Hope in the Land

by Olivia Newport

  “Henry,” Polly called out. “Your friend has come to visit.”

  Miss Kimball pushed her weight off the side of her car and turned toward the barn.

  Hands in his pockets and his shoulders in a relaxed posture Polly had not witnessed in the entire week he had been on the Grabill farm and thus found suspicious, Henry emerged. Polly knew the instant he put the smile on his face that he was masking something. Terror? Humiliation? How could he be smitten with someone who made him apprehensive?

  “Coralie!” he said. “How good to see you.”

  It would take far more than that to convince Polly. She leaned on her crutches and wondered if she should expect a formal introduction.

  “How did you find me?” Henry asked.

  Miss Kimball leaned her cheek forward and Henry obliged with a kiss.

  “You mentioned the name of your supervisor in your letter,” Miss Kimball said. “It wasn’t so difficult to find his telephone number, and he gave me the name of the family you said you were lodging with. The Grabills seem well known in Lancaster County.”

  “You’ve met Polly, the eldest daughter.” Henry flicked his eyes toward Polly. “She’s been a great help to me.”

  Great help. Polly understood Henry’s job as well as he did—or better. Without her, he would not even have started.

  “Delighted.” Miss Kimball politely met Polly’s gaze. “Henry wrote that he was staying on a charming Amish farm, and I admit my curiosity perked up.”

  Charming. Curiosity.

  Self-consciousness swallowed the moment. Polly knew she ought to offer refreshment or suggest that Henry and Miss Kimball might enjoy sitting on the porch.

  But it was so hard not to stare.

  CHAPTER 19

  The question prevailing in Henry’s mind was not why Coralie had gone to the trouble of seeking him out on the Grabill farm but why she had ever spoken to him in the first place. Her sense of fashion, her vocabulary, the way the names of French foods trilled on her tongue, her fearlessness in a room full of strangers. She could have caught the eye of any man attending the party that night, and she had chosen him. It was all a last-minute accident, a casual invitation by a friend of a friend for them all to watch Fourth of July fireworks from a neighborhood sitting higher than most homes in Philadelphia. So many people would be there, his friend reasoned, that no one would notice a few young men, recent college graduates who were out of their social element.

  So Henry had gone.

  And when Coralie Kimball sashayed past him and turned her head to smile, Henry fell into her blue eyes and heard nothing of the rockets’ red glare in the sky. Three weeks later he was at her family’s dinner table, in a suit he had gone into debt to buy secondhand, presenting himself as a well-bred college graduate with an ambitious future.

  Coralie found humor everywhere and was far braver than Henry imagined himself to be. When he was with her, he saw a more genteel version of himself, someone his grandmother would have boasted about to her friends.

  But Coralie on the farm? This he had never imagined.

  “It’s smaller than I pictured,” Coralie said. “When you described the rolling hills of the farm where you were lodging, I supposed them to be vast fields.”

  “We have sixty-one acres,” Polly said.

  Henry winced. If Polly had seen his letter to Coralie, she would have wondered whose farm he was describing. The barn, the stables, the equipment shed, the poultry business—the Grabills had all these things, but the buildings were within shouting distance of each other. Coralie would have been prone to conceive a grander scale, and Henry had written nothing to confine her imagination.

  “It’s quite a productive farm,” Henry said, avoiding Polly’s eyes. “I’m still in the middle of gathering the data, but I’m certain the numbers will be impressive.”

  “And the barn?” Coralie asked. “I was surprised to learn you were in there.”

  “I have my own space to work at the far end,” he said. “It’s a quiet place on a busy farm.”

  Henry’s mind scrambled for excuses if Coralie asked to see where he worked. Under no circumstances could he show her the narrow cot where he slept and the too-small desk where he stacked his papers.

  He cupped Coralie’s elbow and turned her toward the house. “Marlin Grabill expanded the porch a few years ago. You can hardly tell where the new section meets the original porch.”

  “It’s a lovely porch. I admit I don’t know much about the Amish,” Coralie said, turning to Polly. “Your dress is a striking hue.”

  “It is a traditional color,” Polly said, looking down at her deep purple dress.

  Coralie asked another question, but Henry didn’t hear it. The notion that Coralie would track him down, to see his surroundings for herself, had not crossed his mind. He would only be in Lancaster County long enough to complete his assigned interviews and file his reports. A few weeks? Several months? Certainly not longer. He might receive another assignment, but eventually he would work his way back to Philadelphia. In the meantime, once he was on better footing, he would visit Coralie. They had never spoken of her visiting him.

  So why had she come?

  Coralie asked questions. Polly answered them. Henry’s own thoughts thundered over their polite exchanges.

  Gloria came out of the largest shed convinced there was little possibility the suspect hen would ever lay another egg and having decided to move the hen to another section where its path would bring it to the dinner table. Was this the kind of “consumption” Henry was interested in? Was she supposed to know how many chickens they had eaten in the last year?

  She had heard the car arrive. Its engine was not as raucous as Ernie’s truck or most of the automobiles Gloria encountered when she ventured onto the roads in a buggy. Now she let her eyes follow the sleek curves of the car and settle on its driver, who seemed in earnest conversation with Polly while Henry jiggled a leg beside them.

  Gloria approached the huddle.

  “Mamm,” Polly said, “this is Miss Kimball from Philadelphia. She’s a friend of Henry’s.”

  “Welcome,” Gloria said.

  “Thank you,” Miss Kimball said. “I’ve just been admiring your farm.”

  “Have you always lived in Philadelphia?”

  “Generations and generations! My father once threatened to move to Chicago and my mother would have nothing of it.”

  “What does your father do?” Gloria had learned the question from her English school friends decades ago. The Amish farmed, but the English had an array of vocations.

  “He runs a manufacturing firm and holds several patents for small electrical appliances.”

  Gloria nodded. She did not ask what the appliances were. Even the English farms in the county did not have electricity, and the bishop would never approve electricity in the Amish homes.

  “I’m going inside to start our midday meal,” Gloria said. “You are welcome to join us.” As odd as it seemed for this English woman to turn up on the farm, Gloria could not rush her off. She extended the same invitation she would have offered any guest. “You and Henry can visit on the porch or in the front room.”

  “I admit I could do with a break from the sun,” Miss Kimball said.

  “A cold drink, then,” Gloria said. “Come inside.”

  Miss Kimball and Henry exchanged glances. He nodded and offered her an arm. She linked her arm through his elbow and leaned into his shoulder, murmuring, as they walked toward the house. Gloria let Henry lead the way, instead falling into pace with Polly on her crutches. They no longer seemed to slow Polly down. If she was tolerating some weight on her injured foot, healing must be progressing well.

  At the entrance to the house, Henry held open the door. Miss Kimball took a polite pose beside him while Gloria and Polly followed.

  “My daughter Sylvia is not feeling well,” Gloria said. “Please make yourselves comfortable while I check on her. I will return with some refreshments.”

 
Gloria stopped in the kitchen long enough to wash her hands before climbing the back stairs to her daughters’ bedroom. Sylvia rolled over when her mother opened the door. Her eyes looked better, and a hand against her forehead confirmed that the fever had not returned. Now it would just be a matter of getting Sylvia to eat something to recover her strength.

  Back in the kitchen, Gloria lit the oven. Miss Kimball was welcome at the table, but she would have to be satisfied with a meal of eggs, fried potatoes, tomatoes, and some autumn squash from the garden.

  How many eggs? How many potatoes? Henry would want to know.

  But first, the cold drinks she had promised.

  Polly avoided the bowl of eggs her mother set on the counter. There was no point in repeating disasters when she was so capable of creating new ones. Setting the table seemed a more reasonable goal. The dishes, washed and dried after breakfast, were still stacked on one end of the table. With chairs to help bear her weight, Polly was certain she could manage to set the plates around.

  From several points around the table, Polly could see straight into the front room, where Henry and Miss Kimball sat beside each other on the sofa, their backs to Polly. Miss Kimball was pleasant enough. Her questions had been polite, and she listened to Polly’s answers. Whether her interest had been sincere or she was merely exercising good manners, Polly did not know. Anyone could ask a question and think about something else during the response.

  Polly tugged herself back to the task, which did not include gawking at the way the English visitor twisted the back of her hair. She set down three more plates and listened to her mother whisking eggs.

  Henry seldom relaxed. Today his shoulders bore a particular stiffness. A fearful alertness to something gone wildly wrong.

  If this was the effect Miss Kimball had on him, what did he see in her in the first place?

  Polly finished with the plates. Her mother was peeling potatoes with unmatched efficiency. Polly could offer to do it, but it would take her three times as long and she would never get the peel off as thinly as her mother did, leaving the potato free of the gouges Polly would have inflicted.

  The back door swung open.

  “Rose, is everything all right?” Polly asked.

  Dinner wouldn’t be for another hour, and Polly’s father rarely dismissed any of his children from their fieldwork with more time to do anything but wash up before the meal.

  “Everything’s fine. With you and Sylvia both laid up, Yost wanted to be sure your mother didn’t need any extra help.”

  “Everything is in hand.” Gloria dropped a knife’s edge in a rapid series of cuts and pushed a dozen potato slices out of the way.

  “I couldn’t help noticing the fancy car,” Rose said.

  Polly allowed a laugh. Who could miss such an ostentatious presence?

  “Henry’s friend,” Polly said.

  Rose approached the doorframe from a discreet angle. “He looks nervous to me.”

  Naerfich. Validation forced a smile across Polly’s face.

  “Shouldn’t he be pleased instead of nervous?” Rose whispered.

  “A person can be nervous and pleased at the same time,” Gloria said. “You girls leave Henry alone. This has nothing to do with you.”

  Rose held her watchful post. Polly, now distributing forks and knives, eyed her friend. She was right. Rose and Henry would be well matched. Rose never made anyone feel nervous.

  Except perhaps her mother, but even Rose would agree that Minerva rarely relaxed.

  Rose stepped back from the doorway and turned her attention to the kitchen. “As long as I’m here, how can I help?”

  “I was just going to take a tray up to Sylvia,” Gloria said. “Would you like to do it?”

  “I would love to see how she’s doing.”

  Polly pointed to the cabinet where Rose would find a tray. Gloria abandoned her potatoes long enough to slice some bread and smear it with blackberry jam. Rose filled a glass with milk and chose an apple from the basket in the center of the table.

  “She’ll tell you she doesn’t feel like eating,” Gloria warned.

  “If I keep her company, she’ll be more likely to eat.” Rose picked up the tray. Polly added a napkin as Rose walked past.

  From the front room, Miss Kimball cackled.

  Rose snickered. “My mother would adore the outfit Henry’s friend is wearing, but she would say that laugh is most unladylike.”

  In more than a week on the farm, Henry hadn’t said anything meant to make someone laugh. What could he have said to Miss Kimball to evoke such an unbridled response? He might not have meant it to be funny.

  Rose was someone Henry could know, not someone to be nervous about. She was simple and true. She would never ask Henry to try so hard to be something he was not.

  “You don’t have to try so hard to prove whatever it is you’re trying to prove,” Polly’s mother had said to her.

  Polly dropped a fork into place. That wasn’t what she was doing with Thomas.

  Not the way Henry was.

  She and Thomas were well matched. They shared a common background. What could Henry have in common with a woman like Coralie Kimball? Polly hated to think he was so blind.

  CHAPTER 20

  More pie?” Gloria lifted the pie tin with one last slice.

  “I don’t dare.” Coralie put her hand to her narrow waist as she stood up. “Thank you for a delicious and unusual meal.”

  “Our pleasure,” Gloria said.

  Henry stood when Coralie did. There was no telling what Coralie might have eaten in her own home, but it was unlikely any of it had come from the soil of her family’s acres. Henry thought in more distinct categories of consumption and production than he had a week ago.

  “My family has an engagement this evening,” Coralie said. “If I don’t find my way home soon, my mother will send out a search party.”

  Coralie exaggerated. Henry had met her mother on several occasions, and if she had ever tried to influence her daughter’s propriety, she had long ago abdicated the task.

  “I’ll walk you to your car,” Henry said. He had an appointment as well. Mrs. Wyse was going to start wondering where he was.

  As they left the house, she hooked her arm around his. “When are you coming to Philadelphia?”

  “Do you miss me so much?” Henry latched on to her bouncing pale blue eyes.

  “I had rather gotten used to having you around.”

  “You shocked me by coming to see me.”

  Coralie put a hand on his chest. “Your heart is still beating.”

  She had no idea how the muscle had tried to pound its way out of his chest all through dinner.

  “Come next Thursday,” Coralie said. “There’s a party in the evening.”

  “I have some appointments,” Henry said. “My first reports will be due next week.”

  “But you must come.” They reached Coralie’s car. “Let me take your picture.”

  “Have you got a camera?”

  “A brand-new one.” She reached into the car and produced the boxy machine.

  Henry gazed away from the lens, unsure if he wanted a photograph, but a few seconds later Coralie clicked the button.

  “Staring off like that was brilliant,” she said. “Artsy. You look like you’re pondering something very deep.”

  Henry never thought of himself as artistic and waved off the thought.

  “I’ll get it developed before you come next week.”

  “I haven’t said I would.”

  “You must.” She leaned one hip against the car, an arm stretching along the roofline, watching Henry’s face. “I’ve seen the guest list. All my friends will be there, and others whom you should meet. Important people. Influential people.”

  “It might be difficult to get away.”

  “But you’ll try, won’t you? These people could help you. Some of them are doing quite well despite the Depression.”

  “I just started my work for the WP
A.”

  “Now, Henry.” Coralie stood up straight. “We both know that the WPA is just a first position. You have a college degree. Even if you stay in government work, you can do better. I have connections. I’m just trying to help you.”

  Could he kiss Coralie here in the open farmyard? Eyes could be anywhere—the house, the barn, the stables, the sheds. If he leaned in now, the fragrance she wore—lavender?—would settle into the fibers of his shirt so he could smell it all day.

  “I’ll figure something out,” Henry said. He grazed her hand with his fingers.

  “Good,” she said. “Come early. Wear your new suit.”

  She pulled open the driver’s door and turned to flash one more smile.

  Henry closed the door for her. Coralie’s hands went smoothly through the motions of starting her car. The engine responded without the least hesitation, and she maneuvered the gear shift and gently accelerated. He watched the car proceed up the lane, pause briefly where the lane met the road, and turn right.

  He never had told her his own car was not running. Maybe it would be by next Thursday. There was always the train—if he could come up with the fare.

  Minerva’s poorly managed wide turn of the truck into the Grabill lane resulted from the distraction of the two-toned Buick pulling out. The woman behind the wheel did not look as if she belonged on a farm any more than her automobile did. If Ernie ever let Minerva buy a car, it would be one like that. But it was impossible. He wouldn’t even let her buy a washing machine.

  Henry Edison stood in the Grabill yard, his chin tilted up as he also watched the departure of the Buick. No one else was around. The thought that the stunning visitor had been to see Henry made Minerva think she had underestimated this young man. He hadn’t struck Minerva as someone who would know a woman who drove such a car.

  Minerva drove past Henry, parking as close to the house as she could. She did not have time for any of Ernie’s nonsense about parking up the lane out of respect for the Amish beliefs about automobiles. She hadn’t seen anyone in the Grabill fields and presumed they had not returned to work after their midday dinner. There was still time to get Rose.