Lovina had always preferred to sit at the kitchen table instead of in the sitzschtupp, the good living room, when she was alone. Years ago, Aaron had ceased asking her the why of it. He liked to sit in his thick easy chair. It felt better on his back, and he liked the way the cushions curved around his sides.
But she liked the sturdiness of the hard ladder-back chair against her spine, and the way the scarred, smooth oak felt under her hands. Sitting at the head of the table made her recall other days. Better days. The days of serving breakfast to six scrubbed faces every morning before her busy children went off to school. When she’d have women over to help with a quilt, or write down recipes for a new bride.
Of course, she also had memories of her mama’s kitchen table. Back when she was in high school, she used to do her homework at the kitchen table. Her mother would give her a Coke and read the paper or talk on the phone while she struggled through conjugating French verbs. Or her history homework. Or geometry. Boy had she hated geometry!
She’d been sitting at one almost just like this when Jack had asked her to go to the homecoming dance with him. She still remembered how handsome he’d been, his hair damp from his shower after football practice . . . a bruise on his cheek that she’d fussed over. He’d blushed from all her attention.
She’d thought she was in love.
Leaning back, in the quiet of her kitchen, where no one was around to see . . . Lovina allowed herself to smile. He’d been so nervous when he’d asked her to the dance. Jack Kilgore, one of the most popular boys in her class!
She’d tried to play it cool, but inside, she’d been so giddy and excited, she’d hardly been able to stand it. No doubt she hadn’t fooled him for a second.
“Lolly, will you go to the dance with me? I promise, it will be a great time.”
She remembered thinking that she should be coy. Maybe tell him that she wanted to think about it for a day or two. But all those ideas had flown out the window. Instead, she’d beamed like she was the happiest girl in the world. “I’d love to, Jack,” she’d said.
Then he’d reached out and squeezed her hand. Just once.
Lovina glanced down at her hand, now red and rough and lined with age and years of hard work. For a brief moment, all she saw was smooth, creamy skin and neatly filed nails. Her hand had looked so small in his. It had looked perfect.
She’d run to the phone the minute he’d left and called up all her best girlfriends. They’d giggled and squealed and oohed when she’d described how his hand had felt on hers.
And not a one of them had thought she was crazy when she’d admitted that she wasn’t going to wash it for days. . . .
“Mamm?”
With a start, she saw Peter standing in the doorway. Bringing in with him the present.
Clenching her hand, she hid it under her apron, as if it might give away her thoughts. Abruptly, she got to her feet. “What do you want?”
His look of concern vanished to barely concealed irritation. “I told Marie I’d ask if you wanted to help with the tablecloths today.”
Ever since Marie and Peter had moved into the main house, she’d continued to help iron and lay out the tablecloths. No one else did it right. Even though it was only Monday, Lovina felt sure that her daughter-in-law was running around in a panic. Getting a haus ready to host church was a lot of work.
But after twenty years of ironing tablecloths, she didn’t feel like doing it.
“Marie can do the tablecloths this time. I’m going to stay here.”
After studying her for a long moment, Peter turned on his heel and walked out. Not bothering to ask if she was all right, or why she’d changed her mind after years of being the one in charge of the proper care of their tables.
Actually, she realized with some dismay, he was acting just the way she’d taught him to act. The way she’d taught all her children to be. Dutiful. Respectful.
When the door closed, she leaned back in her chair and sighed. She’d made a great many mistakes in her life. She’d been too critical with her children. Too formal with her husband. Too distant with her grandchildren.
But those mistakes were nothing compared to the mistakes she’d made her senior year in high school.
Just as nothing had been as sweet as her first dance with Jack.
Closing her eyes, she coaxed her brain to turn back to that wonderful, carefree time. Back when she’d rolled her hair in pin curls and then fastened the hard-won ringlets back with bows.
Thought about the white gloves and the strapless pink dress. About her red lipstick and the blue eye shadow.
And how she’d felt when she’d slow-danced in Jack’s arms. And even though later that night everything had fallen apart, that dance had been so special.
Magical. So much so that hardly anything had matched it since. As she remembered the music that played and the way her satin dress had felt against her nylon-covered calves, she smiled.
She rarely gave in to weakness and let herself think back to those days.
But today? Today she was going to live in the past.
There was a message waiting on Edward’s home phone when he glanced at it after walking back from Daybreak.
“Edward! This is James Cross,” the familiar voice boomed in his ear. “I hope you’re having a good time being back in Berlin, and are enjoying your visit with your father.” He paused. “Listen, something’s come up and I wanted to talk to you about it. How does your schedule look next Tuesday? Can you stop by the office? I’d like to speak to you in person, if I may. Let me know. Oh, and let me know if you’d like someone to pick you up. We’d be glad to arrange that.” Mr. Cross closed the message with both the office and his cell phone number.
Well, that was unexpected.
Since Ed had the office phone number already memorized, he called there first. “Edward Swartz here,” he told the assistant who answered. “Is Mr. Cross available?”
“Hi, Ed. This is Michele. Mr. Cross isn’t in, but he did want me to ask what time you can come in next Tuesday. Do you have a time that’s convenient for you?”
“How about nine in the morning?”
“Nine will work for him. I’ve penciled that in. Do you need a ride?”
“Thanks. That would be great.”
“All right then.” Ed heard Michele click a couple of keys on her computer. “Are you still at the same address?”
“I am.”
“Okay. Looks like Jared Schilling can pick you up at eight fifty next Tuesday morning. Will that work?”
Mr. Schilling was one of the directors. “That will be fine with me,” he said dryly.
“I think we’re all set. See you—”
“Hey,” he said quickly, before Michele hung up. “Do you know what this is all about?”
“I think Mr. Cross would rather be the person to talk to you about this.”
“Can you at least tell me if I’m in trouble?”
Michele chuckled softly. “You’re not in trouble, Ed. Don’t worry about that.”
“All right. Thanks. I’ll see you next week.” When he hung up, he couldn’t help but wonder what reason they could have for meeting with him. There might be some questions about the mission in Nicaragua. Or they could be asking if he could do some office work while he was living in Berlin.
But at the edge of his mind was the slim possibility that they wanted to talk about another job for him. What if they wanted to send him out again sooner than later?
What if it was to someplace even farther away, such as one of the mission sites in Africa?
Before he came home, he would have accepted any appointment without hesitation. He would have believed that God had put the opportunity in front of him, and that he needed to be mindful of that.
But now he wasn’t so sure.
Perhaps God had placed him back in Berlin for a very special reason. To be with his father, to rescue Gretta, to find his home again . . . and to meet Viola.
Was he willing to say goodbye to so much just as he was finally learning to say hello to it all?