When Hope Blossoms (10 page)

Amy waved her hands. “Wait, wait. I don’t have an Internet connection out here, I don’t own a computer, and even if I did, I wouldn’t have any idea how to operate one.”

“If you can program one of these things”—Ellie indicated the long-arm quilting machine—“you can learn to operate a computer.”

“Why, sure you can,” Tamera said. “Even if you didn’t want to invest in a computer of your own right away, you could use one in the Weaverly library to get started. The librarian told me we could use the computers anytime we needed. Then, when your business has grown enough to handle an additional expense, you could buy your own and have the Internet connected to it here. I’m sure the former owners had a telephone line.”

“Who knows?” Ellie held her arms wide. “Your business might grow so big you’ll need someone operating the long-arm while you spend your day sewing at the other machine.”

“Oh . . . oh my.” Amy covered her mouth with her fingers and stared at the younger woman. If Ellie was right, she’d have a job ready and waiting for Bekah as soon as she finished school. The thought brought a feeling of security.

Lorraine joined the circle of idea makers. “I agree. A Web site is a wonderful way to advertise. Back in Berlin, my brothers built a site to let others know about their cabinet-making business. Our fellowship approved it because with a Web site, you aren’t forcing yourself on anyone, just making your services available. And all of us will pray that the people who need you can find you.” She looked at Margaret, as if seeking her approval. “Won’t we?”

Margaret nodded, her double chin quivering. “Of course we’ll pray for God to bless Amy’s business as He sees best.”

Amy’s mind whirled. “I . . . I don’t know. . . .” She released a nervous laugh. “I’ve never even used a computer. I wouldn’t know how to begin.”

“Mom?”

Bekah stood in the doorway between the kitchen and sewing room, her hands linked at her waist. “The other day when we spent the morning at the library, the librarian helped me do some research on the computer—looking up stuff about Weaverly to kind of, well, get to know the town. I found a really neat Web site advertising a business right here in Weaverly. So if you want to learn to make your own Web site, I think I know who could help.” She paused, then finished. “Mr. Roper.”

S
everal car engines starting at once captured Tim’s attention. He tossed aside the oiled rag he’d been using to grease the gears on the vintage apple-corer and trotted to the barn’s wide opening. A cloud of dust rose in the distance. He resisted releasing a shout of elation. Apparently the meeting over at the Sanford—the
Knackstedt
place, he corrected himself—was breaking up.
Finally.

They’d all rolled in midmorning, just as he’d finished loading the little trailer on the back of his golf cart to head out and work. Surmising they intended to worship together, he decided not to interrupt their service with the sound of his chainsaw and weed eater. But as the day wore on, he’d begun to think they’d all decided to take up residence over there.

During the morning, as he’d cleared the grassy area at the rear of the orchard with a well-sharpened scythe to prepare for the beehives, he’d been subjected to no less than a dozen hymns. When he started humming along, he sent himself to the barn where the sturdy walls blocked the sound of their combined voices. For the most part. This afternoon, a burst of laughter or a child’s shrill screech still occasionally reached his ears. Aggravated with himself for hiding away, he’d come close to heading out after lunch and taking care of the tasks he’d allotted for the day—trimming weeds and cutting back a few overhanging branches that invited deer visits along the west fence line—but fear of being spotted and berated for laboring on the Lord’s day had kept him in the barn.

Here it was, nearly four o’clock, closing in on suppertime, and he hadn’t even fired up the chainsaw. “I can get to it now,” he muttered. “And nobody’ll be there to get all offended.” Mrs. Knackstedt would be there, of course. But somehow he didn’t picture her getting offended. He couldn’t explain why, but he sensed even if she disapproved, she wouldn’t utter a word of complaint, unlike the older Mennonite woman he’d encountered in the grocery store earlier in the week who’d fussed at the store owner about the price on a jar of yeast.

He plopped into the golf cart’s seat. The engine played its stubborn game and delayed turning over until the third try, but then it stuttered to life. Tim rose up as high as he could and looked toward the road. The dust had all settled. The Mennonites were gone. With a satisfied expulsion of breath, he put the cart in gear and bounced out onto the road.

Tim drove the short distance to the end of the fence line, then angled the cart off the road and drove across his neighbor’s pasture—the Sanfords had never minded. He stayed as close to the fence as possible without hooking a trailer tire on a post. The barbed-wire fence that ran along the west side of his orchard was closer to the old farmhouse where the Knackstedts now lived than to his own double-wide. The land gently rose midway between the house and the fence, though, hiding him from view. Unless Mrs. Knackstedt or her kids looked out an upstairs window, they wouldn’t notice him out here. But they might hear him. Neither the weed eater nor the chainsaw were exactly quiet.

A smile twitched at his cheek. Parker would probably come trotting over the rise to see what Tim was up to. Then his smile faded. Mrs. Knackstedt wouldn’t let Parker wander like that anymore. Since he’d done it twice already, she’d be keeping a close watch. As well she should. But even so, he couldn’t deny a small prickle of regret. He didn’t want the kid around all the time—he didn’t need the intrusion in his ordered world—yet he’d taken a liking to the boy. Pretty hard not to like a kid who so openly liked you.

He stopped the cart and trotted to the trailer. The chainsaw had bounced to the tail, so he grabbed it out first. He clamped the hard plastic body between his knees, took a firm grip on the top handle, and gave the starting cord a solid tug. The chainsaw, much more cooperative than the testy old golf cart, fired right up.

Tim trimmed only the ends of the branches extending over the fence, careful not to carve away too many buds. Eventually he’d thin the blooms—the apples would be too small if he left them all clustered so tight—but he wasn’t ready for thinning yet. The twigs fell, some landing on his head and shoulders, others bouncing on his boot toes. He had to refuel the chainsaw twice from the gas can in the trailer, but he got the entire fence line trimmed.

He glanced at the sun. Still high. Plenty of time remaining before sundown to put the weed eater to work. His shoulders ached from holding the heavy chainsaw at chest height, but the tall grass wouldn’t cut itself. And nobody else would step up and take care of it, so he might as well get to it.

He tromped to the trailer, thinking back to the days when he first started working the orchard. Things sure had changed since then. One of a short crew of workers, he’d shared the duties with Julia’s uncle Gator—he never could think of the man by his given name, Galen, since Charlie always referred to him as Unca Gator—and three other men who worked anywhere from two to five days a week. From his first days of employment, Tim carried the heaviest load, just because he was available. When Gator and his wife, Toka, found out he was on his own, they set him up in the renovated storage shed on the back edge of the property that had served as a makeshift guesthouse for relatives in the past. He became their 24/7 handyman, and he loved it. Working from morning to night left him no time to think, pray, or ruminate about the past. And it let him learn every aspect of running the orchard.

When he married Julia five years after arriving in Weaverly, Gator made him a full partner. Then, when Charlie was school age, Tim bought the orchard outright, and Gator and Toka packed their bags and moved to Florida to spend their retirement years chasing golf balls and relaxing on the beach. Tim kept two employees right up until the day the tractor trailer ran amok on Highway 70—a route he now steadfastly avoided—and stole Julia and Charlie from him. After that, he hadn’t wanted anybody around, so he’d cut the men loose and handled the orchard on his own.

Turning the place into a pick-your-own-apples outfit made it possible for him to run it pretty much single-handedly with some part-time help at the peak picking times. And running it on his own once again kept him too busy to think, pray, or ruminate on the past. Which was exactly the way he liked it. He reached for the starter cord on the weed eater, but he froze when a glee-filled giggle carried on the late-afternoon breeze to his ears. He rose up, his gaze automatically seeking. But no child ran across the pasture toward him, face alight with joy.

A lump filled his throat. “Get busy, Rupp,” he prodded himself, and gave the cord a yank. Not until he’d carved out a fair-sized patch of grass did it connect that he’d called himself Rupp instead of Roper. Sometimes, despite his best efforts, the past crept up on him after all.

Amy set aside her Bible and folded her hands for prayer. Adrianna, cuddled against her pillow, and Bekah and Parker, seated side by side at the foot of Adrianna’s bed, mimicked her action. She closed her eyes and prayed aloud, giving God thanks for the time of fellowship and the opportunity to unite their hearts in worship to Him. She asked Him to keep watch over their house this night and to give the children pleasant dreams. All of her growing-up years, she’d listened to her father’s nightly prayers. After she married, Gabe led nightly Bible reading and prayer, first with her and then with the children.

But after Parker’s accident, Gabe—angry with God and heartsore—refused to do it. Amy couldn’t bear to forego the long-held tradition, so she had assumed the practice, even though men were supposed to be the spiritual heads in a Mennonite home. Their nightly routine gave the children security and planted God’s words in their hearts. She would never set it aside.

“Amen,” she finished. She pulled the light sheet up to Adrianna’s chin and kissed the little girl’s soft cheek. “Sleep now.” Adrianna yawned, rolled to her side, and closed her eyes. Her deep breaths indicated sleep even before the others left the room.

Bekah headed for the stairs, but Amy followed Parker into his bedroom. She smiled as he flopped into his bed, his gangly arms and legs flying in all directions. He flipped the sheet to his hips and folded his arms behind his head. “ ’Night, Mom.”

She kissed his forehead, running her hand over his disheveled hair. He must not have combed it after his bath. “Goodnight, Parker. Pleasant dreams.”

“Gonna dream about donkeys tonight.”

Amy swallowed a laugh. “Donkeys?”

“Yeah. I might raise ’em someday. I think they’re cute.”

Where did he get these ideas? “That’s quite an aspiration.”

“Huh?”

“A good plan.”

“Oh. Can I go to the li’bary tomorrow and find books about donkeys?”

Amy smoothed his hair again. It sprang right back up. “We’ll see. Sleep now, okay?”

“Okay.”

Chuckling to herself, Amy switched off the lamp beside his bed and crept into the hallway. A buzz drifted through the open window. Locusts? Amy had always loved listening to locusts sing in the trees at dusk when she was a girl. She paused beside the open window on the upstairs landing and listened for a few minutes. No, that wasn’t locusts. Someone was operating a motorized . . . something. Gabe probably would have been able to identify it.

Her heart panged, loneliness creating a deep ache. At least she still had her children. She peeked once more into each of the bedrooms, ascertaining both Parker and Adrianna were fine, then she tiptoed downstairs.

Bekah sat with her feet tucked up beside her in the corner of the sofa, a book in her hands. The book reminded Amy of Parker’s request. She plopped onto the opposite end of the sofa and said, “Parker wants to go to the library sometime this week, but I need to work. Would you ride to town with your brother and sister? You could take my bicycle and put Adrianna in the child seat.” Adrianna was almost too big for the plastic seat, but the little girl would never make it all the way to town on her training-wheeled bicycle.

Bekah made a face. “She wiggles so much, I’m always afraid she’s going to dump the bike.”

Amy had battled Adrianna’s wiggles herself. “Well, then, I suppose just you and Parker could go in one afternoon, when she’s napping. It’ll be a lot hotter then, but if you don’t mind the sun . . .”

“I’d rather be sweaty than scuffed up from falling over.”

“All right, then, wait until afternoon. We’ll look at the calendar together in the morning and see what day would be best.”

“Thanks.” Bekah shifted a bit and angled her book to the lamp.

Amy chuckled, remembering the brief exchange with Parker. “Your brother wants to check out books about donkeys. He seems to have developed an interest in them.”

Bekah slapped the book into her lap and swung her bare feet to the floor. “I know why. That one boy who was here today—I think his name is Tyler—told Parker he sounded like a braying donkey when he laughed.”

Amy gawked at Bekah. Joe and Lorraine Schell’s oldest son was named Tyler. Perhaps fifteen years old, tall and nice-looking, he’d been very polite when talking to Amy. “Are you sure he said that?”

Bekah huffed. “Yes, Mom. I told him he was rude—he shouldn’t make fun of people. But he laughed and said Parker kind of looked like a donkey, too, with his big ears and long face. He made me so mad.”

Amy’s heart ached, for both Parker and Bekah. “Is that why you were over by the tree instead of with the others?”

“Yes.”

“Did . . . did the others make fun of your brother, too?”

“No, only Tyler. But none of the others tried to stop him. They just let him do it, like they thought it was okay.” Bekah snatched up the book again, but she didn’t open it. Her eyes spat fury. “If they’re going to be mean, I don’t want anything to do with them.”

Amy drew in a deep breath and held it, seeking wisdom. She hated that Tyler had ridiculed Parker. Apparently the teasing hadn’t bothered Parker. Perhaps he’d been unaware that the older boy meant to disparage him. Right now she was more concerned about Bekah’s reaction and unwillingness to associate with the other Mennonite youth. Amy needed the fellowship to draw Bekah in, not drive her away.

She reached across the center section of the sofa and tweaked Bekah’s ear. “The Schells seem like good people. I’m sure they won’t want their son to torment others. I’ll talk to Tyler’s mom about the situation, okay?”