Monday morning, instead of parking in the back, Paul pulled his pickup up, tailgate first, to the front of the house. He’d loaded the bed with treated lumber, a post-hole digger, paint, and everything else he needed to complete the second wheelchair ramp.
As much as he disliked leaving the kitchen in such a mess, he couldn’t resist taking advantage of the pleasant late-spring days to work outside. The back-porch ramp had been a one-day project given its simple concrete slab construction. But the one in the front would include two long stretches running parallel with the porch and turning at a landing. The front-porch floor stood three feet higher than the ground, so a single ramp with a 1/12 pitch would extend too far into the yard and look, as Danny had laughingly said, like a long tongue sticking out.
After making several sketches on graph paper, he finally created a design that would be functional but would also blend in with the porch. Clete hadn’t said anything about making the ramp pretty, but the old farmhouse with its wraparound porch surrounded by a railing and sawn balusters possessed a charm Paul didn’t wish to destroy. Mrs. Zimmerman might actually allow someone to repaint the house and repair the broken decorative brackets. When that day came, he didn’t want someone pointing at the ramp and complaining about its ungainly appearance.
The front ramp would take at least two days to build. Maybe more. He wanted to have it done by the time school let out the twenty-second of May. After that, he’d have Danny with him every day. He could keep his son busy inside with sweeping sawdust, collecting nails, and the other little tasks that stole Paul’s construction time. None of those activities were potentially dangerous or too difficult for a nine-year-old. But the ramp? It involved cutting and fitting two-by-fours, securing balusters into a frame, careful measuring and focus. With Danny underfoot, he’d be distracted and the boy might try to use some of the power tools out of curiosity. It was better to finish the ramp on his own.
As he unloaded his pickup, the front door opened and Suzy’s daughter stepped out on the porch. She held a cup of coffee in one hand and a plate with some sort of crumbly cake and a fork in the other. She moved to the edge of the porch and held both items toward Paul. “Would you like some breakfast? Cinnamon-apple streusel coffeecake …”
He’d already eaten a bowl of cold cereal before taking Danny to school, but who could resist an invitation like that one? Paul dropped the load of lumber he’d lifted from the truck’s bed and brushed his hands on his pant legs as he crossed to the bottom of the risers. The closer he got to the plate, the richer the smell of cinnamon and nutmeg became. He grinned and took the cup and plate. “According to Jay, you’re a better baker than Tanya, and she has a reputation for being one of the best in Arborville.”
The girl blushed. “Well, lucky for you, Mom made the coffee. I can’t figure out the percolator. Ovens are pretty standard, though, and anyone can operate one.”
Paul wouldn’t know. He tended to purchase frozen casseroles and canned vegetables. Maybe he and Danny didn’t eat as healthy as most families in Arborville, but they hadn’t starved, either. He sat on the lowest riser, set the coffee cup beside his hip, then bowed his head over the plate. When he lifted his head after praying, he discovered Alexa had sat on the top riser on the opposite side of the stairs. Having her so near, with no one around as chaperone, left him with an uneasy feeling. Would Suzy approve?
Before he could suggest she go back inside, she said, “Mr. Aldrich, may I ask you a question? It’s about the Old Order religion.”
Paul forked up a bite of the moist cake, giving himself a moment to contemplate her request. No one would consider talking about religion unseemly. He nodded.
“Do you celebrate birthdays?”
Paul almost choked on his bite. He’d expected her to ask about doctrine or why the women wore caps or … something. The subject of birthdays hardly seemed religious in nature. He held back a laugh and answered as seriously as she’d asked. “Yes, we do.”
The girl blew out a big breath, a smile breaking over her face. When she smiled, her brown eyes sparkled, bringing out their golden flecks. She was pretty even though she didn’t look anything like Suzy or the other Zimmermans. “I’m so glad. You see, I have this idea, but last night I woke up wondering if it was even allowed. Some religious groups, like the Jehovah’s Witnesses, don’t celebrate birthdays, you know. And even though Mom and I were here on Mother’s Day, nobody brought Grandmother flowers or a card or anything. So I didn’t know if I should even mention it to Sandra, which I planned to do this evening, until I knew for sure. So your answer makes me very happy.”
Paul teasingly reamed his ear with his fingertip and squinted at her. “Huh?”
She laughed again, seeming no older than Danny’s age. “I’m sorry. Mom scolds me all the time about getting carried away. But when I’m excited about something, I just get, well, gung-ho!”
Paul took another bite of the cake, enjoying the way the cinnamon lingered in his mouth. “So … what are you all gung-ho about?”
Alexa looked right and left before leaning forward slightly and whispering, “A surprise party for Grandmother.”
Paul swallowed the last of his cake and drowned it with coffee. He wasn’t one to put a damper on someone’s excitement, but he wasn’t sure hosting a surprise party for Mrs. Zimmerman was a good idea. The surprise might end up being on Alexa when the woman spouted in irritation and sent everyone out of the house. She hadn’t welcomed visitors in years.
He cradled the coffee cup between his palms, trying to decide whether he should mention his concern or not. He didn’t know Alexa at all, and it wasn’t his place to advise her, but someone needed to at least give her a warning. “You said you’re going to talk to Sandra about it?”
The girl nodded.
Sandra was a sweetheart—everyone said so—and she’d be too kindhearted to tell Alexa to forget the idea. “Why not Clete?” He didn’t mention Shelley. Shelley would set Alexa straight, but she’d crush the girl in the process. He often pitied Harper Unruh, who spent a great deal of time apologizing for his wife’s critical behavior.
Alexa wrinkled her nose. “I can’t see Uncle Clete wanting to help blow up balloons or attach streamers all over the room. No, parties are really women’s things.”
“Then why not your mom?”
The girl sent a furtive glance over her shoulder. She whispered again. “Because part of the surprise is for Mom. Kind of a welcome-home-again party. Mom left when she was so young, she missed a lot of birthdays with her family. I want this party to help make up for that.” Her brow pinched into lines of worry. “Does that make sense?”
Paul handed Alexa the empty plate and cup, rising as he did so. “It makes sense. And I wish you well with it.” In other words, he hoped it wouldn’t blow up in her face. “Thanks for the coffeecake. Jay was right—that was delicious. You’re quite the accomplished baker for someone so young.” Old Order girls had conquered cooking by the time they were fifteen, but Alexa hadn’t been raised Old Order.
She shrugged. “I like doing it.”
“Maybe you should open a bakery. I bet lots of people would line up to buy your cakes.”
She ducked her head, and pink crept across her cheeks. “Thanks.”
For reasons he wouldn’t explore, pleasing her with his comment gave him a lift. “And speaking of buying your cakes … Danny was very disappointed he didn’t get a piece of chocolate cake yesterday for dessert. Do you have any left?”
“More than half of a cake. Several people ate Aunt Shelley’s lemon bars instead.”
His mouth watered. Maybe he should have stuck around. It had been a long time since he’d enjoyed a lemon-flavored dessert. The store-bought frozen lemon pies always fell short in his estimation. “So can I buy a slice or two from you?”
With another crinkle of her nose, she shook her head. “Nope. I don’t run a bakery, so I don’t sell my baked goods. I’ll wrap up two big slices—one for you and one for Danny.”
“Thanks.”
“Thank you for being willing to answer my question.” She paused. “May I ask one more?”
He needed to get busy, but the girl was so polite, he couldn’t refuse her. “Sure.”
“This house …” Alexa’s gaze made a sweep across the house’s front. “It sure needs a paint job. How much do you think it would cost to make it look nice again?”
Although Paul wasn’t a painter, he’d purchased enough cans for smaller projects to be able to give an idea. “For the primer and paint, I’d say around fifteen hundred dollars.”
Delight bloomed on her face. “Is that all?”
Paul stifled a laugh. All? Of course a teenager wouldn’t recognize that fifteen hundred dollars was a significant amount of money. “For the paint. Hiring someone to do the painting adds another five to seven thousand.”
“So sixty-five to eighty-five hundred might cover it?”
“That’d be a close estimate, I’d say.”
The girl seemed unaffected by the amount. “And how long would it take?”
Paul scratched his head. “A house this size? If you had a crew on it, less than a week probably.”
“And are there painting crews for hire in Arborville?”
She was gung-ho. She reminded him of Pepper holding tight to a choice steak bone. “Pratt or Wichita are the closest big cities, so they would be your best bet for hiring a crew.” Of course, professional crews were probably already booked for spring and summer. He didn’t want to trample her plans—she was a nice kid and seemed sincere in her desire to do something kind for her grandmother—but someone needed to give her a dose of reality. “If you’re serious about getting this place painted, don’t put off calling. The good crews schedule well in advance, so …” Would she understand?
She nodded. “All right. I’ll make some calls today. Thanks. Bye now, Mr. Aldrich.” Alexa headed inside, moving gracefully, her long dark ponytail swishing across her shoulder blades.
Paul stood for a moment gazing after her. She was a pretty girl, polite, giving, and surprisingly mature for one so young. Suzy’d done a good job raising her. But why had she raised her all alone? Where was Alexa’s father?
Suzanne
With Alexa seeing to Mother’s needs, Suzanne found herself with a free morning. After a restless night in her old bed—tossing and turning, praying and crying—she’d determined the best thing for everyone was for her to depart as quickly as possible. She’d beg Alexa if she had to, but she wouldn’t leave her daughter behind. Once they were gone, Mother and her siblings could fall back into their own routines and everyone would be happy. Or at least be satisfied.
Because Mother and Alexa were in the dining room and Paul was making a racket out front, Suzanne chose to return to the summer kitchen to use the Internet connection on Alexa’s cell phone to finalize hiring a caretaker. Notepad and pen in hand, as well as a bucket of cleaning supplies—she intended to at least remove the grime from the tabletop and chairs before making use of the furnishings—she headed across the grass, still damp from the morning’s dew.
So many scents filled the air. Spring in Kansas in the country was a glorious time, and she inhaled deeply of the rich aromas of soil, grass, and lilacs. If the scents could be bottled, she’d choose to surround herself with the fragrance of a Kansas spring every day of the year. The hardy winter wheat was already knee high, and she paused for a moment to gaze across the field. The green tips swaying in the breeze gave the appearance of ocean waves. The rain had been a gift to the area farmers, giving their crops the moisture needed to grow strong and full. Clete should enjoy a good return this year.
As a child, she’d always loved harvest time. All the men of the community would move from farm to farm, working together to bring in the wheat, then the corn and soybeans. When she lived in Arborville, she’d taken their cooperation for granted. She’d known no other way. But after being away from the small Old Order community for so many years, she understood the uniqueness of their cooperation—everyone doing his share, each patiently waiting for his turn to host rather than demanding to be first. Having witnessed the world’s “all about me” attitude, the fellowship—the true camaraderie displayed by the community members—took on a deeper significance.
Standing there in the shade of the giant cottonwood, gazing across the wheat field, Suzanne missed those days of fellowship with an ache that took her by surprise. Should she stay long enough to see one more harvest before returning to the city and the busy, faster-paced life she now considered her norm? Then she gave herself a little push that set her feet in motion. She couldn’t turn back time. Those days were in the past and needed to stay there.
She cleaned the table and chairs in the kitchen, then sat and worked her way through the applications that had arrived in Alexa’s e-mail box. Surprisingly, more than a dozen people had indicated interest in the job. By the end of an hour’s careful examination and prayer, she’d eliminated all but the two she considered the most likely to meld with Mother and the town of Arborville. Suzanne called each of them to arrange face-to-face interviews. Neither answered their phones, but she left voice mails with instructions to call in the early evening hours. Then, her task complete, she stood and gathered her belongings to return to the house.
As she pushed the chair under the table, leaving tracks in the dust with the chair’s legs, she experienced a rush of frustration. She couldn’t quite identify its root, but she needed to expel it somehow. Without a second thought, she snatched up the cleaning rags and attacked the windowsills, then the old freestanding cupboard, the work counter, and the stove. Her rags became filthy, so matted with dust they were no longer effective. The spigots in the rusty old sink squeaked but offered up not even a drop of water, so she hurried to the back porch for a bucket of water and fresh rags. She also grabbed a broom.
Back in the summer kitchen, she worked with a vengeance. Sweat poured down her face and trickled between her shoulder blades. She started to open the windows to allow a cross breeze, but their dingy windowpanes demanded a wash first. After retrieving a fresh bucket of water and another bundle of rags, she scrubbed away the years’ accumulation of grime and cobwebs, then shoved the panes upward, the old ropes groaning in protest at being used once again.
As she cleaned, she hummed between coughing, sneezing, and stomping on spiders. With every section that emerged free of dust and filth, her heart felt lighter, and her tune became merrier, less restrained. By noon her muscles ached, she needed a bath, and her throat was so parched and raw from breathing in dust, she would have thought she had tonsillitis if she didn’t know better, but she couldn’t deny a deep satisfaction at what she’d accomplished.
Of course, the bright sunlight pouring through the clean windowpanes also illuminated just how much more needed to be done to bring the little summer kitchen back to its former glory. Suzanne stood in the middle of the floor and bemoaned the sorry state of the once-cheerful building. Dad had always been so careful about upkeep. How patiently he’d taught her to take care of her belongings, giving them the same careful attention she should give her spiritual life. “If you ignore things, Suzy, they fall apart. A fallen-apart house or a fallen-apart life—both are sad things, indeed.”
The feeling of satisfaction washed away on a wave of regret. So many things—the farm, relationships, her own peace—were falling apart. She looked from the drooping tin ceiling to the cracked plaster walls to the rusty stove. What would it take to restore this place completely? What would it take to restore her broken relationships with her brother, sisters, and mother? A band wrapped itself around her chest and squeezed, making drawing a breath painful. What if she made the effort with her family only to discover worse problems underneath, much the way all her cleaning had revealed the more complicated issues of the summer kitchen?
Approaching footsteps crept through Suzanne’s inner reflections, and she turned to spot her daughter stepping over the threshold. Alexa looked around, her eyes
widening. “Wow, Mom, look at this place!”
Alexa’s startled exclamation brought another stab of sadness. Yes, look at it. Look at the cracks and crumbling plaster and warped floor … Look and see how very sad it all is.
“It looks fantastic!”
Suzanne shook her head, certain she’d misunderstood.
Alexa darted around the room, examining the old cupboard with its enamel top and the ropes with weights holding the windowpanes open. She ran her hand over the scarred table, slid the sole of her tennis shoes across the cracked linoleum floor, then grinned. “Now that all the dirt’s out of here, you can sure see what needs to be done. And phew.” She chuckled. “It’s a lot.”
Suzanne nodded sadly. The summer kitchen was a lost cause. Her heart ached.
“But look at the potential. This could be so cute if it was all fixed up.”
Suzanne gawked at Alexa. “You think so?”
“Yeah.” Alexa began circling the room again, as if measuring it. “Haven’t you ever seen pictures of summer cottages or mountain cabins? This is just the right size to be a little getaway. A person could put a daybed or sleeper sofa along this wall”—she gestured as she spoke, outlining the items with her hands—“and install a curtain track so you could separate the two halves when you wanted some privacy. If you pushed the table and chairs out of the middle of the room, there’d be space here for an armoire with a pull-down desk and maybe a bookshelf. Oh!”
She scampered to the cupboard and opened the doors wide, revealing a mouse nest and lots of droppings. She made a face over her shoulder. “You missed cleaning this. Yuck! But if you put some lace on these shelves—you know, let it droop down over the edge a bit—and stacked vintage dishware in here, it would make a great display and have everything you needed for a meal. If, of course, you could get that old stove functional. But even if you couldn’t make it work again, it’s so interesting I wouldn’t want to take it out. You could just use it to hold plants or … or something.”
When Mercy Rains Page 16