Butterfly Garden (18 page)

Because of it, for him, she performed a slower, more thorough, and very intimate, washing. She could tell by his quickened breathing that her show affected him, and she saw one other blatant and unbridled reaction as well.

After her wash, she chose the nightgown that had been wrapped in tissue forever, it seemed. Sheer white with a daring row of white embroidered daisies at bodice and hem, the gown her own mother had worn on her own wedding night.

Sara lay on her side of the bed waiting for Adam to join her. During the long wait, she grew less impatient and more aware. He must feel so betrayed by his sister’s acceptance of Jordan. “You’re upset,” she said.

Adam sighed. “Yes.”

“Because Emma trusts Jordan when she is still frightened of you.”

“Because the seducer in this bed is not where she belongs!”

Sara’s heart fell. “You want me to ... to….” Sara swallowed, “go and sleep with the girls?” She warmed at the break in her voice.

“The innocence of the woman who used her lures on me this morning, and several other mornings as well, I suspect, surprises me.”

Sara rose on her elbow to regard her husband, uncertain as to whether she should admit her guilt. “You knew?”

“I should not say so, but not until this morning, and only after I disgraced myself.”

“Then how can you call me innocent?”

“You are innocent, because you do not know your place.”

Sara nodded, her eyes filling as she made to rise. “I am sorry.”

“It is here, Sara.” He smoothed the sheet beside him. “Your place is here beside me.”

Sara sobbed and threw herself into his arms, and with his mouth and his hands, even his heart, if he but knew it, and perhaps even his soul, Adam made Sara forget her worry.

In return, she tried to make him forget his sadness.

“How do you think you disgraced yourself?” she asked when their lips parted in search of air for their lungs.

In answer, Adam showed her that sexual play could be slow, deliberate and methodical, and what rewards could be had by sustaining pleasure and not reaching it too soon.

He taught and she learned. He played her, and her body sang.

By the time dawn began to brighten the room, Sara thought they might have made up for all the nights of their marriage in the one just passed. Perhaps they had even made up for the nights after his fall from the loft, and for the yearning brought about by the baths.

Even though her husband did not enter her, in the procreating sense, they had shared more than a simple physical intimacy, almost as if—  But love could not be. Despite her own overflowing heart, she must be satisfied with a sated body.

As Adam cradled and nuzzled her, she buried the emotion flowering inside her. Devotion was not to be had from such a man, especially as he had always loved another.

Adam stiffened in her embrace, as if he read her, and he sat up, on the edge of the bed, and scrubbed his face with his hands. “Do not,” he said, keeping his back to her. “Do not make of this something it is not.” He stood and faced her. “If you do, then I am sorry for us both, because this will be finished.”

That fast, and despite her happiness of a moment before, Sara felt as if she had been struck.

As Adam washed and dressed, his demeanor silent, hard-edged, he tried to hide the fact that his leg pained him. “I am going to Sugarcreek to the horse auction today,” he announced. “I will be gone all day.”

Sara swallowed the tears that hovered, angry for her weakness. “Let me take a look at your leg, before you go.”

“It is fine.”

“It is not fine. I can—”

“I know how my own damned leg feels,” he snapped. “Leave me be. Sometimes you can be a real scold, Sara Zuckerman, and I cannot abide scolds.” With that, he was gone from the room, from the house ... but not from Sara’s aching heart. She wept. He had not said in weeks that he did not need her, but he had as good as said it then, with different words.

When her mother-in-law knocked on her door at seven, Sara said she wasn’t feeling well, and Lena told her to rest; she’d see to the children.

She was a coward, Sara knew, but facing the day seemed impossible. Her husband did not love her, yet she had revealed something about herself that he disdained. She needed love.

She would never bear a child of his. What had she done to make it so?  He was capable; that was abundantly apparent.

Then again, what did she know of such things as happened between a man and his wife?  Oh yes, she remembered his words, though they had paled in cruelty beside her own. She supposed she was justly served for her judgement, for what had passed between Adam and his first wife would never happen with her, and for that Sara mourned.

Jealousy was an ugly failing. Sara knew it, but she could not seem to escape it. Abby had been her friend, the mother of the children Sara loved. Baby Hannah, with her silk fingers and dimpled smile, would always be more hers than Abby’s, and even while Sara rejoiced in every new and exciting event in Hannah’s life, she mourned Abby’s missing it.

Having Hannah had become a blessing beyond her ability to express, as were Katie, Pris and Lizzie. But Sara wanted babies of her own. Hers and Adam’s. She wanted to feel his child quicken in her womb, to hold it in her arms. She wanted the love and intimacy with Adam that would create a child. And, God help her, she wanted to give him something Abby could not. A son.

Aware of her selfishness, but wallowing in self-pity, Sara cried herself to sleep.

Around nine, Sara heard a strange man’s voice in the kitchen. A babe was on its way, and Sara remembered the one saving constant in her life, and she rose.

No matter what else happened, she needed to bring life into the world and to win over death. It was a vow she had made while she rocked a lifeless baby boy in her arms—the brother she never knew but missed dreadfully.

Because of that, Sara donned her wrap and went into the kitchen in time to stop Lena from sending the stranger away. “No, Mother, wait. I feel better now.” She nodded her greeting and introduced herself. “Tell me where you live and I will be along directly.”

His name was Saul Petershein and he’d traveled a great distance to find her, all the way from Waynesburg, along the pike to Pennsylvania. The expected child was their first, he said, and his wife was frightened. She had no family in the area and needed a woman right now. He colored when he said it, so shy he was, and Sara’s heart warmed—a husband, no more than a boy. “How old is your wife?” she asked.

“Sixteen tomorrow,” he said proudly.

Shortly after he left, Sara set off, following the directions he gave her. A light sprinkle of snow began to fall, and by the time she arrived two hours later—to find that Susan Petershein’s labor had barely begun—Sara suspected she might be making her way home in more than a simple snow storm.

* * * * *

“The worst spring blizzard in sixty years,” the old peddler Adam passed at four had said. And as afternoon turned to dusk, and he labored to keep his horses calm and working together amidst the icy white depths they trudged through, Adam knew the peddler was right. Many a buggy horse snapped a leg and got put down for traveling in snow this heavy.

Tawny slipped, even as he thought it, almost taking Titania down, and Adam cursed, then he sighed and nodded his thanks to the Deity when disaster was averted.

The consistent fall of thick white flakes created a blanket between him and the world around him, making it difficult to know whether he remained on the road or not. With the difficulty he was having maneuvering both buggy and team, they could be crossing a lopped cornfield and not know it until somebody’s porch stopped them.

His beard had long-since iced over, as the sweat pouring off his face froze trickling down his whiskers. Fortunately, or unfortunately, however you looked at it, his beard was the only cold place on him. His thigh felt as though somebody had stabbed it with a hot poker, and the heat radiating from there served to keep the rest of him warm.

He hoped the horses’ blankets kept them half so warm. So far, it had taken three times longer to get this near to home than to drive to Sugarcreek this morning.

At least the auction proved a success, despite the weather. He had bought Sara a fine chestnut filly, with a starred forehead and a proud gait. It even had a swift sure foot, when it wasn’t trying to plod though a blizzard. Lord, he’d hate to have it break a leg in this. Considering the danger, Adam stopped and went to untie it from the back of the buggy and bring it alongside, so he could hold the lead and keep an eye on it. Having to shoot Sara’s gift before she received it would pretty much ruin the surprise.

For a while, Adam thought about stopping at the next farmhouse. But by the time he spotted one in the far distance, he knew he was no more than a mile or two from home, close enough that going on would not make a difference to him or the horses.

To give them a break, he had taken midday shelter with a Mennonite family who wiped them down, watered and fed them, and gave them a clean stall to rest. Eliza Barkund fed Adam too, though he was less concerned about himself than his horses at the time. She had even given him a hot water bottle for his leg after she asked about his limp. He’d ended up apologizing and giving it back. The weight of it had hurt like the devil and he’d been too warm as it was.

Adam heard a dog barking, the first sound, other than the snuffling of his team, in miles. He stopped to listen, wishing he could tell the direction from which it came. Dogs usually meant people, and it would be good to know where help could be found. Full dark was falling fast. Good thing Sara was safe at home and not out in this. Her little, one-horse two-seater buggy would get bogged down and stuck for certain.

In all weather, Adam preferred this family-sized Germantown box-buggy; it’s sturdy build and weight worked especially well in snow. And its wide back seats were perfect for the girls to sleep, if they wanted. Not that he’d ever used it for the family before, not until he took them with him to the buggy factory. The day after that trip, he realized something dreadful. In trying so hard not to be like his father, he had failed his children in a different way.

Damn, he wished he had not remembered that now, though he supposed he could be wrong about failing them. He might be doing the right thing, keeping them away from him. He should talk it over with Sara.

Adam cursed. Sometimes he really disliked this notion that he could talk to Sara about anything. Well almost anything. He felt as if he had betrayed her, somehow, by not telling her why he wanted her to take the girls.

Why hadn’t he?  More to the point, why had he been able to tell Abby about a father who amounted to the devil, and his fear of being the same, when he could not bring himself to tell Sara?

Sara would understand as well as Abby. Not only would Sara understand, she would probably try to make the girls understand. As far as Sara was concerned, nothing was as important as keeping those girls happy. Ab had kept them clean, dressed and fed, but she was not a happy sort. He always thought Pris had Abby’s disposition, except that Sara could, more often than not, make even Pris smile ... well, she could make her forget to whine, anyway.

No, it wasn’t that Sara would not understand; he simply did not want to admit to her what a weak, flawed and worthless man was Mad Adam Zuckerman. He shook his head. He wanted her to consider him strong, as strong as her. Stronger.

If only—

He heard that dog bark again. Nearer now. Adam turned in his seat, looked around. “Where in blazes?”

Close. As close as ... someone weeping?  A woman.

The dog barked louder, faster, frantic, right beside him. Where?

Something rose up in his path. “
Vat’s Iss?
” An overturned wagon, large, heart-stopping.

Adam released Sara’s horse and pulled his team up fast, but not fast enough.

* * * * *

Twelve hours after Sara arrived at the Petershein house, she delivered a fine healthy baby boy, a gift for his mother’s sixteenth birthday. They named him Peter Petershein, which Sara tried, and failed, to discourage. She washed both mother and son and settled the babe in his mother’s warm and eager arms to suckle. By then, it was nearly one in the morning, but despite the hour, Sara was more than ready to leave for home.

Saul offered her the use of their daybed for the night, so she could wait out the storm, but she felt uncomfortable about staying. Something compelled her to get home, worried her—not the children, she realized as she drove away. Even if she and Adam were both held up by the weather, the girls would be fine with a doting grandmother and aunt to care for them. No, it wasn’t them. It wasn’t even Adam’s harsh words, though if she let herself consider them, she might break down and cry, she was so tired, and her tears might freeze on her face.

It was something more. Something weighed heavy on her that she could neither name nor shake. She knew only that she must get home and fast. She felt sick with worry because she wasn’t there already. “
Fescht, schtarrig
,” she urged her horse. “Move, can’t you?” But instead of going faster, Old Joe went slower, and instead of letting up, the snow became heavier and accumulated more swiftly.

Sara had never realized the middle of the night could be this lonely, as if no one existed in the world but her, though she was glad she was wrong about that. It comforted her to know that Adam existed, that when she reached him, he would close his big burly arms around her and warm her both inside and out.

She had never seen the world so dark and still. Desolate. Yet spread about her lay an awesome beauty. Like a pristine blanket, the snow glistened in reflected moonlight. Brilliant. An awesome power, it held as well, to trap the unprepared and unwary.

Sara stopped the buggy to climb down and look back to see if the Petershein farm was still in sight. When she hit the ground, she screeched, the shockingly cold snow reaching nearly to her knees.

She had best go back to the Petersheins and stay the night. Except that their farm had disappeared. She thought she had driven a straight path, but did not seem to be on the right road any longer, on any road, for that matter. She walked a few feet, lifted her cape so it wouldn’t drag in the snow, and turned in a slow circle. Nothing for miles, except a white veil obscuring all but a far stand of trees. She must have taken a wrong turn. On her way there, she had never lost sight of a farm.