For Sure and Certain

by Anya Monroe

  “The baby was born. It was so fast, we nearly missed it!”

  “Well, was it a boy or girl?” his dad asked. The exhaustion that covered him earlier was still there, but a glint of joy filled his eyes as he waited to hear.

  “A boy. Seven pounds six ounces, and long, just like his dad was. Twenty-one inches, to be exact,” his mom said, kissing her husband on the cheek. “And rosy pink, and just so precious.” Tears sprang to her eyes, the joy overcoming her.

  “What did they name him?” Abel asked walking into the room. Everyone turned to him, surprise written on their faces.

  “Abel,” Marigold said, her eyes locking on his. She shook her head as if not believing that he was actually here. Had missing one visit caused her to doubt him entirely?

  “You came,” Bekah said, her voice revealing her incredulity. Still unfriendly toward him, her brief words let him know she still held onto the past.

  “Abel,” repeated Marigold. “The baby’s name is Abel.”

  His father frowned, and looked at the women. “Truly?” he asked.

  Abel snorted, and then looking at the ceiling, he shook his head.

  “Don’t,” his mom warned them both. “Don’t be like this.”

  “I’m going out for a drive. I can’t do this. Not now.” He reached for his hat on the hook. “Marigold, you coming?”

  She nodded right away and took a step toward him. As he opened the front door he caught the look Marigold gave the rest of his family. He recognized the silent apology she offered them, and it pissed him off.

  Walking down the front steps, he didn’t turn to look at her. What he wanted was to keep walking away forever, to never come back. Everything was layered in guilt with his family, but Eli had always said he supported him. Now it was clear that was never his truth.

  “Wait,” Marigold called.

  Abel didn’t stop, and neither did she. She followed him to the barn where he stood looking at the reins for the horses lining the wall. She reached for his hand, and he pulled away, grabbing a leather strap for his horse.

  “Abel, look at me,” she told him.

  He didn’t, instead he walked down the row of stalls to the horse his father bought him for his sixteenth birthday. It was a generous gift, his father set him up properly in a buggy to boot, not having to pinch and save like Joshua had done to get a buggy to take to the Signings.

  “Just stop, seriously, Abel.” Her voice was soft and she positioned herself in front of the stall not giving him room to open the swinging door that held the russet-colored mare.

  He closed his eyes, not wanting to look down. Knowing if he did most of his anger would dissipate, her face left little room for fury. Her eyes melted him and he knew that, and he thought she probably did, too. Which is why she was here now. Not backing down.

  “You asked me to come with you, you could at least be nice about it now,” she said, reaching for both his hands again. She rubbed her thumbs in circle on the top of his hand, causing every hair to stand on his arm. “I’m here, Abel. On your side. Just calm down,” she whispered.

  “I’m calm.”

  “You won’t even look at me.”

  He let out the breath he’d held, and the frustration tight in his chest dissolved as he looked down at her. It had been the right place to look because those eyes of hers, perfect circles of gray, left no room for anger. They were pools of melted ice, water to his parched heart. He had missed her.

  He wrapped his arms around Marigold, her small frame engulfed in his strong arms. Her face pressed against his chest, breathing him in, holding him tight. Looking up for a moment, his horse stared at him squarely. He didn’t want anyone to witness the next part.

  “Let’s go up,” he said in her ear. She gave the barest of nods, and didn’t let go of his hand until she had to climb the ladder. When two of her fingers hooked on his belt loop, he didn’t want her to pull away, now or ever.

  “I missed you,” she said as he pulled her into the hay on the floor of the loft. Barrels lined the space, four high, giving them privacy from the animals watching below. The only light was that of the swollen moon poking through the gabled windows of the barn. It was enough to see her face, the indentation below her nose, the curve of her lips. He wanted them on his. He wanted to forget all the things that muddled his mind. She was the only clear thing.

  Maybe being transparent wasn’t a bad thing, though he’d used the word against her in the letter. The letter, he remembered. He closed his eyes again, not sure of why he sent it, why he assumed the worst. Why she assumed the best.

  “I forgot,” he whispered to her, his body above hers, he held her face with his hands, cupping her cheeks. She leaned into them, him.

  “Forgot what?” she asked.

  “How much I want to be with you.”

  “You were so mad, a moment ago. At them, at me and now, suddenly, that’s gone?”

  “They named him Abel.” He said, his lips so close to hers.

  “That was a lovely thing to do.”

  “That’s not why they did it, Marigold.”

  “Then why?” she asked, pushing him aside, rolling on top of him. Holding his chin with her thumb and forefinger, not letting him shy away.

  “To guilt me into staying. Into being like them. Name their first born after me, and then what? Allow my nephew to be named after a deserter? It’s their way of pressuring me.”

  “Do you not want to be Amish?” she asked, letting go of his chin, looking away.

  “Do you?”

  Neither answered, but the moon hung bright and the air smelled sweet, and maybe having the answers right now would make no difference. If they both knew how to answer those questions, and if those answers divided them, or brought them together, it wouldn’t matter.

  In that moment it wouldn’t change anything. Abel would still press his lips to hers, loosen her hair from the bun, letting the honeyed rays spread over her shoulders as she lay atop him, the weight of her pressing into his chest. He would still raise the hem of her dress and feel her warm skin as he slipped his hands around the small arch of her back. He wouldn’t let go, he would hold onto her.

  So he did.

  And she sighed a deep soul sigh, as if she’d been waiting for him to do just that for a very long time.

  Chapter 13

  Marigold

  Suddenly everything felt very complicated. She sat up the next morning and pulled a piece of hay from her head, remembering. Remembering everything. Sarah and Eli’s baby being born, the first cry of a new life and the rush of unexpected love that surged through her as she witnessed the miracle.

  Abel coming home, how quickly he’d turned away from her. How easily he imagined that she chose his family over him. Running after him down the steps of the porch. Taking hold of him in the barn. His eyes. His hands. All over her. She blushed as she sat up in bed, the crisp white nightgown she wore covering the skin she’d shown him last night.

  They hadn’t gone all the way. She never had. In all her attention-getting past, hooking up with guys had never been a part of it. She wasn’t secure enough to shed her clothes for those reasons, to reveal those hidden parts of herself. But Abel was different.

  Abel saw her differently, in a way that made her want to be more, better, stronger. He made her want to be herself times infinity.

  They’d spent so little time together, but it didn’t matter. She knew enough. She knew him. There were only two things stopped them last night. The first being sex before marriage was not practiced in his community. The second was they didn’t have a condom. And since Marigold knew him, she knew the only thing that had really stopped them was the second thing.

  Dressing quickly, she put on another homemade dress. This one pale pink with buttons on the bodice. While the traditional Amish clothing use straight pins in place of button closures, Marigold hadn’t become quite that committed yet. Then as she carefully brushed out her hair, she found two more pieces of straw struggling to hold ont
o their memories before she pulled her golden tresses into a low bun.

  In the kitchen she stood beside Bekah as usual and since this was a Saturday morning breakfast, a more elaborate meal was expected. They flipped pancakes and warmed sausage links. She set out pitchers of milk and made a fresh pot of coffee. Mrs. Miller joined them, a fussy Jakey in her arms.

  “He’s teething,” she explained pouring a large cup of coffee for herself, clearly exhausted from a long night with an unhappy toddler. Marigold took him into her own arms, patting his back and handing him a cold washcloth for his swollen gums.

  “It’s okay, Mr. Jakey-boy, my Jakey-boo,” she sang trying to cheer him up.

  Abel walked into the kitchen, smiling at her as he watched the exchange.

  “I didn’t know you were so good with kids,” he said.

  Marigold didn’t quite know how to answer. “Um, I’m not particularly, but Jakey is my little goose,” she said, giving the two-year-old a kiss on the cheek before setting him into a high chair.

  “Marigold, you are good with kids,” Bekah said swatting her friends shoulder with a dishrag. “You should see her with Ruthie, Abel. She lets Ruthie make messes in the yarn shop. It would drive me crazy.”

  “Where is Ruthie, anyway?”

  “Out with Dad in the barn. She says she’s going to be a sheep farmer just like him,” Bekah explained. “What do you think of that?”

  “That sound like our Ruthie,” Abel said, pulling out a chair for himself at the table.

  “You know, Abel,” Mrs. Miller said. “You could go help, too. Don’t need to leave the heavy lifting to the little and the old ones.” Her words were playful enough, but everyone in the kitchen knew there were undertones to the sentences.

  “Right,” Abel said, standing back up. “Sure I’ll help. Didn’t mean anything by sitting.” He walked out the back door in a huff, letting the screen slam hard.

  “Well, Marigold, that adorable young man is what you’ve been missing out on.” Bekah rolled her eyes and went back to the griddle, spatula in hand.

  “Don’t be like that, Bekah.” Mrs. Miller had her eyes on the rich coffee on the table but looked up to meet Marigold’s gaze. “Abel isn’t so bad.”

  “I know,” Marigold said, wondering what Mrs. Miller was getting at. “Why say that to me though?”

  “Because I know there are feelings between the two of you. And I don’t want what Abel’s going through right now to get in the way of something real, something substantial.”

  “Why? I’m not Amish. Why try and get me to … like him more?” Marigold spoke quietly, suddenly feeling awkward in the presence of Bekah. She didn’t want everyone’s eyes on her and Abel’s relationship.

  “I don’t rightly know, Marigold. But you are so dear to me, to all of us. I don’t want anyone to get hurt.”

  “Abel and I being together will hurt people. You know that.”

  “I don’t know the answers, Marigold. I just don’t want Abel to push you away from us. Maybe, in some way, I hope you never want to leave. That you’d want to stay longer than the summer. That you’d want to stay forever.”

  The confession surprised Marigold, and she turned to Bekah to gauge her reaction. She’d wondered a few times if Bekah was at all threatened by the relationships she had formed with everyone in the Miller family. Bekah’s eyes were soft and full of love.

  “It’s true, Marigold. We don’t want you to go back in a few weeks’ time.”

  Before Marigold had a chance to come up with something to say, Abel, Mr. Miller, and Ruthie came through the kitchen door.

  “The morning chores are all done,” Mr. Miller announced. “So let’s eat.” He clapped Marigold and Bekah on the shoulder, giving them thanks for preparing the meal. They all found their seats and bowed their heads in prayer.

  “We thank the Lord for bringing back our son, Abel and for the safe delivery of his namesake. May we grow close to you with our words and deeds. Amen.”

  They dished up plates of food and Marigold felt Abel’s eyes on her. She bit her lip constantly, overly aware of the dynamics at the table, realizing that she was the one to bridge the relationships around here, but not knowing where to start.

  “Marigold should show you her yarn shop after breakfast,” Mr. Miller suggested.

  Marigold laughed, shaking her head. “Calling it a shop is a bit generous, ja?”

  “Ja?” Abel asked. “Since when do you speak Dutch?”

  “Oh, I didn’t realize,” she muttered.

  “You got a shop up and running, so fast?”

  “Well, that’s what I’m here for, you know that. I stayed to open it for your mom,” she explained, annoyed that he didn’t seem to remember the purpose of her being here.

  “So customers are coming to the farm? I thought you never wanted people walking around the property. That’s why you pushed back on my ideas before, to make the dairy a part of a tour.”

  “It’s not a lot of customers,” Marigold clarified. “Your dad’s being generous. We’ve made only a few hundred dollars over the past few weeks. They pay me more than they’re making in profits.”

  “What’s the angle here?” He looked at his parents, and Marigold didn’t get what he meant.

  They didn’t seem to understand either. “Angle?” Mr. Miller asked.

  “Well, yeah, why is everyone being so nice to Marigold?”

  Her eyebrows sprang up in shock, remembering last night, his hands, his tender kisses. She couldn’t understand how these harsh words could come from those same lips.

  “No, Marigold,” he said. “It’s not like that. I mean, I know why I like you. But you aren’t from here.” Turning to his parents he asked, “Do you even know Marigold? I mean who she really is?”

  The room got quiet. Bekah, meeting Marigold’s eyes, let her know it would be okay, before leaving with a crying Jacob and an unknowing Ruthie. This conversation wasn’t for anyone besides Abel, Marigold, and apparently his parents.

  “Marigold has been very honest with us, son. Her past is a part of her story, and she’s made peace with that,” Mr. Miller said. “And you sit here, at my table, suggesting her character is not what she’s presenting, but what I wonder, what I think we’re all questioning, is your character. Your intentions.”

  “With Marigold or the farm?”

  “Both.”

  Marigold pushed away from the table embarrassed by the conversation, of her and Abel being put on the spot, of Abel questioning her liked that in front of everyone, especially his parents. Two people she admired and cared about. People she thought she might love. To do that when he’d never really even apologized for the letter made her regret letting things go so far last night. Maybe this was a game to him, but it meant everything to her.

  “Wait,” Mrs. Miller said, but Marigold needed to breathe, and she left the house without hearing another word.

  Going to the yarn shop, she wrapped her completed storm cloud blanket around her shoulders despite the hot August morning. It felt like a lightning bolt had struck her heart. Without a second thought she found a spool of yellow yarn and began to add a streak across the white, sunless scene. Needles in hand, she found her way, somehow. Though, it seemed like she was right back at the beginning, wondering about her place in a family. Only this time it was not her own.

  Abel

  He watched, saw her tear-stained cheeks as the needles in her hand click-clacked at a ferocious speed, such a contrast to the slow fall of the drops against her rosy cheeks. She concentrated on the bright yellow yarn streaking the blanket in her lap, and she didn’t seem to notice him in the doorway. He didn’t want to interrupt her.

  He’d already done enough.

  “I know you’re there,” she said, surprising him. Her eyes didn’t turn from her work, didn’t pause to see if his face hinted that he was sorry. He was. Looking at her, her plain clothes and unpretentious hair, he wondered how she’d ever been the girl in the videos Lily showed him.


  How could Marigold transform so easily? It hadn’t only been her costumes, it was the way the light caught her eyes, the desperation in her every action in those three-minute videos capturing her desire. But the desire to be seen no longer filled her face. When he looked at her now, he couldn’t reconcile her with that girl because that girl no longer existed.

  The videos made that girl seem so real. He rubbed his hand across his cheek, wondering if he had that look in his eyes now — the desperate desire to be more, bigger, accomplished. Somehow this life she had fallen into, here at his family’s home, seemed to be enough for her. What was he missing if she found a way to be happy among the sheep? Couldn’t he be happy, too? But what bothered him the most was the gnawing in his stomach, the simple No that resounded in his ears.

  Walking toward her, he took in the yarn-filled shelves for the first time, amazed that this shed had been purposed in this way. He had no idea his mom had such a cache. The yarn was beautiful, so many colors, but what really caught his eye was the beautiful hangings on the wall, woven yarn art in small pieces that looked native in their inspiration, but also traditionally Amish by design. The colors reminded him of the quilt on his bed growing up, the quilt he’d slept under just last night. The creations hanging on the wall reminded him of home.

  “Did you make these?” he asked, studying the bright purple piece with black and turquoise threaded through, creating a weaving about eight inches wide, and two feet long. It hung on a piece of rustic wood, a piece from a whitewashed picket fence.

  “Yes,” she said simply. “But did you come here to talk about yarn?” she asked, looking up at last.

  “I probably should have thought to. Isn’t that what caused our problems in the first place, me not recognizing the things you valued as important?”

  “This doesn’t sound like an apology.”

  “It is, I promise,” he assured her, the pain in his chest deep, and rightly so. He was at fault. He’d hurt her. “Marigold, last night—“ he began.