Threads of Grace (5 page)
With weary determination she headed back toward the hulking shadows of great barns. Maybe she’d find a place to rest for a moment, as well as news of her sister.
S
eth was up earlier than usual. A roan, a gelding, had a lame leg, and in the bustle of the previous day with Grace, he hadn’t had time to give it the attention it needed. Jacob had probably tended to the horse, but he needed to be sure—not to mention the fact that he hoped Grace might be an early riser too.
He slid his suspenders into place over his light blue work shirt and eased quietly down the hall. Downstairs, in the dim lamplight, Seth could see Abel’s dark head pillowed against his mother’s breast as the two snuggled close on the couch. He stood for a moment gazing down at the two of them and then, not wanting to be caught staring, tiptoed onto the front porch and pulled on his boots.
Dawn was breaking just over the horizon, and the morning was cool and misty. He inhaled a deep breath of clear summer air, then did a double take. There, dozing in one of the generous whitewashed rockers on the front porch, sat Grace.
Seth looked back over his shoulder toward the front door. Was he losing his mind? Was he so addled with the idea of Grace Beiler that he was seeing double? Before he had a chance to sort it all out, the apparition opened her eyes and blinked up at him. “Hello.”
He frowned down at her. “And who might you be?”
“Violet,” she said, her voice rusty with sleep. “Violet Raber. Forgive me for intruding. I’m looking for my sister.”
Seth stooped down next to her chair. “Your sister?”
The girl nodded. “Mm-hmm—Grace Beiler.”
“Grace is your sister?”
The girl seemed to become fully awake in that moment and sat bolt upright in the chair. “Do you know her? Do you know where she is?”
“She’s sleeping,” he said finally. “Right inside, in fact. She broke her ankle yesterday, and I brought her here to rest and have some help.”
The girl scrambled to her feet and Seth rose as well. It really was amazing how much this sister of Grace’s looked like the woman he had his heart set on. Except for the eyes. Grace’s were the color of a purple pansy; this sister’s eyes were blue as the sea.
Still, he wasn’t about to let anyone disturb Grace’s sleep, sister or not.
“Why not walk down to the barn with me for a bit? Your sister really does need her sleep. We’ll get acquainted, and then you can talk to her when she wakes up.”
“All right.” She glanced at the door behind him. “Just until she wakes, then.”
G
race woke to a persistent tweaking of her nose.
“Sqwoosh. Sqwoosh. Sqwoosh.” The sounds matched the tiny pinches on her nostrils. She lifted her eyelids to see Abel staring with solemnity down at her while he repeatedly felt her nose.
“Good morning,” she said, stifling a yawn.
“Why do we have holes in our noses,
Mamm
?”
“So air can get in and out.”
“Why do you tell me not to pick my nose?”
Grace sighed faintly. “Because it’s rude.”
He let go of her nose. “Okay. I’m hungry.”
Grace made to rise, but pain shot through her. She was
reaching for her crutches when she heard the floor squeak. Mary Wyse, no doubt tiptoeing into the kitchen so as not to wake her.
“It’s all right,” Grace called from the couch. She struggled to a sitting position as Abel slid onto the floor in a curled-up pile. “I’m awake.”
“Ach, gut.”
Mary poked her head around the door post. “What would you like for breakfast? What does Abel like special?” Grace grasped her crutches and Mary waved her back down. “Grace
, sei so gut
. Sit, sit. Abel’s got the right idea.”
Grace looked at the limp body of her son and was grateful for the other woman’s understanding of Abel’s odd posture. It was part of his autism—assuming strange poses that were supposedly comforting to him but looked odd enough to the untrained eye.
“Thanks, but we don’t want to be any trouble. Maybe I could make it home on my crutches.”
Mary set the lamp on a nearby table and put her hands on her hips. “Grace, really, let us help you. We—”
The squeaking of the front screen door made her pause, and Grace followed her gaze as Seth entered, holding the hand of a beautiful young girl. For one sweeping moment, Grace felt a strange tightening in her chest, then she forced herself to smile.
Friends. They were just friends. So this must be some new
Amisch
girl he’d picked up. Knowing Seth’s charm, he probably found her under a cabbage leaf in the morning dew. She tried to tamp down the sarcasm and act as if it didn’t matter. And then suddenly the girl was rushing to her in a flurry of beauty and color and somehow knew her name.
S
eth watched the two women embrace. He had no idea about Grace’s family of origin, and what he’d been able to glean from Violet was nothing concrete. But it made him extremely happy for Grace’s sake to see some connection. She was always so reserved about her past. She’d rarely spoken to him about anything more significant than the weather or the horses or the phases of the moon. Never about anything personal.
Abel, on the other hand, had told him things that sent a chill through Seth’s heart.
Seth looked around for Abel, who had scuttled away under a side table, scrunching down, looking furtively at his mother.
Seth slid out of his work boots and went to where the little boy hid.
“Do you know who that is, Abel?” he asked in a soft voice.
“Nee,”
Abel whispered. “It’s not my
mamm
.”
“No, of course not,” Seth agreed.
Even though I thought the same thing until the girl opened her eyes.
“I think it’s your
Aenti
Violet. Why not go over and say hiya?”
“Jah,”
Grace called. “
Kumme
, Abel, meet my little sister, Violet.”
Violet turned her attention to her tentative nephew. She held out a hand. “Hello, Abel. I’m very glad to meet you.”
“You never met him?” Seth asked in a low voice. “How can that be?”
Violet shrugged. “Ask my big sister.”
I
appreciate your time and trouble, Seth.”
“It’s all right.”
As soon as they reached the house, Abel had dragged Violet inside to show her around, leaving Grace to stand, one-footed and awkward, outside on the stoop with Seth.
She swallowed. “And
danki
for bringing Violet to me.”
“I’m surprised she hasn’t visited you before. You’ve been here six months.”
“I haven’t seen her for a long time.”
“I gathered that,” he said. “What I don’t understand is why.”
Grace shrugged. “It’s complicated.”
S
eth desperately wanted to reach out to her, but she had made it clear that she would not welcome any such overture. She had
absolutely insisted on being brought home, citing Violet as ample and able help.
“Good day, then,” she said. “And give my thanks to your
mamm
.”
“I will.” He was about to say something more, anything to keep her talking, but she hobbled inside and closed the door.
Seth was still nursing his disappointment when he drove up toward the farm and saw a stranger leading his horse to drink in one of the troughs alongside the fence. The man was a contradiction—
Amisch
haircut,
Englisch
clothes. But what really attracted Seth’s attention was the man’s saddle and the simple, unmistakable brown box art kit that hung there.
Seth drew rein on the wagon, set the brake, and jumped down.
“Hiya,” he said. “Passing through?”
The man was tall and lean with sandy hair and brown eyes. He glanced between Seth and the trough and nodded. “Hope you don’t mind about the water. You gotta keep a horse well watered.”
“Help yourself.” Seth waved away his concern, then drew a deep breath. “You from Elk Valley?”
The stranger snorted. “I should have known better. Bad news travels fast.”
Seth reached out a hand to stop him from bolting. “Look, I’m Seth Wyse, and
jah
, news came around that an artist in Elk Valley was shunned for his work. I saw your materials box and wondered—”
But the stranger was now regarding him with speculation and something akin to respect. “You . . . you said ‘my work’?”
Seth shrugged. “Of course it’s your work—takes time and talent, doesn’t it? God-given talent?”
The stranger extended a hand. “I’m Gabe Loftus, and I’d say you know a thing or two about art.”
“Maybe.”
“Well, don’t let the community find out, nor the bishop, or you’ll be out on your ear like me.”
“You know our bishop? His name is Loftus too.”
“I suppose we’re probably kin somewhere back down the road,” Gabe said. “I don’t know yours; I just know what bishops can do.”
Seth sighed. “
Jah
, I get it. Where you headed to? Are you hungry?”
Gabe backed his horse away from the trough. “
Nee
, but thanks all the same. I’m going over to Pleasant Valley. I’ve got some
Englisch
family there. Figured I’d start over, somehow.”
“Do you have anything with you?” Seth asked on impulse. “Any of your work?”
Gabe gave him a gap-toothed smile. “Maybe.”
“I’d like to see it, maybe buy something—help a stranger on his way.”
Gabe shook his head. “If anyone finds out, you’ll be—”
“Let me worry about that.”
Gabe shrugged and went to his saddle. He slid a cardboard tube from beneath his gear, and the two men went to lean against the fence while the horses grazed.
“I don’t know if it’s any
gut
, really.” Gabe unrolled a sheaf of drawings from the tube. Seth’s eyes caught on the elegant strokes of amazingly lifelike renderings: a woman’s face in profile, a rabbit poised, a coyote in the winter snow.
“These are excellent,” Seth said. “You’re really good.” He felt
tears prick the backs of his eyes. Here was kinship, understanding. For a moment his father’s warnings echoed in his mind, but they couldn’t dampen the enthusiasm he felt in another artist’s presence.
Then he came to a small, intricate drawing of a quilt, half-finished. The loose threads of the quilt reached out to touch both the quilters and others in the room, even a grumpy-looking old man sitting in a corner. There was a distinct air of hope about the drawing that reminded him of Grace.
“I don’t know why I’ve kept that,” Gabe confided. “Probably one of my first, but not my best. The shading’s off.”
“It’s wonderful. Why the threads, though?”
“I was trying to make a statement, I guess—that all of us, good and bad, are part of life’s quilt. Sounds silly, I suppose.”
“I’ll take it,” Seth said. “How much do you want?” He handed back the other drawings carefully.
Gabe laughed, a sound of joy released. “I have no idea. Ten dollars?”
Seth reached into his satchel. “Ten times that. This makes me feel especially
gut
.”
Gabe held up his hands in protest, but Seth pressed the bills into his palm, then clasped his hand in a gesture of goodwill. “If I’m ever in Pleasant Valley, I’ll look you up—artist.”
Gabe shook his head as he pocketed the money and mounted his horse. “Thanks,” Gabe said. “And not just for the sale.”
Seth waved the thin drawing he held at him. “
Danki
yourself. Have a
gut
trip.”
Seth watched him ride away, then slowly went back to the wagon and climbed onto the seat. He rolled the small drawing up and held it carefully, driving with one hand.
He felt good—renewed, hopeful, as if
der Herr
had given him a slender view of the future, of hopes and dreams fulfilled. And whatever the bishop might say, he prayed that Gabe Loftus would begin a blessed new life.
B
y breakfast the next morning, Grace had suffered through a sleepless night, trying to digest the news her sister brought: both parents dead, two brothers who left the
Amisch
life, the loss of the family farm. It was too much to take in. How could she have been so close and yet so isolated?