“Is your mom okay?” Jessica’s brows dipped.
“I hope nothing’s wrong.” Liz bit her lower lip.
“Oh, nee. Nothing’s wrong with her,” she hurried to say. “It’s . . .” She hesitated, looking at them. “It’s me, actually. It’s me that’s not okay.”
Both women put down their needles.
“Lydia, what?” Jessica asked.
“Is there anything we can do?” Liz’s eyes shadowed with worry. “Anything at all?”
It wasn’t until that moment with both of her friends looking at her so tenderly, so anxious to listen, that she realized how she’d stopped sharing her feelings over the years. It was only because Henry never acted as if what she felt mattered much. Nor did he ever attach much importance to what she had to say.
But the women sitting around her were different. They cared. She could see it in their eyes, feel it in the way they poured every bit of their attention on her. And though she barely had any tears of sadness left for what she and Henry had not shared, her friends’ kindness was something else. Their caring brought on a surge of emotion, causing her eyes to well up.
“Do you remember the day you first told me about the Secret Stitches Society?” She flicked away the droplets in her eyes. “I’d come back from the bakery and was all upset?”
“Of course we remember,” Jessica said. “We had some tea and talked awhile.”
“You’d been thinking about your husband. A memory had caught you off guard.” Liz offered her account.
“Jah, but . . .” Lydia looked down at her hand, where a wedding band used to be. “What I didn’t say was that it wasn’t a gut memory that had me grieving so awfully much that day. It was a terrible memory. One I’d tried to stow away and never think of again.”
She glanced at the nearly completed bootie in her lap. “Ya know, ever since Henry passed, I feel like each day has been verra similar to my knitting. I pull out one memory or have one question about us, and it’s as if I’ve tugged on a strand of yarn. The memories and questions only seem to lead to more, and right before my eyes, our marriage just keeps unraveling and unraveling, breaking my heart over and over again. Sometimes I wonder . . .” She swallowed hard. “I wonder if the day will come that it will finally unravel so much I’ll have nothing to show for the years we spent together.”
She looked up at her friends and noticed their misty eyes filled with sympathy. “There’s nothing to say except that Henry and I didn’t have a verra gut relationship. When I see you with Derek—” she glanced at Jessica—“or when you talk about the way you and Karl were together—” she looked at Liz—“well, I can’t even begin to relate.”
Liz cleared her throat before she spoke softly. “Not all relationships are the same, honey.”
“Oh, I know. I’m sure you’re right,” she said. “But as a wise woman once told me, ‘communication, compromise, and caressing’—those should all be a part of a relationship, and with us, none of those things existed. So how could we have learned to be close to one another? We rarely spoke to each other . . . or held each other. And all through the years, I barely questioned Henry because I was so afraid he wouldn’t love me if I did. But . . .” She shook her head, disbelieving the irony of it all. “Even though I went along with the way he wanted things between us—all the while trying to earn his love and respect—it seems he never loved me anyway.”
Jessica sighed deeply. “I don’t know what to say, Lydia. Some people . . . Well, maybe he just had a hard time showing his love.”
“Jah, well . . . I’m not sure what to think. But for sure, in the note to my maam, I didn’t say all the things that I’m telling you. I wouldn’t want to concern her with so much.”
Yet, earlier in the day, the very moment she’d slipped the Pennsylvania-bound letter into a mailbox on her way up Main Street to the Cottage, she’d almost wished she could get the envelope back, fearing she’d still said more to her maam than she should have.
“I hope you know we’re here for you, Lydia.” Jessica reached out to pat her knee. “Whenever you want to talk.”
“Or whenever you don’t want to. We’re here then too.” Liz nodded with half a smile. “I’m also old enough to be your surrogate maam if you ever need me to be.”
Liz’s use of the Amish term brought a smile to Lydia’s lips. “I appreciate it for sure,” she said, genuinely touched.
They all bent over their knitting again, but she could feel the mood of the room had changed. Their eagerness to work on their projects had waned and passed. She wasn’t at all surprised when Jessica spoke up.
“Since we’re all so tired, maybe we should call it a night,” her friend suggested. “You and I have to be back here at the shop before you know it.” She glanced at Lydia and then around the room.
“Sounds good to me,” Liz chimed in.
“But didn’t you have something you wanted to show us?” Lydia asked Jessica. “You said you’d been working on a new kind of scarf?”
“Oh, yeah, that.” Jessica laughed. “It’s not actually new. It’s more like I’ve revamped one of my awful scarf attempts.” Bending over the side of her chair, she pulled a scarf out of the burlap bag sitting there and laid it on the table. Lydia and Liz both stared.
Made with a warm, plum-colored yarn that Lydia was familiar with, the scarf was also dotted with pretty sparkly bows in a lighter shade of lavender.
“It’s darling, Jessica,” Lydia said honestly.
“Just adorable,” Liz agreed. “Where did you get the pattern?”
“It’s the same pattern I’ve been using. But as you both know, hard as I’ve tried, I can’t get the knitting right. I keep making mistakes. And that’s when I remembered Aunt Rose’s special ribbon.”
“We sell it at the shop.” Lydia recalled the small display of glimmering ribbons in a variety of colors, but she couldn’t remember having a customer buy any.
“Right. Aunt Rose always kept sparkly ribbon around.” Jessica nodded with a smile. “Until recently, I’d forgotten how she had it handy for times when shoestrings broke without notice. Or when a headband got lost. Or when she couldn’t get the stain out of one of my tops, she’d make a pretty bow and pin it over the stain.” Jessica smoothed her hand over the scarf. “When she first tried to teach me to knit, I stressed so much about all the mistakes, she pulled out a roll of her ribbon then too. I can remember sitting together with her, making shiny bows to tack on over the bumps and lumps I’d made.”
“Aww . . .” Liz sighed. “She certainly was one sweet lady.”
Lydia was moved by the story as well. “She did all of that to cover your mistakes?”
“I don’t know that she was exactly trying to cover them.” Jessica’s voice drifted as her expression turned thoughtful. “No, I really think she was simply trying to turn them into something better. Something pretty to look at.”
“It’s very shabby chic, your scarf is,” Liz commented, “which is quite in vogue these days.”
“Yeah—have you seen some of the furniture that’s in style right now?” Jessica asked. “Not that I need any, mind you.”
As the two women talked about fashion and trends, Lydia listened, not feeling one bit left out. Simply being in their company, and being their friend, was enough for her most times. Just the kind of hug she needed. They were part of what made her “off” days better and her good days seem more right.
They were, she decided, much like the sparkly ribbon in her life.
ONCE THE WAITRESS TOOK their orders, Liz relaxed in her seat across from Daniel at the table for two. As she gazed at him, his kind face illuminated by the candlelight, she wondered why she’d felt anxious about going to dinner with him in the first place.
Not only was he easy on the eyes, but with his calm demeanor and accepting ways, he was also easy to be around. Yet even though she already knew those things about him from his working at her house, it’d still taken her forever to get ready. She’d expended enormous
effort and hairspray to get her hair just right. At least five minutes to choose the best shade of lipstick. And then there were several trips to her closet and many try-ons until she finally decided on black slacks, an emerald-colored top with just the slightest bit of sparkle, and stiff black heels that had never seen the light of day.
But then, in her own defense, just like she’d told Jessica and Lydia, it had been over thirty years since she’d had dinner with any man other than Karl.
“I still can’t believe I’d never heard of Annabelle’s,” she said. “But like I mentioned before, I rarely go as far as Millersburg to eat. Not that it’s such a long ride from Sugarcreek.”
“You’ve probably always done most of your own cooking.”
“True. But it’s a treat to get out and see what real live chefs come up with. And I love the atmosphere here, Daniel. It’s so homey with the fireplace and warm, stained wood. I really like it.”
She’d been delighted the moment they’d pulled up to Annabelle’s. The eatery looked more like someone’s home they’d been invited to than a restaurant. White rocking chairs dotted the wraparound porch of the two-story Victorian house painted a steel blue. Seasonal decorations—cornstalks, pumpkins, pots of yellow and magenta chrysanthemums—were tastefully displayed across the porch and up the wooden steps of the entrance, adding more color and a cozy ambience.
“Obviously it’s a popular place,” she said, looking around at all the filled tables.
“I believe it’s been under new ownership for a while now, but it seems the proprietors have kept the place pretty much the same. I used to live out this way,” he explained. “It’s always been one of my favorite places to eat.”
“Did your nephew Jonas live out this way too?”
“Oh, no. My sister’s family lived closer to town—until they moved to Indiana. Jonas just moved back to Sugarcreek recently.” He gave her a crooked smile. “And I’m sure your next question is, why is Jonas Amish and I’m not?”
“Well, I did give you a brief synopsis of my life when we were yanking out all of those nails together.” As they’d worked side by side, she’d told Daniel about the people most precious to her—about Karl and Amy, about her son-in-law and grandchildren. He’d listened and asked questions, seeming genuinely interested as he always managed to do.
“I suppose it’s my turn, then.”
She fussed with her napkin. “Only if you want to share, Daniel. It’s totally up to you.”
“For some reason, you make it easy for me to want to do that, Liz,” he answered softly, creating a warm sensation that coursed through her. She was pleased she could make him feel as comfortable with her as he made her feel with him.
“Although honestly it’s not that interesting of a story,” he continued. “Many people’s lives take a turn for one reason or another. Mine took a different course because I liked basketball.”
She had just started to pick up her glass of lemon water but stopped midcourse and set the glass back down. “Did you say basketball?” She crinkled her nose.
“Yes, and I understand how hard that might be to believe.” He laughed. “But trust me, at one time this old body really was lean and mean.”
“Oh, no, it’s not that. To my way of thinking, you seem to keep yourself in very good shape. I mean your arms are so strong looking and your shoulders are broad and—” She stopped, biting back more compliments. Daniel had a way of making her feel she could say anything to him. Yet it’d been a long time since she’d complimented a man. She wasn’t sure what sounded forward and what didn’t. “But, uh, basketball, huh? That takes me by surprise.”
“Jah, well,” he said, falling into the Amish vernacular as she’d noticed he did from time to time, “it surprised my family, too. But I liked basketball so much that when the other Amish kids left school after eighth grade, I opted to continue on to high school. My dream was to play on the varsity team.” He grinned. “Which I did.”
“That’s remarkable,” she replied and was about to say more when the waitress appeared with their food.
“Ma’am, you ordered the pork loin and sweet potato casserole?”
“I did.” Liz nodded as the young girl set down the plate.
“And, sir, medium rare steak with red potatoes and asparagus?”
“That’s me.” Daniel also nodded, and as the waitress walked away, he bowed his head in silent grace. Liz paused and followed suit before urging him back to his story.
“So, as you were saying . . . you were playing basketball and—?”
“Enjoying it very much.” He cut into his steak. “But then the closer it came to graduation, when everyone assumed that I’d had my fill and would want to be baptized Amish and go back to the farm, a few teachers had already planted another idea in my head.”
Liz looked up from her plate. “College?”
He took a sip of water. “Uh-huh.”
“You must’ve been a good student for them to care so much.”
He shrugged modestly. “I enjoyed learning and I suppose they saw that in me. They paved a path for me that I could’ve never accomplished on my own. Helped me sign up for the ACT. Took me through the student loan process. Everything. I wasn’t good enough to play college basketball, and I knew it. But I had a new dream by then. I wanted to be an engineer.”
“That makes sense,” she commented, completely caught up in his story. “You seem to like discovering solutions for problems. Fixing things and making them work. Like my awful old ceiling.” She smiled. “Did you go on to college?”
“I did. I enjoyed it too. Well, until my father had a breakdown.”
“And your mother needed your help?” Liz guessed.
“Actually my mom had already left us when I was in high school.”
“Oh, my goodness, Daniel. I’m sorry to hear that.”
“I don’t know if it was my stepping outside of what was expected that led my mom to do the same thing or not.” He shook his head and she could see how his mother’s change of heart still puzzled him. “I never knew that she desired a life other than the one she had with us, but I suppose she did. Apparently enough not to care that she’d be shunned when she turned her back on the Amish faith and left the community and her family. I’ve never seen her since.”
“That’s so sad, Daniel.” She looked into his eyes, wondering how he’d managed to get through such a thing and still have such a caring heart.
“Well, what can one do except ask for God’s help? Not every Amish family is the picture of perfection, ya know?”
“I’d say very few families are the picture of perfection, period,” she said. Though she and Karl had rarely fought, she’d never forget how uncomfortable it was growing up with parents who squabbled day and night about nothing. She and Karl had promised each other that their daughter wouldn’t grow up in that kind of atmosphere. “So then you left college?”
He gave a slow nod. “I’d hoped it would only be for a few semesters and then Dad would be back on his feet. But he was a lost man at that point and heartbroken. He’d started numbing himself with painkillers when my mom left, and when I moved home promised he’d stop. But that never happened. He only got worse. One day he had the tractor out and had a horrible, fatal accident. When he passed, I had two much-younger sisters to take care of.”
“How old were you?”
“Twenty or thereabouts. My relatives helped us out some, and neighbors too, of course,” he explained with a satisfied smile. “Anyway, I sold the farm since it wasn’t something I’d ever been good at. Like I said, I was much better at fixing things and building things like benches and tables. I got a job with a furniture maker and worked there for many years until my sisters were grown and married.”
“And how about you? Did you ever marry?”
He glanced down at his plate and poked at his potatoes. “Nee. I was engaged once when I was young. But even though she wouldn’t say it, I knew she really didn’t want to take on the responsibility of
helping me raise my sisters. So I broke things off with her.” He paused for a deep breath. “By the time my sisters were leaving home to marry, I was early thirties and, I don’t know, it seemed everyone my age had already gotten on with their lives. So I concentrated on work instead.”
“Do you have any regrets?”
“Yeah.” He leaned back in his chair and grinned. “I regret that I’ve been talking a blue streak. Though somehow I’ve managed to down my steak in the process.” He pushed back his plate.
“It’s my fault. I kept asking questions.” She laughed. “You know, I read a good Amish quote about regrets. It went something like, ‘A man is never old until his regrets outnumber his dreams.’”
“That’s a good one.” He nodded. “Where do you come up with all of these Amish proverbs, Miss Englischer?”
She didn’t mind his teasing at all. In fact, she could feel her eyes light up at the banter with him. “Around here you don’t have to be Amish to be familiar with Amish proverbs.”
“You’re talking to the right person about that.” He laughed, seeming to appreciate their exchange as much as she did. “Since you seem to like them so much, I have a quote for you.”
“Oh, yeah?” She sat up straight to listen. “I’m ready.”
He cleared his throat and his voice took on a more serious tone. “‘Regrets over yesterday and fear of tomorrow are twin thieves that rob us of today.’”
“Ahh . . . that’s a good one too.”
“It is. I thought of it because, well, I hope you don’t mind me saying it, but I’m liking this day—or rather this evening. Actually, I like any time I spend with you. In your company. I guess what I mean is, I like you, Liz.”
She could feel her cheeks heat with surprise at his words. She laid down her fork, suddenly unable to eat one more bite. “And I—I enjoy your company too, Daniel,” she replied more breathlessly than she’d intended.
Luckily their waitress arrived at the table that instant and interrupted the moment. “How was everything this evening? All right?”
The Sisters of Sugarcreek Page 20
