by Mary Ellis
Butterflies took flight in Nora’s belly from his flirtation. “One more question before I go,” she said. “What’s the name of that town in Missouri where Sally is from? She mentioned it once, but I don’t recall.”
Elam resumed grooming his horse with long, gentle strokes. “In Missouri, even the names of towns sound appealing. I’m headed for Paradise, sweet Nora. One of these days, you’ll wake up and I will be gone.” This voice had taken a dreamy, faraway sound.
“Just for the record, I’m not that sweet.” Nora flashed her prettiest smile before stepping from the barn’s protection into the rain. But she neither ran, nor even walked fast toward the house, despite the downpour. She was too busy plotting how to win the heart of Elam Detweiler before it was too late.
Amy left her conversation with John with a singular purpose in mind—to get as far away from him as one house, in one small town, would permit. What a conniving, controlling, duplicitous man he was! She would not shed a single tear over her broken engagement. As her mamm used to say, any woman who married a schemer must have rocks in her head.
What would mamm say about this sudden turn of events? Good riddance to bad medicine? Better now than later?
Yet by the time Amy reached the porch she found herself checking to see if the despicable letter-burner had trailed after her. She had half a notion to call the postmaster general and have John arrested. Destroying mail that didn’t belong to you was a federal offense, punishable by a fine or time in prison. Perhaps solitary confinement with a steady diet of bread and water would do him some good.
But John hadn’t followed her. He remained at the pasture fence with his back bent and his forehead resting against a post. She hoped he would remain there until dark, sparing her the ordeal of seeing his face. She entered Sally’s kitchen, toed off her muddy shoes, and hung up her cloak. Her cup was exactly where she’d left it on the table. Refilling it with coffee, Amy carried it to the front room. Thomas had stoked the woodstove, making the room toasty warm.
While her iron heated atop the stove, Amy planned her day. She would iron every garment in the laundry basket and then sew until bedtime. But the embroidered pillowcases and sheets seemed pointless now that she was no longer a bride-to-be. Perhaps reading would offer more diversion, although she could skip the bishop’s assignment of First Corinthians. Instructions to husbands and wives no longer had bearing on her life. She needed to figure out her future. If the wedding is off, how can I continue living with Thomas and Sally? Amy pressed the first shirt zealously. Should I catch the bus to Bangor and then another to Portland where I can board the train? The dull ache between her eyes soon spread across her whole head.
“Amy?” asked a soft voice. “May I join you, or would you rather be alone?”
She glanced up to find a bedraggled Nora standing in the doorway.
“Jah, come in. Why are you wet? Never mind. You were obviously out walking. Go stand by the fire until you dry.” Amy turned her attention back to the shirt.
Nora crept into the room and took a position by the woodstove. “Sally said you and John had a horrible spat.”
Amy didn’t look up from her ironing. “That is true.” She volunteered nothing more than three flat words.
“She told me he burned Aunt Prudence’s letters.”
Amy bit the inside of her cheek. “If it’s just the same, schwester, I’d rather not rehash the details right now. I’m trying to control my anger, not fan the flames.”
“That would be wise.” Nora held her hands above the stove. “You need to consider your options here.”
Amy set down the iron to reheat. “And what options would those be? I…we…have no choice but to return to Lancaster. I can’t very well stay if the wedding is off, especially as Harmony is a small town. I would run into a Detweiler every time I turned around.” She hissed the words under her breath, not wishing to be overheard.
Nora sneezed repeatedly into her tissues. “Oh, dear, this is even worse than I imagined.”
Amy glowered at her. “What are you talking about? You’re the one who didn’t want me rushing into marriage. I thought you would be pleased that I broke my engagement.”
“Not at all. I don’t want you making rash decisions, and that appears to be what you’re still doing.”
Amy was in no mood for an enigmatic sister. “This was no garden-variety disagreement. John’s actions uncovered a major character flaw. It’s better that I found out now rather than later on.” She walked to the front window, where rain pelted the glass, underscoring the prevalent mood in the room.
“A character flaw?” Nora blew her nose. “I’m sure you’re over-reacting. You’re about to make an important decision—one you shouldn’t make without serious consideration and plenty of prayer.”
Amy’s patience began to fray. “You’re a fine one to advise—”
“Hear me out,” interrupted Nora. “I know I’m dispensing medicine I don’t usually take, but that doesn’t make it less worthwhile. You don’t really want to move back to Pennsylvania and neither do I. But I will if that’s your decision,” she added hastily. “Why not give this a little time to see if you feel differently? Let’s say a week.”
“A week? You want me to live here and try to avoid John for seven days? Don’t you think that might be uncomfortable?”
“It might be, but if you explain this is a seven-day cooling-off period, he’ll probably cut you a wide swath.”
Amy shook her head mulishly, but she had lost the desire to continue arguing. Her confrontational side was plum worn out for one day. “I suppose I can wait that long.”
Nora’s expression turned victorious. “One week. Then we’ll pack up and head to the bus depot. You’ll have the rest of your life to hate his guts.”
Amy had always loathed that expression. “I could never hate John, no matter what final choice I make.”
“All the more reason not to go off half-cocked.”
“Where are all these English phrases coming from?” asked Amy, grateful for a change in subject.
“I ran into Elam on my walk in the rain. You know he’s more English than Amish these days.” Nora flashed a toothy smile. “You finish the ironing while I scrub the bathroom and kitchen floor. I have much to atone for, and I heard hard work goes a long way… especially in Maine.” In the blink of an eye, she was gone.
Amy put her sister’s odd comments out of mind. She had more to contemplate than any sane woman could handle at the moment.
EIGHTEEN
Let me hide myself in Thee
Dampness seeped through the leather soles of Thomas’s work boots. Time to buy a new pair on his next trip to the Harmony co-op. Last night’s surprise blizzard brought more harm than cold feet and sloppy pastures. An ancient, dying sycamore had split down the middle as wet snow clung to the heavily laden branches. Half the tree fell into the cornfield, leaving a deep furrow between the rows, while the other half brought down a section of pasture fence. Fortunately, his cows had chosen the barn to spend the night in due to the storm and hadn’t yet discovered their path to freedom. Shielding his eyes as the sun rose higher than the eastern treetops, Thomas spotted the approach of his brother.
John’s head was bent low. He was either watching for pockets of icy water hidden under the fresh snow, or miserable from an unhappy encounter with Amy that had already spoiled his morning. When he reached the stump, his pinched face told the story. Thomas felt a jab of compassion for the man, who often emulated a confused moose blundering into town.
“What happened?” asked John. “Did the storm knock down a tree?”
Considering the presence of an ax, chainsaw, and bail of wire, along with snippers and the flatbed wagon, the question seemed superfluous. Thomas answered him with courtesy anyway. “Jah, but by noon most of the snow will be gone. It’s supposed to be sunny today. We’ll have time to get the wood moved down to the house.”
Without a word, John started the chainsaw and began cutting the fal
len tree into stove-sized pieces as Thomas returned to fence repair. The two men worked at least thirty minutes before his brother, perspiring and red faced, set down his tools.
Thomas picked up the signal that his brother was ready to talk. “More trouble with Nora?” he asked.
“No, I can’t shift the blame this time. Amy broke our engagement this morning for something she’d found out about me.” He sat down on the stump used as a chopping block with a grim expression.
“She canceled her plans to buy the house and marry you?” Thomas dropped the wire cutters into the toolbox and devoted his full attention to his brother.
“She can never marry a man she cannot trust.”
“Maybe you should start at the beginning and tell me the whole story.”
John recounted the events factually, with little emotion, but as soon as he was finished he began to cry. Thomas hadn’t heard his brother cry in many years. The sound broke his heart, yet at the same time it stirred a sense of hope. A man never changes until forced to, until he’s brought to his knees. John had fallen from the straight and narrow path. This could be his first step back. Thomas let his brother weep until he had exhausted his sorrow and self-loathing. Finally John wiped his face with his handkerchief, blew his nose, and straightened his back.
Thomas closed his eyes to recollect a passage of Scripture. “In James chapter five, verse sixteen, we find good advice. ‘Confess your sins to each other and pray for each other so that you may be healed.’ You have confessed your sins to the Lord and to Amy, so now your healing can begin.”
“Perhaps God will forgive me, but Amy never will. She won’t forget my pride and arrogance and judgmental behavior. I condemned her aunt and her sister as though my hands were clean. I maneuvered to keep Amy and her aunt apart, fearing I would lose control. And in so doing I destroyed our life together.” John locked eyes with Thomas. “You’re my minister and my brother and my only friend. Please help me change my ways. I don’t want to live another day in my skin.”
Thomas had never heard his brother so vulnerable and penitent. “Pray daily—no, hourly—for deliverance. Let the Holy Spirit fill your heart, give you strength, and guide you. Your future will be revealed in due time, but for now put Amy out of your mind. You’re allowing her to monopolize your every thought. Dwelling on your missteps, no matter how onerous, won’t help the situation.” He placed a hand on John’s shoulder. “In the meantime, you’re not finished making amends. You need to confess what you’ve done to Prudence and apologize to Nora. Those two acts will go a long way in your healing.”
John rose to his feet. “You’re right. I will do this and pray it will be enough.”
“A contrite heart will be sufficient to the Lord, but Amy must arrive at her own conclusions. Many things said during heated arguments are later regretted. Give her space and time. If your hearts are true, there are few obstacles that cannot be overcome. But if you do part ways, this union was never meant to be.”
“Danki, bruder.”
“Gern gschehne,” murmured Thomas. “Before you go to bed, turn in your Bible to the third chapter of First John, verses nineteen and twenty. Start there for help.” He reached out his hand to John. They shook heartily and returned to their tasks. Within a couple of hours the fence had been repaired, the tree cut into manageable lengths, and the branches cleaned up. John loaded the firewood onto the flatbed wagon to be split another day. The dead sycamore would provide warm nights next winter. The hard physical labor distracted John from his woes, which is exactly what Thomas had in mind.
Later that night, when John retreated to his room, weary from a day of backbreaking work, he discovered two things that would help him sleep a bit easier. Amy had written a note and slipped it under his door. With shaking fingers he unfolded the single sheet and began to read:
Dear John,
Although my mind-set remains the same, Nora has advised me to wait a week before leaving Harmony and Thomas’s gracious home. I regret losing my temper, but since I did, waiting is probably a good idea. I hope you will respect my privacy and give me time to plan a course of action. Don’t try to coerce me or influence my decision.
In Christ’s love,
Amelia King
Amelia—all these years he’d never known her formal given name. Now the word tumbled around his head like a beautiful melody, constricting his heart with unbearable melancholy. Amelia, what have I done? Dropping into the rocking chair, handmade long ago by his grossdawdi, John turned to the passage in First John that Thomas had suggested and read aloud words to change his life.
This is how we know that we belong to the truth and how we set our hearts at rest in his presence: If our hearts condemn us, we know that God is greater than our hearts, and he knows everything.
Nora didn’t think she’d ever spent a more uncomfortable three days. They had to endure the Sabbath’s Sunday school class, and then a rather somber noon meal at the meetinghouse, followed by an afternoon of quiet reading and meditation devoid of any sociability. Everyone walked on eggshells so as not to strain already frayed nerves. Monday and Tuesday hadn’t been much of an improvement. At least laundry, baking, cleaning, cooking, and child care occupied female hours, while John and Thomas managed to stay busy despite fallow fields. Even the Detweiler goats had stopped producing milk during the dullest season of the year. Thomas had to own the tidiest barn in Waldo County, Maine, considering how many hours the men spent out there. Thomas occasionally left on district business or to run errands, but John had to be worn ragged trying to stay out of Amy’s way.
Poor John. Nora pitied the man she had so recently held in low regard. His emotional state was painful to witness, yet he sought no consolation from anyone. He arrived promptly for meals, bowed his head to pray and then ate as though ravenous wolves nipped at his pant legs. Amy kept busy slicing bread or vegetables, or suddenly remembering a condiment they needed from the cellar. She didn’t sit down to her own meal until John dabbed up the last drop of gravy with a bread crust and left the table. She also appeared lost in a world of isolation but refused to discuss the matter since the morning Sally had disclosed John’s misdeeds.
Nora stared out the living room window at snow falling fast and flaky. Soon the brown fields would be covered with an insulating mantle that would remain until spring. According to Thomas, Maine seldom enjoyed a January thaw—a midwinter reprieve to lift low spirits—the way they had in Lancaster County. Where will I be come spring? The sound of footsteps soon jarred her from her daydream.
“May I speak with you, Nora?”
She turned to find Amy’s former betrothed nearly nose to nose. “Of course, but I have no news for you. Amy has said nothing to me about her plans.”
John forced a smile. “I’ve not come to talk about your sister. I want to apologize for my behavior the night of our marriage class. I had no business judging you or threatening you or even speaking in that fashion. I hope you can forgive me.” He clutched his felt hat brim between chapped, reddened fingers and appeared to have lost ten pounds during the last few days.
“You weren’t wrong in your assessment of me.” Nora offered an overdue olive branch. “I’ve spent years trying to avoid chores. My mamm said she needed to tether me to a project if any progress was to be made.”
His blue eyes softened. “Whatever your work ethic, I acted cruelly, and for that I am sorry.” He reached out his hand.
Nora clasped it and shook. “The matter is behind us and we won’t talk about it again.” She pumped his hand like a well handle.
John shifted his weight nervously, seeming uncertain what to do with his hand once she released it. “Danki, Nora. I’ll leave you to your storm-watching. The weather is supposed to get worse. I’m glad we have enough food and firewood to last us a while.” He nodded and strode out the door, maybe standing taller than when he arrived.
Nora trailed him as far as the kitchen. With her mouth and throat parched dry, a cup of tea sounded good. Filling the
teakettle at the tap, she noticed Elam exit his basement quarters and head for the barn. Suddenly, he halted on the path and glanced back, as though aware he was being watched. Water overflowed the kettle, cascading down her wrist and soaking her sleeve as Nora stared at the man who monopolized her every dream and waking thought.
Elam lifted his hat brim and mouthed the words, “Meet me in the henhouse.”
Nora shut off the water but otherwise froze in place, unable to acknowledge she understood the exaggerated five-word sentence.
Elam repeated the attempted communication and waited with an expectant glint in his eye. Standing in the falling snow, with large flakes clinging to his hat and jacket, he took on the visage of a winter storybook character.
She peeked over her shoulder before nodding affirmatively to his request. What am I doing? This isn’t exactly atoning for past mistakes while keeping a low profile.
Elam smiled and then sprinted off. Without exception, it was the craftiest, slyest grin Nora had ever seen. The comic snowman vanished, replaced by a handsome temptation a woman would be wise to resist.
Yet, resist him Nora could not. She set the kettle on the stove and then ducked into the bathroom to rinse with mouthwash and add a touch of blusher—a keepsake from her rumschpringe days in Pennsylvania. For a fleeting moment, Nora contemplated changing from her hideously drab dress but nixed the idea. No sense in keeping him waiting, she thought, forgetting about her notion of sackcloth and ashes. She listened at the door, and when she was certain no one had come into the kitchen, she left the bathroom. With her heart thudding in her chest, she grabbed her cloak and slipped outside.
Snow dampened her face as she closed the door, a chilly reminder that she had forgotten her heavy bonnet. But the sight of Elam’s boot tracks heading to the henhouse sent ripples of delight across her skin.
