Rosemary Opens Her Heart: Home at Cedar Creek, Book Two (33 page)

James looked up from tightening the bolts on the second wheel. “You’ve got a mighty
intent expression on your face, Abby. Must take that sort of concentration to be a
writer.”

“Jah, you could say that,” Abby replied in a faraway voice. “Although the custom work
you do requires a skill I could never hope to have. But I suppose I put words on the
page as well as the next scribe.”

“Puh! No one writes pieces like you do, Abby. My folks—and everyone else in these
parts—turn to your letter first thing each week when the
Budget
comes in the mail,” he declared. “So where do you get your ideas for weaving Plain
ways into our local news?”

Heat crept up her neck. She couldn’t admit she’d been gawking at James while he worked…but
even so, would everyone realize that scribe Abigail Lambright was head over heels
for the man she was writing about? “Oh, the ideas come from all over,” she hedged.
“Instinct and thin air, mostly.”

He rolled the third black wheel toward the opposite side of the carriage. “You don’t
give yourself enough credit, Abby. You could put all of your pieces together and come
up with a real gut book—and folks would snap it off the shelves, too,” he added. “Takes
a special talent to do that, you know.”

A book? While she had saved the drafts of her
Budget
pieces in her loose-leaf notebook, the thought of compiling them had never occurred
to her…and when would she have the time to take on such a project? “Everybody has
a special talent or two, James. They’re part of the package God gives us when we’re
born. And from there, as we grow up and grow in our faith, it’s up to us how we use
those gifts,” she said. “It would be wrong for me not to write—or not to sew and mind
Sam’s store—just as it would be a waste of your gifts to farm or to make pallets instead
of creating extra-special carriages.”

She watched him tighten the shiny black bolts on the final wheel. It was a pleasure
to observe a master craftsman at work. The man and his tools accomplished so much,
seamlessly and with no apparent effort. Abby had noticed this while Owen and Amos
Coblentz had built her house, too—but they weren’t nearly as fascinating as James
Graber. “So…are you going to tell me about this rig, James? You’ve
never built a bright red one—although your Mardi Gras coach was mighty colorful.”

His face lit up. “Seems Santa needs a new carriage for the Christmas parade at Disneyland,
clear out in California,” he replied. “And while Santa’s not part of our Plain celebration,
the fellow ordering this rig told me how many homeless kids would be receiving food
and warm clothes from his company, for Santa to deliver after the parade. That made
it more worth my while.”

“Well, what do you know about that?” Abby whispered as she considered this. “Who would’ve
thought such a rig would come from Cedar Creek, Missouri?”

She loved the way his cheeks colored. James apparently had no idea how special the
outside world considered his work. “It’s my calling, getting folks where they need
to go,” he replied, “just like you sew wonderful-gut clothing, and write, and make
everyone you meet feel special.”

The heat rose to her face and she stared at her writing tablet. “Oh, James, you say
the nicest things.”

“I speak the truth, is all. And I’m happy you came over to spend this evening with
me,” he added. “I don’t ordinarily like having somebody hang around while I work,
but you? I realize now how much I crave your company, Abby. It brings me a lot of
happiness. A lot of peace.”

Who said she was the only one whose words could change the world? Abby’s heart fluttered
like a hummingbird’s wings as she gripped her pencil. “I—I like spending time with
you, too, James,” she whispered.

The world went still as he laid his wrench on the carriage seat and came to stand
in front of her. He took her hands in his, and she rose to face him. “Abby.”

Was he going to say something life-changing, like
I love you
or
Will you marry me?
Abby held her breath, unable to shift her gaze from his. She’d known her answer to
that question for years, but it
still made her tingly to think that he might express his affections, his intentions,
in this unexpected time and place. “Yes, James?”

He looked right through to her soul. “I…This isn’t how I expected our lives to work
out, but—” He paused, looking as nervous as Abby felt. “Well, our feelings for each
other have raced along lately, and I’m happier than I’ve ever been. But I hope you’ll
understand that I can’t commit myself for a while,” he said hoarsely.

James sighed and looked away. “This isn’t coming out the way I intended. Much as I
want to court you, Abby—and maybe get hitched—it wouldn’t be right for me to work
such long hours here in the shop while you waited dinner, or waited up, or—”

“I’ve been waiting for most of my life, James. I wouldn’t mind—” Abby clapped her
hand over her mouth. What would she accomplish by interrupting this man when he was
discussing their future together? “I—I’m sorry! I didn’t mean—”

James laid a finger lightly across her mouth. “Took me long enough to notice how you
feel about me, ain’t so?” He stepped back, pressing his lips into a tense line, as
though what he was about to say pained him. “But it’s not fair of me to keep you waiting
even longer while I get these orders out and hire a new fella in the shop, and—well,
if you want to see somebody else, Abby, you should do that.”

Abby’s heart sank like a stone. Just when she’d been carried along by the power of
his wonderful words, flying high on her lifelong hopes, she’d hit bottom. She blinked
rapidly. She couldn’t answer him, her throat felt so tight, so she stared down at
her notebook page.

As she seated herself and reread what she’d written several minutes ago, Abby kept
her eyes lowered and her mouth shut, desperately trying not to cry. James went back
to the carriage he was working on, and soon the whine of a pneumatic drill filled
the room. She wrote in a hurried scrawl:

She glanced up as she folded the page in half. James had gone to the front room, so
it seemed a good time to slip out. While she had never been one to back away from
serious discussions, it didn’t feel right to keep sitting here with such a cloud of
disappointment shrouding her. The dusk would disguise her tear-streaked face as she
crossed the road and went home.

Abby let her tears fall unchecked as she made her way down Lambright Lane. What with
the tourists from four buses that had kept them so busy at the mercantile today, it
seemed a good time to let her hair down and read for a while before she turned in.
Tomorrow wasn’t a preaching Sunday, so she could recopy her
Budget
piece and prepare it for the mail before she went over to Sam’s to share breakfast…

But making a batch of muffins would be better than sticking her nose in a book; it
would use up those two really ripe bananas in the fruit bowl. And banana-nut muffins
were Sam’s favorite.

Abby opened her door, glad to have this muffin mission. Wasn’t it better to bake someone
happy than to stew in your own juice?

James watched out his shop window as Abby walked toward her house, her head bent low.
He kicked himself. How had such a pleasant evening turned such a disastrous corner?
She had given him a shoulder rub, had spent time with him while they both worked on
their separate projects. He’d made such a light shine in her eyes when he’d told her
he wanted to court her and impetuously kissed her cheek. And then he’d broken her
heart.

You hurt the feelings of the most patient, loving woman on the face of this earth,
and for what? So you could work on this devil-red carriage? Is there a message here?

“Jah, there’s a message, all right,” he muttered as he thought back over his part
in their conversation. He’d gone on and on about how much work he had to do, how shorthanded
he was. He couldn’t have foreseen Perry’s departure, but hadn’t it been his own idea
to accept orders for more custom carriages that required so much extra time? Stress,
that’s what this was. Working overtime alone, feeling so much pressure to produce,
went against Old Ways. It smacked of outside-world commercialism, where orders called
the tune and workmen danced faster and faster to keep up with the music.

And that was just
wrong
. The way he had treated his dearest friend tonight was inexcusable.

As James put away his tools, he fretted. Should he apologize to Abby now, or the next
time he saw her? It would serve him right if she did what he’d suggested. Spending
her time with another man probably sounded like a fine idea to her, now that he’d
disappointed her so badly a second time.

Tense as his insides felt, though, he couldn’t let this stretch into the night and
keep him—and Abby—from sleeping. Wasn’t it the prophet Isaiah who had said there would
be no rest for the wicked—no peace for them because they were like a troubled sea
casting up dirt and muck? His stomach and his conscience certainly felt that way,
even if he hadn’t hurt Abby intentionally.

James closed the shop door behind him and headed for the road. The
clip-clop! clip-clop!
of an approaching carriage made him wave even before he could distinguish Zeke and
Eva Detweiler in the front seat, waving back at him. They were driving the carriage
he had designed with a hydraulic lift so Joel’s wheelchair would sit securely in the
back, and as he saw the orange triangular sign on the back, it struck him:
“Slow-Moving Vehicle.” That’s exactly the speed you were meant to travel, too, James
Graber.

The Detweiler carriage was one of the finest customized rigs he’d ever designed. It
gave a family with a partially paralyzed child a way for them to be with other folks.
There was a message here, too: Had God given him his carriage-making talents so he
could serve a theme-park Santa? Or was he to put his time and skill toward vehicles
that helped families and thereby honored his commitment to Christ and His church?

James hurried up the long gravel driveway, past the big white home where Sam’s family
had turned on the lamps. It was twilight, and he hoped he wouldn’t catch Abby getting
ready for bed. As early as she rose each morning, the lamp in her bedroom window was
often out by nine thirty. He knew this because he watched from across the road most
evenings, wishing her good night from his upstairs room. James stepped onto her front
porch and knocked, praying that he’d say the right thing.

Abby didn’t answer.

James curled the brim of his straw hat in his damp hand, wondering if he’d already
upset her enough—until the curtain fluttered at the window. The knob turned. Abby
peered out the crack in the door. “Yes, James?” Her eyes looked puffy and her voice
sounded hoarse.

He cleared his throat. “I came at a bad time but—well, I just couldn’t leave things
the way they were, Abby. I’m
sorry
. And I’m stupid, too.”

She blinked. “I’ve taken off my kapp. And I’ve got muffins in the oven.”

The thought of Abby’s brown hair cascading down her back teased at him. He’d never
seen her without either a prayer covering or a kerchief, and only a husband was to
be with a woman when her hair was undone. “It’s a lot to ask, Abby, but please can
we talk for a bit? I’ll wait out here, for however long it takes you to wind up your
hair.”

Abby sighed, sounding weary. “All right,” she finally replied. “We can sit on the
porch.”

He took a seat, comforted by the creaking of the wooden swing’s chains. It was probably
best that Abby had insisted on following the Old Ways of modesty, for it gave him
a chance to think about what he’d say. And frankly, it had been too long since he’d
sat on a porch on an early-summer’s night, taking in the velvet sky dotted with stars
and the gentle warmth of the breeze, which carried the earthy fragrance that came
ahead of rain.

When Abby stepped outside, her hair was tucked under a kapp and she held a small tray
with muffins and two glasses of milk. James inhaled the heavenly scent of banana-nut
muffins and was glad her swing was wide enough only for two. He groaned with the first
bite of a muffin that filled his mouth with the flavors of banana and black walnuts
and a basic old-fashioned goodness that was so like Abby Lambright.

“Denki for seeing me. It’s more than I deserve.”

“Puh,” she protested. “We’ve both of us been under more pressure lately. I shouldn’t
have made that remark about waiting—”

“That doesn’t excuse what I said, Abby. And on the way over here, I—I made a decision.”
He took another bite of the muffin to fortify his new commitment. “After I finish
these three specialty carriages for English customers, there’ll be no more work of
that sort. I bit off more than I could chew. I had no call to burden you with my troubles.”

Her hand found his in the darkness. “But you enjoy making those fancy rigs.”

“It’s not my best work. Not when it takes me away from the folks who matter most to
me—my parents, my sister, and certainly
you
, Abby,” he said, not daring to stop for a breath and lose his nerve. “Can you forgive
me for saying you should see other fellas, when that made you feel so bad? Or…I
think
it did, anyway.”

Abby’s chuckle wafted around him, as soothing as the milk they sipped. “No real danger
of that happening, you know. A maidel my age doesn’t exactly have men banging her
door down.”