Abigail's New Hope (The Wayne County Series) Read online

  When Isaiah finished breakfast, he gazed at her with a crooked grin. “Pick today,” he stated. Twin dimples gave away his enthusiasm.

  Catherine glanced into the empty pail and back at the other three. “You want to pick berries today with Laura and Jake and me?” She had difficulty reducing verbiage, even when she understood his ideas.

  Isaiah downed his coffee in two swallows and wiped his mouth with a napkin. “Jah. You, Cat, Lorr, and Jake pick.” He peered from under his dark lashes. His eyes could have drilled holes through her if she hadn’t broken the connection.

  The way he looked at her…it is the look that passes between lovers, between those who are courting and will someday marry. Catherine shivered, even though no breeze stirred the wind chimes overhead. She held up an index finger, made a swishing motion over his empty plate and bowl, and then fled inside with cheeks ablaze. What was happening here? Wasn’t she supposed to be improving his communication skills? Bringing the man out of his reclusion to enjoy the camaraderie of family and friends? Daniel had long since left for his chores, yet nevertheless she kept glancing over her shoulder while she washed the breakfast dishes. She knew for certain he wouldn’t like the way Isaiah looked at her.

  Drying her hands, Catherine dismissed the notion. No doubt she was imagining things. How many times had she misinterpreted a simple act of kindness or a sidelong glance during a preaching service that had been intended for another?

  At twenty-three I might be older but no wiser, she thought. “Laura, Jake, where are you? Let’s go berry picking.”

  The children bounded into the kitchen at speeds that belied their short legs. “Blackberries? Is it that time?” Laura jumped up and down. “Mamm always takes us to the back pasture fence. Then we make blackberry pie and blackberry pancakes. And she stirs some into our milk too.”

  Catherine didn’t think she would appreciate anything floating in her milk, but Laura’s excitement knew no bounds. It only increased when she spotted Isaiah on the porch through the screen.

  “Isaiah,” Laura shrieked and ran out the door, followed by her shadow, Jake. She threw her arms around his waist.

  Catherine tucked stray hairs beneath her kapp and sprayed insect repellant on her neck instead of body mist. She slipped it into her apron pocket to use on the kinner.

  “Hullo, Lorr,” said Isaiah, returning her hug shyly. He handed her a bucket.

  “Ready, Cat?” he asked, meeting her eye. His words were low and guttural, yet recognizable. Considering he had never heard two barn cats howling at each other, she didn’t mind the nickname.

  “Ready,” she said, picking up a pail. Catherine thought the walk to the berry patch would be a perfect opportunity to gauge Isaiah’s lip-reading abilities. She would ask short, direct questions without a companion action to see which words he recognized. Perhaps by day’s end she would have determined which vowel sounds were harder for him to discern.

  Too bad Isaiah couldn’t read her mind. With his long strides and the kinner running beside him, she was soon left in the dust on the pasture lane. As Laura chattered away, oblivious to the fact no one was listening, Isaiah loped along, taking in the sights and smells of a summer day. He sniffed low-hanging dogwood branches and plucked buttercups growing along the fence line.

  Catherine, however, marched as fast as she could without running. She had no wish to sweat heavily during the outing. When the threesome disappeared around a bend in the path, she grew annoyed. Am I not the nanny? Aren’t these children my responsibility to keep safe? Hadn’t Isaiah extended the invitation to include me?

  She fumed until she rounded the bend and discovered her companions waiting in the shade. Each held a different colored nosegay of weeds—Jake’s were purple ajuga, Laura white yarrow, while Isaiah presented yellow buttercups he’d pulled up by the roots. With a blush, she accepted the gifts.

  “Hurry, Aunt Catherine,” demanded Laura, “before the birds eat all the berries.”

  Catherine held her skirt up with one hand to keep pace with the group. “Looks like we won’t have to worry about sharing,” she answered as they reached the pasture fence. Stretching for fifty yards, briar bushes hung over the split rails. “Oh, my,” she gushed. She’d never seen such a rich harvest. Honeybees buzzed in and out among the late flowers while the fruit glistened with the last of the morning dew. And not a single blue jay in sight!

  Isaiah hooted as he handed Jake his pail. The four spread out and began picking. For the first twenty minutes, they ate as many as they gathered. When they had eaten their fill, they concentrated on filling the buckets with berries to take home. Abby kept an eye on the youngsters to make sure they didn’t entangle themselves in the thicket, but both knew how to pluck the low berries without encountering too many thorns.

  “Enough?” asked Isaiah, over Catherine’s shoulder.

  She started, not realizing he’d come up behind her. “Jah, more than enough. I had no idea the Grabers owned this goldmine.”

  He plucked one firm berry and inspected it carefully before pressing it to her lips. Without thinking, she chomped down like a fish taking a baited hook. “Danki,” she murmured, hoping Laura wasn’t watching. But the child worked diligently as Isaiah fed Catherine berry after berry as though she were incapable of eating on her own. She felt a rush of exhilaration as she plucked a ripe fruit for him. She should discourage his boldness, yet she couldn’t seem to muster the energy. When she fed him a second berry, he bit lightly down on her fingertip. He laughed while she flushed with embarrassment.

  “Stop that,” she hissed under her breath. “Load your bucket, and then we’d better head back.” Before Daniel notices we’re gone. They picked for another ten minutes, swatting at mosquitoes and wiping the back of their necks. Then Isaiah took Laura’s hand. “Come,” he instructed and lifted both children over the fence. He climbed over effortlessly and made a motion for Catherine to follow.

  “Come where?” she asked, her brows knitting together above her nose.

  Isaiah strode toward the scrub pines, holding his bucket and Jake’s hand. Laura ran ahead, spilling berries as she swung her pail like a pendulum.

  “Where are you all going?” She hollered to no avail. “There are still plenty more here to pick.” But because Isaiah couldn’t hear her and the kinner didn’t appear to want to, she had no choice but to climb over the fence too. It was neither a graceful nor ladylike maneuver. By the time she caught up with them, she was perspiring and had a horde of gnats swarming around her head.

  “Where are you going?” she asked, catching Isaiah’s sleeve.

  He stopped abruptly to face her, holding up his index finger as she had done this morning to signal patience. Then he flicked the tip of her nose and resumed hiking.

  After a quick glance over her shoulder, Catherine grabbed Laura’s hand and followed. Curiosity had gotten the better of her. They walked not in the direction of Isaiah’s cabin but toward the neighboring property. A fast-moving stream separated the two farms, more or less creating the property line. Tall sycamores and cottonwoods lined the riverbank, while the namesake white fluff floated on the breeze as they drew close. On the western side, catching plenty of sun while being sheltered from the strong burning rays, stood another stand of briars. Although smaller than the first patch, its location along the river provided optimum conditions. The berries were the largest she’d ever seen.

  Catherine began picking as though part of some race or competition. Soon they had all filled their buckets to overflowing. When she glanced over at Isaiah, he was watching her. He pressed his finger to his lips and said, “Ssshhhh.”

  She didn’t have to ask him what he meant. This patch of blackberry bushes would be their secret. He wouldn’t bring anyone else here and neither should she. She nodded eagerly, loving that she shared a secret with him. She’d become his trusted confidante. And judging by the way he walked at her side on the way home, she’d also become his friend. Although he attempted no conversation, his sparkli
ng eyes told plenty.

  Back in the Graber yard, Catherine took everyone’s berries to the porch to be washed and sorted later. The ripest would be eaten tonight with sugar and cream, and then the remaining would be baked into pies or canned. When she came back to find Laura and Jake, they were taking turns on the swing. Isaiah pushed one, then the other on the oak slat hanging from the tree. Patient and careful were his efforts so that Jake didn’t fall off or Laura swing too high.

  Catherine watched them from the shade, wishing she didn’t have to start cooking or get the two children washed up for supper. Truthfully, she wished this idyllic summer day would never end. But before she could curtail their playtime, Isaiah sent them inside the house in his special nonverbal manner. Neither child argued but headed toward the porch hand in hand.

  She scrambled to her feet, planning to thank him for the afternoon.

  “Cat,” he voiced and pointed at the swing.

  “Oh, no. I’d better go inside and start—”

  “Cat,” he insisted. He pointed again at the swing.

  After three seconds of consideration, she plopped down on the wooden slat and gripped the chains. After all, what difference will five minutes make?

  Isaiah clamped his fingers over her hands and began to push. His touch sent her heart soaring into the clouds. For a short while she lost herself with childlike abandon. He pushed while she swung higher and higher. The breeze lifted the strings of her kapp and loosened a few tendrils of hair. Closing her eyes, she savored the exquisite sense of flying…of freedom.

  Then without warning, Isaiah slowed the swing with a firm grip on both chains. When she turned her face to thank him for the enjoyable afternoon, he leaned in and kissed her. Not a brush of his lips against her cheek as Englischers loved to do or a buzz across the top of her kapp. It was a smack right on her mouth.

  And there was nothing childlike about it.

  Catherine jumped off the swing and ran toward the house, hearing his laughter ring in her ears until she closed the kitchen door behind her.

  Thirteen

  Are you up there, nephew?”

  Iris’ shrill voice could be heard clearly from the bottom of the narrow staircase. Nathan punched his pillow before burying his head beneath it to block out any sound. He contemplated ignoring his aunt’s question and hiding from her like a child. Perhaps she would assume he’d gone to the fields or to one of the barns and he would be able to catch another hour of vital sleep. The walk from Mrs. Baker’s house had nearly killed him. Because he’d worn his ill-fitting dress shoes, the short distance by car had turned into a nightmare on foot. He had blisters on top of blisters by the time he reached his driveway. But Nathan was an adult, not a boy playing hooky from school. He sat upright and swung his sore legs out of bed.

  “I’m up here, Aunt,” he called, scrubbing his face with his hands. “I’ll be right down.”

  After slipping on clean work clothes, he staggered down the steps like a ninety-year-old man. His legs burned from the excursion, while his knees and ankles felt swollen to twice their usual size. The sweet smell of sizzling bacon reminded him of how long it had been since last night’s supper. His stomach grumbled with hunger. Iris took one look at him and dropped her wooden spoon. Apparently, he looked as bad as he felt.

  “What happened to you? Why were you still upstairs? Were you sleeping?” Her inflection on the final word revealed how unbelievable she found the idea.

  Nathan poured coffee and drank half a cup before attempting to answer. “I went back to bed after milking the cows and filling feed and water troughs. I needed a little more shut-eye today than usual.” Right now, he needed more coffee, probably more than what remained in the pot. He quickly downed his first cup and refilled it to the brim.

  “You went back to bed?” She pulled the pan of eggs off the burner.

  “That’s what I said. Danki for frying bacon this morning. I’m hungry enough to eat a whole pound myself.” He lowered himself to a chair and grabbed two slices of toast.

  “Did you stay at your meeting very late? Folks wanted to keep talking until the wee hours, eh? It probably did you some good, hearing you’re not the only one with sorrows. A person can always sleep—”

  “Aunt Iris!” he interrupted. “Hold up there. You’re running away like a stampeding herd. That’s not what happened.” He ate the toast almost without chewing.

  She set the scrambled eggs, plate of bacon, and coffeepot on the table. “All right, then, why don’t you tell me what took place. I prayed for you all evening that the meeting would go well.”

  “God chose not to answer that particular prayer, Aunt. It didn’t go well at all.” He scraped a hearty portion of scrambled eggs onto this plate and began eating.

  She sipped coffee, studying him over the cup’s rim. “What happened? Talk to me, Nathan.”

  He set down his fork and dabbed his mouth with his napkin. “Those Englischers are rather odd. They dwell on the past, rehashing events to keep them alive in their memories. They won’t let themselves move on.” He reached for another slice of toast.

  “Are you saying you would prefer to forget Ruth?”

  “No,” he said, raising his voice. “But these people neglect living children to focus on one who died.” Remembering that young mother’s story still tightened his belly into knots. “One man still mourns a brother who drove home drunk from a bar and smashed into a tree. He died from his own irresponsibility and bad decisions. Luckily, he took no innocent people along with him.”

  She narrowed her gaze. “His brother still has a right to grieve for him, and maybe he mourns the fact the man was an alcoholic. It was a tragedy. I’ve never heard you so critical, Nathan. Judgment is best left up to the Lord.”

  He devoured his plate of food, organizing his thoughts to make a clearer case for the therapy fiasco. “One other man sounded mad at God for calling his wife home after forty-nine years of marriage. He had that much time with her and still it wasn’t enough. He wanted to throw some fancy party and go touring walls in China!”

  “You’re saying that because he had forty-nine years, he wasn’t entitled to grieve for his wife? He had that much more time to grow attached. He’s probably lost without her companionship.” Iris nibbled a cold slice of toast.

  “Grieved, yes, but mad because they didn’t have even more years together is pure greediness.”

  “You’re angry because you had so little time.”

  “True, but that’s not why I can’t abide with the therapy sessions. Those Englischers…they bare their souls about things meant to remain private. Family business, things shared between two parents…they tell anybody who’ll listen their deepest, darkest secrets.” Nathan closed his eyes trying to blot out the woman who initially rejoiced upon news of her sister’s death. Or the young mother who admittedly neglected her daughters because she so favored her lost son.

  “Wasn’t that the point of the meeting?” Iris asked. “They weren’t telling their secrets to just anybody. They were sharing with likeminded folks who understood.”

  Nathan stared at her. She was taking the side of the self-centered Englischers? Why had he thought she would understand him? “All well and good for them, but their meeting didn’t help me one bit.” He shoved two slices of bacon into his mouth at once.

  While he chewed, she studied him. “If the therapy went poorly, then why were you so late coming home? You must have slept little last night to return to bed this morning after chores.”

  “When my turn to speak came, I told my story and then I left.”

  “Left? How could you leave? You rode with Mrs. Daly.” Her brow furrowed with confusion.

  “I didn’t want folks asking me questions. I didn’t want to wait around while they ate their dessert. And I didn’t want that social worker to leave her group. So I walked home.”

  “You walked home?” Her cup clattered onto its saucer.

  “Aunt Iris, must you repeat everything I say? Can’t you just
believe me the first time around?”

  She wrinkled her nose. “Well, that explains why you can barely walk this morning.”

  “I wore my dress shoes. If I’d worn my boots, it wouldn’t have been so bad.”

  “You walked all the way from Wooster?”

  He rolled his eyes. “No, not that far. Some lady invited the group to her home so she could try out a new recipe.”

  After a moment’s contemplation, she said, “I guess I’m having a hard time understanding why anyone would walk home instead of waiting for his ride.”

  Nathan’s voice rose with irritation. “Because I lost my temper. Those people got under my skin, so I stormed out of the session. I didn’t want to listen to that pushy social worker on the way home. She would have handed me a pile of reasons and excuses, sort of what you’re doing now.”

  “What do you know about losing one’s temper?”

  He thought for a moment. “Something about it being a sign of our pride and arrogance. I admit I didn’t handle the situation very well, but I shouldn’t have gone in the first place.” He sighed with resignation.

  Iris pushed away her plate of eggs, barely touched. “So why did you? Why did you agree to go if you had no desire to give therapy a chance?”

  Nathan swallowed hard, washing down the bacon with more coffee. The caffeine was making him agitated but not energized. “I went because you asked me to go.”

  “You did it for my sake and not for your own?”

  “Jah. I knew it was important to you.” He dumped the remaining eggs onto his plate and ate, still hungry after his first helping.

  She waited until he had finished and said, “Then the plan was doomed from the start. You can’t do this for someone else, Nathan. You must be the one who wants to heal.”

  “I’m not sick, Iris. There’s nothing wrong with me. I’m going about my life and tending my farm. You’re starting to sound like one of them.”

  She slapped a flat palm down on the table. “There’s plenty wrong with you. Your idea of checking on your son is peeking at him from the doorway. You handle him as seldom as possible and hold him as though he might break. You might be tending your farm, but when did you last talk to a neighbor? Or maybe checked to see if someone needed your help for a change? When was the last time you went to a preaching service or read your Bible? God might lead you to helpful Scriptures if you opened the Good Book once in a while. I see you bow your head, but do you pray? Or are you merely passing time, thinking about your list of chores?”