Waiting for Summer's Return

by Kim Vogel Sawyer

  Summer raised her chin a notch. Although she didn’t see that this was their business, her silence would only create more questions. “I am providing tutoring for his son. Surely you’re aware of his injury which keeps him from school?”

  The two women exchanged glances, and the younger one gave a knowing nod. The older turned back to Summer. She pointed across the street. “You could not stay there, in the hotel?”

  Summer took a deep breath. It seemed the doctor’s indication that Mr. Ollenburger’s reputation in town would protect her was incorrect. A cold sweat broke out across her back and shoulders as she faced the accusatory looks on these women’s faces. “I could, but it would require Mr. Ollenburger to transport me each day. This would be inconvenient for him. Consequently, I have been given the privilege of residing in the shariah on his property.”

  Summer used her best Boston voice and poise—learned from observing her sister-in-law, who could cause the haughtiest of women to cower—although inwardly she trembled from rage and humiliation. How dare these women question her morals?

  The older woman’s eyes narrowed. “If unable you are to pay a hotel bill, there is an orphans’ home near Hillsboro, on other side of the Cottonwood River.”

  The younger woman stepped forward. “Allowed to stay at the orphans’ home are also destitute adults.”

  Oh, how rude! Summer clenched her jaw as angry words fought for release. Destitute? These women saw her as destitute? Widowed? Yes. Homeless? Yes, that, too. But not destitute. She would make her own purchases here today. “I assure you there is no need for you to be concerned about my financial state.” She raised her reticule. “I have funds to provide for myself. I have chosen to reside in the Ollenburgers’ shariah. I have chosen to assist young Thomas in his studies. And I will choose at what time to change this arrangement.”

  The power Summer felt at that moment astounded her. Although a part of her wished to hide behind the apple barrel, her anger held her erect, giving her the courage to meet these adversaries without cringing. How she wished she had found this burst of angry courage when faced with the interference of Rodney’s parents. Perhaps she would not have been forced to flee Boston and their critical disapproval.

  The clerk crept behind the counter. “Please total my purchases,” Summer told him. “I do have other stops to make, and Mr. Ollenburger will be calling for me soon. I don’t wish to inconvenience him by making him wait for me.”

  The two women stood with gaping mouths, but Summer was sure she saw the clerk’s lips twitch. He kept his eyes averted as he figured her bill on a pad of paper. She paid for her purchases, then turned toward the door. “Which direction to the post office? I must post a letter to my parents-in-law, informing them of my decision to remain in Gaeddert.”

  The clerk pointed mutely to the east. Summer swept from the store, her chin held high. Once outside, she wilted against the building. Then, hearing the door open behind her, she straightened and sent a glowering look over her shoulder at the two women. They sent looks back that were equally scathing before scuttling down the boardwalk in the opposite direction of Summer, their heads together and tongues wagging.

  Summer sighed. The women’s ill reception made it clear she was unwelcome in this town. But her love for her children outweighed the unease those two women had caused. As long as Mr. Ollenburger was willing to allow her to stay on his property, she would remain. She started toward the post office.

  Peter opened the door to the barbershop and had to halt as Frau Schmidt and her daughter Malinda stormed past. The older woman spotted him and paused in her stride long enough to purse her lips in disapproval before grabbing Malinda’s elbow and propelling her on down the boardwalk. The women’s shoes clacked in an angry tempo.

  What about his appearance had been displeasing to them? Before his haircut and trim, maybe the woman would have had reason to scowl in his direction. He needed to make this trip more often than he did—the mirror had almost frightened him when he had glimpsed his ragged image this morning. But now he looked presentable.

  Shrugging, he walked to Nickels’. He called a greeting to Nick as he entered. “Guten morgen. Here I am to pick up Frau Steadman. She is ready?”

  “Her things are ready,” Nick responded in German as he pointed to a variety of items on the end of the counter. “She asked the direction to the post office.”

  “I will wait for her here, then.”

  Nick sucked in his lips. “So what Frau Schmidt said is true? The woman is living at your place?”

  Peter pulled his brows downward. The tone used by Nick made his heart pound in uneasiness. “Ja, the woman is staying in my shariah. My boy is getting lessons from her while he mends.”

  “Did I hear she is a widow woman?” Nick asked as he swept a rag across the countertop. He did not meet Peter’s gaze.

  Peter felt his neck hair prickle. “She is a woman with principles, and you know I am a godly man.”

  “I would not question that, Peter,” he said, his shoulders rising in a shrug. “But others …”

  “The hens are clucking?”

  Nick’s simple nod confirmed Peter’s words.

  Peter felt his chest tighten. That explained the cool reception he had received on the boardwalk a few minutes ago. “Was the woman badly treated by Frau Schmidt?”

  Red appeared across Nick’s cheeks. His dusting continued with nervous energy. “They suggested she go to live in the hotel or the orphans’ home in Hillsboro.”

  The pressure in Peter’s chest increased.

  “Now, you cannot take Frau Schmidt too much to heart.” Nick threw the rag beneath the counter. “You know she is a busybody.”

  “Ja, a noisy busybody. If she is saying this here, she is saying it elsewhere, too. And you know others will listen.”

  “Will you take the woman back to the hotel?” Nick’s eyes were wide.

  Peter would not allow one or two busybodies to dictate his actions. This town knew Peter was an honorable man, and they would need to trust him. “I promised the woman a home on my property for as long as she wants it. I will not go back on my word.” Nick nodded but worry appeared in his face. “I hope you will not be brought before council.”

  Peter rubbed his lips together. He had not thought of that. Frau Schmidt’s clucking might result in council action. If brought before the council of church on the suspicion of immoral behavior, what would he say? His clumsy tongue would no doubt trip over itself if asked questions. Mein Gott, I will need your presence if before council I must go. Yet he had nothing to hide. Both Thomas and Grossmutter could verify that nothing untoward took place in his home.

  He forced a confidence into his tone that he did not feel. “If brought before council I am, I will tell only the truth. The woman lives in my shariah and gives lessons to my boy. That is all. We have done nothing of which to be shamed before man or God.”

  Nick leaned across the counter, his lips twitching in sudden amusement. “The woman stood up to Frau Schmidt. She claimed she had chosen to live in the shariah and would continue to do so.”

  Peter’s brows shot up in surprise. Although he knew it would create problems with Frau Schmidt, it pleased him that the woman had stood her ground. That showed spunk. She would need spunk to recover from her losses and to face possible censure from the town.

  At that moment, the door to the store opened and Frau Steadman entered. Her lips were pinched, her face white. She had shown spunk to Frau Schmidt, but it had cost her. “Frau Steadman, you have finished your errands?” he asked.

  She gave a brusque nod.

  “You are ready then to return?”

  Again, she nodded without speaking. Her stare lit upon the pile of purchases still resting on the counter. She moved to them, touching the washtub with a hand that quivered. She appeared deep in thought, her brow furrowed, her lower lip pulled between her teeth. Peter’s heart began to pound. Would she ask Nick to return these items to the shelf and tell Peter to take her bac
k to the hotel?

  She turned to face Nick, and Peter saw determination in her dark eyes. “Sir, I would very much like a teapot and a box of tea leaves. Are these things available?”

  Nick bustled around the end of the counter. “Ja, Frau.”

  The woman followed Nick to the small selection of china teapots. Her fingers caressed the roses painted on one pot, and Peter felt certain this was the one she would choose. But then she turned over the price tag hanging from the pot’s handle. He saw her shoulders slump.

  “Perhaps a teakettle would be better than a pot.”

  Peter heard the regret in her tone. Nick led her to the tin kettles, and she carried one to the counter. From a shelf behind the counter, Nick retrieved a box of tea leaves.

  “A half pound of white sugar, too, please.”

  Nick measured out the sugar into a small paper bag. She paid for the tea, sugar, and kettle without another word. Her purchasing complete, she stepped out the door onto the boardwalk.

  Nick placed the new purchases in the washtub and shoved it across the counter in Peter’s direction.

  Peter paused, his gaze drifting to the shelf that held the china teapots. Beside the pots stood dainty cups and saucers with similar painted patterns. Glancing over his shoulder to ensure the woman did not peek in the window, he crossed to the shelf and selected a cup with the same rose design as that on the teapot she had admired. How ridiculous the cup looked when held in his big callused hands. Yet it would suit the woman.

  He handed the cup to Nick. “Wrap this and put it within her bundle.”

  “A gift, Peter?” Nick’s eyes sparkled.

  Peter felt his neck grow hot. “A … payment … for what she endured today with Frau Schmidt.”

  Nick nodded silently, but his face held a speculative expression as he wrapped the cup and saucer in newspaper and placed them in the washtub. Peter put the tub under his arm and joined the woman on the boardwalk. She stood with her shoulders hunched, her chin low. Peter felt sympathy swell again. She did not deserve scorn from Frau Schmidt. He touched her arm. “Come, Frau Steadman. Home we will get you.”

  She sent him a look that held both hurt and gratitude. “Yes.” Her voice was small. “Thomas and I have much to do today.”

  It pleased Peter that she would think of the boy instead of herself. That spoke again of spunk and also a lack of selfishness. He felt certain Frau Schmidt and her wagging tongue would not defeat this woman despite her fragile appearance. He could not hold back the smile that tugged at his lips as he thumped to the wagon and placed the tub in the back. When he turned, he found her waiting beside the wagon.

  She held out her hands, a silent request for his help in climbing into the wagon. As he assisted her, he noticed that Nick stood in the doorway of the dry goods store, watching them.

  Well, he can look, Peter thought stubbornly. He will see nothing to criticize. He settled the woman, then rounded the wagon to climb into his own spot. As Peter urged the oxen to pull the wagon from town, he glimpsed eyes peering at him from behind windows of houses and businesses. Although his neck felt burned, he held his chin high and his shoulders back. They would not see him slink away in shame.

  9

  THE WOMAN SAT SO quietly on the seat as they traveled toward his home, Peter wondered if she’d fallen asleep. But when they passed the graves of her family, she suddenly straightened and looked toward the stones.

  “Would you like to stop again?” he asked, sensing her desire.

  “Can you spare the time?”

  Although he had things to do at home, the stark longing in her voice made him decide to take the time. “Whoa.” The oxen came to a halt, stamping the ground and nodding their heads at this interruption. He helped her down, then leaned his back against the wagon to wait for her.

  But she peered up at him. “Would … would it be too much to ask for you to come to the graves, too?”

  Visiting the gravesite of a loved one was a private matter. Why would she want his intrusion?

  “I could use a friend right now.”

  Ah … the treatment in town had left her feeling alone. Staring at those graves would heighten the feeling. He nodded that he would join her, took her elbow, and guided her across the dry grass. As they passed the ash pile, her gaze drifted over the sooty mess. She sighed, and he remembered her comment that ashes cannot be put back together again. For a moment he wished it were possible.

  She crouched before the jar of flowers. Her skirt and coat became dust-laden as they swished the g round. She reached out and rearranged a few drooping blossoms, her slender hands appearing to weave the stems together, the movements of her fingers as graceful as a dance. Then she rose to stand beside the graves, her hands clasped in front of her, her scarf waving beneath her chin in the breeze.

  Such a dismal picture she created as she stood, unmoving, beneath a cloudless sky, the sun glinting off her dark hair. Her shadow slanted across the two smallest graves, his own shadow appearing to bolster hers. That seemed appropriate, and he shifted forward to bring his shadow closer to hers. From the cottonwoods, a turtledove called, its mournful cry a fitting song for this setting.

  He looked at her bent head, wondering why she avoided the grave of her husband. The husband was even buried slightly apart from the children, as if she tried to keep him away.

  Suddenly she broke the stillness. “Am I doing the right thing, Mr. Ollenburger?”

  “I … I do not know of what you ask.”

  She turned to face him. “Remaining in Gaeddert. Is it wrong of me to do so?”

  Peter shrugged, his pulse pounding in his ears. “What makes you ask this?”

  Her chin quivered and she set her jaw, stopping the trembling. “I don’t wish to create problems for you, but … In town … some women …” She shook her head. “If my being here will cause strife, perhaps I should move on.”

  She stood close enough for him to touch, yet his hands remained in his pockets. “Strife.” He pondered the word. “Do you speak of trouble?”

  She nodded, her eyes meeting his. “Should I leave?”

  “Where would you go?”

  Her pained expression told him she did not know the answer.

  “Have you prayed about what is best?”

  She quickly spun away from him. “I don’t pray anymore.” The uncertain tone had turned harsh.

  “I think maybe again you should.”

  He could see her dark eyes spark with anger as she whispered, “My prayers go unanswered.”

  “No prayers go unanswered.”

  She threw her right hand out toward the graves. “If all prayers are answered, then why am I standing here beside graves instead of beside living, breathing children?”

  “The answer was no.” He watched her face harden all the more. Before she could speak, he went on. “Frau Steadman, the God I love and serve hears all prayers. He answers all prayers. Sometimes it is yes. Sometimes it is wait awhile. Sometimes it is no. He knows best.”

  “This is best for me?” Her voice became shrill and loud. The turtledove’s song ceased as she railed at him. “How can watching my children die one by one be what’s best for me?”

  Peter struggled to find an answer. “I know it is difficult to understand. Maybe … maybe it is what was best for them.” He, too, pointed to the graves. “They are now walking the streets of heaven. Their bodies are whole and strong. Their hearts are filled with joy.”

  “While my heart is empty.”

  From the trees, the dove began its hesitant song once more. Peter stepped forward, and the urge to touch her shoulder in a comforting manner was strong.

  “Frau Steadman, I would like to speak to you as a friend. Will you listen?”

  Though she held her shoulders stiff, she gave a little nod.

  He offered a silent prayer for guidance before speaking. “For long weeks after my Elsa died, I questioned God, just as you are doing now. Why? Why did this woman who wanted so much to see America’s soi
l and see her little boy grow up under America’s freedoms have to die? Such a good woman she was. She deserved to see her dreams come true. Like you, I prayed very hard for my Elsa to be spared of the sickness. The day she was lowered into the sea was a day I want to forget.”

  The woman turned to look up at him. “Do you now know why she was allowed to die?”

  Peter pressed his lips together as he sought the best way to answer her question. “I cannot know for sure, although I know I will understand all on the day I leave this earth and go to be in heaven with my Maker. All questions will find answers then. For now, though, I think many changes happened for me with Elsa’s passing.”

  He swallowed. “Before Elsa died, I was a poor father. I allowed Elsa to care for Thomas while I only worked. I felt I had much to prove, and by being the hardest worker, I could find favor. But when she was gone, Thomas depended only on me. A bond was forged that is very strong. Being close with Thomas …” He smiled. “It is a good thing.”

  He shifted his feet, finding it harder to divulge these things than he had imagined. “Before Elsa died, I was not a man of strong faith. I go to church with my family, I say the mealtime prayers, but here, inside of me”—he touched his chest—“I do not feel the presence of the Lord. Then … Elsa is gone. I cannot rely on her. I had Thomas to look after, and Elsa’s grandmother, who also mourned. I must be strong for them. I learned to lean on my heavenly Father for strength and wisdom to face the days. A bond with the Father was forged. This helped me be a better earthly father for Thomas, too. I could not make it through the days without God.”

  The woman turned her back once more as she appeared to struggle with what he had said. He knew she was lonely—she needed someone on whom to depend. His heart swelled with the hope she would seek God to fill that longing.

  “You ask me if you should move on. I cannot answer that for you, but I can tell you this. While Thomas was home and healing, I prayed for a way for him to get his schooling. He is a bright boy who deserves good education. So I prayed.” Frau Steadman slowly raised her chin to look at him, her expression wistful. “And then I heard of you staying in the hotel, and I heard you might be a woman of learning. So I think, maybe this is my answer. I will ask this woman to teach my Thomas. And you say you will come. You are an answer to prayer for me.” He followed his earlier instincts and reached out to touch her shoulder, his fingers barely grazing her coat. “Though I am sorry for the circumstances that make you able to teach my son, I am thankful you are here.”