Margaret leaned sideways and advised over her shoulder, “We’ll have another passenger, too—your neighbor, Mr. Roper—so let’s leave room for him. Children, climb into the rear seat, please.”
Adrianna and Parker moved to obey, but Bekah shot Amy a panicked look. Amy gave her daughter an assuring pat on the shoulder. Bekah had come home yesterday with very sore feelings. Although Amy regretted the hurt her daughter had experienced, she couldn’t deny relief that the decision to sever the children’s time with Mr. Roper had been taken out of her hands. She disliked being the bad guy. She whispered, “It’ll be fine. Just a short ride—thirty minutes.”
Tears shimmered in Bekah’s eyes. “Can’t I stay here, Mom? Please?”
Amy hesitated. At thirteen, Bekah was old enough and responsible enough to be left alone, but motherly protectiveness rose up anyway. “Are you sure, honey? We’ll be gone most of the day. You won’t get lonely?”
“I can work on my dress, and I have a book to read. I’ll be fine. Please?” Bekah’s voice dropped to a raspy whisper. “I don’t want to see him. Not yet.”
Amy sighed and gave Bekah a quick hug. “All right. But stay in the house and keep the doors locked. I’ll call from a pay phone in town to check on you. You have the numbers for the fellowship members by the telephone if you need something.”
Bekah’s arms tightened around Amy’s neck, almost a stranglehold. “Thanks, Mom.” She darted back to the house.
Amy peeked to make sure both Parker and Adrianna were settled in the rear seat, then gave the sliding door a pull. She trotted around the hood and opened the front passenger door. As she started to climb in, she glanced at the middle seat. “Should I take the back and let Mr. Roper sit up here, do you think?”
Margaret laughed, her double chin wobbling slightly. “I think I’d rather have you to talk to. Besides, there’s plenty of leg room in that middle seat. He’ll be fine. Fasten your seatbelt and let’s go.” She pulled out of Amy’s lane onto the highway.
A gaping hole in the van’s dash showed where the radio used to be. The van had air-conditioning, but Margaret left it off. The front windows were lowered several inches, allowing in the morning breeze which, thankfully, hadn’t turned hot yet. Way in the north, a few puffs of white interrupted the pale blue expanse of sky. Amy pointed. “Do you think we might get some rain?”
Margaret squinted toward the clouds. “They don’t look very promising yet, do they? But we can pray they build during the day. I don’t think anyone would complain about a rainshower.”
Amy nodded in agreement, then turned her attention to Mr. Roper’s trees as they drove past the orchard. Parker had mentioned that the man’s grapevines had withered too much to produce this year, but the trees looked full and green. Apparently his every-day sprinkling was keeping the trees adequately nourished. Dots of yellow, red, and pale green peeking from the leaves offered the assurance of a good apple crop. Amy winged a quick, silent prayer heavenward that the apple crop would be abundant enough to cover the loss of the grapes.
Margaret turned into Mr. Roper’s lane. He sat on his porch, his long legs stretched over the single riser and feet planted wide on the ground. He pressed his palms to his knees and rose as the van approached and ambled to meet them. Amy’s chest pinched a bit when he peered through the front window at her and seemed to flinch, his steps slowing. But then he trotted the remaining distance and opened the sliding door.
“Thank you for the ride,” he said the moment he closed the door behind him. He shoved a ten-dollar bill through the gap between the front seats. “This is to help pay for gasoline.”
Margaret sniffed, lifting her chin. “You put that right back in your pocket, Mr. Roper. I was going to Topeka anyway. Having an extra person in the van doesn’t cost a bit more than going by myself.”
His hand remained between the seat, the bill rippling a bit in the breeze whisking through the open windows. “Are you sure?”
“I’m sure.”
“Well . . . thank you, then.”
Margaret put the van in reverse and backed up. Amy watched Mr. Roper’s hand slowly withdraw. She sensed it bothered him to accept the ride without paying for it. Male pride—never wanting to take without giving in return. But Mr. Roper had to know fellowship members looked out for one another and for their neighbors. He might not be Mennonite any longer, but he still followed the Mennonite practice of helping his neighbors. She’d been the recipient of his assistance many times.
They headed up the lightly traveled Highway 31, their ears filled with the howl of the wind coursing through the windows. Oddly, the children didn’t jabber at Mr. Roper. They’d witnessed Bekah’s upset, and they were probably feeling unsure of him now. The thought saddened Amy when she remembered Parker calling the man his best friend. How quickly things had changed.
Margaret eased onto Highway 50. The four-lane road, although far from crowded, seemed very busy when compared to the typical traffic that went past Amy’s house. But the main thoroughfare would bring customers to Mr. Roper’s orchard, and hopefully to her business, as well. When she’d checked her email at the library, she’d been thrilled to find three inquiries about her services.
Turning in the seat, she sent a shy smile to the silent man in the middle. “Mr. Roper, I want to thank you again for helping me get my Web site and email set up. It is already bringing customers to me.”
The wind ruffled the short-cropped hair on his forehead, showing the line of white where the sun hadn’t touched. He sat with his legs spread wide, his open palms resting on his thighs. Although he didn’t smile, he offered a nod. “I’m glad it’s helping.” He turned to look out the window.
Feeling rebuffed, Amy started to turn forward, but Parker called out, capturing her attention.
“Mom, what time will Grandpa get here Monday?”
Margaret sent Amy an interested look. “Your father is coming for a visit?”
Amy nodded. She answered Parker. “He thought around ten thirty.” Her pulse immediately increased its tempo as she thought about the visit and the conflict it might bring to her door.
“Will he eat lunch with us?” Parker’s voice rose, holding a hint of excitement.
“I’m not sure, honey. Remember, he isn’t coming by himself. But if he stays, we’ll have to fix something special, won’t we?” Amy settled into the seat and looked at Margaret. “It will be a short visit—maybe only an hour or so. And it’s . . . it’s really more for business than pleasure.” She didn’t know how much to say. The fellowship members didn’t know the whole truth of Amy’s change of communities, and she wasn’t sure she wanted them to know. Yet she desired to have someone praying for God’s favor. Lord, should I trust these people? Will they support me, or turn away in revulsion?
Margaret kept her eyes on the road. “Concerning your quilting business?”
Amy nearly chuckled. She should have known Margaret would ask questions. “No, not really.” Although the outcome might very well affect her quilting business. If the insurance agent determined Gabe’s death hadn’t been an accident, would they demand back the money the elevator owners had given her to compensate for her loss? If so, she wouldn’t be able to keep her quilting machine. Or her new house. Her heart pounded hard and painfully beneath the modesty cape of her dress. “It has to do with my husband. And how he died.”
Margaret’s lips pursed into a sympathetic pout. “You said he died in an accident?”
Before answering, Amy whisked a quick glance into the rear seats. Parker and Adrianna had their heads together, talking quietly. Mr. Roper’s eyes were closed, his head back. His Adam’s apple bounced in a swallow, but he appeared to be asleep. With a soft sigh, Amy turned to Margaret.
“Yes. He was on top of a grain elevator, checking a clogged grain spout, and he”—she gulped, heat rising from her middle to sear her chest—“fell. He was killed instantly.”
“Oh, Amy . . .” Margaret released the steering wheel long enough to give Amy�
�s hand a quick squeeze. “What a shock for you.”
Despite the passage of years, the shock hadn’t left. It would never leave until she knew the truth about his tumble from the top of that elevator. Was it really a fall that stole him from her, or had he jumped to his death? Pain writhed through Amy’s belly.
“Leaving you with three children, and one of them handicapped. Such a burden . . .” Margaret clicked her tongue on her teeth.
Amy swallowed. She didn’t see her children—not even Parker, with his challenges—as a burden, but she chose not to refute Margaret’s comment. Being widowed was a burden. Carrying this horrible uncertainty was a greater burden.
Suddenly Margaret sent a low-browed look at Amy. “Was Parker born disabled?”
Although the woman had broached another painful subject, Amy decided it wouldn’t hurt for the fellowship members to know Parker’s history. “He was as normal as any other little boy until he was four years old. One day, he was riding on a tractor with his father, and a tire blew. The tractor jerked, and Parker was bounced off. He hit his head.”
Memories from that awful day crashed over Amy. In the back of her tongue, she could still taste the strong antiseptic that permeated the hospital’s halls. “For three days, he lay in a coma, and we didn’t know if he’d live. But we prayed unceasingly, and the swelling went down in his brain. God roused him from the coma, so we were able to bring him home again. But, of course, he wasn’t the same little boy anymore.” And Gabe, riddled with guilt, was never the same man.
Margaret shook her head. “My, Amy, you have suffered many trials. Yet you’ve maintained your faith and you stand strong, a testimony to God’s hand on your life. You must make your heavenly Father very proud.”
Tears stung behind Amy’s nose. She offered Margaret a wobbly smile of thanks.
They fell silent then, Amy unwilling to continue to speak over the wind noise. A sign indicating the Topeka turnoff appeared on the right, and Margaret angled the wheel to follow the exit ramp. She called, “Mr. Roper, would you please tell me how to find the auto repair shop?”
The man roused, tipping forward to rest his elbows on his knees. He gave instructions, and minutes later Margaret pulled into the parking lot of Cecil’s Auto Repair Shop. Mr. Roper’s familiar pickup truck sat at the edge of the lot. Mr. Roper thanked Margaret for the ride, then climbed out without offering a good-bye to the children or to Amy. She watched him amble toward the cement-block building, an ache in her throat. But she couldn’t define its cause.
Tim paused with his hand on the doorknob and watched the white van pull out of the parking lot. His chest felt tight—as if his lungs had grown too stiff to draw a breath. Bits and snatches of the women’s conversation rolled around in his brain, one comment rising above the others. “My, Amy, you have suffered many trials. Yet you’ve maintained your faith and stand strong, a testimony to God’s hand on your life. You must make your heavenly Father very proud.”
Why did the older woman’s statement bother him so much? Maybe because Tim had spent the last two decades disappointing the heavenly Father to whom he’d entrusted his life when he was not quite twelve years old. He’d probably never hear the words for which every good Mennonite longed—“Well done, thou good and faithful servant. . . .” The realization stung a lot more than he wanted to admit.
Giving the doorknob a twist, he pushed open the heavy metal door and stepped into the shop’s cool, messy office. Sniffing against the onslaught of grease and gasoline, he paid his bill, listening as the mechanic explained everything they’d done to get his truck in working order.
“Still got some dents in the fender, but it’ll take a body repairman to fix that,” the man finished.
Tim shrugged. “Not a problem. Dents in the fender won’t keep it from running.”
“S’pose that’s true,” the mechanic said with a smile, “but I betcha that was one pretty truck in its day. Like everything, though, time takes its toll.”
Tim nodded absently. He took his truck keys from the man’s hand and clomped across the lot to his waiting vehicle. He paused for a moment, his gaze roving across the old truck, recalling the day he drove it off the showroom lot. Such pride had filled him then at the sleek blue paint and abundance of silver chrome. Years of sitting in the sun had faded the once bright blue to a dingy gray. Some of the chrome strips had fallen off. Other pieces were bent or tarnished. Another Scripture tiptoed through his mind, offering gentle admonishment. “Lay not up for yourselves treasures upon earth, where moth and rust doth corrupt . . .” He climbed into the truck and slammed the door.
Although work waited at home, he took advantage of his visit to the larger city to shop at the grocery store. He stocked up on paper products, including the biggest bag of paper plates he could find. Since Bekah wouldn’t be doing the dishes anymore, he might as well simplify his life a bit. He roved the aisles, aware of the muffled thump of his bootheels against the tiled floor, the sound out of place with the squeak of tennis shoes and flap-flap of rubber-soled flip-flops worn by most of the other shoppers.
Funny . . . As a boy he’d always felt like he stuck out in his homemade clothes, trailing his white-capped mother. Now here he was dressed in store-bought Levi’s and a pocketed T-shirt—typical farmer’s attire—feeling the same way. Like a misfit. What would it take for him to feel as though he belonged somewhere?
His cart stacked high with flat cases of canned soup, boxed mac-and-cheese, cereal, and frozen pizzas, he squeaked to the checkout and loaded everything on the conveyor belt. The cashier—maybe twenty-five years old with streaked blond hair lying in flattened locks across her shoulders and an abundance of makeup accentuating her dark eyes and high cheekbones—flirted with him while she scanned the items, calling him “Cowboy” and hinting that he could benefit from a good home-cooked meal. Tim imagined most men would be flattered by that kind of attention, but it left him feeling as though bugs crawled under his skin.
He flicked his debit card through the scanner, wincing at the amount owed, and scooted out of the store as quickly as possible. Out in the parking lot, a gust of wind roared around the building and tried to lift the bag of paper plates from the cart’s belly. Tim clamped his hand over the bag and looked skyward. His heart gave a leap of hope. Clouds—thick and billowing, with gray underbellies—formed a wall in the north. Rain?
Another blast of wind, hot yet heavy with moisture, propelled him forward. He thumped the cases of canned goods into the truck’s bed and piled everything else on the passenger side of the cab. That wind was liable to lift anything lighter than ten pounds and send it sailing. Eager to be back in Weaverly before the storm hit, he pushed the empty cart into a nearby corral, then climbed behind the steering wheel and set off for home.
When he reached the highway, he snapped on his radio, hoping for a weather report. Static crackled, making his ears hurt, but he kept it on. He sat through two country tunes and a few lame jokes offered by an announcer before he heard, “And now, let’s get our latest weather news. . . .”
Tim cranked up the volume and tipped his head, straining to hear over the whine of the wind through a crack in the windshield. “Folks, what we’re looking at is a hot, extremely humid and highly unstable air mass with dew points exceeding eighty degrees, joining up with a cold front traveling from the Midwest.” The announcer’s voice held a bright tone that contradicted the grim report. “Strange as we might find it, considering it’s summertime rather than spring, this kind of activity can develop tornadoes. That’s right, tornadoes in July! Right now we’re saying we’re at moderate risk for severe weather, but stay posted. We’ll update you as things change. And now, let’s go to sports . . .”
Tim snapped off the radio. Rain they needed. But tornadoes? No thanks! He looked at the sky again. The clouds that had given him such a lift a few minutes ago now appeared ominous. He gritted his teeth, battling the urge to petition the heavens for protection. But why bother? The Father he’d ignored for the past u
mpteen years had no reason to listen to anything he’d say now.
Besides, surely the Mennonites were already praying the tornadoes away. For one brief second, he experienced a strong desire to join them.
27
Bekah hunched over Mom’s machine, guiding fabric beneath the rapidly undulating needle. A neat seam emerged, binding the skirt to the bodice. Amazing how much she could get done with no one around to bother her. She’d only cut out the pieces for her new dress last night, and already she was more than halfway finished sewing the pieces together. By the time Mom and the kids got back from Topeka, she might be ready to try it on so Mom could pin the hem.
She finished sewing the seam and snipped the threads with the scissors. Laying the pieces aside, she reached for a sleeve, and the telephone rang. She rolled her eyes. Probably Mom, checking in. As if Bekah was a baby who couldn’t take care of herself.
Bekah trotted to the telephone and lifted the receiver. “Hello?”
“Hi, honey. It’s Mom. How are you?”
Bekah fiddled with the phone’s cord, itching to return to her project. “Fine. I’ve been sewing.”
“What’s the weather like there?”
Bekah’d been inside all morning, just as Mom had instructed. How should she know what was going on outside? “Fine, I guess. I haven’t been out.”
The line crackled a little bit, but Mom’s voice came through. “The sky’s pretty dark in the north. Mrs. Gerber thinks a storm might be coming. Just to be safe, why don’t you go out and open the cellar doors so it’s ready for us in case we need it.”
Bekah’s heart started to pound. You didn’t go into the cellar just for a rainstorm. She clutched the telephone receiver two-handed. “She thinks there might be a tornado?” She looked out the window, noticing for the first time a murky gray tinged with an ugly shade of green in place of the usual blue sky. Her hands shook, and she gripped the phone tighter.
When Hope Blossoms Page 21
