Chapter 15

15

Rochelle, 19

Ever since the night on Parsnip Road, nothing had been the same.

With her mother, Rochelle had a chance to say good-bye.

With John, none of them had a chance.

The sudden loss, added to grief for Momma, gave Rochelle a physical ache that gnawed at her daily. Why didn’t somebody do something? Why didn’t God do something?

She didn’t know why she’d called out for Silas to help. He’d been in as much shock over the attack as she. But he was big. He was strong. He was a man.

Yes, Anabaptists believed in nonviolence, nonresistance. Somehow, it included being attacked and robbed.

It wasn’t about the money. The men, high on something, had only wanted money for more drugs.

All they’d gotten in the attack was fifteen dollars, the ten from John’s wallet and the measly five from Silas. They’d both pled guilty and would soon be sentenced. Maybe in fifteen years or so, they’d be out with good behavior, only serving half the time of the sentences, or so everyone had heard.

But Belinda would never grow old with her John. Or raise a family with him. John, so quiet, warm, and kind, content to let Belinda sparkle in her own way.

The thought hurt Rochelle.

She sat, rocking on the porch swing while the chicken baked and the bread rose. Dad, out in his workshop, was crafting more furniture. It was his way of coping. And hers was keeping track of the house. It was neat as the proverbial pin, save for her parents’ bedroom. Dad told her he’d tend to it himself, along with her mother’s things. And so she’d let him.

Here came Silas up the lane. He’d been putting in extra hours at work, and she hadn’t seen him but at church. He’d been pulling away from her, it seemed. But then, she could understand. Dad had done the same thing with Momma.

“Silas.” She walked out to meet him at the bottom of the porch steps. “How have you been?”

“Okay.” He shrugged and gave her a half-smile. “It’s been busy at work.”

She nodded. “I’ve been busy, too.”

He didn’t step forward to hug her, but instead stuffed his hands in his pockets. “My mother was looking for her casserole dish. The white one with the blue flowers. I thought I’d stop by to see if it was here.”

“Oh.” Rochelle backpedaled. “I’ll, ah, check.”

He followed her up the stairs and waited on the porch while she went inside. The screen door slammed shut behind her.

Casserole dish? He stopped by only for a casserole dish?

Rochelle stomped into the kitchen, her eyes stinging. She’d missed him, craved the sound of his voice and the warmth of his arms, and he’d come walking to their house for a stupid casserole dish?

She yanked open cabinet doors, shuffled pots and dishes—how on earth did they accumulate so many—until she found the one Silas had asked about.

Part of her wanted to smash the dish and its glass lid on the kitchen tiles and watch it shatter into a million splintered pieces. But it would solve nothing. It might feel good, though.

But the gesture would provide no lasting relief.

Instead, Rochelle squared her shoulders and carried the casserole dish outside.

“Here. Please, tell you mother thank-you again for us.”

“I will.” His gaze narrowed. “Are you all right?”

“No, I’m not all right. Why would I be all right?”

She turned on her heel and slammed the front door behind her.

* * *

Silas, 21

More than once in the past, Silas had heard his father comment about not understanding women and their ways. Even now, Silas understood what his father had meant.

He was bone-tired, body, soul, and spirit, and all he was doing was picking up a casserole dish of his mother’s. A forty-hour-plus workweek, and Silas looked forward to the weekend. Rochelle’s reaction to a simple request for a casserole dish baffled him.

Yes, Rochelle had lost her mother, grieved her still. They all did. Losing John, the fresher wound still throbbed in Silas’s own heart. His best friend since they were five years old and now nothing.

Okay, maybe his question wasn’t the wisest. Of course, none of them were all right, right now.

But right at the moment, he wanted to know what else was bothering Rochelle and if he could help.

He set the casserole dish on the porch swing, then yanked open the front door. No, he was careful not to be too many places alone with Rochelle. Not to borrow trouble or set tongues wagging. Because tongues would wag, even if their activity was perfectly chaste.

“Now, hang on a second—”

He stomped into the house, letting the front door bang behind him.

Rochelle whirled to face him. “What?”

“Why are you so, so—” He couldn’t find the word. Her lovely brow was furrowed into an angry curl. Some of her hair had escaped her kapp and hung on her shoulder.

“So what? Angry?” She folded her arms across her chest. “Why wouldn’t I be angry?”

“Over a dish?”

“It’s not just the dish.”

“What is it, then?”

“Why, Silas?” She sobbed.

“Why, what?” He wanted to understand, but it was as if Rochelle had become fluent in another language.”

“Why didn’t you do something? ”

“Do something?”

“That night. With John.” She clamped her hand over her mouth.

“What was I supposed to do?” His words came out in a growl. “There were two of them. One had a bat. And he used it.”

“But you—just—” Rochelle hiccupped.

“Just?”

“Just stood there, staring!” The words came out in a screech he’d never heard from Rochelle before.

“You know, I wonder myself sometimes.” Now his own voice roared in his ears. “Why didn’t I use my superpowers? Why didn’t I make them stop? Like it was up to me. Like it was up to any of us.”

“Stop mocking me.”

“I’m not mocking you.” He reached for her, pulled her into his arms. He’d missed her so.

Her arms went around him in response, and they were kissing. Her curves, even through her modest cape dress, molded against him. His hand slid up her waist, as if of its own accord.

“Oh, my Chelle, I’ve missed you.”

Then she wriggled from his arms. “No. Stop.” She gasped, her own voice shaking as she trembled, rubbing her arms with her hands. “If you think a kiss is going to make everything all right, it’s not.”

“Rochelle Keim.”

“What’s going on here?” Her father stood behind them in the kitchen doorway. Silas hadn’t heard the back door open.

“Nothing.” Rochelle’s voice held a ragged tone. “Silas picked up his mother’s casserole dish, and he’s leaving.”

“Chelle—”

“Good-bye, Silas.”

He didn’t care if he let the screen door slam when he left.

* * *

Sunday came, with gray skies in the morning and a light sprinkle of rain.

Rochelle should have guessed the day would carry a similar mood. Her kapp wouldn’t stay straight; the increased humidity made her hair more unruly. She’d woken up with a crick in her neck. Still, she went to morning service and let the hymns and teaching buoy her spirits.

After the service ended, Beatrice, the pastor’s wife, approached as soon as the last sounds of voices raised in the final hymn drifted away.

“Rochelle . . .” Beatrice smiled, but she glanced side to side.

“Hello, Bea.” Something twitched in the pit of her stomach.

“Ah, Marvin asked me to speak with you . . . privately.”

“I see.”

“Oh, it won’t take long. I promise.” Again, the kind smile, but eyes filled with concern.

“Well, right away then.”

Bea touched her elbow. “Come, let’s go to a vacant classroom where it’s quiet.”

They left the sanctuary and continued down the side hall, Bea slipping into the nearest classroom.

Rochelle closed the door behind them. “Bea, what is it?”

It had to be the Atlanta trip.

“Let’s sit, for a moment.”

Rochelle joined Bea at the long rectangular table in the center of the room. Relax. It could be nothing. Surely, you’ll be able to explain yourself.

“Marvin asked me to speak to you because someone has come forward to us, with an, ah, issue.”

“Issue? Why didn’t they talk to me if there was an ‘issue,’ as you call it?” She hated sounding defensive. She didn’t intend to, but there it was.

Bea leaned forward, placing her hand on top of one of Rochelle’s. “It’s going to be all right. First of all, I’ve known you for years. You’ve been faithful here in the fellowship and as an unmarried woman, you’ve lived your life without reproach.”

“Thank you.” Rochelle shifted on the chair. She pulled her hands onto her lap. “So . . .”

“Marvin was told you flew to Atlanta with Silas Fry and spent the night with him there, then returned to Sarasota the next day.”

Rochelle clenched her hands together. This was absolutely ridiculous. It was also a situation she’d worried about, then put out of her mind. Until a few moments ago.

“And now, you’re giving me . . . and Silas, the chance to explain ourselves.” She shook her head. Yes, Bea said she’d lived a life without reproach. “I . . . I find it rather silly we should have to explain. But if it makes you happy, I will.”

“It’s not about making me, or Marvin, happy . . .” Bea frowned.

“First, we didn’t go there alone. He was flying a client. Then there was a mechanical problem with the plane, and we couldn’t return at night as planned. So his client paid for two rooms for both of us near the airport. The next morning, we returned to the airport, the part was installed, and we came straight home.” She wanted to tell Bea, a longtime friend, about the lovely supper out, and how different Atlanta was, and how much fun—although a bit nerve-racking—flying for the first time had been.

“I know. Of course, you did. But I—Marv—wanted to hear it from you. I believe you.”

“Do I even get to know who brought this ‘issue’ to your attention?” No, she wasn’t a child caught with her hands in the cookie jar. She was a nearly forty-year-old woman who valued her reputation.

“They preferred we didn’t say.”

“It had to be Vera Byler.” She wouldn’t be the first in the village to tangle with the effects of Vera’s tongue wagging. Nor would she be the last.

The sheepish look on Bea’s face told Rochelle she’d guessed right. “Now, I hope you don’t think less of her. I did tell her it would be best if she addressed you directly, but she seemed nervous to do so.”

I’ll bet she was nervous. Only she didn’t bet. Why did Vera feel she had to give her input, voice her opinion?

“She, ah, mentioned something about avoiding every appearance of evil. Especially as an example to the younger unmarried people.”

“I would mention to her, then, to read First Corinthians thirteen, about how love always believes the best, charity thinketh no evil.” Rochelle’s cheeks flamed. She wanted to bolt from the room, head straight home, and close the shame behind her.

Which was ridiculous. She had nothing to be ashamed about. Others might not understand her sensation of shame, especially those outside the church.

Yes, she agreed with Bea. Women like her were looked to as an example, and so far, she thought she’d done a good job over the years.

She couldn’t deny, though, the evening on the hotel balcony, how her heart had raced. As if the years had rewound themselves and she and Silas were half their age. But then, she’d reminded herself of the lifetime of years between them.

“You’re right, Rochelle, you’re right.”

“I would like to sit down and talk with her, with you present, and if Marv thinks it is appropriate. And with Silas not quite finished with his proving time and awaiting his full membership in the church here . . . I don’t like what she’s trying to say.”

Bea looked hesitant. “I think we should all sit down. I have to ask, what are your feelings about Silas?”

“You’re not just my pastor’s wife, you’re my friend. I care for Silas. I don’t . . . I don’t know what’s going to happen, or if anything should.” Rochelle shook her head. “I don’t . . . I don’t want either of us to feel as if we should ‘pick up where we left off’ years ago.”

Bea nodded slowly. Rochelle had never told Beatrice the whole story about Silas. She’d kept him and his memory at bay for a long time, even with his aunt and uncle attending the same church. After a while, it had been easy to think of him as someone she used to know.

“I’ll talk to Vera, see if she’ll meet with you. I’ll also encourage her not to speak to anyone else about this.”

Like that would happen. Rochelle tried not to roll her eyes, although it might feel good if she did so.

Lord, help us. Help me.

One of the things she loved about Pinecraft was its closeness. But this—this hurt.

“Thank you, Bea.”

Both women stood, and Bea stopped her before they left the classroom.

“Pray. It’s going to be all right. We’re part of the family of God, and with all family, things can come up like this. God’s grace will be all over the situation. You’ll see.”

Rochelle only nodded, then went out. She gave a smile to a few who greeted her. Air. She needed air.

She found herself standing at the van door, and leaned her head on the window. The sun chose just then to break out from the clouds. Yes, this too shall pass. She hoped it would do so quickly.

“Are you all right?” Silas stood beside her.

Rochelle turned to face him and put on a smile. “I will be. Did . . . did Pastor talk to you?”

He nodded, then scanned the parking lot. Families made their way to vehicles, some to bicycles.

“You were right. But don’t worry, we’ll get this sorted out.” His jaw tightened for a moment. “Anyway. People know you. They know how you are. Even if they don’t know me quite as well. I’m sure my aunt and uncle will hear about what was said.”

“Not much we can do, is there? Sort of like trying to get toothpaste back into the tube.” A faint headache prickled her forehead.

“You’re right.” Silas looked thoughtful for a moment. “I guess the fishing trip or boat ride is on? Or not?”

“Steven will make the call. I think it depends on the waves or something. I’m glad the sun’s coming out.” She squinted at him. She’d left her sunglasses inside the van. “But, I’ve decided not to go out on the boat today.”

“Oh, I see. Too bad. I know Matthew’s looking forward to it.”

“I hope you all have a good time. Maybe, next time I’ll go.” She unlocked the van door. Maybe he’d take the cue this was time for him to find his family, and go enjoy their afternoon.

If it were the six of them on the boat, who knows what might be said? This was ridiculous. She needed an aspirin, and then a few moments to lie down.

Silas, still concerned, yet cheerful. The quality was somewhat unsettling to her, worrywart that she was. But such a quality was, oh, so endearing.

* * *

Rochelle, 19

Four weeks since the confrontation with Silas. Four weeks since the blistering kiss, which even now sometimes woke her from sleep with its memory. Rochelle had seen him at church, but it was all. Meanwhile, she kept the house immaculate and helped her father put an ad in the local paper to sell his handmade furniture. When he wasn’t working at the mill, he would be out in his workshop.

Jolene had begged Rochelle to let her help, but Rochelle assured her older sister no help was needed. They were both finding their own routine, and besides, Jolene had her own household to care for.

The first snowfall had come to Ohio and blanketed the barren fields with white. Somehow, the whiteness helped by covering all dead and barren with a fresh coat of purity. But Rochelle knew what was underneath.

Even in the church cemetery, where her mother’s simple headstone stood beside others, snow covered up the mound that would one day smooth over and sprout green grass. As would John Hershberger’s, along with the others.

The Sunday after Thanksgiving meant a fellowship lunch, and although Rochelle didn’t have the heart for it, she still prepared a dish on her and her father’s behalf, and they both attended.

Her father stood in the hall as he spoke with Viola Brubaker, a cousin of their minister’s wife who’d come to visit her family for the weekend. Widowed herself, her snappy, blue eyes twinkled.

Then, her father chuckled. She hadn’t heard the sound in months. Rochelle smiled. Momma had only been gone not quite six months, but still, she didn’t begrudge her father the happiness.

Rochelle glanced around the church hall for Belinda. At last, her best friend seemed less a shadow of herself. Six weeks since they’d lost John, and they all missed him with an ache not going away anytime soon.

“Have you seen Belinda?” she asked Belinda’s mother, who was in the kitchen, restocking a pan with fried chicken.

“No, I haven’t.”

Rochelle slipped silently into the hallway off the fellowship hall. Empty. She paused. Low voices, coming from one of the Sunday school classrooms.

Silas. Belinda.

“It’s going to be okay,” Silas said in soothing tones. “I promise. It will be.”

“I don’t know what to do. If only John were here—”

“I know. But I’m here.”

“Oh, Silas. But Rochelle—”

“I’ll talk to her. We’ll work it out.”

What? Rochelle tiptoed closer to the classroom, its door open. She ought to walk right in. Belinda, her best friend since, well, forever. And Silas, the man who she’d thought had claimed her heart.

She plucked up her courage most of the way, enough to slide her head around the doorframe and get a view inside.

Belinda, leaning against Silas, her arms wrapped around him as he held her, her eyes closed.

Rochelle whirled back into the hallway. Walk in and confront them both, or go?

She didn’t trust her words just then, so she skittered silently back into the kitchen, wiping tears from her cheeks. No, now that she thought about it, Silas didn’t need to talk to her. His actions spoke plenty.

* * *

Silas, 21

“You need to talk to Rochelle, Silas.” His mother chided him at breakfast on Monday morning. “Are you sure you two can’t work things out?”

“It’s impossible, Mom.” He took a swig of orange juice. “I’ve tried. I think it’s all been too much for her. Losing her mother, and now everything with John. She blames me partly, and I kind of see her point.”

More than once, he wished he’d tried to confront those thugs in the road who’d attacked them. Because he hadn’t acted, things unfolded like they did.

“Son, I truly believe you and Rochelle were intended to be together,” his father said. “This falling out, it’s temporary. I’m sure.”

“Nothing’s changed. But Belinda and I, well, we’ve been talking more since the funeral. More than we ever have.” Was it possible to love two women? He’d never thought so, but Rochelle had effectively slammed the door on him and had since her own mother’s death.

He thought of Belinda. They’d both grieved losing John, but grieved together. It had bonded them.

And yesterday, after talking to her in the Sunday school room, it became crystal clear what he needed to do.

He smiled at his parents. “As a matter of fact, I proposed to Belinda yesterday during the Sunday fellowship meal, and she accepted.”

“I can’t help but think you’re making a big mistake.”

“Mom, I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life.” Yesterday at church had changed everything.