An Amish Family Reunion Page 25

“When did he tell you this? Twenty years ago?” Hannah hooted with laughter and popped the rest of the muffin into her mouth.

  “Very funny. You wouldn’t be laughing if your household had been upturned.”

  “Actually, life is unsettled here as well.” Hannah walked to the back window and peered out. “Apparently, Phoebe’s had a falling-out with that young man of hers.”

  “That Riehl boy who came to our cookout badly in need of a haircut?” Julia reached for a muffin. “Simon said his daed is on the mend.”

  “He’s the one. Phoebe had high hopes of illustrating a storybook with him because he likes to make up stories, but now she won’t talk about what happened. Instead, she is scratching her arms and legs raw. Her case of poison ivy isn’t getting any better. She’s a mess.”

  “Better take her for a shot of cortisone or whatever they give these days. But if you ask me, it sounds like a case of nerves, not a rash allergy.”

  Hannah arched one blond eyebrow. “Stress?”

  Julia swallowed hard. “There I go again—sticking in my two cents where it’s not wanted.”

  “But it is wanted, and I think you might be right. If that gal ever comes down from the high pasture, she must tell me what’s troubling her. She’s been up there for hours. Or we’re going to urgent care tomorrow for an exam and medicine. Enough is enough.” Hannah dropped the curtain back into place as they heard boots stomping in the hallway.

  “Hullo, Julia,” greeted Seth, striding into the room. He winked impishly at his wife before opening the refrigerator. “I thought that was your pony cart in the yard. I put two fifty-pound bags of spelt behind the seat. I would have loaded more but I wasn’t sure how much weight that old horse can carry.” He took out the pitcher of fresh milk and poured a glass.

  “What am I going to do with spelt?” asked Julia.

  “It’s been finely ground for baking. Hannah uses it for piecrust, bread dough, cookies—you name it. The other day she made a pizza crust from it.”

  Hannah smiled with affection. “I’ll be using spelt flour from now until Christmas cookie time. Seth’s harvest was more than anyone bargained for.”

  Julia remembered Seth’s unsuccessful attempt to corner the corn market to make a windfall profit. “Were you unable to sell your crop to the grain broker?”

  “No, nothing like that. I sold plenty and received my investment back, plus a small profit. But the yield far surpassed expectations… and current demand at the grain elevator. I’ll be giving away free bags as gifts.”

  “Sort of like those free samples they pass out at the grocery store on Saturdays,” added Hannah. “An incentive to get folks to try and then buy in the future. Spelt is really quite tasty.”

  Seth ducked his head to hide a blush. “I’m going to shower before supper. Tell Simon I’ll bring a few more sacks over tomorrow.”

  “I’ll tell him.” Julia struggled to her feet. “I look forward to spelt dumplings and spelt pancakes, Seth, but now I’d better start for home.” She locked gazes with Hannah. “Danki, schwester, for not making me feel like the terrible person I am.”

  Hannah’s grin filled her entire face. “What are sisters for?”

  Amish farms…for as far as the eye could see in every direction. Matthew had forgotten how many hills lay between Berlin and Winesburg on his way home. He enjoyed the scenic visits more than he cared to admit. He loved it here, where the Amish weren’t an exception to the rule, considered by some to be an archaic oddity. Holmes County had more Plain families than English, and what’s more, both Christian sects got along well.

  The fertile farm fields, the undulating acres of pasture, and a thriving tourist industry provided plentiful buyers for handmade furniture, woodcrafts, quilts, and home-canned produce. Life was good here, and he would miss the easy camaraderie he’d enjoyed at the tack shop, produce market, and auction barn. Everywhere he went men seemed to be interested in the services his brother offered. Hopefully the fliers he had passed out, hung up, or left behind with business owners would lead to new customers for Henry. As the last daylight faded into a blue-black sky, he lit his battery safety lights and stepped up the gelding’s pace. His trip would take longer than anticipated, even though he’d hitched up the fastest horse in Simon’s barn. Dark clouds warned of the coming thunderstorm. He could only hope that the storm in the Matthew Miller family would soon blow over.

  A sole kerosene lantern burned in the doorway when he finally drove the buggy into the barn. His father sat just inside, out of the rain, puffing away on a corncob pipe. “You’re smoking, daed?” he asked, jumping down and shaking water droplets from his poncho like a dog. In all the years he could remember, he only recalled seeing his father smoke a pipe once—the summer Aunt Hannah moved to Ohio with her flock of sheep and independent ideas. She and Simon had butted heads like ornery goats, especially when Uncle Seth began courting her, until the two finally made their peace.

  “Only half a pipeful, solely to test the batch Gabe Esh has dried. Seems to me our growing season in Ohio is too short for tobacco to be a cash crop.” He puffed away, not inhaling much of the smoke. “No need to mention this to your mamm and worry her for naught.”

  Matthew cross-tied the Standardbred in the center aisle to rub him down after the hilly trip from Berlin. “Well, because this will be a one-time test, I’ll keep quiet.” He offered a good-natured wink at the amusing role reversal, but Simon’s face remained composed and somber.

  “Stayed out late tonight, son. Your family’s probably asleep by now.”

  It was then that Matthew realized his father had been waiting for him. Two statements of the obvious were precursors to a larger discussion looming like those storm clouds. “I was circulating fliers to advertise Henry’s horse training services. He doesn’t have much chance to get to town with all his chores.” He concentrated on drawing the brush through the chestnut coat with long, even strokes.

  “Always plenty of work to do on a farm.” A third statement of the obvious, yet Dad continued to sit puffing on his pipe.

  Matthew waited, keeping an eye on their barn cat. It was in pursuit of a mouse, and he didn’t want it to startle the gelding into kicking. Overhead, the barn swallows chattered away with bedtime stories to their young fledglings. After several moments, curiosity got the better of his cautious reserve. “Something on your mind, daed?”

  “Jah, I suppose there is. Not that I have any intentions of meddling in my kinners’ affairs.”

  That brought a smile to Matthew’s face. “Meddle away. You might not have much chance to do that after next week.” He used a metal pick to work some knots from the mane and tail.

  “Your mamm tells me there are bad feelings between you and your fraa. Been going on a while now. That ain’t right. You shouldn’t let the sun go down on your anger.” Simon tilted his head up to assess the night sky. The rain had dwindled to a drizzle, while a yellow half-moon attempted to break free from a bank of clouds. “As the sun has long since set, it might be time to patch up your differences, if’n Martha’s still awake, that is.”

  Matthew huffed out his breath, similar to the horse when the comb hit a nasty tangle. “I’m no boy anymore, Pa. I’ll take care of what goes on in my household. We’ve endured rough patches before. This one will pass too, same as the others.”

  “Harrumph.” Simon’s grunt accompanied a knock of pipe ashes into a refuse bucket.

  Matthew picked up the brush again to concentrate on the lower flanks, determined not to fall into his father’s trap. But after a minute of uncomfortable, anxiety-filled silence, he couldn’t keep from offering a weak defense. “It would help if Martha realized that I’m the head of the family.” He jumped back as the gelding shifted nervously in the cross ties.

  “Uh-huh,” said Simon, as unconvincingly as humanly possible.

  “It states right in the Bible that a man is head of his household and that the wife should mind him, instead of throwing up barriers and excuses at every turn in the
road.”

  Simon braced his hands on his knees while his brows stitched together between his eyes. “I’m well aware what Scripture says about marriage in the book of First Peter. I also know that a smart ehemann makes decisions after listening to his wife’s good counsel. What kind of husband are you?” He peered up with curious interest.

  “Dad, I don’t want to argue with you. The problem is that Martha doesn’t like living in New York. She hates raising the children away from our families, and I doubt anything will make her happy unless I announce we’re throwing in the towel and moving back to Ohio.” He tossed the brush into the tack box with more force than necessary and then unhitched the horse from the ties.

  “And that’s how you see it? As throwing in the towel? That sounds like some sort of failure on your part.” Simon lumbered slowly to his feet. Years of backbreaking labor along with his own arthritis made him move like a very old man.

  Matthew led the gelding to his stall, filled the water trough from a bucket, and poured oats into the wall-mounted bin. All the while he tried to organize his conflicting thoughts and feelings. “I guess I do see it like that,” he agreed, latching the door behind him. “I have a good-paying job at that saddlebred stable, one many men would drool over.”

  Simon’s mouth twisted as though tasting sour lemons. “Does it make you feel superior to have something others may covet?”

  Matthew whistled through his teeth. “I’m explaining myself poorly. Maybe that’s why I can’t make any headway with my wife.” If he’d expected his father to disagree, he would have been disappointed. Simon nodded and stroked his beard.

  Matthew walked back to his father, standing almost a head taller than the older man. “I only mean this job is my chance to make money—money we can use to buy our own farm someday. Land isn’t getting any cheaper or more plentiful—not here, not in New York. I want to create something I can one day leave to Noah, something he can then leave to his son and so on. Amish farms are divvied up between too many sons, leaving too little land to farm. I want to buy English land, and this job at Rolling Meadows pays me enough to set money aside.”

  Simon mulled this over. “Haven’t you saved anything yet?”

  “Jah. I’ve been saving since we moved there.”

  “Prices have fallen here while you’ve been gone. Might be worth your time to look into things. I don’t want to tell you your business, but sometimes a man must take what he’s got and pray it will be enough. Stop waiting for the deal of the century.” Simon walked away as one hand rubbed the small of his back. “Pick your priorities. Ask yourself what’s really important in life.” From the doorway he spoke without turning around. “You have a few things to think about, son. Gut nacht.”

  Just a few? Matthew rolled his eyes and shook his head. Yet even after he was tucked up in bed, he couldn’t seem to stop thinking about them until dawn finally ended his restlessness, next to a woman who only pretended to be asleep.

  TWENTY-SIX

  Phoebe slid off her favorite rock to her knees and began stuffing her tablet and pencils back into her tote bag. She’d turned her drawings into crumpled wads of paper, which would end up in the burn barrel on her way back to the house. Nothing sparked much creativity today, not mamm’s flock of frisky sheep, not the changing cumulous cloud formations in an azure sky, not even the majestic pair of eagles that soared on warm air currents, waiting for their next tasty prey.

  Even watching the adorable lambs provided nothing more than a vague, disjointed sense of annoyance. They followed their ewes around the pasture like thoughtless…well, sheep, even though they were nibbling sweet grass more often than nursing these days. They were still drawn to their mamms by an almost unbreakable bond. Yet if something happened to her ewe, a lamb could easily be introduced to another lactating sheep. The lamb would transfer her devotion to the new parent figure with no emotional trauma.

  How much easier it was to live a sheep’s life. Ewes certainly didn’t wallow for days in self-pity over rams that left them for a prettier Dorset or Suffolk face. Phoebe laughed aloud at the sheer ridiculousness of her thoughts. And yet for all her laughter, for the first time her hike to the ancient stone wall had failed to bring her comfort.

  Slinging her bag over her shoulder, she dug out her last apple to feed Henry’s elderly acquisition. The swayback nag was living out her final years at Uncle Simon’s, usually near the fence that separated the two farms because Phoebe loved bringing her apples and carrots. The mouth full of huge, yellowed teeth nuzzled her hand before chomping into the gift. Phoebe scratched her white-whiskered nose. “I see you still haven’t made friends, old girl. And apparently, it bothers you not.” The mare shook her head in complete agreement while chewing the apple. She tossed her tangled mane into the breeze as though she were a prized show horse.

  When Phoebe started down the well-worn path toward home, an unsettling idea crossed her mind. I’m no different than an orphaned lamb. Once I clung to mamm Constance’s skirts, but now I hide behind mamm Hannah’s. Although the transition had been anything but smooth, considering her year spent speechless, she couldn’t love Hannah more than if the woman had given birth to her.

  Human relationships were as temporal as those of livestock. Friends moved away and new ones came along at the next barn raising or preaching service. If mothers could be replaced by new wives, then why did losing her first beau sting so badly? At eighteen, surely she would enjoy courting a bevy of young men before she married… provided she stopped lurking among livestock.

  Eli Riehl. She’d closed the door on their friendship before realizing he was her first beau.

  As the dirt path cut across the pasture and then followed the wheatfield, Phoebe marveled at the subtle changes late summer had wrought. Grasshoppers leaped before each footfall, while red-winged blackbirds cackled nosily from every scrub tree. Soybean leaves had already dried and yellowed, along with cornstalks awaiting harvest. She swatted at deerflies that feasted on arms already spotted with angry red sores. Dandelions had lost their flowery heads and turned to countless white seedlings blowing in every wisp of breeze. The drone of insects, the faraway yip of a dog, the clop-clop-clopping of a passing horse and buggy—summertime sounds that usually soothed her soul—no longer helped. Without clear reason, Phoebe felt she approached some destination without packing her suitcase. With a sigh of relief she entered an empty kitchen and headed for the refrigerator. Where was that can of pop she’d hidden from Ben?

  “All present and accounted for?” asked Hannah.

  Not hearing her mother’s approach, she practically jumped out of her skin. “Jah, sixty-two Dorsets with eighteen lambs, thirty-eight Suffolks with twelve lambs. None have become lost or befallen a sorrowful fate with a predator.” Phoebe straightened and tried to leave the kitchen with her orange soda.

  “Wait, young lady. Sit at the table with your drink. We need to talk while I bread pork chops and you snap green beans.”

  Phoebe shrugged while washing at the sink, unable to assess her mamm’s mood.

  “First of all, pull up your skirt and push up your sleeves.” Hannah set a colander of green beans on the table and turned to face her.

  “What?” Phoebe pretended not to understand a perfectly clear command.

  “You heard me. Your aunt thinks your nerves might be causing the itching.”

  “I got poison ivy from Aunt Julia’s bog. She’s well aware that it grows everywhere off the path.” Phoebe dried her hands on a paper towel.

  “Please do as I asked.”

  Phoebe lifted her skirt to reveal a string of flaming bumps on both shins. “The ointment doesn’t seem to be working.”

  “Do your arms look like that too?”

  “Not quite so bad.” But just speaking on the topic caused some welts to itch furiously. Phoebe bit the side of her mouth to keep from attacking her skin with her fingernails.

  “Tomorrow we’ll take the buggy to the doctor in Winesburg. You need a shot of antihistami
ne before you scar yourself for life.” Hannah carried eggs, flour, breadcrumbs, and pork chops to the table.

  “What difference does it make? I never go anywhere I would be noticed.”

  “That’s your own choosing. You’re still getting the shot.” Hannah cracked several eggs into a bowl and beat them until they were frothy. “Does this have something to do with your former book partner? I want to know what’s bothering you, daughter.”

  “Eli didn’t give me poison ivy, mamm, but I suppose he’s the reason I wasn’t minding the path and ran through vines.”

  Hannah’s lifted eyebrows prodded Phoebe to continue.

  “When he said he was no longer interested in being a writer, I panicked. And then I guess I gave him the idea I didn’t want to be friends anymore.”

  Hannah dipped pork chops into flour, then into the egg mixture, and finally coated them with breadcrumbs so they would be ready for the frying pan. “He changed his mind about his vocation, so you dropped him for a friend? That doesn’t sound very nice.”

  Phoebe would have loved to argue but couldn’t. “I didn’t act very nice, but Eli makes me nervous when we’re together. He becomes flirty and says really sweet things. Yet when I open my mouth only stupid words come out.”

  Hannah smiled, but she quickly tried to hide her amusement. “That’s a common occurrence when young people start to court.”

  “He’s the one who wants to court seriously. He talks about the future and makes these big plans for us.”

  “And you don’t feel that way about him?” Hannah peered up from her work.

  “I like him a lot, but I don’t want to get all dewy-eyed attached to anybody. What if something happens to him?” She whispered her words, even though they were alone in the room.

  “Are you thinking about his daed’s heart attack?”

  “Maybe. Heart disease runs in families.”

  Her mother looked truly sad. “My sweet girl, Eli is a young man.”

  “My first mamm was young. You said that yourself, but she still died. She left us, even though she didn’t want to.” Phoebe concentrated on snapping the ends off beans and then breaking them into the pot.