The Sisters of Sugarcreek

by Cathy Liggett

  But what had she been thinking? How could she escape the past with the lake right there in front of her? It was a place that had been too much a part of her growing-up years. A place that had an undeniable hold on her.

  How many summer evenings had she ended up there with a gang of girls, innocently scaring off geese with their giggles and shrieks as they tentatively dipped their toes in the water?

  And then there were the few guys who had taken her to the lake at the end of a date. Guys who’d wanted more than she was willing to give at that particular time in her life. She’d had to demand to be driven back home—unless they wanted their moms to find out where they’d taken her.

  But the times she and Derek had driven out to the lake had been the ones she remembered most vividly. How often had they gone out there to escape? To do for one another what best friends do best—listen, laugh, fill the quiet, and ease the hurts. Just be there for each other while favorite country songs played on the car radio . . .

  Songs like Sugarland’s “Want To.”

  Every time the melody sifted over the airwaves, circling them like a lasso, corralling them together, they’d teased each other over the lyrics. All about staying friends on the shore . . . or jumping into something more.

  More often than not, one of them would push the other into the lake and that would end any tension that the suggestion in the song might’ve created between them. Had they just been too scared of messing it all up? Of possibly losing each other?

  Or . . . had Derek never wanted more between them?

  Jessica crossed her arms and rubbed at the goose bumps covering them. How often after sending her splashing into the chilly water had Derek stood behind her on the banks, rubbing her arms to take away the cold? He’d rub so vigorously, leaving her shrieking over an Indian burn he’d given her.

  A fond smile playing on her lips, her thoughts continued to drift back in time. Until, the next thing she knew, she could sense his closeness. He really was behind her, placing his suit jacket over her shoulders. Warming her as he always had—only this time much more gently.

  “You okay?” he asked softly.

  “Yeah . . . I just . . .”

  Pulling the coat closer around her, she looked up at him. Seeing his raised brows, she knew he was waiting for her to say something more. But she could barely say the words she wanted to say, let alone say them to his face. She turned from him and wished she had a rock to skip across the dark lake. He’d taught her how to skip a stone, many years of summer nights ago. The simple action always seemed to allow them to talk about even the most soul-searching things. Except for maybe . . . whatever they had or hadn’t had between them.

  But there would be no rock skipping tonight.

  “Do you ever wonder about if things had been different?” she asked softly, looking out across the water, as if tracking an imaginary stone she’d just thrown.

  As she said the words, immediately her thoughts went to Cole. Of course, she’d never change having Cole in a million, zillion years. But before she could add that disclaimer, Derek answered.

  “I used to,” he said quietly. And even though he admitted it, she realized she didn’t know what he wished might’ve been different. His dad? His mom? His place on earth? Them?

  Once again, she’d purposely left the question of the two of them open-ended, hadn’t she?

  “In some ways I still do.” He leaned against the deck railing, his clasped hands hanging over the wooden bar as he looked out onto the water. She wondered if he was feeling like he wanted to skip a stone too. But he didn’t sound like he needed one as he said, “But right now, Jess, I’m thinking things are good. Just being here.” He gazed up at the crescent moon, hanging like a slice of lemon in the sky.

  She studied him, his handsome face a profile of contentment, and realized she wanted to kiss him more than she ever, ever had before. But always, as before, she had no idea if he was feeling the same way. In all their years, he’d never said anything. Now as then, she was too afraid to ask.

  And if she tried to kiss him—if she started, this time she knew it would be real. All of her. It wouldn’t be a friendly peck on his forehead. It wouldn’t be a brush of her lips on his cheek. It would be a kiss she wouldn’t be able to stop. Wouldn’t want to stop, leading to another kiss and more kisses and all the moments and moments after that . . .

  Suddenly she shivered, stopping her from imagining more.

  “Are you cold?” He pushed away from the railing and, as always, protected her, wrapping his arms around her.

  Not now . . . not with you.

  She wanted to say the words. Wanted to nestle closer. But she fell back into the rhythm, the song, of their past. For fear of complicating the moment. Of ruining them “just being there.”

  “I’m good,” she said instead as she gazed up into the sky too, trying to be at peace with the present.

  LYDIA LAY IN BED almost wishing it had been a frightening sound that awakened her while the pre-dawn sky was still so black outside her bedroom window. But it hadn’t been a sound at all. It had been the clamor of thoughts about Henry that kept insisting she get up to do the only thing she knew that might make them stop.

  Still, she resisted. It was only after tossing and turning for a half hour more that she finally surrendered to the racket in her head. It was clear she wasn’t going to get any more sleep, and her mind wasn’t going to get any more rest if she didn’t take care of the very thing she’d been thinking about for the past few hours.

  Lighting the lantern atop her nightstand, she found the pair of thick socks she kept by her bedside and pulled them onto her feet, one by one. Then she wrapped a shawl around her shoulders before making her way to the kitchen.

  Gathering up her writing basket from the kitchen counter, she carried it to the oak table. Sitting down, she took out a blank sheet of paper and stared at it. Until finally she felt moved to pick up a pen and begin the letter that had been forming in her mind ever since she’d opened her eyes before dawn.

  Dear Henry,

  Once again I have spent another night wrestling with thoughts of you and our marriage. Once again I am starting the day feeling guilty for all that I’ve been thinking—all that has been going through my mind. I’m saying this because it seems with each passing day, I have a harder and harder time recalling any sweet memories of us at all.

  I have no memories of the two of us laughing or working together, side by side. No recollections of your arms wrapped protectively around me. No memories of your lips curving into a smile when you’d wake up in the morning next to me or when you’d come home in the evening and see me.

  All I have are questions. More and more questions. Wondering why you didn’t choose to be close to me. Why you couldn’t accept my love. Why you didn’t want to raise a child with me. Why it seemed you wanted to be my ruler instead of my lover and friend.

  I wanted to share a life with you, Henry. A happy, blessed life as one. I wanted to share everything about me with you—and yet you

  All at once her hand froze on the page. The pen lingered over the last word as another surge of guilt shot through her. What was she doing being accusatory with a deceased man?

  As she lay in bed, the letter to Henry had seemed like a good idea, something she felt compelled to do to get her feelings out. But now that she’d started writing it, it didn’t hold any comfort for her at all. In fact, it felt somehow wrong and even futile. She had never been able to get responses from her husband when he’d been there to ask; did she really think she’d get any answers now?

  Tossing the pen aside, she yanked the piece of paper from the tabletop and crumpled it with both hands. Then she sank back into the chair and peered out the window.

  Remnants of frost covered the edges of the four panes. Soon it would be gone, melted by the sun, which was slowly rising over the frost-tipped fields. It was a pretty sight to behold outside her window for sure. Yet she could barely feel moved by the view. Because ins
ide her house on this morning, the kitchen felt too empty. Too quiet and chilly. And inside her heart, she yearned for the day it wouldn’t feel that way ever again.

  Would that day ever come, Gott willing? When she would have a house that would be a home she shared with a man who loved her and their children? When she’d rise before the sun and before her family, busily baking in the kitchen, just as her maam used to do?

  How easily she could remember those winter mornings as a young girl. Waking up to the scent of a coffee cake baking. Of a fire already roaring in the fireplace. Starting the day with the gratifying comfort of being safe and warm.

  Oh, how she missed those mornings. If her maam only knew!

  Sitting up, Lydia took another piece of paper from the basket, and without hesitating she began to write again.

  Dear Maam,

  I am up early this morning, sitting in my kitchen, remembering the times I would wake to the sweet scent of your applesauce cake baking in the oven. It is a memory that made me miss you and home, so I thought I’d write a note and tell you so. I think of you and Sarah so often! I hope this letter finds both of you doing verra gut.

  I would say things are going gut here too, and I am thankful for that. As I told you in my other letters, I’ve been blessed with new friends and a job I enjoy verra much. I also have a good neighbor right next door who is kind and helpful, and I’m making better acquaintances with the women and families I worship with.

  I’m saying this again because, Maam, I don’t want you to be worrying about me in any of those ways. Gott has been gracious and good and has made sure I am not alone.

  But—is this so awful of me to say?—I’m finding even with the blessing of these people, there is a hole in my heart that I don’t know how to fill. Jah, I realize this would be a normal feeling for anyone who has lost a loved one. I know when Daed passed there was a hole left inside all of us too. Yet with our dear Daed, I’m grateful to say I have sweet memories to remember him by. And with Henry . . . well, I don’t feel like I have anything to fill that hole.

  In fact, as time goes by the hole seems to get a little bigger. I think it’s because recently I’ve had the chance to be more social and meet more people. My friend Liz—she’s a widow, too, and she has memories of her husband that bring a sparkle to her eyes. And with the married couples at church and couples I see in love, I notice how they smile and laugh together. How their eyes light up when they look at each other. How they touch and talk and respect one another. Seeing them makes me sad because I have to wonder why Henry and I were never that way. If he would’ve ever talked, I would’ve listened. If he had wanted love, I was ready to open my arms to him. I cannot understand why Henry never chose to be close to me, but I suppose it’s nothing I can change.

  She paused momentarily, long enough to wipe droplets of tears from the page.

  Oh, Maam, have I gone on too much? If so, I’m verra sorry. I really don’t mean to burden you with this. Deep in my heart I know in time and with prayer Gott’s love will fill this hole. He will lift this hurt from me. He will bring the answers that will make my marriage to Henry feel like less of a mystery to me.

  Just know, Maam, that I don’t believe you did anything wrong when you hugged me that day and sent me away with Henry. I know you were only doing what you thought was best for me after Daed passed away. So please, don’t ever think I blame you for anything. I surely don’t.

  You have been a good maam and have taught me well to stay strong in the Lord. No matter what, that is what I plan to do. You can be sure I will stay strong in Him.

  Love,

  Your Lydia

  Lydia stilled the knitting needles in her lap long enough to reach up and cup her hand over a yawn. After getting up extra early and writing to her maam, her day’s work at the Cottage felt like it had taken forever to end. Plus, the hours had been made even longer than usual since it was the night for her to meet with Jessica and Liz for their weekly knitting session at the shop.

  “Oh, Lydia.” Jessica’s lips parted in a yawn as her needles came to an abrupt halt. “You need to stop doing that. Now you’ve got me started too.”

  “And me.” Liz took in generous gulps of air and let out a robust yawn. “Goodness gracious—what a tired group we are tonight! I still don’t think I’ve recovered from helping Daniel in my kitchen. I’m sore in places I didn’t know existed on this old body of mine. I didn’t realize how beat I am.”

  “Me neither.” Droplets of moisture filled Jessica’s eyes as she yawned again.

  “Were you out late at the retirement party?” Liz turned to Jessica. “Did you have fun?”

  As soon as Lydia had come back to work after the weekend, she’d noticed Jessica’s eyes shining brightly. Even if her friend was bone tired, her eyes hadn’t stopped twinkling yet. Jessica couldn’t have hidden her pleasure at being with Derek even if she’d tried.

  “We did have a surprisingly good time.” Jessica’s entire face lit up as she spoke of him, reminding Lydia that everything she’d said in the letter to her mother had been true. “It was also great to see so many people from town under happier circumstances, and . . . I don’t know . . . It was just really nice being with him.” She blushed, making Lydia smile.

  “Your cheeks match the color of your scarf.” Lydia nodded to the crimson skein of chunky yarn in her friend’s lap.

  “Oh, I know.” Jessica’s needles collapsed in her lap again. “What is wrong with me? I’ve never been like this before. Well, certainly not with Derek.”

  “He’s a very nice-looking young man,” Liz said approvingly.

  “Jah,” Lydia chimed in, “and he seems verra nice too.”

  “I know. You’re both right. But . . . it’s Derek,” Jessica said, looking as hopelessly baffled about him as she usually did about her knitting. “I keep getting all jittery and silly around him. This is what I get for not dating much all these years. I’m like an impressionable schoolgirl all over again.”

  “Oh, goodness.” Liz looked up from her nearly completed vest. “Talk about being out of touch . . . I hope I don’t get like that when I go out with Daniel. I haven’t been out with anyone except Karl for decades. Truly, ladies—I mean decades.”

  Lydia noticed Jessica straighten in her chair at the exact moment she did, both of them wide-eyed at Liz’s news. “You have a date with Daniel?” Lydia asked.

  “He asked you out?” A big grin settled on Jessica’s face.

  “To dinner.” Liz nodded, and Lydia could see the beginning of a fond gleam shining in her eyes too. “But it’s not a date,” she added quickly. “Well, at least I don’t think it’s a date. Dating’s more for younger people, isn’t it?” Her forehead crinkled. “Oh, but poor Daniel. The moment the words came out of his mouth, he looked so nervous. Like he wasn’t even sure why he’d asked. But then, I really can’t blame him. I have to admit I’m a bit nervous too.”

  “But you’re glad to be going with Daniel, jah?” Lydia asked.

  “Well, sure,” Liz said without a moment’s hesitation. “He couldn’t be any easier to talk to. From day one, I’ve felt totally comfortable having him at my house. He’s been great in every way. You’ll have to thank Jonas again for referring him to me.”

  “I’ll tell Jonas the next time I see him,” Lydia assured her.

  “Is that very often?” Liz asked with a twinkle in her eye.

  “Ahh . . .” Lydia shrugged. “Now and then. He brought by some firewood for me earlier this week.”

  Jessica had been fiddling with her needles, getting them situated just right so she could start a new row. But Lydia noticed how her news now made Jessica pause and look up at her. “That’s so sweet of him, Lydia,” she said.

  “Jah, I know. I hadn’t remembered to put that particular item in my budget, so it was a blessing, for sure.” She recalled how thankful she’d felt early one morning to find him placing a pile of wood at the side of her house. He wouldn’t let her pay him for it either. He’d tol
d her it was from a dead tree he’d had to chop down—a tree Mr. O’Malley had never taken care of when he lived there.

  She worked a few more stitches on the heel of her bootie before she decided to share about the other times she’d been in the company of her neighbor. “I’ve also been letting Jonas ride to church with me.”

  Just as she imagined they would, Jessica and Liz exchanged glances and giggles. “You let him go with you?” Jessica asked.

  “Jah.” She smiled. “Sunday is the only day I get to spend with Flora, and she gets cranky if we don’t do some riding together. But I decided it’s silly for Jonas and me to ride separately.”

  “And he doesn’t mind you doing the driving?” Liz smiled.

  “He hasn’t complained so far.” She shrugged, feeling slightly bashful. “I may let him take over the driving when the snow comes, though.”

  Both women nodded understandingly, but even as Lydia said the words, a small part of her felt uneasy. Even though she was afraid of driving on snowy roads, she was also leery of giving up the reins. Again.

  As she took up her knitting once more, her thoughts strayed, idly comparing Jonas’s personality to Henry’s. But after a few minutes, her tired eyes were so bleary that she stilled the needles, rubbing her eyelids.

  Jessica noticed and laid down her knitting as well. “You look tired, Lydia. We don’t have to keep going, you know.”

  “Nee . . . nee. It’s not the knitting.” She shook her head, not wanting Jessica to think their sessions were too much for her. Their time together had become a precious highlight in her weeks. “I didn’t sleep verra well last night, and then I was up early this morning, writing a letter to my maam. There was, uh, something I wanted to write to her about. Something I . . . I didn’t want to put off.”

  She didn’t want to mention the letter she’d started to Henry, but simply remembering it caused her voice to stress unexpectedly. Her friends’ expressions went immediately from interested to concerned.