A Simple Winter: A Seasons of Lancaster Novel

by Rosalind Lauer

  When there was a silent pause, Remy pursued the conversation, posing other questions about Adam’s parents. In talking, Adam could recall the good times and lay his burdens down. Their quiet words still burned with genuine intensity when the conductor came down the aisle to announce the train’s arrival in Philadelphia.

  “We’re here,” she said, “and I feel like I just sat down. I wish we could continue our conversation.” Passengers filled the aisles, pulling down bags and pressing toward the exits. They had to get moving.

  “It was good to talk.” He nodded, then rose.

  Before Remy was even out of her seat, Adam had her backpack down and ready for her to loop the straps over her shoulders.

  “Thanks.” She turned around and allowed herself a blatant study of his face now, eyes smoky as obsidian, a broad brow and high cheekbones. “Adam, I’m so sorry about your parents. I wish there was something I could say.…”

  “You’ve already said a lot.” A crooked smile frayed his lips, defying the sadness burning in his eyes, and she wanted to cry and laugh at his jab at humor in the midst of pain.

  He hitched his own duffel bag over his shoulder. “I’m grateful to you, Remy. You’ve been very kind,” he told her as he made room for her in the crowded aisle.

  She stepped into the space beside him, wanting to say so much, but unable to find the right words.

  “Maybe Philadelphia won’t be so bad for you this time, yes?”

  “Oh, that …” She waved it off as insignificant compared to what Adam would be facing. “It’ll be fine. You take care.” She touched the flannel of his sleeve again, but she could tell he was already thinking ahead, already gone. Biting her lips together, she withdrew her hand from his warmth and retreated to the loneliness of her solitary world once again.

  Adam insisted that she go first, and though she appreciated his old-world manners she missed the chance to watch him for one last moment and soak up his steely grace, his quiet strength.

  The train clamped to a stop and Remy followed the line, traipsing out the door onto the platform. Joining the queue for the escalator she noticed a flash of blue flannel scaling the stairs two at a time, quick and agile.

  Watching him, she wondered at the unrealized heroes in the world, people who sacrificed everything for their families.

  The next step was connecting with Herb. He had promised her a ride, and after hearing of Adam’s loss, Remy felt a tug of anticipation over seeing her father. She made her way through the station, following signs for the main exit. Beyond the taxi stand a few cars idled, drivers waiting. She searched for Herb’s Mercedes … and was disappointed.

  Strolling past the cars, she came upon a black limo with a sign stuck in the window. REMY McCALLISTER.

  Thanks, Herb. At least he had remembered to send someone.

  The driver jumped out, stowed her pack, and they were on their way.

  The leather of the seat was buttery smooth under Remy’s fingers as she leaned back and faced the tinted window. People outside the terminal noticed as the limo passed. Heads turned, eyes narrowed. Stung by the attention, Remy wanted to lower the glass and wave them off, telling them that this was not the posh life they were imagining, that good fortune could fill a bank but not a heart.

  Once they hit the highway Remy unfolded her newspaper and checked the headlines. When her eyes lit on the story, she felt a stab of raw sympathy for Adam.

  Roadside Killing of Amish Man, Wife

  Oh, no. This was the story he’d been staring at during their train ride. Could it be his story … his parents?

  The article said that the couple had been found shot, their buggy pulled off to the side of a country road in Lancaster County. Their eight-year-old son was found in the buggy, unharmed. The horse, also not injured, had remained at the roadside until one of the couple’s sons had come upon the scene after his parents had not arrived home for dinner. The couple, Levi and Esther King, had eleven kids ranging in age from nine months to twenty-three.

  Nine months old? Adam would be taking care of a little baby … as well as nine others. And a farm. She couldn’t begin to imagine the responsibility he would be shouldering, not to mention the heartache of having lost his parents so suddenly and violently.

  Dusk had fallen over the city, and the lights of shops were a blur as Remy dashed away the tears in her eyes. She wished she could do something to help Adam and his family. She remembered the fruit baskets and flowers that had arrived when her mother died. At first there had been a swirl of excitement when the doorbell rang and a fragrant burst of white blossoms was ushered in the door. But the smooth white petals browned and dried, their fragrance growing cloyingly sweet.

  Besides, she didn’t think flowers were part of the protocol for an Amish funeral. But what could she do to help?

  She wasn’t sure about God, and she’d never been a churchgoer. But she thought it couldn’t hurt to say a small prayer for Adam and his family. She rolled down the window to the rush of blustery cold.

  “God … if you’re out there, please help this family.”

  Her words traveled on the wind, and she imagined the prayer circling the city’s glimmering skyline before rising to the navy blue night sky.

  Rolling up the window, she resolved to make the most of her own situation. Which meant trying to connect with Herb. Granted, he was mercurial and boisterous, controlling and demanding, but he was the only father she would ever have. She had happily kept her distance these past few years, remembering how Herb tried to control her when she was within reach. Summer internships at the paper had been nightmarish, with Herb expecting her to prove herself as the “crowned heir to the McCallister fortune,” and editors sticking her with menial tasks that had required her to work into the late night hours.

  Remy would need to show everyone that she had grown some backbone and was able to strike a balance. She would have to make it clear to Herb that she would not play prima donna. That she wanted to learn the workings of a successful newspaper. That she wanted to learn how to spend ten minutes in the same room with her father without gritting her teeth.

  It was time to meet Herb halfway. And maybe, with persistence and patience, she would have a chance to get to know her father.

  PART ONE

  Look Homeward

  One generation passeth away,

  And another generation cometh:

  But the earth abideth forever.

  —ECCLESIASTES 1:4

  ONE

  January, eleven months later

  dam King hoisted the wooden bench from the wagon and lowered it to his younger brother’s reach. “Go on and grab the end there, Simon. Think we can carry this in together?”

  “Ya.” Simon’s face lit at the prospect of an adult task as he gripped the end of the bench. The boy’s crooked smile shone like a break in the clouds.

  At last, Simon was coming around. As Adam navigated into the living room of his uncle’s house, which had been emptied of furniture for the benches, he considered the boy’s recently renewed interest in family events. Nearly one year since the murders, and at last his brother was showing signs of progress.

  Simon had been silent for months after the deaths of their parents, a tragedy that had hit him particularly hard as he’d been the only witness. Last summer when the boy finally started speaking, there’d been only basic words—yes, no, denki. Over time, Simon had volunteered more conversation, but the boy rarely mentioned the traumatic episode. When he did he seemed confused about details, saying that a bear was to blame. Sometimes it worried Adam, who felt sure that one day Simon’s memories would overflow like a bucket of milk, and memories from that terrible night would spill forth. So far that had not been the case. So Adam contented himself with the occasional string of words from his kid brother, and the sure knowledge that Simon would be shadowing him when he wasn’t off at school or doing other chores.

  Inside the house the rugs had been pulled up from the floor of the large room, and from t
he gleaming wood floorboards and shiny windows it was evident that the women had been hard at work cleaning the space for tomorrow’s preaching service. Come the morning, dozens of buggies would line the lane, along with men and women dressed in their Sunday garb for the service, which was held in members’ homes or barns, weather permitting. Although this was not Adam’s home, he and his siblings were happy to help his uncle and aunt, Nate and Betsy King. In the future, Adam hoped to hold a preaching service at his own house, but right now the preparation would bog down his sister Mary, who would be responsible for cleaning, cooking, and baking for more than a hundred members.

  “This is the last of the benches from the wagon,” Adam told Uncle Nate, who was supervising the setup.

  “Right over here.” Nate motioned Adam to a space near the windows, and they lined up the bench with the others, completing the last row of one section. “That should be enough seating for the women. Good work.” Nate clapped Simon on the shoulder.

  Simon straightened and brushed his hands together, such an adult gesture for a small boy.

  “And look, you’ve been growing, ya?” Nate’s eyes twinkled as he assessed the boy. “How old are you now?”

  Simon steeled himself, his lips tensing as he pronounced the word: “Nine.”

  “So I thought.” Nate’s voice was gentle, as if he understood how difficult it was for Simon to participate in conversation. “Have you started going in with the boys on Sundays?”

  “Not yet,” Simon said, meeting his uncle’s gaze. “Mamm wanted me to learn the Loblied first.”

  Adam touched his brother’s shoulder, pleased that the boy had responded so well. “Mamm made us all learn the hymn before we could walk with the boys.”

  “Ah, a family tradition.” Nate nodded.

  In their congregation, going in with the boys was a rite of passage boys experienced after their ninth birthday. At Sunday worship services men and women sat on opposite sides of the room, and members entered in a specific order, with ministers first, married men next, followed by women with the little ones. Then boys and young men entered as a group, as did girls and young women. Age nine was the time when a boy got to leave his mamm’s side and walk in with the group. It was considered a privilege for a boy like Simon to walk in with the boys—a rite of passage—though their mother had required that they first learn to recite the Loblied, a hymn sung in High German during every service.

  “So …” Nate clapped his hands together. “You are learning the hymn?”

  “Ya,” Simon said solemnly.

  “We’ve been practicing,” Adam said. With Simon’s reluctance to speak, it was hard to tell how much of the hymn the boy had learned.

  “Gut. You keep working, Simon,” Nate advised. “Practice until you hear the song in your heart, ya?”

  Simon nodded, his shiny hair bobbing.

  Nate lifted his bearded chin, his dark eyes scanning the room. “Our work here is done, though I can’t say as much for the women in the kitchen. Last I heard, Betsy was making another chocolate cake.”

  “You can never have too much chocolate cake,” Adam said.

  “Speak for yourself.” Nate patted his round belly, his ruddy face relaxed with a gentle smile. “Mary will probably be a while yet in the kitchen. Before you go, I have a problem in the barn I could use your help with. One of the doors is rotting, I think.”

  “Let’s have a look,” Adam said with a nod, noticing that Simon, too, was nodding with interest. My shadow, he thought as Uncle Nate uttered “Kumm,” and led the way out to the barn.

  When Nate pointed out the wobbly door, Adam extracted his pocketknife and pressed it to the wood. The blade sank right in, like a knife in butter. “Dry rot.”

  Simon’s eyes grew round with interest. “Can I try?”

  “As long as you’re careful.” Adam handed him the knife, and both men watched as Simon pressed it easily into the soft wood.

  “Ya, it’s rotten,” the boy agreed.

  Adam tapped the door, then the strip of wood overhead. “The door is fine, but the frame must be changed. The hinges and hardware can probably be saved. If you want, I’ll measure now and cut the wood in my shop.”

  “When you have time,” Nate said, tipping his hat back as he watched Simon poke the wood once more. “You’ve got a list of chores as long as the day, and you’re still a young man, Adam. I hear you’ve barely attended one singing since you returned to us. You must give these young women a fair chance to win you over, ya?”

  The smile froze on Adam’s face, his jaw aching with regret as he sensed where this conversation was heading. “I can handle the door repair, Nate. You don’t need to worry about my social life.”

  “But what of the singings? Will you be attending tomorrow night?” He nodded over at the corner of the barn, where Adam’s teenaged cousins cleaned the stalls. “Ben and Abe are in charge of preparation. You wouldn’t want to disappoint them, ya?”

  “Of course not,” Adam agreed, nodding at his cousins, who seemed to be making a game of hockey with a cow-patty puck. At seventeen and nineteen, Ben and Abe were at the prime age for singings, casual youth events intended to give young people a chance to socialize with other Amish their age. Their age. If Adam attended tomorrow night, he would no doubt be the only person there in his mid-twenties. “But the singings … they’re not for me, Uncle.”

  Nate’s mouth puckered. “How else will you find a wife?”

  It’s hard to find something when you’re not looking for it, Adam thought as he rubbed his clean-shaven jaw. He didn’t want to be disrespectful to his uncle, who had kept their farm running for the past year. Hardy, genial Nate King was a gifted farmer who could turn a handful of soil into a bag of beans, seemingly in the blink of an eye. Whenever Adam had a question about the farm, Nate had the answers and explanations as to why potatoes were too labor-intensive to grow or when it was safe to put tomato plants in the ground. Nate’s support was a blessing. But pressure like this … this Adam could live without.

  “Was denkscht?” Nate prodded in the language used in conversation among Amish. “What are you thinking? Perhaps you already have someone in mind … a courtship I’m not aware of? I know, it’s none of my business, but in some ways it is. If your father were alive, he would have had this talk with you long ago, ya?”

  “Uncle Nate …” Adam paused when he glanced down and saw that his younger brother was hanging on their every word. “Simon, do you want to see if Ruthie is still out by the pond with the others? I’m sure you could borrow a pair of ice skates.”

  Simon shook his head. The boy was staying right here.

  “Adam?” Nate prodded. “Are you trying to change the subject?”

  “That would be great.” When his uncle squinted critically, Adam added, “Just trying to be honest.”

  Nate’s low chuckle was full of mirth. “I appreciate that, but I do worry about you, Adam. Gott will provide, but we must have our eyes open to see His gifts. What you’re doing, trying to manage a family without a wife, it’s like trying to plow your fields without a horse. Everything is one hundred times more difficult.”

  Adam grinned at his uncle’s inadvertent comparison between wives and plow horses. “Ich vershteh,” Adam said. “I understand what you’re saying. But right now, I’m not interested in going through courtship.”

  Besides the fact that he felt far too old to participate in courtship rituals involving girls as young as fourteen, courtship reminded Adam of his past pursuit of a girl outside the community, a relationship that had led him far from his family and faith. At the age of nineteen he had fallen for Jane, a college student he’d met in Philadelphia. He had followed her to her home in Providence, where things had fizzled between them in the first few months. But while working odd jobs he’d nurtured a skill for building furniture by hand under the guidance of a salty old artist who took a liking to him. Cap Sawicki had taught Adam how to design around the natural elements in the wood, allowing the grain or co
lor or slight imperfections to stand out. The handmade furniture had brought in more than enough money to pay the bills, but the real satisfaction was in rubbing oil into the wood or making dovetailed joinery by hand.

  Before his baptism last fall, Adam had tried to deal with his issues. He had made the commitment to live the Amish way here with his family, and he knew that the skills learned during his rumspringa amounted to a craft that might one day help support his family … if he ever found time to return to the wood shop. He could not undo those years away from home, but on more than one occasion he wanted to kick himself for leaving. His departure had brought his parents distress, and that was a wrong he would never have the chance to right.

  A burden he would have to live with.

  “Come to the singing tomorrow,” Nate said.

  Adam shook his head. “I’m too old for those gatherings.”

  “I hear your brother Jonah attends, and he is what? Only two years younger than you.”

  “I’m sure he’ll attend,” Adam replied, dodging the question. Even as kids, Adam and Jonah had kept company while knowing that God had made them from two very different molds. Adam was intrigued that his quiet brother seemed to enjoy the organized social events, but he didn’t probe. Jonah was a private person.

  “It looks like the women have finished,” Uncle Nate said.

  The three of them looked toward the kitchen door where women filed out, their arms laden with blankets and warming bricks. Adam’s oldest sister, Mary, tipped her head toward her best friend, Annie Stoltzfus, and the two shared a laugh. Fourteen-year-old twins Leah and Susie, two dark bells bundled in winter coats, stood out beside their grandmother. Except for Sadie, who had stayed back at the house to mind the little ones, all the women of his family had pitched in with the baking, which was quite an undertaking when there would be more than a hundred mouths to feed after tomorrow’s worship service.