by Anna Schmidt
She nodded once and continued on her way.
As John scanned the titles that lined the bookshelves, he could hear her moving around, making the necessary preparations for hosting overnight guests. A dresser drawer was opened and then closed. He heard the snap of fresh sheets as she made up the bed. He heard her move across the hall, where she opened a closet or cabinet for some new purpose. She poured water from one container to another. His mind followed the sounds of her actions as surely as if he had followed her all the way down that hall.
He’d been in the English world for far too long, he realized. He should have known that even for a woman who seemed as sophisticated and streetwise as Hester Detlef, she was clearly dedicated to the conservative ways of her faith. The idea that she might find herself alone in any bedroom with a man she barely knew was unthinkable. He pulled a thin volume from a shelf and absently read the title without really seeing it, all the while wondering if he should apologize or just let the matter drop.
“My mother wrote poetry.” She pointed to the book he was holding.
As attuned as he’d been to her movements, he had failed to notice that she had finished her work and come back to the living room. He ran his fingers over the cloth cover of the book, trying to decide if opening it would be an invasion of privacy.
“The garden was hers,” she added, inclining her head toward the front door. “My father and I try to keep it in order to honor her memory.”
He recalled Margery offering her sympathies to Arlen earlier and nodded. “May I?” John asked, indicating the book of poetry.
“Yes.” She waited while he opened the book to a page about a third of the way through. He scanned the contents and could not disguise his surprise. “She was quite …”
“She was a plain woman,” Hester interrupted, and he knew that she was reminding him that in her world as in his, compliments were unnecessary and unwanted. “She recorded her observations of God’s handiwork as a way of showing her appreciation and gratitude.”
John nodded and replaced the book on the shelf. “She died recently?”
“Yes.”
“I’m sorry for your loss.”
She accepted his condolences without comment and turned her attention back to the business at hand. “I left towels for you in the bathroom. Your room is the second one to your left. There are dry clothes in the closet and bureau. You’re thinner and taller than my brothers, but the clothing there should do for now.” She delivered these bits of information as if she were reading from a prepared list as she edged toward the open front door. “I should go and find Margery and see that she gets some rest as well. My father would want you to make yourself at home, so please refresh yourself, and, of course, if you are hungry or thirsty …” She waved her hand in the general direction of the kitchen.
She was halfway out the door and clearly anxious to be rid of him when he called out to her. “I still need to know when I might be able to return home.”
She stood on the path and made no move to return to the shelter of the porch away from the steady drizzle. “That depends.”
“On?”
She let out a soft sigh that he surmised was about as close to an expression of exasperation as she was likely to display. “Many things, Herr Steiner. Surely you’re aware …”
He felt more certain than ever that it was important to get on this woman’s good side. He gave her his most engaging smile. “Could we make that John? Calling me Herr Steiner makes me want to turn around and look for my late father.”
“Your father died?”
“When I was thirteen, farming accident.”
“And your mother?”
“Couple of years ago.” He took a step closer. “It seems we have that in common, the loss of our mothers.”
“Yes. Please accept my condolences. Both parents gone.” She shook her head. “That must be especially difficult.”
“Thank you, Hester—like the hurricane.”
She stared at him for a long moment. “I don’t mean to be rude, Herr…John, but I have responsibilities that go beyond …” He guessed that she had come very close to saying something like babysitting you. But she caught herself, took a deep breath, and said, “The short answer to your question about returning to your home is that it will surely not be today.”
She was backing her way toward the missing picket fence, but he was determined to make his point. “I am going back, Hester. I’ll stay the night here, but …”
“I understand that you are anxious to return to your property, John. What you need to understand is that going back is not the same as going home to stay. Once you accept that, then the day you can return may come sooner than you think.”
“Meaning?”
“It’s possible that Samuel Brubaker along with an engineer from the county and a crew of MDS volunteers could make a visit to your property as soon as tomorrow to assess the damage and give you a better idea of when you might—” “MDS?”
“Mennonite Disaster Service.” She pointed toward his shirt pocket, where the pamphlet her father had given him lay damp and limp.
“Yeah, well, understand this—nobody’s going to my place without me, Hester.”
She had taken two determined steps back toward him when a red-haired woman about Hester’s age but not in plain dress came rushing down the street. “Hester! Zeke’s gone missing.”
Jeannie Messner was Emma Keller’s younger sister. Hester had known her since the three of them had played hopscotch and jacks together in Pinecraft Park as kids. Emma and Hester were the same age, but Jeannine—better known as Jeannie—had always tagged along. Emma and her family still lived in the same house where the sisters had grown up just across from the park. But Jeannie, ever the rebel, had left the Palm Bay church that her family preferred after marrying a man from the more liberal congregation. Her husband, Geoff, worked as the athletic director at the Christian school, and Jeannie had taken a job as the activities director at a local senior center. Generally she was a happy-go-lucky sprite with her curly red hair that framed a heart-shaped face featuring an impish smile. But Jeannie was not smiling now. Her brow was deeply furrowed with worry, and her lips were pencil thin and pale.
“Jeannie, calm down and tell me what’s happened.” Hester led her friend to the shelter of the porch, her heart hammering with this fresh evidence that while she had been tending to John Steiner, people with real problems were being neglected.
“It’s Zeke. He’s missing.”
“Who’s Zeke?” John asked with a hint of irritation.
“Zeke Shepherd. He lives on the beach down near the bridge,” Jeannie explained. It was a clear measure of her distress that she showed not the slightest curiosity about who John was or why he was standing on Hester’s front porch.
John’s eyebrows lifted slightly as he focused his attention on Hester, waiting, she assumed, for her to dispense with this interruption and get back to the subject of his property.
“He’s homeless,” Hester added, hoping to elicit a drop of sympathy from the man. “He camps on a seawall concealed by several mangrove and sea grape trees along the bay downtown.” She motioned toward the porch swing, but Jeannie shook her head and kept pacing. “Surely when the storm hit …”
“He left,” Jeannie finished her sentence. “But he went back. He’d left his guitar there, and …” Her huge hazel eyes filled with tears. “No one has seen him since,” she whispered.
Hester wrapped her arm around the smaller woman. “Now you know Zeke. He probably found some place to ride out the storm.”
“Geoff and I have already checked every place he usually hangs out,” Jeannie protested. “What if he got washed away? The surge that came with the back side of the storm was enormous, and the wind …” She shuddered. “I just…I pray he’s all right, and I know you can’t spare anyone to join a search party. But could you make sure all the volunteers know to keep an eye out for him?”
“I …” Hester understood
that for Jeannie, Zeke would always be the brother she never had. We made special arrangements for John Steiner, she thought and smiled at Jeannie. “Sure. I’ll tell them to be on the lookout. And you should talk to Grady so he can spread the word, okay?”
“Thank you.” Jeannie sucked in air and glanced at John as if seeing him for the first time. “Hello,” she said, her usual smile restored. She thrust out her hand. “I’m Jeannie Messner, and you are?”
“John Steiner,” he replied, accepting her handshake.
“Herr Steiner has suffered the loss of his home. His property was destroyed—with him inside—and as you can see, Jeannie, he’s fine. Well, not fine but certainly well enough,” she stammered as she considered John’s arm and the many cuts and bruises evident on his face and hands.
“Your friend probably just found higher ground until the hurricane passed,” John said. “He’ll turn up eventually.” Hester couldn’t help noticing that his words seemed to carry more weight in consoling Jeannie than hers had.
“You’re staying with Hester?” Jeannie gave Hester a curious look.
“He’s staying with my father, as is Margery Barker. I’ll be working, and by tomorrow morning we’ll all be packing up to move to a shelter in case the creek floods,” Hester said firmly. She stopped short of physically steering her friend down the lane.
“Nice meeting you,” Jeannie called as she waved at John.
“Well,” Hester said, turning her attention back to John, “do you have everything you need, John? If so, I’ll just …”
“What’s the connection?” he asked, returning Jeannie’s wave halfheartedly.
“Jeannie and her sister and I have been friends since childhood, and—”
“I mean with the homeless guy.”
“Zeke? He and Jeannie have been friends for years. Zeke introduced her to her husband, Geoff. Then Zeke enlisted, and, well, after he returned from overseas, things weren’t the same for him. He fell on hard times and started living on the beach. Jeannie is a social worker at heart. She and Geoff have tried everything to get Zeke to accept help from his family, but he refuses.”
“Zeke’s not Amish or Mennonite, then?”
“No.”
“Maybe she ought to leave him alone,” John muttered.
“That’s not in our nature,” Hester replied. “Now, then, I really must be going. My father should be back in an hour or so.”
“And my place?”
The man was like a dog with a bone.
She surveyed her mother’s destroyed garden, giving herself a moment to gather strength. Then she took a long, steadying breath and raised her face to look directly at him. “Your property is not in imminent danger. Likewise, you are safe. You have shelter, food, and water. You even have dry clothing available. Do I really need to remind you that there are hundreds—perhaps thousands—of others who are not nearly so blessed?” She closed her eyes again and murmured, “Sorry.” Whether John heard this last as directed at him or some higher being she could not have said. She really didn’t care. She knew that it was a prayer, not an apology.
“And what I need for you to understand is this. That property is my life. If I lose it, then I have lost everything.”
“And still God saw fit to let you walk away from the devastation of your property,” she reminded him softly. “Perhaps my father was right. Perhaps you are supposed to start over, take a different path.”
“I don’t need sermons, Miss Detlef,” he growled. It started to rain harder, and the heat and humidity seemed as tangible as the rain.
“Look,” she said, forcing a bedside manner that she didn’t feel.
“You look,” he snapped. “Just don’t even think of going out there without me.”
“Believe me, John, nothing would make me happier than to get you back to tending your business so that I can tend to mine. I suggest you take advantage of the blessings before you,” she continued. “The water is still off, but I left you fresh water in the basin so you can wash yourself, put on dry clothing, and get some rest.” And with that she walked away from him, her spine rigid, her shoulders back, and her stride determined.
Chapter 7
Hester could practically feel John glaring at her retreating back. Well, they were even, because he definitely tried her patience, too. Still, she was not going to give in to the temptation to tell him what she really thought of his selfishness and arrogance. Let her father deal with him. There were people who needed her far more than John did, people who might actually appreciate what she could offer them in the way of comfort and assistance without asking for, no, without demanding more.
She spotted Jeannie pouring out her tale of Zeke’s disappearance to Grady when she returned to the center. He listened intently and then patted Jeannie’s shoulder, obviously assuring her that since Zeke was well known and liked, everyone would be looking for him. Hester knew that all Jeannie really needed was some guarantee that Zeke would be on their radar screen as they carried out the rescue efforts. Jeannie gave Grady a brilliant smile and then hurried off, calling out to Emma and then no doubt repeating her story to her sister. Hester couldn’t help wondering if Jeannie’s charm could soothe the ruffled feathers of John Steiner.
John Steiner is well taken care of, she silently reminded herself. Surely now I can concentrate on the work I have been led to do.
“Grady,” she called out as he climbed into his Jeep and prepared to drive away.
Perhaps if she got Grady thinking about sending the team where they could do the most good, then by the time Samuel spoke to him, it would be too late to reassign them to the old Tucker place. Now that just seems vindictive, she chided herself. What was it about this man that brought out the worst in her?
Besides, if John’s place hadn’t even been cleared by search and rescue yet or by the gas and power crews and there were all those downed power lines on the main road leading past his place, an MDS crew could hardly go there. “Samuel tells me we can expect a crew from Georgia by suppertime.”
“I know. I’m asking them to go check out Tucker Point.” Grady drummed his fingertips on the steering wheel. Hester’s heart sank.
“Surely …” she began, but Grady just shook his head and turned the key to start the engine. “Look, Hester, I have to go. Believe me, I know there are more urgent needs, and I have tried hard to make that clear, but you know how this works.”
Actually, she didn’t, because in her world attending to those most in need took precedence over political considerations. On the one hand she felt sorry for Grady, because he was a good man and he truly wanted to do the right thing. But on the other, it made her so angry that some bureaucrat in Washington who had no idea of the situation could make decisions for them. She forced a smile. “Politics,” she murmured.
“You got that right,” Grady replied, and he finally looked directly at her. “I’m really sorry, Hester. But if we get the Steiner thing assessed once and for all, then we can focus on the real need.”
“All right, I see your point. And you’re only talking about a small crew, right? Just to assess the damage and report back?”
“That’s the plan.”
“Well then, I suppose there are enough volunteers to focus on the real need and address Mr. Steiner’s problems.”
“That’s my girl,” Grady said. “Thanks.”
“For?”
Grady grinned. “Relieving me of my guilt.” Then he sobered. “We’ve got a long road ahead of us, Hester.”
Hester nodded. They both knew that making it through a hurricane without massive physical injuries or deaths was only the first tiny step in the process of truly surviving such a disaster. At the moment everyone was driven by adrenaline and the sheer will to be sure people were accounted for, fed, and had shelter. The news would bring enough shock and awe with it that the media and help from around the country would arrive in droves, at least during those first couple of weeks. After that the residents would face the true test of surviv
al—finding ways to keep going weeks and months from now after the media had turned their cameras to some other story and the relief money had dried up to a mere trickle. By then most of the volunteers would have gone home because they had families and jobs that needed their attention, leaving half-rebuilt homes and businesses under a sea of blue plastic tarps and the residents of the area to make it on their own.
She scanned the sky. The rain had fallen steadily all night and through the morning. Was it her imagination that it was getting worse?
“Wind’s picking up,” she noted. “Maybe we need to step up the timeline for getting folks moved away from the creek here.” The weather reports had predicted steady rain for the foreseeable future, but there had been no mention of the rising winds. Anyone who had lived on the coast for any length of time knew that rain accompanied by high winds would push the already-deluged Philippi Creek over its banks even this far inland.
