When Hope Blossoms (27 page)

A hum of voices—some concerned, others laughing—filled the air. Stuck in the cart’s seat, Adrianna wriggled, stretching her hands toward Amy. “Momma? Momma?”

Parker stumbled toward his mother. “Mom, I’m scared.”

Amy still held tight to Margaret’s hands. “I have to get home. They said the tornado was near Weaverly. Bekah . . .” Panic cut off her air, and she gasped for breath.

Pulling away from Margaret’s grip, Amy grabbed Adrianna under the arms and tried to lift her from the cart. But her shaking limbs didn’t possess enough strength. She let go, and Adrianna flopped back into the seat. She began to cry.

Parker grabbed hold of Amy’s arm, his cold fingers digging into her flesh. “Mom? Mom?”

Amy shook loose of Parker’s grasp and glared at Margaret. “Help me! We’ve got to get out of here!”

Margaret worked her way between the carts and the display rack of candy, her expression grim. She took hold of Amy’s shoulders and gave her a firm shake. “Stop this right now.” She spoke in a low, even tone. “You’re frightening your children.”

Amy flicked a glance into Adrianna’s and Parker’s faces. The terror reflected in their eyes raised a wave of protectiveness. Wrapping one arm around Adrianna and the other around Parker, she held them close and whispered assurances into their ears. Adrianna continued to cry softly, her face pressed to Amy’s neck. Parker sniffled against her shoulder. Amy wanted to cry, too, but she held her own worries at bay and comforted her children.

Between their carts, Margaret knelt on the floor and folded her hands. Her lips moved in silent prayer. Guilt flooded Amy’s frame. How could she have been so short-sighted? Margaret had a husband and several friends in Weaverly who were also in the tornado’s path. Amy wasn’t the only one fearing for a loved one.

Letting her eyes slip closed, she clung hard to her children and silently petitioned her heavenly Father.
Protect them, Lord. Oh, please, please, keep Your hand of protection over Bekah and all of the residents of Weaverly.

B
ekah! Bekah!” Tim pounded on the ancient wooden door, rattling the oval glass pane. Wind howled, angry as a chorus of wolves. Particles of dirt blasted the back of Tim’s bare neck, stinging his flesh. He hunched his shoulders and pounded again. “Bekah! Are you in there?”

He squinted across the grounds. Where was that girl? Had she gone into town? Just as he’d decided to climb back in his truck and leave, the curtain behind the window whisked to the side and Bekah’s fear-filled face peered at him.

Relief nearly collapsed Tim’s legs. “Open up!”

The curtain dropped into place, and the latch clicked. Tim pushed the door open and crossed the threshold. His chest heaved with wild breathing as he searched her white face. “Are you all right?”

“I’m scared. There’s a bad storm, and Mom isn’t here.”

The usually reserved, mature young woman seemed to dissolve into a frightened little girl. Automatically, Tim captured her in a quick embrace. “I’m here, and I won’t let anything happen to you.” His statement of assurance, as well as the determination that filled him, surprised him. He cared about this girl. Cared deeply.

Slipping his arm around her waist, he herded her toward the kitchen. He’d spent storms in the Sanford cellar in past years, so he knew where to go. “We’ll be safer underground. Get me the key for the cellar and—”

“It’s open.” Bekah’s voice quavered. “I got it ready, but I didn’t want to go down. It’s dark and smelly in there.”

Despite his worries, Tim flashed a grin. “That’s ’cause it’s a cellar. If it isn’t dark and smelly, it isn’t doing its job.”

A wobbly smile formed on Bekah’s pale face, giving Tim a lift.

“C’mon—let’s hurry.” He hustled her out the back door, keeping a firm grip on her waist as they battled the wind. Just a few yards to the cellar opening. One of the doors had flapped shut in the wind, so Tim held it upright while Bekah made her way down the earthen steps. He waited until she reached the bottom before he followed, pausing to pull the doors closed behind them.

Complete darkness surrounded him, making his head spin. He focused on the sliver of muted light creeping through the crack between the rattling doors. Squinting, his hands gliding along the damp earth walls, he inched his way downward until he bumped into something warm—Bekah.

“I wish I had a flashlight.” Bekah’s voice sounded unusually high. Panic, no doubt.

Tim couldn’t see well enough to reach for her, so he injected as much confidence into his tone as possible. “Give it a few minutes—our eyes will adjust.”

Bekah fell silent, but he could hear her rapid breathing. Tim’s nose wanted to pinch shut against the musty odor filling the underground space. The doors bounced in their frame, the off-beat thuds providing percussion to the gale’s mournful woodwinds. Then a loud spatter—like gunfire—erupted. Bekah let out a squeak of alarm, and Tim reached without thinking. His knuckles brushed her arm, and she grabbed his hand. Her icy fingers clung, and Tim was able to follow the line of her arm to her shoulders and draw her snug to his side.

He felt her face pressed to his collarbone, felt her shoulders heaving in silent sobs. His heart ached in response to her terror. He murmured, offering comfort. “Rain, Bekah. It’s just rain. We need it, right?” But such hammering rain, drops falling as hard as ball bearings from the sky.

It seemed hours crept by while they stood in the small space, hearts pounding, but in reality it couldn’t have been more than fifteen minutes before Tim’s ears recognized a change. The piercing whistle became a distant flute. The fierce pounding softened to fingertips tapping on a table’s edge.

“Stay here.” He set her aside and groped his way to the doors. Slowly, apprehension holding him in its uncomfortable grip, he pushed one heavy door upward. Rain, soft and cold, landed on his face. The sky was gray overhead, glorious blue in the north. The storm had passed. He reached his hand toward Bekah. “Come on up. We can go to the house now.”

Hugging herself, she scurried up the stairs. They hunched forward against the steady rainfall and dashed across the slippery, leaf- and twig-strewn ground to the back porch. Tim sent her in first, then stepped in behind her, shaking his head to rid his hair of water. He glanced at her shivering frame.

“Why don’t you go change into a dry dress? I want to look around the house, make sure everything’s all right.”

She gave a quick nod, then darted for the stairs. Tim searched each of the downstairs rooms. Apparently Bekah had closed everything up against the wild wind earlier, because the windows were all snug in their frames. The house felt stuffy, so he inched each window upward just enough to allow in the breeze without inviting rain to enter. One of the living room windows had a crack running from the bottom edge nearly to the top. Bekah entered the room on bare feet, her cap askew, but with a clean, unrumpled dress in place.

He pointed to the crack. “Looks like the storm broke one of your windows.”

Bekah stood with her arms wrapped across her middle, as if she were holding herself together. “Parker did that goofing around in here the other day. Mom just hasn’t had time to replace it yet.” Bekah’s chin quivered. “Mr. Roper, do you think Mom got caught out in that—”

Tim shook his head. The thought of Amy, Parker, and Adri in a van during a tornado sent a spike of fear through his chest. He didn’t want to think what might happen. “Don’t borrow trouble.” His father’s standard response to moments of fear or worry slipped from his mouth. “Just trust.”

“I’m trying.” A funny, bashful smile toyed on the corners of her lips. She kept her head low rather than meeting his gaze. “Before you got here, I was praying like crazy that somebody would come because I didn’t want to go into the cellar by myself. And God answered.” She flicked a shy glance at him through her eyelashes. “He sent you.”

Tim’s heart skipped a beat. He wouldn’t have considered himself the answer to anybody’s prayer.

Bekah ducked her head again, sighing. “Just wish Mom’d hurry and get home. I don’t like being here by myself in the rain.”

“Tell you what . . .” Tim strode forward slowly, his legs weak and trembly. “I’ll stay here with you until your mom gets back.”

The girl’s shoulders rose and fell. “Thank you, Mr. Roper.”

Tim gestured toward the kitchen. “Do you have bread, and maybe some bologna or cheese? I could use a sandwich.”

Bekah’s chin shot up. She grinned, then giggled. “Okay.” She turned and skittered to the kitchen.

Tim followed. He wasn’t really hungry, but Bekah needed something to keep herself occupied. He needed to be busy, too, but rather than helping her, he slipped into a kitchen chair and watched her buzz between the pantry, refrigerator, and cabinets. Within minutes, she’d cluttered the tabletop with sandwich fixings—bread, sliced tomatoes, lettuce, three different kinds of cheese, pink ham, pickles, mayonnaise, and mustard.

She slathered mustard on a slice of bread, then layered meat and cheese over the golden smear. “I’ll make a whole bunch. That way, when Mom and the kids are back, lunch’ll be waiting for them.”

Tim smiled to himself. Now she was thinking positively—a good sign. He helped arrange the sandwiches on the plate, stacking them into a pyramid. When she’d completed six sandwiches, she retrieved a carton of milk from the refrigerator. “Do you want—”

A bang intruded, followed by a frantic voice. “Bekah! Bekah!”

Bekah plopped the carton on the table and dashed around the corner. Tim trailed behind her, his heart catching at the sight of Mrs. Knackstedt clinging to Bekah. Parker and Adri surrounded them, their arms wound together. Their unity—their obvious relief to be together again—put a lump in Tim’s throat. How long had it been since he’d been wrapped in the embrace of people who loved him?

Mrs. Knackstedt pulled back, cupping Bekah’s face between her palms. “Oh, sweetheart, I’m sorry you had to face that storm alone. Are you all right?”

“I’m fine.” Bekah flashed a smile at Tim. “Mr. Roper came over. He went into the cellar with me, and he told me to trust you’d be home soon.” The girl’s image blurred, and Tim realized his eyes had misted over. He blinked rapidly, clearing the moisture. Bekah finished, “We were just gonna eat a sandwich. I made plenty.”

Mrs. Knackstedt stepped free of her children, leaving them in a huddling group in the doorway between the living and dining rooms. She crossed the floor and then stopped mere inches from Tim. Her eyes locked on his. His stomach trembled as he read a jumble of feelings in the steadfast gaze of her blue eyes. Gratitude. Admiration. And sympathy.

“Thank you for being here with Bekah when I couldn’t. I prayed fervently she wouldn’t be alone. I knew God was with her—He is always with her—but I’m so grateful He sent a human form to be His hands on earth.”

Her kind words wrapped him in warmth. Looking into this woman’s sincere, tender, open face, something inside him seemed to bloom to life. He cared about the children, yes, but he also cared about their mother. Seeing her safe and home again raised a desire to draw her close, to thank someone for delivering her from the storm, to shelter her within his arms and hold her in his heart. When had resentment for her intrusion in his life changed to devotion?

He shoved his hands into his pockets and cleared his throat. “Y-you’re welcome.” He bobbed his head toward the kitchen doorway. “Bekah’s sandwiches are drying out. You probably ought to eat.”

But she didn’t move. Her hand stretched toward him, and her fingers descended lightly on his forearm. A sweet tenderness softened the gentle lines around her eyes. “Mr. Roper, I must tell you . . .”

Tim held his breath, his heart pounding so hard his ears rang. Did she sense how he felt? Did she feel the same way toward him?

“Your orchard. The tornado . . .”

Tim didn’t wait to hear more. He shot past her, nearly knocking her aside in his frantic bid to escape, and ran out the door.

T
im stood in the drizzle, fingers in the back pockets of his Levi’s, boots planted wide, and stared at what was left of his house and barn. Thunder rolled gently in the distance, its growl an appropriate accompaniment to the emotions swirling through Tim’s chest.

The destruction to his house didn’t surprise him. Not too many mobile homes could stand up to the force of a tornado, even an F2, which, according to the radio announcer, was what they’d had. Seeing it twisted off its concrete-block foundation, a section of roof crinkled up like a huge wad of tinfoil and a gaping hole where his bedroom used to be was painful, but not unexpected. But the barn . . .

Julia’s uncle had told him the barn was built in the late-1860s by German immigrants, back when they did things right. He’d given the barn a coat of paint every other year, always kept the roof in good repair, and never lit a lantern inside it. The oak timbers—a good six inches square—that served as support beams had always seemed indestructible. Solid.
Permanent.
Now he realized how foolish he’d been to think that nothing could destroy the huge wooden building.

A churned strip of bare ground, no longer holding so much as a blade of grass or a scrap of weed, showed the path the tornado had taken between his house and barn. And then it must have gone back up into the clouds, because the clean path ended at the road. Tim wanted to be happy the neighbors’ fields and homes were safe. But happiness for his fellow Weaverly residents would have to come later. Right now, he needed to be selfish and mourn his own loss.

The sound of car tires crunching on rain-soaked ground met his ears. Company. He craned his head to look, too weary to move his body. Mrs. Knackstedt’s Buick inched up the lane. Her windshield wipers squeaked on the wet glass, tossing raindrops aside. He remained in place, waiting and watching until she stopped the car, climbed out, and tiptoed her way through the leaf-strewn mud to stand beside him. Her cap and the shoulders of her dress gathered wet polka dots.

Tim shifted his focus to the hole in the side of his house. His bedspread gently flapped in the light breeze, and a picture of flowers—one of Julia’s oil paintings—still hung on the wall. Tornadoes were mighty strange storms. “I’d say let’s get in out of the rain, but I’m not sure where to take you.” He supposed his voice should hold bitterness or sarcasm, but instead he just sounded tired.

“Mr. Roper . . .” Her words caught. She didn’t touch him, but her hand hovered near his arm. The fingers trembled. “I’m so sorry.”

“Yeah. Me too.”

She folded her arms across her chest, her head bobbing here and there as she examined the area. “Have you checked your trees? Did you suffer much . . . loss?”

He swallowed a derisive snort. “The tornado steered clear of the orchard. I haven’t gone clear through, but from what I’ve seen, the trees are mostly wind-damaged but nothing more. Some broken branches. Leaves and apple buds blown to kingdom come.” When he’d driven home, he’d thought it looked like a parade had passed by, leaving a trail of confetti behind. “Won’t have much of a crop this year—not as much as I’d hoped for—but there’ll be some.”

Blowing out a big breath, he flipped one hand toward the barn. “ ’Course, I can forget folks being able to make their own applesauce or squeeze their own juice. My equipment . . . it’s all buried underneath that tumble of beams and shattered lumber. Can’t imagine finding anything of use in there now.”

Her hand descended on his arm. A light touch—yet delivering heartfelt sympathy. “Do you have insurance?”

“Some.” Tim ground his teeth together. He’d skimped on insurance and he knew it, trying to save money with a smaller policy. No way he’d get what he needed to rebuild his business to where it had been before the storm struck. “Guess it’ll have to do.”

“I suppose . . .” She sounded sad. “I’m so grateful you came to the house and went to the cellar with Bekah. She needed someone with her, but more than that, it kept you safe, too. If you’d been in either the house or the barn when the storm hit, you could have been seriously injured.”

Tim hadn’t considered how running next door had saved his own skin.

“I’m thankful God spared you.”

Her innocent comment, so sweetly uttered, stirred an unexpected flame of fury in Tim’s gut. Sure, God had spared him, but for what? He had trees but no equipment to harvest the fruit. He had land but no shelter. He’d clung to this orchard in lieu of clinging to his wife and son, and now it seemed as though everything had gone up in a gust of wind. All of the hurt and frustration of the past lonely years roared through Tim’s chest and exploded in an angry deluge of words.

“Our great and powerful God could’ve spared a whole lot more, don’t you think? After all, He put the stars in the sky. So why couldn’t He keep that tornado in the clouds where it wouldn’t do any harm? Why’d it have to land on my barn? My house?”

Mrs. Knackstedt stared at him in dismay, but once the words started, he couldn’t seem to stop them. He’d held them inside far too long. Every element of resentment poured from the center of Tim’s soul.

“Wasn’t it enough He gave me a son with needs I couldn’t meet without help? A son I had to send to therapists in another town, requiring a trip on the highway where an idiotic driver fiddling around with his radio dial crossed the center line and took my wife and son from me? Why didn’t God spare Julia and Charlie? I wasn’t ready to tell them good-bye!”

His voice boomed out louder than the thunder that continued to roll. “And why’d He bring you and—and those other Mennonites to Weaverly? He knew a boy like Parker would remind me of Charlie. He knew a loving, warm, giving mother like you would remind me of Julia. He knew having all of you here would remind me of the life I threw away. Couldn’t He have spared me from coming face-to-face with every one of my past regrets?”

Tim ran out of steam. His shoulders wilted, his stiff knees relaxed. Right there in the mud, with rain still saturating his hair and clothing, he went down on one knee. “He spared me, Amy Knackstedt, but for what purpose?”

She stared at him, silent, her hands clasped in a prayerful position against the bodice of her dress. The top of her cap was soaked, and little rivulets of water ran down her face. Or were some of those trails of moisture tears?

Tim hung his head, heaving a sigh. “Go home. There’s nothing you can do here.”

“What are you going to do?” She wrapped her arms around herself like Bekah had after the storm, sending a lengthy gaze across his house. “You can’t stay out here. There isn’t a safe shelter.”

Tim jolted to his feet. “I’ll drive into town. Talk to my minister. Reverend Geary and his wife’ll put me up for a night or two. I’ll be fine.” He tipped his head in the direction of her car. “Thanks for coming by, but you should be with your children. They’ve had a scare today, too.”

“They sent me over—insisted I check on you.” A soft smile curled her lips. “They were worried about you.”

Droplets of water clung to her eyelashes. Bedraggled ribbons hung alongside her cheeks, plastered against the damp wisps of hair at her temples. Rain-soaked, weary . . . and somehow still beautiful. Her faith shone through. Tim’s throat tightened. He blinked. “Tell ’em thanks. Tell ’em I’ll make sure they get their apples before I do any other selling.” He steeled his heart. “But tell ’em not to come over.” He sent a sorrowful look across his property. “There’s nothing here for them anymore.”

Tim drove into Weaverly after covering the gaping hole in his trailer with a tarp he found in the old storage shed on the back corner of the property. Strange how the ramshackle shed still stood, but the mighty barn had been toppled. Tim tried not to think about it too much, but he couldn’t deny a sense of unfairness at the whole ordeal.

As he’d expected, Reverend Geary and his wife, Marjorie, told Tim he could stay in their guest room for as long he needed. Marjorie got busy on the telephone, and by seven o’clock that evening, the whole town had heard about the tornado tearing up Tim’s place. In typical small-town fashion, they rallied to help.

Dean Bradley, one of Charlie’s teachers from the grade school, brought over a sackful of jeans and T-shirts he’d intended to take to the Goodwill in Ottawa. Although the clothes were used, they were in as good a shape as any Tim generally wore for working in the orchard. The general store owner, Ralph Miller, opened his store after-hours and let Tim help himself to packages of socks and underwear and whatever toiletries he needed, free of charge. Tim had noticed his dresser still stood along the wall, seemingly untouched, but the sagging roof above the piece of furniture made him hesitant to retrieve anything from it. So he appreciated putting his hands on articles of clothing.

By bedtime Saturday, the civic club had already decided to do a pancake feed to raise money to help pay for a new barn and equipment, church ladies had delivered more covered dishes than Tim could eat in a month, and Jeff Allen, a local rancher, promised to haul his fishing trailer to Tim’s land so he’d have someplace to sleep until insurance paid out and he could buy himself another mobile home.

Tim fell into bed Saturday, thankful for the support of his townsfolk but still worried. All of the paper work for his insurance policy was in his desk drawer, so he couldn’t double-check it, but he was relatively certain the policy he’d purchased—the one that fit his limited budget—included a sizable deductible. Even with the pancake feed proceeds, how in the world would he be able to replace the barn?

On Sunday morning, Tim dressed in a pair of Dean’s hand-me-over jeans and one of Reverend Geary’s dress shirts, which Mrs. Geary offered him after seeing the T-shirt he’d pulled on before coming to breakfast. As he brushed his teeth, he grimaced at his reflection. Despite the night in the comfortable bed, he looked haggard. And he wasn’t much in the mood to attend a
worship
service.

A person shouldn’t get sore at God. His father would probably quote Proverbs 19:21 if he knew what Tim was thinking.
“There are many devices in a man’s heart; nevertheless the counsel of the Lord, that shall stand.”
Timothy Rupp Sr. was particularly fond of the verse, but at the moment, Tim wasn’t terribly interested in the Lord’s counsel. In his opinion, the Lord had allowed one too many calamities to befall him.

Still, he wouldn’t disappoint the ones who’d given him shelter last night. The Gearys expected him to attend service, so he’d go. But he couldn’t guarantee he’d listen to any sermon. Especially if it involved goading people into believing God had a good plan in the hard situations. Some people might still buy into it, but any shred of belief Tim might have possessed was crushed along with his sturdy, seemingly indestructible barn.

The sanctuary filled quickly, people slipping into pews at the back first and forcing latecomers to take the seats in the front. Tim had arrived early, so he sat on the second-to-last pew. He used a bulletin to stir the air. The church possessed a fairly new central air unit, but Mrs. Geary had come over and opened windows to let in the breeze. She said they could all benefit from the leftover scent of rain after the long, dry weeks. Tim admitted the breeze carried a nice scent, but the sun was already high, as was the humidity, and even before the song leader stepped behind the pulpit to direct the congregation in the opening hymn, Tim felt sticky.

He rose for hymn singing, remained standing for prayer, sat for the Bible reading and children’s feature, stood again for another song, and then settled into the pew for the sermon. None of the sounds of a church service—a minister’s deep voice, the flutter of Bibles’ pages being turned, a child’s occasional whining complaint followed by a mother’s stern
shh!
—were new. He’d sat through countless services as a boy. Back then he’d held his head erect, his spine straight, doing his best to at least appear attentive lest he earn a stern glare or a reprimand from his father for woolgathering. Today, at the back of the church, hidden from the majority of worshipers and free of his father’s watchful gaze, he could let his mind wander. He had plenty to think about.

After the wind’s force, his trees needed pruning. The grounds would require a good raking to dispose of all the fallen branches and leaves. He hadn’t checked to see if the beehives were toppled—if the bees had scattered, he’d probably have to pay to replace them. Another expense he couldn’t afford. Somehow he’d have to dig through his house and salvage anything still usable. What remained of the barn would need to be hauled away—or burned—and another structure erected in its stead.

The list grew lengthy, and as Tim considered the amount of work awaiting him, a tension headache built in the back of his skull. He’d never get it all done by himself, but how would he hire workers without money to pay them? Caught up in his thoughts, it took a few moments for him to realize everyone was shifting to stand for the closing hymn. He shot to his feet, holding the back of the pew in front of him to keep himself steady—how his head ached—and focused on the music leader. The piano played the opening chords, but before the director began the first verse, a shuffling sound filled the rear of the sanctuary.