When Grace Sings

by Kim Vogel Sawyer

  Mrs. Braun approached, a smile trembling on her lips. “We knew she’d be leaving us when she married you, and even though this is a little earlier than we’d anticipated, we trust she’ll be all right.”

  Anna—Grace hugged her dad and then wrapped her mother in a hug. The women clung for several seconds before she stepped aside and faced Steven. “How long will it take to repair the house?”

  He repeated what the carpenter in Arborville had estimated. “A month if things go well. Two at the most.”

  She bit her lip for a moment. “So if I wait two weeks, I’ll be in Arborville for two to six weeks while you work on the house.” She gave a firm nod. “That should be long enough. By the time you finish the house, I should know whether or not living there is something I can do. If I can, the house will be ready for us. If I can’t, it will be ready for someone else.”

  Steven stifled a groan. Four to eight weeks before he’d know whether he could pursue his own desires? He might explode by then.

  Arborville

  Briley

  Briley closed his laptop and pushed it aside. He cringed as he considered Len’s reaction to the lengthy e-mail he’d just sent. One full week in Arborville and he hadn’t uncovered so much as a speck of dust. If dirt existed here among the people of the Old Order fellowship, they’d swept it well under the rug. Would Len tell him to give up and come on back to Chicago? Even though he was going a little stir crazy—he missed the bustling Chicago nightlife—he wasn’t ready to concede defeat. There had to be dirt here. He just needed to peel back the rug a little farther. And that would take time.

  His stomach growled. He glanced at the clock and gave a start. Seven already? He’d sat down at the table at a quarter of four to fine-tune the week’s journal entries and e-mail Len. Where had the time gone? He crossed to the little refrigerator tucked in an old-fashioned cupboard and rummaged through it. Lunch meat, cheese, a squirt bottle of mayonnaise, and a half-dozen cans of soda—nothing more than what he’d found every other time he opened the door. He was getting pretty tired of sandwiches. He really wanted a pizza. And not the microwavable kind, either—a soft-dough, double-cheesy, pepperoni-and-mushroom-laden pizza like the ones from his favorite parlor back home. His mouth watered and his stomach rumbled again. He smacked the refrigerator door closed, grabbed his jacket from the back of the chair, and strode out the door.

  He tugged on his jacket as he crossed the lawn for the house. He tried not to pester the Zimmermans in the evening, but once the pizza craving hit, he knew he wouldn’t be satisfied with bologna. If he had to, he’d drive to Wichita, but he hoped he’d be able to find a pizza place a little closer to Arborville.

  Alexa responded to his tap at the door and invited him into the kitchen. The room sparkled from a fresh cleaning, but the aroma from supper still lingered. The savory scent heightened his hunger, and he blurted, “Where’s the closest pizza joint?”

  A sympathetic grin appeared on her face. “Are you homesick?”

  Briley frowned, confused. “Homesick?”

  “Yes. I’ve heard Chicago-style pizza is the best.”

  He hadn’t done enough traveling to confirm if the best pizza came from Chicago. He just knew he liked the pies from Johnny’s Pizza Parlor better than any other place he’d eaten in the city. Thinking of chomping through a slice of Johnny’s pepperoni nearly made him groan in desire. He gave a quick nod. “It’s good stuff all right. And I’ve got a serious craving. Please don’t tell me I’ll have to drive all the way to Wichita for pizza.”

  She untied her apron and hung it on a hook beside the back door. “You’re in luck. The convenience store on the highway has a pizza oven. You can buy a slice or an entire pie.”

  “Convenience store pizza?” Briley made a face. “That can’t be much better than the frozen store-bought ones. Those things taste like cardboard.”

  She shrugged and leaned against the edge of the counter. A few strands of hair had worked loose of her simple ponytail and framed her jaw. She pushed the strands behind her ears, then slipped her hands into the pockets of her denim skirt. “I’ve never eaten frozen ones from the store—I prefer to bake my own—but the Quick Stop pizza really isn’t bad. Why not get a slice and try it out? If you don’t like it, then you’ll know you have to drive to Wichita or Pratt.”

  Her idea made sense. As hungry as he was getting, even the cardboard variety sounded good. He inched backward toward the porch. “I’ll give it a try. Thanks.” He turned to go, but an odd sense of loneliness struck and held him in place. “You busy? Maybe you could go with me.” A pretty blush stole over her face. He’d flirted enough to recognize that embarrassment, not pleasure, caused it. He’d better give her an out. He sniffed the air. “Obviously you already ate. Was it meatloaf? Spaghetti?”

  “Italian meatloaf.”

  If it tasted as good as it smelled, it had to have been wonderful. “So if you’re not hungry and not interested, it’s all right.” He coughed a laugh and held up both palms. “No pressure.”

  The blush deepened. She looked to the side. “Mr. Forrester, I appreciate the invitation, but—”

  “Hey, I wasn’t asking you out on a date.” Defensiveness sharpened his tone. Did she have to act so skittish? He wasn’t exactly a monster. And she was too young—and too “plain”—for him anyway. “I just thought you might enjoy getting out of the house. I’ve been here a week, and the only time you’ve left is to go to the grocery store or to church. But if you’d rather stay here, it’s no skin off my teeth.”

  She jerked her gaze toward him. “No skin off your teeth? Did you really say that?” Amusement glimmered in her eyes.

  Fond remembrance replaced the stab of irritation. He chuckled. “Wow. Aunt Myrt just came out of my mouth.”

  Alexa tipped her head. Her ponytail swung toward her left shoulder, and the bulb hanging from its twisted cord overhead brought out shimmers of bronzish-gold in the dark tresses. “Who’s Aunt Myrt?”

  Briley wished he could bite off his tongue. “Nobody important.” Such a blatant lie. She was the only person who’d ever been important to him. But he couldn’t explain without sharing parts of himself he preferred to keep hidden. Before he said anything else to incriminate himself or shame the dear woman who’d loved him unconditionally, he took a backward step. “Enjoy your evening. I’m going after my pizza.” He turned and headed across the creaky porch floor.

  Alexa’s soft footsteps padded after him. “Mr. Forrester?”

  He paused at the screen door.

  “I can’t go with you because Marjorie hasn’t arrived yet and I don’t want to leave Grandmother alone.”

  Of course. She hung around the house to take care of her wheelchair-bound grandmother. He shouldn’t have gotten testy. “Ah, gotcha.” He angled his head. “By the way, what happened to her?”

  Alexa grimaced. “A hay bale—one of the big round ones—rolled over her and crushed her pelvis.”

  Briley involuntarily shuddered.

  She nodded in understanding. “She’s lucky to be alive, but she’ll never walk again. And for some reason, evening is the hardest part of her day. Her joints ache worse, which makes it harder for her to see to her own needs. So I need to be here. But thank you for asking me to go along.”

  Sympathy twined through him—an emotion he rarely allowed himself. He took hold of the doorknob. “No problem. Thanks for letting me know where to find my supper.” He turned the etched knob.

  “Mr. Forrester?”

  The hesitation in her voice bothered him. He’d sat at her dining room table and engaged in light conversation every morning for a week and rescued her from the fuzzy mutt that roamed the farm. She’d claimed to trust him, but her timidity seemed to prove the opposite. What would it take to get these people to relax enough to open up to him? “Yeah?” The single word query growled out.

  “I feel bad that you don’t have a stove in the cottage, so you can’t do any cooking. If … if you’d like, you can join us fo
r lunch tomorrow after service. There’ll be plenty of food.”

  He examined her face for signs she regretted issuing the invitation. He saw only sincerity. He nodded. “Sure. That’d be great. Thanks.”

  A relieved smile broke across her face. “Good. Well, I’ll see you in the morning then.”

  “Eight o’clock,” he verified.

  She nodded.

  He gave the door a push, then stopped before stepping over the threshold onto the concrete ramp. “What time is service?”

  “Service …” Her eyes widened. “You mean church service?”

  He nodded.

  “You want to come?”

  Only an idiot would miss the delight reflected in her expression and tone. Her response reminded him of Aunt Myrt’s reaction the Sunday mornings he’d rolled out of bed without prompting and stumbled into the kitchen in his best trousers and shirt. Even though he usually slept through the service, she’d always been so happy when he went without a fuss. He should have stayed awake and paid more attention back then. If Aunt Myrt knew he wanted to attend the fellowship’s service just to win the community members’ favor so he could spy on them, she’d be disappointed.

  He swallowed bitter regret and forced a reply. “Yeah, if you don’t mind an outsider showing up.”

  Alexa laughed, a lighthearted trickle of happiness. “Nobody’s an outsider in the house of God, Mr. Forrester. You’re more than welcome to attend. Service starts at ten, and you can ride along with Grandmother and me if you’d like.”

  His sports car would look pretty ridiculous outside the little church building alongside the buggies, dark-colored unpretentious sedans, and pickup trucks. “Thanks. I’ll do that.”

  “Okay!” She laughed again, then waved both hands at him. “Now go get your pizza before you starve to death on my back porch. See you tomorrow morning, Mr. Forrester.”

  Sommerfeld

  Anna—Grace

  Anna—Grace settled onto her familiar bench beside Mom and Sunny and glanced across the simple worship room at the folks filing into their seats. Neighbors, friends, uncles and aunts and cousins—all people she’d known her entire life. A knot formed in her throat. In two weeks she would enter a different building in a different town and worship with a different fellowship. Her stomach trembled. Could she do it? Could she really leave Mom and Dad and Sunny and her fellowship family?

  Friday night she’d been so certain going to Arborville was the right thing to do. Saturday morning she gave her notice at the café without hesitation. Saturday afternoon she called Arborville and made arrangements to stay with her cousin Sandra, then she and Mom made a list of the things she should plan to take with her. Not even one inkling of doubt had entered her mind.

  But now worry descended. Or maybe it was fear. Either way, the thought of leaving didn’t seem as wise as it had only thirty-six hours ago. She looked across the aisle to the men’s side of the church and quickly located Steven’s thick, short-cropped blond hair. She gazed at his profile—the slight lift of his chin, his firm jaw, and his lips set in an unsmiling line. He appeared uncertain, too. Was he also fearful about leaving Sommerfeld? He hadn’t come right out and said so, but she’d sensed apprehension each time they discussed his grandfather’s farm. Sympathy swirled through her chest.

  Sunny shifted close and rested her cheek against Anna—Grace’s shoulder, and the nervous tremors changed to the threat of tears. Dear Lord, this is the natural progression of life—growing up, leaving home, forging a separate pathway. Our worry doesn’t please You. Give us peace about the direction we’re going and help us stay in Your will.

  The prayer soothed the frayed edges of her nerves. She hoped Steven felt it, too. She kissed the top of Sunny’s glossy head of hair and turned her attention to the front as Deacon Muller stepped forward to offer the opening prayer.

  Arborville

  Briley

  Briley chose the bench at the back of the simple, white-painted worship room where he could observe the worshipers without them observing him. His research had already prepared him for the men filling the benches on one side of the room and the women on the other. The lack of hymnals and musical instruments didn’t take him by surprise, either, but the singing did. The people’s voices blended in the most beautiful harmony he’d ever heard. Even though he’d never been fond of church music—it was too tame for his taste—the delivery of the hymns gave him chills. The good kind of chills.

  Between standing to sing, kneeling to pray, and sitting on a backless bench, there was no possibility of sleeping through the service in the Arborville church even though it stretched for two hours—longer than any church service he’d attended before. He didn’t sleep but he did fidget. He couldn’t help it. How could anyone sit comfortably on a solid wood bench with no backrest to lean against? But everyone else, even the youngest kids, sat still and attentive during the lengthy sermon about a man named Joseph who’d been sold into slavery by his brothers.

  He listened in snatches between studying his surroundings, but he honestly couldn’t find much reality in the gist of the lesson. Bad things could be used for good in a person’s life? The concept was too simplistic and fairy godmotherish to be real. After lunch he’d make careful notes about not only the service but also the naiveté of the people seated on these benches in the stark sanctuary.

  The service ended—finally—with one more hymn they sang with gusto. At the closing “Amen,” parishioners surrounded Briley. He’d already met many of the people while wandering the local businesses or driving around town taking pictures, but they shook his hand and welcomed him anyway. Danny Aldrich—the little fisherman—reminded Briley to come out to the pond and drop a line that afternoon. He received no fewer than a dozen invitations for lunch, all of which he politely declined since he already had plans, and without exception each promised to ask him again in the future. Briley couldn’t wait to share this information with Len. His boss would be thrilled at how readily he’d been accepted by the members of the community.

  He shrugged into his jacket and left the church, making sure he exited via the same door the other men used, and jogged across the dry grass to Mrs. Zimmerman’s car. She and Alexa were already inside—Mrs. Zimmerman in the back, Alexa behind the wheel—with the engine running. He popped open the passenger door and slid onto the seat. “Sorry I kept you waiting. Lots of people wanted to talk to me.”

  “It’s okay.” Even as she assured him, she put the vehicle in Drive and pulled out of the parking area, clearly eager to get going. “The others already left, but if they beat us to the farm, they have a key to get in.”

  Briley frowned. “Others?”

  Mrs. Zimmerman answered. “My family gathers every Sunday for our noon meal and a time of fellowship. We trade hosting duties. This is our week to host.”

  “I see.” Anxiety pinched his gut. He’d envisioned lunch with Alexa and her grandmother, not with a crowd. But he sent a polite smile over his shoulder. “That must be nice, being with family every week.”

  “Yes, it is.” The older woman released a contented sigh. “And now that Alexa is with us, all four of my children are represented around my dining room table. I am very blessed.”

  Briley’s reporter nose itched. He propped his arm along the back of the seat and shifted sideways so he could converse with Mrs. Zimmerman. “Hasn’t Alexa always been with you?”

  The woman pursed her lips, and Briley wondered if she’d ignore his question. But when she spoke, no reluctance colored her tone. “No, Mr. Forrester, to my great regret I’ve only known Alexa for a few short months. Her mother and I suffered a lengthy separation, all my own fault, which meant I had no contact with my granddaughter. So you might say the two of us are making up for lost time.”

  He flicked a glance at Alexa and caught the fond curve of her smile change to an uncertain tremble. He wanted to question the odd expression dancing across her lips, but for some reason the words wouldn’t form. He faced forward and remai
ned quiet the remainder of the distance to the bed-and-breakfast.

  The truck Mrs. Zimmerman’s son drove and an unfamiliar car were parked beside the barn. Alexa pulled past them and parked in a graveled patch near the house. She shut off the ignition and pocketed the keys. “Looks like Sandra is the only one not here yet.”

  “She’s been slower since little Isabella came along.” Mrs. Zimmerman laughed softly, the sound holding affection. “But she’s worth waiting for.”

  Briley and Alexa exited the car at the same time, and he moved to the back door to help Mrs. Zimmerman. But Alexa politely asked him to move aside, claiming it was easier to do the transfer herself than explain the procedure to someone else. He could have told her he knew how to transfer someone into a wheelchair, but it would have created another delay, so he waited until Mrs. Zimmerman was situated in her wheelchair. When Alexa reached for the chair’s handles, he bounded forward.

  “I’ll take Mrs. Zimmerman in. I held you up at church, so you probably need to get inside and see to lunch.”

  She flashed a quick smile and darted off, leaving him alone with the old woman. Mrs. Zimmerman sat with her hands resting over her purse and Bible in her lap, seemingly at ease in his presence.

  He curled his hands around the rubber grips. A memory surfaced of Jeffrey, a foster brother whose father had shaken him when he was a baby and caused cerebral palsy. Jeffrey always wanted Briley to push his chair because he did wheelies. The boy’s laughter rang in the recesses of his mind, and he came close to pressing down and sending Mrs. Zimmerman’s feet in the air. Fortunately good sense prevailed, and he gave a forward push instead.

  “Here we go.”

  Alexa had gone around to the back door, so Briley followed her lead. He pushed the wheelchair into a kitchen bursting with wonderful aromas and bustling with activity. The moment the chair cleared the threshold, a blond-haired woman with tense lines marching across her forehead waved her hand at him.

  “You’ll be in the way in here. The table’s already set. Take Mother on to the dining room.” She turned to the stove and swirled a wooden spoon through the contents of a kettle.