New Beginnings at Promise Lodge

by Charlotte Hubbard

  Lord, I’m so glad You led my family here, he prayed as he gazed up at the brilliant blue sky. In the west, the sun dipped toward the far horizon, yet to Marlin it felt like the dawning of a new era rather than a sunset that marked the day’s end. When he glanced back at the Lehman place, the three new rosebushes were bathed in rays of sunlight.

  Best investment I ever made.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Allen sat at his new kitchen table Thursday afternoon, jotting down the details of the next two tiny homes he would build. An English fellow who lived near Forest Grove had brought along a friend, and by the time they’d examined Allen’s home and had studied the three different floor plans he’d shown them, they were reaching for their checkbooks.

  Gazing at the two checks he’d received as down payments, Allen felt giddy. It was a day to celebrate, and he knew just how he wanted to do it. He glanced at his handwritten contracts, thinking he probably needed a more official-looking order form. This time, however, the two fellows’ checks had sealed the deals, and they’d been satisfied with the handwritten spec sheets he’d signed for them.

  He had money, he had materials to order, he had work to do—and his business was off and running. For a few moments, Allen sat at his table grinning like a kid who’d won the grand prize at the county fair.

  As he headed across the lawn toward the little bakery, he was bubbling with the news he wanted to share with Phoebe before anyone else heard about it. Aromas of pastry and sweet fruit filled the air. The bakery windows were open, so he could hear Irene and Phoebe talking.

  “What about that gal who left her number with Elvin at the bulk store?” Irene was asking. “If we say yes, we’ll be baking another two dozen pies tomorrow.”

  “Or, we could make an exception to our schedule and whip them up early on Saturday morning,” Phoebe responded. “It’s a one-time event—and maybe we should allow for special orders.”

  “Maybe we need to ask your sister or Deborah to help when we take on more baking than we’d planned,” Irene fired back.

  Allen smiled as he grasped the handle of the screen door. It sounded as though Promise Lodge Pies was already more of a success than its proprietors had bargained for.

  “We can ask them, if you’d like,” Phoebe replied. “Or, if you don’t want to work on Saturday morning, I could bake them myself—but it won’t be the same without you to make the fillings.”

  “Jah, but even if you do the baking, we’re also talking about another delivery.”

  As Allen stepped inside, Irene was sweeping the floor behind the counter while Phoebe placed plastic domes over the pies that covered the big worktable out front. “I’ll be heading into town on Saturday,” he put in. “If I can use your new shelves to take the pies in my wagon, you won’t have to drive, Irene.”

  “Allen! You’re just in time to pick out your pie,” Phoebe said with a lilt in her voice.

  “You want to join me on that trip to town Saturday?” he asked quickly. “I uh, sold two tiny homes today, so I’ve got some celebrating to do.”

  “Two of them?” Phoebe rushed over to hug him. “You’ve had a wonderful-gut day!”

  “Congratulations, Allen!” Irene called out. When she came out from behind the counter she was beaming at him. “So tell me—what sort of person buys a tiny home? Or two of them?”

  Allen laughed, pleased with their reactions. “Two different fellows ordered them,” he clarified. “One guy saw my ad on the Forest Grove mercantile’s bulletin board, and he brought a buddy along to check me out. They’ve got hobby farms, and they want to put small, affordable homes on them—”

  “What’s a hobby farm?” Irene interrupted with a puzzled frown. “Every farmer I know considers his farm a full-time job—a lifestyle rather than a hobby.”

  Allen nodded at her observation. “Seems a lot of English folks want to get out of the city, so they buy five or ten acres to live on and then they commute to their jobs,” he explained. “These two guys are probably in their late twenties or early thirties, not married. They don’t want big houses to maintain, or pricey mortgages hanging over their heads for years.”

  “Ah.” Irene nodded and began sweeping the main room. “If they have jobs in town, you’ll most likely get paid in regular installments rather than having to wait for them to sell some cows or crops.”

  Allen smiled. Irene was every bit as sharp as her younger business partner. “Actually, they gave me down payments today. Within the next couple of weeks they’ll pay me half the price we agreed on, with the final balances coming due when I’ve finished their homes.”

  “Wow,” Phoebe murmured as she continued putting domes on pies. “They must be pretty well off, if they don’t have to go to the bank for loans.”

  Allen stepped closer to the table—and Phoebe—to decide which pie he wanted. “I don’t know how they’re coming up with the money—that’s their business,” he added as he studied the rhubarb, gooseberry, and cherry pies. “I don’t want to get involved with banks and loan processes—all that paperwork and legal stuff—so I’m just accepting cash. These guys seemed happy to pay for my Amish craftsmanship and to seal the deal with a handshake.”

  “That’s how everybody used to do business,” Irene remarked as she hung up her broom. She held Allen’s gaze from across the bakery. “It’s one thing for Phoebe and me to sell our pies for cash, but a house is another matter altogether. May I ask how much money we’re talking about? You can tell me to mind my own business if you want to,” she added quickly.

  Allen laughed at her jovial tone. “It depends on the square footage and the grade of materials a buyer wants, along with the detail work,” he replied. “Neither of these guys wants high-dollar walnut or anything much fancier than I have in my place. The smaller house is going to run about twenty-five thousand, and I’m charging thirty-five thousand for the one that’ll be about half again as big as mine.”

  Phoebe’s smile made Allen’s insides shimmer. “Well then, Mr. Moneybags,” she teased as she tweaked his cheek, “maybe Irene and I should ask you for a loan to expand our bakery!”

  “Don’t listen to her!” Irene said with a laugh. “We’ve already reached the work limit we’ve set for ourselves. Too much of a gut thing can cause trouble, especially if you take on more work than you can do your best on.”

  “I agree completely,” Allen said. “I’m marking a wall calendar to allot the time I’ll need for each house I’ve agreed to build, so folks will know they may have to wait a while for their homes. I’m allowing myself time for the finer things of life—like this fabulous gooseberry pie,” he said as he picked it up.

  “And time to spend with you,” he whispered to Phoebe. Her blush made Allen desperate to kiss her, but he didn’t want Irene watching them.

  “It’ll be gut to go into town on Saturday, away from spying eyes,” she murmured.

  When Phoebe turned back toward Irene, her expression was caring yet resolute. “Let’s call that lady and say her pies will be at the store on Saturday afternoon. If you want, you can mix up the fillings tomorrow. Laura and I can bake the pies while you’re making our delivery tomorrow, or on Saturday morning.”

  Irene appeared satisfied with these options as she removed her fruit-smeared apron. “We can make that work,” she agreed. “I’ll fetch the van so we can load today’s delivery.”

  Allen watched Irene through the window as she walked briskly toward the lodge building. “She reminds me of my mamm,” he remarked wistfully. “Works hard, figures things out—and tolerates me.”

  Phoebe nodded. “Your mamm put up with a lot when you were growing up,” she recalled fondly. “I bet she’s glad you’ve got me keeping track of you these days. Now that you’ve sold a couple of tiny homes, I can picture her looking down from heaven with a proud smile on her face.”

  Allen’s heart lurched. There was no replacing Mamm—no filling the hole she’d left in his and his dat’s lives when she’d died a few years ago—ye
t things suddenly seemed to be falling into place for him. He liked having Phoebe keep track of him, more than he would’ve admitted even a week ago.

  “How about if we leave around twelve on Saturday?” Allen asked. “We’ll bank my checks and deliver your pies, and then we’ll have the rest of the day and all evening to do something fun.”

  “We will,” Phoebe agreed. “I can’t wait.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  As Mary Kate went to answer the front door Thursday evening, Frances fidgeted in a kitchen chair. What had possessed her to invite supper guests when she couldn’t help her girls prepare the meal? What if Harley railed about his dat’s relationship with her, and the evening became unbearably tense? Who could’ve guessed how difficult it is to handle your doubts when you can’t use your hands?

  For the umpteenth time, Frances sighed loudly. Ordinarily she’d be setting the table or stirring the meat mixture or filling water glasses—anything to keep busy and release some of her nervous energy before Marlin and his family arrived for their first meal together. But she was stuck sitting at the table.

  She felt utterly useless.

  Gloria was at the stove, apprehensive for her own reasons. “I’ll turn up the fire under this sloppy joe mix so it’ll be nice and hot—”

  “No!” Frances yelped. “We don’t want it to stick to the pan and scorch.”

  Her daughter shot her a wounded look. “I was only trying to help, Mamm.”

  Frances hung her head. “I’m sorry I jumped at you, Gloria,” she muttered. “It’s me I’m frustrated with—”

  “Wow, something smells really gut in here!” Lowell said as he entered the kitchen. As always, his cowlicks sprang to life when he removed his straw hat, and his slender face was alight with a lopsided smile. “Lavern and I worked Bishop Monroe’s Clydesdales all afternoon, so I could eat a horse!”

  “You are a horse—the backside of one,” Fannie teased softly as she followed him toward the table. She was carrying a gift bag with bright pink tissue paper sticking out of it, and she shyly approached Frances. “Minerva and I made you a little something. I—we hope you’ll like it.”

  Frances’s eyes widened. “Oh, but you didn’t have to—well, you’ll have to show it to me, dear,” she added apologetically. “With my arms in these slings, I can’t reach into your sack.”

  “Hope it’s all right that we brought a layered salad and a jelly doughnut cake,” Minerva said as she carried a glass bowl to the table. “Nothing fancy.”

  “It’s not like we made anything special, either,” Gloria put in as she replaced the skillet’s lid with a loud clang. “I wouldn’t have chosen sloppy joes for a company supper, but it’s what Mamm wanted.”

  Frances bit back a grimace at her daughter’s tone, and she noticed Minerva’s and Fannie’s bewildered expressions, too. Lowell was all smiles, however.

  “Sloppy joes? Awesome!” he crowed as his sister removed the tissue paper and lifted something from the gift sack. “I’ll probably eat four or five!”

  Fannie eyed Lowell as though he’d come from another planet. Then she focused on Frances again. “It’s a prayer shawl,” she explained as she unfolded it. “We hope it makes you feel better while you recuperate, Frances.”

  Frances nearly burst into tears. “What a thoughtful surprise. That shade of green reminds me of grass under a shade tree in the summertime,” she said as she gazed at the triangular-shaped shawl. “You’ve made my day, Fannie and Minerva. I—I feel better already.”

  “Glad to hear it,” Marlin said as he entered the kitchen with Mary Kate and Harley. He set a covered cake carrier on the countertop and came over to stand by Frances. “What did the doctor say at your check-up yesterday? Looks like you got the wrappings off your arms—that’s progress!”

  “Jah, I suppose,” Frances replied with a shake of her head. “I wasn’t any too happy when he told me I’ll be slung up for another couple of weeks, doing more time on ice, before I can start physical therapy. I go back again next week.”

  Marlin perched on the chair closest to her, smiling tenderly. “I’m sorry it’ll be a while before your arms are free,” he murmured. “I’d go absolutely insane if I couldn’t use my hands and arms. We’ll all help you through this, Frances.”

  “Patience is a virtue—but right now, it’s not one of mine,” she muttered. She managed a smile for Gloria and the guests gathered in her kitchen. “It’s nice to have company around my table again. We’ll eat as soon as Roman’s back from checking a cow that’s ready to calve.”

  “I’ll give him a hand,” Harley said, quickly heading for the mudroom door.

  Frances was glad the two young men would have each other for company this evening. When Mary Kate and Minerva set a basket of sandwich buns, a fruit salad, and a large baked bean casserole on the table, Frances realized she’d left Fannie hanging. “How about if you put that pretty shawl on the arm of the recliner for me, so I won’t get food on it?” she asked. “Denki again for such a lovely gift, Fannie. You’ve come a long way with your crocheting!”

  The girl’s face turned a pretty shade of peach as she took the shawl and the gift bag to the front room. Marlin leaned closer and lowered his voice.

  “She worked like a trouper on that shawl—had to rip out some stitches and redo them a few times,” he murmured. “I suspect she was praying for patience as much as she was praying for you while she was making it.”

  “I wasn’t much help with Fannie’s left-handed technique,” Minerva put in as she filled the water glasses. “But she kept at it.”

  “It was awfully sweet of her to think of me,” Frances said in a voice that was tight with emotion. “I can use every prayer she stitched into that shawl.”

  When Roman and Harley returned from the barn, everyone chose a place to sit. After Marlin scooted Frances closer to the table, he looked to her for guidance and she nodded toward the place to her right, at the head where Floyd had always sat. The arrangement seemed normal, to her way of thinking—even if Gloria’s expression soured as they all bowed in prayer. The whole point of the meal was for everyone to sample what it might be like to become a family, after all.

  Lowell dove into the food with an enthusiasm that made everyone relax. He immediately loaded two buns with the sauced hamburger mixture, and his first big bite left traces of tomato sauce around his mouth.

  “Sooo gut,” he murmured. Lowell’s smile as he took a second huge bite won Frances’s heart.

  “Slow down, son. Your food’s not going anywhere without you,” Marlin teased gently. “Frances will think Minerva never feeds you.”

  Mary Kate sat to Frances’s left, placing food on both of their plates. Once again Frances felt helpless. She regretted that she was like another baby Mary Kate had to feed—because David’s high chair was at her other side. Roman was an old hand at helping with his son’s meals, however . . . and Frances enjoyed watching everyone eating, even though she couldn’t pick up her own sandwich.

  She blinked when a forkful of bun and fragrant meat appeared in front of her. Marlin was holding it, smiling as he waited for her to close her mouth around it.

  As she accepted the bite he offered, her gaze locked into his. For a moment it seemed that only the two of them sat at the table—until Frances quickly sat back to chew. Could the kids hear her hammering heartbeat? Did they find it offensive that Marlin had fed her with his own fork?

  “See there?” Mary Kate murmured as she offered Frances a bite of the lettuce salad. “Being unable to use your hands might have some unexpected advantages, jah?”

  “No washing dishes, for example,” Minerva remarked with a chuckle.

  When Marlin held up another bite of her sandwich, Frances saw Harley’s expression stiffen—but he held his tongue. She suspected his dat had given him a pep talk before they’d arrived. Frances knew exactly how difficult it was for a parent to ask an adult child for cooperation.

  “Mamm, really!” Gloria blurted out. “Do we have
to watch him feed you? That’s gross.”

  Frances almost choked on the bite she’d just taken. She could’ve pointed out that during the nine days she’d been unable to use her arms, she would’ve starved had she waited for Gloria’s assistance with her food—but she didn’t want to fill the sudden silence in the kitchen with such a negative remark.

  Lowell’s second sandwich stopped several inches short of his mouth. His face fell as he struggled with his emotions. “Why are you so mean to your mamm, Gloria?” he asked in a voice wracked with adolescent agony. “I—I would give anything to have my mother back.”

  Frances swallowed hard, deeply touched by the boy’s words. Minerva and Fannie blinked back sudden tears, while Harley looked off into the distance. Mary Kate appeared ready to reprimand her sister, but instead she gripped the table’s edge when thoughts of her father made her face pucker.

  After several intensely uncomfortable moments, Marlin cleared his throat. “We all miss her, son,” he murmured. “And Gloria’s family is missing her dat, too. When a loss hits us this hard, sometimes our grief makes us cry, and sometimes we lash out in our pain. It’s part of the process, and we’re blessed to have our families and friends so we don’t have to go through it alone.”

  The kitchen seemed to sigh around them as the tick-tick-tick of the battery clock marked off several more seconds of tight silence. Gloria rose from her chair, her face stricken. “Excuse me,” she muttered before she hurried from the room.

  Little David squawked, calling to her, but Gloria didn’t turn around. After a few moments, the slamming of a bedroom door above them was a sharp reminder of how Gloria felt about having the Kurtzes in her home . . . and about the relationship that was blossoming between the two parents at the table. Frances wondered what she, as the hostess, could say to alleviate the tension that lingered in the kitchen.

  She leaned forward to smile at Lowell, who appeared flummoxed by the drama he’d unwittingly caused. “I’m sorry you’ve lost your mamm, Lowell—and I’m really glad you like the sloppy joes,” she added in the most upbeat voice she could muster. “Comfort food feeds our souls as much as it feeds our bodies. For me, sloppy joes are all about the soft buns and the tangy sauce—the sloppier, the better.”