Covered Bridge Charm

by Christner, Dianne;

  © 2016 by Dianne Christner

  Print ISBN 978-1-63058-897-7

  eBook Editions:

  Adobe Digital Edition (.epub) 978-1-63058-901-1

  Kindle and MobiPocket Edition (.prc) 978-1-63058-900-4

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without written permission of the publisher.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any similarity to actual people, organizations, and/or events is purely coincidental.

  All scripture quotations are taken from the King James Version of the Bible.

  For more information about Dianne Christner, please access the author’s website at the following Internet address: www.diannechristner.net

  The author is represented by and this book is published in association with the literary agency of WordServe Literary Group, Ltd., www.wordserveliterary.com.

  Cover design: Kirk DouPonce, DogEared Design

  Published by Shiloh Run Press, an imprint of Barbour Publishing, Inc., P.O. Box 719, Uhrichsville, OH 44683, www.shilohrunpress.com

  Our mission is to publish and distribute inspirational products offering exceptional value and biblical encouragement to the masses.

  Printed in the United States of America.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Epilogue

  CHAPTER ONE

  Sweet Home, Oregon

  Carly Blosser’s curvaceous body lifted and sailed airborne for a full two seconds. She whipped the handlebars in both directions, causing her tires to crunch against asphalt and her round rump to smack the bike’s pink seat.

  The ribbons of her prayer cap streamed, and her skirt flapped, revealing too much black stocking as she picked up speed going downhill from her small cottage on Hawthorne to the back entrance of Sankey Park. Taking a shortcut across Ames Creek and Sweet Home’s Weddle Bridge, the washboard turf of the historic covered bridge jarred her humming where Dot’s lyrics had hitched an unwelcome ride.

  Poor demented Dot. Eighty-two and stuck on lamb nursery rhymes that unintentionally drove a cruel spike into Carly’s heart because she felt like she was a black sheep in her Conservative Mennonite flock.

  With years of practice, she pushed back her regrets and loneliness. Today her thoughts fixed on something more crucial. She churned her legs and picked up speed on Long Street where, in spite of an errant blond curl, a shadow caught her vision. She leaned over the handlebars and groped inside her basket as the shadow materialized into a black dog, snarling and baring its fangs.

  Her tires skidded and met flat surface. A practiced whip to the left straightened them. Just in the nick of time, she hurled the dog’s decoy.

  It sank its teeth into the flying object. A glance over her shoulder caught the animal limping away with its prize, and she turned her gaze back to the road’s shoulder.

  The first time, she’d been caught unawares and tossed the attacker her entire sack lunch. After that, they’d come to terms—a fat stick from a woodpile her brother kept stocked behind her cottage. The dog had grown old now, and that’s exactly why she humored it.

  Honk! Honk! She acknowledged the truck’s horn with a wave. Adam Lapp, a godsend and burr rolled into one masculine package, and probably the only Lapp who didn’t hold a grudge against her for spurning one of their relatives. Too bad his uncle Simon wasn’t more like him.

  Simon Lapp was director of the Sweet Life Retirement Center where Carly worked as a caregiver. The center was owned and operated by Mennonites of varying sects. Members of the Old Holley Conservative Mennonite Fellowship Church, which Carly attended, drove plain cars and used electricity and some modern conveniences. The women wore white head coverings. About six of the women wore strings on their coverings, and Carly was one of them.

  Simon’s wife didn’t wear a head covering because he attended a more liberal Mennonite church, and they didn’t wear plain clothing either. But doctrinal issues hadn’t caused the wedge between Simon and Carly. Her very presence reminded him of his lost son and his personal shortcomings. As a result, he instinctively put the kibosh on her ideas. But it didn’t stop her from voicing her opinions.

  Carly met Simon’s gaze with earnest appeal. “As the residents age, they need more care.”

  He blinked jaded brown eyes. “These things run in cycles. Right now our average resident is nearing ninety. But when the older ones pass on, a younger bunch moves in. Evens out in the end.”

  Indignation stiffened Carly’s shoulders. These were lives, not to be replaced like farmed trout. She clutched her armrests to keep from swatting his patronizing smile.

  “Now I’ve offended you. Look Carly, the elderly decline. That’s life. We try to afford them their dignity, but there’s only so much we can do. According to state requirements, we’re well within the normal range of caregivers.”

  After careful research, she was also informed. “Two is a bare minimum. Did you know Dot Miller fell yesterday?”

  He tapped some paperwork. “Yes, I have the report. But remember, this is an assisted-living facility, not a nursing home. There’ll be some accidents.” He raised a condescending brow. “Why, I heard you even took a spill the other day.”

  She ignored the disparaging remark, long past defending her lifestyle. The residents’ welfare was the issue at hand. “That’s my point. Volunteers could fill the gap. They’d provide more hands and eyes to prevent accidents.”

  “I agree. And we’ve already implemented that idea with our two V. S. workers.”

  Carly frowned at his reference to the Mennonite Voluntary Service women who served as regular caregivers, not additional help. “I work with Miranda. She’s a hard worker.” She wasn’t as familiar with the woman who worked the night shift. “But that’s not the kind of volunteers I mean.”

  “And there’s Adam in woodworking and Betty in exercise.”

  “Yes, but they’re in independent living. What about assisted living?”

  “There’s the bingo lady.” His finger whipped the air. “And what’s her name, who delivers snacks?”

  Loneliness was a silent killer that stalked many of the elderly. Carly identified with loneliness, and it made her more determined. “I picture volunteers who read and write letters.” Her voice cracked, “Hold their hands. And the more hands—”

  “I get the concept,” he said, his voice hardened with impatience. “Realistically, families need to pick up the slack. It’s more important for me to focus on keeping the electricity running. Hiring a new dietician.” He glanced at the wall clock. “Not to mention we
need a new roof, and there’s a leak in the laundry room—”

  A scratch at the door stole their attention.

  It creaked open a few inches, and a hairbrush poked through the crack. Next an arm appeared, and soon a head popped into view. Carly bit back a smile at the intruder’s cockeyed hairdo, partly bound in curlers with a tangle of purple clips.

  The aged face lit up. “Am I late for my appointment?”

  Si buzzed the receptionist. “Get somebody from the hair salon over here pronto.” Meanwhile, he ushered the intruder to an adjoining waiting room and returned.

  “Who was that?” Carly asked.

  “Don’t worry. She’s not an escapee. The salon started taking outside customers.” He scooted his chair into place. “Now where were we?”

  She looked away from his amused expression and lifted her gaze over his peppered hair to the ’80s popcorn ceiling. “It won’t cost you anything. And you won’t have to lift a finger. I’ll recruit all the volunteers.”

  His eyes widened in terror. “Whoa.” He shook his head. “Hold off on that idea. You’d need the board’s approval.”

  Her hope burgeoned. “When can I meet them? I have other ideas, too.”

  He pointed at the clock. “Which must wait since I have to prepare for a meeting.”

  With no intention of leaving without his support, Carly watched him shift his attention to an open file. She tucked a strand of hair beneath her prayer cap and cleared her throat. “When is the next board meeting?”

  Si slapped it closed. “Complaints and wispy dreams won’t stop the aging process. You need to let this go.” For the first time, she felt a spark of sympathy for him. Something in his tone hinted at a purposefully hardened heart, one that hadn’t always been that way. She studied him carefully, surprised when he finally relented. “Next time, at least bring a detailed, viable plan.”

  She rose, with lips itching to thank his cheek. “When’s next time?”

  Doing his name justice, he exhaled deeply. “Next Monday. But don’t put the buggy in front of the horse.”

  “I won’t.”

  He spun his chair away and punched the buttons on his cell phone. His rude dismissal didn’t matter. With her toe in, the door would soon be dangling by its hinges because the safety and well being of Sweet Life’s elderly depended on her success. She had one shot, with only a week to prepare.

  Adam Lapp brushed sawdust from his pants and sank into Uncle Si’s vinyl armchair, staring at the mess. “Sorry ’bout that.”

  With an indifferent wave, Si got to business. “No shame in being a working man. I need a favor.”

  “Sure.” Adam’s gaze scanned the room, wondering what sort of project Si had in mind. Bookcases?

  “You need to rein in Carly Blosser.”

  Adam’s curiosity dove for cover. “I thought the library matter got settled by using book carts.”

  “If only. Now she’s found a new way to upset Sweet Life’s applecart.” Si leaned forward and twisted his lips. “She wants to recruit volunteers for me.”

  Adam caught a frightening glimpse of Carly zipping her pink bike through the countryside, knocking on doors. Only that would be too ordinary. “She means well.”

  “Hah.”

  Adam shifted his gaze because his good sense waved a red flag. “Sorry, I don’t have time to recruit.”

  Si studied him carefully. “What I need is a distraction.”

  He wasn’t falling for it. Adam already regretted his promise to keep an eye on her for Jimmy—Carly’s brother and his best friend. Once she’d been his cousin Dale’s girl. Adam had always admired her from a distance. But impervious to drop-dead gorgeous and entertaining, he’d managed to stay single all these years and wasn’t ready to change matters. Anyway, Carly possessed attributes that killed a man’s curiosity. Distract her? He’d take a beating before he tried something so harebrained.

  “How about some innocent flirting? Take her on a picnic down by Foster Lake.”

  Adam’s objection erupted like a dying man’s choke. He couldn’t believe his uncle would try to pawn Carly off on him. Had he forgotten she was responsible for breaking his own son’s heart? “That’s crazy talk. Uh-uh. Not getting involved.”

  “She likes you.”

  Unbidden heat rushed to Adam’s face. “Only because I’m her ride every time her bike breaks down.”

  Si hardened his jaw, and Adam cringed at the familiar expression. “You refusing me?”

  He nodded.

  “Too bad. Thought we’d nip things in the bud this time. Make it easier for you later.”

  “She’s not my problem.”

  Si’s voice turned reflective. “Funny. You’re turning me down, yet you allow your dad to lead you around on a sissy’s leash.”

  Adam clenched his teeth and stared at the manipulative face. Si and Dad were identical twins. One as maddening and stubborn as the other.

  On her way home from work later that Thursday, Carly disembarked and walked her bike up the steep hill to Aunt Fannie’s century-old home nestled in tall evergreens and tangled bushes, picturesque with autumn flower beds. Auntie played dual roles of mother and sister, otherwise lacking in Carly’s life. She snatched a large paper bag from her bike basket and was soon pressing it into Auntie’s inquisitive hands.

  The slight woman, clad in plain Conservative Mennonite clothing, pulled out a wrinkled garment and ran her finger along a ragged tear. “My, my. Another hem’s bit the dust.” She met Carly’s eyes. “Heard you took a nasty spill.”

  Carly gave a sheepish smile. It wasn’t her fault that skateboarders had converged upon the hill by her house and she’d had to hit the ditch to avoid them. Wishing to skip the futile lecture, she asked, “Can you fix it?”

  “I’ll have to raise the hem. You want to show that much leg?”

  “You know I don’t.” In fact, she always had Auntie add extra cloth to her capes—the modest layer of fabric the Old Holley Conservative women wore over their bodices. She added it for bicycling ease. But she also prided herself, for what she lacked in female submissive qualities, she made up for in modesty and generosity. She kept the strings on her head covering because the prayer cap symbolized male headship. It was the stick she threw to the church to remain in good standing and remain at peace with herself.

  Carly followed the scent of chicken and dumplings to the stove and lifted the lid. “If you raise the hem, I’ll wear it around the house.”

  “And if somebody knocks on your door?”

  Replacing it, she shook her head. “Believe me, nobody will.”

  Auntie’s voice softened. “Your closet’s about the size of my bread box. And now you need a new dress.”

  With a reluctant nod, Carly sank into a ladder-backed chair, eying Auntie’s mousy characteristics, feeling comforted in spite of any criticism. Auntie defended the ways of the church, but her prim facade belied a game spirit.

  “Will you make it soft blue?”

  “Sure, sure, the color of your eyes. But if you ask me, there’s nothing economical about that bike. I still can’t believe you ordered a pink one.”

  A complaint that would follow her to the grave. But it was her personal symbol of freedom and a reminder to stay true to her heart in spite of peer pressure. She’d ordered it after she’d stood up against Dale. She shook off the painful memories and smiled. “You can borrow it anytime.”

  “Ach! Such sass.” Auntie turned away and returned with two heaping plates of food.

  “Thanks.” Steam fanned Carly’s face, making her mouth water as Auntie blessed supper. The dumplings melted on her tongue. “This is good. By the way, I met with Simon Lapp today.”

  Auntie’s spoon clattered. “When will you learn to quit nagging that man? It’s a wonder you still have a job.”

  “Learn?” She shrugged, having learned plenty in twenty-seven years. After Bishop Kauffman’s sermon on inner beauty, Carly had turned herself inside out looking for it. She’d shaken her soul w
ith spring-cleaning vigor. But her inner self remained as contrary to the plain ways as her outer. She couldn’t help it if her honey-colored ringlets exploded in volume as each day progressed. Or if they refused to take a part unless wet. Carly wasn’t big on wet hair or restraint. She didn’t even try to hold back her smile. “He’s gonna let me recruit volunteers.”

  “What? You’re joking.”

  “Wanna help?”

  Auntie shook her head. “Nagging sure never worked with your uncle. Bless his departed soul.”

  Carly laid aside her spoon. “But I only have a week to make a plan. I need to purchase supplies, and I’m already short on funds.”

  “God will make a way, child. Now start at the beginning.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  The next afternoon at Sweet Life, Carly stood outside the elevator and tapped the down arrow while thinking, I need an inspirational slogan to recruit volunteers.

  “Look.” Widow Martha Struder sucked a shallow breath that left her lungs hungry for air and waved a birth announcement. “Isn’t my great-granddaughter the cutest?”

  “Yes, she’s sweet.” Make life sweeter at Sweet Life. “Better use your inhaler, Martha.”

  The widow fished in her pocket for the small breathing device and sent the card and several candy wrappers sailing. While Martha inhaled the medication, Carly knelt to gather the fallen objects. Helping Hands.

  The recent controversy over the library excursion left her personally responsible to get the readers, Martha and the Millers, safely returned. It was the asthmatic who worried her. She tapped the button again.

  Meanwhile, Dot Miller’s eyes fixed on the candy wrappers. “If we don’t hurry, we’ll miss supper.”

  Carly turned her gaze on the bit of a woman. “We had supper.”

  Her lip pouted. “I’d remember if I ate.”

  “Meatloaf and baked potatoes,” Crusher reminded his wife. The plain people loved nicknames, especially amusing ones. The name Dot described his tiny wife, but his own nickname belied his gentle character. He got it from working at the quarry.

  Martha’s inhaler hadn’t eased her breathing, but a ding brought the elevator to their level. The doors groaned open in tune with Carly’s weariness. Her recruiting plan had gobbled both time and sleep. She was anxious to call it a week, get home, eat leftovers, and take a long bubble bath. That was the catch. Because of her drab existence, she drooled over a bubble bath made from dishwashing detergent. Discouragement settled over her. Could she really head up a volunteer program?