by Sarah Price
ALSO BY SARAH PRICE
THE AMISH CLASSIC SERIES
First Impressions (Realms)
The Matchmaker (Realms)
THE AMISH OF LANCASTER SERIES
Fields of Corn
Hills of Wheat
Pastures of Faith
Valley of Hope
THE PLAIN FAME TRILOGY
Plain Fame
Plain Change
Plain Again
OTHER AMISH FICTION BOOKS
An Amish Buggy Ride (Waterfall Press)
An Amish Christmas Carol
Amish Circle Letters
Amish Circle Letters II
A Christmas Gift for Rebecca
Priscilla’s Story
For a complete listing of books, please visit the author’s website at www.sarahpriceauthor.com.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Text copyright © 2015 Sarah Price
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Published by Waterfall Press, Grand Haven, MI
www.brilliancepublishing.com
Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Waterfall Press are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.
ISBN-13: 9781477824856
ISBN-10: 1477824855
Cover design by Kerri Resnick
Library of Congress Control Number: 2014955037
To all the people impacted by the hardship of depression, whether it is consuming a friend, a family member, or even you. For those who are personally affected, may the black cloud lift and the glory of God shine down on you.
S. P.
CONTENTS
START READING
ABOUT THE VOCABULARY
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
EPILOGUE
GLOSSARY OF PENNSYLVANIA DUTCH
ONE MORE THING…
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
I have shewed you all things, how that so labouring ye ought to support the weak, and to remember the words of the Lord Jesus, how he said, It is more blessed to give than to receive.
—Acts 20:35 (King James Version)
ABOUT THE VOCABULARY
The Amish speak Pennsylvania Dutch (also called Amish German or Amish Dutch). This is a verbal language with variations in spelling among communities throughout the United States. For example, in some regions, a grandfather is grossdaadi while in other regions he is known as grossdawdi. Some dialects refer to the mother as maem and others simply as mother or mammi.
In addition, there are words and expressions, such as mayhaps, or the use of the word then at the end of sentences, and, my favorite, for sure and certain, that are not necessarily from the Pennsylvania Dutch language/dialect but are unique to the Amish.
The use of these words comes from my own experience living among the Amish in Lancaster County, Pennsylvania.
PROLOGUE
Rosanna sighed and leaned against the white pillar holding up the sagging roof of her wraparound porch. She felt as weary as the house and porch looked—both of which were in desperate need of fresh paint. The fence also needed to be painted and fixed—the horse kept wandering into the mules’ paddock. Given that it was already autumn, she knew Timothy wouldn’t get to any of the repairs this year. She was as resigned to this as she was to the fact that she lived in a loveless marriage.
Staring at the two-story red barn across the driveway, Rosanna watched as the sun rose behind it, the sky slowly transforming from dark blues to hues of red and orange. She heard the dogs bark from their kennel. A stray cat ran around the back corner of the barn, the likely cause of the interest from the dogs. It disappeared down the driveway in the direction of the road.
Unlike most Amish farms, their property was long and rectangular, the driveway cutting the land almost in half. The fields were closer to the road, while the house and outbuildings were tucked far in the back. The horse and buggy had to travel down the long driveway, which cut through the middle of two crop fields, in order to get to the house and barn. Bordering the back of the property were the paddocks for the horse, mules, and cows, facing south, and the family’s garden behind the house. On the western side, another road ran behind the fields and barn.
It was a strange layout for a farm, and Rosanna wasn’t particularly fond of the garden’s location. She felt it was too close to the main entrance of the house. As a result, every time she hung laundry or helped with morning chores, she was constantly passing it and reminded of how much work she had to do: tilling, planting, weeding, harvesting. At least now with the growing season behind her, she only needed to spread manure to prepare the dirt for next spring.
The barn, however, gave her some comfort. The gray river stones used for the foundation dated back to the mid-1700s, according to her husband. It was a pretty building, and with the red paint and white trim, it stood out as a landmark for anyone traveling past it on the back road. Unlike the rest of the property, the barn was in perfect shape; there was not one warped board of siding nor one shingle in need of replacement.
That’s Timothy, she thought emotionlessly.
Because the large red barn could be seen from the road, her husband kept it in immaculate repair. The windows were washed on a weekly basis, and no excuses for even one cobweb were accepted, harsh winters or illness included. Timothy was fastidious when it came to appearances. No one was going to talk about his family or his farm—at least not the people who mattered. In Timothy’s mind, the people who mattered meant everyone in the g’may . . . everyone except her.
Rosanna knew better than to complain to anyone about the truth. Her mother had always told her not to hang dirty laundry where other people could see it. The metaphor wasn’t lost on Rosanna. She knew that if she talked to one of the preachers, Timothy’s reaction would be worse than anything she’d already faced. She knew that he’d never change, so what was the point in confiding in anyone? Amish women didn’t get divorced. They just worked alongside their husbands and learned to keep a stiff upper lip even when sorrow dominated their lives.
“Rosanna!”
Hearing his voice call her name was jarring. While she shouldn’t have been surprised that he was up, she had to dig deep to find the strength to face him. She dreaded returning to the kitchen and navigating the chaos of life, a life that felt increasingly out of control and overly demanding to Rosanna. The calm before the storm, she thought, was over. Every morning she rose early to find some time to reflect and pray—and be alone without Timothy’s presence hovering nearby.
It was still early morning, and that meant only one thing: the day was ahead of her, and like all of her days, it was going to be a long one. If she were lucky, Timothy would need to leave the farm to work with the Englische.
“Rosanna!” He flung open the door, the upper hinge squeaking.
Just one more thing to fix, she thought.
“Are you deaf?”
His voice shot through her, his harsh words cutting and mean. He was in a mood; she could tell that without even turning around to greet him. Taking a deep breath, she willed herself to remain calm. It was a method of coping that she had taught herself years ago. Deep breath in, hold it, exhale slowly. For some reason, it helped.
“Was just enjoying the sunrise,” she answered, careful to avoid speaking with an edge to her voice.
One look at her husband, and she knew that the morning wasn’t going to start well, despite the fact that he was dressed and ready to begin his day. As always, his clean white shirt was wrinkle free, and his trousers bore not a single spot to indicate they were his work pants. No, his clothing indicated nothing was amiss in the Zook household. After all, appearances mattered to him. It was only on the inside that the secret of his shame was apparent. Freshly laundered clothing couldn’t hide the real problem: it was written all over his face, even if she was the only one who recognized it.
Last night, as she did on most nights, she had retired early, putting the children to bed before retreating to the bedroom that she and Timothy shared. She read by her lantern light for a while, preferring the soft flickering of the kerosene lamp to the harsh brightness of the battery-operated lights that more and more Amish families were now using. The gentle shadows that danced on the pale-blue walls helped her relax, and after reading two pages of her devotional, she set the book on her nightstand and blew out the lantern’s flame.
She awoke alone.
Again.
She stole quietly into the kitchen, suspecting that she would find Timothy there, still in his clothes and fast asleep. Before she struck a match to light the propane lantern over the kitchen table, she looked at the large sunroom that opened to the kitchen. Sure enough, she saw his form sprawled out on the sofa along the back wall. He was still wearing his work clothes from the previous day, and Rosanna suspected he wouldn’t change. Again.
She found him there most mornings. It was a routine that was becoming increasingly difficult to live with. She knew divorce was not an option, but she secretly thought about it from time to time.
Now was one of those times.
“There’s no coffee brewing!” Timothy said, running his hand through his uneven dark hair. He had insisted she cut it last weekend, even though he had refused to sharpen the scissors. Luckily, he hadn’t noticed—or simply didn’t care—that the haircut was lopsided and his bangs were cut on a diagonal. He stood in the doorway, holding it open with his arm as he glared at her. “Is it too much to ask for coffee when I wake up?”
Rosanna dipped her head in silent acquiescence as she hurried past him. “I’m sorry,” she said quietly.
“And don’t burn it today,” he grumbled. “If that’s at all possible.”
The criticism would have stung if she weren’t so used to it. She had heard the complaints a hundred times: she couldn’t cook, she couldn’t sew, she couldn’t even make a good cup of coffee. The list of her flaws seemed endless when Timothy began criticizing her.
She wished she could lash out at him and point out that his constant criticism and belittling of her was driving a huge wedge between them. And it was affecting the children, too. They were beginning to see what was happening, especially Aaron, who had just turned thirteen.
It was a given that Timothy favored Aaron over Cate. After all, he hadn’t wanted a little girl. He’d wanted a farm full of boys. When Cate arrived, his reaction had been astonishing: “I didn’t know I was capable of making girl babies.” And then he’d left Rosanna’s bedside, never even pausing to hold his newborn daughter.
At nine years of age, Cate seemed immune to her father’s constant rejection. She preferred being with Rosanna anyway. Whether Cate was clinging to Rosanna’s dress or sitting on her lap, she didn’t seem to notice that her father paid no attention to her. However, every time Rosanna heard Timothy reference their daughter as “it” or “that thing,” it felt like a knife into her heart.
Initially, Aaron had been oblivious to the disparity in their treatment and to his father’s behavior. He delighted in Timothy’s attention. But more and more, Aaron was noticing his father’s erratic behavior in the evenings as well as his extreme grouchiness in the mornings. Coupled with his puffy face and bloodshot eyes, there was no denying the fact that Timothy Zook had a problem, even if he felt that it was under control.
“Moderation,” he had told Rosanna one day. “Even Jesus drank wine.” He had tried to make light of the situation. “Everything in moderation. It’s fine.”
But it wasn’t fine. Not by a long stretch of the imagination.
As she stood at the stove, turning on the gas so that she could heat the water for his coffee, she realized that moderation was something Timothy might preach but demonstrated no ability to practice. And she wasn’t certain how much more of his “moderation” she could take.
Timothy was seated at the head of the table drinking his cup of coffee when Aaron bounded down the stairs. At thirteen their son was the spitting image of his father. His curly brown hair flopped over his greenish-blue eyes, and he brushed it aside as he stumbled over the last step.
“Easy there, Aaron,” Timothy said, his voice tense. “Where’s the fire anyway?”
“Thought I was late for chores!” Aaron grinned at his mother as he took his place at the table, sliding onto the bench and reaching for the glass of water by his plate. “Reckon not if you aren’t angry.”
Rosanna glanced at the clock. It was almost seven. The cows should have been milked much earlier. They needed to be milked on a regular schedule. Otherwise they produced less milk, and there was the risk that the older ones might turn sour. Rosanna didn’t like it when Timothy overslept and got a late start on his chores. These days, it was happening more and more frequently.
Noticing her glance at the clock, Timothy frowned. “What difference does an hour or two make, Rosanna?” He shook his head and looked at Aaron, giving his son a wink. “Women don’t know anything about livestock anyway. Tending livestock is a man’s job, ain’t so?”
Rosanna clenched her jaw tight, but did not respond. While on the surface his words seemed innocent enough, she knew from the cutting tone that he was putting her down. He believed that women should only work in the house and claimed they were too weak to handle barn chores. It didn’t matter. She had enough on her mind without worrying about his sarcastic jabs at her. Her skin had thickened long ago. She just wished he would contain his ridicule so that the children wouldn’t be exposed to it.
“Whatcha doing today, Daed?” asked Aaron as he reached for the bowl of scrambled eggs Rosanna had made after brewing Timothy’s coffee.
“Well, Aaron, got some farm work to do today,” Timothy began, accepting the bowl from his son. As he took it, he reached out to tousle his son’s hair with his free hand. “Need to work in the back pasture while you’re at school. The hay’s been drying for three days now, and it’s ready to be baled.”
Aaron lit up at the attention. Rosanna watched, amazed how the moment that Aaron, “his” son, walked into the room, Timothy’s attitude completely changed. Gone were the criticism and reproach. He greeted his son with warmth and pride. But it shouldn’t have surprised her. He constantly reminded her that birthing Aaron was the only thing she had ever done right.
“Aw shucks,” the boy said, “I wanted to help. Couldn’t I stay home today? Just this once?” Aaron had a bad habit of skipping school, with Timothy’s permission, to do the farm work. With just one year left before he was finished with his education, Aaron continually pressured his parents to allow him to cut school.
To Rosanna’s relief, Timothy shook his head. “Nee, son. It’s the last haying of the season, and I can handle it. Besides, last I heard, you were having trouble with your numbers, ain’t so?”
Aaron hung his head in disappointment.
“Mayhaps if your maem would pay more attention to helping you with math, rather than visiting those sickly
widows, you’d learn faster.”
Stunned, Rosanna lifted her head and stared at him. Sickly widows? One was her aendi and the other was her own maem’s best friend. They weren’t just random strangers that she visited in the afternoons. They were extended family to her. Although she herself had seven siblings, none of them wanted to be around Timothy; they had long ago recognized that something was amiss in the marriage. For Rosanna, those “sickly widows” were the closest thing she had to relatives in the g’may, and she valued the time she spent with the two older women.
“And how about all of that applesauce you canned for charity last weekend?” Timothy said.
Now he was on a roll. Rosanna took a deep breath and braced herself for the impeding storm that brewed at the end of the kitchen table.
“Taking better care of others than your own son, who needs help with his schoolwork, ain’t so?”
Ashamed, Rosanna looked away, not wanting to see Aaron’s expression, aware that it would break her heart. She couldn’t tell what he felt, whether it was disgust at his father’s suggestion that she didn’t take care of her son or discomfort at his father’s insulting words. Did it matter? she wondered. Their son already knew that his parents had a dysfunctional marriage. Long ago, and despite the pain it caused her, she had stopped trying to shield him.
Her relationship with Timothy hadn’t always been this way. Not when they were courting. Timothy Zook had been the picture of a perfect Amish man. He spoke of spiritual things, he praised her for her goodness, and he never said an unkind word about her. His reputation among the g’may was well known, even if he was from a different church district. After a year of courting, it was only natural that she had said yes when he asked her to marry him. She had spent the next five weeks feeling like the most blessed woman in the world. She was twenty-two when they married.
