A Time to Love (5 page)

"The meal was wonderful, Hannah. Thank you all for inviting me."

Turning to Matthew, she offered him a smile. "And thank you for saving me from the elements."

"We loved having you," Hannah said.

The children chorused their agreement. Then Jenny felt a tug on her hand. She looked down to see Annie looking up at her.

Carefully, she bent as low as possible. "Yes?"

Annie stood on tiptoes and kissed Jenny's cheek—the one with the scar.

Jenny's eyes flew to Matthew. "Why, thank you, Annie. That was very sweet."

Matthew opened the door for the two women and followed them down the walk to Phoebe's buggy to help them in. Jenny murmured thanks but kept her face averted, hoping he wouldn't see the tears Annie's gesture had brought.

"Jenny? What's wrong?" her grandmother asked when they had started home.

"Annie's such a sweet child. They all are. I enjoyed the time I spent with them today."

"But it made you sad, too, didn't it?"

At a loss for words, Jenny lifted her hands, let them fall into her lap. "Yes."

"Try not to dwell on what you think you might not have," Phoebe said quietly. "You don't know the future."

Taking a deep breath, Jenny nodded. She was quiet for a moment, then she turned to Phoebe. "I didn't mean to make you—wonder." She shook her head. "Worry. I didn't mean to make you worry."

"I try not to worry about someone," Phoebe said, signaling the horse to proceed home. "After all, it's arrogant to do so when God knows what He's doing. He has a plan for you."

"I sure wish He'd reveal it," Jenny said with a sigh. "And soon."

"You always did want to know something, do something, right away," Phoebe told her with a smile.

Jenny looked at her grandmother. Neither her words nor her tone held rebuke. Indeed, Phoebe was smiling indulgently.

"I wonder sometimes if I wasn't grateful enough for what I had before the accident," Jenny said as she stared out at the road. "I had this dream last night where I was running barefoot in the grass in the summertime here."

"You've never struck me as an ungrateful person, Jenny."

"But it was something I took for granted. Walking, running, being without pain." She sighed. "How did you know I was at Matthew's?" she asked, changing the subject.

"It seemed logical," Phoebe told her. "I knew you couldn't have gone far. But I noticed something as I drove this way."

With a jerk of the reins and a quiet word to the horse, she brought the buggy to a stop. "Look there, in the snow by the road."

Jenny saw the place where she'd fallen, the snow that had been disturbed as she'd tried to get to her feet. Just beyond it, for a few steps there were two sets of footprints, then one set leading to Matthew's farm.

"Does that remind you of anything?"

Yes, it does,
thought Jenny. She remembered how she'd felt incredibly frustrated, incredibly cold . . . but her grandmother's intent stare seemed to require a better answer. She thought harder—

A single line of footsteps, deeply printed in the snow, because the walker was carrying her.

Jenny nodded slowly. "I know that God's been with me, lifting me, carrying me. He sent Matthew to help me this time, but there have been so many people who've done it in so many ways since I was hurt." Starting with the soldiers who'd stabilized her after the bombing, the medics on the trip to the field hospital. Those who'd kept her going on the long flight back home.

She smiled. "I remember how I felt when I woke up in the hospital stateside and realized I was wrapped in the quilt you sent. I've been like Linus with it ever since."

"
Linus?"

"Little boy in a newspaper comic strip. Carries his blanket everywhere."

When they got home, her grandmother insisted that Jenny go inside while she took care of the horse and buggy. It didn't seem right to let the older woman do it, but Jenny knew she really wasn't physically up to it yet. Today had proven that.

So while Jenny moved about in the kitchen making tea for them she resolved that she would work harder to be of more help. Maybe she could cook their meal one night. Something easy.
Maybe I won't give my grandmother food poisoning,
she thought with a grin.
Could there be a takeout place anywhere close?
That might be better.

Later, when she'd retired for the night, Jenny found her body was tired from the day's exertion but her mind was still whirling. Being with the children and talking about books had made her think about her work and how much she missed it.

She reached for her journal and pen on the nightstand and then sat up, propped against the headboard. But instead of words, she found herself exchanging the pen for a pencil and sketching the face of Annie, then Mary, then Joshua. She'd been told she had some talent for art as a child and particularly enjoyed catching the expression on faces. Now she became absorbed in doing so.

There, that was Annie, with the longing in her eyes for love, for a mother, and the soft, sweet nature of a wildflower—yes, a buttercup, she thought, and drew some in her hands.

Mary. Now there was a solemn quality about her, a quiet introspection. She had the same look in her eyes that Annie had, but she was more reserved about it, watching and waiting but not rushing to Jenny the way Annie did.

And Joshua. He was so curious; his eyes seemed to bore through her, they were so intense. Much like Matthew's. She remembered how proud Matthew appeared to be of his children earlier that day. How full of love his eyes had been. He was a good father, there was no question. But obviously the children missed their mother very much. In this they were no different from children Jenny had seen in the war-torn, poverty-stricken countries she'd visited.

Too often the
Englisch
world looked upon the Amish with a list of stereotypes and generalizations. But she knew from her summers here that beyond their unquestioning faith in God's will, the Amish loved their children with a deep and abiding belief that they were truly the most precious part of their lives, God's greatest gift to them.

The day had been a happy one—but very tiring. Jenny leaned over to put the journal and pencil on the bedside table. Yawning, she stretched out and savored the comfort of her bed. After she'd wondered earlier if she was going to freeze, it felt good to lie here all tucked up in a soft, warm bed.

She thought back to a conversation with her grandmother. She still wondered if she hadn't been grateful enough for what she had before the accident. Although she knew that the time she'd spent in impoverished locations overseas had helped her to realize just how much she had to be grateful for.

Tonight, she lay in a simple bed in a simple room and was grateful for the warmth, especially after her time sitting in the snow. She was also grateful for the warm welcome from Matthew, his children, and his sister.

And as she slipped into sleep, she sent up a prayer that the dream of the night before would come again. She wanted to run barefoot through the summer grass on the farm, laughing, feeling so free and joyful, as she once had done.

She would be so grateful for that.

"It was nice to have Jenny for a meal."

Matthew sat at the kitchen table and sipped his coffee, enjoying a rest after a long day of chores, and waited. He was a patient man who knew his sister well. She never indulged in talk for talk's sake. No, this conversation would have a point, although she wouldn't always be quick about it.

Knowing her, he was pretty sure where the conversation was headed. So he nodded and waited. "Yes."

"She's changed a lot since she was here last."

"A lot of time has passed."

"It's more than just being older," Hannah said, putting a last dish in the cupboard and closing it.

She brought a mug of tea to the big wooden table and pulled out a chair to sit opposite him. "I hated to see how hard it was for her to move. She tried to hide how she was hurting from the
kinner,
but I could tell."

She stirred her tea and stared into it. "And her eyes."

Lifting her own, she looked at him. "Phoebe told me about the work Jenny's done, the places she's been. She said it's given her eyes age, Matthew. She's seen too much sadness, too much tragedy."

He had thought he knew where she was going with the conversation, but suddenly it seemed the direction had veered.

"What will she do now?"

"Now?"

"Will she be able to do her job again? I know the Englisch world values beauty so highly—"

"Jenny is still a beautiful woman," he interrupted her.

Hannah raised her brows. "But that world within a world that she worked in,
television.
It seems only perfect people are allowed on it."

Now it was Matthew's turn to raise his brows. "How do you know so much about it?"

"Mary Ellen spent some time away from home as a teenager during her
rumspringe,
remember? She told me about many of the
Englisch
ways when she returned."

"I remember there was some doubt she would return."

"She said she liked many things. The clothes. Music. Being able to have alcohol if she wished. And television." She fell silent for a moment and stirred her tea.

"Mary Elizabeth chafed at the life here," Matthew pointed out.

"But she returned. Most do, after all."

He nodded.

"You never wanted to leave."

It was a statement, not a question. The land had always held Matthew. The hope, the continuity, the connection. The desire to make it more than what his father had given him and to pass it along to his son and daughters.

Well, on one occasion he thought about leaving, at the end of one summer when what he was had been more important than who he was. . . .

"Matthew?"

"Hmm?" He looked at her and saw that she was wearing the exasperated expression only a sister could wear no matter what her age.

"We were talking about Jenny before you wandered off on me there."

"Well, you wandered off in Mary Elizabeth's direction. . . ."

Hannah leaned forward, looking earnest. "I know when Jenny first came here I reminded you of how you felt about her all those years ago. I admit I wondered if she had come here to be part of your life again."

Ah, here she was. Destination,
thought Matthew wryly.

"But I was wrong."

Matthew blinked. "Wrong?"

"I'm afraid she's just a shell of what she was before."

"A shell?"

"Her injuries are more severe than I had thought," Hannah said regretfully, shaking her head. "And she's so quiet."

"She was quiet because you and the children talked so much," he reminded her.

"It's as if her spirit has been broken," Hannah continued."And when she speaks, she has difficulty—"

He frowned. "But aren't you judging her by the same standards as the Englisch world you mentioned?"

Hannah lifted her shoulders and let them fall. "Perhaps. But it's just that we work hard here, Matthew. How could she manage with her injuries?"

"Phoebe says Jenny is getting stronger every day, walking better, talking better. I saw that myself today when she visited."

"You said yourself she fell and you had to carry her."

She would bring that up,
he thought without rancor.

Hannah studied him. "I know you always brought home wounded animals,
bruder.
But it is time for you to think about marrying again, and I don't think you should be looking in Jenny's direction."

"You were the one who was just trying to point me there a few weeks ago."

"Like I said, I was wrong. You deserve a healthy woman, especially since you lost Amelia. One who'll be your helpmate, the mother to these children and any you have together."

Matthew stood, nearly knocking over his chair. "I can't believe the way you're talking, Hannah! Aren't you the one who hates it when people judge? I see a different woman than you do, one who risked her life to make people care about children, who's trying hard to recover without whining about what she's lost."