For Sure and Certain

by Anya Monroe

  “You’ve meet lots of English girls?” Marigold asked laughing again, so familiar in Bekah’s company. They shared a sincerity that never existed between Marigold and Tabby. It made her sad for the friendships of her past, but also grateful for the girl beside her now.

  “Okay, I’ve met about three English girls in my life,” Bekah admitted throwing her hands in the air as if a secret had been found out.

  “I thought as much.” Marigold closed the screen door of the general store behind them, thinking of her see-through lace dresses, her sheer blouses. Remembering the look Abel gave her when he saw her like that, half dressed, transparent, filled with longing. Full of hope. She closed her eyes for a moment,; thankful she only packed thick cotton dresses. Wondering what it meant exactly, that she tailored herself to fit in with these people, or if those lacy get-ups we’re just another way for her to pretend.

  It hadn’t felt pretend, she felt at home in those vintage crocheted gowns, the thigh high, brown, laced leather boots. The same way she felt at home with Abel when he kissed her, pressing his hands around the bare skin of her back as they fell in the hay.

  But it made her wonder if those kisses had only come because Abel was drawn to her exposed shoulder blades and the indention between her breasts. It made her wonder if she had any idea of what home actually meant, what that familiarity actually felt like. She’d clearly never had much of that at-home feeling in the actual house she’d grown up in.

  They walked into the simple shop, and Bekah browsed the aisle of canning supplies. Marigold followed her, looking at the mason jars, labels, and giant speckled pots made to hold the filled jars while they processed in hot-water baths.

  Bekah took her time, seeming to not be in any sort of rush, and with the extra minutes to herself, Marigold remembered what she was supposed to do.

  “I’ll just be outside, I need to make a call,” she said. Bekah lifted her eyes for a moment, not understanding, before it seemed to dawn on her. Marigold needed to call Abel.

  Abel

  His arms were filled with the stack of books he’d just picked up from the library, and he quickly dropped them on his bed as the phone sprang to life with a loud ring. “Hello?” He leaned his back against the dorm room door, catching his breath, his voice hesitant as he spoke into the phone.

  “Abel? Is that you?” Marigold’s voice filled his ear, unexpectedly. Her question came out easy and bright, and he wished for about the hundredth time that day that he was with her, at home. Decidedly not here in a loud and dirty dormitory. In this place where phones rang incessantly and people acted perpetually exhausted from doing nothing.

  “Ja, Marigold, it’s me.” He smiled, sitting down on his bed. “You called.”

  “Of course I did. I promised I would when I came into town.”

  “What are you doing in town on a Tuesday afternoon?”

  “Bekah needed some things, we’re just at the general store. Anyway, that’s not important, how are you?” she asked, her attention fixed on him. “Did you meet up with your study group yesterday?”

  Abel’s shoulders relaxed, warmth spreading over him as he heard her words, her voice. She had listened to him, remembered about his school assigned group. She cared.

  “You remembered about my study group?”

  “Of course. You talked about it nonstop last week.”

  “Sorry, I didn’t mean to talk so much about myself.”

  “No, not like that. In a good way. In a we’re-getting-to-know-one-another way.”

  “No one at home would ever ask something like that. And I guess I didn’t think you’d care about all that academic stuff.”

  “Oh.” Marigold’s voice dropped a few octaves.

  Realizing he’d offended her, he tried to recover. “Not that you aren’t academic. It’s just Lily and you are so different.”

  “Right.” Her voice had definitely cooled. “My sister and I are very different.”

  “I didn’t mean to compare you to one another.”

  “But you did.”

  “Well, I don’t know why this conversation is coming off so poorly. I just was happy to know you cared about my school stuff. So thanks for asking. Can we start over?”

  Ignoring his request to begin again she continued, “Of course I care about your school stuff. I care about you. Do you not care about me?”

  “What? No, of course I do.”

  The line went quiet and Abel ran his hand over his face knowing he was screwing this up. This is why phones are stupid, messages aren’t received the same way when you can’t see the other person’s eyes, when you can’t see the tilt of a head, lips spread thin or a smile wide. When there is distance, signals cross.

  “Look, Bekah is coming out of the store. I should go.”

  “Don’t. Not yet.”

  “Then what, Abel? I called to say hello and I said it. It’s you who seems to be jumping around, not sure of the words to use.”

  “The Food Industry,” he blurted out, not wanting the call to end. “My assignment this week is to create a business plan and this week we’re making one for a bakery. Kinda lame, right? I mean, a lame business. I’d much rather do something cutting edge, or at least interesting. Technology or diversity in the marketplace.”

  He most certainly heard her scoff into the phone.

  “Lame is right,” she said. “Look, I’ll talk to you later. I’ve gotta go.”

  “Bye, Marigold,” he said, and then the phone clicked off. Stunned at the sudden departure of her voice, he stood staring at the phone in his hand.

  A few minutes later, Lacey and Jenna walked into the room, only to see a dejected and unsure Abel. Abel had pulled out the chair at his desk and sat, staring into space until Lacey finally waved a hand in front of his face breaking the spell.

  “Earth to Abel,” Lacey said.

  “Huh?”

  “You okay?” Jenna looked worried and Abel realized she was waiting for an explanation. Abel held up the phone still in his hand.

  “It was Marigold.”

  “Okay, and…?” Jenna waved her hand in a circle, encouraging him to continue talking.

  “I don’t know, she seemed … mad. First she got all upset that I was surprised she cared about my school work, and then got short with me when I told her about my lame bakery-business plan.”

  Jenna looked at Abel with such an air of pity that it caused him to lift his arms and shake his head.

  “What?” Abel asked, genuinely lost.

  Jenna turned her back to him and began unloading a plastic sack of takeout and plating up food for the three of them. She had been here a few days before when Abel returned from his parents’. Apparently Lacey and Jenna had taken advantage of the empty dorm room to get acquainted over the weekend. They had been cautious around Abel at first, but Abel let them know he didn’t mind their limbs entwined. In fact he was grateful to get to know another person here at school.

  “What were you telling me the other night, about why Marigold stayed with your family this summer for work?” she asked.

  “Uh, because she knits. That she’s going to help my mom with her yarn or something.”

  “Uh-huh.” Jenna bit her lips and scrunched up her forehead as if trying to hide her you-are-so-dense face. “And what does Marigold do for fun? What are her hobbies that made her and your sister get along so well?”

  Abel had returned from his parents, Marigold-less and miserable, only to have Lacey and Jenna force the story out of him

  “She sews her own clothes and likes to crochet and do all sorts of needlework, like quilting and embroidery. Oh, and bake breads and pies and make really exotic food, too, like you have here in the city. Like pasta carbonara and French macaroons.” As he spoke it dawned on him his mistake. His head fell in his hands. “I’m an idiot,” he moaned.

  “That’s about right.” Jenna handed him his plate of yakisoba noodles.

  Abel knew his mistake. He’d made fun of the project that revolved
around food. His sort-of-girlfriend’s area of expertise. He was no different than the people in her family, the ones who dismissed her.

  Jenna tossed him a look of pity, but he didn’t accept it. He didn’t need sympathy. He needed to sort this out by listening to his heart. That’s what Marigold would do.

  Chapter 9

  Marigold

  Marigold continued to make progress organizing Mrs. Miller’s yarn shed. As the days went by, she made her way through the piles, the conversation she’d had with Abel kept running through her head. It rattled her, and even though she’d kept busy all week, she kept coming back to his words, Lame, right?

  She’d spent so many years either hiding her interests or being belittled for them. Meeting Abel had been a breath of fresh air, but the more she thought about it, the more she realized that he was the same as her family. He left home to seek the things she herself ran from.

  No matter how good his strong hands felt as they cupped her face, she had no interest in being with a guy who didn’t value her. She picked up a skein of dark emerald yarn and added it to the shelf filled with other green hues. The space was coming together, and that pleased Marigold. Never for a moment had she wished she were anywhere else.

  She spent mornings by Bekah’s side, doing daily chores, and in the afternoon she came to the shed, hand-built by Mr. Miller, and made sense of the decades’ worth of wool Mrs. Miller had spun and dyed.

  The door to the shed was open and Marigold watched a buggy pull up to the Miller’s farm. Over the week she’d observed different Amish men coming to see Mr. Miller, and a few women came throughout the day to help with the property and household.

  It was obvious that the family was well thought of, even if they were non-traditional in some of their Amish practices. That much was clear in the not-so-quiet whisperings Marigold overheard about what this English girl was doing living in the Millers’ home.

  When the bishop had come to dinner last night, Marigold sat with her eyes lowered in respect, following Bekah’s lead. After they ate, Bishop Fisher and Mr. Miller asked Marigold stay at the table to discuss in more detail the circumstances around her staying.

  “There are a lot of people wondering exactly how an English girl will pull her weight, if she is even here for the reasons you mentioned.”

  “Marigold is as hard a working girl as I’ve ever known, and this is my home. I’m doing nothing to disobey the Ordung by having her work here this summer. We are blessed to have her fall in our laps as she did. Years ago my wife had the opportunity to host her cousin and it proved a fruitful time for them,” Mr. Miller explained, backing up the decision his wife had made to have Marigold there, not giving even a slightest hint of doubt in the choice.

  Marigold sat at the table, unaccustomed to people discussing her as if she wasn’t in the room, but the roles of women were different here.

  “But that was family. Marigold is family to no one here,” Bishop Fisher pushed back, his bushy gray beard nearly touching the table top where dinner was now cleared away. The room was quiet as his words sank in. Marigold had been so welcomed by the Millers, but she wondered if that was naivety on both their parts.

  “If problems arise, we will reconsider our choice to have her here, with your wisdom and guidance, Bishop. For now I see no reason why she can’t join us for Sunday services and accompany Bekah to youth activities,” Mr. Miller petitioned.

  “She can’t wear those clothing to services,” Bishop Fisher said, stating the obvious. Both men looked at Marigold, whose cheeks flushed red.

  “I can borrow something of Bekah’s, sir.” Marigold’s words rushed out, speaking for the first time, not wanting them to find any reason for her to leave. “I can dress different or not go to church or whatever you want, but please, don’t make me go.” She loved it here. The fresh air in her lungs and the shiny oak floors after a scrub and the sheep that bleated at her each time she tossed them sour apples. She couldn’t leave, not yet.

  Bishop Fisher smiled, the lines of his face folding warmly. He was a gentle leader, and it was clear he had no intention of extraditing her.

  “No one’s making you leave, but our community is built on gelassenheit, submission and letting things be, not putting ourselves forward in an arrogant or self-promoting way. That is the basis of our faith. It’s important to me, as bishop, the Shepard of our community that you aren’t here because you are hiding from something or running away. We can’t allow ourselves to become entangled in the politics of the outside world.”

  “I’m not, I promise. I just want to help, I don’t have any other agenda.” Marigold spoke with conviction, and she meant it all. She was here, plain and simple, to do a meaningful job.

  The conversation made her uneasy as the men worked to confirm that her motives were pure. But they were, and once she explained that to the bishop he refrained from pointing out any other cultural differences, instead allowed Mr. Miller to stick with his decision to give her room and board, trusting him to oversee Marigold as she lived within the Amish community.

  After seeing Mr. Miller champion for her, her opinion of him softened considerably. She recognized that he had allowed Abel to attend Jamestown. Her own parents laughed at her choice to come here, they didn’t support her at all.

  “Marigold?” Bekah called out to her, and she returned to the day at hand, to the yarn she held. She placed the crimson ball with the other reds before moving towards Bekah’s voice.

  “Yes?” she answered, stepping out of the shed into the bright afternoon sun, realizing Bekah wasn’t alone.

  “Hello,” a young man said, standing before her, in a straw hat and work clothes like all the Amish men wore. A girl stood with them, and Marigold could tell they were brother and sister, both dimpled cheeks and traditionally good looking.

  “You must be Marigold,” the girl said. “I’m Katie, and this is my brother, Joshua.”

  “Nice to meet you,” Marigold said, sticking out her hand. “Do you live nearby?”

  “Oh, just a few farms over. I had to bring back the tiller Mr. Miller let us borrow,” Joshua answered, looking at Bekah. She wouldn’t meet his gaze. “We wanted to meet you, the English girl everyone is talking about,” he said looking back at Marigold.

  “Oh, I don’t know about that,” Marigold said, pressing her boot in the dirt, making a circle with her toe, noticing, not for the first time that the other girls didn’t wear shoes during the day. She wasn’t quite ready to practice all the Amish customs quite yet.

  “Oh yes they are,” Katie said laughing. “Rumors are swirling.” Her voice was high and fast. “Everyone is saying something, that you’re Abel’s beau or that you’re running from the law or that you are a famous actress here to do a reality show.”

  “Reality show?” Marigold raised her eyebrows at Bekah, shaking her head. If anyone here really knew Marigold they’d know that sort of limelight wasn’t something she was interested in. In fact, she had enough media coverage this past month with everything her own father said about her.

  “So that’s not it?” Katie asked, scrunching up her face, as if trying to deduce for herself exactly what Marigold’s game was.

  “Oh, give it a rest, Katie.” Bekah shoved the girl’s shoulder, and Marigold suppressed a smile, thankful for Bekah’s loyalty. “Marigold’s a friend of the family and she’s helping us this summer, she’s gonna set up a shop with all Mom’s yarn.”

  “Whatever you say, Bekah. You always know best….” Katie scrunched her shoulders, acting as English as any girl Marigold knew back home, save for the long blue dress and fresh apron she wore, and the white kapp tight around her hair.

  “Will you be at the singing this Sunday evening?” Joshua asked.

  “Singing?” Now it was Marigold’s turn to scrunch up her face.

  “Don’t you tell her anything about anything?” Katie asked Bekah, making it clear that these girls had little in common. In the week Marigold had been here, she had never once heard Beka
h gossip or talk out of turn or speak like Katie did now, so sarcastic. It was surprising to hear someone talk so brashly after a week of being around the gentle Miller women.

  “Sunday evenings, Amish youth gather at a barn and sing hymns,” Bekah explained simply.

  “Well, that’s part of it,” Katie teased, her voice shrill now, and her accent heavy. Marigold had to strain to understand exactly what she said. “I mean, afterward we have the real fun, don’t we, Joshua.”

  “Give it a rest, Katie, would you?” Joshua asked, lowering his brow to his sister.

  “What? I’m just explaining to Marigold what we do after singing. We pair off, sometimes we go to the old shack and have a party, you know, enjoy ourselves.”

  “You’re on Rumspringa too, then?” Marigold asked.

  “Well, ja. Bekah and I are both seventeen, Joshua’s eighteen, so until one of us kneels for our baptism, we’re free to have a bit of fun.”

  “But we do it in different ways, don’t we?” Bekah said, her voice sharper than Marigold had ever heard from this soft-spoken girl.

  “That was one time, Bekah, you said you forgave me,” Katie said.

  “I’m keeping the past in the past, but I’m not jeopardizing Marigold by bringing her out with you.”

  “So you won’t be at the singing?” Joshua asked, looking at Bekah. “Because we don’t have to go to the shack, it isn’t important.” Marigold noticed a glimmer of hope in his eyes as he asked, but Bekah didn’t seem to pay any mind.

  “We’ll go, I want Marigold to have a fun time and socialize, but we won’t be going to a party afterward. You know I don’t like that sort of thing.”

  Joshua looked wounded, but he composed himself quickly, and nodded soberly.

  “I know you don’t, Bekah, and me either. I’ve changed.”

  “You’re both such a buzz kill,” Katie said waving good-bye and walking away with her brother, leaving Marigold to wonder where the Amish girl learned such English vocabulary.

  “So now you’ve met Joshua and Katie,” Bekah said, walking into the shed, sitting on the table in the center of the room.