We need to find God, and he cannot be found in noise and restlessness. God is the friend of silence. See how nature—trees, flowers, grass—grows in silence . . . We need silence to be able to touch souls.
—MOTHER TERESA
Rachael Bontrager let the soft, loamy soil sift through her hands. The warmth of the June morning rays warmed her skin through the thin blue material of her dress. She pushed her kapp strings over her shoulders and picked several stray blades of grass surrounding the violet Verbena she’d planted a few weeks ago. “There. Better, ya?” She glanced around to see if anyone noticed her talking to her flowers. It wouldn’t be the first time she chatted to the plants in her garden, and it wouldn’t be the last.
She moved to check for weeds in a thick layer of Hostas and Coleus. Their vibrant hues of crimson, scarlet, evergreen, and emerald drew her closer, marveling at the beauty of the plants. She reached out and touched a ridged Coleus leaf, running her fingertips over the green edges to the lavender and magenta center. Her first plant, and it had returned since she planted the garden last year. A simple plant. Common. Yet to her, the most special.
The sound of heavy wheels crunching on the gravel of her grandparents’ driveway drew her attention. She hurried through to the wooden gate of the garden, opened it, then made sure to latch it securely behind her. This year the deer were especially plentifu—and hungry.
She shielded her eyes from the bright sun as she looked up at the driver leading a team of huge draft horses closer to the house. The warm June breeze lifted the yellow short sleeves of his shirt, revealing wiry, yet strong, arms.
Rachael gulped, forcing her attention from her handsome neighbor, Gideon Beiler, to the load of manure in the wagon behind him.
“Halt!” His deep voice had a husky quality that tickled her ears. He looked down at her and smiled. “Hallo, Rachael.”
“Hallo, Gideon.” She swallowed again, cringing at the high pitch of her voice. “Danki for bringing this.” The other day she’d asked his younger sister, Hannah Lynn, if they had any extra manure. Their family raised cows and goats to sell at auctions throughout the year. Hannah Lynn had said Gideon would bring it over. With her garden growing, Rachael needed more fertilizer than her horse could provide.
She walked to the back of the wagon as Gideon jumped down from his seat. She sniffed the air, expecting to inhale the pungent odor of manure. Instead, she barely smelled anything at all. She examined the load in the wagon, picking up a handful. She looked at Gideon. “This is compost.”
Gideon tipped back his straw hat as he neared. Rachael looked up at him, her neck craning to meet his warm brown eyes. He was at least six inches taller than her five-six height. He pushed his wirerimmed glasses closer to his eyes but didn’t look directly at her. “Ya.”
“From your place?”
He nodded. “We had a little extra from our garden this year.”
She glanced at the load in the wagon. “A little?”
“Uh-huh.” He finally looked at her. “But . . .” He shrugged his shoulders.
When she first met him last year, after moving to Middlefield from Indiana to help care for her grandfather, he barely looked at her, much less said anything. But since he lived next door and worked at his family’s farm, they couldn’t avoid each other. Lately she realized she didn’t want to.
She kept that to herself. Over time he’d learned not to be so shy around her, but that didn’t mean he was interested in her as more than a friend.
And she had more to worry about than having a boyfriend. Focusing on the load of fresh compost, she said, “Do you mind dumping it in front of the gaarde?”
“Is that where you’re gonna leave it?”
She shook her head. “I’ll get the wheelbarrow and move it all behind the grienhaus.” It wasn’t exactly a greenhouse. Not yet. But once she finished it, she could garden year-round, focusing on fresh vegetables that were so expensive during the winter months.
“I can do that for you,” he said.
His kindness didn’t help keep her thoughts on an even keel. “That’s all right. I know you’re busy with the farm.”
“They won’t miss me for a few minutes.” He grinned, displaying a deep dimple in each suntanned cheek.
She gripped the edge of the wagon and tried to get a grip on her senses too. “I’ll, uh, get the wheelbarrow.”
He nodded and leapt onto the back ledge of the wagon. She returned a few moments later.
Gideon tossed a shovelful of compost into the rusted three-wheeled barrow. “Looks like this thing has seen better days.”
She regarded the wheelbarrow. Gideon was right. The barrow was old, like everything else around her grandfather’s home. One tire kept losing air and she had to fill it using a bicycle pump at least once a week. Purchasing a new one was low on her list of priorities. Keeping food on the table and paying for gas and propane to keep the lamps lit and the stove going—that’s what mattered most. Which was why her garden was her most important possession in the world. Fortunately their community helped with her grandfather’s blood pressure and heart medications, or they wouldn’t be able to make ends meet.
When the wheelbarrow was nearly full, Gideon plunged the shovel back into the shrinking pile. He jumped down, his huge boots thudding on the gravel drive. He grabbed the handles in his large, strong hands and pushed it through the open garden gate.
Rachael brushed a few stray flecks of compost from her arm and smiled. Whoever married Gideon Beiler would be a lucky woman. Her smile faded. Too bad it wouldn’t be her.
Gideon nearly tripped on a small stone in the winding path through Rachael’s garden. Great. That was all he needed to do, trip over his gigantic feet like he used to when he was a kinn. Although he was twenty-five, the memories of being teased for his gangly frame came up at the worst times. Like now, when he was trying to be nonchalant around Rachael. Keep cool, his Yankee friend would say. But he had never met Rachael Bontrager.
The partially built greenhouse was at the back of her fenced-in plot, near a large patch of perennials thriving in the shade of a huge oak tree. He’d never been this far back in her garden before. Gideon dumped the compost and stepped back, studying the structure. Although it wasn’t complete and the design was crude, he could see the genius behind it. Recycled wood pallets were nailed together to make the floor, and the back wall was constructed from used, mismatched windows. More windows and two old doors were neatly stacked and leaning against the short fence, which upon further inspection, was also made of various pieces of wood.
“Obviously it’s not finished yet.”
He turned at her sweet, lilting voice. He glanced down, meeting her light-green eyes, which reminded him of the beach glass he’d picked up on a fishing trip to Lake Erie a few years ago. They were a stark and beautiful contrast to her dark-brown hair, which was nearly black against the white of her kapp. He focused on the greenhouse again, not wanting her to catch him staring.
“Ya,” he said. Ach, he sounded dumm. Why couldn’t God have blessed him with the gift of smooth speech? And while He was at it, coordination and decent eyesight would be nice. He shoved his glasses up the bridge of his nose for the tenth time that morning. “When did your grossvadder start making it?”
“Winter. And he’s not building it. I am.”
He looked at her. “Where did you get the materials?”
“I guess you haven’t seen my grossdaadi’s barn. It’s stuffed with all kinds of spare parts, scraps of wood, nails, screws . . . all the things he picked up from odd construction jobs.” She touched the back wall, running her fingers across the chipped white paint. “He can’t bear to part with anything.” She turned to Gideon. “So I decided to put some of it to gut use.”
She never failed to surprise him. While most of his time was taken up working their small farm with his father, sometimes he would take a break and sit on the front porch, eating lunch or just enjoying the rest. Often he’d see her working in the garden, from dawn to dusk it seemed, except for when she went to the flea market on Mondays. Even there she was working, selling plants and flowers to both Amish and Yankee customers.
“Mei daed made sure I knew how to use a hammer and nails,” she added. “It comes in handy. I don’t have all the particulars figured out yet, but it will come together.” She grinned. “I can’t wait to have fresh broccoli in the winter. I love broccoli.”
His gaze stayed on her, and all he could do was nod.
“Broccoli salad, broccoli and rice, chicken and broccoli—”
Did she realize how perfect she was? Resourceful, sweet, beautiful? He wished he could tell her that and so much more.
Instead he grabbed the wheelbarrow. “I’ll get the rest of the compost.”
“Uh, okay,” she said.
He hurried away, his cheeks heating. When would he stop acting like a nervous dummkopf around her? And more important . . . when had he started seriously caring for her?
Rachael sighed as Gideon rushed off. Gideon Beiler, short on words, always in a hurry. Then again, why would he stick around to hear her waxing poetic about all things broccoli? Not exactly interesting conversation.
She never should have let him help her move the compost. She was capable of doing it herself. As it was, he gave it to her for free and didn’t charge for delivery. She shouldn’t have taken further advantage of his kindness.
Knowing he would refuse if she offered him money, she looked around the garden, desperate to find something to show her appreciation. But there wasn’t much here, except for the planted perennials, and she couldn’t give him a dug-up plant. Then she spied one of the flower baskets she’d made to sell at the flea market on Monday. When she heard him returning, she grabbed the hanging basket.
After he dumped the compost, he picked up the wheelbarrow by the handles. “One more trip should do it.”
“Here.” She thrust the basket in front of her. Pink Petunias. Just what every man wants. She cringed.
He stared at the basket, now inches from his chest. “Um, nice flowers.”
“They’re for you.” With every word, she dug a deeper hole. One she wanted to disappear into. “I mean, they’re for your familye, er, your mamm. She likes flowers, ya?”
“Ya.” He took the basket from her and set it in the wagon. “She’ll like them.” He pushed the wheelbarrow.
“I just wanted to thank you . . .” But he was already several feet away, his long legs covering a lot of ground.
Rachael looked at the patch of violet Verbena near the gate and rolled her eyes. “I should stick to talking to plants.”