“Yes!” Adrianna crowed, and Bekah rolled her eyes, clearly embarrassed by her sister’s exuberance.
Tara pointed to a chalkboard near the front counter, which bore neatly written items. “Menu’s printed on the wall over there. Today’s special is BLT on toast with chips and a pickle—two ninety-five. Want me to bring you something to drink while you decide what you’re gonna eat?”
“We’d like iced water to drink,” Amy said, “and a hamburger and fries for each of us, please.”
“Want those burgers with everything? That’d be pickles, onions, ketchup, and mustard,” Tara said.
Adrianna made a face, earning another laugh from the young waitress and a round of snickers from the other table. Amy said, “Everything for all but Adrianna, who doesn’t care for onions.”
“I got it. Coming right up.” Tara spun and breezed around the corner into what Amy surmised must be the kitchen. As soon as she’d disappeared, the man seated at the end of the table tipped his chair back and fixed Amy with a steady gaze.
“Hey. Knackstedt, did you say?”
The children all looked to Amy to reply. Amy offered a nod. “That’s right.”
“I heard somebody named Knackstedt moved into the Sanford place. That you?” He peered at her from beneath the low-tugged brim of a battered cowboy-style hat. His gray eyebrows were so thick they seemed to give him a perpetual scowl, but his grin was friendly.
“Yes.”
“A farmer, are you?”
Before Amy could respond, the café door opened, and her neighbor, Tim Roper, stepped in. He glanced at the table of men, then at Amy.
Parker and Adrianna chorused, “Hi, Mr. Roper!”
Although she could hardly call the man a friend, Amy couldn’t deny the rush of relief that swept over her at the sight of a familiar face. Without thinking, she said, “How good to see you again.”
Mr. Roper yanked the billed cap from his head. “Good . . . good to see you, too.”
Adrianna wiggled out of her seat and held her hands toward the table. “Wanna sit with us, Mr. Roper? We got room.”
Laughter blasted from the table of men. The one who’d questioned Amy sent a teasing smirk in Mr. Roper’s direction. “Yeah, Tim, go ahead and join ’em. You’d fit right in with the Mennonites, seein’ as how you used to be one.”
The muscles in Mr. Roper’s jaw clenched, and something akin to anger—or was it desperation?—flashed in his eyes. “That was a long time ago, Ron.” He gave Adrianna a weak smile. “I can’t join you, but thanks for asking.” He stepped to the counter, turning his back on the other café patrons. Tara scurried out to take his order, and the men at the table went back to chatting with each other.
Adrianna tugged at Amy’s arm, demanding attention, but Amy couldn’t tear her eyes away from the tall man who leaned on the counter and spoke softly with the café’s waitress. His bitter comment echoed through her mind. “That was a long time ago.” He’d been Mennonite and had left the fellowship, and his tone intimated it hadn’t been an amicable parting.
“Momma?” Adrianna’s fretful voice carried over all the other café noise. “How come Mr. Roper won’t sit with us? Is it ’cause he’s not a Mennonite?”
Mr. Roper’s face blanched. He slapped his ball cap into place. “Forget the burger, Tara. I’ll just grab a sandwich when I get home.” He stormed out of the café. The moment the door slammed behind him, uneasy laughter rippled across the rectangular table. The one named Ron slapped the nearest man on the back and chortled, seemingly pleased with himself. But Amy found nothing amusing in Mr. Roper’s behavior. The man apparently carried a deep resentment toward Mennonites.
And he lives right next door.
6
Tim slammed the door of his truck, curled his hands over the steering wheel, and forced himself to calm before he started the ignition. That Ron. Tim snorted, shaking his head. The older rancher didn’t mean to be derogatory—he just liked to dig at folks. It wasn’t as if Ron hadn’t dug at Tim before.
Last July at the annual Fourth of July citywide celebration, Ron had jokingly told a young man who’d lost a back-alley boxing match he could regain his dignity by taking on Tim—since he’d been raised to be nonviolent, he wouldn’t lift a hand in defense and it’d be an easy victory. Tim had joined the others in laughter at the outrageous statement. And only three weeks ago, when Tim wore his cowboy hat to church, Ron had asked why he wasn’t wearing a black flat-brimmed hat instead. Teasing. Always teasing.
But this time he’d teased in the wrong company. Tim hadn’t wanted Mrs. Knackstedt or any of the other newcomers in town to know about his background. Folks in Weaverly wouldn’t even know he’d been raised Mennonite if Julia’s aunt and uncle hadn’t used his religious upbringing to assure the townspeople the homeless young man with the pack on his back wasn’t a threat to the community when he started working for them.
Shortly after his arrival in Weaverly, he’d gone to the county courthouse and legally changed his name from Rupp to Roper, intending to erase all vestiges of his former life. But how could a person completely erase the first half of his life when others knew it had existed and used it as a topic of jest? Now, thanks to Ron, Mrs. Knackstedt knew about Tim’s background. And she’d surely tell the other Mennonites who’d taken up residence in Weaverly. Would they all go on a mission to return him to the fold?
Tim stifled a groan. He needed to get home where he could work off some of this frustration. He reached to start the ignition, but before the motor revved to life, the café door opened and Ron ambled out, a paper bag in his hand. He trotted to the open driver’s window and jammed the bag in at Tim. “There ya go.”
The scent of hamburger and onion wafted from the bag. Although he was hungry, the aroma didn’t entice him the way it usually did. Tim set it on the vinyl seat beside him and reached for his wallet. “What do I owe you?”
“Nothin’. Call it a peace offering.” Ron propped his elbow on the windowsill and smirked at Tim. “You sore at me?”
Tim blew out a breath. “Nah.”
“You sure? You took off like somebody lit a fire under your feet. When a fella moves that fast, anger’s usually propelling him.”
“I’m not mad.” Although fury had initially coursed through his middle, Tim was more worried about the changes that might come into his life than truly angry. “I know how you like to rib a guy.”
Ron blasted a short, “Ha!” He waggled one bushy eyebrow. “Only do it to folks I know can take it.”
“I suppose you think that makes it a compliment, huh?”
The older man laughed loudly. Then he tipped his head toward the café, his expression turning serious. “Whaddaya think of having Mennonites moving in to Weaverly? Think it’ll be okay?”
“What do you mean?”
“Seems odd to me, is all. Them buyin’ up empty houses and a whole passel of land. They won’t, you know, try to take over the town or anything, will they?”
“They’ll probably keep pretty much to themselves—grow their crops, raise their families.” But why had they chosen Weaverly? Of all the farmland in Kansas, why had they come to the town where Tim had decided to settle? He continued in a deliberately light tone. “They’ll be friendly enough, but they won’t force themselves on you.” Although they might force themselves on Tim, seeing him as a wandering sheep.
Ron patted the truck door and stepped back. “Yeah. Guess you’re right. I mean, you’re Mennonite and you never tried to push your beliefs on anybody in town.” A sly grin crept up the man’s grizzled cheek. “Matter of fact, we seemed to have converted you pretty good, gettin’ you into the Community Church and all—when you come, that is.”
Weaverly folks hadn’t converted him. He’d made the decision to never again be Mennonite when he’d left his father’s house. “Yeah, I guess so. Thanks for the burger, Ron. I need to get back to the orchard. Crazy deer broke down a section of the west fence.” Which was probably how his little human visit
ors had crossed onto his land. He gestured to the roll of barbed wire in the truck’s bed. “I need to get it repaired before they do any more damage.” He meant both deer and roaming children.
“If you need extra hands, gimme a holler.”
Tim drew back in mock surprise. Ron enjoyed his retired status and frequently bragged about how he “didn’t do nothin’ and that suits me fine.” “You wanna help run wire?”
Ron waved both hands in the air as if fending off a swarm of bees. “Not me. My grandson Brandon is fifteen now, plenty big an’ needing a job. He’d be a dependable worker for you. He’s run wire fence at my ranch before.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” Tim said. “Bye now.” He started the truck and backed into the road, watchful for kids who were out of school and running free. He’d developed the habit of careful watching when Charlie was little. The boy’s poor hearing didn’t always warn him of moving vehicles. It didn’t seem to matter how much time passed, he still possessed the habit of caution. But he supposed he could have worse habits.
He rolled up his window and turned on the AC as he headed on the highway toward home. The chilled air hit him full in the face, reminding him of how many worldly habits he’d adopted over the years. Wouldn’t Dad scowl if he knew his son kept a cell phone strapped to his hip, hosted a Web site to bring in business instead of trusting God to meet his needs, and wore Levi Strauss britches and western-style shirts with ivory-faced snaps instead of work trousers and homemade button-up shirts? Dad wouldn’t approve any of those new habits. But mostly Dad would frown about the habits Tim had deserted—reading his Bible, praying, attending every church service instead of only when he wasn’t too tired. . . . Those things from his childhood and youth lay long abandoned.
Tim slapped the steering wheel, forcing his thoughts elsewhere. Hadn’t he left his home so he wouldn’t have to worry about pleasing his impossible-to-please father? So why think about him now? Because that woman moved in next door and reminded him, that’s why. Well, a half mile separated them. So next door or not, he wouldn’t have to see her. Or talk to her. Or anything else, for that matter. It wasn’t as if he needed to take care of widows and orphans.
The truck approached the Sanford house and Tim took his foot off the gas, letting the truck coast by. He’d long admired the century-old house with its gingerbread trim and sturdy corbels gracing the roof’s eaves. He’d even looked into buying it when the Sanfords put it up for sale two years ago, since it was right next door to his orchard. Nothing wrong with his little double-wide except for the ghosts hiding in every corner. A new house would’ve been a good way of starting over for him. But old man Sanford wouldn’t sell just the house—he wanted someone to buy both the house and the acreage. Tim couldn’t afford the entire property.
Now, looking the house over, he decided Mr. Sanford had done him a favor. The house had needed a paint job for several years already, and it looked like a few shingles had blown off. Mrs. Knackstedt didn’t have a man on the place to see to those needs. Who would take care of the painting and shingling and anything else that needed doing?
“Here you are fussing about widows and orphans again,” he groused aloud. Keep to yourself. You don’t get hurt that way.
He stomped the gas pedal, and the truck leaped forward. His orchard kept him plenty busy. Let those Mennonites take care of their own.
While Amy and her children ate their burgers, which were delicious, other townsfolk came and went. Although none of them spoke to the little family at the corner table, Amy sensed no animosity, only the mild fascination often associated with something new. She smiled in response to curious gazes and received several shy smiles in return. Apparently rebuffed by Mr. Roper’s quick departure, Adrianna focused on her food and didn’t attempt to engage anyone else in conversation.
They finished, and Amy paid for their lunch. She pressed two dollar bills into Tara’s hand for a tip, and the young woman rewarded her with a bright, silver-graced smile. “Thank you. You all have a good day, now.” Her gaze dropped to Adrianna, and she tweaked the little girl’s nose. “Betcha you and Trista’ll be good friends.”
Adrianna giggled, and Amy herded the children outside. The unseasonably hot sun—they’d seemed to dive from winter right into summer this year, skipping the pleasant days of spring entirely—felt unbearable after enjoying the air-conditioning. Amy sped her pace, eager to get out from under the blasting sun. No shade-providing trees lined the two scant blocks making up the business district, but several trees stood tall and proud on the library’s lawn. When they reached the sidewalk in front of the library, they all slowed, heaving sighs of relief.
Bekah tugged at the collar of her lightweight dress. “Ugh. It’s so hot. I wish we had a pond at our house so we could swim.” She cast a sidelong glance at her mother. “There’s a public swimming pool at the city park. It usually opens the first week of June, but they opened it early this year ’cause it’s been so hot already. The librarian told me.”
Amy opened the back car door and ushered Adrianna and Parker inside. She kept her voice light, even though an odd trepidation tiptoed through her middle. “Is that right?”
“Yes. And she said most of the kids in town hang out there during the afternoons. If we wanted to meet kids, that’d be the place to go.” Bekah slid into the passenger’s seat.
When Amy settled herself behind the steering wheel, Bekah spoke again. “It’d be nice to use the pool, but we’d look pretty silly in our long shorts and T-shirts when everyone else is wearing swimsuits.” She stared out the window at two children—a boy and girl—ambling side by side on the sidewalk, their flip-flops slapping the cracked concrete. Both had towels draped around their necks. The boy was bare-chested, wearing baggy, flowered swim trunks, and the girl wore a two-piece suit in shimmery lavender.
Adrianna bounced to the edge of her seat, throwing her arms over the back of the front seat. “How come we wear shorts and T-shirts ’stead of suits?”
“Swimsuits aren’t modest.” Bekah’s voice held a hit of sarcasm. “We have to be modest.” She pinched the cape of her dress and wiggled it. “That’s what this is all about.”
Adrianna crinkled her nose. “What’s modest?”
“What’s modest?” Parker echoed.
Amy started the engine. “We’ll discuss the definition at home.” She sent a firm glance in Bekah’s direction. “But for now let me say being modest is important because it’s pleasing to God, and we always need to try to please God before we please ourselves.”
“Oh.” Adrianna flopped into the backseat, apparently satisfied. Bekah turned her head to gaze out the side window. She didn’t say anything more, but Amy noted her daughter’s jaw was set in a stubborn angle. Shifting her focus to the road, Amy decided she’d have a talk with Bekah after the younger two went to bed that evening. Now that Bekah would be attending the public high school with more non-Mennonites than Mennonites, it was more important than ever for the girl to hold to the convictions of her faith. Amy’s heart would break if she lost Bekah to worldly temptations.
When they reached the house, Adrianna lumbered upstairs for her afternoon nap. Parker asked permission to play in the barn. After warning him to be careful, Amy gave approval. Then she looked at Bekah. “I’d like you to wash the curtains we brought and hang them on the line out back. When they’re dry, you can iron them and then put them on the rods.”
Bekah sighed, plopping the stack of books she’d checked out from the library on the corner of the kitchen counter. “Yes, Mom.” She scuffed toward the kitchen, where Amy had left the box of folded homemade panels. Amy watched her go, debating with herself about whether or not to sit Bekah down for a chat. Even though she expressed no open rebellion and moved to obey, her attitude smacked of defiance. By the time Bekah scooped up the box and stepped out the door to the back porch, where Amy had set up their sect-approved wringer washing machine, Amy decided to let the girl work off some of her frustration. They’d have their tal
k at bedtime, and she’d address Bekah’s attitude.
Opening the cabinet in her sewing room, she withdrew the basket of cut pieces for the three remembrance quilts, then put her machine to work. The afternoon flowed, the back door opening and closing as Bekah went in and out, a breeze drifting through the open windows carrying the sounds of wind in the trees and birdsong. Lost in her task, Amy was hardly aware of the hours slipping by until a small hand tapped her arm.
Amy stopped the machine and turned to pull Adrianna into a hug. The little girl, still drowsy, tumbled into her mother’s lap. Amy scooped her close, savoring the scent of Adrianna’s sleep-sweaty hair. The child nestled, and tears stung the back of Amy’s nose. She wished she could hold Bekah this way again. Children grew up too quickly.
Adrianna yawned, toying with the ribbon dangling from her mother’s cap. “I’m hungry. Can I have a snack?”
Amy glanced at the clock. Three forty—still plenty of time before supper. A snack wouldn’t ruin Adrianna’s appetite. “Sure.” She kissed her daughter’s head and set her aside. “Bekah’s probably outside. Go find her and tell her I said you could have a banana and some graham crackers.” Adrianna dashed for the back door. Amy called after her, “And get Parker from the barn.” He’d apparently lost himself in a make-believe world or had fallen asleep out there—Amy hadn’t heard a peep from him all afternoon. “He’d probably like a snack, too.”
“Okay, Momma.” The door slammed behind Adrianna.
Amy turned back to her project, taking a moment to examine the partially completed quilt top. She smiled, pleased by the progress made. If she continued at this pace, she would have the first quilt top all pieced by tomorrow evening. She pressed her foot to the pedal, ready to stitch the next row of patches together. Just as the needle penetrated the joined fabric squares, a frantic cry of “Momma!” sounded from outside. Nearly toppling her chair, Amy jumped from the machine and ran through the kitchen to the back porch.
When Hope Blossoms Page 5
