“I’m telling you, she’s trouble. If you married her, she’d run all over you. Just like her aunt did when she was married to poor old Bob. Open your eyes and look at what’s going on around you at Sweet Life. Even Simon and I can agree she’s one headstrong woman.”
“I also possess the stubborn Lapp genes. If I was looking for a wife, I’d be looking for someone with grit. Otherwise, life wouldn’t be any fun.”
“That kind of fun doesn’t last. Running this tree farm is hard work and stressful. When you marry, you need somebody to fit in and make life easy for you at home.”
“I love Mom, but a different type of woman interests me.”
Roman softened. “Jah, your mom’s a good woman.” He drew out a hanky and rubbed the back of his neck. “Listen, Son. I’ve been thinking about that talk we had. That nonsense about Nappanee. I’m wondering why you would want to leave just when I’m offering you a partnership in the farm.”
Adam involuntarily braced himself against the truck.
“You heard me. I’m offering you a partnership. I think sixty/forty’s more than fair.”
“Dad.” Adam straightened. “I wasn’t expecting this.”
“Why not? It’s your birthday, isn’t it?”
Though Roman rarely expressed his emotions, Adam could see his pleasure. Moved by his father’s gesture of approval, he shifted to initiate an awkward embrace. “Thanks, Dad. I don’t know what to say.”
Roman patted his back, then released him. “Jah. Say, Jah.”
“Of course. This has been my dream.”
“Mine, too. We’ll change the sign to read FATHER AND SON.”
Adam thought about the Lapp’s Tree Farm sign at the farm’s entrance. Happiness burgeoned within to think that all the world could see Dad’s trust in him. “I won’t let you down.”
“I know you won’t. There’s just a couple of stipulations. You know this is our busy time and how hard it is to get away. So let’s wait till after Christmas to do the official paperwork.”
“Sure.” Adam nodded. “A birthday and Christmas gift rolled into one.”
“Great.” His dad pounded his back with shared enthusiasm. Adam’s eyes burned, and his chest expanded at his dad’s touch. “Let’s finish up here so we can go tell your mom.”
He hoisted another table and helped shove it onto the truck’s bed. Never had Dad seemed so cordial. Life had turned a corner.
“And the other stipulation,” Dad said as they grabbed the last table. “Quit chasing that Blosser woman. I don’t want her doing anything to upset our family business. Surely you understand that now. Father and Son. It’s gonna be great.”
CHAPTER SIX
Absentmindedly, Carly watered a tiny basil herb and set the clay pot back on the window sill. In the early dawn, a rufous hummingbird danced in the spray of neighbor Imogene’s hose, then darted to her zinnias, causing Carly to do a double take. She’d thought they’d all have migrated south by now.
Cocoa, having received his fresh alfalfa hay, sprinted from the hall to the kitchen and back. All around her, nature awakened, but Carly felt like crawling back beneath her yellow quilt, weary from staying up late to finish her proposal for the Sweet Life board. She topped her coffee, turned away from the window, and shuffled across the wood floor to the kitchen table.
It held one potted purple moth orchid, one granola bar wrapper topped with an apple core, an empty raisin box, and six copies of her proposal neatly stapled and stacked. Taking a deep draught of coffee, she imagined herself standing in front of the four-man, one-woman board and reciting her spiel.
Handwritten in neat strokes, the proposal outlined everything Sweet Life would need to start and operate a volunteer program. But she’d worked into the wee hours trying to create a working title and a slogan. And gotten nothing. She’d have to pen Aunt Fannie’s suggestion of “Volunteers Make Each Day Brighter.” Only her gut told her it wasn’t right.
The board held meetings on Monday evenings, but a conflict had shifted this one to early morning. She’d gotten the call Sunday afternoon while weeding her coneflowers. A task she’d hoped would stimulate her creative-writing juices. At first, she’d thought Simon had changed the time purposefully to shorten her preparation or in hopes she’d arrive late. But the theme of Sunday’s sermon had popped into her mind: Turn the other cheek. Bishop Abe Kauffman preached Matthew 5 at least twice a year to remind his flock they were peacemakers. For Carly’s sake, it should be more frequent.
Cocoa followed her into the bathroom and nestled between her feet. It was their morning ritual of rabbit-human affection. Normally it was the perfect send-off to start her day. But one glance in the mirror, and she forgot about Cocoa altogether. Of all mornings to look like a wild woman. Meticulously she smoothed every hair. Auntie Fannie always said every little bit helped, and she needed a lot of help this morning… every little bit she could muster, she thought poking bobby pins here and there. Then it hit her.
Bolting, Carly fled for the kitchen, causing Cocoa to squeak in terror. “Sorry, Sweetie.” She plopped into a chair and picked up her pen. Everybody can do one little thing to stamp out loneliness. The perfect slogan. It wasn’t trite or derogatory. Didn’t allude to anything that would make Simon look bad in front of his board members. It spoke what was on her heart. It was the goal of her campaign.
She tapped her pen, looking at the proposal’s blank title space, then neatly penned, Every Little Bit Helps: Recruiting Volunteers. It was so simple. Why hadn’t she seen it sooner?
Sooner! She glanced at the clock, scooped everything into a bag, kissed Cocoa, and hurried outside to her bike rack.
“Morning, Imogene.”
The older woman waved from her white plastic lawn chair. “Morning. You’re off early. Want me to water for you?”
“Oh, could you? I’m in a rush.”
“I can see. But aren’t you forgetting something?”
Carly checked. She had her proposal, her sweater, and her purse. “I don’t think so. Why?”
Imogene tapped her head.
Following suit, Carly tentatively touched her own head, always careful not to displace her head covering. Only, her head was bare! “Oh, thank you!” With time slipping away, she darted back into the cottage.
Carly would be late unless she took the shortcut through Sankey Park across Weddle Bridge. But Long Street would be busy with early morning traffic, so she’d have to keep to the sidewalk, which could be treacherous with its bumps and cracks. Grabbing a stick for the dog and waving at Imogene, she peddled decorously down Hawthorne Street. But as soon as she was out of Imogene’s sight, she hit the hill and picked up speed. Too much speed. A car was turning into Sankey Park, blocking the road.
Whipping the handlebars and skidding her tires, she had no choice but to head for the deep ditch with the wild blackberry bushes. Again. “Oh, no!” She held tight, but her wheels slid out from under her and she landed in a thorny tangle. “Ouch.”
A man jumped out of the car and ran to the ditch. “You all right?”
“Jah, I think so.”
“Wait there.”
He ran to his car for gloves and returned to help her out of the ditch. He set the bike upright. “Don’t you have any brakes?”
Ouch. She brushed at her skirt. “I was late and didn’t see you until it was too late.”
“I wasn’t paying attention, either. Can I take you someplace?”
“No. Thanks. I just live up the hill.”
She finally convinced him to go but had no intentions of returning home. She kicked the tires and thought the bike would still get her to work. She pulled her skirt loose where it was pinned to her stockings. Ouch! Ignoring the pain in her palms, she placed her bike back on the path. Stickers pierced her back. Ugh! She was too old for this. With a groan, she retrieved the bag and stick and set off for the bridge. From past experience, she knew her tires would be flat before she reached Sweet Life if she didn’t work fast.
T
oday she’d sacrifice her rims, if need be. It took several tries before her skirt was situated so that her bottom didn’t feel like a pincushion. Commiserating that Martha would be on her case about her ruined stockings, she almost forgot to have her stick ready. The old dog ran too close, and she jerked the handlebars away and tossed the stick clumsily in the other direction. The dog loped off, snatched the stick, and looked back at her with satisfaction.
As she continued, a dull pain throbbed in her neck. One of her tires soon deflated and riding grew more difficult. By the time she’d reached the center, her neck was extremely painful. She parked outside the maintenance man’s shop and knocked on the door.
“Hey, Carly.”
“Morning, Rocco. I need your help.”
She felt his gaze, starting at her head and quickly assessing down to her black oxfords. Without condemnation, which is why she adored him, he knelt to examine the bike. “One tire and a rim. I have ’em in stock for you. Just don’t forget to replace ’em again.”
“I will. Thanks.” Good it was payday. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
“Today’s your big meeting with the high ups?”
She nodded, retrieving her bag and purse from the bike’s basket. “Are you a praying man?”
“Yep.” He pulled a chain with a crucifix out from beneath his shirt and kissed it.
“Then pray for me.” Rocco always gave her a listening ear.
“I will. Getting volunteers is a good idea. But we also need funds. This place is falling down, and one of these days I won’t be able to put it back together again.”
“If anybody can, though, it’s you. Every little bit helps. That’s my slogan.”
“I like it. But you’d better head to the lady’s room and fix yourself before your meeting.”
She gave him a sheepish smile. “I’ll try.”
Rubbing her neck, she was just coming out of the public bathroom when she saw Adam striding toward her.
“Hey, Carly. You’re in early.”
“Today’s the board meeting. What about you?”
“It is?” He sighed. “I was returning the tables and chairs we rented for the party. Since I was nearby, I wanted to see Uncle Si. But if he’s busy, it can wait till Thursday.”
She nodded and turned to go.
“Uh, Carly?”
She paused. “Jah?”
“Can you follow me?”
“Now?”
“Believe me, you’ll want to take the time.”
Curious, she followed him around the corner of the building.
His eyes held concern. “You fell again, didn’t you?”
She dropped her hand from her neck. “Jah, but I’m fine.”
“You don’t look fine. There’s grass in the back of your hair and stickers on the back of your dress.”
“Oh?”
His mouth twitched with amusement. “Turn around. Let me help.”
She couldn’t go into her meeting looking like she’d slept in a barn. “Fine.” She stood still as he fiddled with her hair and even replaced a bobby pin.
“You know what you’re doing?”
“I have six sisters. Okay, don’t take it personal, but I’m going after the stickers on your dress now. Just trying to help, you know. Clean up another one of your messes.”
Carly felt her cheeks burn yet appreciated his humorous attempt at distraction. She felt a couple pats and pressed her eyes closed in humiliation. “Hurry, please.”
“There. Good as new.”
“Thanks. I gotta go.”
“Good luck,” he called as she hurried away.
Not wanting to meet his gaze, she rounded the corner and almost ran into Miranda—the voluntary service caregiver, who’d taken the trash outside.
When Adam came around the corner right behind her, the other caregiver’s eyes widened.
“See you gals.” Adam winked at Carly.
She ignored him and hurried inside, meaning to take a shortcut through the assisted-living facility to Simon’s office. The wheeled garbage container rattled behind her, and she felt a tug on her arm.
“What was that about?”
“Nothing,” Carly replied. “He was just helping me with something.”
“Are you guys a thing?” Miranda probed.
“No,” Carly said too quickly. “We’ll talk later.”
Simon’s secretary motioned Carly toward his office. Breathing a prayer, she opened the door and closed it behind her. They hadn’t started the meeting. Rather, they formed a semicircle around his desk, eating doughnuts and drinking coffee. Mrs. Nissley, the other female present, patted the chair next to her. With a grateful nod, Carly slipped into it, placing her bag on the floor beside her.
“We’re still trying to wake up,” Mrs. Nissley explained. “Have a doughnut and some coffee?”
“No coffee, but maybe a doughnut.” Carly met Simon’s smug gaze from across his desk as she placed a powdered doughnut on a napkin and returned to her seat. She hadn’t realized how dry her mouth was until she took a bite and choked. She coughed and tried to suppress it by snatching another napkin and pressing it to her mouth. Her eyes watered. Finally she shot up and darted from the room. She guessed the walls were paper thin because Simon’s secretary pressed a paper cup into her hand as she rushed to the bathroom across the hall.
“Oh, Lord,” she prayed. “Why is this so hard?” After several long minutes, she had the choking under control. Still fervently praying, she returned to Simon’s office.
“Are you all right, Miss Blosser?” Simon asked.
“Jah, fine.”
“Good. Let me introduce the board.”
She concentrated on each unfamiliar name and face—for they all attended Simon’s church. Mr. Coblentz, a heavy-set man wearing jeans and a black T-shirt, winked at her. Mr. Moseman, a more scholarly type, nodded his head and folded his hands. Frank Ebersole lifted a sugar-coated finger in acknowledgment.
Simon nodded at Carly. “We’ll begin our meeting with your idea, Miss Blosser. Then you can leave while we discuss other business. So if you’re ready, why don’t you take the floor?”
“Yes, sir.” Fumbling, she withdrew her proposals and passed them around the room. “I’m sorry they’re not typed, but I don’t have a computer.”
She received some smiles. “No problem, your handwriting is a work of art,” Mrs. Nissley reassured.
She heard shuffling papers as she moved to face them. Mr. Coblentz tilted his bald-shaved head and smiled. She smiled back. “‘Everybody can do one little thing to stamp out loneliness.’ Being a single person who works with the elderly”—her voice broke, and she cleared her throat—“I understand how loneliness can grip the residents, making what could be a good experience a miserable and even frightening one. No matter how excellent Simon and you all do your jobs, loneliness creeps in to cause problems that become cancerous to the atmosphere of our facility. I’m proposing a campaign that inspires people to get involved by doing things for the residents that the employees don’t have time to do. I want volunteers to realize that every little bit helps.
“As you will see, I’ve detailed a plan that includes defining tasks and roles, responsibilities, time requirements, skills and qualifications, the recruiting process, the application process, and training and supervision and rewards. I’ve identified some risks involved, along with the need for policies and procedures in those areas.
“On page five, where it begins with ‘Singing, reading, and writing letters,’ you’ll see a list of the many ways volunteers can use their own talents and gifts to enhance the life of residents at Sweet Life. And I’m sure the list is not exhaustive.” She paused and rubbed her aching neck. “Please take a moment to look over the proposal. Then I’d be happy to answer any questions.”
“You can take your seat, Carly,” Simon said.
She didn’t wish to sit because she felt it gave her an inferior position, but she also didn’t want to oppose Simon in
front of his board so she returned to her chair and quickly realized that Adam had missed a sticker.
Mr. Moseman cleared his throat. “Your proposal seems thorough, although I’m not familiar with this type of thing. But this project would be huge. It would be extremely time consuming to get it rolling. And our staff is already stretched thin.”
Before Carly could respond, Mrs. Nissley replied, “Oh, Moseman, you always pooh-pooh everything. This plan follows a logical design, and if it was followed step by step, I can see how it could work. It would add some excitement to the center.”
Carly cleared her throat and stood again. “If I may address Mr. Moseman’s concern, recruiting someone with office skills first, I could train them to do much of the work without adding to the other employees’ workload.” She sat back down.
“Delegating the organizational work to a volunteer under your supervision,” Mr. Coblentz repeated. “I like that.”
“Me, too,” Ebersole echoed.
As they continued to discuss the proposal, Carly fielded their questions. Throughout, Simon remained strangely quiet as the group’s enthusiasm toward the project increased. Finally, Mr. Moseman—who pooh-poohed everything—pushed his glasses higher on the bridge of his nose. “I make a motion that we take a vote. But I propose a stipulation that places Simon overall in charge, meaning he can appoint the positions to run the program, that is, if Miss Blosser’s proposal meets with our approval.”
Carly’s pulse quickened. She always expected Simon’s involvement in the program, but emphasizing his leadership sent a shiver down her spine.
“I second the motion and the stipulation,” Simon said, casting another smug look Carly’s way.
“Then let’s take the vote,” Mr. Coblentz said. “Two no’s and three in favor. I guess that means that Simon has a program to head.” He chuckled, “One he voted against.”
“Won’t be the first time,” Simon joked. “Congratulations, Carly.”
Breaking into a huge smile, Carly addressed the committee. “Thank you. For your time and for all you do for Sweet Life.”
Covered Bridge Charm Page 5