by Amy Lillard
She pulled out the Bible and started to read. It was slow going, reading in German, translating, then looking up the words she didn’t know. But it was a satisfying challenge, like a lesson hard won. Maybe when she got back to Dallas she would buy a German Bible and her own copy of the translation dictionary to continue her study. She could get an English copy, but the slower pace helped the meaning sink in, forced her to keep her attention on the words and her mind on the meaning.
Her reading was interrupted by a soft knock at the front door.
Gideon poked his head in before she could bid him to enter. “I’m just headin’ off to bed now,” he said.
Not once in all the days since she had been on his farm had he felt it necessary to let her know when he was going to bed. Why had he picked tonight of all nights to check in with her?
She stood, not missing the fact that he toed the threshold, not setting foot into his own house.
“Okay, then.” She closed her finger in the Good Book to hold her place.
He nodded toward the Bible she held in her hands. “Don’t stay up too late readin’.”
“I won’t.”
He hesitated as if wanting to say more, then with a small nod and a quiet, “Gut nacht,” he closed the door behind him.
“Good night,” she murmured after him.
Then she understood. Today meant as much to him as it did to her—the fellowship, the closeness. She wished she could have more of it, and felt reluctant to see it pass.
There would be tomorrow, but how many more days would she have to savor the stillness of Amish life before she had to return to the crazy pace of her life in Dallas?
Morning came far too early for Avery’s taste. Despite Gideon’s warning, she stayed up late reading. Still, she dragged herself up and put away her “bed,” then staggered to the kitchen to start the coffee before getting dressed for the day.
She poured a cup for herself just as Gideon came into the house, looking refreshed and renewed and not like he’d stayed up half the night. She poured him a cup as well, and they sat down at the table to drink their morning brew together before she started breakfast.
Avery looked at him over the rim of her cup. “It’s Sunday.”
“Jah.”
“Have you given any thought to going to church this morning?”
“Jah.”
“You have?” She set her cup down so hard, some of the coffee sloshed onto the table. “That’s great.” She jumped up to get a rag to clean up her mess, unable to keep the smile off her face. His mother would be so relieved to see him in the congregation today.
Gideon squinted at her. “I only said I had given it thought. I did not say that I was going.”
“Gideon.” She dragged his name out across several syllables. “You should go.”
He didn’t say anything, just rubbed a hand across the stubble on his chin.
Avery wondered if his beard was itching him since it had been growing back in, or if he wasn’t ready to face everyone in the district with his nearly-bare face.
He shook his head. “Nay. No. I can’t do it. Not with everyone . . .” He pushed his chair back and stood in one jerky motion. One minute he was sitting across from her and the next he stood with his back to her while staring out the window.
“What are you going to do?”
He didn’t answer.
“Just hide out here until . . . until—”
“I die, too.”
His words were quiet yet they reverberated with heartbreak. It was all about grief.
She moved to go to him, then stopped herself. He wasn’t hers to comfort. Never was, never would be.
She sat back in her chair and said the first thing that came to mind. “When you are brokenhearted, I am closer to you.”
He turned. “What?”
“When you are brokenhearted, I am closer to you. Psalms, I think. I just read it, so you’d think I’d remember.”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“It does matter.” She squirmed, but held her place. “You’re pushing everyone away. Even God. And right now you need them . . . you need Him the most.”
He took a deep, shuddering breath, then grew still. “Let’s have a picnic today.”
She stared at his back. “You’re avoiding the issue.”
“We could pack some sandwiches and maybe a jar of Grossmammi’s pickles.”
“Gideon, you can’t hide like this.”
“Go down to the creek. There’s a big old tree down there, just perfect for eatin’ under.”
“It’s going to catch up to you one day.”
“Louie would love it down there. Dragonflies to chase. Moss to roll around in.”
She released a sigh. “All right, all right. A picnic it is. But this isn’t over.” She knew when she had been beaten, but she wasn’t giving up. Even if it was the last thing she did before she left, she vowed she’d get Gideon back to church.
He was right about one thing. Louie loved the creek. He romped around and pranced through the grass like a big dog. Snapped at the promised dragonflies, chased butterflies, and in general had a high old time while she and Gideon sat under the shade of the giant oak and ate the food they’d packed.
Gideon finished first, and stretched out on his side, twirling a blade of grass between his fingers as he kept watch on Louie who darted back and forth, yipping at one insect or another. She sat cross-legged next to him, her legs tucked under the folds of her skirt. Yet another mark on the “pro” side for Amish attire.
“These are the best pickles I have ever eaten.” She took another bite, savoring the crunch and tangy flavor.
Gideon shrugged. “Old family recipe. Or at least that’s what Mamm says.”
“I thought homemade pickles were supposed to taste bad.” The episode of the old Andy Griffith Show came to mind, where Andy changed out all of Aunt Bea’s pickles for store-bought ones.
Gideon shrugged again. “This is all I’ve ever eaten.”
“Really?” That seemed so strange to her, but after three weeks of living among the Amish, she could believe it. They were so self-sufficient, so capable. There didn’t seem to be anything they couldn’t do—including make homemade pickles.
“’Cept on a fast-food hamburger.”
She tried to picture him eating a cheeseburger wrapped in paper, but the image wouldn’t surface. Instead she saw him chew, chew, chewing her failed attempt at chicken pot pie.
A giggle escaped her, followed by another and another.
“What’s so funny?”
“You.”
“Me, what?”
“I mean . . .” she struggled to pull herself together, to stop laughing. “When you were eating the pot pie I made. You were too polite to tell me that it was awful, instead you just kept eating and eating and . . .” She sucked in a deep breath. “That’s not funny, is it?”
“No, but I like to see you laugh.”
Then it happened again. A moment like the one in the buggy, where all the air seemed to stand still, and there was no one in the world except the two of them.
Their eyes met and held.
She reached out a hand to touch his face. Slowly, fingers trembling.
But he grabbed her hand before she could make contact.
“Nay.” His eyes blazed with an emotion she couldn’t name. She wanted it to be longing, but thought it more like anger. He’d had something special with his wife and even if it was over, he wasn’t ready to move on. She had been too bold.
She pulled her fingers from his grasp. “I . . .” She wanted to apologize, but couldn’t. It wasn’t the truth. She wasn’t sorry. He was handsome and gentle and kind. And she had wanted to touch him, kiss him. It felt as natural as breathing, and she could
n’t feel sorry about it.
Instead she stood and walked to the water’s edge. The wind had started up again, and it ruffled her hair, whipping the growing strands into her eyes.
He drew up behind her. “Annie, I . . .”
Avery didn’t turn around. She just shook her head. “It’s okay.” Thankfully her voice sounded steady and calm, not at all turbulent, like she felt inside.
“But—”
“Louie!” she called, searching the tall grass for signs of her tiny pooch. Anything but to have to turn around and hear Gideon say those words to her. He didn’t deserve her rudeness, but she couldn’t look into his eyes again, couldn’t see that flash of shock when she’d been so forward. It was one thing to realize that she had made a mistake, and another altogether to have him say it out loud. “Louie V.!” She let out a shrill whistle, watching for him with a steady and unwarranted intensity, until he appeared in view.
“I’ll get the quilt,” Gideon said. “It’s time to go home.”
He folded up the quilt they had brought to use as a picnic blanket, while Avery picked the strands of dry grass out of Louie’s hair. He squirmed in her arms, preferring to run free rather than be pampered. He certainly had adjusted to farm life.
Together they walked slowly back to the house, the only sound coming from the wind in the trees and the occasional cry of a sparrow. They were almost to the porch when Gideon finally spoke.
“Annie, I—”
“Don’t say it.” She set Louie on his feet, and he immediately trotted over to the group of dogs lying in the shade of the barn. “You don’t have to say it. I know you loved your wife. And I know that I’m too bold. I should have never—” she broke off. “Anyway, I’m sorry. No, I’m not. But I should apologize for being so forward. I’m English, what else can I say?” She attempted a smile, but it felt more like a grimace.
He nodded once. “Accepted. I’ll be in the barn.”
His words sounded so final, even though it was only the middle of the afternoon.
She watched him retreat, his back to her. “What about supper?”
He didn’t turn around. “Don’t worry about me. I don’t think I’ll be hungry.” Then he disappeared into the barn, taking a chunk of Avery’s heart with him.
It was better this way. It seemed callous and unchristian, but he couldn’t tell her the truth. It was better that she think he was still so in love with his wife that he couldn’t bear to be touched by another. It was for the best that she think she was too bold for him, because the truth was scarier to him. By far. The truth was that he had waited for her touch. Wanted it desperately, and in that desperation knew it had to be stopped.
Gideon stared up at the boards above him, sleep elusive. He had stayed in the barn for the rest of the day. He’d oiled all the leather in the horses’ gear. He’d brushed the animals unnecessarily. And he repaired the loose floorboards of the hay loft. That had taken about two hours. The rest of the time he sat and tried not to think about . . . her.
Impossible.
She had no place in his world. She might have on an Amish frack. She might have learned how to make snitz pie, but she was Englisch through and through. It was better for her to think he didn’t want her touch when in actuality he longed for it. There wasn’t enough of his heart left to be broken a second time.
He turned on his side, and closed his eyes, willing his mind to empty and allow him to sleep. He listened to dogs bark in the distance, and the answer of his own mutts, to the soft breathing of barn animals, and the occasional call of something wild.
Maybe tomorrow he’d go to town and get some pigs. It’d be gut to have some fresh bacon to go with his dippy eggs. That had always been his favorite breakfast, and it took only one lesson for Annie to learn to make them.
Once again, she filled his mind as he drifted off to sleep.
By Monday afternoon, Avery was sure the air would crack if the tension between them became anymore brittle. They walked around each other like rival countries, each afraid the other would break the peace treaty first.
She tried to pretend nothing happened between them, and by English standards nothing did, but that “nothing” sure did change things. She hadn’t looked into his eyes all day.
He’d made no attempt either, preferring to look down at his plate, out the window, or at the top of Louie’s head, rather than at her.
She’d ruined it, she thought as she pulled up the tiny shoots of grass that dared to poke their heads through the rich soil in the front flower bed. She’d had the perfect place to rest and relax—well, at least get away from the city and the demands her father made on her—and she’d blown it.
She probably needed to call her father and tell him she’d be back for the tournament this weekend. Then she’d call and get an appointment to get her hair cut. If she sweet-talked Ramon maybe she could convince him to squeeze her in. She’d have to get a mani-pedi too. She looked down at her hands. All of her acrylics were gone, the nails underneath brittle and short. Not that it mattered. It was hard to weed garden plots and knead bread with longer nails. Back in the real world, though, they’d need protection and showmanship. The thought of all that pampering should have made her smile with contentment. But it didn’t.
Because all that pampering meant leaving this world behind.
She had known it was coming. She had understood from the beginning that her time here was limited. But she wasn’t ready to leave just yet. She wanted to attend a quilting bee. She still had to convince Gideon to buy some alpacas. And she wanted to get him back to his church family.
He wasn’t far. She had seen him in the fields when he didn’t know she was looking. He’d stood there, a hoe in one hand, his head bowed. She had taken to saying her own silent prayer before they ate, but she’d peeked once, and Gideon had been praying too.
He only thought he’d lost his faith. It was still there, lurking under the surface of his grief. Just a few more layers, and it would shine through. Unfortunately, she wouldn’t be here to see it. With any luck—no, help from above—he would continue down this path of recovery.
The soft thud of horses’ hooves caught her attention. Avery shielded her eyes from the sun, but from this distance she couldn’t tell who approached. She stood and dusted the grass from her skirt and pushed her hair behind her ears. Just another part of the refreshing Amish lifestyle. She didn’t have to hurry in and change clothes, worry about the state of the house, or inform the mean little Austrian cook that they had guests who needed to be served.
She wasn’t sure what offering she could make them. She still had the unopened package of Oreo cookies Gideon had brought back from town that first day, but store-bought cookies didn’t seem right.
The buggy drew closer. At first, Avery thought Gabriel was seated there, but a few more yards closer, and she could see the streaks of silver in the dark beard. Abram, Gideon’s father. Looking at the elder Fisher, Avery knew what Gideon would look like a decade from now. Hard-won lines at the corners of deep blue eyes, streaks of silver bisecting a beard that almost touched his chest. Abram Fisher was a broad, solid man, the kind of man a woman knew would provide and protect. But the hard line of his mouth reminded her more of his oldest son. The squint of his eyes seemed more assessing and disapproving, than protection from the bright rays of the sun.
Was that sour expression the norm for Abram Fisher? Or was that glare reserved for lost and lonely Englishers who had outstayed their welcome?
“Good afternoon, Mr. Fisher.”
He grunted, sounding so much like Gideon that Avery had to hide her smile. She knew that Gideon’s father didn’t approve of her being here. He had barely said two words to her at the work frolic. But it didn’t matter. Avery wasn’t about to let him chase her away. That time was well on its way without his help.
“Gideon’s in the b
arn, I think. Shall I get him for you?”
“I can find him.” He set the hand brake and hopped down from the buggy.
Avery held out a hand. “Give me the reins, and I’ll get your horses some water while you visit. It’s too hot already to be out without a drink.”
He paused for a long second, then took the brake off and handed her the straps of leather.
“Maybe after you find Gideon, the two of you could come in and get a drink yourselves. I just made some tea this morning.”
Abram nodded, then started off toward the barn, the Y of his suspenders dotted by the brim of his hat.
He stopped and turned back around. “Annie,” he said, his mouth still tight, but his eyes softened. “Name’s Abram. Amish don’t use titles ’cept for those who are chosen by God.” Then he touched the brim of his hat and continued on his way.
Although unsure of what he meant by the statement, somehow Avery felt one step closer to the Fisher patriarch.
Gideon heard the soft crackle of straw before his light was blocked.
He didn’t want to go into this again, didn’t think he was strong enough to stand his ground a second time. He closed his eyes and willed himself to be strong, then he swerved around, a bale of hay held in front of him like a shield.
His father stood before him, not Annie, and it was all he could do not to sigh in visible relief.
“Dat.” He tossed the hay to one side and nodded to his father. Then he took off his gloves, slapped them against his leg, and stuffed them into his back pocket before extending his hand.
His father’s grip was firm and reassuring, its strength flowing into Gideon. For the first time he could ever remember, Gideon wished to be little again with no more worries ’cept milkin’ the cows, gathering eggs, and findin’ enough worms to support an afternoon’s fishin’. The bygone days of childhood, without so much grief and loss, so many tough decisions.
“Looks good here.”
Gideon nodded. The new paint on the clapboard made the house sparkle like a jewel in the sun. The garden was coming in, the strawberries blooming, and the flowers that Annie had planted displayed their riot of color as pretty as you please. The farm actually looked like someone lived there. Strange, for this was the place he had come to die.
