20

As soon as dinner ended, Will’s father leaned over and quietly told him to go get packed up, that they needed to leave as soon as he was ready. Will nodded once and said only, “All right.”

As Will crested the small hill that led down to the cottage, he couldn’t believe what he had learned about his father tonight. He felt a shock go through him, as real as lightning. Once he had opened a hot oven at eye level to put in a frozen pizza and he was hit by a wave of heat so strong and severe that it temporarily blinded him. The discovery about his father had the same effect.

His father was raised Amish? Dr. Charles William Stoltz had once been Chuckie Stoltzfus, a simple farm boy? Did his mother know? It was too much to take in.

So he wasn’t the only one in the family who kept secrets! He grew somber. The revelation about his father—as big as it was—only served as a distraction. The reason his father was here tonight hadn’t gone away—Will was facing some serious problems.

Will stopped at the doorway of his cottage. The sun had dropped low on the horizon. He watched, transfixed, as the sky filled with deepening hues of red and orange, then purple. In the morning, the sun would rise; tomorrow evening, about this time, it would set. A regular cycle. He stood there for a long moment, marveling at the earth’s precise alignment on its axis when so many other things in life seemed crooked.

Suddenly the fact that he was looking at the last little bit of the sun for this day, knowing that it would rise again in the morning, that it was a solid fact the world could count on—it was a very comforting thought. And the fact that the sun had hung in place since the creation of the world and would be there until the heavens passed away—that God had ordained all of this into being. It struck Will that this same God might have a thought or two for him and his future, as well.

The sun had slipped below the horizon, but the sky was filled with an extraordinary lighting. The world seemed different. The cornfields seemed extra green, the pine trees so vivid they were almost jarring. It was like getting a pair of glasses that were overcorrected. Everything seemed startlingly clear to him.

Fern continued her endless monologue of informing Charles of the people of Millersburg, Ohio, as Sadie and Mary Kate washed the dinner dishes. Amos could tell that Charles was growing increasingly uncomfortable with all these unwanted memories thrust upon him. He finally took pity on the man.

“Let’s go outside. I’d like to show you the falcon scape before it gets too dark.”

Charles bolted from his chair before Amos finished his sentence. They walked to a high spot that held one of Amos’s favorite views—you could see rolling fields in every direction. Will had tilled and planted those very fields, Amos told Charles. Since the corn and wheat were knee-high, you couldn’t see the wavy furrows and Amos was glad for that. He had a hunch Charles would find fault with Will’s plowing.

“I’m glad Will was able to help you,” Charles said.

Amos nodded. “We’re sorry to think he will be leaving us tonight.”

“He’s banded the chicks. He’s done what he needed to do here for Mahlon. And Will has . . . some things to figure out. I think it’s best if we do it together. At home.”

It was late and the sun had already slid down the horizon, turning the wispy clouds in the sky to gold, purple, and red. Charles noticed. “I’d forgotten the sheer beauty of nature. Sunsets on a farm are like no other.”

Amos nodded. The sunset was particularly spectacular tonight. Maybe it was God’s gift to Will, a blessing and a benediction. “I don’t know how anyone could possibly visit this part of the world and not believe in the perfect hand of God.”

Above their heads Adam floated across the cornfield and let out a shrill whistle. “That’s the tiercel.”

“The male falcon, right?”

Amos must have looked surprised that he would know such a fact.

“The first car I ever bought was a Toyota Tercel.” Charles Stoltz’s cheeks pinked a little. “I’ve always liked birds.” He kicked at a dirt clod with his loafer. “I guess there is a small part of me that is still Plain.”

“Oh, I have a hunch there’s probably a lot of you that is still Plain.”

Charles jerked his head around. “I don’t think so. I left at nineteen and never looked back. Never wanted to. Nor was I welcomed back.”

Adam dove straight down in a stoop, like he was performing for them. They watched his shape shift into an aerodynamic missile. Dozens of small songbirds scattered like buckshot. There was no love lost between the tiercel and the other birds. “Doctoring always seemed like farming to me,” Amos said.

Charles raised an eyebrow.

“You learn to fix things, to make things right again. You do your part—do it well, do it thoroughly, and God provides the rain and sun to do the rest. Just like the work of healing.”

Charles’s eyes were riveted on Adam, who had snatched a barn swallow midair and swooped up to carry it back to the scape. Adam would be back soon. It was taking more and more hunts to keep his family fed. Amos waited a moment, hoping Charles might say something, but he didn’t. So Amos did. “Do you know much about falconry?”

“Its history, mostly, as a sport of game hunting, where they wear those little hoods.” He looked up, as if gathering details in his mind. “Let’s see . . . the first record of falconry was in China in 2200 BC. The tradition made its way around the world—Africa, Egypt, Persia, Europe.” He stroked his chin. “Shakespeare was an avid falconer. Then the sport of falconry declined when firearms came on the scene.”

Oh. This Dr. Stoltz knew quite a lot about falconry. If Amos ever needed brain surgery, he decided he would definitely want this man to do it. “Falconry is having a revival of sorts. I’ve read of a blueberry farmer in eastern Washington who uses trained falcons as bird abatement. Not peregrines like our falcons—he uses alpomado falcons. The falcons keep raiding birds out of his crops. He calls them his falcon patrol. Uses about twenty birds. All of the handlers have to get permits to become trainers. It’s supposed to be very successful.” Amos grinned. “We’ve been blessed here on Windmill Farm to have Adam and Eve—that’s what Will named our falcons. They’ve helped keep down aviary damage on our crops this spring. Cut way down on those pesky starlings. We’re hoping they’ll come back to breed here next year.”

“Interesting.” And Charles Stoltz did seem interested. Amos had finally hit on the right subject to snag this man’s attention. Above them, Adam did a looping figure eight. “They are . . . fast.”

Amos nodded. “So much of a falcon’s life is spent in the air. The scape is only a place to lay and incubate its eggs, to house its fledglings until it can push them out.”

The two men were mesmerized by Adam’s aerobatics. The falcon was swooping and diving and darting, as if it was having the time of its life.

“Working the falcons is something of an art. The bond between a falconer and its falcon is interesting. It’s a relationship of trust. Every time a falconer lets go, the bird has a choice as to whether it will return or not.” Amos shrugged. “It could be in Mexico tomorrow.” He looked at Charles. “But it has to choose to come back.”

“Why would it? Why doesn’t it just fly off?”

“Being a predator—it’s a hard life. The falcon has learned that life is easier if it returns to the falconer. It will always get fed, even if it doesn’t catch something. Even if it’s not successful out there. No matter what.” Amos watched Adam circle high above and stoop down to nab a bat, then sail with it back to the scape to feed a chick. “Maybe the falcon just knows a good deal when it sees it.” He looked back at the little cottage. “But the falconer gives the falcon the choice to return.” He walked a few steps, his hands clasped behind him.

Charles remained behind. Glancing at him out of the corner of his eye, Amos realized Charles knew exactly what he was getting at.

At the bottom of the rise, Amos turned to wait for him and pointed to the cottage. “Will’s probably about done packing. I imagine he could use some help carrying things to the car.”

Amos jerked his chin toward the farmhouse. “I might head on back. Give you a moment to talk to your son.” He strode up the hill.

“Amos Lapp?” Charles called out.

Amos spun around.

The hint of a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Why do I feel as if I’ve just been counseled by an Amish farmer?”

“No charge!” Amos started up the hill again, grinning.

Will finished packing up his belongings and looked around to make sure he hadn’t forgotten anything. The place was still a mess. He shouldn’t leave the cottage like this for Fern, though he remembered a remark she had made when he had tried to help her with a cleaning project at the farmhouse: “Unexpected things happen around you, Will, and cleaning is not always one of them.” Well, Fern, today I am going to surprise you. He would leave the cottage as clean as it was when he arrived. He would try to, anyway.

He started a fire in the stove and set a big pail of water on it to boil. Squeezing some dish soap into the sink, he ran cold water and swished his hand in the sink to get the water sudsy. He hadn’t heard his father come in, but suddenly, there he was, stacking dirty dishes on the small counter.

“It won’t take long to wash these dishes,” Will said, glancing at the water that wasn’t even close to boiling. “This is the last thing I need to do.”

“There’s plenty of time,” his father said.

Will almost dropped the dish he was holding. He had never remembered a time in his life when his father wasn’t tense, eager to move on to the next thing. But here he was, patiently stacking dirty dishes with dried food crusted on them. Will set the dishes in to soak and waited for the water to boil. He and his father stood there, awkwardly, side by side, waiting to see bubbles rise to the surface. Why was it taking so long? In his mind, he heard Fern’s voice: A watched pot never boils. Or was it, a boiling pot is never watched? He should have written down her sayings so he would remember them.

Quietly, his father said, “Why didn’t you ever tell me you didn’t want to be a doctor?”

Time skipped a beat before Will said, “Why didn’t you ever tell me you were raised Amish?”

His father wasn’t used to someone crossing him. An eyebrow lifted, but he didn’t respond. Nor did he meet Will’s eyes. He seemed uncomfortable. In a clipped, controlled voice, he said, “I lived under my father’s very large and very heavy thumb. I had to break free.”

Will snorted. “That . . . I can understand.”

Then there was silence. It went on that way for a while, the two of them staring at the pot of water, which seemed to refuse to boil, neither one speaking. A perfect example of how things were between Will and his father—neither one would budge.

Sadie had told him that forgiveness was a process, that it didn’t happen overnight. She likened the process to filling a bucket of water at a well. God was the well, forgiveness was the water. Sometimes, she said, the bucket would be leaky and it would require numerous trips to the well. But the important thing, Sadie said, was to keep going to the well to fill the bucket.

She also said that someone had to be willing to take the first step. Will blew air out of his cheeks. This was the hardest thing he had ever had to do . . . but it had to start somewhere. Things had to change.

“Dad, I’m sorry.” The words erupted from Will in a sob. He pressed his thumb and forefinger into his watering eyes. “I’m so sorry,” he repeated, his voice in shreds. “I’ve made a mess of . . . everything.”

Then his father’s arms were around him. Will buried his face in his father’s neck. He wept, unashamed of his tears.

“I’m sorry too,” his father said. “You made some of those choices because you felt trapped.” His father released him and stepped back. “Of all people on this earth, I should have known not to assume you were going to do what I wanted you to do with your life.” He blew a puff of air. “I’m my father’s son. Same song, different verse.” He rested his hands on the counter. “Where do we go from here?”

For the first time that Will could ever remember, his father looked unsure of himself. He never second-guessed himself, and here he was, looking baffled, sad, confused. He had Fern to thank for that. She had completely baffled an unbafflable man. Will felt a twinge of pity for his father. “You haven’t met Hank—he’s Amos’s uncle—but he says life is full of turnarounds.”

His father looked at him sharply. Another awkward silence fell.

“Maybe . . . we could start again. You know . . . this time as father and son. Instead of . . . brilliant brain surgeon and numbskull protégé.”

To his surprise, his father’s eyes closed in pain. “I . . . wouldn’t know where to begin.”

His total helplessness touched Will. This wasn’t easy for his father. “Maybe you could just give it a try.”

The water started to boil then, rolling, gurgling bubbles. “Let me show you how we used to wash dishes on the farm,” his father said, rolling up his sleeves.

As Will and his father scrubbed and rinsed and dried dishes together, they started to talk. It was clumsy, uncomfortable, stilted, painfully awkward. It was wonderful.

After Will said goodbye to Amos and Fern and M.K., he jerked his head to the side in a silent bid for a private conversation with Sadie. He turned to his father. “There are a few things I need to discuss with Sadie. Could you give us a moment of privacy?”

His father told him he would wait in the car for him. Once Sadie followed Will outside, he didn’t waste time. He knew M.K. was watching them from the family room window, but he didn’t care. He took both her hands in his and said, “Let me get the worst of this over straight off. Gideon Smucker is absolutely correct. I came to Windmill Farm with the intention of doing something illegal. I was going to try and sell a falcon chick to a private breeder. Then he wanted two chicks. Then three. I needed the money and I was going to do it, Sadie.”

She gasped. Other than the sharp inhalation of breath, she neither spoke nor moved.

“In the end, I couldn’t see it through. That’s why I called my father today. That’s why I’m leaving tonight.” He took a step closer to her. “Sadie, I care for you in a way I’ve never cared for a girl before. I couldn’t leave here without telling you. I came here as one kind of man, but I’m leaving as another. I’m a better man because of you.” The words slipped out as though his tongue belonged to someone else. He didn’t try to snatch them back or pretend he hadn’t confessed something so serious aloud. Will opened his mouth to comment on her lack of reaction, then realized this must be what she was like as she listened to her clients spill forth their problems—she seemed calm and still and ready to hear anything. “Have you nothing to say to me, Sadie? No words of goodbye?”

Finally, she looked up, her eyes filled with tears. She looked at him as if she was memorizing his features. Then she brushed his cheek with her lips. It wasn’t the kiss he wanted. It was a kiss for a child, with something final in it, something of a farewell. Yet she moved nearer than she probably meant to. He wasn’t just looking for a sign; he knew—deep down, he knew—something in her wanted him to take her in his arms. He knew it, and he knew she wouldn’t let it happen. Sadie who never wavered might have come near the brink, but she stepped back again.

“We’ll meet again, you know,” Will said.

“Will we?” she said, sounding as if she didn’t believe him. Her eyes became blurry and she turned away, but he put his hand under her chin and made her look at him.

“I need to get some things sorted out . . . like, my whole life. But I promise you that we will meet again.” He cupped her face with his hands. “Sadie, you and me, what we have—it wouldn’t have been the end of the world if we’d seen it through.”

She lifted her eyes and looked at him as if she couldn’t believe she’d heard him right. “But Will, it would have been the end of my world.”

Sadie followed Dr. Stoltz’s car out of the driveway, waving until her arm ached. She wondered if she’d ever set eyes on Will again, wondered if what he had said might someday come true. Would they ever meet again? She’d had a sense from the beginning to hold onto him lightly.

Pity for Will welled inside her, along with sadness for what he’d missed in his life. He didn’t seem to know what he had been lacking until he saw it this spring with the Lapps. Yet she could see something had shifted inside of him today. The time he spent at Windmill Farm was no accident. It was a chapter in Will’s book, but the ending wasn’t written yet. That would be up to Will. “May God go with you,” she said aloud, as the car’s brake lights went on, preparing to round the bend in the road.

Just as the car turned toward the bend in the road, a buggy appeared on the opposite side. A long pole stuck out of the buggy window, and on it, a blue bird feeder. The car honked loudly and then swerved dramatically to avoid the bird feeder. In the buggy was Gid, heading up to Windmill Farm. He waved to Sadie from down the road, using his left hand, still in a large white cast. Sadie knew he had built the blue bird feeder to replace the one he had ruined in the ridiculous tussle with Will. It was a silly sight, really, to see a bird feeder sticking out of one side of the buggy and a big white cast waving to her from the other side.

Gid pulled over to the side of the road as he reached the end of the driveway. “I brought you a new bird feeder.” He picked up a dinner dish with a hole drilled in the center and held it up to her. “The squirrel thingamajig too.”

Sadie looked at the bird feeder. “How did you ever manage to build it with a broken hand?”

He shrugged. “Simple.”

“Nothing’s simple, Gid,” she said. She lifted her eyes to gaze at him. “But you know that.”

The tips of his ears began to turn pink. “Well, you can test it out when I finish installing it.”

She took her time, paying attention to her words as she always did. Tilting her head. Taking him in. His eyes found hers, and she felt her mouth curve, offering him a shy smile. “That’s all right,” Sadie said. “I think it’s going to work.”