by Naomi King
During dinner, Emma concentrated on passing food and filling water glasses—anything to stay busy while the men devoured an astonishing amount of food. Abby seemed tickled about her new lemon yellow sewing room, and about sharing Emma’s parents’ previous bedroom with James, and about living here with Emma and Dat, as though life had opened a lot of unexpected doors for her. She didn’t seem nearly as disappointed that she’d no longer be working at the mercantile, either.
While Emma envied Abby’s ability to rise above sorrow—to see the rainbow rather than the rain—such cheerfulness required too much effort from her right now. What she wouldn’t do for a nap . . . or time to begin the afghan for Abby and James in her cozy room. She’d found a large bin of yarn when she’d cleaned out the dawdi haus closet—enough to get a good start on her project. But she couldn’t sit around crocheting while they had a houseful of company.
As Eddie carried his ladders, paint cans, and rollers into the kitchen, Emma washed the dishes, and Abby dried them before returning to the mercantile for the afternoon. “It feels strange, seeing my shelves empty in the loft over there,” she confided as they finished redding up. “My sewing supplies are all packed, and I’m just waiting for somebody to move my sewing machine over here . . . working on my last order for Sam before I finish being his employee in a few hours.” Abby sighed, shrugging. “But it’s all working out for the best. Do you have any idea when you’ll start working? I can still go over with you and show you how we—”
“Oh, it’s way too soon for that,” Emma protested. “Mamm’s not even been gone a week.”
“And Sam’s already said you won’t be working in the main store while you’re in mourning,” Abby agreed gently. “But whenever you feel up to looking at the ledgers, or bagging up the bulk cereals and baking supplies in the workroom, he’d be pleased to have you start.”
Emma bit back another objection, sensing a different topic of conversation was in order. With all the commotion of moving Dat to his new rooms and dealing with Eddie’s painting, she’d been hit with all the major changes she could handle for one day.
“Well, I’m glad you and James’ll be living here with us,” she said, trying to sound cheerful. “Are you planning to visit anybody next weekend?” She figured if Abby was going to be home, there was no way she could go to the frolic in Bloomingdale without revealing their quilting secret.
“Jah, we’re venturing over past Queen City,” Abby replied as she hung her dish towel to dry. “Mamm’s cousins there have invited us.”
Emma quelled the urge to sigh. She would have to find another reason to miss the frolic next weekend . . .
No sooner had James accompanied Abby back to the mercantile than Eddie was climbing his ladder and coating the back kitchen wall with bright yellow paint. Wyman and Jerome lingered at the table with Dat, drinking coffee and watching the transformation of the room where the family spent so much of its time.
“I bet Abby’ll whip up some new curtains, and we’ll have us a whole new room,” her father said.
“Jah, I painted Amanda’s house from top to bottom before we Brubakers all moved in there,” Eddie remarked. His roller swished at a quick, even pace. “Fresh paint really does perk a place up—even though none of our rooms are quite this sunny!”
“Amanda’s looking forward to having you two Grabers out for that quilting visit, too,” Jerome chimed in. “She’ll have some of her pottery orders ready by next weekend, so I could bring them when I come for you—”
“I’m not going!” Emma blurted. “I’ll be crocheting an afghan for a wedding gift, so—so you should tell Amanda and the girls to work on their quilts without me. It’s not like they need my help.”
The kitchen rang with silence. The men’s eyes widened, and Eddie stopped painting to look at her, as though she might send him home at any second.
Emma’s shoulders slumped and she swallowed hard. I’ve gone and done it now. I sound like a fussy little girl about to pitch a fit.
Wyman took another cookie from the plate on the table, looking ready to talk Emma out of her decision. Dat, however, had an odd expression on his face. “Got to see a man about a horse,” he mumbled as he headed toward his new rooms.
“Guess I’ll fetch a few things Amanda wants from the mercantile,” Wyman remarked. “I’ll be back by the time you’re finished painting, Eddie.”
“I’ll go, too,” Jerome said as he took his coat from a peg on the wall. “Need some feed supplement for my mule foals.”
Within moments, the house rang with silence. Emma felt awkward hanging around in the kitchen while Eddie worked, so she went upstairs. Her parents’ former bedroom was now arranged with James’s bed on a different wall, and Abby had already changed the sheets and the quilts. And while Abby’s bright yellow sewing room nearly made Emma squint, nothing needed doing in there, either, until the treadle sewing machine came over from the mercantile. Emma had already put fresh sheets on Dat’s bed and tidied his new quarters in the dawdi haus, and James had hung his clothes in the closet.
Emma wandered back downstairs and sat on the chair nearest the woodstove. At last, she had the peace and quiet she’d been craving, but she’d overturned everyone else’s applecart by declaring she couldn’t go to the Brubakers’ any time soon. Was it so wrong to mourn her mother? To allow time for her emotions to emerge, now that everyone else was returning to their normal, everyday lives? Emma wasn’t at all sure what shape her days would take now that Mamm wouldn’t be talking with her and working alongside her as they shared every little task.
Maybe working in the back room at the mercantile wasn’t such a far-flung idea. Doing Sam’s book work and filling bulk food bags sounded a lot more appealing than having to face customers . . .
The front door flew open ahead of Jerome, who held a loaded leather wood carrier in each of his hands. Wyman followed him inside, holding the door for her father, who wore a smug expression.
“We’re all squared away! I just talked with Amanda on the phone,” Dat announced. “She agreed that maybe this next Saturday was too soon, so the quilting frolic is now set for the following weekend, on the twelfth of December. It’ll work out just perfect, because she’ll have the whole set of dishes finished for Abby and James by then, and Jerome can bring them when he comes for us that morning.”
Emma’s mouth fell open. “But—please, Dat,” she pleaded as she watched Jerome stack the firewood. He was smiling brightly. No doubt he was a partner in this little conspiracy. “Sometime soon I’ll—”
“Emma, dear, I know you mean well,” her father interrupted with more spunk than she’d seen in years, “but I’ve got to get myself out amongst cheerful folks who are doing something, or my recliner’s going to swallow me up. I’ll have plenty of time for napping by the fire once the snow’s blowing and it’s too cold to get out.”
Dat gazed at her with unmistakable love, but unshakable authority. “Your mamm would be fussing at us both if we turned into stick-in-the-mud couch potatoes, and you know it, Emma. So that’s that.”
Chapter Twelve
On the Friday morning after Thanksgiving, Amanda sat immersed in her work, watching a large bowl take shape between her hands . . . breathing in time to the steady whirrrrr of her revolving pottery wheel. The set of dishes Sam and Vernon had ordered was coming together as though inspired by those men’s faith and spiritual leadership. Most of the pieces were glazed and completed, with only the cups and saucers to make yet—thanks to the way Vera and Jemima had been keeping the youngsters occupied this week. The aroma of chocolate chip cookies convinced her it was time to take a break.
“Mamm! Mamm, some guy’s coming to the door!” Simon called out from the kitchen.
Amanda stopped pumping the wheel, easing her hands from the wet bowl so she wouldn’t ruin it. Simon’s voice sounded strident—and outside, Wags was barking in a way that announced a stranger. With
Wyman, Jerome, and Eddie gone to Cedar Creek for the day, she sensed she’d better see who was coming.
As she entered the kitchen, a loud pounding on the door made Jemima and the three little girls freeze in place at the table, their cookie dough forgotten. Simon, too, stood back, staring at the man who was glaring at them through the glass—not his usual excited reaction when someone stopped by.
“Jah, just a minute,” Amanda called out to their visitor.
“Get this mutt away from me!” he snapped. “I’m not in the mood to get bit—and you can’t afford it if I do.”
A tingle of fear snaked up Amanda’s spine. “Simon, go around back and call Wags,” she said as their mixed-breed German shepherd continued to bark at the man. “Take him into the barn, and let Pete know a stranger’s here.”
As the boy darted out the back door without a coat, Amanda washed the mucky clay from her hands at the kitchen sink. Who was this man with such a chip on his shoulder? His short hair and clipped beard didn’t look Plain, nor did his uncharitable expression.
Lord, guide our words and actions, and please keep us from harm, Amanda prayed as she dried her hands. With a glance toward Jemima, who stood over by the oven with Cora, Dora, and Alice Ann by her side, Amanda opened the door just far enough to talk. “Jah? What seems to be the problem?”
“If you’re Wyman Brubaker’s wife, you’ve got a problem, all right,” the man retorted as he pushed on the door.
Amanda stepped out of his way, again praying that nothing drastic was going to happen now that this irate man had entered her home. “And what might that be? And who are you?” she asked, her voice rising. She wouldn’t reveal that neither Wyman nor Jerome was home . . . hoped Pete would come out of the barn soon . . .
“I’m Reece Weaver. Does that name ring any bells?” he demanded.
Amanda crossed her arms. It wasn’t her way to speak crossly—especially not to men—but if this was the contractor responsible for building Wyman’s new grain elevator, her opinion of him was not improving. “And what do you want, Reece Weaver?” she asked in a low voice.
“Where’s Wyman?”
Amanda held her ground. She didn’t reply.
Reece’s expression settled into a knowing sneer. “So he’s not home, eh? Probably had a feeling I was coming to collect the money he owes me—and he owes me a lot in back payments, Mrs. Brubaker,” he added, raising his eyebrows dramatically. “Tell him I’ll see him in court if he doesn’t settle up within the next few days. Got it?”
Wyman had told her that work on his new elevator had been delayed by the recent snowfall. The concrete foundation hadn’t been poured, as they had originally figured on. The weather couldn’t be considered Wyman’s fault, and he’d met with Reece a few days before, as he’d been instructed to. So why was this wiry, prickly man acting so huffy? If her husband were here, he’d send this nasty man packing.
Amanda pointed toward the door. “It’s time for you to leave,” she stated as she advanced toward him. “This is business for you to settle with my husband and his partner, not with me.”
Reece backed up and opened the door, chuckling sarcastically. “You don’t scare me one bit, little lady.”
“And you,” Amanda said as she stepped out onto the porch behind him, “you had better not ever come here to frighten my children again, Mr. Weaver. Understand me?”
“Tell Wyman I was here to see him.”
“Jah, you can bet I will.” Amanda stood staunchly on the porch to be sure this intruder went straight to his truck rather than nosing around the farm. As she clutched herself in the frosty air, Wags shot out of the barn, barking fiercely.
“Go get him, boy! Sic him!” she heard Simon say as he and Pete loped into the yard.
“Wags! Boys, call the dog back,” Amanda said sternly, although she was secretly glad Wags was protecting them.
Reece Weaver still had the sense to run the rest of the way to his pickup, but Amanda had a feeling the overgrown pup’s attack would only infuriate the contractor more. Why had Wyman and Ray decided this man should build their elevator? She and the boys watched as the truck sped down the driveway toward the road, spewing loose gravel and mud in its wake.
“Who was that?” Pete asked. “Wags sure doesn’t like him.”
“Dogs are gut judges of character,” Amanda remarked. “Come inside for fresh cookies, boys. We need to talk.”
As Pete and Simon preceded her into the house, Amanda realized she was trembling from more than the brisk wintry wind. The twins were talking shrilly with Jemima, and Vera and Lizzie had come downstairs to see what the commotion was about.
For a moment, Amanda soaked up the warmth of the sweet-smelling kitchen as she gazed at her family. She’d been very lucky, and probably foolish. Reece Weaver could have grabbed her—could have made more menacing threats—instead of retreating to his truck. But he’d done his share of damage, too.
“Let’s sit down,” Amanda said as Jemima pulled sheets of cookies from the oven. “You need to know what’s going on here, even if your dat’s not one to carry on about his concerns.”
“Why was that man so mean, Mamma?” Cora blurted fearfully. “And what are back payments?”
“And what does it mean, that he’ll see Dat in court?” the other twin chimed in.
“Mammaaa!” Alice Ann wailed as she toddled across the floor with her arms raised.
Amanda scooped up her youngest and held her close. Why would any reputable, trustworthy businessman barge into her kitchen and frighten her little children by threatening their father? It was wrong to judge Reece Weaver, but she hoped God was indeed in charge of this situation and keeping track of such a reprehensible man.
“What you need to know,” Amanda began as she joined the kids at the table, “is that your dat’s new elevator is costing him a lot more than he’d figured on. He doesn’t like to let on about the money—”
“And I smell a rat, as far as the money goes,” Jemima muttered as she placed a plate of cookies on the table.
“But he’s concerned about getting our family through the winter,” Amanda continued matter-of-factly. “We believe the Lord will provide—”
“So you’re making your dishes again, like when we were little and our first dat went to heaven. Right, Mamma?” Cora handed her twin a cookie and then passed the plate to Lizzie.
“Jah, and we managed just fine back then, didn’t we?” Amanda smiled. Her younger daughters were older than their years in many ways because, until she’d married Wyman, they’d grown up without a father.
“So is it true?” Vera asked warily. “Does Dat owe that man a lot of money? He was talking so loud, Lizzie and I heard him through the floor.”
Wyman’s eldest child, so like him in her looks, got up to fetch glasses and milk for everyone. It was Vera’s way to act as a mother to her younger siblings . . . to be more responsible than most girls were at seventeen.
“That business is between him and your dat and Ray Fisher,” Amanda insisted. “Our job is to keep things running here at home without wasting anything. We’ve got plenty of food, and we can be careful about our clothes—”
“And we can jiggle the flusher when the toilet runs and runs,” Simon piped up proudly. “Dat says saving water is everybody’s job.”
Amanda’s hand flew to her mouth as a giggle welled up inside her. Wasn’t it just like this boy to help her see the humor in everyday things, even when her nerves were jangled? “Jah, there’s that,” she replied. “We can all help in our own ways—and I’m so proud of how you’re already doing the chores and taking on more responsibilities so I can make my pottery. You’re the best bunch of kids God ever put on this earth, you know it?”
Their wide eyes and smiles were all the gratification Amanda needed. Already she felt as though the incident with Reece Weaver was behind them, and taking a bite of cook
ie—it was still warm, so the chocolate chips smeared her tongue—improved her mood as well.
“Shall we get back to what we were doing?” she asked when the kids had finished their snack. “And again, we should let your dat handle this situation with Reece Weaver. He’s the head of our family, and he’ll know what’s best.”
“And you’re the neck that turns the head, right, Mamm?”
Once again Simon’s response took Amanda by surprise. He was grinning at her with all sincerity, his lips and teeth smeared with melted chocolate—too cute for his own good. But she couldn’t let his quick wit become a habit that would get him into trouble as he got older. “And who told you that, Son?”
“Dat did. He says you’re the head of the household, and we’re to do whatever you say.”
A pleasant warmth prickled her cheeks. Perhaps Reece Weaver’s visit hadn’t been all bad, considering what had come of this conversation. “See what I’m saying? Your dat knows best,” Amanda repeated wryly. She kissed Alice Ann’s cheek and set the toddler on the floor. “Denki for these wonderful-gut cookies, girls. I’m going to finish making a bowl now, and I’ll see you all at dinner.”
Chapter Thirteen
That evening as Wyman sat down to supper, he sensed an air of anticipation—or was it urgency?—as he gazed at his children’s faces. “We had a gut day at the Graber place,” he reported after they’d given thanks. “Eddie painted the kitchen and Abby’s new sewing room bright yellow—”
“Me, I wuv pink,” Alice Ann reminded him as she kicked in her high chair.
“And we shifted Merle into the dawdi haus,” Wyman continued as he tickled his toddler’s plump knee.
“And we got our quilting frolic set as well,” Amanda remarked as she passed a big bowl of Jemima’s fragrant beef stew. “But I had a feeling it was more Merle’s doing than Emma’s.”
