“You’re kidding.”
“I am not kidding.” He grinned. “I have totally lost control of my son!”
“Boo!” Anna poked her head out the door and waited with a look of eager anticipation. Joe and Rachel gave the requisite jump and frightened gasp. Anna giggled with pleasure. “Bertha says—come eat!”
“Thanks, Anna.”
Joe rinsed his hands beneath the hand pump after Anna left. “Do you have any idea why she does that ‘boo’ thing?”
“None of us really know what goes on inside Anna’s mind. All we know is that saying ‘boo’ is her little joke and even the smallest cousins know to respond to it.”
“She’s a sweetheart.”
“Yes, she is. By the way, please don’t mention the injured child at the supper table. I try to protect her from sad things. She’s not wired to deal with them.”
“I’m pretty good at keeping secrets,” he said.
“You think?”
Somehow Joe’s laughter ringing out as they went into the house didn’t irritate her. In fact, she liked it a lot. It almost scared her how easy it was to have this man in her life.
After supper, Eli arrived and announced that it was time to initiate Joe into the fine art of buggy driving. Joe was less than enthusiastic.
“If you are going to be helpful to the Troyer sisters, you must learn how to drive one of these.” Eli patted the black buggy sitting in the yard.
“Um…that would first mean hitching it up.”
“Jah. That is a problem?”
“Eli,” Joe said, “I don’t even know how to catch the horse, let alone hitch it up.”
“Catching the horse is no problem.”
“Maybe not for you, but it won’t even let me pet it. I’ve tried.”
“But Nellie is a gentle mare.”
“I don’t mind walking into town.”
“True. But the sisters like to get out from time to time. Next Sunday is church Sunday, and they would like to go.”
“Can’t they go with you?”
“Why would they do that when they have a hired man to take them?”
“Because, oh, I don’t know, they like to live?” Joe sighed. “I wish I had my truck.”
“And how is that truck faring?”
“I should have enough money for it to be fixed in a week or two.”
“Ah. Then that means you have your license back?”
“No.” Joe kicked at a clump of grass. Not having a driver’s license was a sore point with him. He had always been able to go when and where he wanted, usually much faster than the law allowed. It was hard not to go too fast when one owned cars that were famous for their speed.
“A buggy is not so bad when it is all you have,” Eli said. “But first, I want to see you catch Nellie and put a bridle on her.”
“How much time do you have, Eli? Decades?”
As Joe had expected, Nellie had her own agenda—and being hitched to a buggy was not on it.
“How do the aunts do this?” Joe asked, after Nellie had frisked away from him for the tenth time.
“They don’t.”
“What do you mean?”
“Bertha says ‘Come,’ and Nellie comes. Bertha says ‘Back up,’ and Nellie backs up. Bertha says ‘giddyap,’ and Nellie ‘giddyaps.’ Bertha says ‘Whoa,’ and Nellie…”
“I get it.” Joe held up a hand. “What if Bertha isn’t around? Does Lydia do it?” he asked hopefully.
“Nein. Lydia is afraid of horses.”
“Why?”
“She was kicked in the side once. It left a bad memory.”
“Oh really.” Joe was not exactly thrilled with the idea of getting kicked, either.
As he halfheartedly chased the horse around the pasture, Nellie acted coltish as she scampered just out of reach. He tried hiding the bridle behind his back. He tried tempting her with an apple and then with sugar. Nothing worked. If Joe hadn’t known better, he would have sworn she thought they were playing tag.
It didn’t help that, for the most part, Eli spent his time clutching a fence post and giggling so hard he was nearly crying.
“Ach. Goot. Goot,” Eli said, wiping his eyes. “Don’t stop. Keep trying.”
Joe looked at Nellie. Nellie looked at him—with every muscle tensed to prance away the minute he approached her. He could swear that had it been possible for a horse to do so, she would have thumbed her nose at him.
His face was gritty from running around the pasture chasing the silly animal—and he was getting a little tired of listening to Eli laughing.
“COME!”
He whipped around and saw Bertha, propped on her walker, standing near the fence. She frowned at the horse.
“NELLIE. COME! NOW!”
Nellie obediently walked over, lowered her head, and stood in front of Bertha.
“STAY!” Bertha said. The horse stood as still as a stump. “Go put the bridle on her, Joe. Eli, you help him.” Then Bertha slowly inched her way back into the house.
It was humiliating—the woman was practically an invalid.
Obediently, Eli and Joe got the bridle fastened onto Nellie.
“What just happened here?” Joe asked, as they led the horse to the buggy.
“Did you not hear? Bertha said, ‘Come’ and ‘Stay.’”
“I said ‘Come’ and ‘Stay.’ I said ‘Come’ and ‘Stay’ a lot.”
“Jah, but you did not say it in German.”
“Bertha didn’t say it in German, either.”
“No. But she thought it in German.”
He saw amusement playing in Eli’s eyes. “Okay, I’ll bite. How did she ‘think’ it in German?”
“Could you not tell? Bertha was thinking, ‘Come, you silly horse. Come and stand still and let Joe bridle you, or there will be no more oats or good fresh hay for your stall for the next month, and I might have to sell you to someone who will make you work for a living instead of frolic in the pasture all day…you big bag of lazy bones.’”
“Bertha was thinking all that, huh?”
“Jah. And the horse knew she was thinking that. It makes a difference.”
“And what was I thinking?”
“You were thinking like an Englischman.” Eli’s voice grew high and mincing. “You were saying, ‘Come, pretty horsey with the big hooves that might kick me. Come and stand still, or I will walk away and do nothing but cry because you are so much bigger and stronger than me.”
“You have been having way too much fun at my expense, Eli.”
“I am a very old man,” Eli said sanctimoniously. “And I would like to live many more years to watch over my family. The Bible says that laughter is good medicine. You have already added several months onto my life span today.” He chuckled and clapped Joe on the shoulder. “I will now teach you how to hitch Nellie to the buggy.”
“You need a television, Eli,” Joe grumbled as they split apart and walked down both sides of the horse. “With a great big flat screen. Messing with me is too amusing for you.”
“Jah,” Eli admitted happily. “That it is.”
Rachel watched the interaction between Joe and Eli from an upstairs window. Eli had his hand on Joe’s shoulder and was chatting with him as they walked Nellie toward the buggy. She knew that Joe was still too ignorant of Amish ways to appreciate the significance of the gesture.
There was a huge difference in personal space between the Amish and Englisch. The Englisch hugged—a lot. Sometimes hugging complete strangers…which was unfathomable to the Amish.
The Amish preferred to nod politely from a safe distance.
A local inside joke said that when Amish women got together, the real reason behind the use of their ever-present straight pins was to keep the too-affectionate Englisch from hugging them.
Rachel thought back to the day her father died. Even though she had been only eleven, she had never forgotten how the Amish arrived at her aunts’ house and stood respectfully at the edges of the yard,
paying quiet homage to her father, the man who had watched over and protected their people, even though he was no longer one of them. By their silent and unobtrusive witness, they had shown her that they shared her great grief.
And then the food began to arrive. Quiet, strong Amish women had kept a steady stream of food coming until the funeral was over and the guests had returned to their homes. No hugs. No tears. No clumsy words of condolence. Just hours of labor over homemade comfort foods during a time when the family was most desperately in need of comfort.
That was the Amish way. It was one of the many things Rachel respected about her father’s people. They showed their love in practical ways. Physical affection was reserved for close family members—in private, if at all.
Eli’s hand on Joe’s shoulder meant that he had accepted Joe almost as one of his own.
This staggered her. What was it that Eli saw in the man?
Even worse, what was it that she saw in him? Her eyes, as though having a will of their own, automatically sought him out even when she was pretending otherwise. While here, helping Lydia strip beds, she couldn’t keep herself from checking out the window every few minutes to catch a glimpse of the man.
Her prayer life had never been her strong suit, but she breathed a heartfelt plea now: Father, whoever Joe is, whatever he’s done, let him be a good man. It will break Eli’s heart and my aunts’ if he isn’t.
She paused before acknowledging the truth of things. It’ll break mine too.
Chapter Twelve
“Am I a good helper, Daddy?” Bobby clutched the plastic sack of copper pipe fittings tightly in his hands as they drove Nellie home from Holmes Lumber, the local hardware store.
Joe was concentrating hard on driving the buggy. Nellie was swinging her neck back and forth in obvious irritation at her harness.
“You’re a great helper, son,” he said, absentmindedly.
This had been a short practice run, and things were not going well. Nellie wasn’t happy. Joe wasn’t happy. The horse was still stubborn about being caught unless Bertha was present. But they were progressing, and none of the harnesses had fallen off. Yet. His respect for the Amish who used this mode of transportation daily rose even higher.
“Lydia says I’m a hard worker just like you.”
“You are.”
Joe remembered dogging his father’s footsteps as a child. His dad had always been patient with him as he repaired the various homes they had occupied. Dr. Robert Mattias was a rarity—a scholar who could work with his hands as well as with his mind. The training Joe had received at his father’s elbow was coming in handy these days.
So far, in addition to scraping the farmhouse, he had replaced some rotted wood he’d found beneath the old paint, washed all the windows, and was now involved in fixing a minor plumbing problem. This evening, if he had time before the sun set, he would replace some rusted guttering.
When they arrived home, he let a relieved Nellie into the pasture, ate a simple lunch, and then repaired the toilet, as Bobby watched raptly.
“What should we do next, buddy?” Joe asked once he finished.
“You said we could make the floors shiny.”
“Shiny floors it is, then.” Although he had scrubbed the wooden floors clean, they did need a good polishing. He tore rags for both of them, and they went to work.
Bobby soon lost interest and began to play with a marble he’d found wedged into a corner. The wooden floor had a slight slant—just enough to make an interesting game to a small boy.
The repetitious task of rubbing lemon-scented oil into the heavy oak was satisfying as he watched the dull grain take on a luster. The long-standing wood soaked up the polishing liquid as though it were parched.
There was a feeling of peace in this old house, especially now that the large multipaned windows were cleaned of the grime. The late afternoon sun streamed in, bouncing off the cream-colored walls and filling the room with light. One thing he had learned was that the Amish preferred plenty of windows in their houses. With their dependence on kerosene lights, they tried to eke out as much daylight as possible.
His son made spluttering car noises as the marble turned into a race car. He remembered doing the same when he and his brother were small.
His brother—another ache in his heart.
They had slept in the same bed as kids, eaten the same food, fought over the same toys, and been each other’s shadow. But Darren had turned into someone he didn’t know—a dreamer who dished out new business ideas as easily as Lydia dished up mashed potatoes. He had talked Joe into funding more than one of his get-rich-quick schemes. When Joe had stopped bankrolling his failed business plans, Darren had moved on to other potential “clients.”
“Suckers” is what Joe called them.
It wasn’t possible to be close to Darren anymore without getting burned. Darren thought that getting rich was the only way to happiness. Joe knew firsthand that it wasn’t.
One of their father’s favorite Scriptures from the New International Version came to mind—a prayer from Proverbs.
“‘Give me neither poverty nor riches,’” Joe said aloud, savoring the sound of the ancient words echoing in the sparkling clean house, “‘but give me only my daily bread. Otherwise, I may have too much and disown you and say, “Who is the Lord?” Or I may become poor and steal and so dishonor the name of my God.’”
“Are you praying, Daddy?” Bobby scrambled under a chair to retrieve his marble.
“I guess I am, son.” He was bemused by the fact that Bobby had noticed. He wondered what else his son had picked up on when he thought he wasn’t paying attention. Probably a whole lot more than he had realized.
His little boy deserved at least as good a childhood as he and his brother had enjoyed. It was high time he got serious about living an open life of integrity. Time he got serious about church attendance too. He was looking forward to going back to that church he had attended with Rachel.
Rachel. The woman was intruding on his thoughts more and more often. He had even dreamed about her last night—a pleasant dream. They were picnicking beside the Sugar Creek again. He had found himself missing her when he awakened.
A noise on the porch broke into his thoughts. He glanced up and saw all three Troyer sisters standing outside on the little porch, looking at him through the screen.
“Come on in,” he said, standing.
They bustled in.
“The floor looks wonderful,” Bertha commented.
Anna sniffed the air. “It smells good!”
“It does,” Bertha said. “What are you using on that wood?”
“A man at the lumber store suggested I use a combination of olive oil and lemon juice.”
“I like the smell of lemon,” Lydia said.
Joe felt a small measure of pride. The daadi haus did smell and look good.
“Can I do something for you ladies?” he asked.
“We need to talk to you,” Lydia said.
Bertha sank into one of the chairs and placed her walker at her side. Lydia and Anna perched on the couch.
“We have received a letter from an old friend of mine who is helping out at one of the many orphanages affected by that terrible earthquake in Haiti,” Bertha said. “The children there are in need of so many things, but she has specifically asked if my sisters and I could manage to send them a sewing machine. The two sewing machines they had were ruined by a roof that collapsed. She says that the children need clothing, but they also need occupation. The plan is for the older girls to once again begin making clothing for the younger children as well as for themselves.”
Lydia leaned forward, her brow knit with concern. “can you imagine not having a sewing machine?”
Joe could imagine it very well, but he knew that a world without sewing machines was probably inconceivable to Lydia.
“We were wondering…,” Lydia began.
“…if you would mind helping us…,” Bertha said.
; “…have a bake sale…,” Lydia continued.
“…at our house!” Anna finished.
“I think we could make a fair profit on my baked goods.” Lydia scooted to the very edge of her seat in her eagerness.
“One bake sale would pay for a new sewing machine?” Joe wasn’t sure how much one would cost, but he thought they might be overly optimistic.
“No, no, no.” Bertha shook her head. “It is impossible to purchase a good new treadle sewing machine anymore. The new ones are cheaply made and do not hold up. Eli has promised us his wife’s old one. We are simply trying to make enough money to ship it.”
“Eli said he would oil it and make certain it is in good working order.” Lydia’s eyes were dancing with enthusiasm.
“The need is extreme,” Bertha concluded. “Some of the children have little but rags to wear.”
“I’d be happy to help.”
“Dank,” Bertha said.
“What do you need for me to do?”
“Some open shelving in the kitchen would be most helpful. We need a place to display our baked goods. I will give you money to purchase lumber. It does not have to be fancy, just sturdy.”
“I can do that.”
“We will also need many supplies purchased.” Lydia pulled a list from her pocket. “I will need much flour and sugar.”
“No problem.”
“And spices and lard and eggs.”
“Of course.”
“And milk and raisins and nuts.”
“I’ll get everything you need, Lydia.”
Lydia handed him the list, her face aglow with happiness. “Oh, Joe, just think. Those young girls are going to get a sewing machine!”
Rachel had never been able to leave a puzzle alone. In fact, she had learned to not even begin a jigsaw puzzle unless she had several uninterrupted hours in which to finish it. She was simply unable to stop until every piece fit neatly together.
At the moment, she was entertaining herself by trying to piece together a very different sort of puzzle. It was a slow night at the station, and she was researching unsolved murders involving married women in the past year. She had searched for those by the name of Matthews, looking for one that had a child with her when discovered. The last part was especially important.
Love Finds You in Sugarcreek, Ohio Page 14
