The barn’s closed up. What could be getting in?”

  She shrugged. “Sounds to me like a raccoon.”

  Fern looked across the room at Amos, who was sitting in a chair reading his Bible. “Amos Lapp, why didn’t you think of that?”

  “I did.” Amos turned the page of his Bible. “I was just waiting to see if Luke could figure it out.”

  Luke clunked his forehead on the tabletop. He hadn’t thought of it. Izzy had.

  That evening, Izzy helped Luke bait a trap—a humane trap, she insisted on—with strips of uncooked bacon.

  “Skunks can do sneaky things too,” Luke said. “What if it’s a skunk? The whole barn’ll stink to high heaven.”

  “If it’s a skunk,” Izzy said, “then I will owe you an apology, right after you take a very long bath in tomato juice. And if I’m right . . .”

  Luke looked at her.

  “Then you have to clean out the henhouse for me.”

  “So the best I get is an apology. At worst, I get sprayed by a skunk or I get to clean out the henhouse.”

  “Exactly.” Was there the tiniest suggestion of a smile at the corner of her mouth?

  It occurred to him that they were actually having a conversation, getting to know each other, without any need for him to have to apologize for something stupid he had done.

  She disappeared briefly to find a flashlight and they walked down to the barn. They set the trap beside Bob’s stall.

  “Dude,” Luke said. “This just might work.”

  “Dude, this might,” she teased him back. They were sitting near each other on the barn floor, and she held his gaze for a full few seconds without looking away like she normally did. He noticed.

  Quickly, she stood up. “Maybe you’ll get a full night’s sleep. I sure hope so. You’ve been looking terrible lately.”

  Around three in the morning, Luke woke to hear the sound of clip-clops on the concrete barn floor. He sat up on the cot just as Bob walked into the tack room and stood over Luke, breathing out that musty hay scent. The horse almost seemed pleased with himself at what was becoming a nightly ritual.

  “Argh! What is going on here?” Luke jumped off the cot, grabbed a rope, and led Bob back to his stall. With a flashlight in hand, he double-knotted the rope around the stall latch and checked the trap. The trapdoor was wide open. The bacon was gone.

  “Blast!” He scanned the barn with the flashlight, hoping to catch sight of . . . whatever it was.

  thirteen

  For the last few days, Izzy had woken early, dressed fast, and hurried downstairs. She wanted to be in the kitchen, ready for the next installment in the ongoing story of Bob’s nightly visits to Luke’s tack room. She almost hoped the trap hadn’t caught the animal that was opening Bob’s stall—the morning updates were that amusing. Luke looked even more bleary eyed with exhaustion, thoroughly exasperated, but there was something kind of sweet about how he patiently led Bob back to his stall each night. Throughout the day, her mind would supply funny versions of Bob sniffing and snorting as he stood over Luke’s cot.

  As she set the kitchen table, Fern came downstairs to fill the coffeepot. “I already filled it, Fern. It’s ready to heat up.”

  Fern looked at her with one sparse eyebrow lifted. “You’ve certainly turned into an early bird.”

  Izzy finished folding a cloth napkin and set it at Luke’s place. “Oh, well, the morning sun wakes me up.”

  Fern put her hands on her hips. “Your room faces west.”

  “Does it?” Izzy felt her cheeks go warm. “It’s bright in the morning. I know that much.” She glanced out the window to see Luke striding toward the house, passing through the deep shadow cast by the barn. She opened the squeaky kitchen door. “Any luck?”

  As he neared the bottom of the steps, he stopped and looked up at her. “None. Absolutely none. But the bacon disappeared.”

  “It’s got to be a raccoon. They’re known for their burglary skills.”

  Fern came outside to join them. “What about Bob . . . did he stay in his stall?”

  “Woke me up at two and four. Just as happy as a horse could be, breathing over me with his musty breath.”

  Izzy tried to smother her giggles with clasped hands over her mouth, but they couldn’t be contained. Fern’s eyes began to smile; her mouth was soon to follow.

  Luke was indignant. “Ladies, it is not at all funny to be woken up by a horse. This is a very alarming matter.”

  That seemed only funnier still. Even though Izzy felt bad, she was laughing too hard to stop. She wanted to tell Luke she was sorry, but she couldn’t get the words out. Finally, she put her hands up in surrender and ran for the stairs.

  She was halfway up and slowed when she heard Fern say, “Well, I have to hand it to you, Luke Schrock. Hearing Izzy laugh so wholeheartedly is music to my ears.”

  “Don’t give me any credit,” Luke said. “It all belongs to Bob.”

  “I will. I’ll give him an extra carrot today.”

  “Fern. Don’t encourage him. I need some sleep. Can’t I move into the house?”

  “I think you’re doing more for all of us just where you are.”

  Luke groaned. “Well, I’m glad I’m adding some value to Windmill Farm.” He yawned loudly, loud enough for Izzy to hear halfway up the stairwell. “Then, where’s the coffee? I need double-strength. Triple.”

  The kitchen door squeaked open. “I HEARD THERE’S NOCTURNAL GOINGS-ON AT WINDMILL FARM. NEVER FEAR. I CAME TO HELP.”

  Hank Lapp had arrived. To help. Hank.

  Amusement started bubbling up in Izzy again. This was new to her, this uncontrollable laughter. She’d never had trouble tamping down laughter—not until Luke Schrock arrived at Windmill Farm. She covered her mouth with her hand and hurried up to her room, closing the door before she doubled over with giggles.

  Amos had a tolerance for his uncle like few others, but Hank Lapp jolted the senses more than Fern’s strong coffee. Amos was moving slow this morning, slower than usual. Fern had encouraged him to stay put and rest as long as he could. As he lay in bed, he thought of all the endless chores that needed to be done around the farm—fences to mend, hay to mow, orchards to glean, animals to tend to—and he felt tired down to his bones.

  Added to the farm’s seasonal work, there was Jenny and Jesse. If they got married this year, and Fern said it sure looked like that would happen, then the wedding would be held at Windmill Farm. How did she know something like that? She’d planted a whole bed of celery a few months back, but he thought she just liked the vegetable, not that she was expecting a wedding.

  Jenny was like a daughter to Fern. Like Izzy was becoming. He smiled to himself. Fern and her strays. How she loved those motherless children. You’d never know it to look at her, his Fern, and most folks were a little intimidated by her, but she had the biggest heart in Stoney Ridge.

  He couldn’t disappoint Fern. Nor Jenny. Somehow, Windmill Farm needed to be spruced up in time for a fall wedding. For the first time, he felt thankful Luke Schrock was boarding here. Amos sure hadn’t wanted him, hadn’t wanted the extra trouble or the extra help. He still held his suspicions about the boy, but he couldn’t deny that he had turned into a surprisingly conscientious worker. He’d even taken on projects Amos hadn’t expected of him, like sanding down and repainting the front porch
steps. The paint had chipped badly on them after last year’s harsh winter. Or was it the year before last?

  Amos was just considering getting up when he heard his uncle’s booming voice ricochet up the stairs. It wouldn’t do to have Hank wonder why he was still in bed at . . . what time was it? He turned to peer at the small alarm clock next to his bed. Nearly half past seven. He eased out of bed, his joints stiff and achy. His body was failing him. He felt its decline a little more each day. He also felt the peace of God growing stronger within him, the sense of Heaven’s nearness. Death would win his body, but not his soul.

  He dressed as quickly as he could, which was pretty slow, and went down the stairs to see what his uncle had in mind to counterattack the raccoon. They could be cunning, those critters. He thought about an article in a farming journal he’d read recently about raccoons. They had incredible memories, it said, and could retain information even longer than dogs. If he remembered correctly, it also said something about how extensive research couldn’t determine the intelligence of raccoons because they were too wily. They kept escaping from the cages.

  Downstairs, he slipped into the kitchen and made a beeline to the coffeepot to pour himself a cup, hoping Hank was too absorbed in the raccoon and horse conversation to notice his late arrival.

  “ABOUT TIME YOU STIRRED YOUR STUMPS, AMOS LAPP.”

  Amos cringed. “Morning, Hank.” He looked at Fern. “Is the coffee still hot?” Oh no. The minute the words left his mouth, he knew they were a mistake.

  “NEPHEW, YOU CAN’T EXPECT BREAKFAST WHEN YOU GET UP AT NOON.”

  Head down, Amos reached for an empty coffee cup and filled it with coffee, no longer caring if it was hot or stone cold.

  “THE RACCOON IS PLAYING MIND GAMES WITH POOR OL’ LUKE.”

  Amos settled into a chair. “So I hear.” Land-o-mercy, did he ever hear. The whole town could hear Hank Lapp’s bellowing voice. He peered at Luke over his coffee cup. “No luck with the trap?”

  “Oh, there was luck all right. Plenty of luck for the raccoon. He scored with a bacon breakfast.” Luke leaned forward. “Amos, can’t I put a lock on Bob’s latch for one night? To get just one good night’s sleep?”