When Hope Blossoms (17 page)

Bekah tipped her head, crunching one ribbon against her shoulder. “Mom, has Mr. Roper ever talked about having a child? A boy?”

Amy moved to the table and wiped the top with her damp dishrag. “No. Why?”

“There’s a bedroom in his house all set up for a little boy. But he’s always by himself. What do you think happened?”

Amy gave Bekah a stern look. “I don’t know, but you aren’t to ask. It isn’t polite to pry into other people’s business.”

“I know.” Bekah curled her hands over the back of a chair, her expression dreamy. “Maybe his boy is all grown up already and moved away, or maybe Mr. Roper and his wife got a divorce and she took the boy away.”

Amy paused, frowning. “Let’s not talk that way. We don’t want to start rumors.”

“But that man in town said Mr. Roper used to be a Mennonite. Maybe his wife wanted to stay Mennonite, and he didn’t, so she—”

“Bekah!” Amy waited until her daughter met her gaze. “No more. I don’t want you speculating about what you saw. If you are going to carry tales away from Mr. Roper’s house, you won’t be allowed to go there anymore. For any reason. Do you understand?”

Bekah lowered her gaze, scuffing her toe against the faded tile floor. “I understand. It’s just . . . I like him. And it seems sad that he’s there all alone if he really does have a son somewhere.” Bekah’s head bounced up, her eyes wide with alarm. “You don’t think his son
died
, do you? Maybe he died in an accident, like Dad did.”

Pain stabbed Amy’s heart. They so rarely spoke of Gabe, having Bekah use the term
Dad
brought an immediate rush of memories . . . and questions. Had Gabe truly died in an accident, or had it been intentional? How she hated the dark cloud of uncertainty that surrounded Gabe’s death. They’d come here to escape the cloud, but now it rolled in again.

Amy had no desire to revisit those long-ago days of searing pain. “Run up and see what’s keeping Parker and Adrianna. Mr. Hunsberger will need all of our hands to bring in the chairs.”

Without another word, Bekah headed up the stairs. Amy stood for a long while, thinking about what Bekah had said. Deliberately setting aside thoughts of Gabe, she focused on the comments about a little boy’s bedroom, but no little boy. She shifted her head, her gaze drifting to the east. She envisioned Mr. Roper’s house and the lone occupant. Questions clouded her mind—questions she had no business pondering, but she found herself unable to dismiss them. She’d wondered why the man had abandoned his faith. Now she wondered what else he might have abandoned over the years.

A
s we close in prayer today, let’s take time to unite our hearts and petition our Lord for rain.” Mr. Gerber’s somber tone as he addressed the small group of worshipers crowded in Amy’s living room brought an answering concerned murmur.

Amy glanced out the open window, her head turning in synchronization with several others. Hot wind, devoid of moisture, coursed through the aluminum screen. Dust rolled across the dry landscape, masking the tiny shoots of green poking through the soil where the men had planted soybeans. Without a permanent irrigation system in place, they relied on rain to nourish the little plants. How long could they wait for rain before the shoots withered and died?

“Shall we bow our heads?” In unison, all members from oldest to youngest followed Mr. Gerber’s instruction. The man prayed aloud—simply but with deep feeling. While listening to his rumbling voice, Amy added her silent prayer to his for God to send raindrops to their crop. She also asked Him to send mercy drops on each person gathered there as well as their neighbors. With the thought of neighbors, Mr. Roper’s face immediately appeared behind her closed eyelids.

Bekah’s comments about the little boy’s room in Mr. Roper’s house haunted Amy. If he’d lost a son, he knew heartache. If he’d suffered a broken marriage, he knew heartache. If he’d cast aside his faith, he knew heartache. No matter what had left him living in his house alone, shut away from family and fellowship, he needed prayer.
“Love thy neighbour as thyself,”
her Bible admonished. So she prayed earnestly for Mr. Roper’s peace and a rekindling of faith within his soul.

“Amen,” Mr. Gerber intoned, and everyone rose to sing a closing hymn together. The words from the old familiar hymn, “Great Is Thy Faithfulness,” wrapped around Amy’s heart and offered a mantle of peace she desperately needed.

After everyone had eaten their fill of the food the members carried in, the men gathered in the living room, the children went outdoors, and the women quickly cleaned up, then clustered around the kitchen table. In only a few weeks, they’d established a pattern that provided Amy a sense of security. Before joining the women at the table, Amy retrieved her purse and gave Margaret Gerber money for the groceries. “Thank you again for including us in your shopping. It certainly saved me a great deal of time.”

Margaret tucked the bills into the pocket of her dress. “I don’t mind making the trip to Topeka twice a month. Maybe you’ll want to go along sometime and see what’s available at the Food Warehouse.”

“I’d like that.” Amy set her purse on the counter, then slipped into the remaining chair. “Have you done any other exploring in Topeka? I need to purchase fabric. Parker is growing so quickly all of his pants are getting too short.”

“There’s a fabric store in the mall,” Sheila Buerge said, “but they are rather pricey.”

“Highway robbery,” Margaret proclaimed. “I can send home for an entire bolt of fabric and have it shipped to me for less money than it would cost to buy several yards in that store in the mall.”

The women all murmured, voicing their thoughts.

“I do miss our shops in Berlin.” Renae Stull propped her chin in her hand. “Saturday shopping was such a joy, visiting store owners and knowing exactly where all my favorite items were kept on the shelves.”

Amy leaned forward. “What made you decide to leave Berlin and come here?”

The women all looked at Margaret, silently appointing her their spokeswoman. Margaret cleared her throat and straightened her shoulders. “The decision was made with much prayer and forethought. With our families growing bigger than our plots of land could support, and our young people approaching a marriageable age, we needed space to spread out and . . .” Her face mottled with pink. “We needed unrelated people of faith to consider as life partners.”

Amy understood both reasons. “Yet all of you are from the same fellowship. Certainly you’ve gained land here in Weaverly—the acreage purchased should be sufficient to meet the financial needs of your families. But what about life partners? Did you deliberately choose families that were not related to make the move to Kansas?”

Tamera Mischler and Renae giggled. Tamera said, “Renae and I are cousins, and Margaret is Christian Hunsberger’s aunt, so we still have some blood relationships between us.”

Renae added, “The elders of our fellowship shared the news with fellowships in Indiana about the land for sale in Kansas. It’s very likely some other Mennonites will choose to move here in the next few years.”

“We don’t need to worry about it overly much yet.” Margaret bobbed her head, making the black ribbons from her prayer cap quiver. “After all, the oldest of our young people is Joe and Lorraine’s Tyler, and he just turned fifteen. It will be a few years before he’s ready to begin courting.” Her lips tipped into a teasing smile. “Who knows, Amy, he might set his sights on your Bekah. Wouldn’t the two of them make a fine couple?”

Amy wasn’t ready to think about Bekah being old enough to court. And she felt certain Bekah wouldn’t choose Tyler after the boy had openly teased Parker. She hadn’t talked to the Schells about Tyler’s behavior because last Sunday he’d been kind to Parker. She hoped the teasing was finished for good. She said, “I’m already praying for God’s chosen spouses for all of my children. I trust He’ll bring the right mates into their lives when the time is right.”

Lorraine touched Amy’s hand. “We all came for land. What brought you to Weaverly?”

Amy’s throat went dry. She’d assumed the question would eventually be asked, but she hadn’t prepared an answer. All six women looked at her, their expressions holding interest. If she told them the truth—
I came here so I’d never have to look at the grain silo from which my husband plunged to his death and wonder if he truly fell or if he jumped
—would their faces change to reflect the same uneasy speculation carried by most citizens in her former community?

“I decided it was time for a fresh start. For myself and the children. Memories of the time before my husband’s . . . death . . .” Her nose stung. She swallowed. “Memories filled every corner of the town. I needed to bury him and move forward.”

Silence reigned for a few seconds, during which Amy kept her head low, uncertain of their reactions. Then a warm hand clamped over the top of hers, and she looked into Margaret’s sympathetic gaze.

“How long ago were you widowed?” Margaret’s normally brusque tone was absent. Instead her voice held a warmth that brought a fresh sting behind Amy’s nose.

“It will be three years in August.”

Tamera gasped. “But your littlest one . . . she’s only five, right? So you lost him when she was hardly more than a baby?”

Amy nodded, the difficulty of that time sweeping through her in a rush of painful memories. “Yes. Adrianna has no memories of her father at all.”

The women murmured, their hands reaching to pat Amy’s hands, arms, and shoulders—whatever they could reach. The sympathy in the room was palpable, and Amy welcomed it. With the uncertainty surrounding the reason for Gabe’s death, many in Arborville had pulled away rather than drawn near when Amy so needed empathetic support. Although the day of his death was long past, Amy finally received the kind of care and comfort she’d needed. The uninhibited, compassionate response from these women soothed Amy’s heart like a sweet-scented balm.

They each offered a few more pats and gentle squeezes, and then all hands but Margaret’s slipped away. The older woman clung, her grip warm and sure. “Being a widow is very difficult, especially when you have children. I lost my husband when my two were young, but a year after my first husband’s death God brought Dillard into my life. He’d lost his wife, too, and was raising three children on his own. Together we had two more, creating a house full of noise and chaos.” She laughed softly. “When you have that many, you learn to run the household like an army camp.”

Margaret’s recital gave Amy an understanding of the woman’s take-charge demeanor and her determination to pinch pennies. “Where are your children now?”

Margaret sighed, her gaze drifting beyond Amy’s shoulder. “Dillard’s two oldest and my youngest are in Berlin with their own families. His youngest daughter agreed to marry a man in Pennsylvania and moved there almost three years ago. My oldest”—tears winked in her eyes—“died four years ago this past spring. That leaves our two, the oldest of whom married last year and settled in Van Wert, and our youngest, who is planning to join us here in Weaverly by next planting season. We needed him to stay behind and sell the remainder of our personal holdings before making the move.” Suddenly a twinkle entered her gray-green eyes. “You know, Amy, our Sedgwick is yet unmarried. And he’s probably very near your age. Maybe . . .”

The other women laughed, covering the end of Margaret’s statement. Heat filled Amy’s face, and she jumped up from the table. “Would anyone like a slice of pie? Bekah and I baked buttermilk pies yesterday.” She bustled to the refrigerator, eager to leave the subject of unmarried Sedgwick behind.

She carried a pie to the counter and got out dessert plates, forks, and a knife. Listening to the women chat together, she slid the knife through the golden filling, dividing the pie into eight equal slices. After placing a slice on a plate for each of the women, one slice remained in the pan. The leftover piece of pie became representative of Amy’s position of aloneness within this fellowship. Everyone else had a mate.

She delivered servings of pie to each woman seated around the table, relieved the conversation had moved on to new topics. Although loneliness often plagued her, Amy had no intention of allowing the others to play matchmaker for her. If she were to marry again, she would choose her own mate. She glanced at Margaret, recalling the woman sharing how God had brought Dillard into her life. Remarrying gave her a new love and an extended family.

Amy’s chest pinched, new ponderings rising to the surface. She had come to Weaverly for a new start. Might that new start include a love God had already chosen for her?

Bekah leaned against the tree trunk, grateful for the shade overhead. Parker and Adri ran around in the sun with the other younger kids, their faces red and their hair plastered to their heads with sweat. How could they tolerate the heat? All Bekah wanted to do was find someplace cool and hide.

Seated under the tree in splashes of sun and shade from the swaying branches, Desiree Stull and Lissa Mischler chattered together. Bekah knew she could join them—they’d invited her—but if she sat down, she wouldn’t be able to keep watch over Parker and that older boy, Tyler. Even though Tyler had been nice last week when everybody came, she couldn’t forget him saying Parker looked and laughed like a donkey. She wasn’t ready to trust him yet.

Tyler sat on the back porch steps with the only other boys close to his age, his brother Lucas and Donnie Stull. The three of them had spent the last hour whittling twigs down to toothpicks with their pocketknives and occasionally hollering comments to the game players in the yard.

Bekah watched Tyler toss aside what was left of his twig and shift onto one hip so he could put his knife in his pocket. As he settled back onto his bottom, his head turned in her direction and he caught her looking at him. He broke into a smile, nudged Donnie with his elbow, and unfolded himself from the step. Bekah pressed more snugly against the tree, the bark digging into her back, as Tyler ambled across the yard, dodging tag-players, and stopped right next to her.

He leaned his hand on the trunk above her shoulder and grinned. “Hey. Aren’t you tired of holding up this tree?”

Both Desiree and Lissa giggled, sending flirtatious glances at Tyler, which he ignored.

She fidgeted beneath his steady gaze. “It’s cool here. Cooler than in the sun, at least.”

Tyler squinted upward as if examining the leaves on the tree. “Probably.” He looked at her again. “But not as cool as it’d be in the barn. How ’bout we all pour ourselves some Kool-Aid and go hang out in the barn for a while?” The kids playing tag broke into a noisy argument about whether or not Austin was “it.” Tyler raised his voice to be heard over them. “It’d be quieter there, too.”