New Beginnings at Promise Lodge

by Charlotte Hubbard

  When the grave was filled, Bernice began to sob quietly as Barbara, Sam, and Simon gathered around her. With a parting glance at Floyd’s simple white grave marker on the other side of the cemetery, Frances started toward the lodge along with the other women who were helping with the meal.

  Something made her stop and look up. Frances found herself gazing at the two-story white house she and Gloria had recently vacated . . . the home Floyd had built for their family when God had led them to Promise, Missouri.

  Life is so short and unpredictable, Frances realized with a sigh. Maybe it was my grief that made me sell everything—and maybe that wasn’t such a gut idea.

  She blinked back sudden tears, hoping the women around her wouldn’t ask what had upset her. Frances hated to admit it, but a week in her small, simple apartment had proven to her that the absence of housekeeping chores wasn’t the blessing it seemed to be for Irene and the Kuhns—although Gloria appeared happier than she’d been since before her dat had passed.

  Frances busied herself with cutting and plating the pies Phoebe and Irene had baked, pleased that she was wielding the knife and metal spatula more steadily now that her hands were getting stronger. As folks went through the buffet line, helping themselves to the Kuhns’ baked chicken, potato salad, cucumbers and onions, and four-bean salad, she heard Lester’s voice above the rest.

  “Marlin, your sermon gave me a whole new outlook,” her brother-in-law said. “Instead of asking God again why He allowed my wife and son to die in that horrendous buggy crash, I could see them standing with Jesus while you were preaching! And they were healthy and whole! I—I think I can move on now, thanks to you.”

  Frances’s knife stopped halfway across a strawberry pie. When she found Lester’s face in the crowd, she was amazed at his transformation. He was smiling, and he appeared more peaceful than she’d seen him in weeks. Marlin was modestly accepting Lester’s praise, claiming that the words had been God’s rather than his own—but other folks chimed in with similar remarks.

  “Preacher, that was a truly inspiring message,” one of the folks from Ohio insisted.

  “I’m reconsidering my Willis’s passing now, too,” Christine put in. “And I don’t think God had a thing to do with our barn burning down that night, nor did He allow Isaac Chupp to set it afire as part of His will. It was Isaac’s meanness at work, not God.”

  Frances’s eyebrows rose. Who could’ve anticipated the power of Marlin’s words? Who could’ve foreseen the comfort folks felt when they’d shifted their vision?

  Maybe you need to shift your vision, too. Maybe selling everything and moving to the lodge aren’t the only mistakes you’ve made in your grief.

  Blinking rapidly, Frances focused again on the pies she was cutting. It wouldn’t be long before the folks coming through the food line would set their loaded dinner plates on the tables and select their desserts—and she didn’t want to call attention to her flustered state of mind by sniffling or swiping at tears.

  “Look at these pies! How am I supposed to choose?” one of the Ohio fellows joked.

  “I’ll take one slice now and pray there’ll be extras left after everyone’s gotten a piece,” the man behind him said.

  Frances smiled, focused on her cutting so she could keep up with the pie slices that were disappearing from the dessert table. When most folks were seated and eating, she decided to cut the final four pies on the table behind her before she filled a dinner plate.

  “How’ve you been, Frances? It’s gut to see that your hands and arm muscles are recovering.”

  Frances paused with her knife poised above a blackberry pie. There was no avoiding Marlin as he stood on the other side of the table, awaiting her answer. He looked so handsome in his black vest and white shirt, with his freshly trimmed hair and beard, that she had a hard time not gawking at him the way a schoolgirl mooned over the first cute boy who kissed her. Somehow she reined in the memory of Marlin’s kiss—which had been much more soul-searing and satisfying than any mere boy’s could’ve been.

  “You know how sometimes your thoughts buzz around like bees?” she asked softly. “I’ve just realized that I made a big mistake, selling off my furniture—but at this point, what’s done is done. The auction’s set for Saturday.”

  Marlin considered her response as he looked over the selection of pie slices. “You don’t like living at the lodge?” he asked. “There’ve been times when I’ve wished I could move into a couple of rooms upstairs. Life would be simpler without family members objecting to decisions, thinking they know better than you do—don’t you agree?”

  Frances blinked. Did Marlin want to get away from Harley so badly that he’d move into an apartment? Or was he teasing her—asking about Gloria, perhaps?

  “Your sermon today made me rethink a few things,” she admitted. “I realize now that it was my grief and depression that made me sell everything—just as you and Amos tried to tell me. In my fear, I thought it was the prudent thing to do, to support myself and Gloria. Now . . . I see things differently.”

  Frances inhaled deeply, hoping the extra oxygen would clarify her thoughts. “Maybe life’s too short to live within the limits I’ve set,” she said softly. “I was wrong to turn you away and to treat you so unfairly after you’d been nothing but gut to me, Marlin. I—I’m truly sorry.”

  Marlin gripped the pie plate he’d picked up. He looked around to be sure no one else was within earshot. “What does this mean, Frances?” he whispered. “If you want me to court you again, well—I’ll have to think about it.”

  As Marlin returned to his table, where he sat surrounded by his kids, Minerva, and some of the Helmuth kin from out East, the bottom dropped out of Frances’s heart. In her attempt to prove she could support herself, had she burned her bridges? Had her plan for happiness backfired because she’d tried to be too independent?

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  On Friday morning Barbara realized she didn’t have enough hands. She was trying to nurse a very fussy Corene while Carol wailed in her bassinet next to the rocker, and she was becoming more frustrated by the minute. Bernice had stayed in bed. Sam and Simon had returned to work, feeling they needed to be at their busy nursery in the peak of growing and planting season.

  It was her first time trying to handle both babies all by herself.

  “Mamm, how did you manage when Bernice and I came along?” Barbara prayed aloud as she kept rocking. “Send me some help! I can’t go fetch Minerva right now—and I’m really worried about Bernice. She’s so depressed, and I don’t know how to help her. I’ve got two noisy, hungry mouths to feed and these crying babies are driving me crazy!”

  But Mamm had passed years ago. Imagining her mother with Jesus, as Preacher Marlin had described, had helped Barbara get through Caleb’s funeral, but it wouldn’t bring her the assistance she so desperately needed on this hot, muggy morning. A few feet away, the vacant rocking chair beside the empty bassinet with the light blue blankets reminded her just how alone—and lonely—she felt without her twin’s constant company.

  After Barbara tried a third time to feed crying Corene, she switched the babies. Maybe Carol would settle down—and thereby quiet her sister—while she filled herself with milk. “Come on, sweetie, you’re a gut little eater,” she pleaded with the tiny, red-faced girl as she settled into the rocker again.

  Instead of nursing, however, Carol turned her head and began to cry even louder. The poor little thing was damp with the heat and her exertions—and even though Barbara and the two husbands had agreed that Irene should have her air conditioner back, she longed for the luxury of a cool, quiet room again. The nursery, ordinarily so cheerful with its yellow walls and sunshine coming through the windows, echoed with the twins’ escalating wails.

  Barbara tried to reason things out. Should she move the girls to the kitchen? The rooms downstairs were only slightly cooler—and the thought of fetching the two carrier baskets from the mudroom, returning to the nursery, and sh
ifting the girls to the lower level suddenly seemed overwhelming. Exhausted as she was, she didn’t dare carry a wailing baby in each arm as she navigated the stairs.

  Out of sheer frustration, Barbara started to cry along with Carol and Corene. After giving birth, and then dealing with Caleb’s death and the influx and departure of guests this week, she felt so drained that all she could do was succumb to her doubts.

  What if they’re sick? Should I leave the room and let them cry themselves to sleep? Maybe instead of my milk they really want water. What if they’re refusing my milk because it doesn’t taste right? What if—

  Advice from every mother Barbara knew was spinning in her mind, to the point she realized she was clutching Carol too tightly in a rocking chair that was moving so fast that anyone would be upset. She stopped rocking, and stopped trying to coax Carol’s mouth to her breast. Totally discouraged, Barbara hung her head and sobbed.

  A few moments later she sensed someone standing in the doorway. When Barbara glanced up with tear-filled eyes, she saw Bernice taking in the chaos that filled the nursery. Had the babies wakened her? Was she going to complain that she couldn’t sleep because of their noise?

  Barbara didn’t have the energy to ask. She shifted Carol higher on her shoulder and slowly began to rock again, unsure of what to say to her bereaved sister. The past six days had felt like six weeks because Bernice had broken her long, painful silences only to remark about how unfair it was that her son had died, and to say that Barbara’s two healthy children would torment her for the rest of her life.

  Bernice had apparently forgotten that Barbara had offered her a child. She was living in her own private hell, refusing to let anyone else share her misery or ease her suffering. Poor Simon was at the end of his emotional rope. He’d talked about taking Bernice to see a doctor or a grief counselor, but his wife had refused to go.

  Barbara sniffled loudly. The wailing of her two babies seemed like a very small problem, considering the burden her twin sister was bearing.

  After several moments, Bernice stepped hesitantly into the nursery. Her red-rimmed eyes swept past Barbara to the bassinet a few feet away, where Corene’s cries had escalated to screaming. Although it was nearly nine, Bernice still wore her rumpled cotton nightgown. Her long brown braid was mussed and askew, as though she’d spent a lot of time in bed without getting any rest.

  Bernice made a wide, slow circle behind Barbara’s rocking chair. As she approached Corene’s bassinet, the tautness of her body suggested that she might bolt from the room if the least little thing distracted her.

  Barbara swallowed hard, not daring to speak or to stop rocking. Please God, help me—and my sister—do the right things, she prayed.

  After what felt like an eternity, Bernice stopped beside the bassinet. With a little sob she lifted the baby in the pale green onesie to her shoulder, swaying from side to side as though she was in a trance.

  Barbara held her breath, wishing she could see her sister’s face and better gauge her emotions. What if Bernice suddenly changed her mind and dropped the baby back into her bassinet? Or what if she ran from the room? How could Barbara follow her to be sure her sister and her daughter remained safe? She hated not being able to trust her sister with Corene, but Bernice’s depression had become very worrying.

  Amazingly, Corene was settling down and her cries had become short hiccupping sounds. Very slowly, Bernice ambled around the other side of the bassinet, alternately walking and swaying as she made her way toward the empty rocking chair, carefully supporting the baby’s head with her hand.

  Is Bernice humming? Barbara listened closely, trying to hear the soft melody beneath Carol’s continuing cries. She watched closely as her sister lowered herself into the rocker. Bernice was gazing at Corene’s face as though her life depended upon the need, the hunger—the trust—she saw in the baby’s eyes.

  Barbara sat very still as her twin sister loosened the front of her nightgown. When Corene latched onto her breast and began to nurse, Bernice’s eyes closed. With a soft moan she let her head loll back against the rocker.

  Tears streamed down Barbara’s face—although she was now crying in relief and joy and gratitude to God. Her sister’s body relaxed and her face took on a beatific expression as she rocked, cradling the baby close. She reminded Barbara of paintings she’d seen of Mary with baby Jesus, her face alight with an inner radiance.

  When Barbara glanced down, she realized that Carol’s cries had become whimpers. Once again she positioned the baby’s mouth near her breast, sighing thankfully when she felt milk surging from her body into Carol’s mouth. The steady creak of the two rocking chairs filled the nursery with blissful tranquility. Barbara let out the breath she didn’t realize she’d been holding.

  “Denki for coming to my rescue, Bernice,” she said softly. “What would I do without you?”

  Bernice let out a tremulous sigh. “My breasts are full, my arms are empty, and my heart aches for a tiny redheaded child,” she replied softly. She shifted Corene’s position, stroking her cheek and her carrot-colored hair as the baby girl continued to nurse. “Maybe you and God have been trying to tell me something, Barbara. Maybe I’m meant to be a mamm after all.”

  “I’ve always believed that,” Barbara insisted. The sight of her sister feeding Corene was powerful medicine for her soul. “That little girl you’re holding couldn’t ask for a better mamm, or a more devoted set of parents.”

  For a long moment Bernice held Barbara’s gaze. As they rocked, Barbara realized that their identical chairs were moving in exactly the same tempo—and why wouldn’t they? She and her twin had always lived synchronized lives, and now that their rhythm had been restored, she sensed that healing could begin.

  “You’re the biggest blessing of my entire life, Barbara,” Bernice whispered. “You—and this wee babe you’ve given me—have just saved me from dying a slow, lonely death inside.”

  Barbara reached over to clasp her sister’s outstretched hand. “You’d do the same for me. You know you would.”

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Frances sat on the lodge’s porch swing Saturday afternoon, determined to stay busy by crocheting an afghan. This is how it’s going to be from here on, she told herself as she worked the gray-green yarn in and out of the previous row’s stitches. These women eat dinner and redd up the dishes in short order, so now the whole afternoon looms before you.

  She was sorry she hadn’t accepted Beulah’s invitation to go to Forest Grove with the other gals—but what did she need to shop for? And even if she saw something she wanted, why would she want to spend the money? Irene and Phoebe were delivering their pies, so Annabelle and the Kuhns had tagged along, eager to find fabric to secretly make a quilt—certain that Allen and Phoebe would announce their engagement any day. Gloria was in her apartment working on her column for The Budget.

  So Frances sat alone.

  With a sigh, she told herself to count her blessings. An early morning thunderstorm had ushered in a cool front, so the temperature was much more pleasant than they’d had for several days. Hummingbirds buzzed around the feeders and the orange flowers on the trumpet vines, seemingly glad for Frances’s company. And she had to admit that she enjoyed eating meals she didn’t have to cook all by herself. As she waved at Laura and Deborah, who were carrying baskets of vegetables and baked goods out to Mattie’s roadside produce stand, Frances also realized she was blessed to live among such industrious, friendly neighbors.

  A few minutes later, the sound of buggy wheels made her look up from her crocheting. As Marlin drove in from the road, he lifted his black straw hat in greeting and Frances waved back. He kept heading toward home, however. After he’d left their conversation about courtship dangling by a loose thread at the funeral meal, she wondered where she stood with him.

  Maybe he felt she’d been trying for his sympathy when she’d admitted her regrets about the house and her furniture. Maybe he figured she’d gotten exactly what she’d aske
d for, after ignoring his advice.

  Frances focused on her afghan again, determined to find positive topics to think about as she added another row of stitches.

  For all you know, somebody’s bidding on your furniture at the auction right this minute, she realized. Maybe sometime this week you’ll have a check and you can put that unfortunate decision behind you. At least you’ll have money to pay your rent—and next time your friends ask, you can go into town with them.

  Frances blinked fiercely, fighting tears. There was no use in crying over spilled milk or stuff she no longer had. Hadn’t Jesus preached that it was better to store up treasures in heaven than to accumulate worldly possessions?

  She finished off the row she’d crocheted and searched her bag for another color of yarn; something bright and cheerful to lift her spirits. When she found a partial skein of deep, bright gold, it reminded her of the irises that were blooming in a long row beside Christine’s dairy barn. As she attached the fresh color, Frances challenged herself to finish the afghan before supper, so she’d have the satisfaction of a completed project to show for her time.

  A little while later the sound of tires crunching on gravel made her look up. A big white pickup was pulling under the curved metal sign at the entry to Promise Lodge, its motor rumbling as though it was much more suited to speeding along a highway than rolling slowly along the one-lane road that was bordered by freshly cut lawn and Mattie’s vegetable plots. When the truck stopped near the lodge, a burly English fellow got out and approached the porch.

  “I’m looking for Frances Lehman,” he called out. “Do you know where I might find her?”