A Baby for Hannah (Hannah's Heart 3)

by Jerry S. Eicher

  Carefully she measured the cream, poured it in, and stirred slowly until the mixture turned an even color. Mr. Brunson must have the best homemade ice cream possible, and it all started with preparing the base correctly.

  “That should do it,” Hannah said, giving one last stir before tossing in handfuls of pecans. Butter pecan ice cream was a little risky, a last-minute decision at the grocery store, but she could do this. Her mom had made butter pecan ice cream many times—but then she wasn’t her mom. Still, Mr. Brunson was worth the chance.

  Emptying the bowl into the metal ice cream canister, she wiped the edges clean and replaced the lid. Carrying the canister with both hands, she opened the kitchen door with her foot and squeezed through.

  “You should’ve called for help,” Jake said when she came around the corner.

  “I know,” she said, gasping. “This thing is slipping out of my hands.”

  “Then I’ll take it,” he said, running over and grabbing the bottom. With a flourish he carried the canister forward, lowering it into the wooden outer shell of the ice cream maker.

  “Make sure the crank’s on tight before you add any ice,” Hannah said, watching Jake struggle with the alignment. He grunted and started over by latching in the crank on one side, lowering it down and turning the canister with the other hand until it snapped into place.

  “There,” he said. “I think that’s it. Now for the ice and salt.”

  “I can help you turn the crank for awhile.”

  “Not with all your work in the kitchen,” Jake said. “I can manage.”

  “I have some time, and the chicken is still in the oven.”

  “But you don’t have to. I’ve made ice cream by myself before.”

  “I want to help,” she said, tilting her head. “I want to be with you. You don’t come home early that often anymore. This is a real treat for me.”

  “I hope it turns out to be a real treat for Mr. Brunson,” Jake said. “It sure is a lot of work you’ve gone to.”

  “He’s worth it. We owe Mr. Brunson a lot for what he did for us with the furniture shop.”

  “Jah, I sure couldn’t have done it without him,” Jake said, pouring the ice around the canister.

  “Just think how this ice cream will taste when it’s done. It seems like years since we’ve made homemade ice cream.”

  “We haven’t made any since last year,” Jake said, sprinkling on a thin stream of rock salt. “I do miss it a lot.”

  “Some things are like that. You forget how much you like them if you don’t do it once in awhile.”

  “Like kissing you,” he said, touching her cheek with his finger.

  “Oh, you do that often enough!” she said. “Now keep your salty hands off me.”

  He laughed softly, kissing the back of her hair where her kapp didn’t reach.

  Hannah giggled and took the ice cream handle, motioning with her other hand, “We have to get some work done around here. You hold down the freezer, and I’ll take the first turn.”

  “This is going to be gut,” he said, pressing down on the crank with both hands.

  “Oh, it will be,” she said, spinning the handle until she was breathless.

  “You don’t have to turn so fast. It won’t get done any quicker.”

  “I know that. It’s just for fun, that’s all,” she said, slowing down.

  Jake stretched his back and, motioning up the gravel lane with his beard, said, “Mr. Brunson is coming. Let me take my turn.”

  “Afraid he’ll see the woman doing all the work?”

  “Jah,” he said. “Now quick before he sees you.”

  Hannah laughed and stood up, “He wouldn’t care. I know he wouldn’t.”

  “There’s no sense in taking chances,” he said, grabbing the handle and twirling it rapidly.

  Hannah held down the ice cream freezer as Mr. Brunson pulled in and parked by the barn.

  “Well, well, what have we here?” he asked getting out of his truck. “The Mr. and the Mrs. making homemade ice cream?”

  “Butter pecan at that,” Jake said, pausing in his twirling. “I was taking my first turn.”

  “Then let me take my turn,” Mr. Brunson said. “Since I will no doubt be eating a large portion of this.”

  “Just leave plenty for me too!” Jake said with a laugh.

  “Good evening, Hannah,” Mr. Brunson said.

  “Good evening,” Hannah said. “I’m so glad you could come.”

  “I think I’m the one who will be glad,” Mr. Brunson said, rubbing his stomach. “I still have pleasant memories from my last visit.”

  “We’ll need to have you down more often,” Jake said. “I’m glad Hannah thought of inviting you.”

  “Leave it to a woman’s touch,” Mr. Brunson said. “I had a wonderful wife myself once. But we will not go there tonight on such a joyous occasion as supper at the Byler house. I sure hope you didn’t work yourself too hard, Hannah.”

  “I didn’t at all,” Hannah said. “And you have been such a help to Jake with his furniture business, we can never properly repay you.”

  “Oh, but Jake already has,” Mr. Brunson said. “He has made me quite a lot of money, so you shouldn’t feel bad at all.”

  “Then supper will be for our friendship’s sake,” Hannah said.

  “Fine with me,” he said, pulling down on the bill of his John Deere cap. “Now what can I do to help? I’ve never made homemade ice cream before.”

  “Hold the freezer so it doesn’t tip while I crank,” Jake said. After a few minutes he paused to add more ice and rock salt. “Things are starting to move along. It’s turning harder.”

  “I’m going back to the house,” Hannah said as Mr. Brunson placed both hands on the crank.

  Hannah turned the corner of the house, catching her last glimpse of the two men. Jake was saying something and laughing heartily as Mr. Brunson took a turn cranking the handle. In the kitchen she quickly cleaned off the table and set it.

  Then she attended to the last of the supper preparations. Opening the oven, Hannah tested the chicken. Satisfied, she closed the damper on the woodstove, and transferred the chicken to hot pads on the table. Retrieving more hot pads from the drawer, she did the same with the mashed potatoes and gravy.

  After slicing the bread and setting out the butter and jam, she removed the cover on the bowl of salad and transferred it to the table. The green beans still were on the back of the stove—in a warm spot—since there wasn’t room left on the table. She had an extra table leaf in storage in the bedroom closet. The problem was the kitchen was too small for its use. Even when her parents had been here last year, they had made do with the way things were. Maybe Jake was right in saying they needed a larger home.

  Walking outside, she called around the corner of the house, “Supper’s ready anytime.”

  “Almost done,” Jake said, looking up, his face intent as he strained to turn the handle.

  “How do you know when it’s done?” Mr. Brunson asked.

  “When you can’t turn anymore.” Jake groaned, stopping his efforts. “I think we just arrived at that point.” He picked up the icy freezer and headed for the kitchen, “Mr. Brunson, maybe you could get the door for me.”

  The older man squeezed around Jake and swung open the door as Jake hurried through. Jake slid the freezer onto the kitchen counter and sighed. “Heavier than I thought it would be.”

  “The food’s hot, so we should eat,” Hannah said.

  “Have a seat,” Jake said to their guest, waving toward a chair. “I declare Hannah has worked me harder since I got home than I did at the shop.”

  “But it’s worth it,” Hannah said. “You’ll think so too when you taste the ice cream.”

  “I think so already,” Mr. Brunson said. “Look at all the food you’ve made. Mashed potatoes, gravy, green beans, fried chicken, salad—and that doesn’t even cover the dessert. You really shouldn’t have, Hannah.”

  “I hope you like i
t,” she said.

  “I already more than like it,” he said, shaking his head. “But all this food is a little much.”

  “If we don’t pray soon, the food will be cold,” Jake said. “Would you please ask the blessing, Mr. Brunson?”

  “I would be glad to,” he said, bowing his head. Hannah followed, closing her eyes. It was strange that Jake would ask an English man to lead in prayer in their house, but she trusted his judgment. Plus he was a gut friend—not like the Mennonites who sought to lead them astray.

  “Dear Father in heaven,” Mr. Brunson prayed. “I thank You tonight for these, my two friends Jake and Hannah. I thank You that they have invited me into their home. I thank You for this wonderful food Hannah has worked so hard to prepare. I pray that You bless Jake and Hannah’s efforts and their kindness, both to me and to so many others.

  “I thank You for Jake and the hardworking man that he is, for the honesty he shows in his business dealings, for the quality of his work, and that he cares about the people who buy the furniture he makes.

  “Bless now this wonderful food that is before us, and give us Your blessing for the rest of our evening together. Amen.”

  Jake lifted his head, and Hannah avoided Mr. Brunson’s eyes. She was sure there were tears in her own, and it might be best if Mr. Brunson didn’t see them. He had said some wonderful things about Jake in his prayer—which were all true, but still, her people didn’t just go around saying things like the Englisha people apparently did. And certainly not in speaking to Da Hah.

  “Mashed potatoes first,” Jake said, passing the bowl to Mr. Brunson. He heaped his plate high, and then poured on the gravy Jake handed him.

  Mr. Brunson is planning to eat his fill tonight, which is gut, Hannah thought. Jake too piled on the mashed potatoes. Both men already loved her food, she could tell.

  After a few minutes of casual conversation, there was a lull. Mr. Brunson cleared his throat, and Hannah glanced at his face. It had sobered, as if he had something important to say. She held her breath as he laid his fork on the table.

  “Perhaps this is not the time to say it,” Mr. Brunson said. “But I don’t know when a good time would be.”

  Hannah was glad when Jake said, “Speak what’s on your mind, Mr. Brunson. We’ll make it the right time if it isn’t already.”

  “Well,” Mr. Brunson said, clearing his throat again. “You are a minister, aren’t you, Jake?”

  “Jah,” Jake said. “I am. The youngest one around here, but a minister.”

  “Then can you tell me what happens if I wish to date one of your women?”

  Six

  Jake paused, his spoon halfway to his mouth, as Hannah gasped.

  “I hope I haven’t been too forward,” Mr. Brunson said. “I didn’t mean any disrespect. But how do you deal with outside people who wish to marry one of the Amish women?”

  “I do assume you have someone in mind?” Jake asked, clearing his throat. “Or you probably wouldn’t be asking. Have you spoken with the woman in question about this matter?”

  “Not in the way you mean,” Mr. Brunson said. “But I buy the occasional dozen eggs from her stand along Highway Two, and I have spoken with her when we met once in the grocery store in Libby. I didn’t want to pursue the matter any further until I knew what the proper steps would be.”

  “Then you mean Mary Keim,” Jake said. “She’s the only one who has a stand along Highway Two.”

  “She is a widow?” Mr. Brunson asked, glancing at Jake’s fallen face.

  “She is,” Jake said more stiffly than he intended. An awkwardness fell over the room.

  A shadow crossed Mr. Brunson’s face. “I’m sorry about this. I had no intention of disturbing you with my question. I wouldn’t want anything to affect my friendship with you and Hannah or with your people. I have a very high regard for your faith.”

  “Yes, we know you do,” Jake said, taking a deep breath and attempting a smile. “And I apologize for my reaction. I had no idea you were thinking of such things.”

  “Why? Is it because I’m old? Jake, old men get lonely. Am I to be denied love even though I’m up in years?”

  Hannah held her breath. What was Jake going to say? Would he offend Mr. Brunson?

  “But you have your own people,” Jake said, meeting Mr. Brunson’s eyes.

  “That I do,” Mr. Brunson said. “But good women at my age are hard to find. At least good women with the values I admire.”

  “Surely there would be someone,” Jake said. “Have you any idea how hard it will be to marry into our faith? And that’s if Mary would even accept your offer.”

  “Now, now,” Mr. Brunson said, laughing softly. “You underestimate me, Jake. What woman would turn down a great catch like me?”

  Jake laughed as Mr. Brunson’s words broke the tension.

  “It’s not that simple,” Hannah spoke up. “There would be the matter of becoming part of us. Do you know what taking on our ways means? It’s very hard.”

  “I would think it would be worth the sacrifice,” Mr. Brunson said. “Especially to win the heart of a woman like Mary.”

  “I take it then that you are well into thinking about this,” Jake said. “Is there anything we can say to persuade you otherwise?”

  “I’ve thought long and hard about it,” Mr. Brunson said. “I didn’t ask to have you tell me I couldn’t pursue the woman. I want to know how to do it legally. So I don’t run afoul of traditions, religious beliefs, and that sort of thing.”

  “And do you think Mary will be agreeable to this, ah, pursuit?”

  “I don’t know. But an old man must try again when he sees another chance at love. I don’t have many years left, Jake.”

  “This is a hard thing you ask.”

  “But don’t you see?” Mr. Brunson continued. “I am what I am today because of you and Hannah. Because of you two I have a renewed relationship with my son, Eldon. I came back from my self-imposed exile after the accident that killed my wife and daughter. I could never have come back from all that without your friendship, without the kind of Christian example your people gave me. I’ve received hope from watching your lives, and I was given a reason to try again. I know it’s hard to explain, but I want what you people have.”

  “And you think marrying one of our women would give you what we have?”

  “No, not entirely,” Mr. Brunson said. “I mean, it’s not something I intentionally did or set out to do. It just happened between us. I would call it one of the most improbable things imaginable. Who would have thought that buying a dozen eggs would open such a door?”

  When Jake and Hannah had no reply, Mr. Brunson spoke again. “I’ve upset you both and I’m sorry for that. I don’t like to upset my friends.”

  “Jake’s a minister,” Hannah said, leaning across the table toward Mr. Brunson. “He can’t tell you what to do in a case like this. There are others to think of. Other opinions that could be different from his. Jake will be okay. He’s got a really gut heart. So why don’t you tell us about Mary and yourself?”

  “Is that correct?” Mr. Brunson asked, glancing at Jake.

  Jake smiled, “I don’t know about my gut heart, but the rest is correct. I can tell you what the rules are, but I don’t have the power to decide anything. That is done in counsel with the other ministers first, and then with all the church members.”

  “I see,” Mr. Brunson said, toying with his fork.

  Hannah stood up from the table and said, “The ice cream is melting, and the cherry pie needs to be eaten. We can talk further while we eat dessert.”

  “That’s sounds good to me,” Mr. Brunson said. “What better time to speak of love than over cherry pie and butter pecan ice cream?”

  Jake laughed. “None that I know of.”

  “Do you think if I tell my story it will help my case any?” Mr. Brunson asked.

  “I don’t think so,” Hannah said, dishing out the ice cream. “But I want to hear it anyway. A love stor
y is always worth telling.”

  “You are really encouraging,” Mr. Brunson said, taking the bowl of ice cream offered him. He tasted a spoonful, a look of delight spreading over his face.

  “I’m sure Mary can also make ice cream like this,” Hannah said.

  “Hannah,” Jake said, “Mr. Brunson wouldn’t marry for such reasons.”

  “I know,” Hannah laughed. “I’m being bad.”

  “Maybe I would,” Mr. Brunson said. “Now that I think about it, I haven’t tasted ice cream like this in years. Perhaps never.”

  “You’ll get all the cherry pie and homemade ice cream you could possibly want if you marry Mary Keim,” Hannah said, placing the pie on the table. “I hear she loves to bake.” She sat back down, a bowl of ice cream in front of her.

  “So you’re really serious about this?” Jake asked, glancing at Mr. Brunson.

  “As serious as I have been in a long time.”

  “Tell me the story then,” Hannah said. “I want to hear.”

  A smile crept across their guest’s face. “Well, I pulled in for a carton of fresh eggs one day, on a whim since I usually buy them at the grocery store. I knew the woman was Amish. I mean, that was obvious. I told her good morning, and made my purchase, and then I left, thinking no more about it.”

  “Did she sell you rotten eggs?” Hannah asked, giggling.

  “No,” Mr. Brunson said. “They were perfect eggs, and they fried much better than the watery store-bought ones, so I stopped in again. This time the conversation went a little further—about the weather and such things. She told me she knew who I was—that I was your neighbor and the man who had shot the grizzly bear last year. Funny to be known that way, but I didn’t mind.

  “Her eyes were what got me first—their kindness, their alertness, their look of life, as if she loved living. I wondered about that. Here was a woman who had so little of the modern things of life and yet she looked so happy. Excuse me for thinking this, Hannah, since I know you are the same way, but to see it in someone my age made it feel different. She was so alive and in so many ways. Perhaps in ways I’m no longer alive myself. I wanted to speak longer with her, to understand her life, to see how she lived.