“Yah, a certain number of people know about you. How do you grow that?”
“I let our work speak for itself,” he replied.
He was so noble, so good...and so unwilling to bend!
“That won’t work,” she said. “Has it so far?”
“We’ve been steadily growing,” he replied.
“Not fast enough to make up the difference,” she replied. “You have two full-time employees as well as yourself, and your expenses keep growing, because your supplies cost more every year, too. Amos, you have to look broader. You have Amish customers, but you need the Englishers.”
“I’ve dealt with Englishers!” he snapped. “They’re always pushing for a deal!”
“Then push back!” she said. “You have a business to run! And if you’re going to get the word out to the Englishers, then you need to get some radio ads.”
“Radio?” he frowned. “No. That’s not our way.”
“But it’s their way,” she said. “You have to put ads where you’ll find your customers, and local radio is a great place to do it. Englishers listen to it while they drive, my daet—” She stopped herself. “Forget who told me about it. But I’ve seen those radio ads work wonders. A few days after they first were aired, there was a spike in new customers—all English.”
Amos stood up. “I don’t need more advertisement.”
“Everyone needs more advertisement,” she said. “Some can’t afford it—”
“I can afford it just fine!” he said. “Miriam, I have run this business my way all these years, and I’ve done just fine.”
Miriam met his gaze, and instead of that warmth she’d seen earlier, there was glittering irritation. This wasn’t about her daet anymore, and she felt tears rise in her eyes.
“Do you know the verses I read to Mammi tonight?” she asked, her voice wavering.
“I heard them,” he said, his voice low. “The wife of noble character from Proverbs.”
“She worked hard, and she was smart,” Miriam said earnestly. “She did her husband good all the days of his life. Let me do you good, Amos...”
They were silent, and Amos broke the eye contact first, looking down at his work-roughened hands.
“She also lived with her husband,” Amos said quietly. “It’s not the same with us.”
Miriam’s heart sped up, and she blinked back the tears.
“We might have a different way, you and I, but I am very much your wife, Amos Lapp!” she snapped. “Just try and marry someone else, and you’ll find out how very married you are. And do you know what I think? You don’t want a wife of noble character who can help your business thrive. You don’t want a smart, talented woman at your side. You want to do it on your own and prove to me that you never did need me!”
“I have been doing it on my own!” he said. “And what is so wrong with a man wanting to be a man? I want to be the one who provides! I want to give my wife a proper life, to let her live without worry about money or debt, and I want her to trust that as her husband I have things under control!”
“Do you want me to just turn off my brain?” she asked, shaking her head.
“I want you to have a little faith in me!” he retorted.
It was difficult to have faith in a man who refused to let her see anything. It was difficult for a woman to put her entire future into the hands of a man who knew less about business than she did, and wouldn’t let her see any of the details that would let her benefit him. But he was right—they weren’t living together. So it was different.
Miriam nodded. “Fine. I’ll back off.”
Amos picked up the pile of ledgers, and his jaw tensed. “Thank you for finding the error. I appreciate your help.”
“Yah. No problem,” she breathed.
That was all the help that he wanted—one clerical error. She had so much more to offer, and the men in her life never seemed to see it. Amos had even accepted her offer of help earlier, and he wasn’t using her to her full potential.
“Would you let me look for my papers?” she asked, her throat tight.
“Yah.” He nodded. “Of course. I’ve gone through this one box a few times looking for other documents, and I haven’t seen yours. But you never know. I can help you—”
“No,” she said with a shake of her head. “You have a restful evening. I can look alone.”
Her last hope of providing for herself with any amount of dignity at this point in her life was to find those papers that proved the strip mall was hers.
Chapter Nine
When Amos went to bed that night, the kerosene lamp was still lit in the kitchen, and Miriam was standing in front of a stack of papers, sorting through them and putting them into separate piles. He hadn’t asked her to organize those papers for him, but she was doing it, anyway.
He couldn’t sleep yet, and he didn’t want to go downstairs and argue with his wife again. She was only trying to help, and she wasn’t doing any harm. Besides, she needed to find her documents.
He’d hurt her feelings tonight—he could see that much—but he wasn’t sure what piece of uncomfortable truth had been the culprit.
Was she angry that he didn’t want to use her idea for advertising on the radio? She made it seem so simple, but how on earth was he supposed to make that happen? He didn’t have any of the technology that Englishers used for such things. Did they just...talk into their phones? Did they have computer programs that did it? That wasn’t an option for an Amish man! They had small businesses and small farms, and by not getting too big, they stayed closer to their communities, and closer to home. He’d never questioned that before. There was no shame in staying small!
But now, Miriam was suggesting growth using Englisher media that he wasn’t comfortable with, and sitting in his bedroom just over the kitchen, he wasn’t going to sleep. So he got up and he sat in a little chair next to the window with his Bible on his lap.
She might not like a husband who was the traditional man, who cared for his wife and didn’t expose her to worry. She might not like that he wouldn’t give up control in his own company, and he might irritate her something fierce just by existing.
But that was okay. He was still the man of this house and would sit up until he heard her go to bed. Then he’d go to sleep. Call him old-fashioned, or call him too stubborn, but he felt in his bones that protecting the women in his home was still his responsibility.
He opened his Bible, and an underlined passage stood out at him. It was in First Peter: Likewise, ye husbands, dwell with them according to knowledge, giving honor unto the wife, as unto the weaker vessel, and as being heirs together of the grace of life; that your prayers be not hindered.
This was a verse that he’d read over and over again during that first year of marriage, and in the years since she left. These had been accusing words—ones that drove him to his knees, asking Gott to change him, and forgive him, and show him how to do better. In fact, he’d read this passage and prayed the same prayer only a few weeks before Miriam arrived.
He could see the meaning in the verse very clearly—if he wasn’t honoring his wife, and if he wasn’t treating her as an equal, then Gott wasn’t going to be listening to his prayers. There was no righteous confidence for a man who didn’t have peace in his own home.
Lord, he prayed. I don’t want to be a difficult husband, but she isn’t an easy woman to understand. Show me how to do this...
He put his Bible aside and went back to his closet. He pulled down the partially carved trinket box, and he ran his fingers over it. He still felt a surge of guilt at never having finished it. He carried it over to where his lamp sat on the windowsill, and he pulled out a knife.
It had been nearly ten years since he’d worked on this box, but he could remember the exact pattern he’d been working on, and he could see the finished product in his mind’s eye. He s
tarted to carve, the sharp knife biting into the wood. He didn’t know how to honor his wife. He was better than his daet had been to his mamm, but it wasn’t nearly good enough. Maybe finishing this gift at long last could be a start.
An hour later, Miriam’s footsteps went up the stairs and into her bedroom. Her door shut with a soft click.
He continued carving, his hands sure as he worked out the vines and thorns of the rosebush twining around the outer edge. He wanted to be right with Gott, and he knew he wouldn’t be, unless he was also right with his wife.
* * *
The next day at work went smoothly enough, but Amos’s mind was on those numbers that Miriam had pointed out. If he had to be completely honest with himself, he’d be more comfortable if he had a little more wiggle room in his budget. If he could sell some smaller items every day, the sorts of things that cost less to make and could bring in a bigger profit, that would be incredibly helpful. With more Englisher customers buying things like spice racks, ornamental mailboxes, quilt racks and jewelry boxes, he could have more money left over for emergencies, or for putting toward retirement. A man might not want to retire, but his body might insist upon it.
If he asked Mammi’s opinion, he knew what it would be—listen to his wife. But Mammi’s priorities weren’t completely locked on his business success. She wanted to bring him and Miriam back together under the same roof. What she didn’t realize was that having Miriam here, having her help, her cooking, her mending his shirts...it wasn’t making things easier on a heart level. Because he had never asked his wife to leave—she’d left on her own, and he didn’t think that she’d willingly come back just because of a couple of weeks of getting along.
After they’d closed up the carpentry shop for the day and Thomas and Noah headed home to their own wives and kinner, Amos hitched up his buggy and set out for home. When he arrived, he took care of the horses, and then he came up the steps, past some laundry hanging on the line, and into the mudroom.
He glanced into the kitchen and Mammi’s chair was empty. His heart gave a little jump.
“Where is she?” he asked.
“Sleeping,” Miriam said. “And hello.”
“Sorry,” he said. “Hi. Let me just wash my hands and get my boots off.”
Miriam came to the mudroom door and leaned a shoulder against the frame as he soaped up his hands.
“The doctor came by today,” she said.
“What did he say?” Amos asked.
“He said that she’ll be sleeping more often now,” Miriam said. “And if she needs more pain medication, we should give her whatever she needs to be comfortable.”
Amos nodded, dried his hands and exchanged a sad look with Miriam.
“I’m glad you’re here with her,” he said. “I’m going to take tomorrow off to spend some time with her, I think. If she’s sleeping more, I hate to lose time with her.”
“I think she’d appreciate it,” Miriam said with a nod, her eyes misting. “Come in and have dinner. I made chicken pie with some salad on the side. If you’re still hungry, I also made some apple crisp.”
It sounded delicious, and he nodded his thanks and followed her into the kitchen.
“Did Mammi eat?” he asked.
“She had a little apple crisp,” Miriam said with a smile.
That was good to hear. He peeked into the bedroom to see Mammi sleeping peacefully, her thin, weathered hand resting on her Bible. Then he went back to the table.
Miriam dished up two plates of food, and then sat down with him. She looked at him expectantly, and he bowed his head. This was his home, and it was his place to ask the blessing.
“For this food we are about to eat,” he prayed, “make us truly thankful.”
The problem was, he was thankful for the food, for the woman who’d cooked it, even for the heartache that she brought back up for him. He was thankful for all of this—the time with his grandmother, and for the faith that he clung to in these difficult times. It was letting go of it all that was going to hurt the most.
He raised his head and plunged his fork into the flaky crust, chicken gravy pooling over his plate. He nodded as Miriam offered him some salad on the side. He’d worked hard, and he hadn’t eaten any lunch today, his mind being on other things, so he was hungry now.
“I wanted to ask you,” Amos said. “If I were to...do a radio ad...how would I do it?”
He kept his eyes on his plate and took another bite. He wasn’t sure how she’d react—condescension, a story about her daet’s superior business skills...
“Are you really thinking of doing it?” she asked.
He glanced up, and to his surprise, he saw genuine happiness in her face.
“It’s a good idea,” he admitted. “And if I could make a little extra, it would make saving for retirement a little easier.”
She smiled at that. “Yah. That’s the thing. You do a lot of large items that have high overhead cost to build, meaning that you’re putting a lot of time and energy into pieces that aren’t going to make you as much profit. Smaller pieces that use less material and time could make up the difference, and Englisher tourists as well as Englishers living in the area are your perfect customers for this.”
“Hmm.” He chewed, listening to her talk. She had more ideas—not just the radio ad. She thought he should put up ads for his shop at the bus depot where the tourists arrived, showing pictures of the smaller items, touting them as genuine Amish.
“That sounds silly,” he said. “I suppose anything I touch is genuine Amish.”
“Isn’t that great?” she said. “It’s all about getting word out, and there are plenty of people who would love nothing more than to buy Amish-made merchandise. Honestly, Amos, what I wouldn’t do for this kind of foot traffic in Edson!”
Her happy smile faded, and she put down her fork. For a moment, she sat in silence.
“What?” he said.
“Oh, it’s nothing.” Miriam rose to her feet and picked up her plate. He watched her go to the counter and deposit her plate there.
“Miriam,” he said, and she turned toward him.
“It’s just an emotional time,” she said. “I’m fine.”
But she wasn’t. He could see that plain as day. She’d been happy talking about marketing his business up until she’d mentioned going home. Did she not want to leave?
“I found my papers,” she said. “They were down the side of the box, under a flap.”
“Oh, good...” He felt his earlier optimism start to fade, too. “I’m glad you found them.”
“I’ll have my own strip mall to run,” she said. “It’s a start. And I am serious about opening a new business, too.”
“With your marketing sense, you’ll be jumping ahead in no time,” he said.
“Yah, it’s...ideal.” But her voice caught, and his heart tugged toward her in response.
Amos rose to his feet, the food forgotten. He crossed the kitchen and caught her hand. She looked up at him, her eyelashes wet, and without thinking better of it, he pulled her into his arms and against his chest.
It was a long-buried instinct with her—pulling her close—and she fit in his arms in just the same way she used to. He was afraid to look down at her, but he tightened his arms around her, and rested his cheek against her hair and kapp.
“Miriam,” he murmured, and when she looked up, he followed another long-buried instinct, and he bent down, covering her lips with his.
They’d always had such passionate kisses after arguments, and there had been something about the relief of falling into each other’s arms all over again that felt the same.
Except they hadn’t been fighting this time.
They’d been getting along...
* * *
Amos had a way of looking at her just before he kissed her that made her stomach tumble...a
nd ten years hadn’t changed that a bit. Feeling his restrained strength in his gentle touch, her heart skipped a beat.
Miriam felt the warmth of Amos’s strong arms as he pulled her closer against him, and up onto her tiptoes. His beard tickled her face, and she felt all the frustration and tension inside of her melt away. There always had been something about Amos’s kisses that had scrambled her mind and left her a little weak in the knees, and feeling his arms around her again felt more familiar than she had a right to. It had been a good many years since they’d shared a kiss, but it was like no time had passed at all, and they’d simply fallen back together.
His touch, his breath, the feeling of his lips against hers... It was like the time between that tumultuous first year and today had collapsed together like a folding fan.
Standing here in the kitchen with his arms around her, the heat from cooking still hanging in the air and that same old feeling of wild relief coursing through her, she didn’t want to move. It was a relief to be in his arms again, to feel his touch, his breath on her face, to smell that musky scent of sunshine and woodworking. She didn’t want to think, or move, or disturb the moment so that it would flutter away.
Amos pulled back, and she blinked her eyes open. For a moment, neither of them said anything, and Miriam held her breath. Then when Amos leaned toward her again, she felt a surge of misgiving. There were so many reasons not to kiss her husband, and she shook her head, and pulled out of his arms.
“We can’t do this, Amos,” she said. Her voice sounded too loud.
“We’re married,” he replied with a rueful smile. “Of all the people who have the right to kiss each other, I think we do.”
That wasn’t what she was talking about, and he knew it.
“We’ve done this before,” she said, softening her tone. “We fight, we argue, we make up, and we do it again. I can’t do this anymore!”
“Except we weren’t fighting,” he murmured. “Not this time.”
“Only because we’re trying our best to make this a peaceful time for Mammi,” she said. “If it weren’t for her, we would be.”
Wife on His Doorstep Page 12
