An Amish Family Reunion Page 19

  Julia ladled Henry’s bowl to the brim. “She wants to, but I’m sending her home every night. She has volunteered her guest room and Ben’s room for overnight guests on the weekend the whole district is here. Matthew might have old friends who’ll come from far ends of the county. I could put women in the front room on cots, and you can make space in the loft for men.”

  Simon stroked his beard. “And Martha’s family? I’m sure her kin will arrive in droves.”

  Julia furrowed her forehead “The Hostetlers live across the road. I trust they’ll open their house to overnight guests as well. More soup, Simon?”

  “Nein, but I’ll have some of those berries with cream.”

  Before she could rinse out his soup bowl, he dumped in a load of fruit. “I would have washed your bowl, but I suppose it all goes to the same place.” As she walked to the refrigerator for the cream, she heard the sound of a vehicle in the side yard. “Who can that be?” she muttered, drawing back the curtain. The pitcher nearly slipped from her hand. “Oh, goodness. Henry, stop eating! Go to the attic for that crib and set it up in your room. Do it now, before you start visiting.” Julia faced her menfolk. “They’re here! I can’t believe it, but they are here!” Heat flooded her chest as her throat swelled nearly shut.

  Henry sprang from his chair and took the stairs to the second floor two at a time.

  “Matthew?” asked Simon unnecessarily, pushing aside the berries.

  “Matthew,” said Julia, turning back to the window in a vain attempt to rein in her emotions. Her son stepped from the taxicab looking fit and trim and infinitely more mature, even though he’d been gone less than two years. He clutched the hand of his son, Noah. Watching the little boy gaze curiously at the unfamiliar surroundings led to Julia’s undoing. Noah had been a babe in arms when his parents moved to New York. Julia left the kitchen window and hurried outdoors with her husband close behind.

  “Easy, Julia, don’t break a leg,” Simon cautioned. He grabbed her arm to steady her on the steps.

  Once on the gravel path, Julia ran toward the new arrivals as fast as her arthritic legs would carry her. Martha was just climbing out with her husband’s assistance. She carried a pink-wrapped bundle despite the July heat and humidity. Julia recognized the pink quilt as the one she and Mary Hostetler had made with the tender love of two faraway grossmammis. “Little Mary?” asked Julia, an equally ridiculous question as Simon’s.

  “None other.” Martha drew back the coverlet and handed over her sleeping daughter. “I wrapped her up because the taxi’s air-conditioning was turned high enough to chatter teeth.”

  Julia accepted the baby with a face streaming with tears. Her attempt to control her emotions had failed miserably. The little girl sported flaming orange hair, which stood out all over her head in tufts of tight ringlets. It was the same color Matthew’s had been at that age. She had very long blond eyelashes lying against her round-apple cheeks as she slumbered. Her tiny button nose was pink from the sun, while her lips were pursed into a heart-shaped bow. Mary Miller was absolutely, delightfully beautiful—God’s handiwork manifest in each perfect detail.

  Simon thrust his head over Julia’s shoulder. “Fine-looking gal, that one is,” he declared. “Good luck trying to get her back.” He grinned and nodded at Martha and then strode toward his son. Matthew paid the taxi driver after the man pulled suitcases from the trunk. As the vehicle backed slowly down the drive, the two men embraced with unabashed affection. “Welcome home,” murmured Simon.

  “Good to be here,” said Matthew. “It’s been way too long.” He leaned back to study his father. “Is your beard even whiter than before?”

  “Nein. Your mind’s playing tricks on you.” Simon slapped his son on the back. “We didn’t know the exact day of your arrival, but your mamm’s been cooking up a storm for a week. I sure hope you’ve brought your appetites.” He grabbed the handles of one suitcase.

  “You know I have. I only eat good home-cooking on the weekends.” Matthew carried a bag to where Julia fawned over Mary as though the infant was some newfangled invention.

  “Matty!” A shout cut through the air as Henry bounded out the kitchen door. He leaped from the porch without bothering with the steps and ran all the way to the group. “You’re a sight for sore eyes! I have a bagful of questions about a couple Standardbreds I bought.” The two men half-hugged and pumped hands vigorously as though priming a well.

  “Those will have to wait,” ordered Simon. “They’ll be here a month. Let’s give him a chance to come inside and relax after the long bus ride.”

  “And have something to eat,” added Julia. She strolled toward the house rocking the baby in the crook of her arm. “I hope you haven’t spoiled your appetites by eating bus terminal food.”

  “Especially since mamm made a big pot of roast partridge with pickled snails today,” Henry said cheerfully as he picked up the last piece of luggage and punched his brother’s arm lightly.

  Martha and Matthew exchanged an anxious glance. “What are we having?” Matthew asked.

  “Fried chicken, ham sandwiches, bean soup—anything you want. Don’t pay any attention to Henry. He’s been out in the sun without his hat again.” Julia climbed the stairs with a springier step than usual as her family followed into the house. As the others carried in bags and parcels, she turned her face toward the ceiling to utter words of gratitude for the gift of family and for keeping the ones she loved safe.

  Matthew slipped out the back door unobserved and headed toward the barn. He was home in his beloved Holmes County, and he’d nearly forgotten how much he missed life here. He and Martha had settled in his old room, where Mary was already fast asleep in her crib. Martha entertained his mother with tales of the kinner, trying to fill in every detail from the last two years. Henry had taken Noah on a walk to the pond with empty jelly jars. They planned to catch a few tadpoles or frogs in the fading light and forge a new special relationship between nephew and uncle. Matthew wanted to appreciate each smell and sound on the farm where he’d grown up—the rolling pastures for cows, horses, and sheep; the fields planted in golden wheat, tasseled-eared corn, sweet-smelling timothy hay, and thick green soybeans. He gazed up at the barn, which had been rebuilt more than a dozen years ago. No one had ever determined whether an errant lightning strike or a careless smoker had started the fire, but the entire community had turned out to build a new structure so strong it would likely last the next hundred years.

  Framed by the setting sun, he watched the windmill blades pumping water to a cistern high on the hill. Gravity would then bring the water to the house’s bathroom and kitchen with sufficient pressure. Wherever he looked, everything was neat and tidy. Even the cornflower weeds grew in straight rows beside the chicken coop. Matthew wandered into the barn with its mixed bouquet of odors, both nice and not, feeling a surge of nostalgia. As an adult he had thrived here while working for an English horse farm and later, retraining balky horses on his own. But the offer of far more substantial paychecks had lured him away to a new community and the Monday-through-Friday world apart from his wife and children. How much happier Martha had been during the early months of their marriage, close to her parents, sisters, and everyone else she’d grown up with.

  “Things shouldn’t look that different to you, son,” Simon said, entering the barn and quietly breaking his reverie. “Except for the outrageous number of horses we own right now. They’re all out to pasture because we don’t have anywhere near enough stalls for them.”

  Matthew laughed, lifting his boot heel up to a hay bale. “Is my brother buying up horses from the Sugar Creek kill pen? Is that where your extra stock comes from? I guess I taught him that little trick.” He felt a swell of pride that his younger brother had followed in his footsteps.

  Simon glanced over his shoulder. “This is not a laughing matter. We own close to thirty horses now. That’s an absurd number for an Amish farmer and deacon. Do you have any idea how much a horse eats during the wint
er when they can’t graze the pasture?”

  “I would say a bale of hay each day, plus a quantity of oats or spelt.” Matthew leaned against a post, holding back his grin.

  “Jah, well, an English horse trainer can afford such extravagance, but feeding them will send me to the poorhouse, if we still had such places these days. I can’t grow that amount of hay even if Seth gives me half his crop. I’m forced to buy loads at the grain elevator while my fellow brethren scratch their heads in wonder.”

  “Why don’t you ask Henry not to acquire more until he sells down his current stock?” suggested Matthew. “Set a target number he should work toward…say fifteen or twenty, at the most.”

  “The trouble is Henry doesn’t seem to sell any of them. He brings them home and turns them out to pasture. With some he’s had success retraining, while with others no luck at all, yet it doesn’t bother him.” Simon again checked to make sure they weren’t being overheard. “Your brother is as hardworking as any man, but he doesn’t possess a lick of business sense. He completes his farm chores and then treats his new purchases more like pets than temporary investments.”

  Matthew pondered how best to settle this impasse. “Does he make an income by retraining balky horses owned by others?”

  “No, he hasn’t for a long time. When he rehabilitates a rescued horse, he gives it away to a friend or a district family suffering hard times. Soon folks will be showing up at our door with food baskets and gifts of charity.” Simon shook his head.

  “Ask them to bring bales of hay instead.”

  “Would you please take this seriously? I need your help, son.” Simon shifted his weight to his other leg and crossed his arms.

  Matthew sobered. Seldom did his dad ask for advice. “I’ll speak to Henry and work with him during the month I’m home with specific horses. I’ll point out which ones he shouldn’t have purchased, no matter how low the price, and which traits to beware of. Then I’ll try to fire up his training business to generate cash. He showed great promise two years ago.”

  Simon looked him in the eye. “Your cousin Phoebe volunteered to paint Henry a sign to install down by the road.” He drew a large rectangular shape in the air with his two index fingers. “The Miller Family Horse Sanctuary. Everyone laughed at the joke, but not Henry. He thought it was a great idea.”

  Matthew smiled but then held up his palm before his father could object. “I know you’re concerned with the practical end of matters—horses do eat a lot. But I admire his kindness and dedication to saving beasts that would otherwise have been put down.”

  Simon rubbed his eyelids with his fingertips. “Loving horses is fine, but then he needs to find them new homes. Once after preaching service, I overheard someone ask Henry if he could bring his buggy horse here. It was a Standardbred, gimpy and old as those hills to the west. The young man’s father had told him to put the mare down because the family lived near town on only two acres. They had no room for geriatric nags.”

  “And Henry told him jah?” asked Matthew, already knowing the answer.

  “Of course. She’s the ancient swayback that hangs out in the high pasture, usually with a string of wildflowers around her neck. Phoebe took a shine to the horse and brings her fruit more days than not.”

  Matthew bit the inside of his cheek. “I’ll look for her tomorrow when I take a hike in that direction.”

  “You do that, son.” Simon started toward the door. “And be sure to take some apples along with you.” In the doorway he turned back. The streaming moonlight ringed his white head like a halo. “How about some pie? I believe we have as many varieties as a tourist smorgasbord.”

  “I’ll be up later. Save me a piece. I’m heading down to the pond to find Henry and my son.” Matthew watched his father lumber back to the house. His parents were aging—the inevitable march of time of this temporal, earthly life—and the reminder filled him with guilt and sorrow.

  By moon and starlight he made his way to the water supply for livestock and the kitchen garden during periods of drought. Henry and Noah were crouched on haunches with their flashlights trained on two large glass jars. Matthew crept up slowly so as not to interrupt the scene.

  “We’ll take your frog and this jar of tadpoles up to the house, Noah, to show grossdawdi and everyone else. But tomorrow we’ll bring them here and put them back in the water. The big guy might have a frog family that he would miss, plus he needs to catch flies to eat on his sticky tongue. And the tadpoles need the pond to grow into big-sized frogs.”

  “Okay, Henny,” said Noah, mispronouncing most words containing the troublesome letter r. He handed Henry his flashlight and clutched the jar to his chest as though a king’s treasure. “We’ll bring him home in time for breakfast.” His son spoke in Deutsch and had a bit of trouble with the name of the morning meal.

  Matthew watched them rise to their feet. Henry took Noah’s small hand and they started up the path. His brother had the gentlest heart in the county. No way did Matthew wish to change that. He would offer his brother practical advice to turn his business into something generating more income, but he wouldn’t change the one thing that made Henry extraordinary in a world where too much cruelty and neglect still existed. Matthew stepped out of the shadows. “There you two are. Anybody need a hand carrying new pets up to the house?”

  “Daed!” exclaimed Noah. “Look who I found.”

  Matthew met his brother’s gaze over Noah’s head and grinned. Who indeed, he thought.

  TWENTY

  Winesburg—early August

  Phoebe trotted her pony faster than usual on a sunny Wednesday, even though she had plenty of time before the appointed hour to meet Eli. She looked forward to an afternoon spent at the library, surrounded by books, comfortable chairs, and happy readers. Her mom had kept her busy roasting meats and baking sweets since the arrival of cousin Matthew. One would think he and Martha had brought their entire New York district instead of only two little ones, judging by the quantity of food prepared. At least Hannah hadn’t insisted she stay home today. It wasn’t that Phoebe didn’t like her cousin and his wife—she did very much and would enjoy visiting with them. But the heart-stopping news tucked into her tote bag wouldn’t keep. She couldn’t wait to show Eli and watch his face as he read the letter. “Git up there!” she commanded. The spotted pony dutifully picked up his hooves.

  Despite her early arrival at the library, she saw Eli’s buggy already tied to the hitching post. She’d planned to have the librarian teach her more about the computer. She’d heard that a person could set up an e-mail account at a place called “Yoo-Hoo” even if they didn’t own a computer themselves. Phoebe secured her pony to the rail and ran toward the door. After greeting Mrs. Carter, she found Eli at their favorite table in the back. He appeared to be napping—but thumping her tote bag down under his nose put an end to that.

  “Hullo, Phoebe,” he said with a slow drawl of words. “Thought I would catch up on my beauty sleep while waiting for you. Haven’t been able to get much at home since Dad’s not been feeling well.”

  Eli did look tired. Dark circles underscored his bloodshot eyes, while his normally healthy color looked pale.

  “I’m sorry, Eli. Maybe you could go to bed early tonight, but you’ll not want to sleep through this.”

  He straightened in his chair while she pulled out the letter with great drama. After placing it face up on the table, she waited for his eyes to focus on the return address. “Great Beginnings Publishing, New York, New York,” he read, looking to her for confirmation.

  “Yes, it’s really from them. We’ve received our first reply to the queries. Actually, it’s not the first—we got three form letters within days of our mailing saying that they weren’t accepting any new submissions at this time. Oh, and one publishing house stated they accepted proposals only from agents.” She breathed in and out through her mouth, trying to calm down.

  Eli sat like a statue, eyeing the envelope with apparent skepticism. “An
d this publisher…what reason for rejection did they give us?” he asked.

  She sat and scooted her chair closer until it touched his. “Why don’t you read it for yourself? Your name is on the letter, same as mine.”

  He picked up the envelope and extracted the single sheet as though anxious to put the task behind him. After scanning the paper, his gaze met hers. His expression remained one of disbelief. She grinned as widely as her face allowed while he began to read aloud:

  Dear Miss Miller and Mr. Riehl,

  It is my pleasure to inform you that I thoroughly enjoyed Who Will Be My Friend? Both the inspirational story line and the lovely illustrations might be just what we’re looking for to expand our line of children’s gift books. I have given your proposal to our publishing committee for consideration. The final decision whether or not to pursue this project rests with them, but I have passed along my heartfelt support. At your earliest convenience, please supply my office with a phone number where you can be reached, along with your e-mail address.

  Yours very truly,

  Ms. Heather Duncan

  Editor in Chief

  Eli tossed down the letter and sucked in a lungful of air. “Oh my goodness gracious!” He spoke each word of exclamation louder than the last. Then he threw his arms around Phoebe and squeezed.

  “We did it, Eli! We got our foot in the door, as Mrs. Carter calls it.” Phoebe hugged him back with equal exuberance. She buried her face against the soft cotton of his shirt, which smelled like sunshine.

  He kissed the top of her head at least a dozen times. It was a good thing they were alone in the library, because such public displays of affection were forbidden in their Amish culture. “I can’t believe they contacted us so quickly,” he said. “I thought we wouldn’t hear anything for months.”

  “It must be a good sign.”