“Grandma wanted to come, but she’s still pretty feeble. She sends her heartfelt condolences and says you are to keep this bowl as a gift.”
“When I am better, I will make some bread in this kneading trough and bring it to your grandmother.”
“She would love that.”
Levi saw Grace’s face as she looked up at his mother, and his heart lurched at the compassion he saw there. This was not an Englisch person coming to sightsee—a problem they sometimes had to endure at funerals. Grace actually cared.
“Is there any way I can help you in the coming days, Claire?” Grace asked.
Levi was certain there was no way his mother would allow this Englisch girl to help her. He doubted Grace even knew which end of a wringer washer to shove the wet clothes through, let alone any of the other myriad chores his mother did each day.
“Could you come tomorrow?” Claire asked, much to Levi’s surprise. “Daniel is not feeding well, and I think there is something wrong.”
Grace’s face registered immediate concern. “Have you told the doctor?”
Claire shook her head.
“Why not?”
The bishop had noticed the holdup. He looked pointedly at Levi, and then at Grace, as though to instruct Levi to shoo the Englisch woman away.
Levi pretended not to see. Bishop Weaver did not realize all that Grace had done for their family.
Grace laid a hand on his mother’s wrist. “Why haven’t you said anything to the doctor, Claire?”
His mother leaned forward and whispered something in Grace’s ear. It was embarrassing to see all the heads turned their way, watching this strange exchange between Claire and this outsider. Suddenly, he wished Grace had not come. This was not her world. She did not belong here. Even if she was only trying to be kind, this was not a place she should be.
With everyone still watching, and the bishop impatiently waiting, Grace sat the fruit bowl on the ground, pulled the baby blanket away, and gave Daniel what appeared to be a quick examination. The baby, disturbed, howled in protest.
“He certainly has a healthy set of lungs.” Grace wrapped the baby back up and laid him in Claire’s lap. “I think he’s okay for now. I’ll come by tomorrow and check on him.”
“Thank you,” Claire said.
For the first time, Grace seemed to realize that a hush had fallen over the crowd as over approximately three hundred people watched her and waited for her to finish.
“Um, I’ll just go put this someplace and . . .” She glanced around and saw all the faces turned toward her.
“You may put the bowl in the house,” Levi said. “It is time for us to get started.”
She seemed unsure whether to go or stay. He decided to help her make the decision.
“There will be no Englisch spoken here today,” he said. “But my mother and I thank you for coming.”
“I am so sorry for your loss,” she said.
And then Grace Connor walked away while a barnful of people watched.
Except for him. He kept his eyes conscientiously facing forward. It would never do for the bishop to observe him—a baptized, single man well into marriageable age—gazing after a young, female, Englisch neighbor.
chapter SEVEN
“How did it go?” Becky was stretched out reading, taking up one entire couch. Elizabeth, on the other couch, moved some dark blue knitting and a how-to book aside as Grace fell onto the couch beside her.
“When did you take up this hobby?” Grace pulled a stray knitting needle out from where it had been sticking up from between the cushions.
“While you were gone.”
“I was gone less than an hour and you took up knitting? Why?”
“I’ve had this yarn for ages and I figured this is as good a time as any for me to figure out how to be a really good old woman. That’s what old women do, isn’t it? Knit?”
“Not you. You don’t even sew.”
“I’ve let you down. A grandmother who doesn’t sew. Shocking.”
“Seriously. Why are you doing this?”
“I need a hobby, and this seems more productive than crossword puzzles. Now, tell me how it went at the funeral.”
Grace sighed. “How do you know if you’ve made a complete fool of yourself in front of a bunch of Amish people?”
This caught Becky’s attention and she raised her head from the book she was reading. “What did you do, Grace?”
“Nothing, except try to give my condolences to Claire.”
“And?” Grandma prompted.
“There was this big barnful of people sitting around on benches. Kids milling about. People talking. I saw Levi pushing Claire along in a wheelchair. She had the baby in her arms. I stopped and said hello. She asked me a question about the baby. I bent over to take a look at him, and when I straightened back up again, no one in the place was talking, Levi was red in the face, and everyone was staring at us.”
Becky closed her book. “What happened then?”
“I gave them my condolences and got out of there. Levi—very pointedly, I might add—informed me that the funeral would be not be in English.” She traced a seam on the couch with her finger. “It was obvious that he wanted me out of there as quickly as possible. I wish I hadn’t gone.”
“The Amish are hard to read sometimes,” Grandma said, “the Swartzentrubers especially. For all you know, the women might have been wondering where you bought your shoes and all the single men wishing you were Amish.” Elizabeth compared her handkerchief-sized piece of knitting to the picture in the how-to book.
Grace lifted one foot and inspected her burgundy, oiled-leather Birkenstock clogs that she had ordered over the Internet in a fit of “retail therapy” after one especially bad night patching together wounded soldiers in Afghanistan. “You really think the women wanted to know where I got these?”
“Are they comfortable?” Grandma asked.
“Extremely. That’s why I bought them.”
“Well, I’m sure you’ve noticed that Amish women don’t exactly wear pointy-toed high heels. They go for comfort and durability—intelligent women that they are.”
“I doubt they were admiring my shoes. I think I just looked utterly out of place.”
Becky giggled. “Well . . . you were.”
“You should have gone instead of me, Becky. You’re the one who’s been living here all this time.”
“I was busy trying to find Grandma’s yarn and knitting needles in the storage room upstairs—which wasn’t exactly a picnic.”
“I just remembered something else that puzzled me,” Grace said. “All the men were still wearing their hats, although they were at a funeral—even Levi. I thought it odd that they didn’t take them off.”
“That would be paying too much respect to the dead. The Swartzentrubers take their hats off only to honor God. If you ever drive by the Shetlers’ on a Sunday morning when they are hosting church, you’ll see a huge pile of black hats near the entrance.”
“They pile all those identical hats together? How can they tell them apart?”
“I asked Claire that once. She gave me a very commonsense answer. They write their names inside the brim.”
“Well, that makes sense. But they don’t take their hats off inside buildings or for the national anthem or anything?”
“Only for God,” Grandma said. “Did Claire like the bowl?”
“She was very pleased. She said she’s going to make a batch of bread in it and bring it to you when both of you are better.”
“What did you say?”
“That you would love a visit.”
“Good.” Grandma shoved her glasses higher on her nose, unraveled two rows of stitches, and took another stab at her knitting. “I think you did well, all things considered. Your mission was to let Claire know that we cared about her and you accomplished that. You didn’t go to impress everyone else at the funeral.”
“I guess you’re right, it’s just that . . .”
/> “Just what?”
“Levi seemed downright annoyed that I came.”
Grandma laid the tangle of blue yarn down on her lap. “He probably was annoyed.”
“Why? Claire wasn’t. She was glad to see me.”
“It doesn’t take much to start the Amish gossiping. You’re a neighbor, unmarried, and lovely. Levi is a catch. You spent several hours with him the day Claire got hurt. You will probably be the subject of many conversations today and for several more days until something more interesting comes up. Levi knows that.”
“Then why did you send me up there?”
“Because this wasn’t about you and it wasn’t about Levi. It was about Claire. She was burying a husband today, and I wanted her to know we cared.”
“Then I guess I did the right thing,” Grace grumbled. “I just wish it didn’t feel so . . . messy.”
“Life is messy, Grace.” Grandma began to unravel the nest of yarn again. “Because people are messy. The sooner you accept that, the easier your life will become.”
“Why?”
“Because you’ll stop expecting perfection.” She examined her how-to book again and restarted her knitting. “From other people and yourself.”
Levi wanted to mourn his stepfather. He really did. He had come into Abraham’s house as a ten-year-old boy and had been treated like a son. But that in itself had been a problem. To be treated like a son by Abraham Shetler had been to absorb a great deal of unnecessary discipline. It had been a rocky start between them until he had toughened up and learned to obey his stepfather without question. Over the years, they hammered out a working relationship.
He felt no overwhelming grief for Abraham, but he did feel the weight of responsibility. Abraham had been a worker. Now it would be his job to provide for the family.
He tried not to think about the hospital bills that would soon come due. There was no way he could pay them. It had taken two years just to save up enough to purchase Angel Dancer. He knew that soon one of the oldest men of their church would make the rounds to all the Amish farms in the area, asking for donations. Every family would give as much as they could—just as Levi and his family had always contributed all they could each time others had needed help. After that, there was the existence of the Old Order Amish relief fund that was set up for this sort of extreme expenses, and into which Swartzentruber families sometimes had to dip. Also, the hospitals often reduced the bills of the cash-paying Amish. Levi had watched other Amish deal with medical bills, and by the grace of God, he would also have access to enough help to pay their medical debts.
He positioned his mother and Sarah on the women’s side, beside Rose. He took Albert and Jesse with him across to the men’s side. Albert sat ramrod straight like the little man he was becoming. Jesse, at eight, slipped his hand into Levi’s and leaned his head against his shoulder.
He looked down at Jesse’s hands. Already they were showing the calluses of farm work and a couple of barely healed cuts from the sharp wood strips they used for baskets. He remembered his own hands, still tender from childhood, trying to weave well enough to win Abraham’s approval.
Albert was becoming competent with the basket-weaving. Jesse, however, was hopeless at it. The child couldn’t sit still for the long hours required to craft a fine basket. He clearly hated the feel of the wet, slippery wood. Abraham had gotten angry many times at Jesse’s inability to weave well. There had been quite a few spankings.
Levi knew that Jesse’s palms were marked with crisscross scars from wrestling with the sharp edges of the weaving strips. He felt sorry for the little guy.
And then the strangest thought struck him. With Abraham gone, Jesse would never have to weave a basket again. Not if Levi didn’t make him—and Levi had no intention of making him. Jesse was simply not cut out for it. Not this sweet child who would rather watch the aerial acrobatics of a barn swallow than pay attention to finishing off yet another badly made basket.
Jesse was fascinated with everything that walked and crawled or galloped. As much as he fidgeted when he was forced to weave baskets, the child could lie still and watch a lizard for hours. He could already name most of the birds that nested around their farm.
Levi turned Jesse’s palm over and traced the cuts. No—his little brother would never sit and cry over making baskets again. Levi was the head of this family now, and he would get to make those decisions. The idea pleased him, but then he remembered his mother’s grief and plunged into remorse over the way his mind was straying.
God’s will be done. Just as the preacher was saying.
Suddenly, everyone stood up. Levi had been so deep into his own thoughts he had not heard the cue for prayer. He scrambled to turn around and kneel on the ground with his elbows on the bench as everyone else did.
Then he heard a quiet sob and shot a glance over his shoulder at his mother, who, unable to kneel, was bowed in prayer in her wheelchair. Rose had taken little Daniel into the crook of one arm. Her other arm rested around her sister’s shoulders. Maam sat with her arms wrapped around her stomach, her head bowed—shaking with sobs.
There was a rustle as the group finished their prayer, rose again as one body, and sat down upon the benches for another two hours of preaching.
Levi forced himself to concentrate on the service. Despite his own issues with his stepfather, Abraham had done the best he could with what he knew, and the man deserved a decent funeral and a respectful family.
Why was it so hard to focus today? Through the open barn door, he could see the woods behind their house where the dogwood trees were in bloom. Their white blossoms were the size of a squirrel’s ear now. The weather had been quite warm and humid, which meant that the morel mushrooms his mother loved would be springing up from the spongy ground. Hunting morels was one of his favorite things.
But it was not the time to think about gathering morels. It was time to listen to a couple more hours of preaching. Then the sad ride to the Graabhof, the modest cemetery where four generations of Abraham’s family had been laid to rest.
The preacher finished and the church broke into song, their voices rising as one. They sang the songs shlow—very slow. They did this because prison guards had once mocked his people by dancing to the hymns they sang while awaiting execution. Those long-ago martyrs had deliberately slowed their hymns down until it was impossible to dance to them. That practice had lingered. Levi had been told that Swartzentruber singing was even slower than in the other Amish orders.
There was comfort in blending his voice with the others. Becoming one with his church family in spirit and in voice. Levi felt the holiness of it penetrate his soul.
And then he caught sight of Zillah Weaver, the bishop’s daughter, staring at him from the women’s side. She was watching him intently, as though hoping to catch his eye. When she saw him looking at her, she smiled.
Zillah was blond and pretty, and she had been blessed with dimples that she never missed a chance to flash. In fact, the smile she used in order to show off those dimples best was a little odd. Even though his people were not allowed to hang mirrors on their walls, he would be very surprised if Zillah didn’t have a hand mirror tucked away in a drawer somewhere with which she had spent time practicing the art of smiling. She was that kind of girl.
He quickly looked away. Zillah could be as sweet as sugar, but she had a mean streak. He had seen it more than once. When one truly knew Zillah, she did not seem so pretty anymore.
He had always been careful never to give any indication that he was open to courting her, but she was one of the few girls in his church district close to his age and still single. Having to marry within the Amish faith, and specifically within the Swartzentruber sect, limited one’s options.
He wondered if her father, the bishop, was beginning to worry that she might never marry. That might explain his admonition for Levi to soon choose a wife for his mother’s sake.
The preaching began again, a fresh preacher this time. Jesse fell
asleep against his shoulder. Albert had his head down, twisting and untwisting two pieces of straw he had picked up from the floor.
Levi scanned the faces of the other women seated across from him. Were there any here for whom he could muster any enthusiasm? He knew of men who had chosen their wives the way a man chooses livestock, evaluating each woman’s health and ability to bear plenty of children. Levi wanted more than that. He wanted someone with whom he could talk about things other than how many bushels of corn he had taken to market or how many quarts of peaches she had canned.
Deep down, he wanted someone with a good mind who would help him become a better man. And he wanted—truth be told—someone he would not mind lying down beside at night.
At that instant, his mind took flight in a direction that he absolutely did not want it to go. A very dangerous direction: Grace Connor.
She had impressed him with her competency and her compassion. He found himself wondering what went on in that Englisch head of hers. His mother said that before Grace came to stay with her grandmother, she had lived halfway around the world, riding in helicopters, going into battlefields, saving wounded soldiers. He wondered if she ever had nightmares about what she saw.
Jesse stirred against him. He put his arm around the little boy and held him close. His family would be depending upon him for their survival. He could not allow himself to think about Grace for even one second. He wasn’t some Old Order teenager on Rumspringa sneaking around dating Englisch girls before he settled down. At twenty-five, he was a grown man with a family to support.
Getting to know Grace Connor as more than a nodding acquaintance was simply not an option.
chapter EIGHT
Grace’s internal alarm clock nearly always rang a little before six o’clock in the morning. Her father had believed in awakening a child at the same time every morning, and the time he chose was six o’clock. Weekends as well as school days. And it had stuck. At least with her—maybe not so much with Becky.
An Uncommon Grace Page 8
