Least of all to Gloria.
“Did you need something?” Minerva asked.
Gloria cut in half the steps between them. “I came to apologize.”
“And be ye kind one to another, tenderhearted, forgiving one another, even as God for Christ’s sake hath forgiven you.”
Minerva waited. Gloria heard Miss Thurman’s voice in her head. “Say what you’re sorry for.”
“I was hot and tired and short-tempered yesterday,” Gloria said. “I lost control of my tongue and ruined a perfectly good canning day.”
“Ask forgiveness.”
“I hope you can forgive me,” Gloria said. Now it was her turn to wait.
“Minnie, Glory asked forgiveness. What do you have to say?”
“I forgive you,” Minerva muttered, perhaps hearing their teacher’s voice as well.
“Now apologize for any part you had in the disagreement.”
Gloria held the pause open, but Minerva was no longer keeping to the script. Maybe she hadn’t been. Maybe she mumbled forgiveness only to get the conversation over with so Gloria would leave. Minerva’s eyes lifted over Gloria’s head in the direction the truck had driven. Whatever the vehicle had carried away was not something Minerva had changed her mind about. The strain in her face spoke more deeply than a mixed-up order would suggest.
“I wonder if you and Ernie would like to come to supper,” Gloria said. “And Rose. We’d love to have you all.”
Gloria hadn’t meant to say any such thing. The words sprang out before she could censor the thought. It didn’t matter. Minerva would never accept. Their husbands were the ones who instigated shared meals. Gloria turned to go.
“I’m sure Ernie will appreciate your kindness,” Minerva said.
A dam of adrenaline burst as Gloria pivoted back toward the porch.
Minerva cradled her own elbows, her shoulders sagging and her face thinner than Gloria had ever noticed.
“Six o’clock, then,” Gloria said. There was no backing out now.
Henry ceased pedaling and let the slope of the Grabill lane carry him toward the house. The afternoon with Mrs. Wyse had been long but fruitful, yielding pages of notes for Henry to sort out. In fact, he suspected he had more detail than required for the project, but it would serve to demonstrate his thorough approach to his work, and his potential to assume greater responsibility.
Polly sat in the chair under the tree snapping green beans. He rolled the bicycle toward her, planting a foot on the ground at the last minute and grabbing his satchel out of the basket before laying the bike down and dropping into the grass beside Polly’s chair.
“A good day, I trust.”
She tossed him a bean. Henry caught it and popped it in his mouth and savored the crunch between his teeth.
“I daresay I’ve learned a few things about the Wyse farm that even you don’t know,” Henry said.
“That hardly seems possible.”
Henry opened his satchel and removed a bundle of papers. “She just kept talking, so I just kept writing.”
“Let me see that.” Polly leaned over and snatched the stack of pages.
Henry watched the rapid movement of her eyes as she tried to make sense of his scratchings.
“Don’t tell me you can’t read my writing,” he said.
“Of course I can, though I doubt you ever had very good marks for penmanship.”
“Do you still want to learn to use my typewriter?”
“Maybe. There’s so much to do.”
Her guise of restraint was unconvincing.
“Since you want to study the notes anyway, you could help me get them typed.”
She whacked his shoulder with the papers. “You’re just trying to get me to do your work.”
“Can you blame me if we both benefit from the arrangement?” Henry had been laboring through his own typing up until now. It wasn’t as if he couldn’t manage the task. But Polly was the only person he’d met since he arrived in Lancaster County with a genuine interest in what he was doing. In her presence he was less alone in the challenge.
“I’ll think about it,” she said. “Rose is coming for supper.”
“Oh?”
“And her parents, of course.”
“Oh?” Henry said again. Perhaps Ernie had found the part he was looking for to get Henry’s car running.
“And Mamm said that if I saw you I should say that you got mail,” Polly said. “It’s probably on the table by the front door.”
Only two people knew Henry could be reached on the Grabill farm—his supervisor and Coralie. Henry grabbed his satchel, took back his papers, and cantered toward the house.
CHAPTER 35
Henry stared at the white oak table sized precisely for its nook beside the front door. A seed catalog lay at a haphazard angle, and on it an open envelope addressed to Gloria. But no letters addressed to him rested on the pile.
He hadn’t mailed his letter until Saturday. It seemed implausible that Coralie could have received his letter, written back, and mailed an answer in time for it to arrive by Tuesday. More likely the letter would be routine information related to his work.
But he saw no letter.
Henry wiped his shoes on the throw rug Gloria kept next to the door for that purpose before walking across the wide front room wondering if anyone was home. Swelling heat in the kitchen foretold that supper was in the oven, likely a dish featuring the potatoes and tomatoes in such abundance on the Grabill farm just now. But the room was unoccupied. Henry ran his fingers along the counter, scanning the jumbled items it held for the corner of an envelope that didn’t belong.
“I have it.”
Henry turned to see Gloria coming through the back door hefting a basket of laundry fresh from the lines.
“You’re looking for your mail, aren’t you?” she said.
Henry nodded.
“I moved the letters somewhere safer, away from prying eyes.”
Gloria tilted her head toward the screen door. Lillian sat on the back porch.
“Thank you,” Henry said.
Gloria opened a cupboard and slid out two envelopes, one plain white with the address typed and the other a cream with his name and address applied in florid blue ink.
One from the WPA office.
One from Coralie.
“Thank you again,” he said.
Gloria nodded and began to fold a shirt from the basket. Henry went out the back door, restraining himself from breaking the seal on Coralie’s letter until he was alone.
“Sit a spell.” Lillian patted space on the bench next to her.
“Maybe after supper.” Henry tucked his letters under one arm.
“I’m sure you’ve had a long day.” Lillian’s eyes probed.
“I’m afraid it’s not over quite yet,” Henry said. He descended the back steps and strode toward the barn. When he heard voices coming from inside, though, he pivoted. He would have to find someplace else. Looking toward the front yard, he could see Polly was still in her chair under the tree. Moving toward the stable, he spied the wooden fence around the pasture. Even a little boy who grew up in Philadelphia knew how to climb a fence. Settled a few minutes later on the top rail, Henry ran a finger under the flap of Coralie’s envelope. It held only a single folded sheet. Henry pulled it out, pressed it flat, and began to read.
The strength went out of his spine.
Henry’s shoulders sagged and his head drooped forward. Even from twenty yards away, Polly saw the disappointment the mail had brought him. She snapped beans more slowly, watching him perched on the fence.
When Thomas walked through the view, an oddly stuffed potato sack over his shoulder, Polly blinked him into focus, letting Henry blur at the edge of her vision. She moved the bowl in her lap to the ground.
“Don’t get up,” Thomas said, striding toward her. “I have a plan.”
“About what?” Polly eyed the bag as Thomas eased it off his shoulder to the ground.
&
nbsp; “I could not get that woman we found out of my mind,” Thomas said. “The thought of her on her own with a boppli that new …”
“The same for me,” Polly said. “I’ve been out here most of the afternoon, watching for any sign of her.”
“She won’t come near the house again,” Thomas said.
“But where will she go?”
Thomas shrugged.
“We only wanted to help her,” Polly said.
“It can be hard for folks to admit they need help,” Thomas said, “but we can make it easier for them to find it on their own.”
“Is the bag for her?”
He nodded and rolled back the opening of the burlap. Polly bent forward and explored the contents. A wool blanket. A small pot, still shiny. Several cans of beans—the kind the general store sold. Canned milk with colorful labels. Two washcloths. A box of matches still sealed. A knife with several blades that folded into the handle. A flashlight. Apples. A wide wedge of cheese. The apples would have come from the Coblentz orchard, and the cheese would trace back to their own cows. Everything else befuddled her.
“This all looks new,” Polly said.
“It is.”
“But Thomas—”
He held up a hand. “The important thing is that these things will help her.”
“But we don’t know where she is.”
“I’m going to retrace our steps from Sunday,” Thomas said. “I’ll look for any sign of her, of course, but I’ll leave a few items here and there. She may be staying at the far edge of the woods. If she comes out the same way each time, she’ll find them.”
“Anyone could take them.” Brand-new household goods and filling food that looked abandoned would be an understandable temptation.
“I know,” Thomas said, “but anyone who would take them would surely need them, so nothing would go to waste. I have more.”
Polly scrunched her face. Even if Thomas had his own farm, where would he find cash to purchase from the general store?
He picked up the bag.
“I’ll come with you,” Polly said.
“Let your foot heal.” Thomas hefted the sack over one shoulder, straightened his hat, and strode away.
With no hope to catch up, Polly pressed back in the chair. As nimble as she was on her crutches, she would only slow him down. Would that God would give her this man with such tenderness and determination.
Thomas was not more than ten yards off when Polly responded to the hand on her shoulder.
“Mamm sent me for the beans,” Sylvia said.
Polly gestured to the bowls on the ground.
“I’ll take these in,” Sylvia said, “and then let Henry know supper is almost ready.”
“I’ll get Henry.” Polly pushed upright. No one else would have discerned the plummet of his mood since reading his mail. If he didn’t feel up to being at the Grabill table tonight, she would fix a tray and get one of her sisters to carry it out to the barn.
The pasture fence was not so far to manage on both crutches. She was near enough to hear his intake of breath before he realized she was there. He creased both envelopes and stuffed them into his shirt pocket.
“Are you all right?” Polly leaned against the fence rail, her eyes watching the Belgians grazing in a cluster. If Henry didn’t answer, she would mention supper and leave.
His reluctant answer came hoarse. “Good news and bad news.”
“I’m glad. And sorry.”
“Coralie is seeing someone else.”
If Henry felt half as dismayed as Polly felt when she thought Thomas was seeing Lena, no wonder he wanted to sit alone on the fence.
“She seemed quite … friendly with you when she was here,” Polly said.
“Coralie makes everyone feel as if they are the one that matters,” Henry said. “Silly me for thinking that in my case it was true.”
“I’m sure she’s fond of you.”
“Not fond enough to overlook my missing the party last week. It seems that’s where she met her new beau. She wrote me the next day—even sent the photograph she made of me. No point in keeping that now.”
“How can she be so sure that quickly?”
Henry shrugged. “I’m going to look like a dolt when she gets the letter I sent her.”
“Surely not.”
“Almost certainly.”
Polly didn’t dispute further. She had only a few hours of acquaintance by which to judge Coralie Kimball. Sucking on her tongue to keep from reminding Henry that Rose would be at supper tonight, Polly turned and looked up the lane. The Swains would arrive soon.
“How about if I go with you on your interviews tomorrow?” she said. Some company might keep Henry’s spirits up.
“No, thank you,” he said.
“I’m really happy to do it.” As much as she had pushed him to be independent, now Polly missed hearing all the answers.
“I’m doing well now,” he said. “I’ve figured out how to ask the questions from several angles. You taught me thoroughly.”
“If you change your mind, let me know.”
“I thought we had an arrangement about the typing.” One side of his mouth turned up.
“We do,” she said.
“I’ll bring the typewriter to the house in the morning.”
“No,” Polly said quickly. Her parents would not approve, but even after three weeks on the farm, Henry wouldn’t understand the restriction. “I’ll work in the barn while you’re gone. I promise you will be surprised what I get accomplished.”
Henry would never be surprised at anything Polly accomplished, and the broom fiasco aside, she would eventually master anything that truly interested her. She was interested in Thomas Coblentz. Anyone could see that. Whether she was truly interested in a farming life or merely had never imagined anything else was less clear. The Amish were industrious people—at least everyone Henry had met so far, except Lillian. But they didn’t stray far from the land. Gazing across the pasture, Henry paid more attention to Polly in his peripheral vision. Somehow she had found the secret to contentment, even if she didn’t quite fit into her own life.
Henry didn’t regret his friendship with Coralie or even his aspirations for what it might lead to.
He did, however, regret the letter she was likely to read tomorrow.
He touched his bulging shirt pocket. “I had another letter today, too.”
“The good news,” Polly said.
“Yes.” Henry would grasp for even the nascent possibility of good news the second letter held.
“Well? Tell me.”
“It’s a notification about a position that has opened up.”
“With the WPA?”
“It would be an advancement. I could work in an office in Philadelphia.”
“Isn’t it too soon?” Polly said. Immediately she covered her mouth. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that.”
“It’s all right.” Henry rearranged the crumpled envelopes, shoving Coralie’s deeper into his pocket and tugging the second letter up. “I know I only started three weeks ago, but this job requires a college degree, and I have one. I’ll never know if I could get the job if I don’t try.”
Polly ran two fingers along the edge of the fence rail. “Are you so unhappy?”
He tilted his head back, his eyes blinking against the brightness of wide blue expanse that he never would have thought to look at in Philadelphia. Unhappy was not the right word. But unambitious was not one he could risk either.
“It’s none of my business,” Polly said, gripping her crutches and turning around. “I’m sorry for prying. I was only supposed to tell you that supper is almost ready. If you don’t feel like coming in, I can say you’re busy.”
His will fissured, but he did not descend through the crack that split his spirit. He was no busier than any of the Grabills, and even Coralie Kimball’s dismissal was not going to buckle him.
“I’ll come in,” he said, swinging his legs around to the other sid
e of the fence.
“Good. Rose would miss you.”
CHAPTER 36
Are you sure about this?” Henry eyed Polly as she situated herself in the wooden chair at his desk the next morning.
“I promised.” Polly ran a finger along the keys in one row of the typewriter. “You are going to come home and find a lot of work finished.”
“You have to press hard,” Henry said. “And if you hit two keys at the same time, they get tangled in each other.”
“I’ll be careful.”
“When you get to the end of a line, you pull this lever and the roller will go back to the left.”
“I can see that, Henry,” Polly said. “Besides, I’ve watched you type. I know how the machine is supposed to work.”
“It takes awhile to remember where the letters are.”
Polly squeezed her eyes closed. “The top row of letters are Q W E R T Y U I O P. The next row is A S D F—”
“Okay,” Henry said, “you’ve got it.” He should have known merely looking at the keys a few times would imprint their order in her mind. “I’ll leave you to it, then.”
Henry checked his satchel for the third time. This morning’s interview should be the last on the Oberholzer farm, and then he could add his notes to the stack Polly was already pecking at. For now, the pages in his satchel pleased him most. He had not sealed the envelope yet, but he had enough notes from several Amish households to make an impressive first report. Because of their finished state, they would stay within his reach until he mailed them. Anything could happen in a barn, or even a house where someone as snoopy as Lillian lived. He still had time to read over the typed sheets one more time before mailing them. His work should arrive in the Philadelphia office at least two days ahead of schedule, perhaps three. That should count for something with his supervisor.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
Polly was already absorbed in deciphering Henry’s handwriting and translating it to a series of keystrokes with no hint that the task might intimidate her.
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