A Promise of Grace

by Lynette Sowell

  If it were the six of them on the boat, who knows what might be said? This was ridiculous. She needed an aspirin, and then a few moments to lie down.

  Silas, still concerned, yet cheerful. The quality was somewhat unsettling to her, worrywart that she was. But such a quality was, oh, so endearing.

  * * *

  Rochelle, 19

  Four weeks since the confrontation with Silas. Four weeks since the blistering kiss, which even now sometimes woke her from sleep with its memory. Rochelle had seen him at church, but it was all. Meanwhile, she kept the house immaculate and helped her father put an ad in the local paper to sell his handmade furniture. When he wasn’t working at the mill, he would be out in his workshop.

  Jolene had begged Rochelle to let her help, but Rochelle assured her older sister no help was needed. They were both finding their own routine, and besides, Jolene had her own household to care for.

  The first snowfall had come to Ohio and blanketed the barren fields with white. Somehow, the whiteness helped by covering all dead and barren with a fresh coat of purity. But Rochelle knew what was underneath.

  Even in the church cemetery, where her mother’s simple headstone stood beside others, snow covered up the mound that would one day smooth over and sprout green grass. As would John Hershberger’s, along with the others.

  The Sunday after Thanksgiving meant a fellowship lunch, and although Rochelle didn’t have the heart for it, she still prepared a dish on her and her father’s behalf, and they both attended.

  Her father stood in the hall as he spoke with Viola Brubaker, a cousin of their minister’s wife who’d come to visit her family for the weekend. Widowed herself, her snappy, blue eyes twinkled.

  Then, her father chuckled. She hadn’t heard the sound in months. Rochelle smiled. Momma had only been gone not quite six months, but still, she didn’t begrudge her father the happiness.

  Rochelle glanced around the church hall for Belinda. At last, her best friend seemed less a shadow of herself. Six weeks since they’d lost John, and they all missed him with an ache not going away anytime soon.

  “Have you seen Belinda?” she asked Belinda’s mother, who was in the kitchen, restocking a pan with fried chicken.

  “No, I haven’t.”

  Rochelle slipped silently into the hallway off the fellowship hall. Empty. She paused. Low voices, coming from one of the Sunday school classrooms.

  Silas. Belinda.

  “It’s going to be okay,” Silas said in soothing tones. “I promise. It will be.”

  “I don’t know what to do. If only John were here—”

  “I know. But I’m here.”

  “Oh, Silas. But Rochelle—”

  “I’ll talk to her. We’ll work it out.”

  What? Rochelle tiptoed closer to the classroom, its door open. She ought to walk right in. Belinda, her best friend since, well, forever. And Silas, the man who she’d thought had claimed her heart.

  She plucked up her courage most of the way, enough to slide her head around the doorframe and get a view inside.

  Belinda, leaning against Silas, her arms wrapped around him as he held her, her eyes closed.

  Rochelle whirled back into the hallway. Walk in and confront them both, or go?

  She didn’t trust her words just then, so she skittered silently back into the kitchen, wiping tears from her cheeks. No, now that she thought about it, Silas didn’t need to talk to her. His actions spoke plenty.

  * * *

  Silas, 21

  “You need to talk to Rochelle, Silas.” His mother chided him at breakfast on Monday morning. “Are you sure you two can’t work things out?”

  “It’s impossible, Mom.” He took a swig of orange juice. “I’ve tried. I think it’s all been too much for her. Losing her mother, and now everything with John. She blames me partly, and I kind of see her point.”

  More than once, he wished he’d tried to confront those thugs in the road who’d attacked them. Because he hadn’t acted, things unfolded like they did.

  “Son, I truly believe you and Rochelle were intended to be together,” his father said. “This falling out, it’s temporary. I’m sure.”

  “Nothing’s changed. But Belinda and I, well, we’ve been talking more since the funeral. More than we ever have.” Was it possible to love two women? He’d never thought so, but Rochelle had effectively slammed the door on him and had since her own mother’s death.

  He thought of Belinda. They’d both grieved losing John, but grieved together. It had bonded them.

  And yesterday, after talking to her in the Sunday school room, it became crystal clear what he needed to do.

  He smiled at his parents. “As a matter of fact, I proposed to Belinda yesterday during the Sunday fellowship meal, and she accepted.”

  “I can’t help but think you’re making a big mistake.”

  “Mom, I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life.” Yesterday at church had changed everything.

  16

  Silas relished the tug of the breeze on his clothing as Steven Hostetler’s boat pulled away from the dock. Almost as good as flying.

  With the morning showers and clouds behind them, and a good meal inside their stomachs, who wouldn’t be in a good mood?

  Even after the questions posed by Pastor this morning, privately and quickly after the service.

  He’d hoped Rochelle had been wrong about loose lips and suspicious minds. But, here came someone casting a stain upon the sweet time he’d had with Rochelle.

  Not romantic. Well, maybe a little bit.

  The boat bobbed and salty spray struck their faces. The young women squealed. Despite his sober thoughts, Silas grinned and laughed.

  Matthew’s face glowed from where he sat, beside the older friend of his uncle’s, Henry Hostetler. The older man had left his black brimmed hat in his vehicle and his white hair and beard blew in the breeze.

  Casting all your cares upon him, for he careth for you . . .

  And so, Silas did. For now, he’d enjoy the great afternoon.

  “I hope we catch a lot of fish, Dad!” Matthew shouted across to him above the motor’s roar.

  “Me too. You ready to clean ’em later?”

  “Yes, sir!”

  Silas laughed again, this time at Matthew’s enthusiasm. He’d see if the same enthusiasm showed up later when it was time to clean the fish.

  They continued on for several minutes on the water, today glowing a shade of greenish-blue, even brighter than when they first arrived at the marina where Steven kept his boat.

  Silas glanced back at the young man, piloting them over the waves. Good, stable kid. Still Plain, although driving a not-Plain boat. Steven had impressed him when he shared his calendar for the winter.

  Dolphin watch, for some passengers. A few Old Order men, brothers and sons, were chartering the boat for a family fishing trip. Then one day a week, Steven donated free boat trips to whatever vacationer signed up first.

  Steven explained to him earlier that during Pinecraft’s down time in the summer, he still managed to keep busy with vacationer charters.

  The boat’s roar quieted to a low rumble as they bobbed to a stop on the water.

  “Okay, we’ll see how we do at this spot.” Steven hopped from his seat and moved on steady feet to where he cast off the anchor.

  Silas stood and found his balance, before heading over to the trio of fishing poles they’d brought with them, courtesy of Uncle Tobias. The three of them were capable fishermen, with Lena possessing a good hand at working the rod and reel to haul in many a fish.

  “You fish much in Africa?” Steven asked them.

  “As often as we could. It depended a lot on my schedule,” Silas said.

  “When Dad wasn’t there, sometimes our mom would bring us in the morning, before lessons.”

  Lena nodded. “Those were the best days.”

  Silas didn’t flinch at the silent ping needling his heart. Those days were gone, and he�
�d always miss them. The four of them had built a good family. So far, the three of them were doing . . . better.

  They spent the next few moments in a flurry of baiting hooks and debating over the best places to stand at the boat. From the corner of Silas’s eye, he could see Steven and Emma working on her fishing rod, her making faces at the bait.

  Steven caught Silas’s eye and rolled his own eyes.

  Henry moved to stand beside Silas. “Good to get out on the water today, huh?”

  “Yes, sir. Definitely. This is one of the main reasons I wanted to move us to Florida.”

  “I can understand.” Henry cast his line, and the hooked bait flew out over the rippling water. Satisfied with the cast, he set his reel. “Ohio and Indiana aren’t short on water. But you won’t find many doing this in November.”

  “No, you’re right.”

  “So, about a certain plane trip and one person’s words about it . . . don’t let the words of one person affect your view of the rest of us.”

  The guy didn’t beat around a bush, but plowed straight through.

  “Huh. No, I wasn’t planning on it. Women—well, not just women, but men too—can have a habit of talking about things not concerning them or are borne out of a critical spirit more than genuine concern about someone’s spiritual well-being.”

  “Well said.” Henry tugged on his line.

  Silas finally cast his own line, felt the plop of the bait and hook as it struck the water, then sank.

  “I like the village. It feels safe, comfortable. We’re in the city, but we have our place. Of course, being minutes from the water helps, too, like I said before.” He felt a gentle tug on the line. Fish? He waited . . . no, probably a current.

  “Your uncle and aunt have been good friends of mine for years,” Henry said, tugging on his own line. “I can’t remember when I’ve seen them so happy. You being here has helped.”

  “Good. I’m glad. Before coming here, I only met them a few times, years ago.”

  “Being half a world away, your family sure missed you.”

  “I want to go back . . . someday, when the time’s right. For now, though, Pinecraft is home for us. Unique.”

  “Yup, it’s unique. A blend, mishmash of the Plain. Nowhere else like it.” Henry glanced his way. “Just so you know, things are a little different here than in Ohio.”

  “I’m used to different. My whole adult life has been different.”

  “Dad, I don’t think I want to go back to Africa,” Matthew said. “I missed it, but I like being here. I have more friends.”

  Silas nodded. “We have time to talk about this.” He knew he’d been called to missions, as had Belinda. But their children, maybe God had different paths for them, callings of their own.

  A tug on the line made it whir on the reel. Silas snapped his attention back to the line.

  “Got a bite?” Henry stared at the pole, bending in an arc.

  “Think so.” Silas pulled back, turned the handle on the reel.

  “You’ve got one, Dad!” Matthew called out beside him.

  The tip of the rod snapped back, the rod straightened. The line fell slack. Silas reeled it in until he reached the free end, now empty of hook and bait.

  “Something got a free snack.” He moved over to the tackle box to find another hook, a larger one than last time.

  “Aw, Dad.” Matthew shook his head. “Almost.”

  “Far from almost.” Silas tied another hook on the line. “I didn’t even get to see what it was.”

  Back to the side of the boat, Silas cast his line again, with a new hook and fresh bait. “C’mon, you, whatever you are, try it again. Just try.”

  Matthew shouted beside him as the fishing rod bent. His son’s reel whined, and Matthew gritted his teeth and cranked the wheel.

  “Need a hand?” Silas asked.

  “No. I . . . can do it.” Matthew kept reeling in the line. His brow creased, he leaned back.

  He ended up hauling in a good-size mullet, without help. The fish flopped on the deck. The young women cheered, and the men clapped Matthew on the back.

  “First fish!” Matthew held it up, triumphantly.

  Silas grinned. Yes, his son was his own person, on the brink of adulthood. For so long, Silas had only thought of his and Belinda’s calling. He needed to prepare himself for his children’s paths diverging.

  Even Lena, who glowed as she chattered with Emma and Steven.

  One day, he’d be alone.

  * * *

  Rochelle, 19

  “Well, I’ve come to a decision,” Rochelle’s father announced at breakfast, the Saturday after Thanksgiving.

  “What’s that?”

  “I’m selling the house.”

  “Selling?” Rochelle tried not to let her voice squeak. “When?”

  “I’m putting it on the market in January.”

  “January.” It seemed she was only capable of one word at a time, right at this moment. “Why?”

  “This is too much house for you and for me.” He waved his piece of toast in the air. “I’m going to buy a small condo. I should be able to get a good price for the house, workshop, and acreage. Don’t worry. Both you and Jolene will get a share.”

  “A share.” Rochelle shook her head. “But I’m not worried about that.”

  “Consider it getting your inheritance early.”

  “Inheritance.” Was something wrong with her father? “Dad, are you feeling all right?”

  “I’m feeling fine. I should be around to get old and ornery.”

  “Good, I’m relieved to hear it.” She dabbed at her home fries. “Well, you’ll be glad to know I’m thinking about going back to school. It’s time, I think.”

  “Good, good. Your mother . . . your mother would be happy, if she knew. Always wanted you to finish nursing school. Me too.”

  “I’m going to sign up after New Year’s. I might not get the pick of the classes I want, but I’ll start somewhere.”

  “Now, I hope you don’t think I’m overstepping, but I think you and the Fry boy ought to work things out.”

  “It won’t happen. He’s marrying Belinda, remember?” The words tasted bitter on her tongue.

  “They’re not married yet.”

  Rochelle shook her head. “It’s too late.”

  * * *

  After Sunday supper and a short nap, Rochelle woke to an empty house. Emma had gone fishing with the group. Betsy left a note saying she and Thaddeus had walked to Aenti Sarah’s house where the family was gathered, visiting the spry Old Order octogenarian.

  Before Rochelle went to lie down, Betsy had invited her to come along, too, but she politely refused.

  With the headache now gone, Rochelle got up and paced the house. Today, a day of rest. Yes, she’d napped. No business today, either, she thought as she looked at her darkened computer screen.

  She didn’t recall the last time she’d simply taken a stroll through the village. The earlier conversation with Bea wiggled itself to the front of her mind.

  Rochelle let her hair down, brushed it, put it back up again, then pinned on a fresh kapp. Time for a walk, to remind her of why she loved this village and not to let one sour apple spoil it for her.

  The streets, nearly empty, were still damp from the rains earlier, with some shallow puddles at the street corners.

  Rochelle’s steps took her along to Graber and toward the home of her former employer, Leah.

  Not far now, and she caught sight of Leah’s house, a square cinderblock cottage, painted dove gray with white trim. A few hibiscus plants bloomed in front of the porch, where a lone figure sat in one of a pair of rocking chairs.

  “Well, if I don’t say, it’s Rochelle Keim,” called out the figure. Leah. White hair with a kapp to match, and still wearing her black dress and white apron she’d worn to service that morning.

  “Leah.” Rochelle found herself grinning at the sight of the woman.

  “Come up here, sit a while.
I’ll get us some lemonade.”

  Of course, Rochelle had to comply. If not for Leah, Rochelle wouldn’t have learned the ins and outs of the cleaning business.

  “How are you?” Rochelle asked as she stepped up onto the porch and joined the elderly woman.

  “I’m doing as well as Gotte wills me today. And, how are you?”

  “Very well, thank you.”

  “Wait here a moment, and I’ll get us some lemonade. Made fresh yesterday, from lemons in the backyard.”

  A few minutes later Leah emerged from her house. She carried a small tray on which perched a pair of glasses and a plate of shortbread cookies.

  “Here. Wet your whistle.” Leah set the tray on a table between the pair of rocking chairs.

  “Thank you.” Rochelle reached for a glass with one hand and a cookie with the other.

  “I haven’t seen you in a while.” Leah’s eyes sparkled. “You’re still in business?”

  “Yes, ma’am, I am. It’s going very well.” Rochelle took a sip of the tart lemonade and savored the accompanying sweetness.

  “I heard young Emma has given you fits.”

  Rochelle chuckled. “She’s young. I think she is happier now at Der Dutchman, waiting tables. I have a new helper now. Lena Fry.”

  “Ah, the missionary pilot’s dochder.”

  “Right.”

  “So tragic, losing her mamm.”

  “I agree. Belinda and I were good friends once.”

  “You were the same age when you lost your own mudder.”

  “Yes, I was. And I ended up here.” Rochelle nibbled on the cookie. Buttery, a perfect mild flavor to offset the lemonade. “I’m back in college now, finishing my nursing studies.”

  “At last. I thought you might have started sooner; I’m glad you are. You do a good job of taking care of so many people. I thought you would stop cleaning houses before now.”

  “It was a good way to make a living. Well, you know.” Rochelle smiled at her own words.

  “Yah, and I’m as proud of you as I would be of one of my granddaughters. And what, no husband in your life? Nobody?”

  “No. Not since the last time we spoke.” Which had been far too long ago. Months and months. Was their conversation in Yoder’s? She wanted to add, “Not really.” She wouldn’t even mention the Daniel Troyer disaster of last fall.