by Marta Perry
He gave one last wave, and then it was time to turn and apologize for his rudeness. The turn brought him within inches of the woman.
“Sorry,” he muttered. “You must be Sarah, Etta’s granddaughter. I didn’t expect you so soon.”
“No, I apologize. I shouldn’t have come so early. My grandmother assumed you started work at eight, and I didn’t want to interrupt.”
Looking at her, Noah realized she wasn’t quite so strange after all. Etta Miller had talked about her granddaughter coming, of course. He had said that he didn’t remember her, but now it was coming back to him.
“You were a couple of years behind me in school, weren’t you?”
She nodded, face crinkling in a quick smile. “That’s right. By the time I was big enough to be noticed, you’d left school and started your apprenticeship, I guess.”
“Sarah Yoder,” he said, the last name coming to him.
Her mother had been Etta Miller’s middle girl, her father a newcomer from down in Chester County. If he didn’t remember anything else, he should have remembered hair the color of honey and eyes of a deep, clear green. She was short and slight, but something about the way she stood and the assurance when she spoke made her hard to overlook.
He realized he was staring and took an awkward step back. It seemed suddenly intimate to be standing here in the narrow mudroom with a woman he hardly knew.
“You’re here about the job.” He reached past her to grab his wool jacket from the hook. “Let’s go to the shop and talk. No need to be hanging out in here.”
She nodded, buttoning her black coat as she stepped outside, then waiting for him to lead the way to the shop.
“Didn’t your great-onkel used to live here?” He heard her voice behind him as they crossed the yard through frost-whitened grass.
“Yah, that’s so. We moved in about eight years ago.” When he and Janie had married. When he’d still believed marriage meant forever. “My great-onkel used this building as a workshop, so I started my business here.”
He found himself looking at the building he called the shop, seeing it through a stranger’s eyes. It wouldn’t look like much to her—hardly more than a shed with a small addition on one end.
But when he looked at it, he saw the future—the future that was left to him after what Janie had done. He saw a thriving furniture business where his handcrafted furniture was made and sold. He saw his sons growing, working alongside him in the business they’d build together.
“I understand from my grandmother that you need someone to handle the paperwork so you’re free to spend your time on creating the furniture.”
He nodded, liking the way she put that—creating. Each piece of furniture he made was his own creation, with his hard work and whatever gift he had pressed into the very grain of the wood.
“I’d best show you the paperwork, since that’s what would concern you.” If I hire you, he added mentally. But who was he kidding? He hadn’t exactly been swamped with people longing to work for him, especially ones who knew anything at all about running a business.
He held the door open and ushered her into the shop, stopping to put up the shade on the window so that the winter sun poured in. Fortunately he’d started the stove earlier, so the shop was warming already, and the sunlight would help. He’d added windows all along one side of the shed, because he needed all the light he could get for working.
“Over here, in the far corner.” He gestured toward the office area—a corner of the workroom with a desk, some shelves, and a chair. At the moment the desk was piled high with papers. “I haven’t had time to get at it lately.”
He wasn’t sure why he was explaining to her. It was his business. But he guessed it was obvious he needed help. “You can take a look at it. See what you think.”
Instead of commenting, Sarah walked, unhurried, to the desk. He followed her, not sure how to conduct this interview, if that’s what it was. She began leafing through the papers, seeming to sort them as she went. After a moment she looked up.
“Where do you keep the receipted bills?”
“Um, there should be a box . . . yah, that. The shoebox.”
Sarah looked at it, still not commenting. Her very silence began to make him nervous. “It’s not always such a mess.” Just most of the time. “My mother has been away on a trip for several weeks, so I’ve had the boys to manage as well as the business.”
“I see. Sorry. That must be difficult. If you’d like me to see what I can do with this . . .” She hesitated. “I take it your wife doesn’t help with the business?”
He froze, his stomach clenching. Didn’t she know? Didn’t she realize that was the worst thing she could possibly say to him?
* * *
—
She’d said something wrong—very wrong. Noah looked as if she had hit him with a hammer. His strong-boned face was rigid, the firm jaw like a rock. His dark blue eyes had turned to ice. Remorse flooded her. If the poor man had lost his wife, why hadn’t Grossmammi thought to tell her?
Standing here silent wasn’t helping matters any. “Noah, I’m so sorry. I didn’t know. I’d never have said that if . . . I suppose the family thought I knew your wife had passed away—”
“No.” The word was a harsh bark. He swallowed, the strong muscles in his neck moving visibly. “Janie didn’t die. She left us a few months after the twins were born. We haven’t heard from her from that day to this.”
Sarah struggled for words. “I . . .”
“There’s no need for expressions of sympathy.” His mouth clamped shut like a trap.
Whatever she did, she mustn’t show pity. It wasn’t easy, but she schooled her face to calm. “You are the fortunate one, then.”
Noah gave a short nod, as if he understood her instantly. “Yah. I have the boys. They are worth anything.”
He spun, turning away from her, and looked yearningly at his workbench. Clearly he didn’t want to talk anymore. Did that mean he didn’t want her around at all?
“What do you think?” he said, not looking at her. He gestured toward the desk with the papers on it.
Sarah touched the stack of papers in front of her, mentally measuring it. If Noah wanted to carry on as if nothing had happened, surely she could manage to go along with him.
“It might be best if I look through these and sort them. Then we’ll have a better idea of where we are. If that’s all right with you.” She trod as carefully as if she were walking barefoot on broken glass.
“Yah, gut. Denke.” He still didn’t look her way. They were both being cautious and polite, trying to pretend nothing had happened. “However long it takes. I’ll pay for the time it takes to decide if you want to do this or not.”
“You don’t need to—”
“The laborer is worthy of his hire.” He flashed a smile. It was a feeble effort, but it was the first she’d seen from him. “That’s what my daad always says.”
She nodded, sitting down at the desk while Noah moved quickly to his workbench. Her family might have been better off if Daad had adopted that saying. His, unfortunately, had been more in the nature of The grass is always greener on the other side of the fence.
Somehow, no matter how often he had been proved wrong, Daad had clung to that belief. Still did, she supposed. But at least she wasn’t going with him now, the way she’d had to for the sake of her brothers and sister.
They worked without talking, and the workshop was silent except for the gentle swish of fine sandpaper against wood. Sarah glanced around the room. It was well designed, she supposed, with that row of windows bringing in a lot of light so Noah didn’t have to depend on gas lighting.
But there wasn’t much space. The small addition, which she’d assumed was a showroom for his finished pieces, was instead filled with all the equipment he didn’t have room for in here. She beg
an mentally rearranging it, putting her desk and chair in the addition with a few display pieces and moving all the work into the larger space. It would still be crowded, but it would be a better use of the space.
Noah glanced up and caught her looking at him. “Did you want to ask me something? You can interrupt, you know. Unless I’ve got my fingers near a saw blade.”
The attempt at humor encouraged her. He wouldn’t bother, she thought, unless he wanted to make this work.
“I haven’t run across any tax papers.” Sarah said the first thing that popped in her head. “I suppose you do keep tax records.”
“If you can call it that.” He rubbed the back of his hand across his forehead. “If you can figure out the taxes, you’re better than I am. The file is in the house. I’ll get it when we stop for lunch.”
Sarah nodded, but before she could go back to sorting, he spoke.
“So what do you think? You’ve probably never met such a mess in any of your other jobs.”
The expectation revealed in the comment startled her. Clearly he thought she’d been working as a bookkeeper. What exactly had Grossmammi told him?
“It . . . it’s just what I would expect if you haven’t had time to do anything with it in the past month or so.”
Noah grimaced. “Make that three. Or four.” He looked a little shamefaced. “Even when my mother was here, I didn’t spend enough time on that side of the business.”
She nodded, unsurprised. “So I see.” She hesitated. “Just so we’re clear—I don’t know exactly what my grandmother told you, but I haven’t actually had a job in bookkeeping.” Before he could react, she hurried on. “I took all the classes, and I’d accepted a job, but then we moved before I could start work.”
“You moved a lot, did you?” His voice had grown cool quite suddenly.
So it did make a difference to him. Disappointment swept over her. She could do this job, she thought, but not if he didn’t give her a chance.
“I kept house for my daad and took care of my brothers and sister. When Daad decided to move on, we went with him.”
It wasn’t as if she’d had a choice. So she ought to be used to disappointment by this time.
But she wasn’t giving up on getting this job before she’d shown what she could do, so she continued.
“It looks as if it will take a week or so of full-time work just to get everything organized. Once a system is set up, you may only need to spend a few hours a day on it.”
Sarah waited, giving him the opportunity to say that in that case, he wouldn’t need her. Or to agree that he’d hire her. But he didn’t say anything. He just nodded and turned back to his own work.
Well, she’d have to take silence as his permission to go on with the sorting, at least. Perhaps he was thinking that would buy him time to see how well it worked out, having her here.
Did her presence upset his work? She studied him covertly over a stack of receipts. His eyebrows, thick and straight, were drawn down a bit as if he were frowning at the curve he was sanding . . . the arm of a delicately turned rocking chair. The curves of the legs and the back were what many Amish would consider fancy, but the whole piece was so appealing that it seemed to urge one to sit and rock for a bit.
Maybe he wasn’t disappointed in the work—that look might be one of deep concentration. His strong features could easily look stern, she supposed, even if that wasn’t his feeling. The twins hadn’t inherited that rock-solid jaw, or at least, it didn’t show yet. Their faces were round and dimpled.
Did they look like their mother? She didn’t even know if the woman was someone local or not. Obviously, Grossmammi had some explaining to do.
Thinking of the twins caused a pang in the area of her heart. She shouldn’t let herself start feeling anything for those two motherless boys. She knew herself too well—she’d fall into mothering them too easily, and that wouldn’t do.
Presumably Noah’s mother would take over again when she returned from her trip. Noah had been fortunate to have her available when his world had fallen apart.
Grossmammi had offered to take Sarah and her siblings when her mamm died, but Daadi hadn’t wanted it. And Sarah, at eighteen, had been fully capable of looking after the younger ones—not only that, but she’d felt it her duty. She couldn’t regret the years she’d spent raising them, but she didn’t want to do it again, not unless it was with her own babies.
She stole another glance at Noah, his closed face giving nothing away, his dark brown hair curling rebelliously as he worked. He hadn’t offered her the care of his children. He hadn’t even offered her the bookkeeping job yet.
And if he did . . . well, given how difficult his situation was, she wasn’t sure she should take it.
About the Author
Marta Perry is the author of more than fifty inspirational romance novels, including the Promise Glen series, Pleasant Valley series and the Keepers of the Promise trilogy.
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