Mending Fences

by Suzanne Woods Fisher

  Fern stared over the top of her glasses. “Yarn? In the buggy shop?”

  “Knitting is becoming a popular thing to do. Among the English, I mean.” Her hands dropped to her side. “There’s a growing demand for hand-spun wool. Edith Lapp was talking about it during the last quilting. Hand-spun wool sheared right off the sheep.”

  Fern’s sparse eyebrows shot to the top of her prayer cap. “You mean . . . our sheep?”

  “Yes. I don’t know if you and Amos realized this when you started the flock, but Polypay wool is ideal for yarn. Luke says he’s sheared before. Once, he said. And I’m going to read up on spinning and dying wool. I think it might work. And then, maybe Amos wouldn’t send Lucy and Ethel out to slaughter this year.”

  One of Fern’s eyebrows went down and one stayed up—a bad sign. “So is that what this is about? Sending sheep to slaughter?”

  “No. Well, yes and no. The farm stand has done so well this year, even with the crash. And you know how David agreed to let me sell handicraft consignments from the Bent N’ Dent—well, it’s all been sold.” She snapped her fingers. “It got me thinking that I could sell even more. But if I did, I’d need more space. Even more than the new stand allows.”

  Fern set down the shirt. “The buggy shop.”

  “Yes. It’s an ideal location. Since Jesse moved out, it’s just sitting there, storing equipment. I really don’t think it would cost much to convert it into a shop. I’m pretty confident it’ll pay for itself within one summer. And I’ll pay for the spinning wheel and carders.”

  “Oh Izzy.” Her name came out of Fern on a sighing breath.

  “Really, it wouldn’t cost that much! Edith Lapp said she could teach me how to spin. She says it’s not difficult. It just takes a while to gain skills, but it’s not supposed to be hard.”

  “I don’t know,” Fern said. “I just don’t know.”

  But she did. Izzy could see it in her eyes. An uncomfortable feeling started in the pit of Izzy’s stomach. “Jenny’s wedding is just around the corner. I shouldn’t have asked during such a busy time. Never mind. We can talk about it some other time.”

  Fern set down the shirt. “Izzy, it’s not that . . .”

  She thought Fern would be pleased about this idea. Before, she’d always championed Izzy’s ideas for the farm stand, encouraged her to rise above her self-imposed limitations. Why wasn’t she enthusiastic about this? Had Izzy asked for too much?

  A memory flashed across her mind. A time when she’d asked a foster mother if she could take swim lessons in the summer, and the foster mother had hedged and stalled in the same way Fern was doing now. It turned out the foster family was going on a summer vacation and had no intention to take Izzy with them.

  Her hands twisted the wet rag nervously. She shouldn’t have gotten her hopes up. A dashed hope was worse than no hope at all. If she thought about Fern’s reluctance—or was it rejection?—much longer, she’d tie herself into a knot. She spun around to set the rag on the kitchen counter. “It’s all right. I shouldn’t have asked.” She started up the stairs.

  “Izzy, wait up. It’s a good idea. A very good idea. It’s just that . . .”

  Izzy stilled, one foot on the step. She braced herself. It’s just that . . . we aren’t planning to have you still be here next summer. You’ve stayed here long enough. It’s time to go.

  Fern moved closer to her. “It’s just that Amos told Luke that he could start a fix-it store in the buggy shop. They’ve talked about converting the shop this winter, after the harvest is done. They’ve been working on some sketches.”

  Izzy lifted her chin a notch, still facing the stairwell. “Luke Schrock.” Of course.

  “It was my idea. Luke’s been working so hard around the farm, helping Amos with far more than he’s asked of him. He’s got a natural bent to fix things. It’s been such a good thing, to see Luke show that kind of care and diligence. We want to help keep him on that path.”

  The words were gentle, hopeful, affirming, but they still hurt.

  So this fix-it shop had been Fern’s idea. Did Luke ever have to work for anything in life? Everything seemed to get delivered right to his doorstep. That wasn’t fair, she thought to herself. Fern didn’t know about Izzy’s idea for a yarn shop. Besides, be realistic. Luke is Amish. Born Amish. He’s one of them. You are not.

  Something welled up inside of her and was threatening to burst out. She hurried up the rest of the stairs, feeling tears burn the back of her eyes. She didn’t want to show weakness. Never, ever show weakness.

  “Izzy!”

  At the sharpness of Fern’s tone, Izzy flinched slightly, as if suffering from a physical blow. At the top of the stairs, she turned to face Fern, who stood at the bottom of the narrow stairs with her shoulders pulled back. “It’s all right, Fern. I understand.” Her voice had dropped to a whisper.

  “Understand this. There is no scarcity of love in this house,” Fern said. “Love is not finite. Most everything else in life is finite . . . but not love.”

  The full sense of what Fern said struck her like a thunderclap out of a clear sky. Everything in life, everyone Izzy knew, she’d viewed through the lens of scarcity. Everything! If Amos and Fern had grown to love Luke, it meant that their love for Izzy had to diminish. “How?” Izzy said, her voice cracking with emotion. “How is that even possible?”

  “How is that possible? Oh honey. Haven’t you learned this by now?” Fern gave her a look that said “you’re missing something,” but what she said aloud was, “‘We love because he first loved us.’ You got to believe this. God is love.”

  That kind of thinking . . . that love was not finite, that God was love . . . it was a massive shift in the way she thought and felt about . . . everything.

  Izzy had come to Stoney Ridge to change, but she hadn’t really changed at all.

  twenty-one

  Luke had never paid much attention to weddings before. This one, Jenny and Jesse’s, felt different. First of all, he was the one who had to whip Windmill Farm into pristine condition to get ready for the wedding. Fern was a stern taskmaster. For the last month, she met him at breakfast with the day’s chores, added to all his other chores. Thank heavens that raccoon had left the barn. If he had to cope with Bob’s wake-up calls in the night, and Fern’s ruthless tasking all day, he’d be a shell of his former self. He was hardly sleeping as it was.

  He felt pleased with himself for finishing off Fern’s list with a task she hadn’t even put on the list. The red windmill. Three days ago, early in the morning, he’d shimmied up the windmill and measured the remaining blades. Two blades showed signs of rotting wood near the bolts. He scootered over to Teddy Zook’s and ordered three new red blades made for the windmill. Pronto. Teddy said he’d have them ready on Monday, Luke begged him to make it Friday, and Teddy, being Teddy, hemmed and hawed and finally agreed. After supper on Friday, Luke scootered back to fetch them. He installed them on Saturday morning, just as dawn broke the morning sky. Just in time for the wedding. He wasn’t going to tell Fern. He was going to wait and see if she noticed. He felt pleasure spiral through him.

  But back to this wedding. There were two more reasons he found himself paying close attention. Unlike other weddings he’d attended, Luke knew Jesse pretty well. He’d seen him grow up from one of Fern’s Wayward Boys to a pretty good guy. A very good guy, actually. Luke hadn’t really known Jenny until these last few months, and only knew her as Izzy’s closest friend. Her only friend, now that he thought about it. How many times had he walked into the Windmill Farm kitchen to find those two with their capped heads together, cooking and baking, laughing and whispering?

  That was the third reason he was paying special attention to this wedding. He wondered how Izzy was feeling, deep down, about Jenny getting married. There was no way those two girls would have the kind of time together like they once had. No way. He knew how it worked. Soon one baby would come along, then another and another. Jenny would be thoroughly preoccupied
with her family—as she should be—and there’d be little time left for Izzy.

  Throughout the wedding meal, Luke watched Izzy. He was seated far across the room from her, with a perfect vantage point to observe her next to Jenny at the front table. He noted again how attractive she was, especially lovely in that pink dress she wore, his favorite. She seemed happy, smiling, leaning close now and then to Jenny to catch a whisper. But then Jenny turned away from her to talk to Jesse. For a moment, Luke saw something in Izzy’s eyes—pain? loneliness?—but it vanished before he could put a name to it. He’d seen it before in those incredible eyes, and whatever it was, he felt an almost unbearable urge to fix it, to make it better, to be the one who filled the emptiness he saw in there.

  He forced himself to look away, tried to shake those thoughts right out of his head. Why did he have such mixed-up feelings for Izzy? The problem, he heard a little voice answer, was that she had no feelings for him. Not good ones, anyway. Most of the time, she either ignored him or snapped at him. Like a fool, he kept coming back for more. Was he falling for Izzy? That would be crazy. That would be like trying to make friends with a lioness.

  “So, it’s fixed.”

  A voice cut into his thoughts. He looked up to see Fern standing over him. By now he should be accustomed to her ways, sneaking up on a man the way she did, but she still startled him. He cleared his throat. “Fixed?”

  “The windmill. The squeak is gone. I looked a little closer and discovered three new blades had replaced the old ones.” She patted him on the shoulder. “You did good, Luke.”

  So she had noticed. It felt good, doing good.

  Here, in October, was the weather Amos had been wishing for in September. Blue skies, crisp air, slanting golden sunlight. He walked through the orchards on a mission to examine the late-bearing apple trees. A few more bushels, and that would be the end of this year’s growing season. The trees would be empty, preparing for winter’s rest. The leaves that remained on the trees were turning a riot of color. Those that had fallen carpeted the orchard floor red and gold. Luke had been raking leaves each day to keep insects from multiplying, but the nights were cold enough now that insects had no chance. The leaves could just decompose on the ground. He needed to remember to tell Luke that information. Other things too. This afternoon, he planned to show him how to press cider.

  “I just got a call from Dok.”

  Amos jerked like a fish on the line. “Fern! Why can’t you give a man notice that you’re coming, instead of slipping up behind him like a coyote?”

  Fern ignored him. “Dok said you told her to take your name off the transplant list.”

  Amos frowned. He had planned to tell Fern that news himself, after the wedding fuss had come and gone. But it had come and gone and he still hadn’t told her. “I’ve given this a lot of thought, Fern. I’ve prayed long and hard. My time is coming to an end, and I’m at peace with that.”

  “You don’t think I might have something to say about that?”

  Oh, she’d have plenty to say. That’s why he hadn’t told her. “Fern, I’ve had a good long life. I’m sixty-seven years old.”

  “Sixty-eight.”

  “See? Even more of a reason to take my name off that list. I’m done. I’ve had a happy life, and it’s time to go.”

  “That’s the most selfish thing I’ve ever heard in my life.” She was red-hot mad, jamming a finger at his chest in her fury. “Dok says you are a viable candidate for a transplant. God is giving you a chance to live a longer life, and you’re just throwing it all away. Well, Amos Lapp, you may be ready to meet your Maker, but has it occurred to you that we might need you here a little longer?”

  To his surprise, she burst into tears. He pulled her close to his chest, wrapping his arms tightly around her, and let her sob.

  This he hadn’t factored in. Fern’s tears.

  The air in the kitchen was hot and sticky and humid, though the weather outside was cool. All afternoon, Izzy had been canning jar after jar of Fern’s applesauce. These apples were the last of the season, the very last, but more than they’d anticipated. Amos and Fern had gone to the Bent N’ Dent to buy more canning supplies, and more cinnamon, and some secret ingredient Fern added to her applesauce. Cloves, maybe?

  Izzy pushed a stray lock of hair off her forehead with the back of her hand and turned when she heard the door open, thinking Fern had returned. But there stood Luke in the kitchen doorway with a question on his face of whether he should come in. Izzy felt her heart quicken. Ridiculous! She willed her heart to slow down. It didn’t work.

  “Are you busy right now?”

  Was she busy? She was standing over the stove with a pot of water bubbling away, jars of applesauce in a water bath, waiting patiently until she heard the lids pop and knew the lids had sealed. Was she busy? Of course she was busy! But he did look nervous. Jumpy. Insecure, which was a rare look on Luke Schrock. He held his hat brim in his hands, squeezing it, circling it round and round. “Not really.”

  His eyes were now locked on Izzy. “Jenny’s married now. I figure she won’t be coming around so much.”

  She wanted to say, “Well, that’s a keen insight of the obvious,” but swallowed down the snippy retort. She promised herself that she wouldn’t be impatient or mean to him, like she usually was. “That’s the way it should be. She’s somebody’s wife now.”

  “You’re going to be needing a friend, Izzy.” Luke took a deep breath. “So what’s it going to take to be friends with you?”

  What kind of a question was that on an afternoon of canning applesauce? Good grief. Luke Schrock was always doing that to her. Tossing questions at her that he had no business asking. Questions that felt like arrows aimed at her Achilles heel. She shook her head so hard that her capstrings bounced. “I don’t need any friends of the male kind, least of all a smart-alecky one like you.”

  “Izzy, I’m not like that.” In his eyes was a plea, like he wanted things to be nice between them. But also like he didn’t know what to make of her.

  Something caught in her throat and she felt like she was choking. “I’ve got a lot on my mind, Luke Schrock. Lots of plans. I don’t want anyone messing that up.”

  His face grew even more serious. “I’m not trying to mess anything up. I’m just looking to be your friend. Why not give me a chance?”

  Izzy felt burning tears flood her eyes and turned her head from his hard gaze. She felt foolishly self-conscious. “Because I know what you’d do.”

  “What?”

  “Once you get what you want, you don’t want it anymore. I don’t need that kind of friend. Nobody does.” A part of her wanted him to get mad at her, really steamed, just to prove to her he was that kind of a guy. But no, he wouldn’t do it.

  “I don’t deny I’ve been that kind of guy in the past. But no longer, I hope.” Luke Schrock would not leave well enough alone. He sighed. “I’m asking you again, Izzy Miller. Isn’t there something I can do to prove myself to you? Something that tells you I could be a good, faithful friend to you?”

  One by one, the lids on the jars of applesauce made a pop pop pop sound. Izzy got the clamps to lift each jar out of the water bath and set them on the counter to cool. By the time she had taken the last jar out of the pot, she turned to the door to say something, but Luke was gone.

  Later that afternoon, Izzy went down to the barn while Luke was milking Sage. She handed him a piece of paper. “I thought of something you can do for me.”

  He opened it. Izzy had written a name on it. Grace Miller.

  “Find her.”

  “Who is she?”

  “My mother.”

  “Your mother?” He stared at the paper. “When did you last see her?”

  “Years and years ago. I was only four or five.”

  “Can you tell me anything more about her? Where she’s been living?”

  “No.”

  “Your father?”

  “Never mind him.”

  Luke rubbe
d his chin. “It’s not much to go on.”

  “It’s all I’ve got. Find out where she is . . . and maybe then we can be friends.”

  He looked up. “You can count on it.”

  Yeah. Right.

  Luke would never admit it to Izzy, but giving him permission to find her mother could not have been more fortuitous. Grace Miller was the last name on his fence-mending list. He’d hemmed and hawed about how to track her down over the summer, unsure of where to begin. Mostly, he was unsure of whether he should involve himself in something that might bring more trouble to Izzy than goodness. But then . . . she handed him permission! A green light from God.

  As soon as he had some spare time, Luke went to the library to see if he could get the nice librarian to help him find out some information. She wasn’t working that day, which was very unfortunate. Betty sat at the desk, scowling at him as he approached, so he veered off into the book stacks. He watched two boys at a computer. They looked to be only ten or eleven years old, but they sure knew what they were doing. They were playing some kind of video game. Each time they laughed too loudly, Betty looked up and glared at them.

  When the game was over, Luke walked over to stand beside them. “Can one of you help me locate someone?”

  The boys looked up at him, then did a double take. They exchanged a look. One boy said, “You mean . . . on this computer?”

  “Can you try and find someone’s address?”

  “Easy.” He kicked the leg of the chair next to him, indicating Luke should sit down. “What’s his name?”

  “A woman.”

  The boy snickered. “Of course.” He grinned at his friend. “See? They all have a secret life.”

  “No, no. It’s nothing like that. She’s an older woman.”

  Then they both howled with laughter.

  Luke rolled his eyes. “She’s my friend’s mother.”

  That took their amusement to another level. More boys came out of nowhere to crowd around the computer. This wasn’t going well.