Second Chance Proposal
Anna Schmidt
HOMECOMING REUNIONJohn Amman left his Amish community and sweetheart Lydia Goodloe to make his fortune in the outside world, while Lydia stayed behind to devote herself to teaching. She can accept spinsterhood, and even face the closure of her beloved school. But John’s return after eight years tests her faith anew.Lydia hasn’t forgotten a single thing about John Amman—including the way he broke her heart. John risked becoming an outcast to give Lydia everything she deserved. He couldn’t see that what she really wanted was a simple life—with him. Lydia is no longer the girl he knew. Now she’s the woman who can help him reclaim their long-ago dream of home and family…if he can only win her trust once more.Amish Brides of Celery Fields: Love awaits these Amish women.
Homecoming Reunion
John Amman left his Amish community and sweetheart Lydia Goodloe to make his fortune in the outside world, while Lydia stayed behind to devote herself to teaching. She can accept spinsterhood, and even face the closure of her beloved school. But John’s return after eight years tests her faith anew. Lydia hasn’t forgotten a single thing about John Amman—including the way he broke her heart.
John risked becoming an outcast to give Lydia everything she deserved. He couldn’t see that what she really wanted was a simple life—with him. Lydia is no longer the girl he knew. Now she’s the woman who can help him reclaim their long-ago dream of home and family…if he can only win her trust once more
“Do not say things you will regret,” Lydia whispered.
“Please. You are too soon trying to set things the way you remember them—the way you want them to be. But you are not the boy who left here, John. And I am not that girl. We cannot go back in this world—only forward.”
She pulled away from him and continued walking back to her house—her house, her school, her life.
“We could be if you’re willing to work things out with me,” John said and was gratified to see her step falter. “We could find a way to…”
She turned around, but her features remained in shadow. “I am glad that you’ve come home, John. Is that not enough for now?”
“It’s a beginning,” he admitted. “But—”
“And that’s the point, John Amman. We are beginning again, and you must allow time for things to develop according to God’s will.” She took half a step toward him, but stopped. “You must think of me as someone you are just getting to know, John.”
“Is that how you see me? As some stranger?”
“Not a stranger exactly. Just not…” Her voice trailed off.
“Just not the same person you once loved?”
ANNA SCHMIDT
is an award-winning author of more than twenty-five works of historical and contemporary fiction. She is a two-time finalist for a coveted RITA® Award from Romance Writers of America, as well as a four-time finalist for an RT Book Reviews Reviewer’s Choice Award. Her most recent RT Book Reviews Reviewer’s Choice nomination was for her 2008 Love Inspired Historical novel, Seaside Cinderella, which is the first of a series of four historical novels set on the romantic island of Nantucket. Critics have called Anna “a natural writer, spinning tales reminiscent of old favorites like Miracle on 34th Street. class="roman">” Her characters have been called “realistic” and “endearing” and one reviewer raved, “I love Anna Schmidt’s style of writing!”
Second Chance Proposal
Anna Schmidt
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
Show me thy ways, O Lord; teach me thy paths.
—Psalms 25:4
To all who have believed in the power of love.
Contents
Chapter One (#u8230486f-1106-565c-ac16-5bd8886540b7)
Chapter Two (#ub03bdf81-fe68-540a-b3a1-e7f0a50efe54)
Chapter Three (#ub439bca5-687c-5445-bdbe-d3f250f82cc7)
Chapter Four (#uff10e36c-d46e-5522-a579-dcd15c25fafd)
Chapter Five (#u69666dd9-04dd-5e30-9dc9-9ed73df13c14)
Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)
Dear Reader (#litres_trial_promo)
Questions for Discussion (#litres_trial_promo)
Excerpt (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter One
Celery Fields, Florida
January 1938
L ydia Goodloe. Was he seeing things?
Sweet Liddy.
John Amman closed his eyes, which were crusty with lack of sleep and the dust of days he’d spent making his way west across Florida from one coast to the other. Surely this was nothing more than a mirage born of exhaustion and the need for a solid meal.
But no, there could be no doubt. There she was walking across a fallow field from her father’s house to the school. He watched as she entered the school and then a minute later came outside again. She pulled her shawl tighter around her shoulders and began stacking firewood in her arms. They might be in Florida, but it was January and an unseasonably cold one at that. John pulled up the collar of his canvas jacket to block the wind that swept across the open fields.
Lydia went back inside the school and shut the door, and after a few minutes John saw a stream of smoke rising from the chimney. He closed his eyes, savoring the memory of that warm classroom anchored by a potbellied stove in one corner and the teacher’s desk in the other. He tried to picture Lydia at that desk, but he could only see her as the girl he’d known—the laughing child with the curly dark hair that flew out behind her as she gathered the skirt of her dark cotton dress and raced with him along the path. The teenager—a quiet beauty, the luxurious hair tamed into braided submission under her bonnet and the black prayer covering girls her age wore after joining the church, as he and Liddy had done when they were both sixteen.
He started running across the field, his heart pounding in anticipation of the reunion with this woman he had loved his whole life. This woman he had come back to find after eight long years—to ask why she had not answered his letters, why she had not believed him when he told her that it had all been for her. He had risked everything even to the point of becoming an outcast from their Amish community and indeed his own family so they could have the life they had planned.
But abruptly he stopped. What was he thinking? That he would go to her and she would explain everything and they would be happy again? How could he face her after all this time and admit that he’d failed? Even if she did open her heart to him, what did he have left to offer her? No job. No money. The disdain of his own family...of the entire community unless he agreed to publicly admit his wrongdoing and seek their forgiveness.
He crouched down—half from the need to catch his breath and half because the wind was so sharp. The door to the school opened again and, this time when she emerged, Liddy was not wearing her bonnet. She hurried back to the woodpile and took two more logs—one in each hand. But it was not the logs that John noticed. It was what she was wearing on her head in place of the bonnet.
When she had entered the school that first time, her head and much of her face had been covered by the familiar black bonnet that Amish girls and women wore when outside. John had assumed that beneath that bonnet she still wore the black prayer kapp of a single woman. But the kapp he saw now was not black but white—the mark of a married woman, someone else’s wife. The loose ties whipped playfully around her cheeks as she gathered a second load of wood.
His heart sank.
“Fool,” he muttered. “Did you really think you would come back here after all this time and find her waiting?”
His stomach growled as he caught the scent of bacon frying, and he glanced toward the house where his family had once lived. After he’d left—and been placed under the bann for doing so—his mother had gotten word to him when the farm was sold. She’d written that she and his father and the rest of his siblings were moving back to Pennsylvania. After that he had not heard from his family again, and now someone else owned the small produce farm that would have been his.
John scuffed at the sand with the toe of his work boot—the sole was worn through and the inside was lined with old newspaper. He hefted the satchel that held what remained of his worldly goods to one shoulder and pulled his faded red cap low over his eyes. He no longer dressed “plain” as he had when he and Lydia had been sweethearts. He doubted that she would even recognize him were he to approach her. He had changed that much, at least outwardly. His gaze swept over the rest of the small town past the hardware store, the livery turned machine shop, Yoder’s Dry Goods Emporium, the bakery Liddy’s family had owned and back to the schoolhouse and that thin trail of smoke that curled across the cloudless sky.
Home.
“Not anymore,” John whispered as he turned his back on the town for the second time. There was nothing for him here. He’d been following yet another foolish dream in coming back. Behind him he heard the shouts and laughter of the arriving schoolchildren across the frost-covered field. Then he hitched his satchel over his shoulder and headed east, the way he’d come.
* * *
Lydia had a warm fire burning by the time she heard the children gathering in the yard. They were playing tag or hide-and-seek and squealing with delight as someone made it to home base without being caught. She flipped down the seats of the desks and stood for a moment as she did every morning, asking God’s guidance for the day. Then she pulled hard on the bell cord, taking pleasure in the familiar sound in the cold air calling the children inside.
As the children scurried into the school, pausing only to hang their coats and hats or bonnets on the pegs, Lydia turned to close the door. Then she saw a man walking across an abandoned produce field that marked the border between the town and the outlying farms. He was wearing a light canvas jacket and a red cap. Her heart went out to him when she realized that he was not dressed warmly enough for the weather. No doubt he was another of those men who wandered into town now and again in search of work or a handout.
She continued to watch the man as the last of her students—a large lumbering boy who would gladly be anywhere but inside this classroom—passed by her. There was something about the way the stranger in the field moved that was unlike the movements of other vagrants she had observed. Most of those men appeared worn down by their troubles and the harsh realities of their circumstances. This man walked with purpose and a rhythm that fairly shouted defiance and determination. Something about his posture stirred a memory that she could not quite grasp.
“Teacher?”
Lydia looked up to find her half sister’s daughter, Bettina, standing at the lectern ready to lead the devotions with which they began every day. Bettina had passed the age when most girls attended school, but she loved being there so much that Lydia had persuaded Pleasant and her husband, Jeremiah, to allow the girl to continue helping her.
She nodded and Bettina opened the Bible, carefully laying aside the purple satin ribbon that had served as a bookmark for as long as Lydia could recall, even back to the days when she and Greta had been students at the school. The days when they had each taken a turn reading the morning devotions. She permitted herself a small smile as she recalled how the girls had eagerly awaited their turn at reading, but not the boys. And especially not John Amman.
John.
Her eyes, which were normally lowered in reverence for the reading, flew open and focused on the closed door at the back of the room. Something about the man she had seen walking across the fields reminded her of John. The broad shoulders unbowed against the wind. The long, determined stride. Suddenly her heart was racing and she felt quite light-headed, to the point that she pressed herself firmly into the safety of the straight-backed chair.
Was it possible that, after all this time, he had come home? But why now? And why had there been no word from him—to anyone—in all this time? Not a single word.
She closed her eyes as a wave of grief and disappointment swept through her. Even after eight long years the sting of John’s leaving was as painful as it had ever been. Bettina continued to read the morning’s Scripture. The lesson for the day was the story of the prodigal son and the irony of that reading combined with her memories of John Amman made Lydia wince.
* * *
John had walked a good six or seven miles away from Celery Fields before he once again changed his mind. How could Lydia have married another man? But then, how could she not when he had given up writing after a year passed with not one of his letters answered? Still, he had to know who that man was. He had to at least be sure that she had married someone worthy of her.
And if she hadn’t? What if he learned that she was miserable? Exactly what did he think he could do about that?
John might have lost most of his worldly goods, but the one thing he had not lost was his faith in God. And he had no doubt that God was guiding his steps as he made his way back the way he’d come. There was some plan at work here, a plan that was driving him home to Celery Fields. Home to Liddy. He just had to figure out what it was. He closed his eyes and prayed for guidance. When he opened them he saw Lydia and her students come out into the schoolyard, where they formed a circle and played a round of dodgeball. John smiled. Lydia had always been very good at the game, but he had been better.
It occurred to him that the best way to learn what he needed to know was to go directly to her. Oh, not to her house. He did not want to embarrass or confront either her or her husband. No, he would bide his time and choose the right moment, the perfect place. And after so many years of silence from her he would finally have some answers.
* * *
The unusually cold weather continued as Tuesday dawned with a cutting wind from the north and a slanting rain that came very close to being sleet. An umbrella was useless in such a wind so Lydia covered her bonnet and face with her shawl as she picked her way across the rutted path that ran from her house to the schoolhouse. She would need to get the fire going quickly, for the weather was too foul for the children to gather in the schoolyard waiting for the bell to ring.
Then as she neared the school, she caught a whiff of smoke and lifted the edge of her shawl so she could see more clearly. Rising from the chimney was a trail of gray smoke. Lydia smiled as she hurried to the school. Her brother-in-law Luke must have started the fire for her. He was a kind man, the perfect match for Greta, her lively and sometimes capricious younger sister.
“Luke?” she called as she entered the school and the door banged shut behind her. She hung her shawl and bonnet on the first of a double row of wooden pegs by the door. “I came early to light the fire, but I see that you...” She froze as she realized that the man kneeling by the door of the woodstove was not her brother-in-law.
She recognized the red cap and light canvas jacket of the man she’d seen crossing the field a day earlier and felt a twinge of alarm. He must have stayed the night in the school. Homes and other buildings in Celery Fields were rarely locked unless they were businesses with wares that had proved worth stealing. Slowly the man turned and pinned her with his gaze as he removed his cap and stood up. He had several days’ growth of a beard and his hair curled over his ears. But only one man she’d ever met had those deep-set green eyes.
“Hello, Liddy.”
She gasped. “You,” she whispered, suddenly unable to find her full voice and at the same time realizing that she should not be speaking to him at all.
John Amman was under the bann and as such was to be shunned by all members of the church.
“It’s been a long time,” he added, his voice hoarse and raspy, and he took a step toward her.
Flustered by the sheer presence of him—taller and broader than she remembered and, in spite of the weariness that lined his face, far more handsome—Lydia resorted to her habit of placing distance between herself and something she could not yet understand. She walked straight past him to the board and began writing the day’s assignments on it, her back to him.
“Aren’t you going to say anything, Liddy?”
Her fingers tightened on the chalk, snapping it in two. A thousand questions raced through her mind.
Where have you been?
Why didn’t you write?
What are you doing here, now?
Do you have a wife? Children?
Are you here to stay?
Do you know that your family moved back north?
What happened to all your plans?
When’s the last time you had a decent meal?
And on and on.
She finished writing on the board, laid the chalk precisely in the tray and dusted her hands off by rubbing them together. She kept her back to him, felt the tenseness in her shoulders and listened for his step, praying that he would give up and leave.
But she knew better. John Amman had always been determined to get what he wanted once he set his mind to something. Slowly she turned around. He had not moved from his place next to the stove.
“You’re the teacher now,” he said with a gesture toward the room filled with desks and the other trappings of the school they had both once attended. “Liddy?” He took another step toward her but stopped when she moved away from him.
“You look terrible,” she replied in the voice she used to reprimand a truant student, then she clamped her lips shut. To her surprise he laughed, and the sound of it was a song she had heard again and again over the years whenever she lay awake remembering John Amman.
“I guess I do at that,” he said, looking down at his patched and ill-fitted clothing as he ran a hand over his unshaved face.
She placed books on desks, her back to him.
“Are you not glad to see me?”
The question infuriated her because the answer that sprang instantly from deep within her was, Yes. Oh, yes. How I have worried about you, thought of you, longed to know if you were well. And, most of all, wondered if you ever thought of me.
“I am pleased to see that you are alive,” she replied, unable to prevent the words or stem the tide of years of bitterness in her voice. “As I would be to see any prodigal return,” she added, raising her eyes defiantly to his. “And now please go. The children will be here any minute and I...”
“...don’t wish to have to explain about me?” He stepped closer and fingered the loose tie of her prayer covering. “When did you marry, Liddy?”
She jerked the tie free and at the same time heard the school door open and shut. She turned to find Bettina standing uncertainly inside the doorway.
“Teacher?”
“Guten morgen,” John said, crossing the room to where Bettina waited. “I am John Amman. I expect you know my uncle and aunt, the Hadwells?”
Bettina nodded and looked at Lydia. Lydia considered the best way to get John out of the classroom without raising further questions.
“I am Teacher’s niece, Bettina.”
“You are Pleasant’s daughter?”
Lydia saw Bettina take in John’s rumpled clothing, his mud-caked shoes. Her niece was a bright girl, and Lydia knew she was trying to decide if this man was who he said he was or another tramp passing through, trying anything he thought might work to get a handout or a meal. Her eyes darted from Lydia to John and back again as she nodded politely. But at the same time she edged closer to the bell rope, ready to pull it if she deemed them to be in any danger.
“John Amman was kind enough to light the fire, Bettina. Now he will be on his way.” Lydia was satisfied that in directing her comment to the girl she had not further violated her responsibility to shun him. She moved to the door and opened it, waiting for John to leave.
He paused for just an instant as he passed her, his incredible eyes, the green of a lush tropical jungle, locking on hers.
“You may as well know this now, Lydia Goodloe. I’ve come home to stay.”
As Lydia closed the door firmly behind him she noticed that her hand was shaking and her heart was racing and all of a sudden the room seemed far too warm.
* * *
John had not meant to say anything about his plans. He didn’t know what his future might hold. There were too many unknowns. How would his aunt and uncle, the only family left here, respond to his return? The night before he’d watched them close up shop and head home together and been glad to know they were still there. But could he seek and be granted their forgiveness? Could he find work and a place to live? And most of all, what kind of fool deliberately tormented himself by living in the same small town where the love of his life had settled into a marriage of her own? Still, as he walked the rest of the way into town, oblivious to the rain and wind, he knew that he had spoken the truth. He had come back to stay, for in reality he had nowhere else to go.
When he entered the hardware store it was as if he had stepped back in time. The same bell jangled over the door as he closed it. Instantly he was certain that he could easily fill any order a customer might have because everything was in the same place it had always been. Including his aunt.
He smiled as he watched Gertrude Hadwell chew the stub of the pencil she used to figure the month’s finances. She was behind the counter, the ledger open before her, her elbows resting on either side of it as she hummed softly and entered figures into the narrow columns. She looked as if she hadn’t aged a day, adding to his sense that nothing had changed.
“Be right there,” she called without glancing up. “Roger Hadwell,” she shouted, turning her face toward the back of the store as she closed the ledger and walked toward the storeroom. “Customer.”
John understood that she was not being rude. His aunt had always felt that their mostly male customers would far rather deal with her husband than with a woman. He removed his hat and smoothed his wet hair as he moved down the narrow aisle past the barrels of screws and nails until he reached the counter.
“Guten morgen, Tante Gert,” he said softly, not wanting to startle her more than necessary.
She whipped around to face him and immediately her eyes filled with tears. “Johnny,” she whispered. Then she hurried around the counter until they were face-to-face and she grabbed his shoulders, squeezing them hard. “Johnny,” she repeated.
Behind her John saw his uncle come from the storeroom wiping his hands on a rag as he looked up to welcome his customer. He hesitated when he saw his wife touching a strange man, then rushed forward. “See here, young man,” he began, and then his eyes widened. “Gertrude, no,” he said firmly, and turned her away from John. “Go in back until he leaves.”
John’s knees went weak with the realization that his uncle was shunning him. If that were true of these two people whom he had felt closest to all his life then he knew everyone in town would follow their lead. Well, what had he expected? That the entire town would set aside centuries of tradition for him? He sent up a silent prayer begging forgiveness for his prideful ways.
His aunt hesitated, gazing at him as her husband folded his arms across his broad chest and waited for her to follow his instructions.
“Go, Gert,” Roger repeated.
“I will not,” she replied. “This man needs our help and I would help him the same as we would any stranger.” She brushed by her husband and pulled out a chair. “Come sit by the fire. Why, you’re soaked.” She pulled a horse blanket from a shelf and handed it to him.
Behind her his uncle took one last look at his wife and then left the room.
“It’s good to see you, Gert,” John said as he savored her motherly nurturing.
“Where have you been?” she fumed, then quickly added, “No, I do not wish to know the details of your foolishness. It is enough that God has brought you back to us in one piece.” She studied him critically. “You’re too thin, John Amman. When did you last have a decent meal?”
John shrugged as she tucked the blanket around his shoulders then handed him a bakery box that had been sitting on the counter. It was filled with large glazed doughnuts. He bit into one and licked his lips. “I see Pleasant Obermeier still makes the best doughnut anywhere,” he said as he devoured the rest of the pastry and licked the sticky sugar coating from his fingers.
“She’s Pleasant Troyer now,” his aunt informed him as she busied herself setting a teakettle on the wood-burning stove. “Obermeier died a few years back and shortly after that Bishop Troyer’s nephew, Jeremiah, came to town. He opened up that ice-cream shop next to the bakery and it wasn’t long before Pleasant and him married and adopted all four of Obermeier’s children. Now they have a couple of their own.”
“But she still has the bakery?”
“She does. After her dat died she managed on her own for a while and then once she married Jeremiah...”
Pleasant was not the Goodloe sister John wanted to know about, but he thought it best to hide his curiosity about Lydia until he knew just how much things had changed in Celery Fields. “They live up there in the old Obermeier house at the end of Main Street then?”
Gert perched on the edge of a chair across from him to watch him eat. “No, Jeremiah bought a small farm just outside of town for them. Greta Goodloe married the blacksmith a year after Pleasant married. It was her husband, Luke Starns, who bought the Obermeier place.” She poured him a mug of strong black tea. “Drink this. You’re shivering.”
“And Liddy?” he asked as the hot liquid warmed his insides.
“Still teaching,” Gert replied. “Pleasant’s oldest girl, Bettina, helps her out, not that there’s any need. So few children these days. Lots of folks have moved away and until Greta’s brood and a few other little ones reach school age, well, it’s getting harder to justify keeping that schoolhouse open.”
“She ever marry?” John mumbled around a mouth filled with a second doughnut. He kept his head lowered and steeled himself to hear the name of some former friend, some boy he’d grown up with who had known very well that Liddy Goodloe was taken.
“Liddy?” Gert said, as if the name was unfamiliar. “No. She lives up the lane there in her father’s house all alone now that Greta’s married. I doubt she has any plans in that direction.”
John thought he must be hallucinating. Had he imagined the white prayer covering? No. He’d touched one of the ties and Liddy had pulled it away from him. That had happened. Of course, he could hardly ask his aunt about that unless he was ready to admit he’d already seen Liddy and spoken with her.
“You’ll need to see Bishop Troyer and the sooner the better,” Gert instructed. “We have services this coming Sunday so there’s time enough to have everything in place so that you can make your apology and seek forgiveness and get the bann lifted. Then you’ll be needing a job and a place to stay.” Gert ticked each item off on her fingers as if she were filling a customer’s order. “And some decent clothes.”
She reached for her shawl and bonnet. “I’m going across to Yoder’s to get a few things and when I come back we’ll get you settled in.” She headed for the rear of the store. “Roger Hadwell, go fetch Bishop Troyer,” she instructed. “And then go see if Luke Starns is willing to let John stay in his old rooms above the livery until he gets back on his feet.”
John watched as Roger came to the front of the store and retrieved a black rain slicker and his hat from a peg behind the counter. Without so much as a glance at John his uncle left by the front door.
By suppertime John had a place to stay as well as two sets of new clothes. He’d shaved and washed and enjoyed his first solid meal in days, wolfing down three bowls of the beef stew his aunt kept simmering in the back room of the hardware store along with half a loaf of Pleasant’s crusty wheat bread. In exchange for being able to live above the blacksmith’s shop, Roger had agreed that John would take charge of the stables behind the shop and care for any animals housed there overnight. All of this had been arranged between his uncle and the blacksmith. Roger had yet to utter a single word to John.
But his aunt seemed to have made her choice. It appeared that having him home was worth breaking the traditions of shunning.
“Like old times,” she said as she and Roger closed the shop. She turned to John and added, “I left you some of that stew for your supper and there’s coffee and enough bread for breakfast tomorrow.” She cupped his cheek gently. “You look exhausted, John. Get some rest.”
Not wanting to contribute to her disobedience of the shunning, John nodded. It was just as well. He probably could not have gotten his thanks out around the lump of relief and gratitude that clogged his throat. The idea of spending the night sleeping under one of his aunt’s handmade quilts seemed unbelievable after all the nights he’d had to find shelter wherever he could.
“Come along, Gert,” Roger instructed, refusing to make eye contact with John.
“Oh, stop your fussing,” Gert chastised as they walked down the street. “By morning everybody is going to know the prodigal has returned and on Sunday he can put things to right once and for all.”
The prodigal. That’s what Lydia had called him.
Chapter Two
The day had been unsettling to say the least. After her encounter with John, Lydia had barely been able to concentrate on the lessons she tried to teach the children. After they had eaten their lunches she surrendered to her complete inability to concentrate and let Bettina teach the little ones. In the meantime she gave the older students assignments they could do on their own. Then she sat at her desk studying her Bible in hopes that God would send her answers to the questions that crowded her mind.
At the end of the day she hurried home, thankful that the rain had let up and that John Amman had not waited for her outside as she had feared he might. Perhaps he had come to his senses and walked back the way he came. He clearly thought she was married and, given the shunning, surely no one in town would have told him the real story. She could only pray that this was the case. It was unimaginable to even consider living in the same town with John after all this time, after everything that had happened between them.
“Impossible,” she muttered as she climbed the porch steps to her house. She was eager to have a quiet supper and settle in for the evening to correct work she had collected from the students. That would surely calm her nerves. She would retire early and pray that John Amman would not haunt her dreams.
But as she reached for the doorknob, the door swung open and there stood her sister Greta, her baby daughter riding her hip while her two boisterous sons—only a year apart—raced from the kitchen to greet Lydia. “Tante Liddy,” they squealed in unison as they threw themselves against her.
She set the large basket that she used to carry books and papers to and from school on the table inside the front hallway and bent to give the boys a hug. “This is a surprise,” she said, glancing up at Greta.
“I have news,” Greta said in a conspiratorial whisper. “Boys, go finish your milk,” she instructed as she led the way into the front room. “You should sit,” she instructed as she shifted the baby in her arms.
This could be anything, Lydia warned herself. Greta was given to melodrama, and even the simplest news could seem monumental to her. Lydia sat in her rocking chair and reached for her niece. Greta handed her the child, clearly relieved to sit down herself. She was nearly eight months along in her latest pregnancy, and she sank heavily into the nearest chair.
“John Amman has returned,” Greta announced. “Gert Hadwell told Hilda Yoder that he just walked into the hardware store this morning as if he’d last been there yesterday.” She waited, her eyebrows raised expectantly. “Well?”
Lydia would not sugarcoat the facts, especially with Greta.
“I know. He was at the school when I arrived this morning. He had started the stove to warm the building.”
“Well, what happened? What did you say? What did he say? Where’s he been all this time and why didn’t he ever write to you and why come back now? Is he staying?” All of the questions Lydia had refused to voice came tumbling from her sister’s lips. Greta covered her mouth with her fist. “But, of course, you couldn’t say anything. He’s still under the bann.”
“Of course. How could I have any information about whether or not he plans to stay?” But he had said as much as he walked away from the school.
“Oh, he’s staying. He’s taken the rooms above Luke’s shop. Gert sent Roger to arrange everything with Luke earlier today.”
So close? The distance between Lydia’s house and Luke’s building was less than fifty yards. “Well, there’s your answer,” Lydia murmured, and wondered at the way her heart lurched at the news that he had found a place to live already. That they were to be neighbors.
“If you ask me, there’s more to this than it seems,” Greta pressed.
“What do you mean?”
“What if he’s come back for you?”
Lydia stood and bounced the child as she walked to the window that looked directly down to where the blacksmith shop sat and where even now John might be standing at the kitchen window of the upstairs apartment looking at her house, watching for any sign of her. “Don’t be silly,” she said briskly. “It’s been years. If John has come back to Celery Fields, it’s because he needs a place to work and live.”
“Then why not go north to his family’s farm?”
Because he was never a farmer.
With a sigh she turned to face her sister. “You’ll have to ask him that question, Greta.”
“Well, I just might,” Greta replied. “Of course, I’ll wait until he’s seen the bishop and makes his plea for forgiveness on Sunday. But if he has any idea that he can just come back here after all this time, after no word to you for years, and...”
“Let the past go, Greta,” Lydia warned. “Be happy for the Hadwells. I’m sure Gertrude is beside herself with joy. John was always her favorite nephew.”
“I am happy for them,” Greta said petulantly. “It’s just that...” She frowned.
“It was kind of Luke to offer him the apartment,” Lydia said, hoping the shift in the conversation would take Greta’s mind off worrying about her.
Her sister sighed. “We took most of the furnishings out of there when we moved to the house, so he’s going to need some things if he intends to stay. Luke also says we should invite him to supper on Sunday evening. I don’t know what that man is thinking sometimes.”
“Luke doesn’t know John from the past,” Lydia reminded her. “And do I need to remind you that Luke himself was under a similar bann when he moved here from Canada?”
Greta blushed. “I guess you’ve got a point. Luke’s more understanding of this whole matter.”
“And a kind man always doing what he can for others,” Lydia reminded her sister.
“Hmm. Still, Sunday is Samuel’s birthday,” Greta said with a nod toward the kitchen, where the boys could be heard whispering and giggling. Suddenly her eyes widened. “Even if John comes you’ll still be there, won’t you? Samuel would be so disappointed if...”
“Of course I’m coming,” Lydia assured her.
“I mean I could just tell Luke not to...”
“Greta, if John Amman has indeed come home to stay then we will need to adjust to that—all of us.”
“If you’re sure...”
“I’m sure. Now shouldn’t you be getting home? Luke will be wanting his supper.”
Greta smiled as she heaved herself out of the chair and waited a minute to catch her breath. Then she took her daughter from Lydia, called for the boys and herded them onto the porch. “I left you something for your supper,” she said as she and the children headed back toward town.
Greta had been the homemaker for Lydia and their father from the time she’d been old enough to reach the stove and counters in the kitchen. Even with her own house and brood to care for she still felt the need to make sure that Lydia was eating.
“I do know how to cook,” Lydia reminded her.
“Not well,” Greta shot back, and both sisters laughed.
Lydia stood on the porch watching Greta waddle down the path toward her own house at the end of town. As she turned to go back inside, a movement on the landing above the livery caught her eye.
John Amman was standing in the open doorway of the apartment Greta’s husband had once occupied. He was watching her and, as Lydia stared back, he raised his hand, palm out flat in the signal they had shared as teenagers.
He remembered.
* * *
By week’s end everyone in Celery Fields and the surrounding area made up of small produce farms owned by Amish families knew the story of John Amman. And as far as Lydia could see, John did not need a forgiving father on the scene to kill the fatted calf in celebration of his return. He had his aunt. Gertrude Hadwell took John in as if he were her beloved son.
Only a day after his return he was working in the hardware store as if he’d never left. Oh, to be sure, at Roger Hadwell’s insistence, John’s chores were confined to the loading area in back. That way no customers would be placed in the awkward position of having to openly shun him. But Gert made it clear that by Monday he would take his place behind the counter.
In the meantime his aunt had organized a frolic, the name given to occasions when Amish women gathered for some large work project such as cleaning someone’s home or completing a quilt top. To Lydia it seemed exactly the right word for such events. No matter how difficult the work, the women always enjoyed themselves—sharing news and rumors and laughter. This time, the cause for gathering on Saturday morning was to properly clean and furnish the rooms above the livery for John. Of course, everyone in town knew how Gert Hadwell had grieved the fact that she had never had children of her own. It was understandable that people would put their happiness for her above their concern about John’s past. Besides, John would not be on-site for the cleaning.
So on Saturday morning Liddy sat on a stool in the barn behind her house squeezing warm milk from the cow as she tried to decide her next course of action. Much as she dreaded it, Lydia could hardly refuse to join the other women. If she failed to attend the frolic the day’s chatter would no doubt focus on her at some point. She could not bear the thought of the others gossiping and recalling how she and John had once been sweethearts. The newcomers would have to be filled in on the romance that had ended when John left town. Lydia had no doubt that she would be forced to endure curious glances and abject pity when she attended services on Sunday.
No, better to do whatever seemed prudent to get through the first rush of excitement over John’s homecoming. Not much happened in Celery Fields and John’s return was, indeed, cause for excitement. It had certainly taken everyone’s mind off her own stunning break from tradition a few weeks earlier, when Lydia had decided to forego the black prayer kapp of a single woman and the habit of sitting on one of the two front benches with her nieces and the other unmarried girls. Rather, she had taken a seat in the rear of the section reserved for the married women and widows. To punctuate her action she had replaced the black kapp that she had worn since joining the church with one of white.
As she had hoped, during the service the other women had not wanted to create a stir and so had simply focused their attention on the words of the hymn and sermon. One or two had gently nudged those girls in the first two rows, who had turned to stare. Of course, once the service ended and the women gathered in the kitchen to prepare the after-services meal, there had been whispers and knowing nods until Lydia had realized she would have to say something.
“It seems plain that there is little likelihood that I shall ever marry,” she announced, drawing the immediate and rapt attention of the others. “As I grow older—having nearly reached my thirtieth year now—and having served the community and the congregation for several years since my baptism, is it too much to ask that I be allowed to sit with the women of my age?”
She had taken her time then meeting the eyes of each woman in turn. Some had looked away. Others had registered sympathy, even pity, for her plight. Hilda Yoder, wife of the owner of the dry-goods store, had chewed her lower lip for what seemed an eternity and then given Lydia’s decision her blessing.
“Makes perfect sense,” she said with the crisp efficiency with which she pronounced most of her edicts. “Now, shall we attend to the business at hand and get this food set out?”
And that had been the end of any public discussion on the matter. So at least John’s return had taken people’s attention away from that. Of course, if she didn’t go to the frolic...
Lydia would go to the frolic—and to supper at Greta’s after services on Sunday. By that time John would have contritely sought the forgiveness of the congregation and been officially welcomed home. If she could just get through the next few days, surely by the end of the coming week everything and everyone would settle back into the normal routine of life in Celery Fields. Oh, no doubt, she and John would cross paths in town or at some gathering, but in time...
“Hello, Liddy.”
Lydia had been so lost in thought that she’d been unaware of anyone coming into the barn—much less John Amman. He was dressed “plain” in clothes that were obviously new and store-bought. The pants were half an inch too short and the shirt stretched a little too tightly over his shoulders. He was clean shaven and his face was shaded by the stiff wide brim of his straw hat. His blond hair had been recently washed and trimmed in the style of other Amish men, although it was more wavy and unruly than most.
She turned her attention to the cow, determined not to allow John or any thought of him to further disrupt her plans for the day.
“Why do you wear the prayer covering of a married woman, Liddy?” He leaned against the door frame, one ankle crossed over the other. “My aunt tells me you have never married—and in her view you have little thought of ever doing so.”
Lydia bit her lip to keep from speaking. He was to be shunned at least until the congregation could hear from the bishop and take a vote to reinstate him. She squeezed the last of the milk from the cow’s udder and stood up.
John reached for the bucket of warm milk and his boldness unnerved her. Someone could be watching—people were always passing by on their way to and from town and it was Saturday, the busiest day for such traffic. If she were seen standing right next to John Amman tongues would surely wag, no matter whether she shunned him or not.
She wrestled the bucket from him and quickened her pace as she headed out into the sunlight. Surely, he would not follow her where everyone could see him.
But he did. He had not changed at all. John Amman had always been one for testing boundaries. “We will talk about this, Liddy,” he said. “I think I deserve an explanation.”
She almost broke her silence at that. He deserved an explanation? This man who had promised to write, had promised to come back to her? This man from whom she had heard nothing for eight long years? This man whose memory had so dogged her through the years that he had made it impossible for her even to consider accepting the attention of any other man in his stead?
She kept her eyes on the sandy lane before her and concentrated on covering the ground between the barn and the house as quickly as possible without spilling the milk. But the path was narrow and he was walking far too closely. Their arms were in real danger of brushing if she wasn’t careful. She had to do something before they came into Hilda Yoder’s view. Surely at this hour the wife of the dry-goods store owner would be at her usual post by the shop window watching the goings-on in town.
John said nothing more as he continued to keep pace with her. In truth he seemed to be unaware of the awkward situation. Not knowing what else to do, she broke into a run, not caring whether the milk sloshed over the sides of her pail. To her relief he made no attempt to follow her. He just stood where she’d left him on the path watching her go. “See you tomorrow at services, then,” he called after her. “And after I’ve been forgiven and reinstated you’ll be free to speak with me. I expect to have your explanation, Liddy.”
Her explanation? She ran up the steps to her back door and hurried inside.
Safe in her kitchen with the door tightly closed, she scanned the lane that led to town and the parts of Celery Fields’ main street that she could see from her window. She cringed at the idea that anyone might have heard him call out to her. Her breathing was coming in gasps as if she’d run a good distance instead of a mere few feet, and she found it necessary to sit down for a moment.
It was not exertion that caused her breath to suddenly be in short supply. It was John—being close to him like that, remembering all the times they had walked together, and facing the reality that he was back in Celery Fields and gave every appearance of intending to stay.
She moaned as she buried her face in her hands.
After a moment she sat up straight and forced her breathing to calm. She would do what she always did when faced with a challenge. She would set boundaries for herself, and for John Amman, as well. They were no longer children. He would simply have to accept that she had certain duties as a member of the community—
duties that did not include answering to him.
With her confidence restored, she stood, smoothed the skirt of her dress and put the milk in a glass pitcher before storing it in the icebox. Then she took a deep breath as if preparing to dive into the sea and set forth once again, this time to do her part to clean and refurbish the place next door where John Amman had taken up residence as her neighbor.
* * *
John knew he should not have called out after Lydia ran from him. Even as a girl she had hated anything that drew attention to her. For that matter the entire encounter could have caused her grave discomfort if anyone had seen or heard. “Not exactly the best way to worm your way back into her good graces,” he muttered as he headed for the hardware store.
On the other hand, why should he be the one trying to win her favor? Wasn’t she the one who had said she would wait and then shunned him as had everyone else? He’d written to assure her that he had every intention of returning once he’d made enough money to set up a business of his own. She had always understood his aversion to farming. She had even been the one to encourage him to start some sort of shop and they would live above it and she would help out on Saturdays and after school. But when he’d explained to her that it would take money to start a business and his father would never accept the idea that John would not one day take over the family farm, she’d insisted that God would provide.
He knew what she meant. In her mind if owning his own business were God’s plan for his life then the opportunity would simply present itself. “You just have to be patient—and vigilant for God’s signs,” she had instructed.
But patience had never been one of John’s attributes. When he reached the age of eighteen with no sign from God, he decided to seek out other possibilities. After all, hadn’t Bishop Troyer taught them that God helps those who help themselves?
“And where did that get you?” he grumbled as he put on the denim apron his aunt had left for him and began sweeping the loading dock behind the hardware store. He brushed the accumulated debris into a dustpan and dumped it in the bin next to the loading dock. Then he set the broom and dustpan inside the door and rubbed his hands together as he moved to a place where he could better listen in on his uncle and Luke Starns as they sat outside Luke’s shop. With no one allowed to converse with him, this was his only recourse for gathering information.
“Warmer today,” Roger said. “After the last spell of frosty mornings I thought we might be in for a stretch of cold weather.”
“Good for the crops that it’s passed,” replied the blacksmith, who was sipping a cup of coffee. He was a quiet man, as John had observed earlier that morning when the blacksmith handed Gertrude a box of kitchen items that Greta had gathered from her own supply to place in the rooms above his business. The idea of this silent giant of a man married to the vibrant and petite Greta made John smile.
A few minutes passed while the men discussed weather and crops and business. Then Bishop Troyer crossed the street from the dry-goods store and joined them.
“Bishop Troyer,” Roger said as he stood and offered the head of their congregation his chair. “Did you speak yet with John Amman?”
“Yah. We have spoken already twice. I am convinced that he has learned the error of his ways and come home to make amends,” the bishop replied. “Everything seems to be in order for tomorrow’s service.”
“Then I can have him working the counter come Monday.” This was not a question but something John realized his uncle had been dreading.
“Should bring you a bunch of business,” Luke said with a chuckle. “Folks will want to get a look at him after all this time. They’ll be curious about where he’s been and all.”
“They can look all they want at services. On Monday I need him to be working, although I’m not sure how we’re going to have enough business to support the three of us.”
“I seem to recall that this entire matter had its beginning in John wanting to start a business of his own,” Bishop Troyer said.
Roger let out a mirthless laugh. “With what? He has nothing. Gert had to buy him the clothes he’s wearing now and he owes a debt of gratitude to Luke here that he has a place to stay.”
“Still, he must have a skill if the plan was to open his own shop.”
“He’s a tolerable woodworker,” Roger allowed. “Clocks and furniture mostly. He built that cabinet where Gert keeps her quilting fabrics. And the clock we have in the store—that’s his work.”
John saw the bishop exchange a look with Luke. “I reckon Josef Bontrager took up that business in John’s absence,” Luke observed.
Roger stared out at the street. “You’ve got a point there. Not much call for handmade furniture these days.”
Was it John’s imagination or had his uncle raised his voice as if to make sure John heard this last bit of information? It hardly mattered. He was in no position to take up his trade. Over the past several months he had sold off his tools one by one or bartered them for a meal or a night’s lodging.
“Well, until something comes along he’s got work with you. The Lord has surely blessed him in having you and Gertrude still here,” the bishop said.
“Speaking of work I’d best get back to it,” Luke said as he drained the last of his coffee.
As the bishop took his leave and Roger walked slowly back to the hardware store, John stepped from the shadows of the storeroom into the sunlight that bathed the loading dock. There was work to be done—a pile of newly delivered lumber that his uncle had instructed him to sort and stack by size and type in the pole shed outside the store. But when he stepped into the yard he heard feminine laughter coming from the rooms above the livery.
He took a moment to enjoy the sight of the women moving in and out of the apartment, up and down the outside stairs carrying various items they seemed to think he might need. Then Lydia came out onto the tiny landing at the top of the stairs to shake out a rag rug.
She was laughing at something one of the other women had said, her head thrown back the way he remembered from when they’d been teenagers. And in that laughter he heard more clearly than any words could have expressed exactly why he had decided to return to Celery Fields. He had come back to find answers to the questions that had plagued him. He had come back to the only place where he knew there was a path to forgiveness and from there a safe haven to rest in while he found his way. He had come back because even eight long years had not erased the memory of this girl turned woman whose laughter had always had the power to stir his heart.
Chapter Three
When Lydia glanced up and saw John watching her from the loading dock, the laughter she’d been sharing with the other women died on her lips. How could she possibly have gotten so caught up in the pleasure of the work and companionship with the others that she had been able to forget that he was back in her life, whether she wanted it or not? That the place the women were scouring and setting to order was where John would live—was already living? How had she forgotten who would be eating off those mismatched dishes that she had washed and dried and stacked so precisely on the open shelf above the stove?
She had helped scrub the walls and floors and even made up the narrow bed that occupied one corner while engaged in the normal chatter. At events like this, women enjoyed catching up on news from families that had moved back north when the hard times hit, or the decision of the newest member of their cleaning party and her husband to move to Florida and start fresh after a tornado had destroyed the family’s farm in Iowa. And so the morning had passed without a single thought about John Amman. His presence in town was far too recent and their encounters had been rare enough that it was easy to lose herself in the work and the conversation. It was truly amazing how easily she had been able to simply dismiss the man from her mind.
But now seeing him standing in the back doorway of the hardware store, filling the space with his tall, lanky frame, she could not seem to stop the images of him living in that small apartment from coming. He would rinse the dishes she had washed for him at the sink as he looked out the small square window with its view of her house. He would hang his clothes on the pegs that she had wiped free of dust above the bed. He would sleep in that bed under a quilt that Greta had brought to add an extra layer to the one already there. It was a quilt that Lydia and Greta’s grandmother had made. A quilt that had once covered the bed Lydia and Greta shared when they were children.
She felt the heat rise to her cheeks as these images assailed her and John stepped closer to the edge of the dock, his bold gaze fixed directly on her. The other women went about their work, glancing shyly in his direction as their laughter and discussion dissolved into expectant silence. Lydia stood frozen on the steps, her fingers gripping the small rag rug until her knuckles went white. She felt as if her cheeks must be glowing like two polished red apples.
Greta stepped onto the porch landing next to her. “He’s watching you,” she whispered.
Hilda Yoder cleared her throat. “We have more work to do,” she instructed with a glance at John and then a lift of her eyebrows to Lydia. “Greta, take this mop bucket and get us some clean rinse water.”
“I’ll do it,” Lydia said firmly. Greta had no business hauling buckets of water up and down that steep staircase.
“I hardly think that...” Hilda began but then pressed her lips into a thin line and said no more.
Lydia handed the rag rug to Greta and took the bucket. She descended the stairs without looking at John, but she knew he was following her every move. Dumping the soapy water, she set the bucket aside and prepared to prime the pump until the faucet spit out fresh water. Above her she knew Hilda Yoder was watching with disapproval. She saw John leap down from the loading dock and walk slowly toward her. She could not help feeling a little like the sandpiper she’d once seen caught in a fisherman’s abandoned net at the beach.
She reached for the pump handle but John was there first, his fingers closing around the handle and brushing hers. “Let me,” he said softly. Lydia snatched her hand away as if she’d gotten too close to a hot stove. Then, not knowing what else she might do, she looked away while he primed the pump until the faucet squirted clear water into the pail.
Without a word he carried the full, heavy pail up the steps and set it on the landing careful to keep his eyes lowered so as not to give offense to any of the women Hilda had herded quickly inside. His delivery complete, he hurried back down the steps, past Lydia, who had waited in the yard, and back to the loading dock where he turned his back to them and began sorting through a lumber pile of mixed-size pieces.
“That man has been too much out in the world,” Hilda Yoder huffed as Lydia mounted the steps and all the women went back to their work.
“It may take him some time to settle back into the old ways,” Pleasant said with a glance at Gert, who was clearly embarrassed by her nephew’s action. “After all, he has been eight years in their world. Still, the important thing is that he has seen the error of his youthful decision and come home to us.”
There was a general murmur of agreement among the women. But Lydia had her doubts that John would ever truly return to their ways. The only reason he’d come back now was because he’d clearly had nowhere else to turn. In Celery Fields he could be assured of forgiveness and the care of the community. From what she knew of outsiders, they were not quite so generous to those who were down on their luck. No, she knew John Amman perhaps better than any of them or, at least, she had once a long time ago. It simply was not possible for a man to change so completely, was it? To have finally learned his lesson and abandoned the wanderlust of his youth? To be satisfied at last with the quiet, simple life of his Amish roots?
“Hilda, you don’t think there’s any possibility for someone to vote against him tomorrow, do you?” Greta asked, her eyes wide with worry.
“John Amman has sought his forgiveness from Bishop Troyer,” Pleasant reminded Greta. “We will wait to hear his recommendation tomorrow.”
“Nevertheless, the congregation has to be unified in its acceptance,” Hilda reminded them. Lydia saw Gert Hadwell press her fist to her mouth. She hoped, for Gert’s sake, that Hilda had not got it into her head to vote against John. Not that she would put it past the older woman. Hilda saw herself as carrying the standard for what was right in their small community. In many ways her opinion carried almost as much weight as the bishop’s.
But to Lydia’s relief Hilda positioned herself next to Gert in a gesture that could only be read as one of support as she glanced around the room. “I think we have done as best we can here.”
Gert smoothed the quilt on the bed and nodded. “It does look nice,” she said with a smile. “Perhaps,” she added wistfully, “with such nice quarters John will find his peace here.”
“Well, I’ll say one thing,” Pleasant announced. “It smells a good deal better than it did when we came in.”
All the women laughed as they gathered their supplies and trooped down the outside steps to the yard below.
All except Lydia.
She lingered to wipe the oilcloth that covered the small wooden table and glance around the room one last time. She told herself she was only making sure they had left none of their cleaning supplies behind. But she knew better.
In spite of the aroma of the strong lye soap they’d used, offset by the sweetness of the furniture wax, John’s essence filled the space. And as she closed the door behind her she recalled the scent of John—the sheer warmth of his nearness when he’d bent to take the bucket from her. A memory stirred, of him standing so close to her one time when they had gone to the beach together. That day he had smelled of the sun and the sea. And that was the day they had shared their first kiss. They had been fourteen years old.
A lifetime ago, she thought, shaking off the memory as she followed the others down the steps and into the lane where they said their goodbyes. Greta glanced back at her. “Coming to the house, sister?” she called.
“I’m a little tired,” Lydia replied. “You go on.” She was aware that John had paused in the sorting of the wood the minute she spoke. He did not turn around, but everything about his posture told her he was listening.
Greta hesitated then nodded. “All right. See you tomorrow then.”
Ah, yes, tomorrow. First, the services where John will no doubt be fully embraced back into the community. After all, forgiveness is the very foundation of our Amish faith. And later Samuel’s birthday party, Lydia thought. And John would be there for all of it. She drew in a deep breath and forced a smile. It had already been a long and difficult day but the events scheduled for Sunndaag promised to test her even further. “Yah, tomorrow,” she replied.
* * *
On Sunday morning John was awake well before dawn. He lay on the narrow bed beneath two faded hand-stitched quilts and thought about the bed he’d slept in as a boy in a room shared by his three brothers. Where were they now? Married with families of their own? And his sisters? He tried to imagine them all grown-up.
And his parents. Dat. Maemm. Did they think of him? Speak of him?
He rolled onto his side and watched the rays of sun creep through the window that looked out onto Lydia’s property, and his thoughts turned to the day before him. He was confident that the congregation would vote to accept the bishop’s recommendation of forgiveness. But what about Lydia?
So far she had given not the slightest sign that once the bann was lifted she would be willing to resume the friendship they’d once shared. If he was going to live here they would be neighbors at the very least. And, given the way the community’s population had shrunk over the years, they could hardly avoid spending time in each other’s company from time to time. There would be gatherings where they would both be present, like the birthday party for Greta and Luke’s oldest child. Maybe once the bann was lifted Lydia Goodloe would meet his eyes instead of averting her gaze. Or would she? He was certain that part of the way she’d been acting had to do with her thinking she would never see him again. And now that he was here she had no idea what to do.
Well, by this time tomorrow—in fact by later this very evening, when they all gathered at Luke and Greta’s for supper, he would have made clear that she could no longer use the excuse of his shunning for refusing to talk to him. The congregation would vote to accept Bishop Troyer’s recommendation for forgiveness and full reinstatement, for that was the way of his people. They would vote in his favor for his aunt’s sake even if they still had doubts about him. He had missed the traditions of his faith; never in all the years he was gone had he once been tempted to follow the faith of outsiders. Without question there were any number of good and pious people out there, but their ways were far too complicated for John to fully grasp. He liked the simple ways of his own people.
He had made a mistake in not coming home after he’d saved up the money that he needed. Instead, he’d allowed his business partner and friend to invest for him. He’d had no idea what a stock market was, but he had trusted his partner and been drawn in by pure greed at the prospect of doubling his savings in a short time with no work at all. Now he realized that he should have known better. The day he’d turned that money over to his friend was the day he’d realized that he had lost his way—his purpose in leaving Celery Fields in the first place.
But now he was back. He had returned for many reasons—to reconnect with his faith and his community was certainly something that had driven him as he made his way west across the state. He had missed his family, although with them moved north again there was little he could do about that for now. But he had also missed his neighbors and friends. And as hurt and upset as he had been with Liddy, he could not get her out of his mind. Every day as he made his way back to Celery Fields he had thought about her. Through pouring rain and cold, blustery nights when he had to sleep outside, he warmed himself by remembering the times they had spent together, the dreams they had shared, the plans they had made.
Now that he was back he was more confused than ever by her behavior toward him. There was the business of the white prayer kapp for one thing, and then she had barely said ten words to him. Of course, that could be explained by his being under the bann, but still as a girl Liddy had had little use for such rules if they got in the way of what she thought made more sense.
John kicked the covers off and sat up on the side of the bed. Liddy had always been stubborn. She had her opinion on almost any subject and not much tolerance for those who did not see things as she did. The two of them had always been alike in that way and it had caused them no end of arguments when their individual views on a subject differed. But seeing her these past few days since his return—being able to observe her for the most part without actually being able to talk to her—John’s impression was that she had changed. She was more like her half sister, Pleasant, than she’d been as a girl. Then she had been as light-hearted as her younger sister, Greta. But from what he’d observed she had developed the pursed lips and tense posture of their former teacher—a woman Liddy had declared she would never ever want to emulate. But then there had been moments—like when he pumped the water for her—when she had glanced at him and he’d seen the girl he’d fallen in love with, the girl for whom he’d risked everything.
Well, that girl-turned-woman had some explaining to do. And once he’d gotten through the service and then the supper at Luke and Greta’s, he fully intended to find out why Lydia Goodloe had never acknowledged his attempts to write to her.
John stood and surrendered to the wide smile that stretched across his face. He raked his fingers through his thick hair and it flopped back over his ears, reminding him that he was once again Amish. In a matter of less than a week he had cast aside the trappings of the outside world and now presented himself as every other man in Celery Fields did. He knew one thing for certain: Liddy Goodloe had always been one who wanted to know exactly what to expect at all times. She liked being in charge. That was one of the things that made her a good teacher. Well, just maybe it was time the teacher became the student. And if anyone could teach her the lessons of surviving and even thriving on the unpredictability of life, it was John Amman.
He dressed and then prepared a hearty breakfast of eggs, fried potatoes and thick slices of Pleasant’s rye bread slathered with butter and jam. He set his plate of food on the table and bowed his head, thanking God for leading him back to this place and these people.
Anxious now for the day to begin, for this life he’d come back to retrieve to begin, John gobbled down his breakfast. He set the dishes in water to soak and was out the door and on his way to meet Bishop Troyer and the second preacher before the sun was fully above the horizon.
* * *
Usually Luke, Greta and the children called for Lydia early on Sunday morning. Services were held every other week in one of the homes that made up the community. On this day the service would take place in the Yoder house behind the dry-goods store in town and, as was her habit whenever the venue was so close, Lydia planned to walk. There was one problem, though.
To walk from her place to the Yoder house she would have to pass by Luke’s shop—and the residence of John Amman. Her plan was to delay leaving her house until she had seen him go. That way there would be no possibility of running into him. And so, dressed for over an hour already, the morning chores done, her breakfast eaten and her dishes washed, dried and back on the shelf, she waited. And waited.
The clock chimed eight and still there had been no sign of life in the rooms above the livery. She would be late. Greta would be worried, perhaps send Luke to fetch her. Everyone would be talking about her, about whether or not she had decided against coming because of John, about...
“Oh, just go,” she ordered herself.
She tied the ribbons of her black bonnet and wrapped her shawl around her shoulders. The morning air was still chilly although a soft westerly wind held the promise that by the time services ended she would have no need of the shawl’s extra warmth. She picked up the basket holding the jars of pickled beets and peaches that would be her contribution to the community meal that always followed the three-hour service. Then she stood at the door and closed her eyes, praying for God’s strength to get her through this day.
By the time she reached the Yoder house her sister had indeed worked herself into a state. “I thought perhaps you weren’t coming,” she whispered as she relieved Lydia of her basket and handed it to one of the Yoder daughters. “I know how difficult this—”
“I am here,” Lydia interrupted as she saw that most of the congregation had already taken their places in the rows of black wooden benches that traveled from house to house depending on where services were scheduled. “We should sit.”
Pleasant slid closer to the women next to her, making room for Lydia and Greta. She gave Lydia a sympathetic look, as did two other women who turned to look at her. Oh, will this ever end? Lydia thought even as she manufactured a reassuring smile of greeting for each of the women.
She and Greta had barely taken their places when the first hymn began. Lydia felt the comfort of verses that had been passed down from generation to generation for centuries as she chanted the words in unison with her neighbors. There was something so powerful in the sound of many voices chorusing the same words without benefit of a pipe organ or other musical support. By the time the hymn ended twenty minutes later Lydia felt fully prepared to face whatever the day might bring.
Of course, it helped that John was nowhere in sight. No doubt, he was sequestered in one of the bedrooms where the elders and bishop had met with him before the service. Either that or he had lost his nerve and run away again in the dark of night.
That thought gave Lydia a start. What if he had done exactly that? She struggled to focus her attention on the message as Levi Harnischer, the deacon of their congregation, preached. But as he rambled from one Biblical story to another she found her thoughts, as well as her gaze, wandering.
More than once she glanced toward the hallway that she knew led to the bedrooms. Was he there waiting to be called before the congregation to make his plea for forgiveness and reinstatement once the regular service ended?
Greta nudged her as the second hymn began and gave her a strange look. Are you all right? she mouthed.
Lydia frowned and nodded but Greta continued to stare at her.
“You are quite pale, Liddy,” she whispered.
“I am fine,” Lydia assured her, forcing a gentle tone through gritted teeth.
Bishop Troyer’s sermon followed the singing, and there could be no doubt of his message. He quoted the story of the prodigal son and then focused much of his attention on the young people seated in the front two rows of benches on either side of a center aisle. For over an hour he spoke of lambs wandering away from the flock, tempted by the promise of greener pastures. He spoke of the dangers that awaited such runaways and the importance of returning to the stability of the fold.
All around her Lydia saw her neighbors sitting up very straight as they listened with rapt attention to the bishop’s words. They knew what was coming. At the meeting following the service they expected John would enter the room and face them. Did not one of them entertain the notion that he might once again have lost his nerve and run away?
The final hymn began and as each verse was sung Lydia felt her heart beat faster. She focused her gaze on Gertrude Hadwell, who clearly could barely contain her joy at having John back in her life. If he left again, Gert would be devastated.
Please let him be here, Lydia prayed silently even as she understood that life would be far easier for her if John had surrendered yet again to the temptations of the adventures he’d found in the outside world.
* * *
John followed the sounds and silences of the service from his position in one of the small bedrooms near the two large front rooms of the Yoder home. The hymns, chanted slowly in unison verse by verse, had a beauty all their own. It was so different from the music he’d heard on the rare occasions when he’d attended an Englisch service. In the outside world hymns were always accompanied by some musical instrument—most often a pipe organ that huffed and thudded as the organist pushed or pulled the stops and pressed down on the row of pedals beneath her feet.
He had missed the quiet rhythm of hymns from the Ausband—hymns passed down through the generations, hymns that could run on for dozens of verses, hymns he had memorized as a boy. He heard the drone of the preacher’s voice as the first of the two sermons was delivered. Since the door to the bedroom was closed, he did not hear the actual words until he was called to seek his forgiveness.
He folded his hands and leaned his elbows on his knees. He ought to be praying for God’s guidance. He ought to be using this time to figure out how he was going to state his case without sounding either arrogant or insincere. He ought to be trying to understand exactly what he hoped to achieve by coming back here—what his life was going to look like after today. He ought to be doing all of that but, instead, his mind was filled with thoughts of Liddy.
She would be there sitting with the other women and girls, all of them dressed in the solid dark-colored dresses and aprons topped by the starched prayer kapps of their faith. They would wear their hair the same, as well, for in the Amish world sameness was a sign of commitment to the community at large; individuality in dress or style was seen as rebellious. Male and female would sit shoulder to shoulder on their respective sides of the room, their eyes either on the minister or lowered in prayer. None of them would be distinguishable from their neighbor. For that was their way. The community was everything and the individual was nothing.
That was, of course, why he had to apologize and seek forgiveness. He had put his personal dreams and plans above what was considered in the best interest of the community. In the outside world such actions would be considered laudable. He would be praised for his ambition and determination to make something of himself. But not in Celery Fields or any other Amish community.
And not in the eyes of Liddy Goodloe.
He knew why the rest of the community had failed to understand his purpose in leaving eight years earlier, but he had thought that Liddy of all people knew why he’d done the only thing he’d felt he could do if the two of them were to have a future. She had counseled patience then but how long was he expected to wait? And she, too, had wanted to marry and start their life together. He was certain of that—or at least he had been.
He stood and paced the confines of the room, the leather soles of his new work boots meeting the polished planks of the wooden floor with a distinct click like the ticking of a clock. He straightened his suspenders and tucked his shirt more firmly into the waistband of his wool trousers. He heard more singing and then the hum of Bishop Troyer’s deep voice as the elderly man delivered the second and final sermon for the day.
Soon the deacon would come for him.
Soon he would face them.
Soon one way or another it would be decided.
And if someone voted against him? What then?
He would have little choice but to leave Celery Fields for good. Mentally he considered each of his neighbors and friends, picturing them waiting to seal his fate. By this time tomorrow he would either be settled back into the fold of the community or once again miles away from everything he had once cherished.
The final hymn began. John stood next to the closed door listening for the deacon’s footsteps. He closed his eyes and prayed for God to show him the way. Liddy would say that if it was God’s will he would be forgiven and just like that, in the eyes of the community, the last eight years would be gone. People would greet him as if he had been in town the whole time. Liddy would no longer look at him with the eyes of a cornered animal...or would she?
Chapter Four
The vote was unanimous in John’s favor.
The bann had been lifted and in the yard, where the members of the congregation had gathered to share the light fare of the after-services meal, the atmosphere was that of a celebration. As Lydia brought out platters of food the women had prepared in Greta’s kitchen she saw John surrounded by a circle of men, his full-throated laughter at something one of the men had just said filling the air around her. It was as if the past eight years had never happened. She froze suddenly, her eyes riveted on John, her ears attuned to his voice, so familiar, so dear.
“Oh, it is so good to have this matter decided!” Greta exclaimed as she came alongside Lydia and followed her gaze to where John was standing. “Now things can return to normal around here.” She wiped away beads of sweat from her forehead with the back of one hand. “Is it me or is it unusually hot today?”
“It’s you and that extra weight you’re carrying,” Pleasant replied as she nodded toward the protrusion of Greta’s pregnancy and relieved Lydia of the platter she’d nearly forgotten she was holding. “Liddy, find your sister a place in the shade before she passes out.”
“Please do not make a fuss,” Greta protested, but Lydia saw the way her younger sister pressed one hand against her side and the grimace that followed.
“Come and sit, anyway,” Lydia instructed. “You still have Samuel’s birthday supper to manage. It will do you good to rest some.” She saw Luke glance up and excuse himself from the group of men, then move quickly to his wife’s side.
“Are you all right?”
“I am fine,” Greta assured him.
“I’ll get you some water,” Luke said, but before he could do so John was there with a glass filled with cold lemonade.
“I seem to remember you liked your lemonade extra tart, Greta.” He grinned at her and Greta giggled as she accepted the glass.
“It is so good to have you back, John,” she said. “Everyone is truly pleased.”
Lydia did not miss the way her sister cut her eyes in her direction as she said this.
“It is certain that we have been losing more people than we have gained here in Celery Fields,” Pleasant added. “What are your plans, John Amman?”
Lydia hid her smile at her half sister’s well-known habit of speaking her thoughts bluntly, not taking time to temper them with discretion.
John chuckled. “Ah, Pleasant, I’ve missed your forthright way of coming to the heart of any matter.”
“That does not answer my question.”
“For now I will work at the hardware store with my uncle. In time...”
Lydia almost gasped when she glanced at John as he paused. In his eyes she saw the faraway look she remembered so well from their youth, as if he were already miles away from this place and time.
He had not changed at all, she thought. He was still the dreamer.
“In time?” Pleasant prompted.
John shrugged. “Only God can say.” He focused his gaze on Lydia.
“I forgot the bread,” she murmured, and hurried back inside the house. From the kitchen she watched out the window. She saw Gert tug on John’s arm and lead him across the yard to be introduced to people who had moved to Celery Fields since his departure.
She saw him smile as he spoke to those families that had moved to Celery Fields since he’d been gone. She saw him nod sympathetically as Gert introduced him to a young couple who had lost everything in a recent fire. She watched as he admired children and bent to their height to speak with them, charming them with some chatter that made their eyes go wide or their faces break out in smiles.
Oh, how she had loved him once long ago. Loved him for all of these things. But he had left her, and seeing the way he had looked away when Pleasant questioned him, Lydia had no doubt that in time he would leave again.
* * *
By the time he walked back to his rooms following the services, John had heard the story of how Lydia had one Sunday simply decided that she would no longer sit with the unmarried girls. He chuckled as he imagined her walking into the service, looking neither left nor right as she took her place in the back row with the married and widowed women. And no one protested.
Of course, that was Liddy. She might not be as free-spirited as he had often been but even as a girl she had demonstrated a streak of independence that had worried her father and older half sister. It had been that very inclination toward questioning things that had attracted John to her. From the first day he’d worked up the nerve to walk home from school with her he had felt she was someone who could perhaps understand his own restless spirit. And as they had spent more and more time together, his certainty had grown that they were meant to be together—destined to share a life filled with happiness beyond anything they could imagine. While at home he had to face his father’s constant disapproval, when he was with Liddy none of that mattered. She listened. She encouraged him to pursue his love of carpentry. She believed in him. She loved him—or so he had thought.
But in the end she had chosen the community over him, as any good Amish girl would have. She had conducted herself as any Amish girl would when dealing with someone under the bann. She had let his letters go unanswered, shunning him as tradition required. That single action had told him more forcefully than any words she might have written that, in her eyes, he had chosen the wrong path and she could not—would not—stand by him.
He stared down at the house he’d visited so often as a boy. He, Liddy and Greta had played tag or hide-and-seek, and he had helped Liddy get through her chores so the two of them could go to the beach. He had sat with Liddy on the porch after a Sunday-evening hymn singing and a ride to her house in the brand-new courting buggy every Amish boy received when joining the congregation. And although no one had spoken openly about it, the expectation had been that he and Liddy would soon marry and start a family of their own.
As he stood at the window lost in memories of the past they had shared—a time when everything had seemed possible—John couldn’t help but wonder if the old wooden swing on the porch of Liddy’s house still squeaked. He smiled as he recalled a day when he had offered to oil the connection between the hook and the chain that held the swing in place. Liddy’s father had thanked him for the offer but said with a wink, “Now, if I let you fix that squeak, how will I know what you and that daughter of mine are up to?”
How Liddy had laughed when he told her that. “We’ll just have to find a quieter place, then,” she’d said with a twinkle that matched her father’s.
And they had. At every opportunity he would meet her at the bay that separated the town of Sarasota from the barrier islands standing between the community and the Gulf of Mexico. At the bay they would walk out on the mudflats where Liddy would collect shells while he fished. In the late afternoon they would walk their bikes along the unpaved roads that led east to Celery Fields. Sometimes they walked the entire distance across the causeway from downtown Sarasota to the islands beyond and the wide sandy beaches of the Gulf of Mexico. They walked instead of riding in his buggy or taking their bicycles because it gave them more time. More time to plan their future together.
“So much for that,” John muttered as he plucked his hat from the peg near the door and headed for Greta’s house. He was not sure why he had agreed to attend the supper and birthday celebration, but a promise was a promise. At least Greta’s boys had been excited to know he would be there.
* * *
“He’ll be here,” Greta murmured as she worked next to Lydia, peeling vegetables for the stew she was making for their supper.
It did no good for Lydia to pretend she didn’t care but she tried, anyway. “It hardly matters to me, after all. He’s your guest,” she said, licking her thumb after she nicked it with the paring knife.
“You’re nervous,” Greta said with a sharp nod. “It’s to be expected. After all, if the congregation had rejected him he would probably be long gone by now. I mean, what would he have left to stay around for? But they didn’t reject him and now you have to decide what to do.”
“About what?”
“About the fact that you are still in love with him. And about the fact that he has come back here for one reason—you.”
Sometimes Greta’s certainty could be so annoying. To disguise her irritation, Lydia laughed. “Greta, John Amman and I have not seen each other in years. He was not much more than a boy when he left here and I was...”
“You were both of age to be married,” Greta reminded her. “You had both been baptized into the faith and you were on your way to starting a life together.” She placed her hand on Lydia’s. “What happened? You never talked about it to me or anyone else.”
Greta had still been a child oblivious to the heartaches of courtship when John boarded the train that took him away from Celery Fields to a job in St. Augustine on the east coast of Florida—a job he’d only read about in the Sarasota newspaper. A job he did not yet have but one he was certain was the key to their future that did not rely on his becoming a farmer.
“He left.” Lydia pulled away from her sister’s touch and scooped the chopped vegetables into the boiling water.
“And now he has returned,” Greta continued. She sat down in one of the wooden kitchen chairs and pulled a bowl of frosting toward her. “He certainly did not come back to work in the hardware store,” she commented as she swirled the creamy confection onto each layer of her son’s birthday cake.
“He had nowhere else to go.” Lydia clamped her lips together. Why was she even attempting to reason with her romantic sister?
Greta gave a hoot of a laugh. “Admit it, Liddy. He came back because of you. So what are you going to do about it?”
“Nothing,” Lydia replied as she picked up a stack of plates and utensils and went to set the long table in the front room. From the yard she could hear the children’s laughter as they played and, after a moment, through the open window that overlooked the porch, she heard male voices drifting into where she worked. Her heart skipped a beat as she realized that one of those voices belonged to John. He was talking to her brother-in-law Luke. This is how it might have been every Sunday evening, she thought as she centered each plate precisely in front of each chair. This is the life John and I might have shared if he had not left.
She felt the sting of tears even as she felt the sting of the memory that not once had he written or tried to contact her after that day. Everyone knew that John Amman was the only boy she’d ever come close to marrying. Almost from that first day when John had caught up to her on her way home from school they had been inseparable. Once they reached their teens their families, as well as the rest of the town, simply assumed that they would wed. But late one night John had left Celery Fields to seek his fortune in the outside world. She fought unsuccessfully against the memory of that night when her entire life had changed forever. It had been raining. She had followed him to the train station hoping to talk sense into him. He had listened impatiently and then he had begged Lydia to come with him, painting her a picture of the adventures they would share, the money he would make, the material things he would buy for her.
“I don’t want such a life,” she had argued. “I just want you.”
“Then promise me you will wait,” he’d pleaded. She had known in that instant that nothing she could say would change his mind.
“I will wait for you to come to your senses, John Amman,” she had told him, tears streaming down her cheeks.
But he never had. No one had seen or heard from him—certainly not Lydia. His family had worn their shame like a hair shirt until the day they sold their farm and moved back to Pennsylvania. Lydia’s father had forbidden any mention of John in his presence. Her mother was dead. Greta was too young to understand what had happened, and Pleasant—in those days—had not been someone that either Greta or Lydia could go to for solace.
So Lydia had turned all of her attention to her teaching, pouring herself into the lives of her students and their families and quickly establishing her place in the community. Through the years there had been hints that this man or that was interested in her and would be a good provider. But when it had come to even considering a match with any other man, Lydia had refused. She had loved only one man in her life and she would not settle for less—even if that man surely had to be the most obstinate and opinionated man that God had ever set His hand to creating.
She set the rest of the plates around the table and then surrounded them with flatware and glasses, ignoring the low murmur of John’s voice and his occasional laughter as he visited with Luke. As she set the last glass in place, the crunch of bicycle tires and buggy wheels on crushed shells told her that other guests were arriving. She gave one final glance at the table to assure herself that nothing was missing and then called out to her sister, “Greta, company.” She smoothed her apron and went to greet Pleasant and her family, Levi and Hannah and their children, the bishop and his wife and John’s aunt and uncle.
In the clamor surrounding the arrival of the other guests Lydia was certain she would be able to avoid John’s presence. Once they sat down for supper she had already planned to let him find a place first and then to take a chair as far from him as possible. The very fact that she was making such elaborate plans told her that John Amman was too much on her mind.
He is here, in Celery Fields and at this party, as he will no doubt be often where you are, she scolded herself silently. Best get used to it.
And having made up her mind to face whatever she must to get through the evening Lydia squared her shoulders and went out onto the porch. She greeted the women and invited them to carry their contributions into the kitchen. Then she turned to the men. “Supper is almost ready,” she said, and forced herself to meet John’s gaze before looking at the gathering of men as a group. “We can sit down as soon as the children have washed their hands.”
Clapping her hands, she stepped off the porch and into the yard and called for the children to stop their games. When they immediately abandoned the tree swing and seesaw that Luke had built and came running, she heard Roger Hadwell chuckle.
“The children mind their teacher better than they do their parents,” he said. But then Lydia noticed a clouded expression pass over his features. “Just wish there were more of the little ones around,” he added softly as he made his way past her and into the house.
“What did he mean by that?” John asked. He and Lydia were the only adults left on the porch.
“Enrollment is down at the school and it may have to be closed,” Lydia explained. She was so relieved that his first attempt at conversing with her had nothing to do with their personal history that she was able to speak easily. She saw John’s eyes widen in surprise and concern.
“But that’s your...that’s the way you...”
“Times are hard, John. You know that perhaps better than anyone in Celery Fields. If the school building and land can be put to better purpose for the good of the community then that’s the way of it.” She herded the children into a single line and pointed to a basin and towel set up on the porch. “Wash your hands,” she instructed.
“But what about you—what’s best for you?” John persisted. He reached around her to hold open the door so the children could file into the house.
She looked at him for a long moment. “You are still too much with the outside world, John,” she said. “You have forgotten the lesson of joy.”
“Joy?”
“Jesus first, you last and others in between.” She actually ticked off each item on her fingers the same way she might if teaching one of her students the lesson. Embarrassed by her primness, she followed the last child into the house, leaving John standing on the porch.
She had not intended to engage in any true exchange of conversation with him, anything that might let him know more of her life after all this time. Her plan had been to remain polite but distant. Still, the realization that he had forgotten the old ways—the idea that community came first—was just one more bit of evidence that John Amman would struggle against the bonds that the people of Celery Fields lived by.
Why should she concern herself with his happiness? He had left her before and he would leave her again.
* * *
After Lydia moved the children into the house, John stayed on the porch staring out over the single street that ran from Luke and Greta’s house to the far end of town where the bakery and ice-cream shop sat. He found it hard to absorb how much the community had changed in eight years and yet so much was familiar and comforting about being back here. In the distance he heard a train whistle and he remembered how as a boy he had dreamed about where that train might one day take him, the adventures he might have. The adventures he and Liddy might have together. But the destinations of that train held no attraction for him now. He knew all too well what was out there.
“John?”
Greta stood on the other side of the screen door watching him with an uncertain smile. She was so very different from Lydia in both physical appearance and demeanor. Greta’s smile came readily while Lydia’s had to be coaxed. Greta’s vivacious personality drew people to her while Lydia’s reserve kept them at arm’s length.
“We are ready for supper,” Greta said.
John pulled open the screen door. “Gut,” he said with a grin intended to erase the lines of concern from Greta’s forehead. “It’s been three hours since I last ate.”
Greta glanced back at him and then she giggled. “Ah, John Amman, it is good to have you back. We have missed you.”
They were still talking and laughing when they entered the large front room where a table stretched into the hallway to accommodate all the adults and children. John paused for a moment to enjoy the scene. This was one of the things he had missed most about the life he’d left behind—this gathering of friends and family on any excuse to share in food and conversation and the special occasions of life. He recalled one time when he had attended a Thanksgiving dinner at the home of his business partner in the outside world. There the adults had sat at a dining-room table set with such obviously expensive crystal and china that John had spent the entire meal worrying that he might break something. The children had been shooed away to the kitchen and a separate table set for them with the more practical everyday crockery.
He liked the Amish way of having all generations in one room much better, he decided as he pulled out a vacant chair. He glanced around until he located Lydia taking a seat on the same side of the table but with the safety of his aunt and three small children separating them. Luke took his place at the head of the table and all conversation stopped as every head bowed in silent prayer.
John thanked God for the food and for the willingness of the townspeople to forgive him and take him back into the fold of the community—and for second chances. After a long moment he heard Luke clear his throat, signaling that the meal could begin. Instantly the room came alive with the clink of dishes being passed. Conversation buzzed as the adults talked crops and weather while the children whispered excitedly. No doubt they were all anticipating a piece of Samuel’s birthday cake—a treat Greta told them would not be forthcoming until every child had devoured all of his or her peas.
From farther down the table he picked out the low murmur of Lydia’s voice and found himself leaning forward, straining to catch whatever she was saying to Pleasant’s husband, Jeremiah. She was smiling as she cut small slices of the sausage and then placed the meat on Samuel’s plate.
It struck John that she performed this task so naturally that she might have been the boy’s mother. And for the rest of the meal, while he fielded the questions of those around him about his plans for the future, John found his thoughts going back to a time when he had first thought what a good mother Liddy would be. The time when he had imagined her as the mother of the children they would have together. And he could not help but wonder if she regretted never marrying.
She glanced up then, her gaze meeting his and she did not look away as she continued to speak to young Samuel, reassuring the boy that she had seen his birthday cake and it was his favorite—banana with chocolate frosting. John wondered if she was remembering that this was his favorite, as well. He wondered if she was remembering a day when the two of them had shared a single piece of cake, their fingers sticky with the frosting as they fed each other bites while sitting in the loft of her father’s barn.
How they had laughed together that day, and on so many other days. But now her expression was as serious as it had been each time he had seen her since his return. In her eyes he saw questions and could not help but wonder if her questions were the same as his.
Chapter Five
Lydia had managed to convince herself that once she settled into the daily routine of morning and evening chores separated by her duties as teacher, John Amman would be less of a problem for her. Surely, once everyone in Celery Fields returned to the regular business of living and working, John would cease to be the topic of discussion and speculation. He would be busy with his work at the hardware store all day every day except Sundays. The chores he had taken on for Luke in exchange for living above the livery would occupy him in the early mornings and after the store had closed for the day.
But when she returned home on Monday she found a basket filled with oranges next to her door. There were orange trees in Greta’s yard and her first thought was that the gift had come from her sister. But she and Greta had sat on the back porch after they’d finished cleaning up after the party on Sunday and Lydia had noticed that the fruit on her sister’s tree was not quite ripe enough to pick yet.
“The tree outside Luke’s shop is loaded with fruit,” Greta had said. “Every day he brings me a basket filled with the largest, sweetest oranges I’ve ever tasted.”
Lydia hesitated before reaching for the basket. She glanced down toward the livery where she could see the tree, its orange bounty reflected in the bright sunlight of late afternoon. The tree stood just outside the stables at the back of Luke’s shop and she was well aware it was a tree that John passed every time he descended or climbed the stairs to his living quarters.
A square of white paper tucked in with the fruit caught her eye.
“Remember the day we picked oranges?”
She folded the paper slowly as the memory he’d awakened overcame her. They could not have been much more than ten or eleven. It had been Christmastime and the children and their teacher had planned a special program to celebrate the season. Their teacher had sent the older children—Lydia and John among them—to pick oranges from a grove of trees at the Harnischer farm to be handed out as a treat at the end of the evening.
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