The Keeper

by Suzanne Woods Fisher

  Six months later, they talked about getting married again, right on that very spot. And then, this April, he called it off again.

  Paul’s eyes were partially shadowed by the brim of his straw hat, but she could see him looking at her mouth.

  She reached up and gently lifted off his hat, noticing as she laid it aside that there was a small red line across the upper part of his forehead from the band. He leaned forward and pressed his mouth to hers. She was glad—she wanted him to kiss her. She needed to prove to herself that Paul could spark those same fires as Rome.

  Julia’s first thought was that Paul’s lips were dry, stiffer than Rome’s. This was a pleasant kiss. It was adequate. Her mind got to wandering, and she tried to bring her attention back to what she was doing by raising her arms around Paul’s neck. Were his shoulders a little more narrow than she remembered? Were Rome’s shoulders a little wider?

  Paul pulled back from her, as if he sensed her disappointment. The kiss hadn’t proved anything. No sooner had she thought this than she admonished herself: What kind of thinking is that, Julia Lapp? Are you really so shallow as to decide about love based on a kiss? She lifted her eyes to look into his. “So . . . the first of November, then? Just like we had planned?”

  There was a speck of silence, a silence so short, so small, so infinitesimal. So profound.

  Paul blinked and focused on the fence, his hat brim hiding his face as he slowly shook his head, then squinted up at her again, clearly struggling to say something. A person’s eyes—they told you everything.

  Paul had finally given her the truth and she recognized it for what it was. Deep down, she had known it all along. Julia knew he would end up calling the wedding off again. Paul didn’t want to marry anybody. Not Julia. Not Lizzie. Not anybody.

  “I guess I was thinking next year.” He licked his lips. “On account of your father and all. I assumed you’d want to wait.”

  Julia bent her chin to her chest, and Paul—misunderstanding—kissed her forehead. She lifted her head and gave him a long, steady gaze. “I’m sorry,” she said softly. “I can’t do it. I can’t marry you, Paul.”

  Blinking wide-eyed, Paul looked like an owl caught in a wash of light. “You can’t mean that, Jules. I need you.”

  “Maybe you need someone, but that someone isn’t me.”

  “It is you. You’re telling me you don’t feel it?”

  She felt something. What was it? Delight at seeing him, at hearing him tell her he wanted her. She had a lot of feelings, but she did not mistake any of them for love.

  “You’re just upset.”

  She shook her head. “Strangely enough, I’m not upset. For the longest time, I thought the problem between us was me. I thought I just wasn’t enough for you, wasn’t good enough or pretty enough. Or my family wasn’t respectable enough. But the problem wasn’t with me, Paul. It’s with you. You don’t want to grow up. And I do. I deserve something better.” She hadn’t wanted to humiliate him, but the words were spoken and she wouldn’t take them back because they were true.

  “I’m sorry,” she whispered, backing away. “I’m really sorry.” She was filled up with an emotion that was as thick as syrup, an emotion she could only describe as bittersweet. She was so sure she had loved him, so sure he was the only one for her. She had felt such a bright intensity for Paul that it had blinded her. But now, finally, it had burned itself out.

  M.K. could hardly believe her eyes! She was running from the barn to the house when something large caught her eye over at the far end of the garden. She stopped in her tracks.

  Bear!

  Oh, wait! Scratch that. It wasn’t a bear. It was two people. She tiptoed behind the greenhouse and squinted her eyes to see who they were. One figure was Julia and the other was a man. Paul! It was Paul. And now . . . Paul was kissing Julia!

  M.K. galloped into the house, up the stairs, grabbed her bag of nickels from under her pillow, and ran like the wind down the path that led to Rome’s cottage. In record time, she arrived and banged on his front door. When he opened it, she thrust the bag of nickels at him. “Here! You did it, Bee Man! You did what no one else could do. You got Paul and Julia back together!”

  Rome looked skeptical. “What are you talking about?”

  “I just saw Paul give Julia a serious kissin’ in the garden. And she was not objecting!”

  The color drained from Rome’s face. “What? Are you . . . sure?”

  Boys! So dense about matters of the heart! “I saw it with my own two eyes.” M.K. was so excited she felt like she might burst apart. “I’m sorry I doubted you!”

  He just stood there, a blank look on his face, and she knew Fern would be wondering where she went to, so she grabbed his hand and slapped the nickel bag in it.

  “You earned it, Bee Man. Good work!” She turned and skipped away, so pleased with the turn of events. Suddenly, she stopped and spun around. “Best if we don’t say anything about this, though. Let’s wait until Julia tells us herself.”

  And then she was off to the house, the strings on her prayer cap dancing in the dark.

  Some days, you would’ve been better off staying in bed. Rome had opened his eyes that morning to a beautiful autumn day, and spent the day working on an elaborate plan of how to reveal his feelings to Julia. After the family returned from the auction tomorrow, he was going to get Julia in the buggy on some ruse—something forgotten back in town—and whisk her off to Blue Lake Pond in time for the sunset. He had spent most of this afternoon at the Pond, putting clues in place for a treasure hunt. A balloon tied on the hitching tree with instructions to look for two oars. The note on the oars said to find an upturned gray rowboat. The note on the rowboat said to take the oars and row out to the floating dock in the center of the lake. Once there, Julia would find a chocolate fudge cake—her favorite—from the Sweet Tooth bakery that he would have already hidden in a basket on the dock. Earlier today he’d gone into town to pick up the cake and practically choked with embarrassment when he told Nora Stroot, the bakery owner’s granddaughter, that he wanted piped icing on the cake to read: Bee Mine.

  “Really?” Nora Stroot sniffed, disappointment dripping in her voice. “That’s the best you can do?”

  Yes, it was. He wasn’t good at this expressing-your-feelings stuff.

  He had spent hours trying to think of something clever, something heartfelt, something with a hint of romance without going over the top. Then he remembered an anniversary card his father had given to his mother with the Bee Mine tagline. She had loved it. But the disgusted look on Nora Stroot’s face fizzled Rome’s confidence like a sparkler under a firehose. A portent of things to come. Just a few hours later, M.K. came along with eyewitness information that changed the picture entirely.

  That night, Rome lay motionless in the dark, one arm crooked behind his head, staring at the ceiling. So Julia would most likely be marrying Paul Fisher in a few short months. What if Rome had told her he loved her? Would it have made any difference? But he’d never chased after a woman in his life, and not even Julia Lapp could make him start.

  Maybe this was a blessing in disguise. The lesson Rome had learned from his family’s accident had been a hard one, and he’d never forgotten it. He’d learned that to love meant to open yourself up to excruciating pain. Hard-earned lessons were the best remembered. He gave away books when he finished them, traded mules before he could grow too fond of them, kept on the move before anyone grew dependent on him.

  Things could go wrong. So many things could go wrong.

  He couldn’t sleep, so he got out of bed, grabbed a slice of chocolate fudge cake, and wandered out on the porch. He tried to enjoy the stars, but his heart wasn’t in it. This cottage had been a refuge, the place where he could relax. Tonight, it felt too quiet. He gazed out into the darkness with unseeing eyes.

  He wasn’t used to feeling unsure of himself, so he swallowed the last bite of cake, brushed the crumbs from his hands, went back inside, and headed to bed
. As he passed the kitchen table, he noticed the letters Fern had given to him. He picked them up and read through them again. Then he grabbed a sheet of paper and sat down at the table to write.

  Dear R.W.,

  I accept your offer.

  Cordially,

  Roman Troyer

  He stuck the letter into the envelope and licked it shut. Tomorrow, he would mail it. A pending matter, decided.

  Now, maybe, he would feel an inner release of all that had been troubling him this summer. He would be free. Of memories, of obligations.

  Gradually, the nighttime rasp of crickets and the soft, wheezy cry of a distant barn owl lulled him into a dreamless sleep.

  18

  The day of the fundraising auction had arrived. Julia could hardly sleep. When she heard the first rooster crow, she got out of bed and dressed, then went downstairs and into the living room. The Lone Star quilt was folded neatly on the sofa. Word had spread about the auction, especially after M.K. had posted flyers up all over town, with the slogan “Have a Heart for a Heart.” Every single family in their church district had donated goods or services for the fundraiser. Rome had talked a professional auctioneer into providing his services for free. Julia overheard Rome tell Fern they hoped to raise $10,000 today. Imagine! That could take a dent out of her father’s heart transplant bill . . . whenever it might occur.

  The Lapp family had their hopes raised last week when Hershey Medical called and told them to get Amos in, that they might have a heart available. But no sooner had they arrived than they were told to go on home. The heart wasn’t a match for Amos. Julia didn’t understand all of the necessary requirements for a heart transplant, but she did believe in prayer. Prayer worked. She prayed daily that a heart would arrive for her father. Then she prayed for the person whose heart would be given, because she knew that meant his or her time on earth had come to an end.

  It felt like an odd prayer.

  Main Street was bustling. Julia never expected to see such a turnout for her father’s fundraiser. Folks from neighboring towns poured into Stoney Ridge after the newspaper article ran a story on the fundraiser—with a special emphasis on the Amishness of the event. M.K. said the reporter was eager to run the story once he heard that there would be Amish foods and handicrafts. “He said that folks would flock to buy anything if they thought it all came from the Amish,” M.K. explained as she read the article aloud last night. “He called it the Amish brand.” She looked up at her father. “What’s a brand?”

  “Today,” Amos had said, “we will call it God’s goodness.”

  The auction was held on a closed-off section of downtown Stoney Ridge, right in front of the Sweet Tooth bakery, on a Saturday morning in late September. There were people everywhere: Nora Stroot agreed to let them set up the produce wagon in the parking lot in exchange for a caseload of Rome’s honey. A swarm of people surrounded the wagon, buying the last of Windmill Farm’s vine-ripened tomatoes, sweet corn, pumpkins, and early apples.

  Rome was polite enough to Julia as he helped Menno load the wagon with produce early today to sell at the auction, but she could sense he had raised a wall around him. He was just about to climb in the buggy when he saw she was in the driver’s seat. He paused for a moment, mid-climb, then said he’d keep Menno company pulling up the wagon in the rear. As soon as they reached town, Rome vanished.

  They had come so far in their friendship. What had happened? Why was he acting . . . well, to be fair, like he usually did? Detached, pleasantly amused. Had she done something wrong? Had she said something? She reviewed in her mind the last time they were together. Was it only yesterday morning? They had laughed over something M.K. had said—laughed so hard they both had tears running down their faces.

  She slumped down in a seat at the wooden picnic table. Only after she was settled did she realize that her position gave her a clear view of Rome standing in the middle of a herd of women. He looked as if he were having the time of his life, laughing and carrying on, obviously enjoying himself. Almost as if he could feel Julia watching, he lifted his head and turned, letting his gaze sweep over her. Their eyes locked, and for a moment neither of them moved. Then he turned his attention back to one of the girls standing at his side.

  If Rome wanted to send a message to Julia, loud and clear, he couldn’t have found a better way.

  Fern joined Julia on the picnic bench and handed her an apple, cut up into slices. Julia took a slice. “You’re awful quiet today. Sadie too.” Fern took a bite of an apple slice. “Only one who’s never quiet is that Mary Kate.” It was true that there weren’t many quiet moments with M.K. in the vicinity. Julia could hear her voice now, over by the bakery, calling out to Menno to toss her more corn, lickety-split.

  They sat in companionable silence until Fern said, “You’re not sorry about Paul.”

  Julia looked at her sharply. How had she known?

  “I saw the happy look on his face when he came to the house last night. And I saw how dejected he looked when he left.”

  So it looked like Fern knew everything anyway, without any need to tell her. Julia gave a nod. “I’m not sorry.”

  “Because of Rome?” Fern peered at her, sniffing out the truth.

  She read Julia’s heart situation right. It was one of her talents. “Honestly, I don’t know how I feel about Rome,” Julia said. “One minute, he acts as if he’s in charge of Dad’s future. The next minute, he’s as skittish as a sheep if you even ask if he’s planning to be home for dinner.”

  Fern’s gaze followed Rome as he walked across the lawn. “That’s because he doesn’t know what he wants out of life.”

  “He wants what he wants when he wants it. That’s what I think about Roman Troyer.”

  Fern shook her head. “He’s struggling. He doesn’t know if he should stay or leave.”

  Julia turned to face Fern. “How do you know so much about Rome?”

  Fern’s gaze shifted out to Rome as he joined Menno and M.K. and helped lift some bushels of corn to the front of the wagon. Her forehead knitted. “Six years ago, Rome’s family was headed to a wedding. Rome’s uncle, Tom Troyer, was getting married. They hired a van to take them since the bride lived quite a distance away. Rome stayed home to take care of the farm. Along the way, there was a collision and the entire family was killed.”

  Julia closed her eyes.

  Fern kept talking. “Rome packed up the house, locked it, sold off the livestock—only thing he kept was his mother’s bees—and never looked back. No one knew where he went.”

  Julia looked over at Rome. No wonder he didn’t talk about his family, his past. “I’m surprised he told you all that, Fern. He’s never said a word about that to me. Not to Dad, either.”

  Fern closed up the bag that held the apple slices. Then after one of her long silent spells, she said, “He didn’t have to tell me. It was my wedding that Rome’s family was headed to. I was going to be Tom Troyer’s bride.”

  Fern? A bride? A brokenhearted bride. “So that’s why you’re here? You came to Windmill Farm to get Rome back to Ohio?”

  She shook her head. “That’s not up to me or anybody else but Rome. I take care of people. That’s what I do.” She put the apple slices into her apron pocket. “But Rome does have a decision to make. Last year, the Troyers’ neighbor contacted me. Someone wants to buy the Troyer farm since it’s just sitting there abandoned, getting run down. They wondered if I knew how to find him. A few months later, I happened to read your Uncle Hank’s Budget letters where he talked about the Bee Man, a fellow who wandered from place to place. When he mentioned that they were brown bees, I knew those bees belonged to a Troyer. Nobody has that strain of bees anymore. It was Rome’s mother who kept that strain going, and it wasn’t hard to figure the Bee Man was Rome. I wrote to your uncle and he wrote back. He added something about he was running himself ragged, holding Windmill Farm together because his poor nephew had a bum heart.”

  Julia rolled her eyes at that.

>   “So I asked if he’d be in need of a caretaker for his nephew. Seemed like the right time. Thought I’d come and check up on Rome.”

  M.K. gave a shout out to her, waving her arm like a windmill to come over to the corn wagon, and Fern released a martyred sigh.

  “And I ended up with a batch of troublesome children to keep on the straight and narrow way.” She didn’t seem too bothered.

  Julia grew pensive. How strange and interwoven lives could be.

  Fern rose to leave. “You know, Julia, boys get their hearts broken too.”

  At the Sweet Tooth bakery, Sadie stood in front of the counter trying to decide what to get. It all looked so good! Cinnamon rolls drizzled with thick white icing, cupcakes of every flavor topped with a swirl of frosting, gigantic crackled gingersnap cookies (her favorite), small fruit pies. Nora Stroot stood behind the counter, arms crossed tightly against her chest, losing patience with Sadie’s indecisiveness. She let out a long-suffering sigh.

  Sadie looked up at Nora. “Everything looks so delicious, it’s hard to choose just one!” She bit her lip. “So maybe I’ll try one cinnamon roll, one red velvet cupcake, and one gingersnap. Oh, and a gooseberry tart.”

  “Cancel that order,” Fern said as she swept into the bakery. “We’ll have two cups of tea.”

  Another grievous sigh escaped from Nora Stroot before she turned to get their tea.

  Fern pointed to a table with two chairs. “Sit,” she told Sadie.

  Sadie looked longingly at the bakery goods as she sipped on her tea.