by Anya Monroe
“Did you sleep well?” Mrs. Miller asked.
“So well, it’s very quiet here, peaceful, too.”
“Not to be nosy, but do you plan to stay on another night?”
Marigold looked to Abel for an answer.
“Ja, Mom, we will stay on until after tomorrow’s church service and lunch.”
“Well, I don’t know if you should come,” Mrs. Miller said. “The services are at the Yoder’s house tomorrow, and then you showing up with an Englisher, it just seems like a bit much.”
“Are outsiders not welcome at your church?” Marigold asked, holding her coffee up to her lip.
“It’s not that exactly, it’s not typical, but it isn’t unheard of,” Mrs. Miller said. “Just like you coming last night, we wouldn’t turn you away if you behaved and showed respect to our ways.”
“Then what is it?” she asked again, looking to Mr. Miller.
“We best get out to the barn, Abel,” he said, not answering Marigold’s question. “A crew of forty is here to help today. We should be there.”
“Right. Okay,” he said standing, neither men answering the question Marigold asked. “I’ll see you at the noonday meal, Marigold.”
After they walked out the back door Marigold looked to Mrs. Miller, confused.
“The Yoder’s are the family of his … of Esther,” she explained, clearing the men’s plates.
Marigold sighed, knowing coming here made things messier than Abel wanted to realize.
“He said it was fine if I came, I meant no harm,” she said.
“I know you didn’t, but Abel does what he wants, not always thinking how his actions might affect other people. We know that about him, and show him grace in that, but we don’t need to rub his Rumspringa dilly dallies in the church’s face.”
Marigold bit her lip, not wanting to disrespect Abel’s mother, but she certainly was not some dilly-dally. At least she hoped not. The word rebound sprung back in her mind.
“Can I help with the breakfast dishes?” she asked, changing the conversation.
“Yes, Bekah here will help, why don’t you follow her around with her morning chores. I’ll clean up Jakey, and Ruthie, please sweep the front porch.”
Once the jobs were delegated Mrs. Miller left with Jacob. Ruthie scampered away with a dustpan, leaving Bekah and Marigold alone in the kitchen.
“I don’t really need your help, I can manage the dishes alone,” Bekah said. She was much taller than Marigold, her dark brows scrutinizing her.
“Abel said I’d be welcome to spend the day with you, is that not something you want?”
“Oh, I’m not going to turn your help away, but you might not want to get your hands dirty is all.”
“I’m not delicate, Bekah.” Marigold sighed, annoyed that she was constantly put in a position of needing to prove herself. She was done with that, and she’d tried to explain that to Abel before they came, but he hadn’t understood. Maybe Mrs. Miller was right, maybe Abel didn’t think things through well enough.
Bekah seemed to consider the words. Then realizing Marigold wasn’t going to walk away without helping, she threw up her hands in defeat, she said, “Alright then, hand me the dishes for the washing. Let’s finish this and start with the other chores.”
The kitchen was spic and span in no time and Bekah led her to the next chore on the list.
“You might want to borrow my extra galoshes for this job. It gets muddy out by the chicken coop. You sure you can do this?”
“Collect a few dozen eggs?” Marigold asked, raising her eyebrows. “I’m sure I can manage.” Plucking them from the coop she marveled at the pretty blues and soft green hues of the fresh eggs. “We get ours from an organic grocer, but they’re all brown. These are so special.”
“Special?” Bekah laughed. “I’ve never heard someone call an egg special before.”
As they walked back to the house, Marigold took in the picturesque farm, the sloping red barn, the many outbuildings, the smell of grass and animals filling the air. She saw Abel in the distance with a crew of men, leading the charge.
She smiled at the sight of him, his shirt sleeves rolled up, revealing his strong forearms, his tan face turned to the sun. Biting her lip, she hurried after Bekah toward the kitchen.
Together they kneaded bread that had been rising for lunchtime loaves. The air was yeasty and warm, and Marigold breathed deeply, her lungs filling with the relief that came with being out of the city.
“Have you made bread before?” Bekah asked.
“Many times, in fact I was talking with Sarah about it last night. I use a sourdough starter at home, and had never heard of a friendship starter. She said she’d give me some before I left.”
Bekah gave a humph, watching closely as Marigold softly handled the dough, dusting the counter lightly with flour as she turned the round, sprinkling the tops with oats for flavor and appearance.
“That’s what I do too,” Bekah said. “Though sometimes I add sunflower seeds. Dad doesn’t like it so much though.”
“The oats or the seeds?” Marigold asking wishing she had asked before she had topped the loaves.
“The seeds. We always use the oats for our oat loaf. It pairs well with the potato and leek soup we’re making for lunch.”
The girls walked to the expansive garden where Bekah pointed out the leeks to Marigold. The space was tidy and filled with rows of already blossoming vegetables, though still early in the season.
“This kitchen garden is lovely. I wish I had more space at my house for something like this, even on a smaller scale. My parents say the real estate of our yard is too expensive to waste it on growing spinach I can just buy at the store.”
“Ja, but convenience has no flavor.” Bekah exclaimed.
“Right!” Marigold smiled, adding a few green leek stalks to the basket they’d brought out. “I don’t know how Abel does it, eating at a cafeteria every day, those are the worst. All heat lamps and fried food.”
“Fried chicken is right good though. Mom and I have perfected the recipe for coating the chicken before putting it in the fryer. Everyone loves it.”
“Well, I mean prepackaged hamburgers and corn dogs. Not the same as homemade fried chicken.”
Bekah stood, their basket filled.
“Can we pick some dill for the soup?” Marigold asked. “I love that in my potato soup.”
“Good idea,” Bekah said, shaking her head.
“What?” Marigold asked. “Did I say something wrong?”
“No, not at all,” Bekah said. “You’re just … not what I expected.”
“I’m pretty good at not living up to expectations.”
“Abel doesn’t think so.”
“How do you know?”
“He courted Esther for months and months and months. If you could even call it that. It wasn’t going anywhere; Abel would make promises he knew he wouldn’t keep. He would have never brought her around like this, or even simpler things. Like, he’d never pull out her chair, letting it be known he was keen on her.”
“I’m sorry your best friend left for Ohio,” Marigold said.
“You know about that then?”
“Abel told me. Anyway, I know what it’s like to lose a best friend.” Marigold thought of Tabby, of pulling away from her, of letting her go. Of knowing it was best, but knowing it wasn’t easy.
“Esther and I were friends more out of duty, really. And I feel bad saying that, but truly, we want different things. Even though it sounded fun to have my best friend marry my brother, I know they weren’t well-suited.”
“Why’s that?”
“Esther moved on in a flash. Once Abel cut off ties with her, she instantly had ideas about beaus in Ohio near her cousin’s farm. Also, nothing against either of them, but they were too alike. They both make decisions out of their own best interests.”
“Abel said you might give me the cold shoulder because he broke up with Esther. But if that’s not it, why we
re you being so distant last night?” Marigold asked, having no reason to keep things in the dark.
Bekah shook her head, “Abel might say that’s why I’m mad at him, but it’s something else and he knows it. Something that has nothing to do with Esther. Or you. I promise.”
Marigold nodded quickly, knowing asking anymore would be going too far.
Bekah shielded the sun with a hand at her brow, wisps of dark hair falling out from her kapp. “Ack, we shouldn’t have chosen soup for such a hot day.”
“Can you change the menu?” Marigold asked.
“No,” Bekah smirked. “Amish don’t change anything easily.”
Marigold followed her back to the house, knowing the double meaning was meant for her.
She saw Abel for a few moments at lunch, but he sat with a handful of the regular farm hands, and they spoke business. The tone of the meal was much more serious than the family dinner the night before, and Marigold witnessed the dynamics of the Amish gathered around the large kitchen table. The women ladled soup for the men, poured iced tea, and stepped away, waiting to eat until after the men went back to work.
The crew outside gathered and ate their own packed food, and Marigold was relieved not to have to serve another forty men.
They did a repeat of the morning dish routine after lunch, and with Bekah softer toward her, Marigold felt at ease for the first time in a long time.
After laying Jacob down for a nap and setting Ruthie up on her bed to read and rest for a few hours, Mrs. Miller invited Bekah and Marigold out to the front porch for iced coffee and strawberry rhubarb pie.
“I love it when people conserve their sugar in rhubarb pie. I like it tart, just like this,” Marigold said. “Who made it?”
“I did,” Mrs. Miller said. “And thank you, Marigold. I surely can appreciate how well you know your way around the kitchen. Did your mother teach you?”
Marigold shook her head. “Not even close. My mom is a feminist, to the extreme. All of my hobbies are seen as a direct threat to women’s lib.”
Mrs. Miller nodded. “Everyone doesn’t see eye-to-eye on women’s duties, but she should be proud of how well you’ve taught yourself.”
“Thanks,” Marigold said under her breath, caught off guard with the kind words, realizing how far a simple compliment went when she’d received them so far and few between.
“You knit too, right?” Bekah asked.
“Oh, I love to knit. I know the knit bomb story was funny, but I do take my knitting seriously. I spend a few hours a day working on my projects.”
“You should see Mom’s knitting room,” Bekah said.
“You have an entire knitting room? Like a sewing room?”
“Well, I don’t knit in the room, exactly.”
“It’s just a room holding all the yarn. She dyes it all herself.”
“No!” Marigold’s eyes grew wide with interest.
“‘Tis true, I’ll show you.”
They walked down the front steps and took a stone pathway to a small shed that was nearly large enough to be considered a cottage. White washed with cosmos growing as high as their waists, it was tidy and well-kept like everything else on the property. Mrs. Miller opened the door, revealing the biggest yarn supply Marigold had ever seen.
“This is yours?”
“I know it’s a bit much. I don’t really show many people, not wanting judging eyes. But I spin the yarn myself from the sheep wool we gather. We sell loads of what we shear, but Mr. Miller keeps me well stocked with my private supply.”
“He must appreciate your talent.”
“Ack, I suppose. I keep the family in nice wool socks and babes bums covered in wool diapers and blankets for the needy families in the district. Since I’ve never been much of a quilter, this became my hobby.”
“It looks like more than a hobby,” Marigold said, walking around the room touching the soft skeins. The colors were vivid. Bright indigo, violet, and golden yellow.
“We’re a fortunate family to be able to hire help, and we have a small family compared to others on the community, with only the four children. I’m fortunate to have free time, but I don’t want to be idle. I’ve thought of opening a small shop, or at least having open hours here for people to come purchase from my stockpile, but I’ve never gone through with it, mostly because dealing with the Englishers is hard, I don’t like the scrutiny, and Mr. Miller doesn’t want a lot of cars coming to our home, disrupting our quiet life.”
Marigold knew about people spinning and dying their own wool, and she knew it was not a short process. It was a labor of love.
With a flash, she realized she’d been looking for a job all wrong. She had applied at chain restaurants and coffee shops at the mall, cookie cutter clothing stores she would never even shop at. “I need to get a job at a place like this,” she said, more to herself than anyone else.
“You’re looking for a job?” Bekah asked. “I thought your family was well situated.”
“They are, it’s sort of an ultimatum.” Marigold bit her lip to withhold, like she always did, but standing here in this small cottage with these two unlikely women, she felt as though she could be honest. “I don’t want to go to college, so my parents said I need to get a job, which I understand. It’s like what you said, Mrs. Miller, I don’t want to be idle. But it’s hard, finding a job that fits what I’m good at, especially in the city.”
“Work for Mom,” Bekah joked. “That would solve all your problems.”
Mrs. Miller didn’t laugh, and neither did Marigold. They looked at one another, heads cocked to the side, wondering if perhaps it wasn’t a bad idea. With surprise, Marigold couldn’t help but wonder if perhaps it was the very best idea she’d heard all year.
Abel
The day had been long. His dad appeared ruffled about everything Abel had changed at the farm last spring, even though everything Abel had implemented only streamlined the shearing process. It was hard not to shake his head in frustration, but his dad seemed bent on annoying Abel.
“Everything okay, Dad?” he asked after the last worker had left in a black buggy down the country lane. They sat for the first time since lunch, on a barn bench to take off their work boots. The last of the sheep taken to the far field to graze, leaving them time to shower before supper.
“No, Abel, everything is not okay. All day I watch you, you do so well with managing everyone, with following the packaging procedures for best return on the wool, and yet you fight against it. Against being here, against your calling.”
“I don’t mean to complicate things,” Abel said, tired of feeling guilty for doing exactly what Rumspringa had been designed for. Exploring options before making a vow that would keep him in the church.
Taking those vows, and then leaving later, would force his family and community to shun him forever. Taking his time was the wise thing to do, the thing so many of his peers had already done, just in less dismissive ways. They explored the outside world while staying within the confines of the community.
“You are complicating things, Abel, with everyone in the community.”
“You don’t want me at the Yoder’s tomorrow, I understand that.”
“It’s not about the Yoder’s. It’s about you getting your priorities in line. In fact, you should come tomorrow, get your head on straight again about what is important.”
“Yes, Dad.” Abel stood, wanting to find Marigold, wanting to be around someone who understood that there was more to life than this singular farm.
Abel walked into the dining room later that evening knowing something was up. Marigold smiled extra wide, his mother and sister suddenly smitten with the girl they had narrowed their eyes at just one day ago. His dad wouldn’t make eye contact, and Eli wasn’t there to be a buffer between them.
His mom and dad discussed the shearing, and Abel answered questions politely about how many pounds of wool they expected to garner. Having the largest sheep farm in the county meant they turned a good
profit, especially since he’d made suggestions about the way they bag the wool, using plastic packaging now instead of the typical burlap. Buyers responded well to the changes he’d implemented and it meant only good things for the family business.
After dessert, and once the table cleared, his mom pulled Abel aside.
“Why don’t you take Marigold for a ride in your buggy? She’d probably like to see some of the local farms.”
“It’s dark out, Mom.”
“Oh, well, maybe you can catch up, it’s been a long day.”
“Dad’s okay with this?”
“Don’t see why not, you’re on your Rumspringa after all, can’t exactly tell you what to do or not do, can we? Anyways, it was his idea.”
After getting his closed-top buggy hitched, Abel helped Marigold step in. Once settled and moving down the road, he stole a look at the girl beside him.
“What?” she asked.
“Is that one of the six questions left?”
“No, I’m not up for games tonight.” She paused, and said, “So why did you look at me like that when you got in the buggy?”
“You’re biting your lip. That means you want say something but are holding back.”
“How do you know that?”
“I’ve been watching you, and it’s as if there is always something more you want to say.”
“I don’t know what you’ll think.” Marigold sat with her hands in her lap, and with her hair pulled away from her face in a tight braid, Abel saw the nervousness in her eyes, even in the dark of the buggy.
“Try me.”
“Well, I sort of found a job.”
His eyebrows knit together and he stole another glance at her.
“Why didn’t you say something yesterday, while we were on the trip here?”
Marigold blew air out of her mouth. “I didn’t have the job offer then … your mom kind of offered it to me.”
“What?”
“Your mom, she spoke with your dad and they said I could stay here at the farm, if I wanted. And help.”
Abel watched the empty road, emotion rising in his chest. He wanted to ask if she was insane, but instead quietly looked for a place to pull his buggy over as he tried to put together a coherent thought. A gravel lot at a fruit stand was empty for the night and he pulled his horse to a stop.
