A Widow's Hope

by Vannetta Chapman

“There’s a lot here for one person to take care of. You probably should have hired help earlier. I hope I can rise to the challenge.”

  “I remember how you were with numbers in school.”

  “That was a long time ago.”

  He’d stuck his thumbs under his suspenders and walked to the door, but now he turned back toward her. “I did know about your father’s difficulties. I just wasn’t sure you’d want to leave Matthew.”

  “And I don’t, but my parents and my sisters...everyone is going to pitch in and help. That’s what family does, ya?”

  Instead of answering, Jacob fetched his hat from a hook on the wall and rammed it on his head. “If anyone calls, please write down a message.”

  “Oh, you’re leaving?”

  “Ya. I just said I was headed out.”

  “I thought you meant...to the fields or something.”

  “My bruder works the fields on this place. I work here in the workshop or out on jobs.”

  “So that’s where you’re going? To a job?”

  “One of the local builders has me putting in cabinets this week, in the new homes on the north side of town.”

  “Oh...”

  “Some weeks I work here in the workshop.”

  “I see.”

  “I prefer to work on the playhouses whenever it’s possible, but the cabinetry work—”

  “It pays the bills.”

  “Ya. That it does.” He looked out the office window.

  Hannah wondered if he was stalling, though she couldn’t imagine why. He seemed quite uncomfortable with her there and no doubt couldn’t wait to be gone.

  “I’ll just get to work on these receipts, then. Most current year first?”

  “I suppose.”

  “Okay...”

  “I guess I’ll see you this afternoon.”

  Hannah pushed her kapp strings back. “I planned to leave around four thirty.”

  “Weren’t you taking Matthew to therapy today?”

  “Nein, that’s tomorrow and, well...I thought we’d wait and see how much work there actually is for me to do, and whether it’s going to be a problem getting everything in order before your audit.”

  She wanted to say something more, to somehow put him at ease, but she had no idea how. Then she remembered the reason she was there.

  “The IRS letter, you still have it?”

  “Oh, ya. It’s in the top right drawer. I guess you need to look it over.”

  “And you’re sure you wouldn’t rather take this all to an accountant?”

  “I did go and see one, but the price they quoted was quite high.”

  “I’ll try, Jacob.”

  “Which is all I can ask. The letter seems pretty straightforward as far as what they want to see, which is why I need you.”

  “They don’t take boxes full of receipts?”

  “Apparently not.” He pulled his hat off, turned it round and round in his hands. “If there are any other supplies you need, there’s petty cash in the bottom drawer.”

  * * *

  Jacob left so abruptly that Hannah stood staring after him for a moment. She’d spent much of the night worrying about how she’d be able to work with him in such close proximity. Apparently that wouldn’t be a problem. He wouldn’t even be on the property. Hannah waited until she saw his buggy drive past the workshop and down the lane before returning inside to the small office.

  Though he’d apparently made an effort to clean the mess off the top of the desk, dust lay thick across its surface.

  A clean desktop is the sign of a cluttered desk drawer. The proverb popped into her mind unbidden. Walking around to the other side of the desk, she spied what she’d known was somewhere close by...a box stuffed with everything that had been on top of it.

  The window was smeared with dirt, and the floor hadn’t been swept in ages.

  He wasn’t paying her to clean the office. On the other hand, who could work in these conditions? Would the IRS agent want to receive books covered in dust and grime? Not to mention what this room would do to her clean apron.

  She tsked as she walked back through the main room in search of cleaning supplies. Finally she found them in a corner on the far side of the building—a broom, mop bucket, rags and even furniture polish. She carted it all back to the office and set to work.

  Two hours later the place was sparkling. Opening the window had allowed a fresh, clean breeze to blow through. The desk was made from a beautiful dark cherry wood, and it shone from the furniture polish she’d used. She ran her palm across the surface and wondered if Jacob had built it. The chair was a real hazard, so she walked back into the main room and found a stool that was at least sturdy.

  The box beside the desk held a tape dispenser, some pens, a stapler and rubber bands that had long ago aged to the point that they snapped when she tried to put one around a bundle of receipts. She dug through the supplies and found a box of pencils (though there was no sharpener that she could see), and a pad of paper.

  As she ate her lunch, she began making a list of supplies, then found the petty cash box and placed both next to her purse. She’d stop by the general store while Matthew was at therapy the next day.

  Finally she pulled the most recent bin over to the desk.

  An hour later she had a list of questions for Jacob.

  She couldn’t begin entering things in the ledger until she spoke with him, and apparently that wouldn’t be until the next morning. She could tape up receipts, but even the tape was yellowed and old, which left her quite a few hours to kill before she had to leave. Glancing around the small office, she decided one thing she could do was clear a bigger workspace.

  She walked into the main room of the workshop and snooped around until she found two empty boxes. Taking them back into the office, she cleared off the items on the shelves. Dusty canning jars filled with an odd variety of nails and screws and even buttons. A broken pipe. A spool of thread. Some very old Farmers’ Almanac editions dating back forty years.

  She couldn’t fathom why he was keeping most of the items, and she was tempted to scrape all of it into the trash bin. The basket by her desk wasn’t large enough. Plus, it wasn’t her place to decide what was and wasn’t trash.

  It was her place to put his financial records in order, and to do that she needed more space.

  It took a little pushing and grunting, but she’d managed to move the desk closer to the shelves.

  Now she’d be able to easily move between both, and she could also look out the window instead of having it at her back. She poured another mug of coffee from her thermos, snagged a cookie from the lunch her mother had packed and moved to the front porch. Sitting there she looked out over Jacob’s land.

  It was gut land. She could tell that, though she was only a farmer’s daughter, not a farmer herself. It looked well cared for, so Jacob’s brother must spend a fair amount of time working there. But the place that Jacob lived? She stared at it a minute before shaking her head in disbelief and going back into the office. There was no understanding the ways of men, especially confirmed bachelors.

  Having no way to put off the inevitable, she once again pulled over the most recent bin containing the previous year’s receipts and began pulling out scraps of paper. Perhaps she could stack them together by what appeared to be type—supplies, income notations, even hours spent on a job that were scribbled on a flyer about their annual school auction.

  The rest of the afternoon flew by and the list of questions grew and grew until they filled up two sheets of paper. She was surprised to look up and see the hands on the clock had passed four. She was thinking of gathering her things to leave when she heard the clatter of a buggy. She wasn’t too surprised when she glanced out the window and saw it was Jacob. Perhaps he had finished his day’s work early.

  She was
standing in the doorway looking around in satisfaction when he walked up behind her.

  * * *

  Jacob had been a little afraid he’d arrive home to find that Hannah had left. The last girl had put a note on the desk and told him he didn’t owe her for the morning’s work. She’d also suggested he hire an accountant. It seemed that Hannah was made of tougher stuff. Perhaps if she’d survived the first day, it meant that she’d see the project through to the end. It wasn’t so much that he wanted her around, but he was a man who could admit that he needed help. As far as accounting and the IRS went, Jacob needed all the help he could possibly find.

  He walked up behind Hannah. Her tiny frame blocked the doorway, but he could see over her head into the office. Something looked different, but he couldn’t put his finger on what it was.

  “Did you have a gut day?”

  “Ya.” She smiled back at him and stepped aside so he could see. “I think I accomplished a lot.”

  He stared at the office, or at least he thought it was his office, but it looked nothing like the room he’d left earlier that morning. He reached out for the door frame to keep from stumbling backward.

  “What did you do?”

  “What did I do?”

  “What...” He walked into the office, strode across to the shelves that had held the precious mementos from his father. “Where did you put my father’s things?”

  “Do you mean the broken pipe and the jar full of mismatched doodads?”

  Jacob bit back the first retort that came to mind. He closed his eyes—determined to count to ten—and made it to three. “Ya, those things. Where are they?”

  “I didn’t throw them away, Jacob. I put them in boxes and stored them in the utility closet.”

  “Why would you do such a thing?”

  “Because I needed more space than the top of that desk.”

  “I could have built you a workbench.”

  “But the shelves were right there, and you weren’t here to build me a workbench. What was I supposed to do all day?”

  “Who moved the desk?”

  “I did.”

  “By yourself?”

  “Yes, by myself. It wasn’t that hard. I got behind it and—”

  “Pushed. You pushed it across the floor.”

  He squatted, ran his hand over a scratch in the wooden floor.

  “Did I do that? I’m...I’m sorry, but this is a barn. Am I right? It’s not like it’s your living room.”

  No, his living room was part of a prefab house that held no meaning at all in his life, no memories of his parents. All he had that remained of his childhood was this old barn, the office, the garden that his mother had loved.

  He clenched his jaw, determined not to speak harsh words. What was the old proverb? Think before you speak, but don’t speak all you think.

  Walking to the window, he stared out at his mother’s garden. At least Hannah hadn’t pulled up any of the plants in her compulsion to reorganize things. Suddenly he noticed how clean the windows were, and the floor, even the walls looked as if they’d been dusted.

  “Did you do any of the work you were supposed to do today?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I’m not paying you to clean windows or dust shelves.”

  “As I think I explained, I need those shelves, and I also need more light in this room if I’m to stare at your receipts all day.”

  “So you did at least look at them.”

  “Which was all I could do since I have no idea what your scribbling means.”

  “My scribbling?”

  “When you actually took the time to label what you’d written onto some scrap of paper.”

  Hannah stomped toward the desk and yanked the bottom drawer open.

  “You cleaned out the drawers too?”

  For her answer she pulled out her purse and slammed the drawer shut. “I’ll be going now.”

  “Going?”

  “And if you expect me to work in this small, stuffy, poorly lit office, then I suggest you get used to the changes.”

  “Oh, is that so?”

  “And don’t bother offering to hitch up Dolly. I’m quite capable of doing it myself.”

  Chapter Seven

  Hannah was so angry her ears felt hot.

  No doubt they had been bright red as she stormed out of the office. What did she care if Jacob Schrock knew how aggravated she was?

  Hitching up Dolly helped to burn up some of her anger. By the time she’d pulled out onto the two-lane road, she was composing her resignation letter in her head.

  But as she drove the short distance to her parents’ farm, she realized that she couldn’t quit, not yet. She needed a job, and she was good at accounting. She could even bring order out of Jacob’s chaos, if he’d let her.

  Glancing out at the countryside, it struck her what day it was—the anniversary of the accident. Had her emotions recognized that all along? Was that why she was so emotional?

  It wasn’t until she was pulling into the lane, arching her neck forward to look for Matthew, that she realized the other source of her anxiety. It was true that Jacob’s office had been a mess, and she had needed a better workspace, but it was also true that she was nervous about being away from Matthew all day. She was his mother. She should be there.

  Her father met her at the door to the barn. “I’ll take care of Dolly. How was your first day?”

  “Fine,” she lied. “Matthew?”

  “In his playhouse. He’s had a gut day.”

  Those words eased the worry that threatened to choke the breath out of her.

  Had she become a helicopter parent? She knew practically nothing about helicopters. She’d seen one a few times, but she’d never ridden in one. She didn’t know how that term could relate to her parenting abilities, but she’d seen the article in a magazine’s headlines. Helicopter Parents’ Horrendous Kids.

  She’d actually paged through it as she waited for the woman in front of her to check out at the supermarket.

  According to the article there were ten ways that she’d managed to mess up Matthew’s life, and he wasn’t even five years old. Among other things, she needed to start letting him work out his social issues, involve herself less in his day-to-day life and in general stop fussing over him. She’d shaken her head in mock despair and placed the magazine back on the rack.

  But it wasn’t mock despair she was feeling now.

  Maybe she really had messed up his life.

  She’d been gone less than eight hours, but it felt like she hadn’t seen him in a week. The truth was that she couldn’t stand to have him out of her sight.

  He might need her.

  And she was afraid to let him fail.

  Hadn’t he had enough disappointment in life?

  She envisioned outlandish things happening to him.

  Just that morning she’d worried that he might fall out of the buggy if her mother didn’t make sure the door was shut. Her mother had been driving a buggy longer than Hannah had been alive.

  Was it so wrong to worry though? Matthew was disabled. He was special, and he had special needs.

  She pulled in a deep breath, put the parenting article out of her mind and headed for the train.

  The next thirty minutes she spent listening to Matthew tell her about his day, as he pretended they were passengers headed to Alaska, and trying not to laugh as he wheeled himself back and forth across the train with the conductor hat on his head.

  Her mood had improved dramatically by the time they went inside to help with dinner.

  After they’d eaten and were clearing the dishes from the table, her temper had cooled enough that she’d begun to feel ashamed of herself. Her father had taken Matthew to the barn to help settle the horses for the evening. She peeked out the window,
didn’t see them and refocused on the plate she was drying.

  “Problem, dear?”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Because you just put a clean plate in the oven.”

  “I did?”

  “Why don’t you sit at the table and start shelling the purple hull peas? You can tell me about your day.”

  So she did. She told her mother about being overwhelmed by the task of preparing Jacob’s files for a tax audit, of cleaning up his office with complete disregard to his preferences and of worrying Matthew might fall out of the buggy.

  To her surprise, her mother started laughing and then couldn’t stop.

  “I don’t see what’s so funny.”

  Pulling off her reader glasses, her mother swiped at her eyes.

  “I can’t even tell if you’re laughing or crying.”

  “I’m laughing.”

  “But why?”

  Instead of answering, her mother put the kettle on to boil and dropped two bags of decaf raspberry tea into two mugs. She set a plate of oatmeal cookies between them and smiled at Hannah.

  “You’ve always been an organizer.”

  “I have?”

  “One day when you were little, I found you sorting through your father’s socks, lining them up from most stained to least stained.”

  “I don’t remember that.”

  The kettle on the stove whistled, and soon Hannah found herself holding a steaming cup of raspberry tea. She inhaled deeply and smiled over the rim at her mother.

  “I remember organizing your button jar. It was one of my favorite things to do.”

  “One time I found them by color.”

  “And one time by size.”

  The memory touched a tender spot in Hannah’s heart. It reminded her of a time before life had become so complicated. She reached for an oatmeal cookie. It was sweet, crunchy around the edges and full of raisins. It was bliss after a long, trying day.

  “I suppose I might have been a bit hasty in scooping everything into the box.”

  “Perhaps those items had some sentimental meaning to Jacob.”

  “I don’t see how.”

  “What were they?”

  “An old pipe, some glass jars, old copies of Farmers’ Almanac...”