Finding Hope

by Janice Kay Johnson - His Best Friend's Baby

  Hannah smilingly greeted all of them, too, before shaking her head at Lilian. “I enjoy the walk. Especially after doing laundry.”

  Her stepmother gave a merry chuckle. “Ja, hard work that is. Will you be home for supper?”

  “No, I think I’ll eat with Rebekah and Zeb and their daad for now, until I’m sure they’re happy with what I cook.”

  “I wish I’d had a cookie for lunch,” Zeb grumbled.

  Hannah only laughed at him. “I only started the job this morning. Where was I supposed to get a cookie?”

  She felt sure he didn’t understand everything she said, but enough to get the gist. He wrinkled his nose at her before running over to walk with a couple of boys starting toward the road on their own, all three jostling and laughing.

  When Hannah held out her hand to Rebekah, Gideon’s daughter bent her head shyly again, but took her hand. Once they caught up with Zeb, Hannah asked, “Doesn’t their mamm or daad come for them?”

  “No, they don’t walk on the road. See?” He pointed as the two boys turned onto a narrow trail that cut through the woods.

  “Ja,” she agreed.

  As they walked, she practiced her limited Deitsh on them, making faces when they laughed at her and trying again. She corrected Zeb’s English, too; Rebekah wasn’t ready to try hers out with this strange woman.

  Once home, Zeb ran off to find his dad, calling, “I’ll come back if he doesn’t need help.”

  Hannah smiled at the six-year-old. “Let’s bake cookies.”

  She’d already located most of what she’d need, but she made a silly game out of having Rebekah teach her the names for foods and utensils.

  The bottle of dark molasses was melassich, for example. Whether that was German or original to the dialect called Deitsh or Pennsylvania Dutch, or simply a slight alteration of the English word, Hannah had no idea.

  As they assembled ingredients, Hannah repeated the words, trying to absorb them. Wheat flour was weezemehl, sugar siesse, butter budder.

  It was unsettling how easily they came off her tongue, along with others she didn’t remember anyone saying. All she could think was that she’d heard Lilian ask someone to hand her an abbutzlumpe, a dish towel. Or that reseet was “recipe,” teeleffel a teaspoon.

  Soon Rebekah, enveloped in the smallest apron Hannah could find, stood on a stepstool stirring their cookie dough while Hannah checked the heat in the oven—offe—and greased the cookie sheets. Once the first batch was baking, they cleaned up enough to start on dinner preparations.

  Hannah felt sure they did have enough schnitz un knepp left for dinner, but decided to save the leftovers for lunch tomorrow instead. She was having fun cooking with Rebekah. Fortunately, she’d already defrosted more meat.

  Rebekah got chattier by the minute, and Hannah understood more and more of what she said, as if—no, it didn’t matter why. Either she was soaking up the language fast, or it was bubbling forth from her subconscious. Did it matter? It helped that the Amish all seemed to sprinkle in a fair number of English words, too.

  The cookies smelled fabulous baking and cooling on the counter. It had to be the aroma that magically drew Zeb from wherever he’d gone. He snatched several even though he’d grabbed ones that had just come out of the oven and he had to juggle them from hand to hand. He said, “Daad will want some, too,” and raced back out the kitchen door.

  Hannah smiled, anticipating the expression on Gideon’s face when he ate this meal.

  Mattsait. Supper.

  Chapter Seven

  Gideon and Amos Troyer walked as they talked. Gideon had noticed before that Amos liked to keep moving. Personally, he wouldn’t have minded sitting and sipping a cup of coffee, after working hard all day, but he’d had to bring Zeb and Rebekah with him to Bishop Troyer’s house. Amos’s wife, Nancy, had happily taken charge of them while her husband and Gideon went outside to stroll toward the garden and orchard behind the house.

  Dusk deepened the sky purple. A bat flitted by.

  Gideon knew he’d deliberately downplayed his concerns about Hannah. He’d simply said, “I’d like to know I have your blessing, since she isn’t one of us.”

  Now, Amos asked, “Do you know what Hannah and the kinder talk about? If she questions our faith or our ways, that would trouble me. You know we are counseled to be cautious about linking our lives with those of unbelievers.”

  Gideon knew the passage well. Too well, thanks to his wife’s close friendship with an Englisch woman. Were it not for the outcome of that, he’d be less concerned about Hannah and his instinct to trust her.

  “Samuel says she is a churchgoer,” he remarked. “He hopes she’ll attend one of the next services with the family. Maybe not this one, with her not speaking enough of our language.”

  Amos dipped his head.

  “Your kinder both speak some English.”

  “Ja, but she seems intent on learning to speak Deitsh. She has only worked for me for three days, but already she surprises me, learns new words every day.”

  “She does live with Samuel and Lilian.”

  “Their two youngest speak no English,” Gideon agreed. “She seems to like kinder.” He surveyed the large vegetable garden Nancy tended, and wished he’d been able to do as much. “Hannah is working hard to be able to talk with Zeb and Rebekah, but she’s nowhere near fluent. I don’t think she could criticize even if she wanted to.”

  “But if she keeps learning so fast . . .”

  It hadn’t occurred to Gideon that she might try to undermine his faith or his authority with his own kinder. He clasped his hands behind his back as he mulled over the possibility, finally shaking his head. “I think she wants to live the way we do. Become one of us as much as she can in a short time.”

  “You believe she’ll leave soon?”

  “She told me intends to stay for a month or two, at least.”

  “Do the kinder like her?”

  A low branch on an apple tree brushed Gideon’s shoulder as they circled through the orchard.

  He smiled at the question. “Ja, she’s become a favorite fast. She’s the best cook I’ve ever known.”

  Amos’s bushy eyebrows rose at that.

  “A boy Zeb’s age is hungry all the time,” Gideon continued, “and he likes his sweets.” As did Gideon. “Also, she’s encouraging Rebekah to help her cook in a way none of the other girls I hired did. Rebekah is excited to feel like an important part of the family.” He remembered how Hannah had described it: the joy of contributing.

  “You’re satisfied with her work, then.”

  “Very. She took over weeding the garden right away, we have clean clothes and sheets again, good food always prepared, and she makes work fun for Zeb and Rebekah. I’ll only have to walk them to school and pick them up on Mondays.”

  “Samuel was pleased when you hired her,” Amos said thoughtfully. “He shod our horses yesterday, that’s why we talked. He says she is full of new questions for Lilian every night, studies her recipes, looks less sad and more happy.” He paused. “He worries because her mamm is in town, staying with friends, he thinks. Keeps calling her.”

  Gideon frowned. “Does she answer those calls?”

  “Not when he’s seen. She told him she keeps the telephone close only because of her grandfather’s failing health.”

  “She told me the same.”

  “When Hannah did talk to her mother after coming to Tompkin’s Mill, that woman spewed poison about Samuel and about all of us. Samuel doesn’t think Hannah believes her mamm, but if she hears it over and over . . .” Amos didn’t need to finish.

  Newly disturbed, Gideon said, “She hasn’t said much about her mother. More about her grandparents.” There’d been passing references to her daad and Amish family, which had reassured him. Perhaps he’d been too willing to be reassured. Perhaps he should quit
fleeing her, and spend time talking to her instead. She wasn’t Rebecca King; he didn’t think Hannah would be so bold as to pursue him.

  Still, he had to abide by Bishop Amos’s judgment.

  Amos looked down at his feet and walked in silence until they were almost to the house. Finally, he said, “Samuel says she’s a good, kind, hardworking woman. I think it’s fine for her to work for you, so long as her mother doesn’t come around, or you don’t overhear her say anything you don’t like.” He cast an unexpectedly mischievous grin at Gideon as they started up the porch steps. “Nancy misses having kinder in the house. She baked all afternoon.”

  Gideon sighed. “They already had a fine dessert, and plenty of it.”

  “I think now they’ve had plenty more.”

  * * *

  * * *

  Hannah heard the back door open and close. Even with that warning, she felt jumpy whenever she turned to see Gideon walking into the kitchen. More than that, it was suddenly harder to breathe. He dominated any space in a way that unnerved her.

  But if he ever noticed how she reacted to him, he’d be uncomfortable and she wouldn’t be able to keep working here. So she smiled and said, “Your timing is good. The stuffed bell peppers are almost ready to come out of the oven.”

  Gideon greeted her gravely, in his usual way, and went straight to the half bathroom under the stairs to wash up.

  She hoped he didn’t mind that more of today’s meal was cold than usual; they’d had meat loaf for supper last night, and with plenty left over, she’d cut thick slices and put them out with two types of cheese to make sandwiches. She’d already sliced the bread she’d baked yesterday. Leftover potato salad and sauerbraten completed the meal. She was always astounded at the quantity he could put away while remaining lean and muscular. She’d probably have one of the stuffed peppers, some sauerbraten and a taste of the strawberry-rhubarb fry pies she made from one of Lilian’s recipes, and that mostly to determine whether she could improve them.

  Gideon waited until she put the last serving bowl on the table and sat before taking his own seat. He immediately bowed his head.

  She’d learned the Amish prayer before meals now, and thought it fitting.

  O Lord God, heavenly Father, bless us and these Thy gifts, which we accept from Thy tender goodness. Give us food and drink also for our souls until life eternal, that we may share at Thy heavenly table, through Jesus Christ.

  When Gideon murmured, “Amen,” and lifted his head, she did the same.

  As he ladled generous helpings on his plate of the salads and stuffed pepper, he said, “You’re spoiling me. You’re a fine cook.”

  She grinned at him. “So you keep saying. If you’re not careful, I’ll start getting full of myself.”

  “We would say you are getting a gross feelich. A big feeling. That means pride.”

  “Well, too many compliments will definitely give me a gross feelich.”

  His chuckle lightened his often stern face. “Don’t people who eat in your restaurant tell you how good your food is?”

  She looked down at her plate, bothered to realize that the answer was more complicated than it seemed. It was a moment before she responded.

  “The waiters will pass it on when a diner says something like, ‘Compliments to the chef.’ But I might have made only a side dish they ate, like—” she scanned the table “—the stuffed peppers. If the executive chef had made the meat loaf, and a pastry chef baked the fry pies, then we all tell ourselves we did a good job, but we can’t get too swelled a head.” Her smile flashed again. “Gross feelich.”

  “So it’s like our fellowship meal, where many women bring food.”

  She nodded. “We’d call that a potluck.”

  Gideon assembled a sandwich, slathering on horseradish. “Did your mamm teach you to cook?”

  Hannah went still, then forced a smile. “No, she never liked to cook. Until I got old enough to take over, we mostly ate frozen meals that we heated in the microwave, or fast food. You know, french fries, cheeseburgers, chili dogs. She’d buy those packets of oatmeal you just pour boiling water on. Things like that. Nothing very healthy.”

  He watched her instead of eating until she went on. “When I was ten or eleven, I asked to buy some pans at garage sales. And utensils like a pancake turner and a whisk. I found a few cookbooks that way, too. I just . . . took money from her wallet and bought groceries. If I was careful, I didn’t spend any more money than we already were, often less, and we had better meals.” She wasn’t eating at all, only staring past him, lost in her memories. “Then, I didn’t even ask myself why I wanted to cook, or thought I could. Now . . . I think I must have learned enough before Mamm took me away.”

  The sympathy in his espresso dark eyes made her eyes burn, but she blinked away any incipient tears. “So I’ve thanked Grossmammi and my aenti Sarah, who Daad says was most around, for what they taught me.” She imagined the women she didn’t even remember standing just out of sight, yet guiding her hands, praising her efforts, gently correcting her. As a little girl, she might have helped Helen bake cookies or make dinner, too, it occurred to her.

  But never her mother.

  “Did it make you angry, having to be responsible for there being meals on the table?” Gideon asked.

  “No.” She met those very dark eyes. “No, never. I loved cooking and feeding us, even whatever man we were living with. They liked me, because I was a good cook.”

  Gideon’s expression darkened. “Whatever man . . . ?”

  Wishing she hadn’t said that, hoping he wouldn’t think less of her now that he knew a more sordid part of her past, Hannah said, “Mom always liked having a man around. A . . . boyfriend.” She couldn’t tell if Gideon understood that word. “Mostly, I tried to avoid her boyfriends when we were living with one of them. Either they’d get tired of her, or she’d get mad at them, and we’d move again.”

  Twice, she’d left her clothes behind because packing her kitchenware had come first. Mom had been mad when she had to take Hannah to a thrift shop to outfit her before she could start school.

  “It was, um, a strange childhood.” She shrugged awkwardly. “Stranger than I knew then.”

  He still hadn’t taken another bite, and Gideon was a man who ate heartily, as he’d put it. Muscles bunched in his jaw. She couldn’t decide if he was angry on her behalf, or stunned, but whatever he felt was powerful. Hannah only hoped it wasn’t pity.

  “If your daad had known . . . ,” he said roughly, shaking his head.

  “He says he imagined everything. And then when he was informed I was dead—” She shivered.

  Gideon opened his mouth, then closed it. Had he stopped himself from expressing an opinion about her mother?

  “I don’t know why I’m telling you all this,” she said suddenly.

  “I asked. I wanted to know.” His forehead creased, although it wasn’t quite a frown. Maybe he’d rather not be curious about her? Still, he asked another question. “Do you still see your mother?”

  “I did until Grandma Helen called me, and I found out I had a father, grandparents, half sisters and brothers. Since then, I’ve only talked to Mom once on the phone. I’m so angry—”

  A warm, calloused hand covered hers. Astonished, Hannah looked down to see that she’d balled both of her hands into fists on the table. That he’d wanted to comfort her gave her a sweet yet painful sensation beneath her breastbone.

  After a suspended moment, Gideon erased any emotion from his face as he took back his hand and resumed eating.

  “Our Lord asks that you forgive her.”

  “Daad said that, too. How he could forgive her, I don’t know. I’m . . . trying.”

  Gideon nodded and cleared his plate. She rose to refill his coffee cup and set a platter of the fry pies in the middle of the table.

  “I found a few s
trawberries ripe in the garden, and discovered you have a patch of rhubarb. Actually, Rebekah showed me. I’m leaving most of it for another few weeks, but I liked the idea of using fruit from the garden to bake.”

  “Denke for taking over the weeding,” he said. “You didn’t have to.”

  “I actually enjoy working outside. But if you’d rather I didn’t—”

  “No. I have too much to do, and never enough time. A big help you’ve been this week.”

  There was more of the cadence of a Deitsh speaker in that than she’d become accustomed to from Gideon, but she liked it.

  “Would you mind if I expanded the garden a little to put in some peppers and more beans?” She heard how fast she was talking, but couldn’t seem to stop herself. “And, well, maybe some herbs? Most of them grow fast.”

  He studied her, finally nodding. “Ja, that would be fine.”

  Neither of them said anything while he ate several fry pies and she nibbled at the corner of one, evaluating whether she should have used a little more—

  “I ask you not to bring your mother here.”

  Stung by the words and his forbidding tone both, Hannah jumped to her feet. “I wouldn’t.”

  Without looking at what she was doing, she gathered up serving dishes and took them to the counter by the sink. Probably what he’d felt earlier was shock, because he’d been foolish enough to trust his children to the daughter of that woman. He hadn’t been thinking of her at all. Except, her hand still tingled from his touch.

  Her back to him, Hannah said, “She’s not dangerous, but . . . do you think I’d take any chance at all with Rebekah and Zeb?”

  He doesn’t know me, she reminded herself. This is only my fourth day working for him.

  She shouldn’t feel . . . hurt.

  Behind her, the chair legs scraped on the floor. She waited to hear his receding footsteps and the sound of the back door closing. Instead, there was silence, until he said heavily, “I don’t think you would, but I’m their father. I thought I should say it anyway.”