New Beginnings at Promise Lodge

by Charlotte Hubbard

  When Phoebe’s smile fell, Allen kicked himself. Her confused expression stabbed at his heart, but he told himself to remain firm about breaking up with her.

  She took a deep breath. “I thought maybe after dinner we might walk up to that piece of ground we spotted from the highway—the one overlooking the lake,” she added hopefully. “Mamm says I can have it! So if you need a place to move your construction—or to build a shop—well . . . you can use it, Allen.”

  He didn’t know what to say. After several moments of silence, which she surely interpreted as his rejection, Phoebe sighed. “We’ll talk later. I guess you men are busy setting out food.”

  Allen felt lower than a roach. He’d broken up with a couple of girlfriends while he’d lived in Indiana, but it would be harder to deal with Phoebe’s disappointment because they would both remain at Promise Lodge for the foreseeable future. Before he could change his mind, he took a knife from the drawer. Surrounded by the other men, who bustled about unwrapping bowls and looking for serving utensils, Allen focused on cutting the two pies into neat, even pieces.

  It took all his willpower not to devour a slice of the lattice-topped strawberry rhubarb pie on the spot, not to slip back to his tiny home to keep Phoebe’s pies all for himself. The other pies on the counter didn’t look nearly as delectable.

  “Son, if you’d like to sit with Mattie and me at lunch, we’d be delighted to have you.”

  Allen looked up to find his dat leaning against the kitchen counter, watching him closely—as though he knew more than he was saying. “Um, sure—that would be fine,” he hedged.

  Dat smiled like the cat that ate the canary. “None of my business, but I couldn’t help noticing that Phoebe left here looking like a kitten who’d been drenched by a bucket of cold water.”

  Allen sighed. He really didn’t want to listen to Dat and Mattie’s advice about his love life while he ate, but at this point it would be impolite to sit with Cyrus and Jonathan—or to leave the gathering altogether. “You know how it is when girls get their hopes up and start living in a fairy tale,” he said with a sigh.

  “Jah, that happens,” Dat said with a chuckle. “And I might have a secret up my sleeve for the handsome prince in the story.”

  Allen’s eyes widened as his father took hold of the two water pitchers Preacher Eli was handing him. After Dat headed outside, Allen quickly placed a slice of the strawberry rhubarb pie in the lid of Phoebe’s pie carrier and shoved it to the back of the countertop before taking the two pies outside to the dessert table. If the day was about to slide further downhill with Phoebe, at least he’d have one last slice of her pie to sweeten the descent.

  After all the food was arranged on the long serving tables and the ladies were lining up to fill their plates first, Allen joined his dat beneath a big maple tree near the side of the lodge.

  “Mattie’s taking plates over to the Helmuth place to eat with Barbara,” his father said. “So before we go through the serving line, I thought we might chat.”

  Allen’s stomach rumbled with hunger. He recalled the long, uncomfortable chats his father the preacher had often had with him while he was growing up—yet he was intrigued about the secret Dat had mentioned earlier. “How about if we have our dessert first?” he suggested, nodding toward the lodge. “There’s a piece of Phoebe’s pie in the kitchen calling my name, and I’ll share it with you.”

  Dat chuckled as they headed around the back of the lodge. “Any particular reason you shut her down?” he asked nonchalantly. “Last I knew, the two of you were enjoying each other’s company—and truth be told, I was delighted. She’s a nice girl. Gut head on her shoulders, too.”

  “Jah, but she’s got stars in her eyes and marriage on her mind and I’m not there yet,” Allen blurted.

  “Would your cold feet have something to do with her asking Christine for that plot of ground overlooking the lake?”

  Allen stopped short of the kitchen door, staring. “How’d you know about that?”

  Dat laughed. “Monroe told me. We guys have to stick together, you know.” He opened the door and gestured for Allen to go in first. “It occurred to me that if the young lady of my dreams was acquiring property, I’d be getting nervous, too. I’d feel like she was the driver and I was the horse.”

  A ray of hope made Allen smile as he took two forks from a drawer. “You nailed it, Dat,” he murmured. “Phoebe means well, offering to let me move my construction supplies to her plot of land—and even build a shop on it so I can work indoors in the winter. But the moment she suggested that, the walls closed in on me.” He scooted the slice of pie between them on the counter.

  His father nodded as he cut off the tip of the slice. “Mmm,” he moaned as he chewed. “You can’t argue with the way this girl cooks. But you can choose your own piece of property, son. It was my fondest wish to do the same for you as Mattie did for her boys, but you were going to school in Indiana, so—”

  “You had no idea I’d be coming to Promise Lodge,” Allen put in. When he stuck a large bite of pie in his mouth, it tasted even more perfect than he’d anticipated. Who could’ve imagined this turn of events? This opportunity his dat was hinting at?

  The smile on his father’s face shone like the sunrise on a May morning. “Allen, your return to Missouri with your sisters ranks right up there with my finally getting to marry Mattie,” he said in a voice that was hoarse with emotion. “Sam and Simon’s parents bought the land where the nursery sits as an extension of their business back East, so I funded their house for your sisters’ homecoming gift. It’s your turn, Allen. Pick out the property you want, and it’ll be yours whenever you’re ready for it.”

  Allen felt like a shaken can of soda pop, ready to explode with pent-up excitement. Having land of his own meant he could park his tiny home and erect a shop very soon, so Rosetta wouldn’t be charging him extra rent—or any rent at all! Never had he dreamed that his stern Amish father would give him such a generous gift. Especially because he hadn’t committed to joining the church.

  Maybe this is his way of persuading you to do that, his thoughts niggled. Maybe it’s another version of the trap Phoebe’s setting.

  Allen figured he’d better clarify the arrangement before he got his hopes up too high. “What if I don’t join the Old Order?” he asked softly. “Or what if I don’t ever marry?”

  His dat flashed him a knowing smile. “You know my opinions on those topics, but you’re my son,” he replied as he cut a large bite from the remaining pie. “You need a place to live and work, so it makes sense for me to offer you property no matter what you do with your life, jah? It’s my way of saying . . . I want you to stick around.”

  Allen was astounded. While growing up, he’d never envisioned Preacher Amos as a man who’d allow his son a detour from the same life path or the same rigid religious practices he believed in. Life with a leader of the Old Order Amish was like men’s Sunday clothing: black and white, with no gray areas or wiggle room for differing beliefs.

  Allen had never imagined that beneath his stern exterior, his dat had a soft spot for him, either. Had Amos Troyer always been a doting father, or had Allen been too full of himself—too set on getting away from his dat—to notice?

  “And if I give you land, it takes the reins out of Phoebe’s hands—at least until you marry her,” Dat added with a laugh.

  Allen laughed, too, even though his father playfully laid his fork across the final chunk of pie to claim it. If Allen was to have any more of Phoebe’s fantastic pastry and filling, he’d either have to grab a slice of her pie before it had all disappeared from the dessert table . . . or he’d need to give her a reason to keep baking for him.

  “Denki, Dat,” Allen murmured. “You’ve offered me a generous gift, and I appreciate it.”

  “You’re welcome.” His father stood straighter, leaving sentimentality behind. “Where would you like to live? You can have as much land as you like, but I can’t see you needing a lot of acreage
for raising crops or pasturing animals—although that might change over time.”

  Allen had a sudden vision of his tiny home parked on the far shore of Rainbow Lake, with a new fishing dock just steps away from his door. If he didn’t claim that pretty section of the campground, somebody else surely would. “What if I want the lake, and that adjoining piece of ground that falls between the orchard and the Peterscheim place?”

  His dat’s forehead wrinkled with thought. “I guess we’ve always considered the lake as community property—”

  “But what if I keep it stocked, so everyone can still fish there?” Allen asked, his voice rising with excitement. “And if they want to ice skate on it, that’s fine, too. Truman could run a road along the back side of it that would access the property Phoebe wants, and kill two birds with one stone.”

  “Sounds more like two birds building a big nest to me,” Dat teased.

  “Sounds like the perfect place for a tiny home and a bachelor hangout,” Allen countered quickly. “Waterfront property is always considered prime real estate. I’m surprised nobody else thought of it first.”

  His father cut into the last chunk of pie and nudged half of it toward Allen. “I’ll run this past Mattie and her sisters, as my business partners, but consider it a done deal. They got first dibs on property when we moved here, and I went along with their wishes, so it’s my turn to have a say now, jah?”

  Dat held up his last bite as a salute. “Isn’t it amazing what gets decided over pie?” he asked lightly. “It’s like the sugar and fruit and pastry all come together to show folks what really matters. I’ll go speak with Mattie and her sisters right now.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  Frances sighed and opened her mouth for another forkful of potato salad—not because it tasted good to her, but because for the first time, Gloria was feeding her. Mary Kate, Roman, and baby David sat across the table, trying to make encouraging conversation. Ruby and Beulah had joined them, too, and sat at the end of the table behind Frances’s lawn chair, which was situated sideways so Gloria could feed her more easily.

  All around her folks chatted and laughed, enjoying the beautiful weather and the Mother’s Day picnic beneath the big trees, but Frances couldn’t rise to the occasion. She felt as if she were living inside a big, invisible bubble that dimmed the sights and sounds around her and kept her separate from—and uninterested in—all that was going on. She was happy to hide behind her large sunglasses, so the well-meaning people around her couldn’t see how miserable she was.

  “I’m going to grab a slice of that cherry pie and some of Ruby’s chocolate cake before they’re gone,” Gloria said. “What can I bring you for dessert, Mamm?”

  Frances suspected her smile looked as feeble as it felt. “Oh, I couldn’t eat another bite,” she insisted. “Without being able to move around, I don’t work up much of an appetite.”

  “You could bring me a couple of those lemon bars, sweetie,” Ruby piped up.

  “I like the sugar cookie bars best—if there’s room on your plate,” Beulah hinted.

  Gloria pressed her lips into a worried line, but left the table to fetch the desserts. Frances took the opportunity to sink into herself rather than having to make conversation. It seemed that announcing her intention to sell her house and furnishings had sucked all the energy from her. She let her eyes close, giving serious consideration to going home for a nap. It was a relief when Gloria sat down in front of her again and blocked the glare of the sunshine.

  “Frances, I’m sorry to hear you want to sell your place.”

  Preacher Amos’s deep voice jolted Frances out of her woolgathering. He was gazing speculatively at her from Gloria’s seat, awaiting her response. But what could she say? She felt tongue-tied with his dark eyes focused so intently on her.

  “I was also sorry that you and Marlin seem to have parted ways,” Amos continued softly. He leaned toward her with his elbows on his knees. “He’s crazy about you, Frances.”

  Her heart thudded painfully in her chest. “It’s too soon,” she said, looking away.

  The preacher considered this. “Maybe so, but why burn your bridges? Marlin’s a patient fellow—”

  “And he deserves a strong, happy wife,” Frances blurted before she could catch herself.

  Amos’s bushy eyebrows rose. “You sound just like I did after I fell off the shed last fall,” he remarked. “Remember how I told Mattie the wedding was off, because she deserved a healthy husband? I’d still be a victim in a wheelchair if Truman and Roman hadn’t made me take my medications—because I was so depressed, I didn’t know up from down. And I didn’t much care.”

  Amos looked behind him, where Roman sat with David in his lap. “Is that how you remember it, son?”

  Roman nodded. “You were in a bad way, Amos. You spent too much time in the dark feeling moody and snapping at folks who tried to help you.”

  Frances blinked. Amos and Roman had perfectly described her feelings, despite the way she and Gloria had patched things up between them. “I’m sick and tired of feeling sick and tired,” she muttered.

  “Gut!” the preacher said as he gently grasped her knee. “Once you’ve reached rock bottom, the only way is up, so you’re ready to head in that direction, jah? When do you see your doctor again about getting out of those slings?”

  She looked away again. “They were supposed to come off last Tuesday, but—”

  “Well, that explains it,” Amos cut in. “Anybody would feel despondent about coming home with her arms still trussed up.”

  Though Frances wanted the preacher to let her be, he held her gaze through her sunglasses. “What if I take you to your next appointment? We’ll ask your doctor about some antidepressants, even if he starts you on your physical therapy,” Amos suggested. “I suspect you decided to ditch your house and Marlin during low moments when you weren’t really yourself.”

  “You said that exactly right, Amos,” Mary Kate chimed in from across the table. “Mamm’s dug herself into an emotional trench lately and we can’t seem to help her out of it. Her next appointment is this coming Tuesday, by the way.”

  “But we want to move to an apartment in the lodge because the house is too big and too quiet,” Gloria put in as she returned with her loaded plate. “We both think it’ll do us gut to have friends to eat with and talk to, now that . . . now that Dat’s gone.”

  Frances’s heart lurched as her daughter’s words brought tears to her eyes. Was she really so depressed that she needed medication? Why couldn’t Amos let her handle her grief the way she wanted to?

  “You’re probably right about that part,” Amos agreed. He focused again on Frances. “But I can’t think that selling the furniture and the family belongings that have meaning for you will improve your situation. After you’ve recovered, you’ll wish you had them back.”

  Frances nipped her lip, noting the way Gloria’s expression tightened. Once again she wished people would just leave her alone and stop questioning her decisions. “We need the money,” she murmured.

  Was it her imagination, or had everyone at the tables around them gone quiet, to listen in on her private woes?

  Amos cleared his throat. “I could tell you that God will provide—and He will—but I’m going to do you one better, Frances,” he said in a low voice. “If living amongst your friends at the lodge will lift your spirits, do it. But keep your house and your furniture. It was Rosetta’s intention from the beginning to take in women who need a place to live—even if they can’t afford to pay rent. Accept her hospitality, at least until you can figure out what comes next in your life.”

  “Jah, Frances, we’ve started our Coffee Can Fund, remember?” Ruby put in.

  “And even if we hadn’t,” Beulah said, “Rosetta wouldn’t dream of turning you away, and neither would we. We gals are all in this together.”

  “Did someone say my name?” a cheerful voice called out behind Frances.

  Frances’s heart shriveled. She ha
dn’t intended to become the object of anyone’s pity or the recipient of charity. Before she could protest, however, Rosetta and Truman came over to the table and greeted everyone. Their hands were clasped and their faces radiated the love they shared. From all appearances, they were the happiest couple on the face of the earth.

  Frances envied them. Once upon a time, she’d been happy, too.

  Preacher Amos rose to pump Truman’s hand. “You’re just the folks we want to see,” he said jovially. “Frances and Gloria are thinking to live in one of your lodge apartments for a while—”

  “Perfect!” Rosetta said. “Truman’s mamm says it’s one of the best things she’s ever done for herself.”

  “—and, Truman, if you’ve got a minute this afternoon,” Amos continued, “I’d like us to figure out the best place to plow out a road that’ll run around the other side of the lake and give us access to that tract of land behind the orchard.”

  “We can do that,” Truman said with a nod. “There’s already a natural path that runs around the lake and up the hill. Just a matter of taking a dozer to it and adding gravel so it’ll support traffic.”

  “Shall we take a look?” Amos asked. Then he focused on Frances again. “Will you believe me when I say God will turn your life around, and that we’ll all do our best to help that happen?”

  Frances nodded, mostly so the preacher would be on his way. When he and Truman strode off toward Rainbow Lake, Rosetta slipped her arm around Frances’s shoulders and gestured for Gloria to sit in the chair Amos had vacated.

  “I’m glad you ladies want to move into the lodge,” she said earnestly. “For a while, Ruby and Beulah were worried that they’d be rattling around all by themselves. I have another idea, too—and it concerns a job I think you’d be really gut at, Gloria.”

  Gloria’s forkful of chocolate cake stopped in front of her mouth. “A job?” she echoed hopefully. “I could sure use the money.”