Fearless Hope: A Novel

by Serena B. Miller

  chapter SEVENTEEN

  Logan had never met anyone quite like Ivan Troyer. He wasn’t Amish, but he wasn’t exactly Englisch, either. He said he was Mennonite, which was yet another religion Logan knew little about.

  “I used to be Amish,” Ivan explained. “The problem is, I was never a great hand with horses. Not like Hope’s father. Henry can practically talk a horse into plowing a field all by itself. He makes farming look easy. Seemed like I was always fighting with horseflies, or getting kicked or bit, and I almost got killed when a four-horse team decided to run away with me. Horses don’t like me and I don’t like them. When I turned forty, I decided that if the good Lord really wanted me to fool around with horses, He would not have invented cars and tractors.”

  “I think it was Henry Ford who . . .”

  “Ivan is making a joke,” Hope said. “That’s his latest Mennonite joke. Daed does not think it is funny.”

  “Henry doesn’t think much is funny anymore,” Ivan said. “I’m worried about him.”

  “He is humiliated and sorry,” Hope said. “The problem is, nothing can be done about it. He still has to live with his decisions—even if the church and his family have forgiven him.”

  “Your father is a good man,” Ivan said. “And he was a good neighbor. The best.”

  Logan heard the grief in the man’s statement and wondered if he was expected to apologize for living in Hope’s family’s house. Sometimes it felt that way around here.

  “Take a walk with me over to my place,” Ivan invited. “We’ll let Hope get back to her chores. I’d like for my wife to meet the man who bought the house next door . . . just for the pleasure of living beside us.”

  “I didn’t . . .”

  “I know.” Ivan chuckled. “You were probably passing through and fell in love with the old house. Outsiders sometimes do that here. They see the pretty farms and think they’ll find peace just by living here. I’ve talked to a couple of them. They have no idea how much sweat and tears goes into keeping those farms going. The other thing most of them can’t figure out is that peace can be found anywhere if you have Christ in your life. Peace isn’t about pretty. It isn’t about where you live. It’s about who you live with, and who you live for.”

  The man said this in such a matter-of-fact tone that Logan could not take offense.

  Ivan’s wife, Mary, was setting food out on the table when they arrived. She was a small, round woman whose face lit up with a sweet smile when Ivan introduced them.

  “You’ll have to stay for supper,” she announced. “Thanks to my husband’s hard work, we always have plenty.”

  Logan was a little taken aback by the invitation. Dinner parties were one thing. Being invited to sit down and eat in someone’s home whom he’d just met—that didn’t happen in his world.

  “I’m sorry. I couldn’t.”

  He realized his mistake when he saw the look of disappointment on Mary’s face. The woman truly meant her invitation.

  “Although . . . I suppose I could stay for a few minutes. Something smells really good.”

  “I’ll set a place!” Mary whirled around and began pulling dinnerware out of a cupboard.

  At that moment, an elderly woman wearing a gauzy head covering and a loose-fitting plain dress shuffled into the kitchen. “Is that you, John?”

  “No, Mother. This isn’t your brother. This is our neighbor, Logan Parker.” Ivan helped her get seated. “Logan, this is my mother, Esther.”

  The old lady extended her hand. He was gentle when he shook it because she seemed as fragile as fine china, and he was half afraid that if he squeezed too hard, he might break something.

  “I must be getting old,” Esther said. “I could have sworn I heard my brother’s voice just now.”

  “John’s been dead for over fifty years.” Ivan’s voice was gentle.

  “Oh, I know that.” Esther flapped a hand at her son. “I’m not senile. I’ve been napping and got a little confused for a moment, that’s all.”

  “It’s good to meet you, ma’am,” Logan said.

  Esther turned to her son. “And who is he again?”

  Ivan responded with patience. “He is our next-door neighbor, Mother.”

  “Henry and Rose are our neighbors,” she argued. “What happened? Did this young man marry their daughter Hope?”

  “No, Mother,” Ivan explained. “Henry and Rose moved away. Logan is from New York City. He bought the house and moved here.”

  “Supper’s ready!” Mary announced brightly. “I hope the others come in before it gets cold.”

  Within a few minutes, the rest of the family began to appear. A tall man, whom they introduced as their eldest, Caleb, came through the door along with his wife. A daughter named Leah arrived with her husband, Seth. They had two small children with them. William was the second oldest son. His wife, Prudy, was hugely pregnant and complained of swollen ankles. Another daughter, Charlotte, had a baby in her arms and her husband carried a toddler.

  Altogether, Logan counted fourteen people seated around one long table. Ivan explained that there would be more except that Caleb’s youngest three were teenagers attending a youth function and that their oldest was serving the Lord in Haiti.

  It seemed so strange to Logan to hear someone say “serving the Lord” as easily as if he were talking about the weather. It would have sounded self-conscious in most people’s mouths, but from Ivan it sounded as natural as breathing.

  “It’s not always like this,” Mary explained after Caleb had said grace. “It’s usually just me, Ivan, and Esther and only one or two of the grandkids. But we try to make it a priority to eat together once a week just to get caught up on what’s happening in each other’s lives, and”—she wiped the chin of the toddler who was slurping up buttered corn from his place on her lap—“to keep the children close to our hearts.”

  “What a wonderful tradition.” Logan meant it. His eyes swept the table, watching the easy camaraderie between brother and sister, brother-in-law and sister-in-law, grandparent and grandchild . . . and he envied it. To his surprise, he was not at all the center of attention. They didn’t exactly ignore him, they just seemed used to having a stray in their midst, and after a few polite questions, they settled in to their own conversations about everything from Braxton-Hicks contractions—which apparently the pregnant wife was having—to the new tooth the fussy baby was sprouting, to what vegetables they were thinking of planting as soon as the earth warmed up.

  It was a pleasure to sit there, listening, even if he didn’t have much to contribute.

  Then it happened again.

  That feeling of déjà vu came over him.

  Everything about this house, those cabinets, that view out the kitchen window felt familiar.

  There was a staircase leading upstairs from the kitchen. Built into the wall beneath the staircase was a small, child-sized door that caught his attention. As he looked at the unusual door, the feeling was so strong, he had to put down his fork while it washed over him, leaving him nearly dizzy from the intensity, while inside his mind flashed an image of shelves filled with children’s books and a few toys.

  “Excuse me,” he said, pointing, “but do you mind if I ask what’s behind that small door?”

  He knew it was an odd question, but he had to ask. All conversation dropped and all heads turned to look at him. He was sorry he had stopped the flow of their conversation, but the need to know was too compelling to keep quiet.

  “I turned that space into a playroom when Caleb was a child,” Ivan answered. “All the children have enjoyed that little hidey-hole, along with their friends.”

  “Does it have a small shelf of children’s books?”

  “It did,” Mary said. “Most have been borrowed or lost since our children were small. Why do you ask?”

  “I don’t know. I wish I did, but I just don’t know. I can’t explain it. I don’t understand it myself, but with this house and my own, it feels like I’ve been
here before. Maybe when I was very young.”

  “Were you ever in Holmes County when you were a child?” Ivan asked.

  “I’ve asked my mother. As far as she knows, I’ve never been in Ohio at all until recently.”

  “You probably saw some pictures of Amish farmhouses.” Caleb’s voice conveyed finality, as though he did not want to discuss it further. “There is a similarity to many of them.”

  “Oh well.” Logan was uncomfortable with the puzzled looks he was getting. “I don’t suppose I’ll ever know for sure, and it probably doesn’t matter.” He left it at that, and they all went back to eating. After he had finished and thanked Mary for the good meal, he started out on the walk home, when Caleb called out for him to wait.

  “What were you trying to pull in there?” Caleb asked, catching up with him.

  Logan stopped in his tracks, surprised. “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “I hear you’re a writer.” Caleb could have inserted “serial killer” for “writer” and the contempt in his voice would have been the same.

  “I am.”

  “What were you really doing in our house?”

  “Your father asked me to come meet your mother. She invited me to stay for dinner. It’s as simple as that.”

  “You were pretending to have knowledge about our home . . . like there’s some mystical connection. That’s cruel. My family has been through enough.”

  “I do feel a connection . . . at least with your parents’ house and with my own. I have no idea why.”

  “Hope loved playing in that room beneath the stairs when she was a little girl. It doesn’t take a genius to know that she’s mentioned it to you.”

  “She never said a word.” Logan was appalled at the ferocity he saw in Caleb’s face. “Why would you even say that?”

  “Let’s just say that I would appreciate it a great deal if you would leave my parents alone. They’ve been through enough. They don’t need someone like you coming along and stirring things up.”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about, but that’s okay by me.”

  Logan had thought he was having a pleasant dinner with neighbors. Obviously there was something else going on. There were currents of emotion he did not understand. He wasn’t sure exactly what he was being accused of, but he had no plans to go back.

  “Good.” Caleb gave him a long look. “I’m glad we have an understanding.”

  Logan wasn’t exactly sure what the understanding was, but the warm feeling he had experienced sitting around Ivan and Mary’s kitchen table had evaporated.

  • • •

  Later that evening, his mother called to check on him.

  “Anything new?” she asked.

  “As a matter of fact, I had an interesting encounter with my next-door neighbors today. They invited me to eat dinner with the family, and I did.”

  “Are they Amish?”

  “They used to be. Now they are Mennonite, which from what I can tell, is an interesting story.”

  “How so?”

  “Something to do with not liking horses.”

  She chuckled. “That could most definitely be a deal-breaker for an Amish man.”

  “Oh, I think it was probably a little more complicated than that.” From his upstairs window, he glanced over at the Troyers’ home.

  “I had that feeling again when I was there. Like I’d been there before.”

  “Oh?”

  He told her about his innocent comment about the children’s closet, and Caleb’s accusations afterward.

  “Did you say his name is Caleb?”

  “Yes.”

  “What is this family’s last name?”

  “Troyer. Ivan and Mary Troyer . . . and a bunch of their children and grandchildren whose names I didn’t catch.”

  “Oh,” she said. She paused. He waited, and then she said, “I need to go now . . . someone is trying to call in.”

  “Sure. Talk with you later.” He hung up, wondering if his mother had gotten a new phone. Always before, he heard the slight disconnect when people called her while they were talking.

  He was glad he had a visit to New York planned soon. It would be good to catch up with his mom as well as spend time with Marla. At least in New York, he knew the rules.

  • • •

  “You’re here a lot earlier than I expected.” It might have been his imagination, but Marla appeared to be less than thrilled when he arrived unannounced at her workplace.

  He tried to tease her out of her mood. “Don’t you love me anymore?”

  “Of course I love you.” Her voice softened. “But you know how I get when I’m on a big project. Everything scheduled down to the last minute.”

  “Ariela always said you were the only person she’d ever met who carried around a thicker day planner than her own.”

  “That was something we had in common. I like to have a schedule and get things accomplished. So did she.”

  “As opposed to, say, being a writer who lounges around all day, sipping coffee, looking out the window and thinking deep thoughts?”

  “I know you work hard, Logan.”

  “Guess I’ll go back outside and wait then.” He pretended to check her calendar. “Exactly what time did you have me scheduled for?”

  “I’m sorry. It’s just that we got this big client last week. Do you remember me telling you about him? Jebulan Steele? The actor who wants us to restore that old brownstone he just purchased? My boss put me in charge of it and I’ve been pulling my hair out trying to get everything in place to start the project.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that.” He knew she’d worked for a couple of other actors in the past and neither had been easy. “Can I take you out for an early dinner?”

  “Well”—she tapped her lovely nails on the desk—“there is a new Middle Eastern place that just opened up that I’d like to try. Let me make a couple phone calls first. Why don’t you go out to the foyer and wait for me.” She waved him away and smiled sweetly as she picked up the phone. “I can’t concentrate with you standing over me.”

  Somewhat deflated, he went to go wait.

  When Marla came through the elevator doors a few minutes later, she was a different person, relaxed and happy to see him. He decided that it might be best to not surprise her with an early visit from now on.

  She was a woman who turned heads, and several men pivoted to watch her as they stepped out onto the sidewalk and made their way to the new restaurant a couple blocks away.

  In the restaurant, she pointed out that he had not yet admired her new handbag.

  Marla did not shop for bargains. The large, red purse had cost four figures. He couldn’t begin to fathom from looking at it why it had cost so much.

  “I guess you’ll have plenty of room for your stuff,” he offered lamely.

  Marla looked hurt. “You don’t like it?”

  “I don’t like it or dislike it.”

  “Then what is your problem?”

  “I don’t have a problem. It’s just a handbag. I don’t care what you buy.”

  “I suppose you want me to walk around carrying some old, black, cheap thing like that housekeeper of yours.” She speared an olive. “I saw her purse sitting on a chair when I was there.”

  For the life of him, he did not know what was eating at her, but suddenly, he regretted his decision to waste the hours he’d spent driving from Ohio to New York. He was tired from driving, disappointed in her reaction to his arrival, and on top of that, he had never liked Middle Eastern food. Marla always forgot that he did not share her love for exotic cuisine. He was hungry, and a hamburger is what he wanted. Instead, he would be paying the earth for a meal he didn’t want. Yet again.

  He didn’t know why any of this bothered him so much except that last night Hope had asked permission to take home a chicken carcass she had roasted for him the day before. When he asked why, she told him that she could boil it down into broth, make some egg noodles, and get
another meal out of it . . . for her children.

  “Hope could feed a family for six months on what you just spent on that ridiculous handbag.”

  It was not what he had intended to say, but he was tired, his guard was down, and it was what flew out of his mouth.

  Marla gasped and stared at him round-eyed. “I cannot believe you just said that!”

  Actually, he couldn’t either, but he had no intention of backing down. What he’d said was the truth.

  When he didn’t apologize, she threw down her napkin and stood. “I’m going home.”

  “Fine.” He picked up a fork. “I’m going to stay here and eat this overpriced meal you just ordered. Did that one olive fill you up?”

  Wow! Where had that come from? His resentment of all those meals he’d bought that she barely touched had finally risen to the surface.

  She stormed out without another word. He watched until she had hailed a taxi. Then he proceeded to eat his meal and hers, too. Strange how ravenous he felt after that exchange. He decided that Middle Eastern food wasn’t so bad after all.

  An hour later, after walking off his anger, he let himself into the apartment. Marla was sitting in bed, her ever-present laptop perched on her knees. Her eyes were red from weeping. “I don’t understand why you were being mean to me. All I did was buy a new purse. It’s not like the money was coming out of your pocket.”

  That was true. Not only did Marla have her own job—thanks to her grandfather, she also had a modest trust fund. She could buy a purse like that out of her monthly allowance and not feel the pinch too much. Especially since he was taking care of all her other living expenses.

  His Amish housekeeper did not have that option and he resented it for her. Hope worked hard so that she could feed and clothe her children. Marla worked so she would not be bored.

  Evidently it was best that he had come back to the city for a visit. He had been spending entirely too much time with Hope. Even though there was nothing at all between them, seeing her struggle to raise her children was changing his point of view in ways that were not healthy. Especially if he was to maintain a good relationship with his fiancée.