Rebecca's Promise (6 page)

“You think that would pay better than milk?” John chuckled.

“Without a doubt,” Lester said, making a wry face. “What would Amish people do without tourists?”

“There does seem to be plenty of interest,” John agreed. “We would find something else to do, no doubt. Amish people didn’t always have tourists. There was many a day not so long ago when things were a lot harder.”

“Well, the Lord gives and the Lord takes. It’s all in His will and plan. Perhaps it’s our time to give His message to the world. This might be God’s way of doing it.”

“You think so?” John raised his eyebrows. “I never thought of it from that angle before.”

“Sure,” Lester told him. “A little honey always works the best. Works for child, man, or beast.”

“I thought our concern was first for our own people,” John said.

“Sure,” Lester replied, “that’s the way it should be. Preserve the message securely first. Then it can be spread around. Loses less of its potency that way.”

“Are you talking about mission mindedness?” John asked, not sure he wanted to go there with his future father-in-law.

Lester quickly put his mind at ease. “No, I’m not missions-minded. Not in the least. The Lord knows where we are. I suppose if He wants to use us, He can do what He wants.”

“Sure,” John agreed. “The Lord can do what He wants. It’s just that a lot of people think of themselves as spiritual, then believe they should do the Lord’s work.”

Lester chuckled. “I think the Almighty is quite able to do what He wants to do. Obedience is what is required of us. The rest is in His hands.”

“Agreed.” John let the air slowly out of his lungs. So Lester was not one of those secret liberals who might well leave the faith to save the world.

“You were afraid Dad would be liberal,” Rebecca whispered, leaning near and eyeing him carefully, having noticed his discomfort.

“Not really,” John said softly, not wishing to admit his fears and most certainly not wanting his voice to carry to Lester’s ears.

“Well, he’s not,” Rebecca whispered. “You don’t have to worry.”

“You two have secrets?” Mattie asked, hearing their whispers above the hum of the younger children’s conversation.

“No, Mom…no secrets.” Rebecca turned to smile at John.

“Well, then.” Mattie scraped her chair on the hardwood floor as she stood up and asked, “Everyone still have room for pies?”

“What kind?” Matthew and one of his younger sisters asked at the same time.

“Cherry and pecan. One of each.”

“Only two?” Lester asked. “What about next week?”

“I’ll bake some more on Monday,” Mattie assured him and went to get the pies.

“We usually bake enough pies on Saturday to last all week,” Rebecca offered for John’s information. “Yesterday we were too busy. These are still left over from last week…but they aren’t stale,” Rebecca said in her mother’s defense.

Mattie came bustling in, a pie balanced on each palm. “Now just small pieces,” she told the children. “We want some left for the visitor.”

Finding several eyes turned in his direction, John chuckled. “You’re going to make them wish I wasn’t here.”

“It’s good for them,” Mattie assured him. “Teaches them to share.”

“I guess so,” John agreed.

In moments the pies were passed around and properly divided. John was glad to see that the children’s pieces were not too small. It made his own slice of cherry pie taste better.

“So,” Lester asked him, his forkful of pecan pie halfway to his mouth, “are the English going to be right about the snow tomorrow?”

“It sounds like a high chance from what I heard.”

“They’re probably right,” Lester agreed. “Little early, but the Lord runs those things too.”

To this John nodded his agreement.

A few moments later, John, having finished his dessert, thanked Mattie, excused himself, and got up to leave. Rebecca followed him to the door but did not step outside.

“I’ll see you Wednesday night,” she whispered, her eyes soft in the light of the gas lanterns.

“At the Mullets,” he said quietly. “Goodnight then.”

“Goodnight,” she said, as he stepped out into the darkness.

Returning to the dining room, Mattie was already clearing the table, and Rebecca joined in. After that Rebecca went to her room. She stood by the window looking out into the night. The stars were bright, and little clouds dotted the sky. A brisk wind was picking up as if winter was making a serious effort at settling in.

“So I’m engaged,” she said softly. “Who would have thought it?” A flush crossed her face in the darkness. Then the uneasiness she had felt earlier with John returned. The fear. What was wrong with her? After all,
what happened all those years ago isn’t important now,
she told herself. Rebecca tried to shove the thoughts away, but it was useless. Her twenty-first birthday was quickly approaching and with it, the promise she had made so long ago.

Finally she walked over to her dresser, slowly opened the third drawer, and dug deep into the stack of dresses. Her fingers searched for a moment, then wrapped around the object. She paused, wishing her hand had found nothing.

“Oh,
Gott,
” she breathed softly, half prayer, half groan. “I still have it.”

Pulling her hand from the dresser, she lifted it toward the window. By the dim starlight, the ring’s gem flashed between her fingers. She
heard Atlee’s voice, as clear as on that sunny summer day by the river when he had given it to her. His voice just in its first stages of changing, husky with emotion.

“But we were so young,” she whispered. “It didn’t mean anything.”

R
achel Byler, restless and fretting, had been tossing in bed all night. Unable to drop off for more than an hour at a time, her mind was frigid with fear. The money. It was going away—slipping through her hands. She could feel it, and the terror filled her.

“Would you calm down,” Reuben had muttered at midnight. “
Hayb shtill.
”

She made no reply. He wouldn’t hear it anyway.
Small help he is.
She tried to keep from moving, which worked for a few minutes, but then things just got worse.

Visions of poverty flashed in her mind, a continued life of living on the money supplied by Reuben Byler, deacon though he was. The image did not translate into comfortable living. Even now they could use a few more cattle on the back pasture, if only there was money to buy the young calves. Such potential all going to waste because her father had denied her her rightful inheritance.

Cantankerous he had been,
she told herself. While her father was alive, she had thought highly enough of him. She had in fact admired him, seeing that they were wrapped in money as they were.

Why did he do it?
The question almost brought her bolt upright in the bed. Halfway up, the movement caused Reuben to stir and moan, so she flopped back down.

Small help he is, hopelessly lost in his own world. What does he care about our troubles? Huh! With food on the table and a little money in the bank, he says any woman ought to be happy. So he thinks. Deacon’s wife, he says, it’s a great honor and responsibility. Honor and the old ways are
more important than money. That’s what he thinks, but that doesn’t put cattle in the back pasture.

So why did Daddy do it?
Her eyelids snapped open again.
Why did he do it? Maybe if I could find that out, the money would get loosed. No, I suppose not. It is too late. Emma has the money. And when she passes? Will she give it away to others…or will she do the right thing?

She caught herself as a moan escaped her lips. Reuben turned over on his side of the bed. She stiffened, but his snoring resumed.

Lying there, she imagined the figure of her father. His tall walk, his firmness as the family’s head, his voice when he spoke.
Why had he done it? Where in the recesses of his mind had the thought or inclination come from to give so much to his sister?

Rachel remembered that when she was a little girl, her father had not had much. Faintly she could feel those times—the worried look on her mother’s face and the talk of what to do when a single cow died on the farm. She had been small then, but even now the memories were strong. Memories of want.

Memories too of Emma, the single aunt who had always seemed old to Rachel. It was strange, remembering Emma in that way. Why had she not married? Rachel couldn’t remember ever hearing of Emma dating or being escorted home from one of the singings.

Why did Emma never have a young man? Emma wasn’t bad looking. In fact while growing up, Rachel had always thought of her as beautiful.
Maybe that was just because I was young,
she decided.

No matter how hard she searched her memories, no reason surfaced for Emma’s single status. It had always just been so. Her mind went over her teenage years, years colored with a golden hue of comfort and unhurried ease as she made choices in life. Always she was assured that her father’s money would be there to tide things over.

Would she have married Reuben if she had known? That question caused a blush of shame to creep over her face, even in the darkness of the night. What if someone found out she was even asking such a thing?

Marriage was sacred to the Amish and not to be questioned or
second-guessed. To even wonder was to tempt the Most High God to move His hand to awful things. She quickly pushed the thought away. Whatever would have happened with her choice of Reuben, it would have been nice to know ahead of time that life with him would be entirely different from what she was used to. That little things in life could no longer be taken for granted. That simple things, like potatoes and peaches, could not be purchased just because one wanted them. That the bank account would have to be consulted for the most mundane of household projects.

This lack hung over the Byler home like a limb from the old oak in her father’s yard, where Emma now lived. Growing up, she had always wondered when it would fall. Yet it never had. The last time she saw it, the limb seemed to be hanging by the slimmest of threads, but still hanging. That was her life now. The dread of poverty was hanging over her, threatening to fall at the blowing of the slightest wind.

Numbly, she turned over to see if sleep would come if she lay on the other side of her body. Yes, it seemed to feel better, and she pulled the covers around her. The Big Ben clock downstairs struck twice. Two a.m.

That was the last she could remember until the little windup alarm clock by the bed woke her up three hours later.

Her hand shot out from under the covers and fumbled for the little round globe. Bumping it, the vibrating little creature crashed to the floor. It missed the rug, where its racket would have been muted. Instead, its dance continued on the bare hardwood, amplifying the noise even more.

“Can’t you shut it off?” Reuben muttered from his side of the bed.

She swung her feet to the floor, her head aching from the lack of sleep, and stood up. The world swam in the darkness as she leaned over toward the noise, her hands reaching out for it. The rug under her feet, though, slipped slightly.

In an effort to keep from falling, she overcompensated, and the rug slipped even more. With dizzying awareness she went toward
the noise on the floor at much too high a speed. Despite her efforts to break the fall, she hit the vibrating clock with her left shoulder and groaned from the sting of the pain.

The noisy clock went skidding across the floor, hitting the wall with a
thunk.
It bounced back violently, coming to rest only inches from her face.

By now the little creature had almost used up its wound up energy and was slowing down. The clanking was decreasing in volume, like the slowing of a spinning top. It went quieter and quieter until it stopped with a final loud clank, right under her nose, as if the little thing was disgusted because there was no more noise to make.

“Was all that necessary?” Reuben asked, still under the covers, his eyes still closed, his awareness still dulled from sleep.

She said nothing, her arms straight in front of her and her body aching.