“Where are you going?”
“Next door. I’m sure Carol has some sugar.”
“The recipe only calls for a little,” Emma said. “We can do without it.”
“Won’t taste the same.” Grossmammi headed for the door.
Emma blocked her way. “Don’t trouble yourself. We have plenty of eggs. I can make a nice omelet. If you want something sweet, we have leftover chocolate coffee cake.”
Grossmammi held up her hand and set her chin in that determined tilt Emma knew so well. “It’ll take half a minute to get the sugar.”
It would take a lot longer than that. Because of her advanced arthritis, Emma’s grandmother was dangerously unsteady on her feet. When she stood for any length of time or walked even short distances, her ankles would swell. Even with the cane, Emma worried about her falling.
But how could Emma refuse her? Cooking and baking were two of the things she could still do.
“What if I get the sugar?”
“Gut idea. I’ll have the batter mixed up by the time you come back. We’ll toss in the sugar and be ready to eat in no time.” Her grandmother turned and slowly made her way back to the table, humming an old hymn.
Emma hurried across her backyard. She passed her overgrown garden and the tall, thick oak tree that divided the Shetler property from the Ottos’. The fallen leaves created a brown carpet at the foot of the tree’s trunk. More than once when they were kids, she and Adam had climbed it, Adam always reaching the higher limbs before scampering down. The memory stabbed like a needle to the heart.
A truck sat parked in the Ottos’ driveway. Maybe someone was there to see Norman about the cows. He often sold a few of his steers to a couple of local butchers.
She rapped her knuckles against the white frame of the back screen door. She was as familiar with Adam’s house as she was her own, but unlike her back door with its caked and peeling paint, this door—indeed, the entire house—was bright and spotless. She waited for a moment before knocking again. Carol Otto poked her head outside. “Emma. Gude mariye. How are you doing?”
Emma hesitated. Carol looked different. She was smiling so broadly that her face glowed. Emma hadn’t seen her look so happy in a long time. “I’m well, Fraa Otto. I don’t want to trouble you, but could I borrow a cup of sugar?”
“Of course. Oh, wait. I used the last of it yesterday morning. But I have another bag in the basement.” She opened the door wider. “Come on in and I’ll fetch some for you. There’s coffee on the stove, if you’d like. It’s fresh perked.”
Emma followed her through the mudroom. Carol took the stairs down to the basement, and Emma hesitated for a moment. She hadn’t had coffee yet, and the rich aroma drifting from the kitchen tempted her. She stepped into the room, and the breath went out of her as if she’d been punched in the stomach.
Sitting at the table, a towel draped over his neck and half of his hair cut off, was Adam Otto.
“Melvin, I told you to stop climbing on the table.” Clara grabbed her son from behind and plopped him into the chair. She shoved it toward the kitchen table.
“Ow, Mammi! That hurt.”
“Nee, it did not. But if you continue to disobey me, I will spank you. That will hurt.”
Melvin nodded and faced the table. Clara motioned for Junior to sit down. It was nearly seven o’clock. Peter had gone to get Magdalena ready for breakfast almost twenty minutes ago. The eggs were getting cold. She slammed a glass of water down in front of Junior.
“I want milk.” He shoved the water away.
“You can have milk for supper.” She went to the kitchen doorway. “Peter! Breakfast is ready.”
A few minutes later Peter entered the room. He pinched Magdalena’s round, pink cheek, and she giggled.
“The eggs are cold.” Clara sat down.
Peter looked at Clara. “Sorry. Magdalena is in a gut mood this morning. Aren’t you, lieb?”
The baby grabbed a small tuft of Peter’s hair and laughed.
“Can we just eat, Peter?”
He nodded and set the baby in her wooden high chair, then joined the rest of the family and bowed his head. After the silent prayer they began to eat.
Within a minute or two Junior had cleaned his plate. “Can I have more?”
“That’s all there is.” Clara stood. She picked up Junior’s plate and carried it to the sink.
“But I’m still hungry.”
“Clara, there has to be more,” Peter said. “An egg and a piece of toast isn’t enough for a growing bu.”
She turned. “If we had more, I’d give it to him.”
His face turned white. “Junior, will you and Melvin take Magdalena outside for a little while? You can play in the sandbox.”
Junior shook his head. “Mammi doesn’t like the sandbox. She says it leaves a mess in the haus.”
“Junior, do as I say. And help your bruder and schwester put on their jackets.” Peter lifted Magdalena out of her high chair and handed her over.
Junior cradled the little girl against his shoulder. She was half his size, but he had been holding her since she was a tiny baby. He grabbed his little brother by the arm and ushered him out the door.
When the children left, Peter shoved back from the table. “What was that about, Clara?”
She turned and leaned her hands against the sink.
“I asked you a question.”
She whirled around. “What do you think it was about? I’m trying to conserve our food, Peter. You’re not working. There’s no money coming in.” She looked down. “It’s not as if the kinner are starving.”
“They will if you barely feed them!” He stomped to the pantry and opened the door, displaying the half-filled shelves. “We have food here. Enough to give our sohn another piece of bread, at least.”
“And what happens when that runs out?”
“The Lord—”
“Has not provided!”
He moved to put his arms around her. “I know you’re upset about your mammi—”
“This has nothing to do with her.” She stepped back from him. “You haven’t worked in weeks.”
“I’ve been looking for jobs.” His face reddened, his eyes narrowing. “They’re hard to come by, especially here.”
“Then maybe we should have stayed in Kentucky.”
“We, Clara? Or me?” He let out a deep breath. “You weren’t happy there. I knew you wanted to come home. I had hoped—prayed—that finding work here would be easier. And I’m sure something will be available soon. We can’t lose faith.”
“I’m not. But God helps those who help themselves.” Even though Emma had resisted her plan, she knew Peter couldn’t argue with it. She had to convince him so he could help her convince Emma. “I talked to mei schwester yesterday.”
“How is she doing?”
“Fine.” Clara waved her hand. “I have an idea about mei grossvadder’s haus. I think we should—”
A knock sounded on the door. “Are you expecting anyone?” Peter asked.
Clara shook her head. They both went to the door, and Peter opened it to reveal a tall, slim man standing on the porch. A frayed, yellow straw hat covered his black hair. His dark blue eyes and square jaw resembled Peter’s, but Clara had never seen him before.
“Mark?” Peter stepped forward and clapped the man on the shoulder. “What are you doing here?”
The man grinned, a boyish smile showing a chipped front tooth. “Can’t I come visit my cousin every once in a while?”
“Of course you can.” Peter laughed and motioned him inside. The door closed. “How long has it been? Ten years?”
“Eleven.”
“How are Aenti Bertha and Onkel Andrew?”
“They’re well. Wishing you would come back to Kentucky.” He turned to Clara. “So this is the reason you left home and moved all the way to northern Ohio.”
Despite herself, Clara blushed. She didn’t remember Mark, but then she and Peter had lived in Kent
ucky only a short time, a couple of months after they married. Peter had never mentioned him.
“Come in and sit down.” Peter gestured to the sofa against the wall in the living room. Clara hoped Mark wouldn’t notice the lumps in the cushions, and then wondered why it would matter to her.
“Clara, can you bring us some coffee?” Peter sat in the old stuffed chair next to the couch. “Mark and I have a lot to catch up on.”
She nodded. She and Peter would have to put off their conversation until later. But they would talk, and soon. None of them could wait much longer.
“Adam?”
He felt his face heat at the sight of Emma gaping at him. He had to look like an idiot. Cool air hit one side of his neck while his longer hair tickled the other side. He squirmed.
“What are you doing here?” she asked.
“Getting a haircut.” He cringed. “Um, you want some coffee?” He tried to smile. This wasn’t how he imagined seeing her again after all this time.
She stared at the percolator on the stove as if she had no idea what it was. “I’m waiting for . . . for . . .” She turned back to him, her eyes still round with surprise. “What are you doing here?”
“I came back. For a visit.”
“When?”
“Last night. What are you waiting for again?”
Her cheeks turned rosy. Seeing her blush made him smile. He remembered how easily she embarrassed. She’d always been a little on the plump side, and he saw that hadn’t changed. She was still cute, her round face free of makeup. Her skin looked soft, smooth.
“Sugar.”
He noticed the cup in her hand. Her fingers had turned white from gripping it. They weren’t used to being uncomfortable with one another. Then again, the last time they saw each other . . .
“How are you?” he asked.
“Fine.”
“I heard about your mammi.”
She looked up. “How?”
“Leona. She sent me a letter.”
“Grossmammi wrote to you?” She tugged on the bottom of her sweater, pulling it over her hips. The last button remained unfastened. “Why?”
Before he could answer, his mother breezed into the kitchen carrying a ten-pound bag of sugar. “I’m sorry it took me so long. Norman rearranged the shelves the other day and put this in the wrong spot.” She looked at Emma and smiled. “Isn’t it wonderful that Adam’s home?”
“For a visit,” he said. He didn’t want to give his mother false hope.
“Ya. Great.” Emma’s gaze went to Adam. “You look ridiculous.”
Carol paused, her mouth dropping open. Adam quickly laughed off the insult, which eased the tension between his mother and Emma. But not between Emma and Adam. She had moved to the doorway of the kitchen, her body half in, half out of the room.
Carol retrieved a bowl from the cabinet and poured a generous amount of sugar. She handed the bowl to Emma.
“I don’t need this much. A cup will do. Actually, a couple of tablespoons will do. Grossmammi is making pumpkin pancakes this morning.”
Adam’s mouth watered at the memory of Leona’s pumpkin pancakes.
“We have plenty of sugar, more than we need.” Carol held the bowl out to her.
Emma took it. “Danki.” She left without another look at Adam.
His mother picked up the scissors and resumed her work on Adam’s hair. After a few minutes of silence he said, “Emma’s changed.”
His mother paused with the scissors in midair. “We’ve all changed, Adam.” A quick snip. “More than you know.”
CHAPTER 7
It was nearly noon. Clara steamed and stewed as she cleaned the kitchen, made beds, picked up after the kinner. At last Peter came back into the kitchen, and she had a chance to say what was on her mind.
“He can’t stay here.”
“Clara, keep your voice down. He’s in the next room!” Peter rarely shouted, but Clara could tell he was about to. “Do you want him to hear us arguing?”
“Nee.” She backed against the kitchen counter and lowered her tone. “Why did you tell him he could live here?”
“It’s only temporary. He’s passing through on his way to New York. We have some distant relatives there he’s been writing to. Said he wanted to stay a little while before he goes to meet them.”
“How long?”
“Has he been writing them?”
Clara’s temper flared again. “How long will he stay?” She twisted the end of one of the frayed ribbons of her kapp.
“He didn’t say.” Peter crossed his arms and looked down at her. “But he will be welcome as long as he wants to. He’s familye.”
“And another mouth to feed.”
Peter placed his hands on the back of a kitchen chair. “Is this how it’s going to be, Clara? Arguing every minute of the day?”
His words silenced her. She didn’t want to argue. But she didn’t want to feel helpless either. Or hopeless. How could she be a dutiful wife when she couldn’t stop questioning her husband’s every decision?
“Mark will have Junior and Melvin’s bedroom.” Peter looked up, his eyes hard. “I’ll move one of their beds into our room and put it sideways against the foot of our bed. The buwe can sleep head-to-toe.”
His tone made it clear that there would be no further discussion, but Clara couldn’t help herself. “And what about our privacy?”
Peter’s gaze pierced her. “We’re not doing anything but sleeping in there, remember? We don’t need privacy.”
Clara flinched.
He walked out of the room and returned a few seconds later with Mark in tow. “I’m sure Mark is hungry.” Peter glanced at his cousin but avoided Clara’s gaze. “Will you make lunch while I check on the kinner?”
Clara turned and looked at Mark, tried to muster a polite smile.
“I hope I’m not causing a problem.” Mark twirled his hat in his hands. “I can find another place to stay. A hotel. Bed-and-breakfast, even. There’s always one—or fifty—in Amish country.” He gave her that grin again, showing his chipped tooth.
She smiled a tiny bit. “Tourists do love them around here. But we won’t hear of you staying somewhere else. You are welcome in our home.” She went to the pantry and tried to focus on being a good hostess. “What would you like to eat? I have some bread and meat for sandwiches. Or some chicken noodle soup I canned a couple of weeks ago.”
“Anything will be fine.” Mark sat down at the table.
Clara could feel his gaze on her while she prepared the soup. The kids would want some. If Peter was hungry for something else, he could fix it himself. She kept the bitterness out of her tone when addressing Mark. “What brings you to Middlefield?”
“A taste for adventure.” He chuckled, then added, “At least as far as a bus line can take me. Airplanes are verboten, of course.”
She smiled at him. He was charming, the way Peter had been during their early days of courting. “Would you like something to drink? I have iced tea.”
“Sounds gut.”
She fixed him a glass, handed it to him, and hurried back to the stove. His eyes and chin might resemble Peter’s, but the similarities ended there. Mark was wiry, thin. Clean shaven, and thus unmarried. A scar on his chin, the chipped tooth. A good-looking man.
She stirred the soup. Steam rose from the broth, mingling with the heat on her skin. She shouldn’t be thinking about Peter’s cousin, not in that way. She sneaked another glance at him.
“I have to admit I was surprised when I heard you and Peter were married.”
“Why?”
He leaned back in the chair, his arms crossed over his chest. Black suspenders over a light blue shirt. “Seemed out of character for him. Thought he would always marry a maedel from home. There were more than a few maed interested in him. But then he started getting your letters, and no one else mattered.”
Clara added salt to the soup. Their courtship had been . . . well, unusual. One of her mother’s friends had
suggested Clara write to Peter, a nephew in Kentucky. Clara didn’t think anything would come of it. But she’d fallen in love with the sweet man through his honest, funny letters. And when she met him for the first time—
Her heart constricted in her chest. She’d known immediately that he was the man she would marry. And she loved him enough to move to Kentucky, until homesickness overcame her. He’d agreed to go to Middlefield, to Iowa, to Canada if she wanted to. “Where you geh, Clara, I will follow,” he had said. And he’d done just that.
What happened to their optimism? Their hope? Their love?
“Clara, are you all right?”
She looked up to see Mark standing next to her, frowning. She wiped her cheeks with the back of her hand. “Just a little hot. Too close to the stove.”
“I thought maybe I’d upset you somehow.” He looked at her, his eyes unblinking.
His intense gaze unnerved her. “What?”
“I can see why Peter chose you as his fraa.” His tone was low. Soft. Sending a not unpleasant chill through her.
“Mammi, I’m hungerich!”
Clara jumped away from Mark, almost knocking the pot of soup off the stove. “Lunch will be ready in a minute.” Her voice sounded an octave higher than normal. She brushed past Mark, making sure she didn’t touch him.
Junior moved to sit down as Melvin, Peter, and the baby came inside.
“You know the rules, Junior,” Peter said. “Wash your hands first. You too, Melvin.”
“Who’s that?” Melvin pointed at Mark.
Mark crouched in front of him. “I’m your daed’s cousin. But you can call me Onkel Mark. I’m visiting for a while.”
“Cool!” Junior said.
Peter shot him a sharp look. “Where did you hear that word?”
Junior shrugged. “Some of the kids down the street. They’re Yankees. And they’re real old. Shane’s almost nine.”
“That is old.” Mark winked at Peter, and the boys left to wash up. Peter handed Magdalena to Clara and followed his sons to the bathroom.
“You have a schee familye.” Mark smiled. But he wasn’t looking at the baby. His eyes were on Clara.
The Middlefield Family Collection Page 5
