The Amish Spinster's Courtship

by Emma Miller

  “Lovey?”

  She turned around to see Benjamin standing behind her, his wire-frame reading glasses perched on the end of his nose. “Could I... I need to speak to you about something,” he said, seeming anxious.

  “Ya.” She got to her feet, hoping she hadn’t made a mistake in the restocking she’d been doing all morning.

  He held a small piece of paper in his hand. “A little bit of an awkward situation,” he told her, waving it. “I wasn’t sure how to handle it. I went up to the house and...”

  Benjamin was breaking into a sweat and Lovage couldn’t help but wonder what on earth he was trying to tell her.

  “Rosemary was the one who suggested I come to you,” he continued.

  At that moment Lovage realized that the piece of paper he was holding was a bank check.

  “This came back today.” He fluttered the check again. “From the bank. Insufficient funds.”

  “You mean it’s a bad check?”

  “Ya.” He kept looking at her.

  “So...” She frowned, feeling bad for him. “You want me to, what? Call the customer?” It seemed like an odd request from him, since it was his business. But then again, he’d just commented the previous day at the supper table about how comfortable she was with his Englisher customers and what a great addition she was to his business. His praise had made her blush and get up to refill the serving bowl of mashed potatoes even though they didn’t really need them. The fact that he had such confidence in her made her feel good.

  “Ne.” Benjamin shifted his sturdy frame from one worn boot to the other. Then he plucked at his reddish beard that was shot through with gray. “Ya, I just... I’m concerned about his reputation, Lovey. This isn’t something... Not a matter to be shared outside the family.”

  The family? Lovage had no idea where this conversation was going. She absently swatted at a curly roll of flypaper that hung above her, precariously close to her head. The flies had been terrible all week. Everyone was hoping that the heat would soon break and cooling winds would bring more temperate days and fewer flies. She found it was taking her a bit of time to adjust to the sweltering heat of the summer here, which went well beyond summer weather in upstate New York.

  “Benjamin, I’m not following.”

  “Marshall Byler,” he finally said, speaking Marshall’s name as if it pained him.

  She shook her head in confusion. “I don’t understand. Marshall...” Then she realized what he meant. Marshall had written him a bad check. She clamped her palm over her mouth in disbelief. Then put her hand out, and Benjamin passed it to her. Sure enough, Marshall’s name and his house number on Persimmon Road were printed on the pale blue security check.

  Lovage looked up at Benjamin. “There must be a mistake. Marshall wouldn’t write you a bad check.” From the look of his property, of his livestock and the clothing he and his family wore on Sunday, he seemed to be comfortable financially. He didn’t seem like a man who couldn’t pay his bills.

  “Ya, that’s what I thought. So I called the bank. They said the same. Insufficient funds.”

  She stared at the check for a moment. The first thought that went through her mind was why would Marshall have written a check for sixty-two dollars if he didn’t have it? But that thought was immediately followed by a second, which was that a mistake had been made. In the time she’d known Marshall, she’d found him to be honest to the core. He would never write a check for money he didn’t have. And he would never risk his reputation in the community.

  “I’ll take care of this,” she said, reaching down to scoop up the box of products she was supposed to be stocking.

  “Now?” he asked.

  “Ya.” She pushed the box into his arms. “Now.” She walked away. “Is Mam still lying down?”

  “She is,” he told her, watching her go.

  “That’s good. I’m going to take her pony cart. I’ll be back shortly and then I’ll finish stocking the shelves. I’ll make sure Tara is here to wait on customers.”

  Half an hour later, Lovage rode into Marshall’s barnyard. Spotting her in the pony cart, which had a bench only wide enough for two, Sam came running out of the grain shed. “Lovey.” He beamed. He was now calling her Lovey, too, and she’d given up telling him that only family called her by her pet name. Maybe, secretly, she was hoping they would become family.

  “Your brother here?” she asked, noticing their buggy wasn’t in its usual spot in the carriage lean-to.

  “Ya, in the house, I think.” Sam caught the dapple-gray pony’s harness and held the little gelding still while she climbed down from the cart.

  “Your grandmother?”

  “Gone down the road. To the Grubers. They’ve got relatives in from Ohio. Someone Grossmammi knew when she was a little girl. We might have to get our own supper, but Marshall said it’s a good idea for a man to know how to fry up a pork chop.”

  Lovage couldn’t help but smile at Sam. When she had first met Marshall, Sam had been so shy around her that he’d barely spoken in front her, but now he was becoming a regular chatterbox. “And how’s the conveyor belt invention going?”

  Sam was trying to build a conveyor belt for a friend of Lynita’s. Joe Crub from over near Marydel had recently lost a leg to diabetes and was struggling to get his chores done around his farm. One of his issues was trying to carry things like corn and grain into the barn while on crutches.

  “I think I’ve almost got it,” he told her, beaming. “Of course, it’s got to be hand cranked. Joe doesn’t even use propane on his farm. Says it’s too fancy.”

  “You have to respect a man’s convictions,” she agreed. “Do you mind getting Taffy some water?” She pointed at the little dapple-gray pony, which was older than she was. Rosemary had brought Taffy to her marriage to her first husband, Lovage’s father. “No need to unhitch her. I just need to talk to your brother for a minute.”

  “I’ll pull her into the shed,” Sam said. “Get her out of the sun.” He indicated the lean-to he and Marshall had built against the barn that allowed them to pull a horse and buggy through. It was a clever design that she’d never seen before on an Amish farm.

  “I won’t be long.” With her hand in her apron pocket, touching the check, Lovage crossed the barnyard. The barn, the outbuildings, the house and the dawdi house in the back were all in excellent repair, with freshly painted trim and windows that were sparkling clean. Lovage didn’t think she’d ever seen a neater barnyard. Even the hard-packed dirt in front of the barn had been raked recently. The lawn was neatly mowed and someone had edged around all the buildings. Marshall had more energy than any man she’d ever met. And this was not the farm of a man who couldn’t pay his bills.

  She walked up the porch steps. At the kitchen door, she called through the screen. “Marshall? Hello?”

  “Lovey?” he called from inside.

  He appeared at the door bareheaded, grinning. “What are you doing here?” He shook his head. “That didn’t come out right. I meant, what a surprise.” He held the screen door open for her. “A good surprise. I wasn’t expecting to see you until tonight at the softball game. You’re still letting me take you and Jesse home, right?”

  “Ya. But Jesse is going home with Adam, the boy who went for chicken and ice cream with us, so it will just be the two of us.”

  He raised his eyebrows. “You’re going to ride home alone with me? Without a chaperone?” he teased.

  “We’ll see,” she told him, following him into the kitchen.

  “Sorry about the mess,” he said, pointing at the kitchen table, which was covered with papers. “Trying to put together some receipts so doing my taxes next year won’t be so confusing.” He brought the heel of his hand to his forehead. “I’ve been keeping it all in grocery bags, but...”

  She looked at the heaping piles of paper: checks, printed receipts, ha
ndwritten receipts on bits of paper. Her mother had always done their taxes for her father. She kept a plastic box with properly labeled files for such record keeping. It was funny that many Englishers were under the impression, for some reason, that Amish didn’t pay taxes. They did. What they didn’t have, which she thought sometimes was what confused Englishers, was health insurance.

  He ran his hand through his hair, seeming overwhelmed, which she found interesting because she’d never seen this side of him before.

  “Trying to pay some bills,” he explained.

  She rested her hands on her hips. “Funny you should say that, because that’s why I’m here.”

  His forehead wrinkled. “To pay my bills?”

  She shook head, staring at the mess. On the far corner of the table, she spotted a pile of checks with what appeared to be a deposit slip on top. She glanced at him as she drew the check he had written to the harness shop out of her apron pocket. “Your check wasn’t good.”

  “What?”

  She handed it to him. “You wrote this out to Benjamin’s shop last week to pay for that bridle you had shortened and... I don’t remember. Whatever else you had repaired.”

  He stared at the check. “I don’t understand.” He looked at her, even more flustered now. “Lovey, I have money. I’m...comfortable.”

  She immediately understood that he was trying to say he wasn’t poor. It wasn’t considered polite among her people to talk about how much money one had, not the way she sometimes heard Englishers do. Of course, the excellent state of Marshall’s house and outbuildings showed that he had adequate...probably more than sufficient income from his farming.

  “Benjamin said that the bank told him you didn’t have money in your bank account.”

  He was still staring at the check. “Didn’t have money?” He groaned. “This is embarrassing.” He looked at her. “Here I am trying to convince you to marry me. Trying to convince you that I can care for you. For a family and...” He didn’t finish his sentence. “Can...can I just give you cash? Ne, I should probably take it to Benjamin myself and apologize personally to him.” He was still shaking his head. “But why isn’t there any money in my account? There should be.”

  “What about those checks?” she asked, pointing at the pile on the corner of the table.

  “What?”

  “Those checks.” She pointed again. “On the end of the table. That looks like a deposit slip. I used to deposit my father’s paycheck for him when we would go to market on Friday. That’s a deposit slip, right?”

  Marshall walked over to the far side of the table and picked up the stack. “Oh, no,” he groaned.

  “The money you thought was in your account?” she asked.

  “Ya.” He looked up at her. “I wrote out the deposit slip.” He rifled through the pile. “Actually three. Never went to the bank, I guess,” he said sheepishly.

  “Well, it’s no wonder, looking at this mess. How do you keep anything straight?” She pointed at the table. “Is it okay if I have a look?”

  He opened his arms. “Of course, Lovey. I don’t want any secrets between us. When I marry you, what’s mine will be yours.”

  She ignored that comment, focusing on the subject at hand. “You need a system,” she told him, picking up a couple pieces of paper. She started to make piles. “And something better than a grocery bag. Whatever you spend on the farm to produce your crops is deductible, but you need the receipts. Put all those together. It helps if you have a receipts book. A way to log everything. But you still need to keep the pieces of paper.” She found several bank statements, from two different banks, that didn’t even look as if they’d been opened. “And you need to balance your checkbook. That way, if you think you’ve made a deposit and you haven’t—” she continued sorting papers, going faster now “—you’ll know right away. My dat always balanced his checkbook every Saturday morning. He showed me how it was done. I did it for him when he got sick. I can show you.”

  She looked up at Marshall, to find him watching her. “I’m sorry,” she said, suddenly feeling self-conscious. She set down the stack of bank statements and stepped back from the table. She felt her face flush. “I overstepped.” She looked down at her canvas sneakers, wishing she hadn’t agreed to come today. Wishing she had just told Marshall about the check and not said anything more. “I should go,” she mumbled.

  “Ne.” Marshall came around the table. “You didn’t overstep, Lovey. I need your help.” He motioned to the table and chuckled. “Obviously I need your help. I need you.”

  She looked up, meeting his gaze. “You do?”

  “This is just one more example of why we’re meant to be together. A marriage should be a team—that’s what my dat always told me. That he and my mam were two, but they were also one. A man’s and a woman’s abilities should complement each other. That’s what he said. My weaknesses, such as my organization—my lack of organization—is one of your strengths. You lack confidence in yourself sometimes.” He spread his arms wide. “But I probably have too much.”

  He took a step closer to her and he was so near that she could feel his breath on her lips. She could feel herself falling in love with him.

  “Oh, Lovey, say you’ll marry me,” he said softly, his voice husky.

  When he said the words, it was on the tip of her tongue to say yes. Because something in her heart told her that if she didn’t say yes, she would regret it the rest of her days. Something told her that for all his joking and lightheartedness, he still spoke sincerely. That he really did want to marry her.

  “Let’s get your finances in order,” she said softly, barely trusting her own voice. “Then we’ll talk about marriage. Because if you went to speak to my mother and Benjamin right now about taking my hand in marriage—” she grimaced “—I’m not so sure they would be agreeable.”

  “Are you saying you’ll marry me, Lovey?” He took her hand and leaned close, so close that their lips were almost touching. “Because if you don’t agree to marry me, I don’t know what I’ll do. Because...because I’ve fallen in love with you.”

  “Just give me a little time,” she whispered, mesmerized by his closeness.

  Then their lips did touch, ever so lightly, and Lovage felt a tingling warmth pass from his mouth to hers. And she wanted to kiss him again. And again.

  Then she came back to her senses. “No more of this,” she whispered shakily, taking a step back, out of his arms.

  Which was just in time, because Sam walked into the house. “What are you doing?” he asked.

  Marshall met Lovage’s gaze again and then they laughed. They laughed so hard that Sam, who had no idea what was going on, began to laugh with them.

  Chapter Eleven

  The first Saturday of October was bright and crisp, and the scents of autumn leaves and fresh-cut hay filled the air. Marshall and several of his friends had gathered at a farm near Rose Valley to cut hay for Caleb Gruber’s grandparents. The field was a relatively small one, but Huldah and Jethro Gruber kept to the traditional ways of their childhood and wanted no automation of any sort. The hay had been cut and raked using horsepower the day before, and now the men were piling the drying hay into fragrant stacks and transferring some of it by wagon for storage in the barn.

  Most men in Hickory Grove with larger farms baled their hay, or even had their English neighbors come in with tractors. They then packed the timothy and clover into huge circular bales that could be covered with weatherproof wrap so that it could be left in the field until needed. But with such a small field, the old way worked, and Marshall thought that harvesting the loose hay was a reminder of the rich past and all the wisdom that had been passed down from generation to generation.

  As Jethro drove his team of gray Percherons, the men followed behind the wagon, pitching hay in and talking. Marshall had brought Sam along and his little brother was busy standi
ng in the back of the wagon, forking hay into the center, and talking to Jethro, who seemed happy to have a companion.

  As the men worked, the conversation eventually turned toward women, because that was what unmarried young Amish men liked to talk about. All unmarried young men, Amish or Englisher, Marshall suspected, liked to talk about girls. Along with Marshall and the Gruber boys, John and Caleb, Gabe and Asher Schrock, who were Caleb’s grandparents’ next-door neighbors, were also helping out.

  “Heard the announcement was made in church a few weeks ago for your marriage to Mary Lewis,” Gabe said to Caleb, lifting a forkful of hay into the wagon ahead of them. He was a short man in his twenties with a broad back and beefy hands. “You pick a day?”

  Caleb grinned, lowered his head and swung his pitchfork. “First Thursday in November.”

  “Whoowee,” Asher said, shaking his head. “Coming up awful fast. You sure you’re ready to settle down?”

  Caleb just kept grinning. “It is and I am. It can’t happen sooner. Mary’s everything I wanted in a wife—smart, pretty and she cooks a great hot mummix.”

  “I love a good hash. She have a sister?” Asher asked.

  Unlike his brother, Gabe, Asher was tall and slender, taller than Marshall by half a head. Of the two brothers, Marshall liked him better. Gabe tended to be a bit mouthy, which was not a becoming trait in an Amish man. He also did this annoying thing, clicking his thumb and middle finger all the time when he talked. It was as if he always needed to be the center of attention. And he chewed tobacco. But he was only twenty-two, so Marshall was trying to cut him a little slack. Marshall suspected he’d had some bad habits as a young man of that age. Gabe would mature.