Harvest of Blessings

by Hubbard, Charlotte

  “You can’t make them drink,” Nora agreed with a sigh. Tom’s simple, homespun philosophy was no threat to her. He was trying to make things right, in compassionate ways that were foreign to her father and brother. “Speaking of a drink, can I pour you some iced tea? It’s awfully warm today.”

  “That sounds real refreshing. Denki, Nora.”

  She gestured toward the living room with an apologetic chuckle. “Feel free to move stuff so you can sit down. I’ll be back in a few.”

  As Nora carried the bread to the kitchen, she opened the bag enough to inhale its grainy-sweet fragrance—and realized she was easing back into the local dialect. Years had passed since she’d said in a few, but she knew better than to assume that talking the Amish talk would lead to walking that straight-and-narrow path required by their faith—and Tom was now a witness to the artist she’d become. Nora paused in the doorway to assess his reaction to her hangings before joining him with their glasses of tea.

  “These are like nothin’ I’ve ever seen,” he murmured as he stepped closer to touch a hanging of a courting boy and girl seated on a bench. “Who’d think to put real suspenders on a fella, and part of a straw hat—and a real kapp on the girl? Most pieces just show those things as flat fabric cutouts. Did you make these, Nora?”

  It was a moment, a subject, which would make or break her return to Willow Ridge.

  “I did, jah,” she murmured. “And if it’s permissible—if it’s all right with you, Bishop—I’m hoping to open a consignment store for Plain crafts in the barn. I know how a store selling art might be a problem in an Amish town.”

  Tom focused on her as he took a long sip of his iced tea. “And if I say no?”

  Nora swallowed hard. It was time to fish or cut bait. “If you won’t permit me to operate such a store, where Amish and Mennonite folks can sell their handmade wares to help support their families,” she said softly, “then I have no idea what I’ll do with that monstrous barn—or how I’ll support myself, either, truth be told.”

  Tom’s lips flickered. “Ya said a mouthful there, Nora. And I truly appreciate your askin’ me instead of just figurin’ to do things your way,” he replied. “When ya were growin’ up here, a store like you’re describin’ wouldn’t have been appropriate. Nowadays, though, our men can’t always support their families just by farmin’ or workin’ at their home-based trades,” he explained. “If we’re to keep our members in Willow Ridge, and financially stable, it’s in our best interest to expand our ideas of what’s gut for the community as a whole.”

  Nora nodded. The bishop hadn’t given her an answer, but experience had taught her that the Amish took their time about arriving at conclusions. Tom moved slowly past the couch and the two armchairs, fingering some of the dimensional details of her designs.

  “I like it that ya don’t show these folks’ faces,” he remarked. Then he grinned. “And look at these little wooden clothespins hangin’ the laundry on the line, and the way the dresses and shirts seem to be flutterin’ in the breeze. I’ve never seen the likes of it. You’ve probably done pretty well at sellin’ pieces like these, ain’t so?”

  “Jah, I have,” Nora murmured. Tom’s noticing such details tickled her, but that didn’t mean he’d give his blessing to her artistic pursuits. “All things Amish hold a huge appeal to people who think they’d like to try the Plain lifestyle—or who just want mementos of it hanging in their electrified, computerized homes.”

  Tom chuckled and sipped his tea. “Ya got that right. Most of my hand-carved Nativity scenes aren’t displayed in Plain homes, on account of how much Henry Zook tells me to charge for them in his market—and probably because the figures gathered around the manger are dressed as Amish folks rather than in biblical clothing,” he remarked. “But carvin’ helps me pass the cold winter days. And like ya said, it’s extra income.”

  “Your Nativity sets sound awesome,” Nora replied. “Mary Schrock told me about them—and about other items folks around here make—so I’m really hoping you’ll consign some sets in my store. If it’s all right to open one.”

  “Ya realize, Nora, that some of the older folks in the district will see your work as decoration—as art—”

  “Jah, there’s no way around that.”

  “—so if you’re plannin’ to join the Amish church, what’ll ya say when those members disapprove of your livelihood?” Tom gazed at her over the top of his glass as he drained it.

  The clinking of his ice cubes accentuated the pounding of her pulse. Nora wanted to be totally honest with this man, because he was giving her the benefit of the doubt—and he was so much more compassionate and understanding than her father. But she wasn’t ready to let her dreams cave in yet, either. “What do you do when members criticize your work?” she asked. “I’m not trying to dodge the issue, understand.”

  “I didn’t think ya were.” Tom thought for a moment. “I suppose because my Nativity sets represent the birth of our Jesus, nobody Plain has objected to them. But if your dat were to see these hangings, he’d consider them yet another reason not to accept ya into the Amish faith. Or maybe back into his family.”

  “I am who I am, Tom. And I believe I’m a child of God, the same as he is,” Nora insisted quietly. “I know Dat’s set in the Old Order ways, so my main mission is to reunite with Millie and Mamma, no matter how he treats me.”

  “But see, I don’t accept that.” Tom came to stand in front of her. When he wiped his cool glass across his forehead, Nora sensed he was sweating from more than the heat of a July day. “My mission is to bring your dat around to the forgiveness our faith demands of him. So don’t write him out of your story too soon, all right?” he asked earnestly. “Don’t let him off the hook by acceptin’ anything less than his full acknowledgment that you’re his daughter, and that ya expect to be a part of his life again.”

  Nora’s eyes widened. “Gut luck getting that to happen,” she murmured.

  Tom’s eyes took on a boyish shine. “I’ll need all the gut luck the Gut Lord can bless me with. And I give ya permission for your new store, too, as long as ya honor whatever form of faith ya take to,” he said with a decisive nod. “If you’re gonna join the Old Order, you’d better remove the fancy computer surveillance system Hiram installed in the barn. And while I really like your hangin’s, Nora, I couldn’t condone your makin’ them if ya joined the Amish church,” he continued. “You’d need to stick to quilts or clothing. Practical pieces.”

  Nora nodded. She’d anticipated his stating the Ordnung’s principles, as a reminder to one who’d lived outside of Plain teachings for all of her adult life.

  “Or, you could partner with Mennonites, the way Miriam has at the Sweet Seasons,” Tom went on. “If they have computers and electric lighting and such in the store, I can go along with that. And their definition of acceptable creativity is freer than ours.”

  Bishop Tom had just defined her future. Nora sensed he already knew which direction she would go. “Where there’s a woman, there’s a way,” she murmured.

  “So you’ve been talkin’ to Miriam,” he said with a chuckle. “Model yourself after her example, and you’ll be on the right path, Nora. Can I count on ya to be at my place tomorrow around two?”

  Nora smiled. Tom Hostetler might seem to amble along a conversational trail, the way his dairy cows moseyed around his pasture, but he hadn’t forgotten his question—and he wouldn’t leave until she gave her answer. “I’ll be there,” she said. “I appreciate your getting my mother and Lizzie and Millie together on neutral turf so we can talk things out.”

  “If ya could tell us what went on all those years ago, the details of what led to your dat sendin’ ya away, it might shed some light on our current situation,” the bishop said softly. “That’s askin’ a lot, I know. I’m not keen on airin’ your dirty laundry, understand, but your dat refused to talk about the circumstances. Gabe forbade any of us to so much as say your name after he banished ya, and Hiram went along with th
at.”

  Nora’s throat tightened. She wasn’t surprised that she’d gone unmentioned in her long absence, but to reveal the damning details of her encounter—even to her family—would require some real gumption. “I refused to give Dat any names—for reasons that were impressed upon me by the um, other party involved,” she murmured. “I’ve never told anyone about what happened.”

  “I’ll be holdin’ ya up in prayer while ya figure out what to say,” Tom said. “Ask for the strength to clarify your situation, and you’ll receive it, Nora. God’s will be done.”

  Nora nodded. There was a time she would’ve resisted talk of everything being God’s will—especially when situations were manipulated by people who proclaimed themselves morally upright. Tom Hostetler had never impressed her as that sort of man. “I—I’ll do my best,” she hedged. “With Millie being only sixteen, I hesitate to get into too much of the down-and-dirty.”

  “I can understand that. When I was at the house earlier, talkin’ to her and your mamm, she seemed skittish about this whole situation,” he said. “We don’t want to scare Millie so bad that she won’t want to know ya better.”

  Tom handed her his empty glass. “Denki for the gut tea and talk, Nora. I’ll get out of your way now, as I know you’ve got a lot on your mind.”

  Nora accompanied him through the living room, enjoying Tom’s smile when he glanced back at her hangings. She was glad she hadn’t confided her dream of a consignment store to Hiram, because she sensed the previous bishop tended to twist things around to his own advantage—a tendency she should probably know more about, considering the way he liked to pop in uninvited.

  “What’s the story on Hiram Knepp getting excommunicated ?” she asked as she and Tom reached the door. “I’ve heard bits and pieces, but I figured he’d stretch the truth if I asked him about it.”

  “You’ve got him figured right. First off, Hiram was shunned for ownin’ a car and havin’ a driver’s license—offenses he chose not to confess. But there’s more to the story.”

  Tom cleared his throat, gazing out over the front yard and the expanse of Willow Ridge that stretched before them from this hilltop vantage point. “Last winter his young twins, Joey and Josh, were in a sleighin’ accident on the road in front of Miriam’s café. The fella who skidded on the ice and hit them with his car was the real estate agent who sold ya this house. He also happens to be a county politician.”

  Nora’s eyebrows rose. She’d suspected Conrad Hammond had a story he wasn’t telling, and Tom’s tone suggested the Realtor might be cut from the same slippery cloth as Hiram.

  “To give ya the short version, we found out that Hiram convinced Hammond to pay the twins’ hospital bills and then to cut him a sweet deal on the tract of land where he’s built his new colony, Higher Ground,” Tom explained. “In exchange, Hiram didn’t press charges, and he kept Hammond’s name out of the papers. He was talkin’ on his cell phone when he hit the sleigh, ya see.”

  “Ohhhh,” Nora breathed. This was even more twisted than she’d expected.

  “Watch yourself around Hiram,” Tom warned in a low voice. “Not long after he moved to Higher Ground with his four littlest kids, his Annie Mae saw a young gal chasin’ them around in the snow without their coats, with a paddle in her hand. After Annie Mae brought them back to Willow Ridge, Hiram used her previous boyfriend to trap her. And he whacked off her hair.”

  Nora sucked in her breath, appalled by the depth of Hiram Knepp’s depravity. Note to self: get those new locks.

  “That’s how I came to be bishop,” Tom explained. “We don’t tolerate Hiram’s shenanigans around here. If he starts actin’ suspicious, you let me or Ben Hooley know about it, all right? It’s a sorry state of affairs, tryin’ to keep Hiram out of our little town, but that’s the way of it.”

  “I’m glad I asked,” Nora murmured. “I’ll see you tomorrow—and thanks again for trying to bring my family together again, Tom.”

  “Faith and family. That’s what life’s all about,” he replied.

  Nora watched the bishop walk down the semicircular driveway. Tom was a lithe, slender man whose sweat-stained straw hat and faded broadfall pants proclaimed him a humble, hardworking servant of God. Now that he’d issued her an invitation and a challenge, she had about twenty-four hours to figure out how she would respond. It would mean dredging up memories of the day when she’d learned the meaning of terror and humiliation—a day that had defiled her and ruined her relationships with her family and friends.

  It means bringing your darkest hours into the light—coming clean, and then facing a new set of consequences. Dat used to harp on the Bible verse about how the truth would set you free, so here’s your moment of truth. And his.

  Chapter Eleven

  Millie held out her arm to steady Mammi, but her grandmother grabbed the handrail and took the steps up to Bishop Tom’s house on her own. “It’s the day I’ve been waitin’ more than sixteen years for,” her grandmother murmured. “Praise be to God that I lived to see it.”

  “Stuff and nonsense,” Dawdi muttered. “Nora hasn’t changed one bit. She’s still sneakin’ around, wormin’ her way back into Willow Ridge. Do ya really trust anybody who’d buy that house from Hiram? And where’d she get that kind of money?”

  “Hush, Gabe! Here comes the bishop,” Mammi replied.

  As Tom Hostetler opened the door, Millie felt the urge to flee. She didn’t really want to see that Nora woman again—she’d only come to hear secrets she’d never suspected while she’d grown up believing Lizzie and Atlee were her parents. She was gathering evidence, determined to remain silent and unmoved—stoic in the face of painful revelations. Wasn’t that the Amish way? To accept such misfortunes as God’s will and then move on in spite of them?

  “Gut to see you folks,” the bishop said as he waved them toward the front room. “Looks like Atlee and Lizzie are comin’ right behind ya.”

  “We’ve got fresh lemonade and cookies,” Tom’s wife, Nazareth, added with a smile. “I put pans of ice in front of the fans to keep the room cooler. Sure has been muggy lately.”

  Millie was relieved to see fans on either side of the front room, plugged into sockets from Bishop Tom’s solar panels. Her grandfather scoffed at such modern conveniences, while her grandmother was so skinny that the midsummer heat didn’t seem to bother her. At the sound of Lizzie and Atlee entering the house, Millie stalled, waiting to see where the adults would sit . . . which seat would be left for Nora.

  “Millie, how are ya? I’m sure this feels a little awkward,” her mamm—or the woman who’d pretended to be her mamm—said softly.

  Millie pivoted to face Lizzie. “A little awkward? It wasn’t much fun to find out—from a total stranger—that she was my mother and that she dumped me. And you said nothing about it.”

  Lizzie’s face fell. She held Ella tighter, grasping the baby’s puffy quilt in her other hand. “I never meant for it to happen that way,” she murmured. “Never meant to hurt ya, Millie.”

  “Could be we’ll hear things that’ll set the record straight today,” Atlee remarked stiffly. He glanced at the horseshoe-shaped seating arrangement, grabbed a glass of lemonade, and sat down in the upholstered rocker nearest the top of the curve.

  Lizzie sat next to him, arranging Ella’s cheerful quilt on the floor beside her, while Millie’s grandparents chose the loveseat. Millie considered her options, figuring Tom and Nazareth should have the other chairs at the top of the horseshoe . . . which left a straight-backed wooden chair beside Mammi and a padded rocker beside baby Ella. As Millie settled into the rocking chair, the front door opened again.

  “Nora, it’s nice to meet you,” Nazareth said in her polite way. “If it makes ya uncomfortable havin’ me sit in on this family talk, I’ll go to another room or—”

  “Please stay,” Nora insisted calmly. “You’re a relative newcomer to Willow Ridge, so your perspective—your objective viewpoint—might be helpful.”

  “
I said the same thing,” Bishop Tom remarked. “Nazareth was a schoolteacher for years before she married me, so she asks relevant questions, and she has a way of seein’ through excuses and poor logic. Or at least she figured me out pretty quick,” he added with a chuckle.

  Millie glanced toward the door, and then focused on her hands, which she’d clasped in her lap. Nora was wearing a pumpkin-colored cape dress and a fresh kapp, appearing cool and collected even though she’d apparently walked rather than drive her flashy red car.

  Pretender, Millie thought. Nora looks properly Plain for this Sunday visit, but at that fancy house she wears short-shorts and a sparkly ball cap.

  “Oh!” Mammi stood up, blinking back tears. “Oh, Nora, it’s so gut to see ya, child.”

  “And look at you, Mamma!” Nora said as she rushed into Mammi’s open arms. “Last time I peeked in on you, I was afraid you were nearly gone.”

  “I was. Millie’s been takin’ gut care of me, but I haven’t given her much to work with.” Mammi’s reply was muffled because she stood with her head buried against Nora’s shoulder, hugging her as though she’d never let go.

  Millie looked away. While she was glad her grandmother had been improving with each passing day—which might mean she wouldn’t need a caretaker much longer—Millie didn’t give this prodigal daughter all the credit for Mammi’s recovery. Nora didn’t deserve to be considered a miracle worker for sneaking into the sickroom and then ducking out, leaving chaos in her wake.

  “This isn’t the time or the place, Wilma,” Millie’s grandfather scoffed. “The bishop didn’t invite us here to watch ya carry on.”

  Nora eased away from the intense embrace. She smiled and nodded at everyone, but Millie stared at her lap rather than make eye contact. She had no intention of acting like Nora’s long-lost daughter.

  “Let’s invite the Lord amongst us with a prayer,” Bishop Tom suggested as he and Nazareth took the seats between Atlee and Millie’s grandfather. “We’ve set ourselves up for potential healin’, but there’s bound to be some heartache that comes with it.”