As the two women left, Hope opened her hand and saw that she was holding two one-hundred-dollar bills. She doubted that Elizabeth could afford this gesture, but she was grateful as she stuffed the money deep into the pocket of her dress.
Her mother put a gentle hand on her shoulder. “You must come and feed yourself.”
“I am not hungry,” Hope confessed. “I cannot swallow a bite.”
“You don’t have a choice.” Her mother’s voice, usually so kind, had a barb to it. “You are a mother. You will chew, swallow, and smile at your children while you do so. You must reassure them that even though they have lost a father, they have not lost a mother.”
The tone of her mother’s voice felt like a slap, but her words were wise, and Hope knew it. Her eyes filled with tears that she wiped away as she rose to try to find something she could keep down.
“You are right, Maam,” she said, with respect. “I will be strong for my children.”
chapter THREE
“So, what do you think?” Marla laid her hand on a cunningly crafted computer desk.
What he thought was that it seemed strange to find Amish-built furniture designed for TVs and computer desks. From what he understood, the Amish did not allow televisions or computers in their homes. How could they justify creating so much well-designed furniture for items that were forbidden?
Since Marla was going to be making such a large purchase, the furniture store owner went out of his way to show them around. To prove that his furniture was, indeed, completely Amish-made, the owner took them to the workshop in the back where bearded Amish men created the lovely pieces he sold.
Logan watched these somber craftsmen concentrating on their work, and he felt a small kinship. He put that much thought and intensity into his craft as well, making sure that every plot point dovetailed perfectly into the next. He always polished each manuscript until it shone—except, perhaps, for those last two.
It had been a bad year.
Off in a corner, however, was a young Amish man working on something different than the others. In front of him was a massive, old-fashioned chifforobe that he was polishing with a soft rag. Logan knew the instant Marla saw it because of her quick intake of breath.
“I have to have that!” she whispered.
The chifforobe was hand-polished cherry with carvings on the outside and multiple drawers of varying sizes within.
It was amusing to watch her try to talk to the creator of the piece. The young man mumbled monosyllabic answers and stared at the floor. Marla did not seem to realize that every man in that room was trying to avoid looking at her.
The short skirt, formfitting blouse, and four-inch heels were not the sort of outfit these men were used to. Marla was partial to bright red lipstick. With her pale skin and expertly made-up pale blue eyes, she would not soon be forgotten by these furniture makers.
The older men studiously stared at whatever piece they were working on. The younger men stole quick, surreptitious glances. One teenager stared openly at her, his mouth hanging slightly open. An older man quietly smacked the boy on the head, causing the boy to avert his eyes and reapply himself to his work. Logan could hear the collective sigh of relief when he and Marla left the workshop.
An hour later she had concluded her business with the owner and they drove around Holmes County to see the sights.
“Rolling farmland, lots of cows, horses and buggies,” she said. “It’s beautiful, and quaint, but I think I’d go nuts from sheer boredom after a while. I’m looking forward to going home.”
“What?” he pretended to be surprised. “You don’t like fresh air, rolling hills, and German cuisine?”
“I like the smell of New York,” she said. “I like concrete. What on earth do people do here? I’d go stark raving mad inside of a month.”
“You’d make Amish girlfriends. You’d learn to quilt and milk and raise vegetables.” He couldn’t help teasing her. Marla was a city girl through and through.
They were on their way to Holmes County Pottery, where Marla planned to purchase several hand-thrown pots her firm’s client had requested, when Logan accidentally took the wrong fork in the road.
“Holmes County Pottery is the other way,” Marla said, glancing at the map she had lying on her lap. “You took the right turn instead of the left back there.”
“Sorry,” he said. “I must have been daydreaming. For some reason I thought I was supposed to go down this road. I’ll turn around as soon as I find a good spot.”
One mile later, he had not only found a place to turn; he’d seen a house that looked so familiar, a small shock went through his body. A two-story farmhouse sitting atop a hill. It was plain, square, and white, but even though it was late fall, he had a vision of pink roses growing up one side. A grape arbor with two benches stood near, covered with denuded grapevines. The yard had a white fence that set it off from the surrounding pasture. A long lane wound up to the house with its large front porch. What appeared to be a small fruit orchard grew on one side.
It was not that special, at least not in Amish country, but he could not take his eyes off the place.
“Watch out!” Marla cried.
He jerked the car back onto the road, narrowly missing the ditch.
“What’s wrong with you?” Her voice was shaking. “Have you been drinking again?”
He slowed to a crawl so that he could look without putting their lives at risk. “It’s that house.”
“What about it?”
“It seems strangely familiar. And no, I haven’t been drinking.”
“I thought you said you’d never been to Ohio.”
“I haven’t.”
He drove past it slowly. One field over was another square, sturdy-looking house with a For Sale sign on it. He pulled into the driveway and sat looking at it. It, too, felt familiar. This made no sense. What was it about these two houses that made him wish he could go knock on the door?
There was nothing special about either of the houses, but even the lay of the land had a profound emotional effect on him.
At that moment, a middle-aged woman dressed in bib overalls and dirty Crocs came walking up the driveway and motioned for him to roll down his window, which he did.
“Can I help you people?” the woman asked.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “We were just looking for a place to turn around and I stopped for a second to admire the house.”
“It’s a nice old home.” She brushed some straw off her bibs. “I’m Verla Grayson, the Realtor in charge of this place. Sorry if I look like something the cat drug in, I was helping my husband birth a calf down at our place and just walked up to check on things. If you want to look around, I have some free time and a key.”
He glanced at Marla, who had a bemused expression on her face. She was not used to seeing Realtors dressed in bib overalls.
“Do you mind going in?” he asked her.
“I don’t see the point.” Marla checked her watch. “But we do have some time left before the pottery store closes.”
He was grateful. Marla could be quite gracious when she tried, but he already knew that the Realtor would be a highlight of Marla’s next luncheon with her girlfriends. She was not a cruel person, but she loved to make people laugh, and was probably already figuring out exactly how she would tell this story for its greatest effect. He was fairly certain the whiff of cow manure emanating from Verla would figure prominently in the recital.
“So, are you two kids in the market for a house?” Verla dug a key out of the side pocket of her bibs.
Logan wondered what he should say. That the house had practically called his name from the road? That he felt like he had a connection to it even though he’d never set foot in Ohio before? It sounded too weird, even to him, who made a living by making up stories.
“Up until a few minutes ago, I had no idea we were looking for a house,” Marla said. “But I guess I was wrong.”
He stood on the front porch g
azing around while Verla unlocked the door. The familiarity of everything was striking. He felt as though he had spent time right here on this porch. Except he hadn’t. There was no way he could have.
“Oh, come look, dear,” Marla called. “A huge kitchen. I would be able to do all my cooking and canning in here.”
“Of course.”
There wasn’t a whole lot else he could say. Marla did not cook, and she didn’t have the faintest idea how to can. Her expertise with their coffeemaker and microwave was as far as it went. If a man wanted to be with Marla, he needed to be prepared to spend lots of time in restaurants.
He felt mildly dizzy from the strange familiarity of the house and grasped the railing tightly as he followed the women up the stairs.
“Five bedrooms!” Marla exclaimed, still playing the happy homemaker. “Just think, Logan, each of our children can have a room to themselves and one left over for a nursery.”
Verla beamed. “You have three children and you’re expecting?”
Marla smiled modestly and laid a hand on her flat stomach. “I’m due in seven months.”
Logan didn’t know whether he wanted to laugh or shake her. When Marla got in a certain mood, she sometimes didn’t know when to stop.
He followed the two women into one of the upstairs bedrooms. Verla, encouraged by what she interpreted as Marla’s enthusiasm, became quite excited.
“Just look at this view!” she crowed, waving a hand with as much pride as if she’d created the countryside all by herself.
He looked, and was dumbfounded. This view, too, felt familiar. Very familiar. From here, he could see the other house that had made him nearly swerve off the road.
The feeling of déjà vu was so strong, it was nearly overwhelming. It made him wonder if he needed to talk to a psychiatrist when they got back to New York.
The rooms were empty of furniture, but one felt more familiar than any of the others—the smallest bedroom. He could have sworn that he had stared at that particular water stain on the high ceiling before.
The been-here-before feeling was not at all unpleasant. In fact, it was the exact opposite. He felt a peace here that he had not experienced in a very long time. He gave a huge, involuntary sigh as he felt the perpetual knot in his stomach relax. Perhaps his writer’s muse was trying to tell him something.
“This would be a wonderful place to write,” he said, wistfully.
At this, Verla turned her sales pitch up a notch. “Property in Holmes County just keeps climbing. Everyone wants to move here. With a few improvements, you could probably resell this place in a couple years at a nice profit, especially with the two hundred prime acres that come with it.”
“How much?” he asked.
Marla shot him a surprised look.
Verla named a price. He did some quick calculations. He could afford it if he cashed in some stocks.
Of course, he wasn’t serious about buying it. Not really. And yet the idea of living here did hold a certain attraction. “Would you like to own a house in the country, Marla?”
She smiled. “You’re joking, right?”
“Not entirely.”
“We need to talk,” Marla said to the Realtor. “Could you give us a minute alone, please?”
“Of course.” Verla left the small room, closing the door behind her.
“Have you lost your mind?” Marla asked. “This place doesn’t even have electricity! It is a million miles from anywhere!”
She was absolutely right.
“I know.” He shook off the longing to possess the house. “The idea is ridiculous. It’s just that I’m in such a slump and for a moment there—just for a moment—I had this crazy thought that maybe this house could help me find my way out of it.”
• • •
Hope lay in bed, staring out the window. Her two children were coloring quietly on the quilt beside her. They were good children, made more so by her strange mood. Every now and then, Carrie looked at her with worry written on her little face.
“Momma’s okay,” Hope soothed. “Just tired. Go ahead and color.”
They weren’t used to seeing her lying abed in her nightgown this late in the morning. They were used to her being up, the cow milked, and breakfast on the table. Sometimes she would have already put a line of clothes out to dry before they awoke.
“Mommy?” Carrie said. “Daisy-cow is crying.”
“I know.”
The truth was, she had been trying to ignore the sound of their old cow bawling for the past half hour. She simply couldn’t face getting up, getting dressed, and going out to milk her.
“Mommy,” Adam echoed his big sister, tugging at her sleeve. “Daisy . . .”
She pushed his little hand away. “Nah schtopes! Stop it!”
He recoiled and looked at her with startled eyes. His lower lip trembled and he crawled off the bed and ran into the kitchen. She could hear him sobbing and she hated herself for her momentary show of impatience.
With Adam crying and Carrie looking like she was about to start, plus her cow bawling to be milked, all she wanted was to give up. She wasn’t ill, she was just so tired! Tears welled up in her own eyes. All she could think about was Titus and how desperately she missed him. The anger at him that had gotten her through the first days after his death had leaked away, leaving her as lifeless and limp as a busted balloon.
And then God sent an angel.
She heard the front door open and a familiar voice comforting Adam in the kitchen, then . . .
“Vas ist letz? What is wrong in this house?” Claire burst into Hope’s bedroom with Adam in her arms, his face buried in her shoulder, and his shoulders shaking as he sobbed.
“Musht hilve? Do you need help? I bring an apple pie over, and find this baby upset, your cow in pain, and you still in bed.”
“I didn’t hear your buggy,” Hope said.
“No wonder, with all the racket inside and out. Are you ill?”
“No.”
“Then you are giving in to your grief. That will never do. You’re stronger than this.” Her aunt’s gaze was sympathetic but her voice was no-nonsense. “You cannot let yourself give in to it. You know that, right?”
“I’m tired.”
“I don’t care.” Claire’s voice cracked like a buggy whip over her head. “You may not stay in bed, no matter how bad your heart aches. You must get up. You must take care of your home. A mother must care for her children. It is the only way. You do not have a choice. You may not give into this. Get out of that bed right this instant!”
A strangled moan came from the barn. Daisy was in real pain.
“And to let a poor animal suffer like that!” Claire clucked her tongue. “That is not like you. I will go tend to Daisy. You get dressed. Do you hear me?”
“Ja.” Hope glanced away, thoroughly ashamed of herself. “I hear.”
Claire sat Adam on the bed and held out her arms to comfort Carrie, who flew into them. The little girl’s arms clung tightly to her great-aunt’s neck as they left the room together.
“I’m sorry, Adam.” Hope gathered him to her. He stopped crying the minute she started to rock him in her arms. With Claire milking Daisy in the barn, the cow stopped bawling, too.
Hope, however, was still in pain, trying to absorb the full sting of her aunt’s anger, and yet who better to pass judgment? Claire had also been widowed. She had somehow risen above her grief and begun making a living as a midwife for her family. Now she was known far and wide for her skill. No Amish or Mennonite woman in the Mt. Hope area wanted to give birth without Claire at their side. If anyone had earned the right to criticize a woman lying abed from grief, it was Aunt Claire.
Hope obeyed her aunt. She rose and got dressed.
A half hour later, Claire came into the house and Hope heard her straining the milk. Then she heard her open and close the refrigerator, putting the fresh milk inside. A few seconds later she heard her washing out the milk pail and answering Carrie’s chatt
y questions. Hope finished pinning her hair up, positioned her prayer Kapp on her head, and went out to face her.
“Are you feeling better?” Claire asked as Hope entered the kitchen.
“Ja.”
“Good!” Her aunt nodded approvingly and began slicing the pie she had brought. “Then perhaps you have an appetite?”
It was healing to have her aunt fuss over her. The pie was delicious.
“What are your plans for the day?” Claire asked.
“Plans?”
“Before I leave here, I want to know that you have plans to do something besides go back to bed. Maybe something you and the children could enjoy together?”
“Like what?” Hope couldn’t think of one thing she wanted to do.
Claire paused in washing dishes and gave the question some thought. “It would probably do you good to get out of the house and into the sunshine. It’s a lovely fall day. Perhaps a picnic?”
“A picnic.” Hope felt no enthusiasm.
Claire dried her hands, cupped Hope’s face in her palms, and looked deeply into her niece’s eyes. “A picnic with your sweet kinner who are also grieving. You are strong. You can do this, ja?”
“Ja.”
Claire left after helping her gather together a few sandwiches and a thermos of cold milk. Hope grabbed a sweater, dressed the children in warmer clothes, hitched her horse to her buggy and loaded them in.
She would be strong for her children.
“Where do you want to go for our picnic?” she asked.
“Can we go play on the swing you had when you were a little girl?” Carrie asked.
The swing had hung from a sturdy, giant oak tree at her childhood home for as long as Hope could remember. Their family no longer possessed the old home where five generations of her family had lived, but it had come back on the market recently and Verla had told her it would be okay for them to visit while it was unoccupied.
It was also the last place Titus had taken them on a family outing, only days before his death.
Undecided, she held the reins of Copy Cat, the strong-willed horse with which Claire had recently gifted her.
“Please, Mommy?”
Fearless Hope: A Novel Page 3