When Hope Blossoms (9 page)

A
my swept the back of her wrist across her forehead. Even with all the windows open and a box fan whirring from the corner of the kitchen, the room was unbearably hot. But the heat wasn’t solely due to the Kansas sun—she’d left her oven on low all morning to keep the casseroles carried in by the other women warm until mealtime. Although she’d turned off the oven nearly an hour ago, warmth still radiated from its cast-iron sides. The oven’s ability to hold heat would be a blessing during the winter months.

Adding to the stove’s warmth, steam rose from the sink of dishwater. Since they’d used her house and mostly her dishes, she’d assumed the task of washing the stacks of dirty plates, bowls, cups, pots, and pans. And of course, having seven women crowded into the room made things feel tight and sticky. But Amy didn’t begrudge their presence. How she’d enjoyed their morning together! Already she felt the stirrings of oneness with these people. She prayed Bekah was experiencing the same feeling with the young people her age who clustered on the back porch.

Cheerful cries filled the backyard—children at play. Amy easily detected Adrianna’s melodious giggle and Parker’s lower-toned guffaws in the mix. The low rumble of men’s voices drifted from the sitting room into the kitchen, where the women jostled together. The combined sounds created a sweet song of unity.

Ellie Hunsberger, the youngest of the women, brushed her elbow against Amy’s arm as she reached to return the clean bowls to the cupboard. She laughed softly, sending a shy smile in Amy’s direction. “Maybe next time we should buy a package of paper plates. The cleanup would go faster, I think.”

From behind them, someone
tsk-tsk
ed
.
“Shame on you, Ellie.” After only one morning together, Amy already recognized Margaret Gerber’s somewhat abrasive tone. Perhaps the older woman didn’t intend to be condescending, but of all the women, this one struck Amy as the most critical. “Paper items are a waste. Only lazy people use them. Doesn’t it say in Proverbs, the fourteenth chapter and twenty-third verse, ‘In all labour there is profit’? We should take joy in our given toil, not look for ways to simplify.”

Ellie dipped her head. She continued stacking the clean, dry dishes in silence.

Apparently the other women feared the sharp side of Margaret’s tongue, because they too stopped the cheerful chatter of moments ago and focused on completing the cleanup tasks. A half hour after they’d begun, Amy’s kitchen was in order and everything sparkled. She gathered the sodden dishtowels and carried them to the little area beneath the stairs where she kept a laundry basket. The opening to the hidden storage area was next to the door leading to the back porch, and Amy couldn’t resist sneaking a quick peek outside to see how her children were getting along with the others. She smiled at the wild game of tag taking place in the backyard, Adrianna and Parker in the middle of it. But her smile faltered when she spotted Bekah leaning against a tree by herself at the far corner of the yard. The handful of other children near her age remained in the shade of the back porch. Why had Bekah left the group?

Amy reached for the screen door, intending to go out and check on her daughter, but Margaret Gerber called, “Amy? Do you have more lemons to mix another batch of lemonade? The pitcher is empty again.” Amy changed direction, retrieved lemons from the refrigerator, and gave them to the woman.

Margaret bustled to the counter and began digging through Amy’s kitchen drawers, talking all the while. “I’m puzzled why you would choose this house away from town, since you have no husband to see to chores.” She flicked a curious glance over her shoulder as she withdrew a knife from the drawer. “Wouldn’t a house in town be more sensible?”

Amy loved the openness of the acreage—it gave her children room to run, and by secluding them somewhat she could limit the influences that might come from any unchurched townsfolk. But she sensed no matter what reason she gave, Margaret would find something at fault. She handed the woman a small cutting board, one Gabe had crafted from strips of oak for a Christmas gift the year Bekah was born, and said, “I realize I don’t have a husband to see to things, but I’m not concerned. With the men of your fellowship farming the land around the house, they’ll be close by should a need arise. I’m certain they’ll be willing to offer assistance if it’s needed.”

Tamera Mischler bustled to Amy’s side. “Of course they will! They’ve already discussed the importance of checking on you when they come out to work. And now that all of our places in town are in order, the men will put their hands to work preparing the ground for soybean planting. You’ll have someone close by every day.”

Warmth flooded Amy. How wonderful to know these people—these strangers quickly turning to friends—cared about her well-being.

Margaret sniffed, pushing the cutting board back into Amy’s hands. “This is too small. I’ll just use the countertop.” She whacked one lemon in half. “But what about at night? There’s no one here at night.” She aimed a speculative look at Amy, her double chin emerging with her head-tucked-low pose.

Was the woman trying to frighten her? Amy hugged Gabe’s gift to her middle. Without conscious thought, she quoted a portion of Deuteronomy 31:6. “ ‘Be strong and of a good courage, fear not . . . for the Lord thy God, he it is that doth go with thee; he will not fail thee, nor forsake thee.’ ” She smiled at Margaret, who continued to pinch her brows in silent censure. “The children and I are never alone.”

Margaret returned to slicing lemons.

Lorraine Schell leaned against the counter on the other side of Margaret and used a dish rag to mop at the juice spritzing the countertop. “Besides, Margaret, Amy has a close-by neighbor—the orchard-owner, Mr. Roper. If she has an emergency, surely he’d be willing to offer a helping hand, considering he was raised a Mennonite.”

A variety of murmurs—Margaret’s reproachful, the others’ regretful—filtered through the kitchen. Before Margaret could openly condemn Mr. Roper for abandoning his faith, Amy said, “He’s been very neighborly.” An image of the man caught in Parker’s embrace filled her memory. Many people would have pushed Parker away, but Mr. Roper treated the boy with kindness. How she appreciated his kind response to her son. “He’s quite busy with his orchard, though, so I don’t want to impose on him unless it’s an emergency. I’m glad the men will start coming out each day. And if they ever need anything from me while they’re working—something to drink or eat, or to use the facilities—they’re more than welcome to come to the house.”

Approving nods went around the small circle of women. Margaret snatched up two lemon halves and began squeezing the juice into a tall plastic pitcher. “I intend to make sure Dillard has a good lunch and a jug of water in his truck before sending him out. That’s my duty as his wife. And you might as well know, I’ve instructed him not to come to the house except to check on you.” She bounced an imperious look across each of the women in the room before looking directly at Amy. “There’s no need for the men to be pests just because you’re here and available during the day. You have your quilting business. The men coming and going would keep you from focusing on your work.” She squeezed the last lemon half and then tossed the rind into the sink with other squeezed-flat shells. “Besides, one needs to avoid creating fodder for gossip. Men coming and going from a widow’s house might be construed as inappropriate dealings.”

Lorraine Schell gasped, and the others gaped at one another, but none of them voiced an argument. Amy, as the newcomer to the group, didn’t believe it her place to let Margaret know she found her comments offensive, but she couldn’t stay silent in the face of unwarranted criticism. She lifted the pitcher with trembling hands and held it beneath the faucet. Her gaze on the flow of water, she said quietly yet firmly, “I know the men will be responsive to me in case of an emergency. I will be responsive to them, as well. That’s what members of a fellowship do for one another.”

After placing the full pitcher on the counter, she slid the sugar canister next to Margaret. “Would you like to add the sugar? I’m sure you have a preference for how much sweetening to use. The wooden spoons are in the drawer near your hip.”

Margaret pursed her lips, but she began scooping sugar without another word. Amy left her to the task and crossed to the table where Lorraine, Tamera, Renae Stull, and Sheila Buerge had seated themselves. Ellie stood nearby. The women offered weak smiles of apology, and Amy acknowledged them with a quick bob of her head. Obviously Margaret held strong opinions. But Amy had been raised by a man with strong opinions and a tendency toward stubbornness. She’d learned long ago not to respond with anger, but rather quiet reasoning.

Margaret carried the pitcher of lemonade to the refrigerator. Then she turned to the table, where every seat was already filled. Amy smiled, letting the older woman know she harbored no ill feelings. “Wait just a moment, Margaret. I’ll get some of the extra chairs Mr. Hunsberger brought in.”

The moment Amy returned to the table, two chairs in tow, Lorraine leaned forward. Interest sparked in her eyes. “Tell me about your quilting business, Amy.” She flicked a glance toward the sewing room, where sheets shrouded the machines. “My husband says you have a machine that does the quilting for you.”

Margaret lifted her chin. “I prefer hand-quilting.”

Amy nodded, unaffected by the woman’s mild rebuff. “I do too, when I have time for it. But since I need to complete these quilts quickly, the quilting machine is a real blessing. Would you like to see how it works? I have a small wall hanging ready to be quilted.”

“Yes, please,” Lorraine and Ellie chorused.

None of the others responded, but they all got up and followed when Amy headed for the sewing room. Amy showed the women how to fasten the quilt into the rollers of the long-arm machine, then programmed the stitch pattern. The women watched, interested, and even the men ambled in to observe the machine in action when Amy flipped the switch that sent the frame sideways beneath the rapidly undulating needle. A row of connected hearts appeared along the top row of the quilt’s face. When the frame reached the edge of the quilt, Amy shut down the machine.

“I’ll just roll it forward and continue until the entire face is done,” she said. “Then I bind it and add a sleeve for hanging if the person requested it, and then it’s ready to go.”

Ellie traced her finger along the neat line of stitches. “Oh my, what a time-saver. And so sturdy. These stitches will hold up to hundreds of washings, I imagine.”

Renae Stull looked with longing at the machine. “I suppose it was very expensive.”

Amy cringed. It wasn’t polite to discuss the cost of items, but she couldn’t ignore Renae’s comment. “A regular sewing machine is much more affordable. A long-arm machine isn’t something everyone could or even should have in their home. I purchased it so I could begin my business.” She didn’t mention how she’d been able to afford such an expensive machine. Sometimes it still felt like blood money.

“Even so, think how much quicker quilts could be finished with a machine like this,” Ellie said.

Margaret folded her arms. “I understand why Amy needs to use this—her family depends on the income she makes from the quilts. Of course she needs to make them quickly. But for everyone to own such a machine? It would encourage sloth.”

Ellie hung her head.

Amy’s heart went out to the younger woman. She tossed the protective sheet over the machine, adjusting it to cover the partially quilted project. “Ellie, if you’d ever like to try it yourself, just bring one of your quilts out. I’ve found it’s a wonderful way to restore older quilts that are in danger of falling apart.”

The men returned to the sitting room, but the women remained standing around the covered machine. Lorraine tipped her head, her expression thoughtful. “Amy, since you have need of providing for your family, have you ever considered advertising this machine for use? I’m sure many women who can’t afford to own a machine like this would still like to see their projects finished in such a beautiful, timely manner. Or to, as you said, restore a family heirloom to make it more serviceable.”

Amy blinked twice, her heart skipping a beat. “I would never have considered that. It is time-consuming for me to plan, piece, and stitch a quilt from start to finish, so there’s a limit to how many projects I can reasonably commission. If others ‘rented’ the machine, I could generate a little extra income.” Then her spirits plummeted. “But I wouldn’t know how to let people know it’s available. I’m afraid thus far my business has come by word of mouth. That was fine when I wasn’t the sole provider, but now . . .” She didn’t want to confide her worries with Margaret nearby. The older woman would probably think Amy didn’t trust God to see to her financial needs.

Sheila Buerge clapped her palms together. “You know what you need, Amy? A Web site!”

Tamera looked at Sheila in surprise. “Why, what a wonderful idea. People who would otherwise never know about Amy’s business could find her.” The two began jabbering enthusiastically.