by Loree Lough
Much to her surprise—and disappointment—Simon’s lips touched her forehead, lingering in a sweet, almost-brotherly kiss. One problem solved, she thought, trying to hide her disenchantment, and another born.
“Good night, Julia.”
When he took a step back and released her from the embrace, a bleak chill settled over her, as if a bitter wind had suddenly blown a warm afghan from around her shoulders. Better get used to feeling this way, she told herself. And stepping into the foyer, she gripped the doorknob so tightly that her knuckles ached. “Drive home safely.”
She couldn’t remember a time when it had been more difficult to close a door and bolt it. Couldn’t remember missing another human being as much as she already missed Simon, though he hadn’t yet driven away. Julia Spencer, known around the office as the newcomer who battled older, wiser men in court—and more often than not beat them—going all soft and squishy over some guy she’d just met?
“Ridiculous,” she said, frowning. She flicked on the lamp in front of the bay window and reached for the drapery cord to shut out the night. As she did, Julia saw him, illuminated by his car’s dome light, and her heart fluttered. “What you need,” she said, heading for the kitchen, “is to slowly sip a cup of mandarin orange tea while you soak in a nice hot tub of bubbles.”
After turning on the gas under the chrome kettle, she dropped a tea bag into her favorite red ceramic mug. Two flies with one swat, she thought, heading upstairs to pour her bath while she waited for the water to boil. While passing through the living room, she noticed the spine of one book sticking out farther than the rest on the shelf. Her frown deepening, she approached, forefinger poised to push it back into place. “The Bible?” Julia whispered. She hadn’t touched it, except while dusting, since moving into her grandparents’ house. So how had it gotten out of line in the first place?
Julia grabbed it, thinking maybe one of the paperbacks she’d stored behind it had fallen from the pile and shoved it forward. “Weird,” she said, clutching it to her chest, because the novels remained in their orderly stack. One glance at the weathered black leather and worn-away gold lettering was enough to awaken memories of days long gone, when her grandfather read Christ’s parables instead of bedtime stories. Even at four and five, as she sat on his knee, Julia understood that he and her grandmother wanted to heal the wounds inflicted upon their only grandchild by their daughter and son-in-law. They’d welcomed her into their home and done their level best to care for her—until illness and old age made it impossible. That day when the social worker came, Julia only needed to remember Granny’s pitiful sobs and the tears clinging to Gramps’s face to know that it had been as hard for them to let her go as it had been for her to leave.
“Take my Bible,” Gramps had said, pressing it into her hands. “Keep it with you always, so you’ll never forget how much we love you…how much God loves you.”
Julia sat in the very chair where he’d recited from the Good Book, one palm pressed to the supple cover and the other resting upon her chest. How different her life would have been if their failing health hadn’t forced her to join an already-overcrowded foster-care system.
But thoughts like that, she’d learned, were as useless as the tears now puddling in her eyes. Swiping them away with the heel of one hand, Julia opened to the first page, where Gramps had listed the births, marriages, and deaths of family members. He’d left this miserable world long before her mother and father, so their names remained on the blue-scribbled list of the living. How a couple as warm and loving as her grandparents could have spawned a daughter as selfish as her mother was something Julia would never figure out. As if drugs and the petty crimes that funded her addiction weren’t injurious enough, her mother married a career criminal to ensure her steady supply of heroine. “You’re the only good thing that came of that union,” Granny used to say. But the kind and loving words could not overpower Julia’s belief that as the product of that union, she was defective.
Amazingly, she’d obediently dragged the Bible from foster home to foster home. Just as amazingly, it was no worse for the wear. But then, Julia had only opened it on Gramps’s or Granny’s birthdays, or her own, to stare at two dog-eared photographs: a wedding picture of her parents and one of Granny and Gramps, side by side in matching rockers on the covered porch. Gently, she pinched her gold locket and closed her eyes, the oh-so-familiar zzz-zzz-zzz sound floating into her ears as she slid it left and right on its dainty chain. How ironic, she thought, that though I own a paid-for car and a mortgage-free, fully furnished house, my most treasured possessions are right here in my hands.
She scooted to the edge of the chair and tossed the old King James Bible onto the coffee table. It landed with its pages open to Psalms. “What time I am afraid,” she read, “I will trust in thee.”
Trust? Julia nearly laughed out loud. “Trust, indeed.”
Disgusted—with her so-called parents and especially with God who, in her opinion, allowed every bit of the misery that brought her to this point—Julia harrumphed and shoved the Bible. And when she did, it opened to the book of John: “…the Father hath not left me alone.”
If that were true, she demanded, why do I feel unloved, too tainted to be worthy of sharing my life with a wonderful man like Simon? Exasperated, Julia reached out to slam the Bible shut. Instead she missed, and it fell open yet again, this time to Job. Julia remembered Gramps sharing that God’s obedient servant was rewarded for his faithfulness after many losses, indignities, and pain with an abundant life filled with peace and joy.
Her own life hadn’t exactly been blissful, but then she hadn’t suffered as Job had, either. She really had very little to complain about, because despite the muddled mess that was her past, she’d become a strong, capable woman—had chosen a career path that made her a champion for those unable to fight for themselves. She identified closely with every client—even the truly guilty ones—because, like her, they were alone, unloved, misunderstood…and abandoned by God.
“Enough of this nonsense!” she said. On her feet now, Julia grabbed the Bible and carefully tucked the photographs inside to protect them. After slamming it shut, she marched purposefully back to the bookshelf and thrust it into its proper place between The Song of Roland and her grandfather’s favorite, The Complete Collection of Shakespeare.
The teakettle’s shrill whistle caught her attention, and she headed down the hall to silence it. No longer in the mood for the romantic candlelight and warm bubble bath that would have evoked memories of her wonderful night with Simon, Julia poured angrily boiling water into her mug. “Seems you don’t even deserve a gently steeped cup of tea.”
Aware she’d been wallowing, Julia knew she wouldn’t stay long in this dark, dangerous place. Later, as she fought the nightmares and bad memories that threatened to deprive her of sleep, she’d beat down the defeatism swirling in her head and heart. But for now, she’d give in to it, because didn’t a tainted woman with no family—and no hope of creating one—deserve just a little self-pity?
Julia stirred sugar into her cup. “Oh, get over yourself, you big whiny baby,” she said as the spoon clattered into the sink. With her tendency to throw herself into her clients and their cases, a husband and kids would feel neglected at best—unwanted at worst. She’d lived a lifetime feeling unloved and would not inflict that pain on another human being.
The self–pep talk began in earnest:
She’d done quite well in life, considering her roots.
She’d achieved everything by dint of her own hard work.
She’d gained the respect and admiration of peers and superiors alike.
And she’d accomplished it all without Mr. Right at her side.
Julia was the first to admit that she had much to be thankful for. But that didn’t stop her from wishing there was hope for her. Hope that someday she’d share her life with Prince Charming and a gaggle of Little Charmings.
Julia hadn’t seen Simon since the night they�
��d walked along the Pequea, but he’d called every few days. Their chats had been short but lighthearted, always ending with a promise to find time to get together again soon. She might have done a better job of getting along without him if not for those fun and friendly phone calls….
After a light breakfast of cornflakes and sliced peaches, Julia headed out for the Gunden farm. Her nine-o’clock hearing had been rescheduled, meaning she had plenty of time to deliver William’s deed. He’d been uncharacteristically impatient during the title search and had surprised her with a bellow of joyous laughter when she told him that no liens or other encumbrances would stall his land purchase. She could hardly wait to see his reaction when she handed him the deed that gave him full ownership of the parcel.
She parked her little sedan beside the Gundens’ buggy and returned Levi’s wave. “My, but it’s quiet around here today,” she called, grabbing her briefcase. “Where is everybody?”
“They are in the killing room, helping Papa with the pigs.”
Julia froze, one foot on the bottom porch step, the other on the gravel walk. “The…killing room?”
Nodding, Levi pushed a hand-carved wooden tractor back and forth across the flaking white paint of the porch floor. He barely flinched when a single shot rang out, cracking the quiet morning, but Julia did. “Goodness!” she gasped, one hand clasped to her throat. “What was that?”
“Papa has shot the first pig,” he said matter-of-factly.
Staring across the vast lawn, Julia’s gaze settled on the shedlike building attached to the silo.
“I do not help,” Levi said. “I do not like job.”
“Can’t say as I blame you,” Julia said, laughing nervously. She sat on one of the whitewashed rockers that flanked the front door. “Does it take long?”
He’d been kneeling but stood to adjust his suspenders. “Oh, yes. It takes all morning. Sometimes more.” Scratching an itch at his hairline, the boy added, “It depends how many pigs must be slaughtered. And that depends on how many people in town have ordered one.”
Julia glanced at her watch. She could wait around for a while and still make it to court for her one-thirty arraignment.
“You can go down there if you want. I am sure they will be happy to see you.”
Grimacing, Julia swallowed. “No way. I’ll just wait here with you.”
“Would you like to play trucks with me?” He grabbed the smallest vehicle from among the half dozen lined up on the floorboards and held it out to her.
“I’d love to, Levi,” she admitted, “but if I kneel down, I’ll scuff my shoes and wrinkle my skirt, and I have to be in court this afternoon.”
On the floor once more, he said, “What is ‘court’?”
“It’s a place where people go to settle arguments.”
Levi nodded. “And what argument are you taking to court?”
“I’m not going for myself,” she said, smiling. “It’s my job to argue on behalf of someone else.”
He aimed that bright-blue-eyed stare at her. “Who?”
How would she explain the intricacies of a legal proceeding to a five-year-old Amish boy? “Well,” she began, settling back into the rocker, “a teenaged boy has been accused of stealing, and I’m going to try to keep him out of jail.”
Levi’s blue gaze held her own. “What did he steal?”
“Potato chips, sodas, candy bars…silly things, really.”
A frown crinkled his smooth forehead. “Why would anyone want to put him in jail for that? If he was hungry, why didn’t his parents just feed him?”
Julia laughed a little. She didn’t have the heart to tell Levi that the boy came from one of Lancaster’s best families. How would she make innocent little Levi understand that most people didn’t steal because they were hungry or that this client’s file bulged with police reports, counselors’ assessments, and judges’ rulings.
Nodding, Levi tilted his head, giving the matter serious thought. “I think I understand.” He squinted one eye. “This boy…he has been bad before.”
Julia hoped that, in her attempt to answer his questions in a friendly, casual way, she hadn’t stolen some of his innocence. “What makes you say that?”
Arms out and palms up, he shrugged. “It seems very simple to me. You would not have to go to court today to keep this boy out of jail if he once stole a little food.”
Levi was close enough to hug, and so she did. “You’re pretty amazing for a little guy, you know that?” Julia mussed his thick blond curls and popped a quick kiss to his freckled cheek. Oh, to have a child like this of her own! She’d be a good mother, attentive and loving and—
Reality, like a cold slap, interrupted the warm moment. Why torture yourself with silly notions like that? she thought, turning him loose. If William didn’t return soon, she’d write a note to leave beside the deed and put both inside. No doubt Hannah would have a crock of flowers on the kitchen table to keep the papers from floating away on the breeze.
“I can fetch Papa if you like,” Levi offered.
She could tell by his crinkled nose and hunched shoulders that the last thing he wanted to do was head for the killing room, where he might witness the slaughter. Another peek at her watch told her she could wait a few minutes more. “No, no, I wouldn’t ask you to do that.”
In a dramatic gesture, Levi drew fingertips across his forehead. “Whew!” he said. “Am I relieved!” Then, after a little shiver, he added, “I would not like to have Papa’s job.”
Julia smiled. “And why is that?”
Sitting cross-legged, Levi rested an elbow on a knee and balanced his chin on a fist. “Because first he has to trap the pig, and that is not easy. They know what is to happen, I think, and it makes them run around like crazy. Then he has to shoot it, right in the head. Terrible,” he said, clapping a palm over his eyes, “the way they kick and squeal, even after they’re dead.”
Levi stared in the direction of the killing room and swallowed. “Then Papa picks it up—not an easy thing, with an animal as big and heavy as a pig—and dumps it into a tub of boiling water to soften the hair.” He pinched his nose. “And, oh, what a stink!”
Julia caught herself grimacing and hugging herself and consciously sat up straight.
“And then,” the boy continued, drawing out the word, “he skins it. By the time he has finished, he will be all covered in the pig’s blood. And if—”
“I get the picture,” Julia interrupted, holding up one hand. “I don’t think I’d like to be your papa, either.” She thought of the packages of bacon and pork chops in her freezer and suddenly had very little desire to cook them up.
“You would not want to be Mama, either, then.”
Julia was afraid to ask why.
“She has to hold the pig while Papa skins it.”
One hand to her stomach, she asked, “What about Rebekah and Seth? Do they—” She gulped. “Do they help, too?”
“If there are many pigs to slaughter, yes. Papa says it is all part of doing their share to keep our farm going.” Levi shrugged. He leaned forward and, looking left and right, whispered conspiratorially, “Soon Seth will take Mama’s job, and I will take on Seth’s chores.” Groaning, he slapped both hands to the sides of his head. “Makes a boy like me want to never grow up, I tell you!”
Laughing, Julia got to her feet. “And I’ll tell you, Levi Gunden, you must keep your family in stitches all day long with stories like that!”
His expression went stonily serious. “Oh, it was not a story, Miss Julia.” Hand over heart, he said, “Every word is true.” Then, cocking his head slightly, he added, “You know, of course, that stitching is for girls and women….”
Julia was about to admit she didn’t get it when he explained, “I have never sewn a stitch in my life. And I never will, unless I must repair a wound on a cow or a horse.” Eyes wide with pride, he clasped both hands in his lap. “I watched Papa do that once, when an Englisher hurled a stone and cut one of our horses’
legs. He sewed up the big bloody cut, good as any doctor, I tell you. Not as good as Doctor Thomas, but good!”
She knew better than to ask for details about the horse’s injury. All too often, the locals—annoyed by the slow pace of carriages—took their frustrations out on the Amish and their horses. The bigger problem, sadly, was vandalism to buggies, the direct result of ire which was sometimes fueled by tourist-attracting ordinances that encouraged the Amish to tether their quaint carriages in front of stores…forcing townsfolk to park much farther away.
Digging in her briefcase, Julia withdrew a slip of “NOTE FROM JULIA” paper, the Christmas gift from last year’s office Secret Santa, and scribbled a message to William. After paper-clipping it to the envelope that held his deed, she stood. “Is it all right if I leave this inside for your father?”
“Of course!” Levi said, exposing a missing lower tooth when he grinned.
She opened the creaking screen door and entered the hushed house, where the scents of simmering stew and fresh-baked bread hung in the air. Placing the envelope on the kitchen table, Julia tiptoed out. And, after patting Levi on the head, she grabbed her briefcase. “Have a good day, my little friend,” she said, descending the porch steps.
“What is jail like, Miss Julia?”
The question brought her to a sudden stop. “What is…what is jail like?”
When he looked at her as if to say, “Are you deaf, or merely dense?” Julia smiled. “I guess you’d say jail is like a cage.”
“Like the one where I keep my bunnies?”
She’d seen the rabbit hutch, which was fashioned from chicken wire and wood. “Sort of like that, only bigger, with fat iron bars and cement walls and floors.”
Blinking, Levi said, “How very sad.” He pursed his lips. “I will pray for the boy who stole the food. Maybe God will choose not to punish him in a cage.” He shrugged. “But maybe a lesson as harsh as that is just what he needs.”
Oh, from the mouths of babes, Julia thought.
Levi went back to playing with his trucks. “Tell him that, not far away, someone is praying for him.” He shot her the gap-toothed grin again. “I think that will make him happy.”
