The Middlefield Family Collection

by Kathleen Fuller

  Mark went to stare out the window. “I don’t know, Clara. If there is something going on with them, I don’t want to interfere. That would only cause Emma more trouble. I wouldn’t want to complicate things for her.”

  Touched by the sincerity in his eyes, Clara nodded. “It’s a wonderful thing that you’re sensitive to her feelings. Adam never was.”

  “Then he didn’t realize how special your schwester really is. I haven’t known her long, but I can tell she’s a caring, sweet maedel. She doesn’t deserve to be hurt.”

  “Nee, she doesn’t.” Clara tapped her fingertip against her lip. “You let me take care of Adam. Focus your attention on Emma. Not just because of the shop. That’s important, ya, but she needs someone who will appreciate her.” She smiled. “I think you’re that mann, Mark.”

  Clara made a note to visit her grandmother too. She hadn’t had a chance to discuss the idea with her. If she had both Grossmammi and Mark on her side, Emma and Peter would have to come around.

  “What about Peter?”

  “I’ll talk to him.” Tonight. She would be firm with him. More firm than ever before. Being so insistent with her husband would go against everything she’d been taught about being a proper Amish wife. Her mother had modeled that ideal with Clara’s father, knowing when to defer to him, when to support him, when to gently nudge him in a different direction than he might have considered.

  But Clara’s father wasn’t like Peter. Her father worked every day of his life in the workshop with his own daed. And when business was slow, he picked up odd farming jobs with the neighbors nearby. Clara couldn’t remember a time when either of her parents expressed worry about money. They had never gone without.

  Her family shouldn’t either. And if she had to push Peter, she would do it. If she had to force Adam to stay away from Emma, she would do that too.

  She’d do whatever it took to make sure she was secure. Because one thing was crystal clear—it was up to her. Alone.

  Adam went home, still fuming about Mark’s last words. Maybe he was right. Maybe Adam was a terrible liar, but that was better than being adept at it. Guess it took a really good liar to sniff out a bad one.

  One thing he knew: he had to keep Mark King away from Emma.

  He slammed through the front door and flung himself down on the couch. Silence washed over him, a balm to his tormented soul. Once again he was struck by the quietness of the house. It wasn’t as unnerving as it had been the past few days. It had started to feel like . . . home.

  He shook his head. He had a home. In Michigan.

  Yeah, a dingy one-bedroom apartment with a frosted-over freezer, he said to himself. And don’t forget the stains on that ugly brown carpet from the previous renters. He shuddered to think what caused those. Especially the ones in the bedroom.

  He sat up and surveyed the room. The polished wood floor. The stark, dust-free furniture. Someone had cracked open the living room window, and fresh air wafted in, bringing with it the loamy scent of autumn—earth, fallen leaves, wood smoke.

  Adam was getting comfortable here. But that might be because he was a guest, not a prodigal son who had returned to live under his father’s heavy thumb.

  He thought about the Bible story of the prodigal, a story he’d heard more than once in his life. The wayward younger son came home from his wanderings and was greeted by his father with an elaborate welcome, a feast, and forgiveness. But what about the rest of the story? What happened, Adam wondered, after the celebration was done? Did they go back to the way things were before? Did the wandering son come once more to resent his father’s rigid ways? Did they settle into an uneasy truce where the two of them barely talked because it was easier on them both?

  And what about the prodigal’s mother? Was she even in the picture, working behind the scenes to help heal the breach between the men she loved?

  He thought about Mamm. Emma. Leona. Mark. Four reasons for him to stay, at least a little while longer.

  He fingered his beard and mustache. If he was going to stay, he should shave this thing off. Might as well keep the Amish clothes too. The lighter fabrics were easier to wash in the hand-cranked washer anyway. And they dried faster than his sweatshirts and thick jeans.

  He stood and went to the bathroom where he found a razor and a small pair of scissors he could use to trim the hair down first. Funny, he didn’t remember his mother keeping these scissors in the bathroom before.

  As he haphazardly attacked his chin, he planned his strategy. He’d use the emergency telephone in the barn to call work and ask for a leave of absence. He’d drop a check for next month’s rent in the mail so he didn’t get kicked out of his apartment. He’d pack up his Yankee clothes, so when he was sure his mother was all right and Mark was out of Emma’s life, he could pick up the suitcase and go. His stay here, while longer than he’d planned, was still temporary. He didn’t see how anything would change that.

  CHAPTER 16

  The next morning, before sunrise, Clara slipped out of bed, being careful not to disturb Peter. But as she crept across the room, she stubbed her toe on the edge of the twin bed that lay perpendicular to their double. She gasped a little but managed not to cry out. The boys stirred, then shifted and went back to sleep.

  On a chair in the corner she had laid out her clothes the night before. Without turning on the light, she pulled off her nightgown, slid into her dress and long stockings, and started winding her hair into a bun.

  “Clara?” Peter’s hoarse, quiet voice reached her ears.

  Her hands froze for a moment, gripping the thick coil of hair at the crown. She pushed in a couple of bobby pins to secure it. “I didn’t mean to wake you,” she whispered. She kept her back to the bed and heard the sheets shift as Peter moved.

  “I wish you had. I had no intentions of sleeping in.”

  “I was just dressing.” She turned and almost bumped into him. Clara backed up a step. “I would have awakened you before I went downstairs. I didn’t want to disturb the buwe.”

  He didn’t answer her. Instead he reached up and cupped her cheek. She flinched. He must have felt it. Sensed it. He withdrew his hand. “So. What are you doing today?”

  She turned and put on her kapp. “I’m going to Grossmammi’s. I need to talk to her and Emma.”

  “How are you getting there?” The mattress springs creaked as Peter sat down.

  “Walking.” She hesitated. “Mark is accompanying me.”

  “Mmph.” Melvin grunted, turned over on his side, and stuck his feet into Junior’s face. Junior, who slept deeper than a bear in winter, didn’t move.

  “Clara.” Peter stood. “Outside.”

  She followed her husband to the hallway. The bedroom door shut with a soft click. “Why didn’t you mention this to me yesterday?” he asked.

  Clara straightened the ribbons of her kapp. “I assumed you’d be busy.”

  “Doing what?”

  “Looking for a job!” At his warning look, she lowered her voice. They both stepped away from the bedroom. This time she faced him, her gaze matched with his. “I thought you might have some prospects. In town, maybe.”

  “Actually, I do.”

  Her brow lifted. “Ya?”

  “Ya.” Clara looked at him. Clad in only a T-shirt and the pants he’d slipped on just before leaving the bedroom, he appeared vulnerable. Weak, almost.

  “Doing what?”

  “Temporary work. Repairing a roof on a school in Parkman.”

  Now she knew why he was hesitant. “Parkman. How will you get there?”

  “A van will pick me up. The job should last a week.”

  Clara did some mental calculating. “Are they paying transportation?”

  Peter looked away. “Nee. Have to get my own.”

  “So most of the money you’ll make will pay for the taxi.”

  He nodded. “It’s the only job available right now. I’ll keep—”

  “Looking. I know.” She turned around and heade
d for the stairs. “I’ll get mariye-esse started.”

  Peter touched her arm. “Clara. Wait.”

  She paused. Turned around. “What?”

  “Why is Mark going with you? You and the kinner can walk to Leona’s by yourselves.”

  “Julia’s watching the kinner.” Clara’s cheeks heated. But why should she feel guilty? Mark was her cousin. He was interested in her sister. And she and Mark were a team, trying to start a business. She could have been a team with her husband, but he insisted on working against her.

  Peter’s eyebrows flattened. “Just you and Mark.”

  She swallowed. “Ya. He wants to see Emma.”

  “So he says.”

  Clara frowned. “What do you mean by that?”

  “I mean, his interest in Emma is kind of sudden, don’t you think?”

  “Just a few days ago you thought it was a gut idea.”

  “I changed my mind. Mark hasn’t said anything to me about Emma. He hasn’t talked to me much at all.” Peter’s gaze narrowed. “Can’t say the same for you, though. Mei cousin seems more than eager to spend time with mei fraa.”

  “You sound jealous.”

  “Should I be?”

  When she didn’t respond right away, he pressed his lips together. “Clara, I know you’re upset about me being out of work. You think I want this? That I want the community to know I can’t support mei familye?”

  For the first time in weeks, Clara felt a pang of sympathy. “Nee. I don’t.” She moved forward, tentatively touched his chest with her hand, and looked into his eyes. “That’s why we need to have the business. Then I—both of us, won’t have to worry about this.”

  “We shouldn’t be worrying. God has a plan. I’m just not sure opening this fabric shop is it.”

  “I thought you agreed it was a gut plan.”

  “It is, but not at the expense of Emma and Leona.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “We’ve already talked about this.”

  “Ya. But we haven’t settled it.”

  “Clara, I’m saying it’s settled.”

  She looked at him. Her husband. The man she promised to love forever. The man she had been so sure God had set apart for her. She wanted to shake sense into him. “So you’re saying there’s no business? That Grossmammi and Emma will have to fend for themselves? Or Emma will have to get a job? Oh, wait.” She put her hands on her hips. “There are no jobs.”

  Peter’s jaw clenched. Without a word he turned his back on her, returned to the bedroom, and shut the door behind him.

  Clara lifted her chin. But her lower lip trembled. Her hands shook. She had pushed Peter. He had pushed back. But they were still at the same place they’d always been. At odds.

  Near the bottom of the stairs, Mark stayed out of sight, but not out of hearing range. He grinned in the darkness and flexed his fingers. The plan was working perfectly, as he’d known it would. He had convinced Clara of everything—his interest in Emma, his support in seeing the shop become a reality. He rubbed his palm against the smooth wood of the stair railing. For someone who thought she was so clever, she was quite stupid.

  Peter, on the other hand, wasn’t as dim as Mark had initially thought. Peter suspected too much. He’d have to be more careful. Offer to help Peter out with the chores again, or do something to show his cousin his appreciation as a houseguest. Clara underestimated her husband. She just didn’t know it.

  The bedroom door shut. With quiet steps Mark went to the kitchen. He picked up the coffeepot from the stove and took it to the sink. As he rinsed it out, Clara entered the room.

  “You don’t have to do that.” She joined him at the sink.

  “I don’t mind. I’ll make the coffee while you start breakfast.”

  Clara smiled. “All right.”

  Mark filled the pot with water, then measured coffee into the percolator’s basket. He set it on the stove, making sure he bumped into Clara as she reached up into a nearby cabinet.

  “Sorry.” He stepped away.

  “It’s okay.” She looked at him, a little longer than she should have. He smiled in return.

  “Are we still planning to see Emma today?” he asked.

  Clara jerked her gaze away. She picked up an egg and cracked it into the bowl. “Ya. Julia will be here in a couple hours to watch the kinner.”

  “Do you think Peter should come with us?”

  She shook her head, cracked another egg. “Nee. He has business in town.”

  Mark thought about the lousy job his cousin was applying for. Mark would never take on journeymen work. There were better, easier ways to make money. Much more money. And he wouldn’t have to break a sweat to do it.

  Peter came into the kitchen, dressed and carrying Magdalena. She snuggled against her father’s shoulder. Her eyes were puffy. “She was crying upstairs.”

  Clara glanced at him. “She’s up early.”

  “You started breakfast late.”

  Clara beat the whisk back and forth in the bowl of eggs with blazing speed, but said nothing. Peter put the child in her high chair. He went to the pantry, pulled out a box of cereal, and put a few pieces on her tray.

  Mark didn’t move from his spot next to Clara. The percolator started to bubble. The sizzling sound of eggs hitting the iron skillet filled the room. Peter kissed the top of his daughter’s head. He looked at Mark. “Would you mind feeding the horse?”

  He nodded. “Not at all.” He didn’t move.

  “Now?” Peter asked.

  “Oh. Sure.” Mark strode out of the kitchen. Behind him he could hear Clara and Peter start to argue again.

  Marriage. He’d genuinely considered it once. His teeth ground together as he thought about that time, years ago. Now he was grateful for what he missed. An endless cycle of bickering. Messy, whiny children. Locked in bondage to one woman for the rest of his life.

  He’d never live through that nightmare.

  But somehow he had to convince Emma Shetler that was exactly what he wanted.

  “Just have time for a piece of toast, Mamm,” Adam said as he hurried into the kitchen. “Still not used to waking up so early.”

  “Living on Yankee time.” His father scooted back from the table, his breakfast finished. “Wasteful time.”

  Adam glanced at his father. But he let the comment slide. He grabbed a piece of buttered toast from the dish in the center of the table and shoved it in his mouth. He turned to tell his mother good-bye, only to pause at the shock on her face. He pulled the toast from his mouth. “What?”

  She stared at him. Shook her head. “I just can’t get over how different you look. Since you shaved.”

  He grinned. “More Amish?”

  She nodded. “Ya.”

  “It’s not what’s on the outside that makes a man Amish. Or faithful to his God.” The screen door slammed behind his father as he stalked out of the house.

  “In a gut mood as usual, I see,” Adam said.

  “Ya.” She picked up her husband’s empty plate from the table and took it to the sink.

  Adam was surprised she didn’t defend him. But he didn’t have time to contemplate that now. He wanted to get to Emma and Leona’s, just in case Mark decided to show up today. Plus, he saw a lot of things he could do to help out. Cleaning the barn was one of them. And since his father didn’t seem interested in Adam’s assistance, he might as well work for someone who needed him. Even if Emma wouldn’t admit it.

  He paused at the back door. “I’ll be at the Shetlers’ if you need me.”

  His mother turned. “I’m glad you’re here to help them.”

  “Me too.” He looked at the straw hat hanging on the peg near the back door. Might as well. He grabbed it and put it on.

  He breathed in the early morning air. Felt the warm sunshine on his back through the thin fabric of the shirt his mother had sewed for him when he was twenty. He thought about putting on a jacket, but he’d work up a sweat soon enough cleaning the barn. He had just crossed his front yard
and entered Emma’s when he spied two figures walking down the road. A man and a woman. He squinted. The woman looked like Clara. But the man was shorter than Peter.

  Mark.

  Adam’s gut had been right. The man didn’t waste any time.

  Well, neither would Adam. He hurried to the front porch. Knocked on it a couple of times and waited. The door soon opened. He smiled. “Hey, Emma.”

  Her response was cooler, yet he saw a spark of surprise in her eyes. “Adam. What are you doing here?”

  “I thought I’d check on Dill—”

  “She’s fine.”

  “And then I would clean the barn.” Her curtness wouldn’t put him off. Not anymore.

  She tilted her head. “You don’t have to.”

  “I know.”

  “I don’t want you to.”

  Same song, second verse. They would be on this verbal merry-go-round for a while, he could tell. Undeterred, he pressed on. “I’ll be in the barn if you need me.”

  “Who is it, Emma?” Leona’s reedy voice called from behind Emma’s shoulder.

  Emma started to shut the door, but Adam put his hand against it. She wasn’t shutting him out this time.

  “It’s me, Leona.” He removed his hat and grinned. “Gut morning.”

  “Oh, Adam.” Leona’s smile, unsteady and aged, still lit up her face. “Glad to see you. Why don’t you come in for a cup of coffee?”

  “I don’t think he has time for that,” Emma said. Her gaze pierced Adam’s. Then she looked past his shoulder. Her frown deepened. “Clara’s here.”

  Adam turned around. At least she didn’t mention Mark. Maybe she wasn’t interested in him after all. The thought boosted his spirits a bit.

  Clara came up the porch steps, Mark directly behind her. “Gude mariye,” she said to Emma. “Hello, Grossmammi.” She glanced at Adam and said nothing.

  Leona leaned against her cane and wiped her nose with a threadbare handkerchief. “Goodness. It’s been awhile since we’ve had this much company at one time. Come in, come in. We have plenty of coffee. Emma baked banana muffins last night.” Leona’s eyes lit up. “They’re wonderful, if I do say so myself.”