“Oh?” Holding her breath, she wondered if he’d just maybe changed his mind about going with her.
“Prissy said she didn’t know what
gut
could possibly come of lookin’ for Mamma.”
Not surprising.
Grace turned away, but before she could leave, Adam touched her shoulder.
“Wait, there’s more.” He removed his straw hat and, tucking it under his arm, roughed up his hair. “I don’t know how to tell ya this, really. . . . Prissy said she’s heard through the grapevine that the fellas in our church district are wary ’bout . . . well, inviting you to go ridin’.” He lowered his hat back onto his head. “They say you split up with Henry for no reason.”
“Such news travels too fast.” But Grace no longer felt glib. For a second or two, she actually felt heartsick. “The fellas must be talkin’ because Mamma left Dat. . . . And since I’m her daughter . . .”
“Could be.” His eyes softened. “I thought you should know what’s bein’ said, is all.”
“You mean what
Prissy
says?” She stared at her toes, her hands shoved in her dress pockets. “You know I wouldn’t behave like Mamma, so why are you tellin’ me this?”
“I care about ya, Gracie . . . don’t want you to end up a Maidel, takin’ care of Dat and our grandparents, ’stead of having your own family.”
“It’s not because of Yonnie comin’ here every day?” she blurted before thinking.
“Listen, Gracie, ’tween you and me, I’d say you best be payin’ attention to Yonnie, no matter what I said before. I’ve been observing him, and he seems like a nice enough fella.”
You said the same about Henry.
She stuck out her neck. “Yonnie didn’t put you up to this, did he?”
“ ’Course not.” Adam wrinkled his face. “If you ain’t careful, Gracie, you’ll be a castoff for the rest of your life.”
She thought on that. “You mean like the brethren will do to Mamma?”
Adam frowned and reached for her arm to guide her into a more private area of the sheep barn. “What are you sayin’, sister? Have you heard rumblings ’bout the Bann?”
She shook her head. “It’s just that it’s bound to happen sooner or later.”
“Well, I don’t know of the brethren callin’ for any membership meeting just yet.”
“How long will they wait?”
“We can’t know that.” Adam wore a concerned look. “Is the fear of the shun the reason you want to find Mamma?”
“Ach, I dread even the thought. . . .” A great sob escaped her and she covered her face with her hands.
“Are you cryin’ over Mamma now?” he asked softly. “Or for yourself?”
“I just miss her so.”
Adam looked away. “Well, you’re not the only one.”
“I need to be alone now.” With that Grace ran back to Willow, to wrap her arms around the dear mare’s neck. All the while she brooded over Adam’s remark:
“You best be payin’
attention to Yonnie.”
I
t was late that Saturday afternoon when Judah moseyed indoors and leaned against the kitchen counter to catch his breath. He’d labored since before dawn this morning and was eager to sit and relax . . . and eat. Looking at the wall clock, he calculated how much time remained before supper. It was clear by the looks of things that he’d have to wait awhile.
Rubbing his beard, he was glad to be by himself. He reached for the cupboard and removed the first large plastic glass his callused fingers touched and turned on the faucet, letting it run. He filled the tumbler to the brim and gulped down the cold water. Then yet another full glass, straight down.
He held it in his hand for a second or two, then set the glass down and went to the sitting room. He eyed Lettie’s corner cupboard, with its string of teacups and saucers, and turned away. The light from the front room windows beckoned him, and he peered out, wincing at the sight of her porch swing.
The bishop’s words at last Tuesday’s meeting played over in his memory.
“Your wife’s leaving is becoming a predicament for the
People,”
Bishop had voiced sternly. That was bad enough, but Judah knew he hadn’t spoken up on her behalf like he could have.
Like a loving husband would.
But then again, he had no inkling where she’d gone, aside from Grace’s talk of an inn and the Ohio postmark on Lettie’s terse letter. Or why she’d left. The latter was the worst of it—having no way to understand what his wife was thinking or feeling.
Is she still pained over our last talk together?
How he regretted bringing that conversation to a premature end. Unnecessarily so.
Even though Grace might think she knew, he was fairly positive Lettie’s whereabouts would turn out to be a complete surprise to everyone.
When all’s said and done.
He paced the length of the front room, recalling the last Preaching service held there. Too aware of Lettie’s absence, he’d worked hard to set up for that uncomfortable Lord’s Day gathering. Preacher Josiah had pounded away at scriptural themes of marriage. It was as if that morning’s second sermon—the longer of the two—was being preached at him. The message still rang in his ears. That, and Judah’s most recent talk with the brethren. The anxious look in their somber eyes, the way they’d whispered Lettie’s name as if it was somehow tainted—all of it had caused him fitful sleep these past few days.
He headed back through the kitchen and out the side door. The mourning doves’ low feeding trays were full again.
Grace,
bless her heart, is looking after the birds for her mother . . . looking
after all of us, really.
It was evident, too, that Yonnie had noted Grace’s gentle ways. Unquestionably, he was coming each day to work because of Grace. And Judah couldn’t deny, even to himself, that he was quite drawn to Ephram’s son.
Neither Adam nor Joe is near the
conversationalist he is,
Judah thought with a chuckle.
Ephram,
neither.
He had run into Ephram over at the buggy shop enough to know the man was rather tight-lipped. He’d also noticed Ephram was still wearing the narrow-brimmed straw hat he’d worn in Indiana—too progressive for this area.
Interesting, the brethren haven’t gone after
him
yet.
Judah assumed Yonnie had picked up his unconventional ways from his father—and from his old Midwest church district.
And what does our Grace think of all that?
He certainly had noticed a spark between her and Yonnie yesterday, when the lad had helped her with the birdseed.
Still, it’s hard to tell what girls might be thinking.
Much as he cared for Grace and Mandy, he personally did not know what to do with daughters once they grew past preschool age. Girls couldn’t fill silo or go fishing and hunting or muck out the manure in the barn and spread it out on Lettie’s vegetable garden. They were harder to talk to, too.
Though that’s not always so with Grace . . .
At the thought of her, Judah’s heart warmed again. Lord willing, he believed his eldest daughter might just be his saving grace.
Grace nearly bumped into Dat in the side yard near the mourning dove feeders. “Ach, sorry,” she said, catching her breath and inching back a bit. “I was lookin’ for ya.”
“And you’ve found me.” He put his straw hat on his head. “When’s supper?”
“Should be just about ready. I’ll have it on the table soon,” she said. “But while I have ya here . . . I want to ask you something.”
He nodded, seemingly pleased.
“I’ve been thinking.”
Dat smiled. “Should I be worried?”
“No, Dat.” She’d never heard her father joke like this. She fidgeted with her apron and glanced past him to the deep green pastureland, stretching as far as she could see. “Would you mind . . . I mean, what would you think if I hired Martin Puckett to drive me out to Indiana, say, a few days from now?”
He grimaced. “Whatever for?”
“I have some money saved up.” She hoped she didn’t sound as desperate as she felt. “I don’t mind usin’ it . . . to find Mamma, I mean.”
“Not till after lambing’s done. I already told ya that.”
“But time’s a-wastin’, ain’t? Someone needs to bring her home.”
Dat tugged on his black suspenders, pulling them out, then letting them nearly snap against his chest. “Ain’t your worry, Gracie. Leave that to the brethren.”
“So there
is
talk of the Bann?”
“You best stay put and keep house . . . look after your Mamma’s parents, too.”
“For the rest of your life.”
Adam’s words floated back to her.
“It’d just be a quick trip—no matter what, I’ll come right back. Please, won’tcha let me?” She felt the tears welling up.
“Gracie, listen here—”
“Oh, Dat . . . don’t you see?” Her lip wouldn’t stop quivering. “If Mamma knew how much we want her to come home . . . wouldn’t that make all the difference?”
“You’re not goin’ anywhere!” Dat’s voice had gathered into a sudden sob, and he turned away and marched quickly to the barn.
Horrified that she’d made her father angry enough to weep, Grace hurried inside, trembling, to lay out the evening meal.
“Stay put and keep house,” Dat says. What choice do I have
now?
Heather plumped the pillows on her bed before plunking down to check her iPhone for emails or IMs from Wannalive. They had not exchanged actual first names yet, and she was fine with remaining anonymous.
The best way to be.
But as she signed on to instant messaging, she couldn’t stop thinking about her dad’s reaction to her desire to avoid the medical approach. After all, this was her body wimping out. Wasn’t her obvious weight loss only the beginning of her woes?
How
many more pounds will I drop?
She couldn’t remember the oncologist’s grim forecast regarding weight loss. Besides, wouldn’t she lose even more on a juice diet?
Finding no new communication from her online pal, she reached for her laptop, disappointed. After she booted up, she opened her journaling file. Dad’s pleas for her to return to Virginia and acquiesce to the oncologist’s recommendation brought her all-too-familiar frustration back to the forefront. Even so, she knew his response came out of concern and love for her.
She began to write:
Dad’s visiting here. I don’t believe he’s set out to upset me by
debating against what I’d like to do for treatment. After all, he
didn’t even know I was sick until just yesterday. But he’s completely
old school . . . like Mom started out to be. Would she be appalled
at Dad’s insistence? It’s hard to believe Mom wouldn’t make an
attempt to negotiate with him—get him to see both sides.
Isn’t this
my
life?
She paused, lightly tapping the left side of the trackpad with her thumb. “Somehow I have to win Dad over.” She reached for the bottles of supplements she’d purchased at Eli’s. Might Dr. Marshall work her magic with Dad?
Laughing softly, she felt temporarily optimistic. But she couldn’t depend on LaVyrle’s feminine charms to persuade her stubborn father. Would he stop talking long enough to listen and see the light for himself?
Heather paused—her room had filled with a decadent chocolate aroma that had seeped through the floorboards.
Marian’s
baking this close to suppertime?
Closing down her laptop, she headed for the stairs and to the kitchen. Becky seemed surprised to see her, but Marian was welcoming and smiling as always. “What are you baking?” Heather asked. “I couldn’t resist coming to find out what smells so fantastic.”
“We’re makin’ a quick batch of chocolate whoopie pies for a doin’s tomorrow,” Becky said, eyes bright. “Want to help?”
“Sure, but . . . I really shouldn’t have any.” She laughed at herself. “What are the ingredients?”
“Ach, don’t ask.” Marian tittered. “Fattening as all get-out.”
“Well, I know I smell chocolate,” she admitted, fully aware LaVyrle would advise her to steer clear of the rich treat.
“Surely one tiny taste of each kind won’t hurt,” Becky said. “We’re making strawberry and pumpkin, too.”
Such temptation was hard to resist, and Heather knew it was about time to level with them. Her days of eating decadent foods must become a thing of the past.
Starting tomorrow . . .
“Supper’s on the table and getting cold!” Grace called through the screen door. She’d thought of ringing the bell, but as hungry as Dat was earlier, she figured his stomach would do the calling.
Within seconds, Adam and Joe came running toward the house as they always did—like they were starving. An outsider would never guess her brothers regularly ate like healthy horses.
She turned back to call for Mandy, who was mending upstairs, as well as to her grandparents, straightening up the hallway clutter while she went. Her grandparents didn’t respond, and when she approached their kitchen, they were talking so animatedly she wasn’t sure she should interrupt. Yet her supper was most tasty piping hot—the way Dat liked it.
Grace leaned against the doorjamb, momentarily resting her head on the wood, unsure when or if she should barge in.
“I’m tellin’ ya, Lettie prob’ly never would’ve married Judah . . . if it hadn’t been for our meddling,” Mammi said.
“Oh, go on with you.”`
“No, now really. Think back all that time ago. . . .”
Stunned and too embarrassed to listen a speck more, Grace coughed slightly and moved into their kitchen. “Supper’s ready,” she said, her cheeks growing warm. “Dat’s washin’ up right now.”
Dawdi rose with a grunt and reached for his cane. “All right. We’re comin’.” He seemed relieved to escape the conversation.
Shaken, Grace returned to the kitchen on the other side of the house.
Mamma never would’ve married Dat? Why?
B
ack in her mother’s kitchen, Grace wondered if her grandfather had indeed arranged her parents’ marriage. She’d read about such things in books, but rarely did it happen amongst the People. “What on earth?” she whispered as she turned off the oven and removed the hot dish.
She pondered hard the words she had overheard even as she passed the serving dishes at supper. If what Mammi had accused Dawdi of doing was true, then maybe
that
was the reason her parents’ marriage was on such shaky ground. Could it be?