by Naomi King
“Admit it, Amanda,” her mother-in-law muttered. “We might’ve been watching every dime, but life was a lot easier on the home place. If Atlee hadn’t been so dead set against getting his wound tended, he’d still be with us and we’d have none of these problems to contend with.”
“We all make our choices. We all have to deal with change,” Amanda replied wearily. “Wyman’s a gut man, doing his best to—”
“Shh! Here comes Vera with the kids.”
Footsteps clattered on the porch and the kitchen door burst open. Simon led the parade with a tote bag of groceries in each hand and a sucker stick protruding from his mouth.
“We’re back, Mamm!” Cora chirped from behind a bundle of toilet paper that was nearly as big as she was.
“Vera let us pick out candy,” her twin chimed in. “I got root beer barrels.”
“And I picked red-hot cinnamon disks!” Cora said.
Amanda gazed in dismay at Alice Ann, whose entire right side was covered with mud. “What happened to you, angel?” She opened her arms, but the toddler’s lower lip quivered as she turned toward her oldest sister instead.
Vera came in last, carrying two loaded tote bags in each hand. “The parking lot at Miller’s Market is full of puddles, and Alice Ann found one,” she remarked as she set her bags on the table. “I’ll clean her up, Amanda. Meanwhile, Dat’s gotten a message on his office phone you might want to hear, about a party in Cedar Creek!”
“A party? A message like that might be a gut excuse to pester your dat, ain’t so?” Amanda remarked. “I can’t think many farmers are hauling grain in this wet weather, so it’s not like I’d be taking him away from his work.” Even in the rain, a walk to the elevator sounded like a welcome break from Jemima’s complaining—and Amanda would rather hear about the party now than wait until Wyman came home this evening.
She slipped into her coat and bonnet before anyone could detain her. She grabbed an umbrella and then strode along the gravel lane, avoiding the puddles. With everything else that seemed to be going wrong today, the last thing she needed was squishy shoes.
Once across the highway, Amanda went around to the back of the little frame building that sat in the shadow of the elevator’s towering grain bins. When she tapped on the door, Wyman smiled and waved her in.
“I thought our invitation to Cedar Creek might get your attention,” he teased as he rose from his old chair. “It was a plot to lure you over here while Ray and Tyler are running errands, you see. How’s your day been, Amanda?”
Why spoil his playful mood by telling of Jemima’s aches and pains? When her husband opened his arms, Amanda stepped into them. “It’s ever so much better now,” she whispered before he kissed her. “Jemima’s baking and Vera’s done the shopping, so who am I to complain?”
Wyman studied her face as though he didn’t quite believe her. But he, too, refrained from ruining these rare moments they had together. “Our message was waiting when I came in this morning, from Abby Lambright.”
“It’s always gut news when it’s from Abby.”
“Seems she and Emma and James are planning a surprise party for Eunice’s eightieth birthday, and they’d like us to join them,” he went on. “It’s a week from Thursday, on the twenty-ninth. I don’t have any plans then. Do you? For such a special occasion as that, I can ask Ray and Tyler to handle any grain we get that day.”
Amanda’s heart fluttered, not only at this invitation but at the expression on Wyman’s face. He was such a handsome man, and so eager to please her. “I have plans now,” she replied brightly. “Did Abby say what we were to bring?”
“Here—listen for yourself.” Wyman handed her the receiver and punched the PLAY button of the phone’s message machine.
Amanda listened to Abby’s lilting voice and felt her mood lifting with every word. Wasn’t it just like Sam’s family to host another gathering, even if it wasn’t for one of their own? Amanda was tempted to replay the message for another dose of sunshine on this dreary morning. “What a wonderful idea for celebrating Eunice’s birthday,” she said as she hung up. “And how nice of them to include us.”
“Vera’s tickled that Abby asked her to bring a pan of her mac and cheese.” Wyman smiled boyishly. “When she mentioned goodies, I thought of those raisin cookies you made when we were courting. Could you bake some for the party, and save some back for me?”
Amanda swallowed a sigh. Those cookies were twice the work, as they required cutting two circles of dough for each cookie, filling them with the thickened raisins, and then crimping all the way around the edge with a fork—and the younger kids didn’t like them. “For you, I could probably arrange that,” she answered lightly. “I’ll bake another kind for the kids. We’ll go through a lot of cookies even with a birthday cake there.”
“You’re the best, Amanda,” he murmured as he held her close.
Why can’t it be this easy all the time? Amanda lingered in his arms, soothed by the patter of rain on the tin roof. “I’d better get back and start dinner,” she murmured. “You and Eddie will want more than the rolls and soup Jemima and I have been making.”
“I’ll be home in about an hour,” Wyman said. “Most of the harvest has been brought in, so I’m catching up on the accounting work—which means I’ll have more time to spend with you now. And the kids, of course.”
Feeling much better than when she’d left the house, Amanda stepped outside with her umbrella. The rain had almost stopped, and with mist hovering in the low-lying areas behind the house, the day had taken on an ethereal beauty despite the clouds. As she crossed the highway, she noticed a black buggy parked at the house. She wasn’t yet familiar with the neighbors’ rigs, so she walked faster, hoping guests would raise Jemima’s spirits. If these folks stayed for dinner, they could add another quart of tomatoes to the soup . . .
As she ascended the porch steps, however, Amanda’s heart sank. Through the window she saw Mildred Schmucker, once again pointing that finger of hers—this time at Vera. Oh, but she wished the bishop and his wife would leave them be. She opened the door, praying for a civil tongue and wise counsel from God.
“—so it makes no difference if you’re using your rumspringa as an excuse to make necklaces from Amanda’s pottery,” the bishop’s wife was saying in her reedy voice. “You know it’s not our way to wear jewelry! The larger danger is that your example will influence the way your younger brother and sisters grow up.”
As Amanda closed her umbrella, she was tempted—just for an unholy moment—to poke Mildred with its tip, or to splash her with rainwater by pushing it open again. “Hullo, Mildred,” she said as she hung up her wraps. “What brings you out on such a drizzly day?”
The bishop’s wife pivoted on her heel. “Your pottery,” she spat. “You agreed to remove it from the stores in Cedar Creek, but when I was in Treva’s Greenhouse today, Vera’s wind chimes and jewelry were prominently displayed. So, not only have you defied Uriah’s instructions, you have led Vera astray with your artwork, as well.”
Amanda glanced apologetically at Vera, who stood by the sink with her hands clasped and her head bowed. Jemima, too, looked flummoxed as she sat on the small bench near her pie safe.
“That was an oversight on my part,” Amanda replied in a strained voice. “Wyman had my dishes removed from the mercantile but I forgot about Vera’s pieces at the greenhouse. The blame is entirely mine, not hers.”
“Oh, but Vera’s seventeen. Old enough to be joining the church and setting aside pastimes that lead to perdition.” The bishop’s wife took a deep breath, as though to launch into another tirade, but then an ominous crash in the cellar made them all look toward the stairs.
As Wags loped out of the stairwell, Amanda ruefully noticed the muddy paw prints already on the kitchen floor. The rapid patter of feet preceded Simon’s appearance, with the twins following close behind him. All th
ree children wore fearful expressions, which intensified when they saw her standing there.
“Wasn’t our fault—honest.” Simon hurried past Mildred and into the front room, whistling for his dog.
“We only did what the bishop said,” Cora added in a quavering voice.
“Jah, we didn’t break a thing,” her sister insisted as the two of them hurried behind Simon.
Amanda scowled. This fiasco would only escalate if she demanded an explanation in front of Mildred. “You girls are to sit on the sofa until I say differently,” she instructed in the calmest voice she could muster. “Simon, put your dog outside. And then you’re to sit with the girls, understand me?”
“Jah, Mamma,” the twins replied as one.
“I will,” Simon murmured.
The children did as they were told, but as Amanda watched them her heart was pounding so loudly that Mildred could surely hear it. And of course the heavier, slower footsteps ascending the stairs could only belong to Uriah Schmucker.
What had he been doing downstairs? Snooping to see if she’d packed away her pottery, no doubt—and intimidating the kids in her absence. Oh, but that galled her! Never had she met a bishop with so much nerve.
Once again Amanda prayed for support. Why had she again been chosen to bear the brunt of Uriah’s vindictive nature? Jemima’s caramel rolls smelled like they were scorching, but neither Amanda nor her mother-in-law nor Vera dared to move as the bishop stepped into sight.
“You didn’t trust me to put away my ceramics?” Amanda asked in a taut voice.
Uriah surveyed the kitchen with a disapproving frown. Then he focused on her with eyes as hard as marbles. “I knew Wyman would carry out my instructions. But because those packed boxes remain in your cellar—with pieces of your work still in Treva Lambright’s store—you haven’t really given up your art. You have not obeyed me, Amanda,” he went on in a rising voice. “So perhaps a kneeling confession in the presence of all our members will be the more effective means to rid you of this deeply ingrained sin.”
“We can only hope Vera will learn from your mistake—cloak herself in contrition before she falls as far,” Mildred chimed in.
Amanda didn’t know whether to protest or to cry. She was so tired of crying. And she had seen enough of this self-righteous couple for one day, too. “Denki for coming,” she muttered, gesturing toward the door. “I have children to discipline.”
“And I’d best be taking my rolls from the oven,” Jemima said as she rose stiffly from her bench.
The Schmuckers looked incensed that they were being dismissed, but Amanda was beyond caring what they thought. Her insides were churning and she couldn’t tolerate another minute of their presence in her home.
Or IS this your home? If you stay in Clearwater, you’ll never be out from under Uriah’s watchful eye. When the bishop realizes you didn’t agree to a kneeling confession, he’ll be challenging Wyman about it—and if you don’t confess next Sunday, he’ll shun you without a second thought. Is there no end to this vicious circle, this cycle of blaming and shaming?
The whack! of the slammed kitchen door goaded Amanda into action. Without a word to Vera, Jemima, or the kids she descended the steps to see what had happened in her absence. Had the children been downstairs when the Schmuckers arrived? They were capable of creating quite a mess when they played in the basement, but it was a rainy day and a little more chaos was to be expected.
She had not figured on seeing her pottery smashed all over the floor.
Nor had she anticipated finding Great-uncle Mahlon’s kick wheel on its side with the wheel and the splash pan detached . . . demolished beyond her ability to repair it. While Simon’s mischief at the mercantile had broken some of her pieces, this blatant destruction went beyond anything her kids were capable of. Uriah fancies himself as Christ overturning the tables of the money changers in the temple.
Something inside Amanda snapped.
She had figured on taking her boxes of pottery back to Atlee’s farm, to stash them away. The devastation—the waste—scattered across the basement floor was the last straw. And in her despair, feeling as shattered as her pottery, Amanda could think of only one thing to do. One place to go.
Out the basement door she strode, not bothering to fetch her wraps. The cold rain mingled with her hot tears and Amanda didn’t care if anyone saw her enter the stable. “Dottie, let’s go home, girl,” she called to her mare.
A few minutes later her enclosed buggy was rolling past the pile of furniture covered with ragged blue tarps, then heading down the lane toward the county highway. It was wrong to run from her troubles. She had left soup bubbling on the stove, along with three little children on the sofa awaiting her discipline. But other folks could take care of those things.
Lord knows they don’t need me. . . .
That thought was the final crack in the dam that had been holding her frustrations and unrealized dreams in check. It was wrong to run away, like a child defying her parents, thinking the grass had to be greener anywhere other than home. She had promised to love, honor, and obey Wyman Brubaker. Willingly, knowing full well what marriage meant, she had entered into a sacred relationship with him until death parted them.
But she hadn’t known much about Uriah Schmucker then. Hadn’t foreseen the consequences of continuing the craft that had fed her family since Atlee had died. And she hadn’t predicted the growing pains of blending two families . . . or the way Wyman had assumed she could bring all those kids together merely by becoming their mother.
Amanda shivered in the buggy, staring at the road ahead through her tears. No one was out in Cedar Creek to witness her shame, her caving in beneath an emotional burden she didn’t know how to bear. Abby was probably sewing in the loft of the mercantile and would surely have words of comfort and support . . . Sam could offer advice from the perspective of a preacher who was not her preacher . . . She could fetch the rest of Vera’s jewelry and her dishes, if she stopped. . . .
But then she would have to explain why she was leaving Wyman.
Think about what you’re doing . . . to your family and your future. Turn around before it’s too late.
It was unthinkable to abandon her family, or to forsake her husband of three weeks. She had vowed before God to commit herself to the Brubakers, and if she carried through on these feelings that churned in her heart, she would be excommunicated from Clearwater. Banned from seeing her kids again. And rightly so.
As Amanda rounded the curve by Graber’s Custom Carriages, however, she didn’t stop and she didn’t look back. Lizzie and the twins will come home, too—because Jemima will bring them, she reasoned. I must find a way to set Wyman free so he and his kids can move on, no matter what the awful consequences. Maybe I can join the Mennonites . . . still raise my girls with Plain principles and values. . . .
Dottie trotted faster as they approached the turnoff to the farm. Down the gravel road the buggy clattered until the faded white barns and the old Lambright house came into view. Within minutes Amanda was unhitching the mare, and she went right back to the stall where she’d lived for most of her life. She knows where she belongs, and so do I, Amanda thought.
As she stepped into the back door of the kitchen, the overheated smell of something on the stove greeted her, as did the clutter of her bachelor nephew. Amanda turned off the burner, barely recognizing the stew she and Jemima had left in the freezer for Jerome on moving day. She heard his footsteps above . . . water running through the pipes as he washed his hands before his noon meal.
What will you tell him? Jerome’s a man, with a male perspective. He’ll drive you right back to Clearwater if you don’t go on your own.
For a few moments, however, Amanda drank in the sight of the familiar worn cabinets . . . the dishes in the sink, the stoneware a gift when she’d married Atlee . . . the table she’d eaten on all during her first marri
age, shorter now because Jerome had removed the leaves. Oh, how the walls needed a fresh coat of paint, and oh, how she loved this kitchen anyway.
“Aunt Amanda? Is something wrong?”
She turned to face Jerome, her defenses crumbling. “Jah, you might say that,” she rasped. “I can’t do it. I can’t be a Brubaker or live in Clearwater with those hateful, mean-spirited people.”
Jerome’s thick, dark eyebrows rose as though he might haul her right back out to her rig. Instead, he took her in his arms. “Better tell me what’s going on,” he murmured. “You’re no quitter. And you would never, ever leave your girls behind.”
Chapter Twenty-one
When Wyman stepped into the kitchen, he immediately knew something was wrong. Vera was in tears as she bustled around Jemima setting their noon meal on the table, while Jemima looked as sour—yet as fearful—as he had ever seen her. Alice Ann sat in her high chair sucking her thumb, her little face puckered with worry.
“Why are Simon and the twins sitting on the couch?” he whispered.
“Oh, Dat, it was awful.” Vera mopped her face with her sleeve. “While Amanda was at the elevator with you, the Schmuckers came, and—”
Wyman clenched his jaw.
“—after the bishop went downstairs we heard glass breaking against the floor, and—”
“We didn’t do it, Dat. Honest!” Simon called from the front room.
“So where’s Amanda now?” Wyman asked.
The kitchen fell silent.
Wyman’s heart raced faster. The more questions he asked, the more he didn’t like the answers he was getting. “Did she go downstairs to assess the damage, or what?” he demanded.
“That’s what we figured, jah,” his daughter rasped. “But it got real quiet. And when I went down to see if Amanda was all right, she . . . she wasn’t there.”
“Can’t say as I blame her, after the way that bishop and his wife lit into her,” Jemima sputtered. “Now Uriah’s demanding a kneeling confession, after they found Vera’s necklaces at the greenhouse in Cedar Creek—”