by Katie Powner
She held his gaze as if searching for something. As if holding him in a spell. But her face gave nothing away. “We’ll see, Dad.”
“What smells so good, Mom?” Noah asked. The spell was broken. “I’m starving.”
“Just leftovers.” Hannie pushed hair out of her face. “But your father’s quite a cook as it turns out, so even the leftovers are delicious.”
Gerrit felt his face redden as he drew a knife from the block and began cutting strawberries for the lemonade. “I only make easy stuff.”
“You should taste his éclairs.” Hannie set four plates on the table. “I keep telling him my customers would love them. If we put in a pastry bar.”
Noah’s eyebrows rose in surprise. “Are you thinking of expanding The Daisy Chain?”
Gerrit’s stomach tightened. The last he’d heard from Hannie on the subject was that she couldn’t believe she’d ever thought they could work together. He held his breath.
“Maybe.” Hannie glanced at him. “It’s always been my dream to add on to the shop. Turn it into something unique. Maybe even add a little stage like some coffee shops do.”
“I remember you talking about it before.” Evi’s eyes shone. “A long time ago. Think of the possibilities. Greenville doesn’t have anything like that.”
Gerrit stared at the knife in his hand. When had she talked about it before? He’d been married to Hannie for thirty-five years, and he couldn’t remember her saying she had a dream. Not that he’d ever stepped away from his own bitterness and guilt long enough to ask. So she’d been forced to fight and scrape to chase her dream by herself while he’d chased what he thought was his own dream only to find that it wasn’t. Only to find he’d been chasing the wind. Alone.
“I think you should do it.”
He was as surprised as everyone else when the words came out. Three heads turned to look at him in disbelief.
“You think I should expand the shop?” Hannie asked.
He nodded.
“Add a coffee and pastry bar?”
He set down his knife. Took a deep breath. “If that’s what you want, then yes.”
She moved closer to him. “And you’ll make éclairs?”
“As many as you need.”
She was right beside him now. “We’re not exactly spring chickens anymore. It would take a lot of work.”
“I have time on my hands.”
Her eyes narrowed. “And a lot of money.”
How many years of his life would it cost him to invest in Hannie’s dream? Five? Six? He studied the tilt of her head. The spark in her eyes. Even if they never made the money back, it would be worth it to see her smile. “I happen to know where some is. Anything else?”
The corners of her lips twitched. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but you could never run the counter. We’d need another employee.”
Gerrit watched her face, longing, praying, hoping for all the light shining from it to be for him. “I know a kid. He’s real smart and needs a job. He even sings.”
She threw her arms around his neck. He stood there for a second, stunned, then reached around to hug her back. Over her shoulder, he could see the kids watching. Evi with a pensive expression. Noah with a grin.
Noah tapped the counter with his knuckles. “Can we eat now?”
CHAPTER
FORTY-EIGHT
The back deck had been built for this. For sitting next to Hannie as the sun set. For watching the fields at the bottom of the hill turn to gold. Fresh, clean water from the sprinkler system sparkled as it covered the grass in life. Promise. Hope.
Gerrit knew he could sit on this deck every night for the rest of his life and still not make up for the sunsets he’d missed. But he was here today.
Bernard strutted up the deck steps and hopped up onto the rail, ready to settle in for the night.
Hannie smiled at the foul creature. “Who invited you?”
Gerrit waved his hand at him. “You’ll have to excuse him. He thinks this is his deck.”
“He better not poop on it.”
“He knows better.” Gerrit glared at Bernard. “Don’t you?”
The rooster acted like he didn’t hear.
Gerrit made his voice as stern as possible but couldn’t keep his lips from twitching. “You miserable thing.”
Hannie gave Gerrit an inscrutable look. He swallowed hard. She searched his face. “Something happened to you today.”
“What?”
“After the service. Where did you go?”
He looked away and sank back in his chair. “I talked with Jakob.”
She was silent for a minute. He could almost hear the wheels turning in her head. When she finally spoke, her voice was soft. “When you came back to the house, you looked different.”
“I was.” He wanted it to be true. God, please let it be true. “I am.”
“Do you want to go to church with me in the morning?”
The golden fields turned purple. The Pacific tree frogs began their evening song. Gerrit watched the lights turn on outside the milking parlor.
“Yes.” He turned his face to her. “I’d like that.”
She smiled and stood, patting his hand. “Me too. And I think I’ll head to bed. It’s been a long day.”
A long week. A long thirty-five years.
“Okay.”
At the sliding door, she paused. “It’s about time you slept in your own bed, don’t you think?”
Every muscle in his body tensed. “I reckon.”
“Okay then.”
She went into the house, shutting the door behind her. He stood and gripped the rail, seeing everything around him with new eyes. Hannie had made a home here. Filled this place with beauty while he was away. Created a refuge he had never realized he needed.
He surveyed the backyard. The flower beds near the house arranged so that something would be blooming all summer long. The climbing rose entangled on a wooden trellis. A patch of daisies waving their green arms with abandon at the last rays of sunlight.
Of course.
His eyes widened as the truth hit him.
Hannie loved daisies.
He retrieved the small orange pair of gardening shears from the shed and crossed the yard to the cheery white-and-yellow flowers. With gnarled hands, he gently cut as many as he could fit in one fist.
Inside the house, he found a blue-tinted Mason jar in the cupboard by the sink, filled it halfway with water, and stuck the daisies in. It was a paltry offering maybe, but it was all he had. He glanced at his recliner in the living room, then at the stairs. His mouth went dry. Had she meant what she said?
“Here goes nothing,” he whispered.
He headed for the stairs, flower jar in hand, and hesitated. Wait. There was one more thing he needed to do.
In the mudroom, by the door, he stared down the blue-and-white suitcase. It had frightened him the first time he saw it. Angered him many times after that. It had told him more than any words Hannie could’ve spoken. But its time was up, its services no longer needed, because he knew everyone was right where they belonged.
He bent his stiff back and grunted, reaching for the suitcase handle. His fingers wrapped around it, and he lifted.
The suitcase gave easily, swinging freely in the air.
It was empty.
A hundred memories flashed through his mind. Memories of Hannie sitting on his lap while he drove the cab tractor around the field. Of her belly swollen in pregnancy, face aglow. Of her brushing her honey-colored hair back when it was as long as her waist.
Of her tears at Luke’s funeral.
Of the plates of food left for him to find long after everyone else had gone to bed.
Of her standing in the doorway, holding a blue-and-white suitcase.
He carried his simple yet profound gifts to the bottom of the stairs and looked up—yes, things were looking up.
And he smiled.
Acknowledgments
Thank you to my mom
for never once doubting this day would come. You’re the best.
Thank you to all the men and women who have dedicated their lives and their land to feeding the world. Long live the family farm.
Thank you to my first readers, Sarah Carson and Janice Parker, and my second readers, Kerry Johnson and Emily Conrad. Thank you to Jim and Carol Ashby for your generous hearts. Thank you to my many friends in the writing community for your support and encouragement, and to my QTs for hanging out in the hallway with me. Thank you to my agent, Keely Boeving, for believing in me, and to Steve Laube for showing me the way.
Thank you to everyone at Bethany House, from those who helped me fill out paper work to those who coordinated this book’s release into the world to everyone in between. Special thanks to Dave Long for giving this book a chance, and to Luke Hinrichs for pushing to make it the best it could be.
Thank you to my husband, Andy, for doing all those dishes while I worked and refusing to let me give up. I love you.
And all thanks, honor, and glory to God: Creator, Sustainer, and Author of the greatest story of all.
About the Author
Katie Powner grew up on a dairy farm in the Pacific Northwest but now calls Montana her home. She’s worked alongside her husband in youth ministry for over a decade and is a mom to the third power: biological, adoptive, and foster. In addition to writing contemporary fiction, Katie blogs about family in all its many forms and advocates for more families to open their homes to children in need. The Sowing Season is her debut novel. To learn more, visit her website at www.katiepowner.com.
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Table of Contents
Cover
Half Title Page
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Contents
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Acknowledgments
About the Author
Back Ad
Back Cover
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