Even though she’d lived in Sugarcreek almost all her life, she never tired of Amish proverbs and had been thrilled at the beginning of the year when she’d laid eyes on the pretty organizer at the Mim’s on Main gift shop. Even beyond the thoughtful precepts for living, not surprisingly the Amish creators had thought of everything to make the organizer perfect—or at least perfect for her and all of her lists of things to do.
There were two full pages designated for each week, with large blocks for each day. A blank page following each week for notable notes. And also a two-page spread for each month, not to mention an Amish recipe at the beginning of the month—more than half of which she hadn’t tried before.
There had been a time in her life when she was so busy being a working mother and wife that she felt completely pressured and overwhelmed by scads of to-do lists and all the Post-it notes lying around her kitchen or attached to the wall calendar or stuffed in her purse. It seemed life rushed by and was such a blur that she could never get close to the bottom of any list. And as soon as she scratched one item off, ten others took its place.
But now on Sundays, with her golden retriever, Daisy, settled at her feet, she looked forward to sifting through the Post-its, scraps of papers, and appointment cards she gathered throughout the week and posting them in her book with her blue gel pen. She loved seeing how her entries gave shape and structure and purpose to the week ahead, listing all the very important things she needed to do regarding work, errands, calls, e-mails, appointments, meals to make, and knitting to do.
She had just started to jot down a reminder on Monday’s section to check in on Mr. Herman, the elderly widower down the street, and see if he’d finished the chicken and broccoli casserole she’d made for him, when her cell phone vibrated against the tabletop.
Peering through her glasses, she found herself smiling at the photo of her grandkids lighting up the screen.
As Liz picked up the phone and got up from the wooden chair, Daisy perked up her head and rose too, toenails clicking on the tiled kitchen floor and then going silent as she followed Liz across the family room carpeting.
Curled up on her overstuffed sofa was the best place to savor the call from her one and only daughter, Amy. Liz clicked on the phone as Daisy jumped up alongside her, most likely preferring the cushier spot to her previous one on the kitchen floor.
“Hey, honeypot.” Even though Amy was all grown up, married with two children, Liz still often greeted her by her childhood nickname. “What’s going on?”
“Oh, nothing much. Just calling to check in.”
“Check in on me?” Liz gave a slight chuckle, settling back into the deep comfort of the cushions. “Ames, you act like I’m some feeble old woman, honey. You don’t need to ‘check in’ on me. Haven’t you heard? Fifties are the new forties.”
“I know you’re not feeble, Mom, trust me. I just, you know . . . worry about you sometimes.”
“Nothing to worry about on this end. I’ll let you know when to fret.”
“Well, not worry exactly. It’s just . . .” Amy paused long enough for Liz to pick up on the fact that her daughter was trying to find a delicate way to say whatever was on her mind. “I’m just wondering, how are you really doing, Mom?”
“Really doing?” Liz was at a loss as to what to say exactly.
“Well, yeah. I mean, you used to be so busy at the church, 24-7 when you weren’t working your real estate. You were always there, cooking and baking for who knows who all. They gave you some kind of award at church, didn’t they? For most meals cooked last year?”
“It wasn’t just last year, and it really wasn’t an award per se. It was a mention in the bulletin.” A half-page write-up on her that had made her blush but feel good about herself. Now Liz frowned, wondering where this conversation was going.
“Oh. Well, I was just thinking about that and . . . You’re not going to go nutty, cooking and inviting strangers to your house for meals or anything, are you?”
“I don’t believe that’s called ‘thinking,’ Amy. It’s more like you’re stewing, honey. Worrying. Fretting.”
“Not really,” her daughter countered. “Not when I could see you doing that. Driving around looking for lost, hungry people. There was a crazy lady on the news here doing just that thing.” Her words tumbled out in a rush, her voice sounding frantic. “She ended up in the hospital, all beat up by the strangers she was trying to help. So please don’t be doing that, Mom, or I’ll never sleep at night.”
“You really think she was crazy?” Liz bit her lip.
“Mom, that’s not the point.”
“You’ve been living too close to big cities for too long, and you should turn off the news. Who wants to see all that awful stuff anyway?” Liz cringed. “Really, Amy, you don’t have to worry.”
For one, according to Jessica’s opinion, she didn’t see well enough at night to go driving around looking for strangers to feed—although she wasn’t about to mention that to Amy and give her something else to fret about. Instead she just said, “I’m in Sugarcreek, remember? Hardly anyone is a stranger here.”
“Sugarcreek or not, I have to say, I was relieved when they figured out the origin of the fire was an electrical malfunction in the furnace room,” Amy replied. “I can’t believe there was even talk of arson at first.” She added the dreadful reminder before asking Liz to hold on. “Mom, I have another call. Just one second, okay?” Amy clicked the phone, assuming consent.
Meanwhile, Liz remembered how upset she’d felt a week after the fire, standing inside Miller’s butcher shop, hardly able to tear her gaze from the front window and the sight that lay just a half block up on the other side of the street. The place where crime-scene tape was strung around the perimeter of the ashen grounds. The grounds where Faith Community Church used to stand. The very spot where her friend Rose, always in charge of seasonal decorations, had gone to search through the supply closet in the bowels of the church . . . and had never come out.
“It must be very hurtful for you,” Martha Miller had said in a hushed voice from behind the meat cases, nodding understandingly in her cotton kapp.
“Oh, Martha, you’re so right,” she’d replied. “Every time I pass by and see it in ashes, it’s just . . . I don’t know. . . .” She shook her head at her Amish acquaintance. “It makes me feel so sad and so . . . lost.” And violated when the investigators hadn’t readily been able to come up with a cause and the gossip about arson had started buzzing.
It was the first time she’d put words to the way she’d been feeling. Even just running errands and driving over familiar winding roads past rolling farmlands didn’t seem the same to her. Nothing felt right with the world. Or whole. Not with the loss of her dear Rose, whom she’d gotten so close to in the past few years. Or with the loss of her church, which had been so much a part of her and her adult life.
“Feeling lost in a town the size of Sugarcreek is not a gut thing.” Martha had sighed sympathetically, and Liz had to agree.
“It’s a foreign feeling, for sure.” Liz nodded. “It’s been very kind of some of the other churches in town to invite us to their services, and I’ve tried, but . . .”
“It’s not the same, I would imagine.” Martha had finished the sentence for her.
And it wasn’t.
Faith Community was where she and her husband, Karl, had been married, and where they’d baptized their precious baby girl. Amy had walked down the aisle of the church as a beautiful young bride six years ago. Just a year later, the pastor had delivered Karl’s eulogy and many people were there to hold Liz and comfort her and not let go until she was on her feet again.
She’d felt lost then, too, for a long stretch of time, her daily life no longer bearing any resemblance to the titles that defined her. Karl wasn’t there to be a wife to. Amy and her family were on the East Coast, slimming the opportunities to be an active mom and grandmother. So she took on the title of active member of Faith Community Church—“u
ber-active,” as her daughter would say. The hours she wasn’t at work, she’d been at church. But then with the fire, it had been like a grenade had gone off, fragmenting the congregation and her place of purpose and worship in all directions—and that role of hers had been eliminated too.
As a result, her kitchen had become her comfort zone. The place where she spent most of her time on Sundays, baking and preparing a dinner or two for anyone who had a need.
“Mom, thanks for letting me get that.” Amy’s voice interrupted her thoughts. “Like I was saying, as much as I worry about you out by yourself, I also hate having a vision of you sitting there watching Food Network. All alone.”
Raising her brows, Liz immediately reached for the remote and turned down the volume before Amy could hear how right she was about Food Network—even though she’d only turned it on for background noise. Then she glanced at Daisy, snuggled up against the apricot afghan Liz had hand-knit, hanging over the arm of the sofa. “I’m not alone, Ames.”
“You’re not?”
Was that excitement or relief she heard in her daughter’s voice? Liz couldn’t be sure. Amy had become such a worrier since becoming a mom.
“Oh. Should I let you go then?” Amy asked. “Who’s there?”
“Daisy’s here. Right by my side.” Liz reached out to pet the creature that had wandered into her yard—and heart—several years earlier. Just a puppy back then. Liz had tried to locate the dog’s owner, and when all her attempts failed, she had to admit she was thankful. So quickly, almost overnight, she’d come to love the animal that had found a path to her door and fit into her life so easily.
“Well, I guess she’s better company than some people I know,” Amy said offhandedly, and then she sighed in that longing mother’s way—wishing all were perfect in the world of those she loved but feeling helpless to make things that way. “How’s Jessica doing, by the way? Have you seen her?” she asked about her former classmate.
“I’m definitely keeping tabs on her. She’s got a lot on her plate right now.” She paused and frowned. “I told you she took over the Cottage, didn’t I?”
“Yes, you did. A few times,” Amy answered with a slight snicker that Liz knew was aimed at her memory and had nothing to do with Jessica’s abilities. “That can’t be easy for her, and she’s got to be missing her aunt so much.”
“She is. She and Cole also moved in over the shop, and that’s a big adjustment. She’s still sorting through Rose’s things, and—” Goodwill! She’d forgotten to go to Goodwill yesterday! She truly had to write everything down anymore—or at least everything she hoped to remember.
“That’s a lot to do on her own. It’s nice you’re trying to help, Mom. Will you tell her I’m thinking of her?”
“I’ll do that,” Liz replied, and before her daughter could start to mother her any more, or worry about Jessica or anyone else in Sugarcreek, she quickly shifted to her favorite topic of conversation. “So how are my grandkids? Besides adorable, I mean?”
Her eyes lit on one of the many framed photos of her precious grandbabies, Ellie and Jack, displayed all around the house. It was a photo she’d taken in the spring when the kids had visited from New York. She’d trekked them up the road to Kingfisher’s petting farm to visit a newborn goat there. In the photo the kids were hunched together, wide-eyed in amazement, so delighted to be petting the fuzzy creature.
For a while, she’d had the picture sitting on the mantel. But that didn’t last long. It was just too far away. Instead, she moved it to the coffee table, where she could see every little dimple on her grandchildren’s faces and the brightness in their eyes as they smiled at the camera. The two of them may have gotten their chestnut hair from their father’s side, but their oval-shaped brown eyes were definitely from the Cannon side.
“Did I tell you Ellie is playing on a basketball team?”
“Basketball? At four years old?”
“It’s an instructional league,” Amy explained. “They mostly just fall over each other running up and down the court.”
“And how do you keep Jack sitting still through all of that?” Liz asked, picturing her rambunctious two-year-old grandson.
“We don’t. Brian and I take turns playing ball with him behind the bleachers.”
“You’ll have to send me pictures of Ellie in her uniform.”
“Oh, don’t worry. She’s so excited about her player cards. They’re due back from the photographer’s next week. I’ll be sure to get one in the mail to you.” Her daughter’s tone softened. “By the way, Mom, you remember we’re not going to be there for Thanksgiving, right? We go to Brian’s parents’ house in Connecticut this year.”
“Oh, sure. Yeah. Of course I remember.” Liz managed to keep her voice light, though her insides suddenly felt dull and heavy. Not that Amy’s reminder came as a surprise. Not by any means. The kids switched off each year for the holiday.
Jumping up from the couch, she padded into the kitchen with Daisy on her heels and headed straight for the cookie jar. Maybe one or two oatmeal cookies wouldn’t be so bad. A little appetizer before dinner? Something to help that sudden empty feeling not feel so empty?
But as she lifted the lid, she remembered that her khaki work skirt had been fitting a bit too snugly lately. She willed herself to close the container and walk away—far away, over by the kitchen window, where she could she see it wouldn’t be too long until the sun would begin its descent for the day. By then only silhouettes of the trees in her backyard would be visible, whereas right now their branches still shone with hints of crimson brilliance here and there.
“How’s the foliage in Connecticut by Thanksgiving?” she asked absentmindedly. “Are there still lots of leaves on the trees then?”
The only response she got was a thump over the phone, followed by a dog’s yelping.
“Huh?” Amy sounded distracted. “What were you saying, Mom?”
“The foliage in Connecticut. Is it—?”
“Mom, can you hold on a minute?”
More indistinguishable noises sounded in Liz’s ear—and then one she recognized. A burst of crying. From Jack? Or Ellie? She wasn’t sure which.
“Mom, can I call you back in a—Brian, can you get the dog, please?”
“Amy, honey, it sounds like your family needs you. You don’t need to call back. You all have a good week, you hear?”
“Oh, okay! You too, Mom.”
“And give my—”
. . . grandbabies kisses, she’d wanted to say. But Amy had already hung up.
For a moment, Liz stared at her phone, wishing the call hadn’t ended so abruptly. But that was life with little ones, as she knew from experience.
Meanwhile, everyone in Amy’s family was well and healthy, and that was a lot to be thankful for, she told herself as she walked to the stove and peeked into the pot of chicken and rice soup. She was making the soup for her friend Lucy from church. Or rather, she was making it for Lucy’s aunt’s daughter Denise, who had been hospitalized for stomach issues and had just been released but still wasn’t totally up to par. The recipe was a miracle worker when it came to gastro problems. And while she might not exactly know Denise, she had met Lucy’s aunt once before, meaning she wasn’t cooking for a complete stranger on the street, as Amy was so fearful of.
Giving the pot a quick stir, she glanced at the clock on the stove. It was still early enough to get to Goodwill and get that errand taken care of instead of adding it to her list. Afterward she could come home, simmer the soup a bit more, and she and Daisy could settle back in and finish filling in her planner for Friday, Saturday, and Sunday.
Turning off the stove, she was just about to go in search of her shoes when—plop!—something dropped into her cup of tepid tea on the kitchen table. Followed by another plop and splashes of tea flying.
Walking to the table, she picked up the cup and examined it more closely, somewhat surprised by what she saw inside—white plaster turning pink as it floated in the
reddish tea. Was her kitchen ceiling really as bad as all that?
Looking up, she gazed at the cracks running across the ceiling, which didn’t look all that alarming given the fact that the house was quite old and something or other was constantly in a state of repair or disrepair. Plus, she didn’t think the lines in the plaster looked much different than they had been lately.
But luckily Lou Hager was already scheduled to come to her rescue. She’d written his name down in the first slot for Thursday morning. Picking up her blue pen, she opened her organizer briefly and underlined the handyman’s name twice.
“I HOPE WE’RE NOT making a huge mistake, Liz,” Jessica sighed. And she hoped they weren’t wasting time riding out to Lydia Gruber’s house again.
At least on this mission, she’d insisted on driving, so she wasn’t afraid for her life as the car wound over the unlit country roads. This time, too, she’d waited to have Marisa come by after she’d already said Cole’s prayers and put him to bed. She hadn’t wanted him to think she was leaving him again.
“I really don’t think we are, honey.” Liz sounded hopeful and determined. As usual. “At least that’s not what the clerk at Goodwill led me to believe, like I told you.”
Jessica had been enjoying a quiet sort of Sunday. She’d just set the spaghetti sauce on to simmer and was glaring at her knitting needles, knowing she had to start practicing soon, when she heard footsteps shuffling up the outside staircase.
At the first sound, her heart dropped, thinking it was Tad Lyon’s dad bringing Cole home early because something had gone wrong with the end-of-the-season fishing outing that he’d been kind enough to invite Cole to. But it hadn’t been Tad, or his dad, or Cole at all. Instead it had been Liz. With the Secret Stitches quilt they’d made for Lydia Gruber. Along with an explanation of how Liz had discovered it at Goodwill and why they needed to return it to the widow.
When Liz had first arrived at the apartment, she’d been so wide-eyed, her words tumbling over one another so quickly, that Jessica had instantly herded her into the kitchen and put on water, thinking Liz could use a cup of her aunt’s chamomile tea still left in the cupboard. But the calming brew didn’t help much as Liz gave a rousing explanation of how she’d gone to Goodwill to drop off Jessica’s things, and lo and behold, when she stopped to look at some yarn and fabric remnants, what did she see next to them? A stack of blankets with their special quilt right on top.
The Sisters of Sugarcreek Page 5
