She forced her legs out of bed and sat upright. She struck a match, lit the lantern, and took it with her into the bathroom to shower. It would be another awkward morning between Joel and her until he went to work. If possible, the air between them seemed more stifling now than in her first weeks here. She needed to talk to Elise. Not only could she tell Elise anything, but she trusted Elise’s opinion. Once Rose dropped the boys off at school, she and Grace would pop by Elise’s, hoping she would be home. Joel’s Mamm, Sarah, was a good friend too, but as the bishop’s wife, she was very busy this time of year. Besides, Rose would never talk to Sarah about such matters.
Last night Erma had brought Joel home in her rig after his trip to the Wagners’, but she didn’t come in the house. Maybe she had been irritated about the shirts Rose had ruined. Rose never knew whether to be grateful or disappointed when Erma avoided her. The woman reminded her of her own mother, and that alone was enough to strain the relationship.
When Joel walked in from taking the rooster back, he was spent. So they got through another stilted dinner, and Rose refused Joel’s help with the dishes, shooing him into the living room with the children. She was certainly capable of washing dishes by herself. But until recently she had loved having his help in any way that he gave it.
She used to treasure the hour or so after they put the children to bed, when they would work on chores together—things she hadn’t managed to get done with the children up and Joel at work. The flames in the kerosene lanterns would flicker and dance while they washed and dried dishes or folded, ironed, and put away laundry. Joel wasn’t like most men, at least not since she had arrived, and he didn’t mind pitching in. More important than the chores they finished, they had used that time to talk, to help scrub away each other’s loneliness.
She got out of the shower, dried, dressed, and pulled her hair back into a proper bun before putting on her prayer Kapp.
When she’d arrived four years ago, the Forest Hill community had wanted to welcome her. She could tell that much, and she gave them credit for their hearts being in the right place. But everything about Rose was a reminder of the loss of Florence. Conversations were labored and filled with land mines, causing people to explode into tears when least expected. Everyone in this small community, including Joel, longed for Florence, but at least he had taken the time to work past the chasm. And she knew he’d done so for her sake.
Now the chasm was created by both of them—Rose, unable to ask for what she wanted, and Joel more of a mystery than ever. She picked up the lantern and opened the bathroom door. Was that coffee and bacon she smelled? She wanted to avoid being alone in the kitchen with him this morning. He’d been up and out of the house early for the past month, so what was different about today?
She drew a breath, bracing herself before she went downstairs. When she reached the kitchen, she saw Joel at the counter, making sandwiches. He looked up. “Morning.”
“Hi.”
He had water simmering on the stove, ready to add the grits that were sitting on the counter next to the pot. Toast was made and buttered, and there was a plate of fried bacon cooling on the counter as well as a bucket of fresh milk. He’d already milked Clarabelle?
He’d apologized to her last night, saying that he’d overreacted about the rooster and that it’d been a really bad day at work. Joel put two sandwiches into plastic containers and placed them in the lunchpails. He turned down the burner under the boiling pot of water for the grits, leaving it to simmer until closer to when the children would be ready to eat. With breakfast basically done, the cow milked, and lunches made, Rose wasn’t sure what to do with herself.
He grabbed a mug and filled it with coffee. “I want to see your arm where the gash is.” He placed the percolator back on the stove and held out the mug to her.
“I’m fine.” But she didn’t want to take the coffee from him. Not this time. She wanted an explanation of why he and Gertie had been talking outside the house before daylight yesterday morning. Except, she didn’t want to know. So she took the coffee. It was easier to go along than to try to explain why she was refusing the drink. Knowing the right moves to make in a marriage seemed so tricky. Was theirs the only marriage like that?
“Can I look?” He gestured at her arm.
She shook her head, embarrassed by the memory of the dumb bird. “I never finished cleaning up the mess with the laundry.” She went toward the closet to get her coat.
“Done.” He pulled out a chair at the head of the table and gestured to it. “Sit with me.”
“Why?”
His brows knit. “Rose, I know you’ve enjoyed it when we’ve had time to talk before the day started.” He clenched the spindles on the ladder-back chair and waited for her to sit.
Her heart pounded with confusion and jealousy as the image of him laughing with Gertie tried to undo her.
He jiggled the chair, so she sat.
“I won’t bite. I promise.” He moved to the chair to her right. “Our season is fast approaching, Rose. Christmastime.” He eased his fingers over her wrist and gently turned her arm to look at the gouge, but her sleeve covered it. His fingers were warm against her skin as he carefully pushed her sleeve back. He sucked air through his teeth. “Ouch.”
She pulled her sleeve down. “It’s not a big deal.” But when she tried to ease her arm free of his hold, he didn’t let go.
Using two fingers, he gently made wide circles on her forearm, inches below the gash. “We’d been married about twelve weeks before our first Christmas together, and I could hardly breathe or eat from the grief, but you made me laugh for the first time since we met. Do you remember?”
When talking to Rose, he usually dated events by when they met or married rather than by Florence’s death. Maybe that was less painful for him, or maybe he was trying to honor his relationship with Rose. Joel was probably the most kind and thoughtful man she’d ever known, even during his darkest hours. But what did he mean by “our season”?
“You look unsure.” He continued to caress her arm and stared at her limp hand as if it had some magical power. What was going on with him today? “Let me refresh your memory.” He smiled as if teasing her. “On Christmas Eve four years ago, you asked me to take you and the boys to the small pond to ice-skate. It was your first real request, other than camping, so I called Mamm and got her to stay with Grace. I was aimless and disconnected, doing one thing and thinking of another. You not only let me grieve as I needed, but you found ways to help me process all that I felt.”
“Did I?”
“Sure, you’re smart about the human condition, and you know how to help.”
She shrugged, but her chest felt weighted with his emotional words.
“So”—he ran his fingers to the center of her palm—“a light snow was falling from the dark sky, and I had a two-year-old strapped to my back and a three-year-old by the hand as I followed you, because I had forgotten there was a pond in that area.” He smiled, looking at peace. “You turned around, facing me while walking backward toward the icy pond, and you said, ‘Listen, I’m good on my feet. I don’t fall. Ever. But I do random gravity checks.’ I had no idea what that meant, but you’d no more than gotten the words ‘gravity checks’ out of your mouth when you fell backward and thudded to the ground. You immediately jumped up, snow flying off your clothes, and yelled, ‘Check!’ ” He laughed. “You said, ‘Gravity still works, especially right here,’ and you pointed at the path under your feet.” He angled his head, studying her. “The cogwheels that were somewhere inside me were misaligned. But at that moment at least one slid into place and connected with another cogwheel, and then the next, until the hundreds of cogwheels began to move. And I breathed again.” His eyes bore into hers. “I thought it was time I told you that.”
“Denki, Joel.” Why couldn’t she just tell him how she felt? Surely a kind rejection from him would be easier than living in eternal torment. But for every million thoughts and feelings she had, she
managed to share only a dozen. Knowing this about herself didn’t help loosen any of her many words, and that only added another layer of frustration. She tugged harder at her arm this time, and he released her. “I should begin sewing you at least one new shirt. Christmas will be here soon, and you won’t have a decent shirt for the service or the church gatherings.”
Joel sighed. “Words don’t come easy for you. I get that.” He leaned back, looking pleased. “I like that about you…most of the time. But if you were one smidgen as good with words as you are with actions, I wouldn’t be so perplexed about how to proceed. But that’s okay, because every couple has an area that gives them trouble. So I’ve decided we need a code between us, either a word or a signal. If you’re displeased, you could yell ‘offensive!’ or ‘check!’ One simple word. That’s all I would need to begin to piece things together.”
“A code? If I’m that broken, I deserve to stay that way,” she whispered.
“I was beyond that broken, and you never thought I deserved to stay that way. And you’re not broken. You listen to me talk, and you have soothing, healing words. You give wise counsel, and we talk for hours about the children or God. We’re a team when it comes to this family, community needs, and business ideas. But, ya, you struggle when it comes to your feelings. Some of that is your personality, and some of it is how tough your Mamm was on you. You avoided a lot of punishment by keeping your thoughts to yourself. Maybe it’s a habit as much as anything.”
This conversation was making her really uncomfortable, and she just wanted to get busy doing something. She went to the sewing supply cabinet and pulled out white material for new dress shirts. But when she unfolded the fabric, she realized she didn’t have enough to make even one.
“Rose.” Joel was almost whispering in her ear. “What’s going on?” She could feel his warm breath against the back of her neck. “I’ve stayed up a lot the last few nights, roaming the house and the yard, thinking. We’ve successfully maneuvered around obstacles of every kind in our four years together, so it doesn’t make sense that we’re tripping over what seems to be nothing.”
Wait. He was outside Monday morning, walking and thinking about them? “Up thinking about us? Why?” She couldn’t make herself turn to face him.
“Because we’re a good thing to think about…” From behind her he rested his hands on her shoulders. “Ya?”
“Maybe. I guess.” She refolded the material and set it back in place. “Depends, doesn’t it?” If he was roaming around trying to figure out how to cope with her, that wouldn’t be a good thing.
“I’m trying not to cross a line here, Rose, but you have to talk to me. Whatever is going on between us, I want to fix it. I miss you.”
She couldn’t budge. Was he telling her the truth? Doubts swirled. Feeling valuable was never easy. Whenever life grew quiet, she could still hear her Mamm’s harsh words constantly telling her all she did wrong. “You miss me?”
He chuckled. “Why is that so hard for you to believe?”
“I’m strange and prone to making small disasters.”
“Ya, you are. I’m commonplace, maybe even boring, and I need small mishaps to keep life interesting.”
He wasn’t commonplace or boring. He was smart and the kind of entrepreneur whose innovation kept this Amish community thriving. And so very cute. Elise had told her that he looked like a younger Mark Ruffalo, a well-known actor in the Englisch world. Rose saw a picture of him recently, and, ya, if one took fifteen years off Mr. Ruffalo, that’s who Joel looked like—dark curly hair, gentle eyes, sincerest of smiles, and all.
She narrowed her eyes, studying him. She had no idea why squinting made it seem as if one could see something clearer, but she did it anyway. Why would he miss her? She was right here, being her ordinary self. Quietly loving him and thinking he might never love her back.
“Mama,” Grace called from the top of the stairs. Rose glanced at the clock. Grace might be ready to get up, but more than likely she just wanted her covers retucked again. Without saying anything else, Rose went upstairs. “Hi, sweetie.” Rose picked her up, and Grace wrapped her precious arms around her neck. “You cold?”
“Ya. I like December because it’ll be Christmas soon, but I don’t like the cold.”
“Me neither.” Rose took her back to her bed, laid her down, and pulled the quilts over her. She stayed there for a few minutes, brushing back her dark hair and kissing on her sweet face.
Was it possible that Rose and Joel could live like other married couples, ones who shared a bed and had children? When Grace fell back to sleep, Rose hurried down the stairs. She needed to know the ending of Joel’s and her story. But where was he? “Joel?” She looked in the living room. Where could he be? A sound from outside drew her to the kitchen window. There he stood, in their driveway, talking with Gertie and holding what looked to be two folded white shirts.
Embarrassment burned through her—embarrassment that she’d actually believed he cared for her, embarrassment that Gertie knew about the shirts and had made sure he had new ones so quickly—before she, his own wife, could make them for him. How had she sewn two shirts this quickly? She must have been making them for her uncle.
But much more important than that, just who did Gertie think she was? Rose was Joel’s wife!
Maybe Rose wasn’t good at talking about how she felt, but she didn’t need words to go out there and run off Gertie Mae Yoder.
Joel saw the front door fly open. Rose hurried out, her burgundy dress a blur as she rushed toward him. Where was her coat? She stopped directly in front of him, her eyes filled with something unfamiliar. Anger?
“Good morning, Rose.” Gertie smiled and gestured toward the unfinished addition to the house. “That’ll be really nice when it’s done.”
Rose nodded. “It looks like we’ll get snow soon. I’m sure you have egg deliveries to make, so I’d be on my way if I were you.”
Gertie blinked. “Oh.” She glanced at Joel. “I…I guess I should.”
His wife had just invited Gertie to leave, and all three of them knew it. He’d never seen anything like it, certainly not from Rose.
“Denki for the shirts.” Joel tried to sound as if there was nothing unusual about what Rose had just said.
“Anytime.” Gertie got in her rig.
Rose remained glued in place, saying nothing, and Joel waited. As soon as Gertie pulled out of the driveway, Rose snatched the shirts out of his hands, walked to the mud puddle, and threw them into it.
At least he knew how she felt. She was seething from the disrespect of another woman stepping in when she wasn’t asked, but he guessed that Erma had asked Gertie to make the shirts. Still, his wife wasn’t hiding her feelings, and that was a victory. He studied the shirts. “Check!” He studied his wife. “Offensive!”
“Is this funny to you?”
“When a man loses four white shirts over the course of two days to a small puddle in his yard, ya, it’s a little amusing.”
Rose stormed off, and he took a couple of long strides to get in front of her. He turned to face her, blocking her from going any farther. “Okay, not funny, I guess.”
She crossed her arms. “How did Gertie even know about the shirts?”
“My guess is that after Erma left here last night, she made a beeline to Gertie’s. I’m sorry, Rose. Erma seems bent on doing or saying things to cause trouble. That aside, Gertie’s gift could’ve saved you the time and trouble of having to sew new shirts for me.”
Rose pointed at him. “I’m your wife! Me! Like it or not, that’s the way it is!”
“I like it fine, and I’m pretty sure Gertie’s glad of it as well.”
“Stop making jokes, Joel.” She gestured toward the unfinished addition. “I saw you and her out here before sunup yesterday, laughing and talking. And you dare tell me that you were outside at night thinking about me? Flirting with her is more like it!”
Guilt flooded him, but it’d seemed completely innocent
at the time. And what was this? Was Rose jealous? If so, that would be a good sign…maybe.
“Come on, Rose. You know me better than that.” He’d been walking around the house when Gertie was cutting through the side yard. “She was on her way back from the Wagners’, actually. We practically bumped into each other.”
“Give me a break. Why would she be at the Wagners’ home that time of day?” Rose’s voice held an edge he had never heard before. “Walking, before daylight, in December!”
Frustration began nibbling at him. “It was her aunt’s birthday, and she said she wanted to make Mary a special breakfast but needed an ingredient for the cinnamon rolls, and Shirley Wagner left it on the porch for her. I don’t know why she didn’t take her buggy. Exercise? I probably should’ve nipped the conversation in the bud and come inside, but I didn’t think anything of chatting with her a bit.”
“What a story. I don’t buy it.”
“Good. Don’t buy it. Stay angry. I much prefer that to silence. I have a closet full of work shirts and pants. Throw all of them in the mud.” He wanted to get to the bottom of what was going on in her head even if he had to walk around in his underwear all winter.
Rose stood on her tiptoes, pointing at him again. “You tell her that if she comes on this property again without an invitation from me, I’ll put her in the mud!”
The cogwheels inside his brain finally clicked into place. Had Rose pulled away from him about the time Gertie came to Forest Hill? He had watched the widow in church once or twice and hurt for her. He doubted the relatives she’d moved in with understood the kind of pain she was going through. He wondered how she would survive the loss, how much of her would still be alive in five years. “I’m not infatuated with her. Not even a little.”
The Angel of Forest Hill Page 6
