A Promise of Grace

by Lynette Sowell

  Silas knew she was going to say “a woman,” but he didn’t see why it should matter.

  “We know,” said Uncle Tobias. “But you’re a businesswoman. You’ve also lived here, year-round, for nigh on twenty years. You have an excellent reputation in the village and plenty of good common sense.”

  “I can see you inviting Rochelle, but I’m a newcomer.” Silas took a sip of his coffee. “I’ve only visited here a handful of times, and those visits were when I was a child.”

  “We know,” said Henry. “Sometimes it takes an outsider’s perspective for people to see where they need to improve. I can’t tell you how many people don’t realize their home needs sprucing up on the outside until someone sees it with what they call ‘fresh eyes.’ ”

  “I understand what you mean by fresh eyes.”

  “Me too,” Rochelle said. “But part of what’s special about Pinecraft is its Plainness. We don’t have hotels, we don’t have condominiums. Just simple homes and a few duplex apartments. We’re not glitzy and developed like a resort. Or there’s the other extreme, if we have outsiders, they won’t understand. Some outsiders might expect things to be like they are at home in Ohio or Pennsylvania. No offense meant, Silas.”

  “None taken. Anyway, I’ve lived outside of the United States for more than a decade. So I’m about as outside as they come.”

  The men chuckled, and the women smiled at his words.

  “Right you are,” said Henry. “And you’re a reminder of why we in Pinecraft do what we do. As a missionary pilot, you and everyone you worked with have directly benefited from the fund-raising we’ve done. I know the biggest fund-raiser is the Haiti Benefit Auction in January, but we don’t just support work in Haiti. Our committee can head up raising funds for other areas in need. Even here in Sarasota.”

  Silas nodded. “I see.”

  “Cream and sugar, right here,” Aunt Fran said as she set the sugar bowl and container of half-and-half on the table.

  Rochelle doctored her coffee, pouring from the tiny pitcher and scooping some sugar. “What does the committee do? I know they headed up the park mural project. The mural has made a beautiful difference in the park.”

  “We’re going to do several things such as organize community activities, one per quarter. Sometimes we’ll do a benefit, like a fish fry or a haystack supper, and we’ll have the village vote on who the benefit will be for. Not to take anything away from the churches who do those things, of course,” Henry said.

  “Cornhole tournaments, bocce tournaments, volleyball, too. We could have a ‘field day’ in the winter time for all of those, even shuffleboard, and sell food and give out prizes to the winners,” Uncle Tobias said. “Something for the old and the young to spend time together.”

  Aunt Fran set five plates of pie on the table, along with a small tub of vanilla ice cream. Silas’s mouth watered: apple pie. Aunt Fran paused, propping her hand on her hip. “If you ask me, which you haven’t, I say the idea is just so a bunch of you can keep busy and keep us organized. Sometimes we get too caught up in the organizing; it takes the fun out of things.”

  “Now, Francie—” Uncle Tobias began.

  “No, I understand what you mean, Frances,” Rochelle said. “We’ve done a good job in the village, keeping things Plain, as they should be, while . . . adapting as needed. I don’t know if adapting is the right word.”

  “I don’t mean we should put a television in everyone’s home. Certainly not,” Uncle Tobias said. “I think I can count on one hand the people I know in the village who own a television set or admit to it. It’s not what I mean.”

  “The city of Sarasota has taken notice of us,” Henry said. “With the media coverage over the past few years, and millions of people who saw a story on television, on the Today show, well, I imagine we’ll have a new influx of people wanting to visit the village.”

  “So we think if we have a Heritage Committee in place, it would look better for us as a community.” Tobias dolloped a scoop of vanilla ice cream onto his still-warm pie.

  Silas took his own bite of pie and let his taste buds dance a little jig before speaking again. “What will I have to do, as part of this committee? I typically have two flights per week, and occasionally an overnight, depending on the airport schedule.”

  “We meet once per month. At the first meeting of each quarter, we plan for three, then six months out. The rest of the quarter’s meetings are devoted to looking ahead to the next activity and planning, while evaluating how we did with the most recent activity,” said Henry.

  “Phineas Beachy is donating his time to help us with the legal paperwork to form a 501(c)(3) nonprofit,” Uncle Tobias said.

  “Who else is on the committee, besides both of you?” Rochelle asked.

  “Bishop Smucker from the Old Order church, Samuel Byler—one of our deacons at the Mennonite fellowship—Rochelle, you know Sam—and Gerald Beachy, Phin’s grandfather.” Henry set down his fork and stared at the pie on his plate. “This is mighty good pie.”

  Rochelle nodded slowly. “I . . . I believe I’ll need some time to think and pray about this. I like what you’re doing, but I wouldn’t want my presence to be a hindrance. Thank you for inviting me. I’m honored you did.”

  Silas understood her reluctance. A woman’s role varied, sometimes greatly, among the Plain people. He’d heard of some of those distant cousins of his, forbidding their women to even speak in public, or question anything, or offer an opinion. And then there were people like him—he’d always treated Belinda as his equal in many ways in their marriage, although she always deferred to him as the leader and final decision maker for matters within their marriage and family—a revolutionary concept among some of those more advanced in years in their home fellowship back in Ohio.

  Rochelle stifled a yawn. “I’m sorry. It’s been a full day.”

  The clock chimed eight; darkness had fallen outside.

  “Look at the time. I’d say they’ve rolled up the sidewalks, except our street doesn’t have any,” quipped Uncle Tobias. “We didn’t mean to keep you so late, either of you.”

  Only it wasn’t late. Silas smiled.

  “Thank you, Francie, for such a delicious supper and dessert,” Henry said. “Silas and Rochelle. You can let me know at church, or if you see me out and about, when you’ve decided. No hurry. But if you could decide soon, before our October meeting . . .”

  “Yes, I will let you know by then.” Rochelle stood as well. “Thank you, Frances and Tobias, for the supper.”

  “I’ll be sure to let the girls know when I get started on their dresses. And yours, too.”

  “Well, Rochelle, let’s get your bike strapped to the back of the buggy. No way I’m letting you bicycle home in the dark,” Uncle Tobias said.

  Whatever came next, he had no idea.

  * * *

  Rochelle had two voice mails waiting when she checked her phone. She’d left it at the house while the three of them went for their dress measurements at the Frys’ and completely put the phone out of her mind during supper and the chat that followed.

  Two of her cleaning clients called, one wanting to reschedule her service instead of having it tomorrow and another one leaving a cryptic message, something about the quality of service they’d received lately. It didn’t bode well, and she tried not to let worry claim her thoughts as she toweled her hair dry after a hot shower. People rescheduled sometimes. No problem. But quality? Rarely did she ever get a call about a quality concern.

  The girls waited in the living room for her, and the fact she’d been on not one but two rides with Silas in the buggy today would be the topic of their bedtime conversation. Rochelle wasn’t sure if she was up for any grilling tonight. There was nothing to grill her about. But still, people sometimes talked. Like Vera Byler. What would Vera say, too, when she heard Rochelle and Silas had been tapped to join the Heritage Committee?

  Likely, the woman already did know.

  “Ah, Lord, wh
y can’t life be a little simpler?” Rochelle said aloud. She worked some leave-in conditioner through the length of her hair, thankful for a product to keep her hair from snarling into little knots at the nape of her neck

  You’d think in an Amish-Mennonite community, life would be simpler. Ah, but throw people and their idiosyncrasies into the mix and all kinds of complications happened.

  Of course, Rochelle had jumped into plenty of complications herself, with choosing to go back to school. Some things were worth the complication.

  She entered the hallway to find Winston waiting to give her a four-footed escort to the kitchen, where she found the great-nieces making grilled cheese sandwiches.

  “After the meal we had at the Frys?” she asked, teasing. But nothing like melted cheese, especially cheese from Holmes County.

  “I’ll make one for you, too,” said Betsy with a grin.

  “Thanks.” She turned on the kettle. “Just a half sandwich, though. And I think I’ll have a cup of tea as well.”

  “What is it, Aenti Chelle? Is there anything wrong?”

  She shook her head. “No. I’m going to miss both of you after you’re married. It will be a lot quieter around here.”

  “Do we make too much noise?” Emma asked.

  “Not at all. It’s been . . . nice . . . having someone else in the house.”

  “Well, we’re thankful you’ve let us live with you.” Betsy surprised Rochelle with a hug. “Most everyone in our families was sure we’d both gone on Rumspringa, moving in with you.”

  “I did!” Emma said. “I’m not afraid to admit it.”

  Betsy rolled her eyes. “You never went Rumspringa, silly kind.”

  “I’m not a silly child.” Emma flipped a freshly toasted sandwich onto a waiting paper plate.

  “Now, this is what I was talking about.” Rochelle laughed. She’d never realized how quiet her home had been until she’d let Betsy move in with her nearly two years ago.

  “So, how was the horseless buggy ride, Aenti?” Betsy asked.

  “You mean, horseless buggy rides,” Emma interjected.

  “They were fine. No mishaps. Nobody ran over any curbs or pedestrians, and we managed to avoid larger vehicles both times.”

  “I think the Frys were trying to be matchmakers.”

  “Hmm.” Rochelle went to fetch a mug from the cabinet. “I don’t need a matchmaker. Or, a match right now, either.”

  “I think he likes you,” Emma said.

  “Of course he does. Who wouldn’t like our Aenti Chelle?” Betsy sliced more cheese.

  Rochelle laughed again, shaking her head. “Silas and I are friends. We agreed to start a friendship. He’s a good man, and he’s had a lot happen in his life in the last year. During the toughest times in our lives, we appreciate our friends and family more than ever. So, I’m glad he is where he is.”

  “Friends is good.” Emma put another sandwich on the griddle. “Steven and I started as friends, and then, it was like we both woke up one day and noticed each other and . . .” She leaned on the counter, staring at the backsplash.

  “I knew right away I liked Thaddeus Zook. As soon as I saw him at a haystack supper and he asked me about ganache. Flirted, like the Englisch say. Of course, back then I didn’t imagine what would happen.” Betsy smiled, then sighed.

  “Girls, your stories of inspiration and romance warm my heart. Thank you for being so encouraging, but Silas and I . . .” She shook her head. Too much back there, even though they’d both agreed it had been left behind them.

  * * *

  Rochelle, 19

  Rochelle knew this day would come, despite everyone’s pleading and prayers. Her mother’s body was worn, spent and empty like a shell.

  “I can’t. Talk. Much more.” Her mother’s voice came as a bare whisper.

  “Shh, Momma. It’s okay. We’ve . . .” Rochelle swallowed around a lump before continuing. “We’ve already said everything we need to say. I know you’re tired. It’s all right. You . . . you’ve been such an example to us all. I only pray I’m half the woman you’ve been.”

  No one had told her how unimaginably hard this saying good-bye would be. Oh, but what a gift. To say good-bye, until they saw each other again. What sights Momma would soon see. Her own parents, grandparents. The baby sister Momma had lost when she was six years old.

  “Don’t . . . don’t let unforgiveness hold you back. Life can turn out different than we plan, or expect. God’s hand will always be there. Don’t . . .” Momma began coughing, the spasms shaking her body. A few tears streamed down her face.

  “I . . . I won’t. I promise.” From here in the back of the house, she could hear the front door slam. It would be Jolene, her husband, and the baby.

  “We’re here.” Jolene bustled into the room. “When is the hospice nurse coming back?”

  “Soon.” Rochelle rose from the chair tucked beside Momma’s bed. “Soon.”

  Soon, the nurse would return. Another dose of morphine for Momma. This dose likely would sedate her even further, to block out the numbing pain.

  How long? Another few days, a week at most?

  She ought to have known Momma’s burst of energy last week was a sign the end was near. She hadn’t believed the nurse. None of them had. Even Father seemed more chipper and talked about plans for Christmas time, how they’d all go to Pinecraft for a nice, long vacation. Nobody tried to tell him otherwise.

  As Jolene and her husband talked to Momma in low tones, Rochelle fled the bedroom. Air. She needed air.

  Rochelle stopped on the porch and leaned on the railing. A car passed at the end of the lane and continued along its way. The rest of the world continued, too.

  But everyone only had one mother, and when the mother soon wouldn’t be around anymore, the thought should make the earth screech to a halt on its axis.

  Except it didn’t.

  The world kept spinning, cars kept driving, people kept on about life as usual.

  “Oh, Momma, what will we do without you?” Rochelle choked out the words. A familiar figure appeared, rounding the fence and passing by the mailbox.

  Silas.

  How could her heart sing while it was breaking at the same time? And yet, it did.

  She left the porch and met him on the lane.

  Silas enveloped her in his arms, and she didn’t care who might see them from the house.

  “How is she?” he spoke into her ear.

  “Slipping away.” A sob found its way out of her mouth, and she leaned against him.

  He rubbed the back of her hair, and, for once, she wished she wasn’t wearing her kapp and her hair was down.

  “I wish I could make it better. I wish I could fix it for you.”

  “Only God can, and I don’t understand why He won’t.” She regretted the words, but they held truth for her. God could, but wouldn’t.

  8

  I apologize for having to call and tell you this . . .” Mrs. Gentile said. “I’ve been your client for several years, and there’s never been an issue until now.”

  “No apology needed, Mrs. Gentile.” Already, the first pinpricks of a headache began in Rochelle’s temples, and it was only eight-thirty in the morning. She knew who cleaned Mrs. Gentile’s townhouse, and she didn’t look forward to the conversation she’d soon have with the young woman who did.

  “I had to remop the kitchen. And the lanai wasn’t even swept. The bathroom shower enclosure hasn’t been touched in several weeks, at least, judging by the buildup on the glass. Like I said, I’ve never had an issue until now.”

  “You said the shower enclosure hasn’t been touched in several weeks?”

  “No, I don’t believe it has.”

  Rochelle inhaled instead of sighing. “I’ll send Emma today along with a list of everything she needs to redo. This is inexcusable.”

  “Thank you. I’ve debated about saying anything, but my husband insisted I do so.”

  “Of course. I’m glad you called. In
fact, I’ll take one week off this month’s bill.”

  “Oh, thank you again.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  Rochelle ended the call. In nearly twenty years of working in the cleaning business, she’d never had something come up quite like this. Misunderstandings and clarifications of what clients expected for services, yes. Those were easily ironed out.

  But substandard work?

  She ought to have known, Emma being distracted and being Emma, things might start to slip.

  Where was she now? Rochelle stood up from her spot at the computer.

  She found Emma in her bedroom, folding laundry.

  “Emma, Mrs. Gentile gave me a call last night while I was out, but we finally spoke this morning.”

  Emma looked up from her place at the foot of the bed. A stack of undergarments and stockings sat side by side.

  “Oh, is everything all right?”

  “Not exactly. Unfortunately, she hasn’t been pleased.”

  Patches of red shot into Emma’s cheeks, in sharp contrast to the white of her head covering. “What did she say? What didn’t please her?”

  “A number of things. I’m going to give you a list, and today, if you could, please go over to her home and take care of them.”

  Emma’s face glowed redder. “Yes, Aenti Chelle. But I know I did everything I usually do, the last time I was there. I know I did.”

  Who was Rochelle to believe? Of course, she wanted to keep her customers pleased. And she had never doubted Emma being truthful before.

  “It may well be, but I’ve not had anyone this displeased in recent memory, probably ever. Anyway, I’ll get the checklist for you.” Were those tears in Emma’s eyes?

  Emma said nothing more, so Rochelle went over to the bed and sat down on a free spot. “It’s all right. We’ll just make sure Mrs. Gentile is happy and go on from here. I had a lot to learn when I first started cleaning, working with Leah Graber. She was at least seventy years old, if she was a day, and was no-nonsense. But she taught me the business. During the first week when I followed her from house to house and tried to learn, I wasn’t sure I’d last.”