Thursday's Bride

by Patricia Johns

  He worked in silence for a few minutes, putting the bridles on the horses, then the saddles and other hitching gear.

  “I got a letter from my mother,” Rosmanda said after a few moments of watching him work.

  “Yah?” He looked up, and those dark eyes of hers were pinned on him. He straightened. “Something about Jonathan?”

  She shook her head. “Not directly. They want me to go home.”

  “A visit?”

  “They want me to go home to stay,” she said.

  Levi froze, her words sinking in. “To stay?”

  She didn’t answer—she didn’t have to. He came out of the stall and walked up to her so close that she had to tip her head back to keep looking him in the face, and he tweaked her chin between his fingers and thumb. Her lips were so close, and he wanted to dip his head down and kiss them, but he wouldn’t. She was trying to behave, wasn’t she? And he knew he should do the same.

  “That’s crazy,” he murmured. “Your home is here.”

  “My home was here,” she countered, and she turned her face. He dropped his hand. “Wayne is dead.”

  “Your girls—my parents—I don’t see my mamm giving up on having them around.”

  “I think your mamm wants me to go,” she said.

  “I don’t believe that.” The words came out sharper than he intended.

  “Then don’t believe it,” she retorted. “I don’t care! But I’m the daughter-in-law, Levi. It’s different. I’m not a blood relative—”

  “Yeah, I know that,” he said. “I know it real well. But you can’t seriously be considering going back there. I mean, what about Jonathan and Mary?”

  “What about them?” she asked. “They have a family of their own, and I won’t have the Yoders dictating where I can and can’t live with my little girls. I miss my mamm and daet. I miss my sister and brothers and nieces and nephews . . . and the next time Jonathan goes missing from his family, at least no one will suspect he’s with me!”

  So she was considering it. He felt like his breath had been knocked out of his body. Somehow, he hadn’t thought of her returning home. She belonged here . . . with him . . . with them . . .

  “Won’t that be worse?” he asked. “Being there?”

  “I don’t know.” She shook her head slowly. “But my secret is out, regardless. Here, there . . . there isn’t much difference once that story spreads.”

  Tears misted her eyes, and she started to turn away, but he caught her hand, squeezing it tightly.

  “It’s not so terrible,” he said.

  “It is.” She turned back. “To everyone else, I’m . . . the wrong kind of woman. I’m not to be trusted.”

  “I trust you,” he said.

  Levi tugged her hand, easing her closer. She followed his coaxing touch, sliding closer and closer until it took all of his self-control not to pull her all the way against him.

  “You aren’t the quilting circle,” she said. “You aren’t the other mamms with babies my daughters’ age. You aren’t the other women in the kitchen, going silent when I walk in.”

  “I’m not a woman at all,” he said, his voice low.

  “I’m a scandal now,” she said.

  “You aren’t a scandal,” he breathed. “You’re a real woman. You aren’t perfection—”

  “What every woman wants to hear!” she said bitterly.

  He leaned down and caught her lips with his. He ran his fingers behind her neck, and when he broke off the kiss, he said huskily, “Who says you have to be perfect?”

  “Everyone . . .”

  “Not me!”

  She pulled back again, and he released her, the space between them feeling cold and harsh.

  “I thought you were going to work with Ketura,” he said. “I thought you had a plan.”

  “That plan didn’t involve all of Abundance knowing my secrets,” she said. “Things have changed.”

  As easy as that. But he hadn’t changed. He was the same guy, stuck here in the community that would never completely forgive him, either. And she’d leave.

  “What am I supposed to do, Levi?” Her gaze was filled with conflicting emotions. “Stay here and keep doing this with you?”

  “And why not?” he demanded. “I’m the one person who isn’t demanding perfection!”

  “You’re the reason I have to go!” she shot back. “Don’t you see that? I don’t want to be this woman who can’t behave like a proper Amish widow. I don’t want to be sneaking around, longing for your touch, dreaming of it—” She blinked back tears.

  “You long for me?” he breathed. He hadn’t dared hope that she’d even think of him when they were apart . . . but longing? He had experience enough in longing for her, too.

  “I don’t want to be this woman!” She sucked in a wavering breath.

  Her words stung like a slap across his face, and he licked his lips, then looked away.

  “I want to be better than this!” she went on. “I want to be able to control myself, to know what’s right, what’s wrong, and what I need to do. I hate being this way—kissing you while I know there is no future . . . while I know that I’m only proving the gossips right about me!”

  “Right,” he said gruffly. “I’ll get you hitched up, then.”

  “Levi—” she started.

  “No, it’s fine,” he said curtly. “You’ve made your point. You don’t want to do this.”

  He led the horses to the buggy and spent the next couple of minutes hitching them up. Rosmanda stood to the side, watching him. She was right, of course. What were they toying with? There was no future between them. Jonathan had married a woman who looked down on him, and while Jonathan’s wife’s scorn might have been entirely warranted, the feeling would be the same for Levi if he married a woman who saw his bruised heart and thought it was too big of a risk.

  Rosmanda knew what she needed, what she wanted. And it wasn’t a guy on her level—an imperfect man with a few emotional scars. No, she wanted better than him, and she’d find a way to get it, he had no doubt. Rosmanda Lapp knew how to act the part. He’d never been such a great actor himself.

  Levi fed the reins up to the seat, and Rosmanda pulled herself up, and arranged herself on the seat.

  “You think I’m a hypocrite,” she said softly, meeting his gaze.

  Not the word to enter his mind, but he’d take it. He didn’t answer her.

  “But you forget, I have little girls to raise who need to look up to their mother as an example of all the virtues she teaches them about. I have little girls whose eventual suitors will look to their mother as an example of the kind of woman these girls will grow into. Everyone is looking to me to be perfect, Levi. Everyone. It’s kind of you to accept me like this—in all my broken glory. But it isn’t helpful. And it isn’t realistic.”

  She flicked the reins and horses started. She didn’t say anything else, and he stood there watching her drive away.

  She didn’t want what he could offer, even if it came from the purest corner of his tattered heart.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Rosmanda’s gaze slid over Ketura’s kitchen—a pile of dirty dishes sat next to the sink, and there were pots still on the stove. Rosmanda had arrived before Ketura had managed to get to it. Ketura slid a mug of tea in front of her, then sank down opposite her. Her eyes were red-rimmed, and she looked wan and pale.

  “I can help clean,” Rosmanda said for the third time. The disarray was bothering her.

  “It’s okay . . .” Ketura sighed. “I’ll do it myself. I find it soothing to do dishes alone.”

  “Josiah and Anna are out?” Rosmanda asked hesitantly, leaning forward to look toward the sitting room.

  “Their daughter and son-in-law picked them up to take them to town,” Ketura said. “So I’m on my own.” She forced a smile, then it dropped from her face. “I’m sorry if I caused trouble for you, Rosmanda. The rumors—Aaron told me about them, and he didn’t want to say anything to Stephen and Miria
m. He said it was only passing along untruths. I was the one who thought it was better they know. Well, I thought that you needed to know—”

  “I did need to know,” Rosmanda said quickly. “It’s okay.”

  Ketura nodded. “I’m glad. I was worried I hurt you—or made it worse.”

  “It was much better to know,” Rosmanda reassured her. “By far.”

  “What happened?” Ketura stirred her tea, the spoon tinking against the side of the mug, but she didn’t lift it to drink. She fixed her gaze on Rosmanda’s face. “I know it couldn’t have been as bad as the gossip made it out to be—”

  No, it was worse. Rosmanda licked her lips. “Levi and I went to town, met up with Jonathan, and convinced him to go home to his wife. They’d had a fight, I think.” Rosmanda was making it sound so much simpler than it was—as if all Jonathan had needed was a little chat and some Scripture to set him back to right.

  “Why was he asking around about you, then?” Ketura asked.

  Was it right to pass along ugly truths about Jonathan? He was gone home now. Although, it wasn’t Jonathan she pitied right now, but Mary.

  “I’m not sure he knew how bad that would look,” Rosmanda said with a wince. “But he’s gone home now, so . . .”

  “Marriage can be complicated,” Ketura said softly.

  “Yah, it can.”

  “And some men can be . . . not as thoughtful as others,” Ketura added with a small smile.

  It was as close to a criticism of men as would come from Ketura, and Rosmanda laughed softly. Englisher women made fun of their men—or so Rosmanda had heard from women who’d heard the Englisher women in more relaxed settings. Amish women didn’t do that. They respected their men, but there were times that a woman had to bite her tongue, like with Jonathan.

  “But like I said, he’s gone now,” Rosmanda said.

  The smile slid from Ketura’s lips, and she took a sip of her tea. She looked older this morning, sadder. Something was definitely wrong, and while Rosmanda had hoped Ketura would open up on her own, she seemed more inclined to slide in morose silence.

  “Ketura, are you all right?” Rosmanda asked softly.

  Ketura’s chin trembled and she put her mug back down. “I will be.”

  “I know that Aaron was going to talk to the elders about smoothing the way for you to get married,” Rosmanda said. “I don’t mind saying that I was happy for you.”

  “There won’t be a wedding,” Ketura said quickly.

  “The elders wouldn’t agree?” Rosmanda asked weakly.

  “I have no idea,” she said with a shake of her head. “Aaron never asked. I told him not to.”

  “But why?”

  “Isn’t it obvious?” Ketura wiped an errant tear from her cheek. “It wouldn’t work, Rosmanda. You’ve been married. You know what it’s like.”

  “I know what loneliness is like, too,” she countered. She’d experienced enough of that, lying in her bed at night, the space next to her empty. Those were the hours when she remembered Wayne’s tenderness, the way he used to sit in that rocking chair with the babies on his chest, softly humming a hymn while they fell asleep . . . Yes, she knew what it was like to lie in that bed alone now.

  “I had gotten used to the loneliness,” Ketura said. “And then Aaron came along.”

  “Wouldn’t you rather be with him, than without him?” Rosmanda asked. “Because it isn’t like he’s chosen someone else. He’s chosen you.”

  Ketura was silent for a moment. “This is no longer about a romance. It’s now about marriage, and marriage isn’t only about your life with the man, it’s about your life in the community. Isn’t that our Amish way? It’s about all of us, banding together, taking care of each other. The Englishers might run off together and set up some little love shack where no one else can bother them. But that isn’t God’s will. It’s too easy. He didn’t give us community because it’s the easy path—it’s the much harder way. But it makes us better.”

  “That is noble and very likely true,” Rosmanda said. “But I can’t help but point out that the community won’t keep you warm at night, either.”

  “It isn’t only about that . . .” Ketura dropped her gaze.

  Was she imagining strong arms and passionate embraces? Rosmanda was imagining a few of those herself.

  “Rosmanda, I might not have kinner of my own, but if I’d been able to have them, my oldest would be Aaron’s age.”

  “He’s no child.”

  “No, he isn’t. But marrying me—he’d never have kinner of his own. He lost that baby when his wife died, but that doesn’t mean he should never have more. He wanted a big family, you know, and he’s still holding out hope that God will work a miracle inside my womb and give us kinner. At my age.”

  “God might,” Rosmanda said feebly.

  “But He likely won’t,” Ketura replied. “I’ve prayed for thirty years for kinner. God hasn’t changed my body yet. Is that fair to Aaron to ask him to give up little ones of his own?”

  “That’s for Aaron to choose.”

  “And maybe that’s for the community to foresee.” Ketura cast Rosmanda a miserable look. “I’m not the only one who knows and loves him.”

  “Will you be able to . . . stop?” Rosmanda asked. “Loving him, I mean. If he came over, would you be able to serve him pie and send him on his way without letting him hold you again?”

  Ketura’s eyes welled with tears. “I could if he were married to someone else. He should be with a younger woman. In fact, more than one person has pointed out that you’re actually the perfect match for him. I might hate that, but it’s true. He needs a woman young enough to have more children, and maybe someone else who understands all that he’s lost.”

  Rosmanda could hear the bitterness on the edges of those words. Ketura said she wanted Aaron to marry, but she didn’t. Not really.

  “I’d be foolish indeed to marry a man who’s in love with another woman,” Rosmanda said with a short laugh. “You’re right—I’ve been married before. I know what it’s like, and that is where I draw the line.”

  Ketura smiled sadly. “He does love me.”

  “And you love him,” Rosmanda said.

  “I love him enough to let him go. A marriage is about the community, too,” Ketura said with a shake of her head. “And they care. They might seem callous sometimes, even heartless. But they see things we can’t. They look into the future and they see the things we’re too afraid to face. What interest does the community have in ruining the happiness of two decent people? None. But they have a great deal of interest in protecting us.”

  Like her aunt had done with Levi. She’d sat Rosmanda down and talked to her straight. Rosmanda did understand—all too well.

  “So that’s it, then?”

  “Yah.” Ketura shrugged weakly. “It will have to be.”

  “What will you do, though?” Rosmanda asked, and tears rose in her own eyes.

  “I think there is wisdom in your mourning quilt. I’ll make a quilt of my own,” Ketura said. “And that quilt will hold my grief. And while I stitch out my loneliness and heartbreak, I will allow God to provide for me.” Ketura’s gaze moved toward the plastic-wrapped quilt on the chair next to Rosmanda. Rosmanda looked toward it, too.

  “I think you’re very smart when it comes to business,” Rosmanda said. “But I can’t sell it. I brought it here to let you sell it, but I can’t.”

  Ketura nodded slowly. “I understand.”

  “Do you?”

  “It takes time to let go. I was rushing you.”

  “I’m thinking of going home,” Rosmanda said, and when Ketura cast her a confused look, she added, “to my parents in Morinville.”

  “Really?” Ketura reached out and put her hand over Rosmanda’s. “You’d leave us?”

  “I have to find a way to carry on,” Rosmanda said. “And I miss home.”

  Outside the window, snowflakes started to dance by, and Rosmanda looked over at them with a
sigh. It was supposed to be spring. But it wasn’t only the weather that was fooling with her. She was supposed to be a wife, not a widow. She was supposed to be strong and moral, not this passionate woman who kept falling into the wrong man’s arms.

  “Will you marry again?” Ketura asked softly.

  Would she? She didn’t want to. She was so very tired, so very sad. She didn’t want to pretend to be okay when she wasn’t. What she wanted was to go home, curl up in her mamm’s kitchen, and cry out her tears.

  “I don’t want to,” she confessed.

  “We women are shuttled around a lot,” Ketura said quietly. “From father to husband, to husband, to husband . . . But there is a way to do it on your own, and it doesn’t only lie in making some money to support yourself. You need more than money. You need other women.”

  Rosmanda knew that. Even if she married again, she needed other women. The women held each other up, kept each other sane. They encouraged, laughed, cried, sympathized.

  “I’ve found,” Ketura went on, “that my female friends have lasted longer than my husbands have.”

  Rosmanda smiled sadly. “Something has to last, doesn’t it?”

  What Rosmanda wouldn’t give for some friends she could count on, women to see the best in her and to rally around her when times were hard. She’d had that in Morinville as a girl, but her adult life had been different. Was it even realistic to hope for friends like that again . . . after all that had happened?

  Ketura’s gaze moved toward the window again, and Rosmanda looked out, too, watching the swirling flakes come dancing by the glass. From inside the house, it was cozy and warm, and the snow was pretty. But she was far from home, and far from her little girls. That spring snow would only make her drive home more perilous.

  “We’ll get through. God will provide for us,” Rosmanda said.

  “He will.” Ketura nodded, straightened her spine.

  “Thank you for the visit,” Rosmanda said. “But I have to get back to my girls. That snow . . . I didn’t expect it.”

  Ketura pushed herself to her feet. “I’m glad you came, Rosmanda. I’m glad for your friendship, too.”

  Rosmanda met her gaze and smiled. Yes, they had become friends, and she would miss Ketura when she left Abundance.