The Days of Redemption (20 page)

All the while, Marie continued to stand quietly, her face expressionless. He could only imagine what she was thinking. If their places had been reversed, he knew he would be feeling hurt and anger toward her.

Finally, she spoke. “Shouldn't Roman be doing this?”

“Ah, Roman was up early, so I let him have a few hours off. He wanted to walk over to see Miriam.” Roman had also been particularly quiet—more so than usual. Peter knew his son was disappointed in his behavior. Though he hadn't entered the fray, Roman had overheard the whole commotion, but had kept on doing his chores.

That dimple in her cheek that he knew so well appeared. “Miriam? She is a sweet girl. Are they getting serious?”

“He doesn't say much to me about his romances. But if I had to guess? I'd say no, I don't think they are yet. He doesn't talk about her in that way.” Well, not like he'd once talked about Marie. When they'd been courting, every sentence he uttered always returned back to her.

He shrugged. “I could be wrong, though.”

Leaning against the woodwork again, she said, “I haven't gotten that feeling about the two of them, either.”

He stilled. Holding the broom, he felt a bit like a scarecrow in a field—stuck in the hard ground, unable to move away. Frozen in one place when there was no wind.

“Isn't it something?” Marie said, her voice breaking the silence. “Our
kinner
are twenty-three and twenty-two. Not a one of them seems close to getting married anytime soon. Why, we were married and I was pregnant with Roman at twenty-two.”

“
Kinner
do things on their own time now, I suppose.”

She bit her lip, just as if he'd said something noteworthy. “
Jah,
I suppose you're right.”

As she continued to stand there, so calmly, so patiently, he placed the broom against the wall. Slowly he approached, watching every expression on her face. If she flinched, he knew he'd back up immediately.

But he couldn't bear for the two of them to be so distant. “Marie, you can't know how sorry I am. That said, I know that telling you that I'm sorry will never be enough.”

“You are wrong about that.”

“What?”

“Apologizing will always be enough.”

“You think so?”

“I know so, because I love you. But you must talk to me, Peter. When did you start drinking? And why?”

He looked at his feet, then forced himself to raise his chin and look her in the eye. The time for hiding was long past. Yet he struggled with the words.

“Just talk to me, Peter,” she coaxed. “That's all I want. Just talk.”

He swallowed hard. “About seven or eight months ago, everything got to me. We had some trouble with one of the cows—” Now, as he said the words, he wished he could take them back. In the grand scheme of things, who really cared about cows?

“Cows?” A line formed on her brow. “I don't remember any problem . . .”

“It was nothing. I didn't tell you. Anyway, the cow was bawling something awful, she was feeling sickly. I'd been up with her all night, walking with her. When morning came, I was dirty and exhausted. All I wanted to do was go lie down.” He struggled to continue, praying to find the right words so that she might understand how he had been feeling.

“However, when I was going upstairs I saw my parents in the kitchen. Daed asked what I was doing, and, like a fool, I told him.”

“Oh dear,” Marie murmured.

Peter couldn't believe it was possible, but he found himself smiling. “Indeed. My father looked at me with contempt. And that forced me to think about how my
daed
had always gone through each day without complaint.”

“That's probably not true . . .”

“Though I don't have to answer to them, I felt like I should defend myself. But suddenly, that felt like too much. So, even though I was exhausted, I showered and left for town. All I wanted to do was sit somewhere and just close my eyes. I ran to the store to pick up some food, and I saw a small bottle of vodka. And, remembering years ago, when me and my buddies used to sneak liquor and beer during
rumspringa
. . . I bought it.” He winced; even to his ears, the explanation sounded weak.

“And you drank it?”

“I had a few sips. But the burning in the back of my throat seemed to numb my brain. And though I was still tired and stressed and worried, I didn't feel like I was incapable anymore.” He shrugged. “I didn't start out wanting to become an alcoholic, Marie. I meant to throw that bottle away. I never had any intention of drinking again. But instead of tossing it in the trash, I kept it.”

Even as he heard his words, he ached to take them back. He sounded pitiful. So pitiful.

He braced himself for her recriminations.

But instead, next thing he knew, she had launched herself toward him, her arms around his shoulders, her face hidden in the crook of his neck. Gently, he wrapped his arms around her and held her close. Her soft tears trickled down his neck, making his shirt damp, breaking his heart.

“I'm sorry, Marie,” he rasped. “I never intended for you to find out. And I never intended to continue. I never meant to be this man that I've become.”

“You are a
gut
man, Peter. You just need some help.”

“I don't need any help. I just need to stop drinking.”

Pure compassion entered her eyes. “If I ask you some questions, will you answer me truthfully?”

“I'll do my best.”

“All right. Here's the first one. What do you think would have happened if Viola and Elsie hadn't found that bottle under our sink?”

His answer was as painful as it was instant. “I would have continued to drink.”

“Did you want to lie to me?”

“Of course not.”

“Then, did you intend to hurt me?”

“
Nee,
Marie.” His voice cracked.

“Then why did you never stop on your own?”

“I didn't think I was hurting anyone.”

“You were hurting yourself.”

“That's not the same.” Bracing himself, he attempted to put his darkest thoughts into words, in a way that wouldn't sound pathetic, but would help his wife understand the depth of his confusion and anguish. “Marie, it's like this, you see. I thought if you never found out, it didn't make any difference. As long as I didn't hurt you. . . .”

“You only cared about hurting me?”

“You're everything to me. I love my parents, and I love our children. But you, Marie, are the one who holds my heart. I couldn't bear to cause you pain.”

He watched her visibly struggle to make sense of his words. He knew her so well and realized she was struggling to differentiate her feelings from his.

After a moment, she sighed. “I love you, Peter. As much love as you feel for me, I feel the same for you. Even if you lie or withhold things to protect me, I still feel the pain, because it's your pain I concern myself with.” She cleared her throat. “Don't you see? Your feelings aren't that different from mine. Let me help you. Let me ask the bishop for help. He can guide us, I feel sure of it.”

Bishop Coblentz was a good man. They'd known each other all their lives. But letting him know what he'd been doing would make his humiliation complete. “Let's not.”

“But why? He won't betray you.”

Even if the bishop never said a word about it, that knowledge would always be in his eyes. “I don't want him to know.”

“I think you need help.”

“You've already helped a lot, Marie. I'll stop on my own.”

Hurt filled her eyes. “Peter, I know this hurts to hear, but you might not be able to stop on your own. And I might not be able to help you enough.”

His frustration in himself finally transferred to his tone of voice. “Just give me a chance first, wouldya?” he snapped. “I know I've disappointed you, but I am still a man. And I am still capable of making decisions in this house.” When she looked fearful, he reached out to her, just like she'd done to him a few minutes earlier. “Trust me, Marie. I don't want to lose you, and I don't want to keep secrets from you. I can do this.”

“But if you can't . . .”

To placate her, he nodded. “If I can't, I'll let you know. And then you can ask the bishop for help.”

“Promise?”

Her eyes were luminous, so filled with trust. With hope, too. He loved seeing that look in her eyes. He loved seeing her belief in him. “I promise.”

When her lips curved upward in a small, tired smile, he felt his body relax. Unable to stop himself, he pulled her into his arms, smiling with contentment when she rested her head on his shoulder, just as she had for more than twenty years.

Just as she had back when they were eighteen and he'd taken her for a buggy ride in the cold and she'd first cuddled up next to him.

Holding her now, remembering how blessed they were to have each other, he promised himself yet again not to do anything to hurt her. He needed to continue to be the man she'd fallen in love with.

The man she needed him to be.

So yes, he was going to change his ways.

Or at the very least . . . make sure she never found out about his drinking again.

Wednesday evening

For about the hundredth time, Lorene felt like pinching herself. Here she was, sitting comfortably at John Miller's table, while he bustled in the kitchen to plate their food.

“Almost ready!” he called out.

He'd already said those same words several times. “Are you sure I canna help you?”

“You're my guest, Lorene.”

“That doesn't mean I can't help you.”

“It does to me.” Something clanked, he muttered something, then he spoke loudly again. “Almost ready.”

Because he couldn't see her, she chuckled softly. This was the most entertained she'd been in years, and they hadn't even sat down together yet! “John?”

“I'm here,” he said from the doorway, his hands laden with two bowls of soup. “I'm sorry it took me so long. I haven't quite mastered the skill of getting everything done at the same time.”

“That's hard for me to do, too. Though I have to tell you that I haven't cooked many meals like this,” she admitted as he set the plate in front of her with a pleased expression. As the scents of well-seasoned soup and rolls made her mouth water, she smiled. “It smells heavenly.”

“Let's hope it takes just as good.”

That's what she liked about him, Lorene realized. By all counts, John Miller had become successful. He owned his own store, bought a lovely home, and had taught himself to cook. But somehow he'd retained his modesty. He still looked as eager for her acceptance as he had ten years ago.

After sharing a silent prayer, they dug in. And, of course, the meal tasted as wonderful as it looked. “It's great,” she said. “Thank you, John.”

“You know that I'm the thankful one, Lorene. Never did I imagine that we'd be together again.”

They'd both been too full of pride. If she'd come to him years ago and told him that she'd changed her mind—or if he'd fought harder for their relationship—they might have enjoyed hundreds of meals like this.

“I never imagined it, either,” she said. “I'm sorry for how long it took for us to come to our senses.”

He set his soup spoon down. “Me, as well. But there's something we can do now, you know.” Looking at her directly, he said, “We can promise that things will be different this time. That we'll be completely honest with each other.”

Here was her chance. “I promise.”

His expression turned wry. “You don't even need to think about it?”

“Not even for a minute.”

Reaching out, he grasped her hand. “I don't need to think about it, either. I love you, Lorene. I can promise you that.”

“I love you, too,” she said simply. She couldn't believe how simple it was. She loved him. Always had. She couldn't believe how nice it felt to hold his hand. To look into his eyes and see his promises.

It was so nice, Lorene let his delicious soup cool in its bowl. Virtually ignored.

Yesterday, Edward had wondered if it would ever stop snowing. The flakes had become so heavy and thick that branches, telephone lines, and electrical lines were in danger of breaking. The foul weather had suited his mood, however. He, too, felt like he was in the middle of his own storm, desperately attempting to find his way through a future that was hard to see.

Fancifully, he'd compared himself to an early explorer, trying to imagine what his life would be like if he took a different track. If he took a different route.

Now, though, he knew that he couldn't be a solo traveler. He needed other people by his side to help him make his decisions.

This morning when he'd woken up, he'd leapt out of bed, his mind totally focused on his plans for the day. He needed to speak to his father, needed to show him the binder and get his advice. And he ached to talk to Viola, as well.

Viola!

What was it about her that kept drawing him in? The day before, as he'd watched the neighbor children run down their driveway in small sleds and build a snowman, his mind kept returning to memories of doing the same thing.

And thoughts of one day watching his children doing that as well. More than once, he'd imagined Viola being by his side.

And more than once he realized that he needed to include her in his deliberations.

Though there was a very good chance she wouldn't approve of him leaving again, he now knew her well enough that she would put her feelings aside to help him talk through all the pros and cons. Only then would she share her opinion. And he had no doubt that she would share it freely, and with great emotion.

Viola was like that, he realized with a grin. She was far from a shy woman, hesitant to share her views. He found her willingness to be bold completely enchanting. She was like no woman he'd ever met, and when he was around her, he found himself wondering if she was the woman God had intended for him.