by Kelly Long
And in Sarah herself, he found a resolute spirit and common sense that many girls he’d known lacked. For example, her desire to expand her repertoire of cooking; a lot of women in his life clung to that one great recipe that they were known for and wowed others at parties with it. But life was too short for knowing only one thing well, he thought as he gazed down at the hint of light brown hair visible at the front of her kapp.
“You’ll make a good father,” she remarked and he almost tripped over his own feet.
“What? Why do you say that all of a sudden?”
“It’s a good sign in a man to have him care about books and learning new things. It shows that he’s always willing to grow like one must when children come along.”
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” He realized that she was studying the Englisch people they passed and wondered what she was thinking.
“The girls are so free in their movements,” she remarked as if she’d read his thoughts.
Grant studied a passing pair of teenage girls and found them to be awkward and gawky. “I guess.” He shrugged.
“Nee—I mean their comfort within themselves. They walk outward, not inward. Do you know what I mean?”
“You mean self-confidence?”
“That and something more. They know their place in this huge world, or at least, they can find their place.”
“And don’t you know your place in the world?”
“Not always . . . not lately.”
Her words pulled at him. “Explain that some more to me. Here—let’s sit down for a minute.” He eased her onto a geometricshaped sofa and she sat upright until he gave her a yank and she relaxed back into the softness of the vinyl.
“I don’t know,” she murmured. “I used to be just Sarah . . . with her garden.”
“And who are you now?”
“Well, I finally made a quilt, for Chelsea . . . that’s something new. And I run the stand, use the phone, ride on elevators, kiss people over brewing apple butter . . .”
He laughed. “Lots of people, or just one in particular?”
“Only one. There’s only one.” Her voice was low, serious, and he felt his chest burn at her words.
“Listen.” He lifted her small hand and squeezed. He tried to go on, and she looked at him. He leaned close to her ear and whispered what he wanted to shout. “There’s only one.”
Sarah entered the hospital room with the doctor to find that her father was now well enough to have a roommate, it seemed. Father introduced a jovial old Englisch man named Mr. Geise. Mr. Geise’s wife and daughter were also crowded in the small room. Sarah couldn’t move a step without bumping into the doctor behind her. She saw the flower arrangements Grant had brought them on the windowsill in some pretty vases, and she met Mamm’s eye.
“One of the nurses said they keep a supply of vases under the sink.”
Sarah nodded, and Father hailed Dr. Williams with much of his strength back in his voice.
“Ach, it’s the good doctor who brings my wife flowers and leaves me to a lecture on my own lack of flower bringing.”
“Sorry, sir.” Grant smiled. “But I thought the ladies would like them better than you yourself. I can go down for some roses, if you’re feeling down in the heart . . .”
The room at large laughed at the quip, and Sarah was happy to see some more color back in her father’s cheeks. Dr. Caulder, the heart surgeon she’d met earlier, stopped in then and laughed to see so many people in the room.
“Now, what’s the ruckus in here? I can hear you all halfway down the hall. These men need their rest,” he scolded, but his eyes twinkled. “Fifteen more minutes, all of you, and then I want this room cleared. Understood?” He smiled again and left, leaving everyone to make a general move toward the door.
“Come back soon, Letty; the hours seem much longer here than on the farm,” Father observed. Mamm bent to kiss him and Sarah looked away, only to encounter the doctor’s keen glance. She blushed and he squeezed her arm, then dropped his hand away. In a few minutes, Sarah and Mamm were walking toward the hospitality suite and Dr. Williams left with the promise to come back again soon.
“Did I make you sad, Sarah, today—when I spoke of the doctor as an Englisch man?” Mamm asked.
“Not at all.”
“I see that you have a book; you were gone quite awhile with Dr. Williams.”
“Jah, he showed me the library. I can return the book when Father leaves.”
“Which will not be soon enough, eh?”
Sarah agreed and opened the door to their room, thinking about her brief visit into the world with the doctor that afternoon.
Later that night, as Grant passed the hospital on return from a call, he decided to follow a sudden impulse and go and speak with Mr. King about his feelings for Sarah. He was probably cutting his own throat, he thought, but something needed to be said. He didn’t like the idea of skulking about. So he slipped into the dim hospital room and found Mr. King to be awake. The older man looked pale, but his eyes were steady, and the oxygen tubes were absent.
“Come in, Doctor. Please have a chair.”
Grant took the high-backed sleeper chair near the bed and moved the bedside tray so he could scoot the chair forward.
“It’s a bit late for visiting, Son. You must have something more than this old man on your mind. Don’t forget I get out tomorrow, and I feel right as rain.”
“Good—that’s good.” Grant stared into the wise old eyes and swallowed hard. “I guess I’m not sure how to begin.”
“We Amish have a saying: Dummel dich net. Take your time; don’t hurry.”
“You’re right . . . sometimes it’s the hard things that we have to say that we want to rush out the most; I don’t want to rush.”
“Go on, my friend.”
Grant listened to the steady beat of the heart monitor and closed his eyes. Please, God, give me the words to say here. Please make this right.
He opened his eyes and looked at Mr. King. “I’m not sure when . . . maybe it was the first moment at the stand, or a thousand moments after that, but I have come to love your Sarah, sir.”
Ach . . .” Mr. King drew a deep, unsteady breath. “I see . . . “now, I must take my time with my words, because I don’t wish to hurt you.”
Grant felt his stomach fall and exhaled. “I know I’m Englisch, and that must be an affront to you. I–I haven’t spoken to Sarah, but I believe she knows. I just—”
Mr. King raised a gentle hand. “Please, Son. It is not all as you think. Yes, you are Englisch, but you’re a good man—a good friend to our family. I trust you; I like you. But for Sarah to marry an Englischer, she would have to give up all that she knows. All. Her community, her family, her faith. If you truly love her, then you won’t ask this from her; you will let her go in peace.”
“I know that she’d have to give up so much, but why? Why would she have to? I live next door; I see you almost every day . . .”
“It’s true what you say: you are with us, but you are not one of us.”
“Then I could change; I could change for her, become part of your community.”
The old man shook his head. “I’ve heard of it tried in my lifetime—an Englischer falls for one of our daughters. A community votes and allows them in; they are baptized—they try. But it doesn’t work, and our daughters are left broken and alone. It’s too great a risk.”
Grant nodded, trying to blink back tears. There was truth in what Mr. King said, a truth he’d wrestled with for a long time these past months himself. He bowed his head, then looked up in alarm when the heart monitor’s sensors increased. He gazed at the blood pressure machine and rose to his feet. He had no desire to force Mr. King into another heart attack. He would get over the girl; he’d gotten over much worse.
“Mr. King, please excuse me—I’ll get your nurse. Thank you for your friendship; I hope that it continues. I will speak no more about Sarah.” He left before the old m
an could speak and strode out of the room, stopping at the nurse’s station. When he walked out to his car, he felt a chill in the air that went deeper than his coat, and he recognized the familiar layer of ice take form on the vestiges of his heart.
CHAPTER 19
Father was home and slowly taking up the reins about the farm again, doing more and more as the weeks passed. The family had a lovely Thanksgiving together and Sarah came back to the stand for the season of Christmas. She could not deny that the doctor had been more absent than she would have liked, but she tried to concentrate on her work and on her prayer life. Father told her that her last day at the stand would be December 23, until the following spring. This would give her extra time to help at home with the cooking and cleaning, for many family members came to visit at Christmas and at Second Christmas.
The weeks passed quickly and the snow-covered mountains with their confectionary sugar trees took away the bleakness of November, leaving a joyful expectancy in the air. Sarah found some glad time to clear out her garden one Sunday afternoon, hardly able to believe that she was so late in doing so. She was equally glad as the weeks ticked down at the stand, though she couldn’t help but notice that Grant seemed absent from his regular visits. She decided that he must be busy at this time of year with animal illnesses and tried not to worry over not seeing him.
On her last day at the stand, she sold her final holly wreath, and one Englisch woman paid her extra for an arrangement of berries and pinecones she’d done in a mason jar. Luke came to pick her up and she was glad to leave the stand, at least for a few months. For now, Christmas was in two days, which meant extra visitors, extra family, and extra work.
But Sarah moved with a cheerful grace, appreciative of being able to help Mamm with the daily work. She was also happier in her prayer life, having come to a truce of sorts with her own thoughts about Grant. When she’d finally poured out her heart to her heavenly Father, He gave her His peace. She certainly wasn’t to the point of understanding everything about why Grant had been allowed into her life, but instead of worrying and fretting over it, God’s Word made her feel as though things were clearer, and more stable, although she had to admit that thoughts of Grant permeated her day.
On Christmas Eve, Uncle Zebediah and Aunt Anna, Father’s older brother and wife, came the fifteen miles to stay through Second Christmas, which was on January 6. This was an extended visit, but not uncommon for those whose children had grown and married or moved away. Other cousins and aunts and uncles would also be coming from the surrounding area, and Mamm cleaned right up until the first buggy arrived.
Sarah had worked too, in a flurry of dusting, rearranging furniture, and prettying things up. She cut holly and ivy by the armful to fill vases here and about, and Mamm even allowed pine boughs to be laid across the many mantles of the fireplaces. The Amish of their community did not have Christmas trees, but they had a specially decorated round table that stood empty and waiting for presents to be laid upon it on Christmas Day. The family drew names from Father’s hat to select who they would get a gift for, and Sarah drew Luke, for the second year in a row.
Luke had made no secret of the fact that he wanted a new saddle for Shadow so that in the spring he could race the boys. Sarah had no idea how she might purchase such a gift, even with all of her earnings from the stand, and she was also torn with indecision about getting a gift for Grant. It would be easy to fix a basket of preserves and canned goods for the Bustles to enjoy, but the doctor was another story. She pondered over it as she swept, washed the china that was used only for holidays, and prepared guest rooms on the mostly unused wing of the second floor.
She also took time each day to be outdoors or in the barn with the animals. It was her job, in the winter months, to tend the small flock of sheep that Father kept as a concession to Mamm, who liked to spin yarn the old-fashioned way for decorative threads in her quilts and rugs. Sarah had discovered in November that one of the older ewes was pregnant and had shared this surprise with the family.
“Ach,” Father had laughed. “A Christmas lambing means a blessed spring.”
Sarah hoped that he was right.
Grant struggled to stay away from the King farm as much as possible. No one had seen or heard from Matthew Fisher, and there were no more fires. Grant busied himself with calls and checking up on past patient animals and accepted more Englisch invitations as the holidays approached. He went with Bustle to pick out a large tree that they cut at a traditional Christmas tree farm, and he wrestled it inside and drank Mrs. Bustle’s secret-recipe hot chocolate afterward. But his heart wasn’t in it, wasn’t in much of anything if truth be told, and he wrestled hard with images of Sarah.
On the day before Christmas, he’d just settled the last of the boxes of ornaments at the base of the tree and prepared for Mrs. Bustle to offer placement suggestions when a knock sounded at the front door. He dragged himself to get it, and he recognized Sarah through the glass, bundled up in a head shawl and holding a festive basket. He ran his hand through his hair and then opened the door with a smile.
“You’re just in time. Mrs. Bustle’s least favorite thing to do is decorate the tree, so I do it for her. Now you can help.” He rushed the words out, half-scared that she’d disappear from sight if he stopped talking or said the wrong thing.
“I brought you and the Bustles a few gifts.” She shifted her feet under the weight of the basket, and he took it from her.
“Did you walk over here with this? It weighs a ton.”
“Exercise is good for me.”
He placed the basket on a side table and reached to help her unwind her shawl.
“Will you help with the tree?” he asked, like a small boy begging for a sweet, and she smiled.
“Jah—I never have before, though.” She untied her bonnet and adjusted her kapp, and he had to resist the urge to brush a loose tendril behind her ear. He hung up her shawl instead.
“Mrs. Bustle? Miss King is here and has offered to help with the tree.” He led the way into the parlor, and Mrs. Bustle immediately got to her feet.
“Good, I’m glad you’re here, honey. I’ve got pecan tarts to finish baking and the tree is not my favorite thing to do. You two go on and have fun.” Mrs. Bustle started out of the room when Sarah remembered the basket. She ran and got it and then gave the older woman a hug.
“It’s just some simple things I thought you and Mr. Bustle might enjoy.”
“Why, thank you, sweetheart! I’ll take a look right now in the kitchen.” She left with the hefty basket, and Sarah turned to Grant.
“I wasn’t sure I should come. You . . . seem to be busy.”
He looked at the tree. “Yeah, really busy. Come anytime, if you’re permitted.”
She seemed surprised. “Why shouldn’t I be permitted?”
“I don’t know. Do you believe in garland first or baubles?” He bent to the stack of boxes and withdrew a blown-glass ball that mirrored a snowflake falling deep inside.
She smiled. “Whatever you like best.”
I like you best, he thought, but shook his head. “It’s all the same to me.”
“Ach, then the baubles please. I’ve never seen anything so beautiful.”
“As the lady wishes.” He knelt and with a flourish pulled the lids off the boxes of straw-nested ornaments. “Do the Amish have a Christmas tree?”
She knelt beside him and stroked an iridescent pink ball. “No, we have a present table. And no Santa Claus. We draw names for gifts; I got Luke.”
“And what does that good fellow want?”
“A saddle for Shadow, to race him in the spring.”
Grant rolled his eyes. “It’s either race cars or horses with boys, isn’t it?”
“I suppose they’ve got to have some fun . . . even grown-up boys and their red cars.”
He put a hand out to touch her arm, then dropped it. “I’ve missed you, sassy girl.”
“Me too.”
He wanted to kiss her
right then but knew he could not, not without starting the whole process of weaning his heart from her again, so he just smiled instead.
She reached into the folds of her apron pocket and withdrew a small, brown-paper-wrapped gift, tied with a single strand of green ribbon, and handed it to him.
“It’s just a little thing . . . for you. For Christmas.” She blushed and he took the gift with a tightness in his throat. He hadn’t been able to bring himself to get her something. He’d wandered around Lockport, staring at hundreds of beautiful things, but he thought she’d find them vain and he hadn’t planned on seeing her, not wanting to upset her father.
He opened the paper and marveled at the craftsmanship of the pocket knife.
“Mr. Stolis . . . he carves them and puts them together. I thought you might use it for work or around the farm.”
He didn’t speak and she rustled among the ornament boxes.
“Do you like it? Perhaps you have another . . .”
“Dozens,” he admitted. “But none like this. I’ll cherish it.” He cleared his throat. “I—didn’t have time—no, that’s not true. I couldn’t decide what to get you because I wasn’t sure. Will you tell me what you want, please? Anything at all?”
She smiled and his heart melted. “Just this. Just this time with the tree; I’m happy.”
He drew a deep breath and nodded in agreement.
CHAPTER 20
Father, the ewe is having trouble with the birth. Shall I call for Dr. Williams?” Sarah whispered the words so as not to distract the fun. It was Christmas Eve and everyone was gathered around the fire listening to jokes and familiar family tales.
