by Naomi King
To Wyman’s right, Jerome plucked two puffy biscuits from the basket with a resigned sigh. “Emma’s understandably upset about losing her mamm,” he said. “Seems to me the roles are reversed there. We all thought Merle would be the one to fold in on himself, yet he seems to be in gut spirits. And he’s really looking forward to playing games again with you twins, too!” he added, grinning at Cora and Dora.
The two four-year-olds, identical in their deep orange dresses, giggled at each other. “Maybe we should play alphabet lotto this time—”
“Or the Let’s Go Fishing game!”
Wyman still couldn’t tell Cora and Dora apart, but he adored their enthusiasm. No matter how busy he got, when the twins gazed at him with big brown eyes so like their mother’s, he felt all warm and fuzzy inside.
“I’ll get to play, too,” Simon declared. He spooned up some Jell-O fruit salad, which made a sucking sound that had all the younger kids chuckling. “Merle needs another man at the game table—but not a mean fellow like came here today, Dat. Wags chased him back to his truck, though, so now he knows better than to come back!”
As everyone at the table focused on him, Wyman considered his youngest son’s remark. “Simon, you’ve got to control your dog,” he warned. “We can’t have Wags getting aggressive enough to—”
“I sent that man away myself,” Amanda interjected. “While I agree that we need to control Wags, the dog’s behavior was nothing compared to the way Reece Weaver barged in here, saying you owed him money and threatening to take you to court.”
Wyman’s heart stopped. Now he realized why everyone seemed more intense than usual. “I had no idea. I—I told Reece he was to deal only with Ray and me,” he stammered as this information sank in.
“Jah, that’s what Amanda told him, too,” Jemima remarked stiffly. “It’s none of my business, but I don’t trust that man any farther than I could throw him. And I was ready to do just that, after he pushed into the kitchen, past Amanda, and talked about you that way in front of the children.”
“Jah, that was his name,” Simon said under his breath. “Reece Weasel.”
Out of the mouths of babes. Once again Wyman wondered how he and Ray had been so mistaken about the contractor they’d chosen. “I’ll call Reece after supper. This has to stop—and just so you’ll know,” he added as he gazed purposefully at everyone around the table, “I do not owe him any money, nor do you need to worry about him taking me to court. I’ve kept my part of the contract all along.”
The kids dug into their supper, seemingly satisfied by his assurances. As Amanda met his gaze, Wyman sensed she intended to continue this discussion later, between the two of them. But there was no unsaying or undoing what Weaver had set into motion.
“Dat, I, um, called about a couple of ads I saw on the corkboard at the bulk food store this afternoon,” Vera said, with a hopeful smile. “They’re for cleaning houses a couple days a week. I’d like to take the jobs—if it’s all right with you, of course.”
“And I’ll handle the laundry and cleaning on the days Vera works,” Lizzie said. “I can do it when I get home from school, so Mamm can keep up with her pottery orders.”
Wyman’s eyes widened. Not so long ago, when they’d blended their two families, Lizzie had been the most unsettled of all the children. Now she seemed happy to shoulder more of a load than most thirteen-year-olds would care for.
“And—and since Eddie’s got a steady painting job,” Pete piped up, “I could quit school and help out, too. I could—”
“Don’t you even think about quitting school, young man,” Wyman said sternly. He was ready to challenge Pete’s idea about helping out as well, when it hit him: his kids now believed the Brubaker family had money troubles. It was one more insidious seed Reece’s visit had apparently planted, like a cocklebur in a rose garden.
“We had a family talk after Mr. Weaver left,” Amanda admitted, “but only so I could assure everyone that we’ll be just fine this winter if we don’t waste food and clothing and such. Bless you, Vera and Pete, I didn’t mean you had to go looking for work. Honestly, I didn’t.”
“But I want this job,” Vera insisted. “I’ve heard some of my friends talk about cleaning houses—”
“For English?” Wyman asked. He didn’t like the idea of his attractive young daughter working in strangers’ homes.
“Mennonites. The Schrocks and Cletus Yoder, just down the road,” his daughter replied brightly. “I figure if I make my own spending money for fabric and shoes and such, there’ll be more to go around for the rest of the kids’ clothes.”
While it pained Wyman to hear his daughter talk of covering her personal expenses, he admired her willingness to work. Perhaps taking this job would teach Vera more about budgeting money than she might otherwise learn by staying home. “I haven’t had a chance to meet those families since we’ve moved here, but—”
“I’ve sold some mules to Cletus,” Jerome remarked. “He’s got a passel of sons farming with him, but no girls to help around the house.”
“Leon Schrock’s kids are all married, and his wife’s in a wheelchair,” Amanda said. “Both of those families have lived in these parts for as long as I can remember.”
Wyman saw the yearning in Vera’s face. She’d taken on the full responsibility for the kids, the housework, and the meals after his first wife had died, so she could certainly handle whatever the Schrocks and the Yoders wanted her to do. And she asked for so little. “All right then, give it a try,” he replied, touched by the happiness that lit up her face. He looked at everyone else then. “I appreciate your new commitments and contributions. It’s a lesson in humility for a man who’s always supported his family, and yet Jesus tells us that accepting the help of others is better than floundering—or failing—alone.”
When they’d eaten their fill of the hearty stew and biscuits, Wyman wasn’t surprised that Pete left the table in a huff. He’d gone through the same phase at thirteen, feeling alienated and off-kilter, so he caught up to his son as they headed to the barn to do the livestock chores.
“I didn’t mean to sound so angry about your getting a job, Pete,” he began. “Your intentions are the best, and I know how you miss Eddie when he’s in Cedar Creek all week. But if you stop going to school, you’ll lose out on important skills you’ll need when you have your own farm—your own family to support. It’d be a shame to quit when you’ll be all finished with school come next May.”
“Jah. Whatever.” Pete slid the barn door aside on its track with more force than was necessary. “I could be learning real-life skills from you, Dat, or—”
“If you’d ask her, maybe Teacher Dorcas could give you some worthwhile tasks around the schoolhouse, since you’re amongst the oldest fellows there,” Wyman suggested. “She’d probably be less inclined to criticize your lack of interest in math and spelling if you volunteered for—”
“I’m building a stage and a backdrop for the Christmas Eve program,” Pete interrupted. His eyes flickered with interest, but then he shrugged dolefully. “Once I’ve finished that, though, she’ll probably start finding fault with me again. I really am trying, Dat.”
Wyman hadn’t yet met the Bloomingdale schoolteacher, and he didn’t want to undermine her authority by excusing Pete from doing his best in school. He sensed his son was going through the same difficult phase that he had endured at thirteen—no longer a boy but not yet a man. “That sounds like the perfect project for you, Pete. You and Eddie did a real gut job building the extra bathroom in our Clearwater barn, before we sold that place,” Wyman replied. “When you’re Eddie’s age, you’ll know better how you’d like to earn your livelihood. Maybe you’ll want to work at the elevator, or you’ll line up an apprenticeship, but until you’ve graduated—” He reached out to squeeze the kid’s shoulder, but Pete dodged his show of affection and hurried toward the other side of the barn to
start the horse chores.
As he stepped up to the phone on the barn wall, Wyman decided to call Ray Fisher before he talked with their contractor. Perhaps his partner in Clearwater had received a visit from Reece as well and they needed to keep their stories straight. He dialed and waited until someone picked up the phone, relieved that the Fishers were in their barn doing chores, like he was. “Jah, Ray, it’s Wyman. Got a minute?”
“You betcha. What’s up over Bloomingdale way?” Ray asked in his usual jovial tone.
“Nothing gut, far as Weaver’s concerned,” Wyman replied with a sigh. As he recounted the day’s incident, he felt his pulse speeding up all over again. “I wish I knew what to do about this guy, Ray. Where’d we go wrong?”
“You know,” Ray replied, “I heard the other day that Reece has left the Mennonite church. Gone English, apparently, after a run-in with his preacher. Which matches the pattern we’re seeing—confrontation rather than cooperation.”
Wyman considered this. “Do you suppose Reece has stretched himself too thin and he’s having financial problems?”
“We shouldn’t speculate about that—and I sure hope his business isn’t in trouble, since he’s behind on our elevator,” Ray replied with a short laugh. “But Weaver’s problems don’t justify his intimidating your family. How about if I call him and ask when he figures to pour our foundation . . . and maybe fish a little? Better yet, I could stop over at his place in person. He doesn’t live but a mile from here, as the crow flies.”
“You’re the best friend a fellow ever had,” Wyman murmured.
“Nah, that’s you, Wyman!” came Ray’s immediate response. “Trevor’s new Holsteins are settling in, and he’s got that old barn shaped up—and the house is enclosed now, where those two trees landed on it. He wouldn’t be nearly so far along with his dairy herd and having a place of his own if you hadn’t offered us such a gut price on your farm.”
“Well, I wanted you folks to have the first shot—”
“Puh! Trev’s future fell right into his lap—and he didn’t have to move elsewhere to find land, thanks to you,” Ray insisted. “And now Tyler’s excited about managing our computer and marketing programs at both elevators—being full-time with us instead of having to find additional jobs. You’ve helped both of my boys in ways I couldn’t have done myself.”
As he hung up, Wyman couldn’t help smiling. His outlook had improved immensely, and he felt that he—with a big assist from God—had made a real difference in the Fisher boys’ lives while he’d improved his own family’s future as well. It was just a matter of getting through this temporary snag with Weaver.
Wyman returned to the house, gazing up at the full moon, which shone like a golden coin in the indigo sky. Lizzie, Vera, and the twins were tending to the dishes. Simon and Alice Ann snuggled beside Jemima on the sofa as she read them a story. As he entered the room where Amanda was removing fired plates from her kiln, contentment settled over him like an old quilt. She looked up at him, a question in her bottomless brown eyes.
Wyman kissed her thoroughly. He studied a plate she’d made, running his fingertip around the deep blue edge that set off the cinnamon-colored center. She’d created a different pattern to comply with their bishop’s instructions to use subtler colors—and truth be told, he liked this new look a lot better than the daisies she used to paint. “You do mighty fine work, Mrs. Brubaker,” he murmured. “With your pottery and with our kids, too.”
Amanda’s smile made him melt like butter. “And how was your call to Reece?”
“It’s all gut,” Wyman replied, setting thoughts of Reece Weaver behind him. “Even if the finances will be tight for a while, I’m a wealthy man as long as you’re by my side.”
Chapter Fourteen
On Monday morning, Emma got up a little earlier than usual and paid particular attention to looking her best. Even though she was wearing black from her kapp to her shoes, she wanted Sam to believe she was ready to move past her mamm’s death and work at the mercantile. It seemed she’d spent the weekend watching the clocks and wondering why their hands didn’t move. Maybe Dat was right. Maybe it was time to look ahead rather than staying stuck in a rut of sorrow, and with Abby sewing at home and James resuming the livestock chores, Emma wouldn’t have as many tasks to occupy her time.
And maybe Jerome would find her more interesting—more compatible with his progressive ways—if she proved she could handle working at the mercantile. Images of his handsome face and kind smile had been on her mind a lot these past couple of days. Emma regretted the fuss she’d made on Friday, when he’d encouraged her to join the Brubakers for another quilting frolic. He’d had her best interests at heart. Everyone did.
Emma went downstairs determined to begin this day with a better attitude. She had to believe God’s plan for her life included something other than suffering and loss, something to make her look forward rather than back.
She was turning the bacon in the skillet when Abby came into the kitchen. Emma smiled, hoping her new sister-in-law would go along with her decision. “I’m heading over to the store after breakfast to see about starting work for Sam,” she said. “I think it’s time to give it a shot before he hires somebody else.”
Abby’s eyebrows rose, but then she smiled. “If you think you’re ready, Sam’ll be glad to have you. Your dat and I will get along just fine.”
Emma thought she detected a hint of wistfulness in Abby’s answer. “It’s a big switch for you, not being amongst the customers all day,” she remarked as she took the skillet from the burner. “I wish we could work there together.”
Abby shrugged. “Sam’s made his decision. I still think he’ll want me to come back when the store gets busier, but now that I’m married and mourning your mamm, that’s two reasons for him to find somebody else, ain’t so? God’ll show us all the path we’re to travel.”
Dat seemed inclined to sleep in, so after a quick breakfast with James and Abby, Emma put on her coat and bonnet. Butterflies fluttered in her stomach as she walked across the county blacktop to the mercantile. Knowing Sam and Gail would most likely be stocking shelves at this hour, before the store opened, Emma slipped in the back door to the workroom. Her heart pounded as she called out, “Sam? It’s Emma.”
She peered out into the main store, which was dimly lit with only a few of the gas fixtures burning. Sam was standing across the huge room, hefting bags of sidewalk salt into display bins. “Gut morning, Sam!” she spoke out. “You’re already hard at work, I see.”
The storekeeper turned, his eyes widening when he recognized her. “Emma—gut morning. Is everything all right over at your place?”
“Jah, with Abby and James living there now, we’re as right as rain, for the most part,” she replied. “I—I was wondering if you still want me to work. Abby said it would be in the back room, most likely, and that suits me fine—if you still want—”
“Happy to hear it. Real happy.” He tossed the bag of salt from his shoulder into the bin and approached her with a smile. “We got behind on the bookkeeping last week, so I’ll bring out the ledgers and the receipts, and we’ll look at them together. You’re an answer to a prayer, Emma.”
She smiled. Sam’s remark was a fine start for a new day, a new week . . . a new chapter in her life. She hung her wraps on a peg in the workroom, and a few moments later they were seated at a small table surrounded by big bins of rolled oats, noodles, baking mixes, and other staples. Emma had always liked this room because it smelled like the sugar, spices, and herbs they scooped into plastic bags before they stocked the shelves with them.
“Gail’s running late,” Sam said as he opened the big black accounting book. “She says she’s helping Barbara clean up after breakfast and getting Ruthie ready for school, but I suspect she’s flirting with Eddie Brubaker. Having him stay at the house while he’s painting the store is a practical arrangement, but it chang
es the family dynamic a bit.”
Emma chuckled. And wasn’t it good that something tickled her? “Eddie’s cute, so I’m not surprised Gail’s sweet on him,” she remarked. “He’s a gut worker, too. I didn’t realize how faded our walls were looking until he painted the kitchen and Abby’s sewing room—even if James chose a bright yellow that almost makes me squint.”
“Eddie’s a fine young man,” Sam agreed. He opened a shoe box full of folded cash register receipts and removed a lined tablet, a small calculator, and a couple of pencils. “Here’s how we keep track of each day’s receipts and whether customers paid cash or used credit cards,” he began.
Emma nodded, following his finger along the columns in the ledger . . . listening carefully as Sam explained the accounting system he had probably learned from his dat as a young man. “This isn’t much different from the way James’s books are set up,” she said, “except folks pay him larger amounts for fewer items.”
Sam raised his face to the ceiling. “Thank you, Lord,” he murmured happily. “Gail gets flummoxed at the sight of all these figures. By the time she’s recalculated each day’s totals and she’s gotten a different number each time, she throws up her hands.”
“Jah, these daily cash register tapes are pretty long,” Emma said as she unfolded one, “but your system makes sense to me.”
“Glad to hear it.” Sam glanced up as Gail and Eddie came through the back door, laughing and pink cheeked from the cold. “Look who’s here—our new bookkeeper,” he said.
“Oh, but it’s gut to see you!” Gail exclaimed as she hugged Emma’s shoulders. “I’ll be real quiet while I’m bagging up baking supplies on the big table. I’m so glad you’re taking over the books, Emma.”
“Once you’ve got us caught up on the receipts, I’ll show you how to handle the inventory and ordering,” Sam went on. He looked at Emma as though considering what to say next. “While I’d be ecstatic to have you working every day, I know that’ll be an adjustment for you.”
