Twenty

With a fork, Izzy dripped melted chocolate over the top of the brownies. She’d already spread a layer of pale green peppermint icing on top of them, so this chocolate was just a nice touch. It mattered, those little touches.

The mint brownies were going to be part of the potluck at the fire station later this afternoon, and fortunately, it was a sunny day, not too cold for January. It started out as a celebration for the installation and passed inspection for the Baby Box. The Amish church was invited, and the firefighters’ families. Then Elroy Funk got involved, and he sent out press releases, and invited the high school band to attend, and now a news crew was sending a reporter and a cameraman.

That part of the celebration, Izzy would avoid. But she would definitely be celebrating the occasion. It still amazed her to think that the Baby Box was now a reality. It might not save every baby, but it might save a few. She prayed so.

And there was another piece of this day that was cause for celebration. All of the firefighters’ families were coming. She was one of them. So was her mother. Juan Miranda had invited Grace himself. For the first time since she’d been in the hospital, she and her mother and her father would be together. When she was a child in the foster care system, if someone had told her to hang in there . . . That even though her childhood wasn’t easy, it wasn’t the whole story. That there’d be lots of chapters ahead. Good ones. Happy ones . . . If someone had told her that, she never would’ve believed it. And yet, it was true.

Sometimes, her life seemed like one miracle after the other. And in this next chapter of her life, she wanted to help make miracles for someone else.

Jimmy carted out the final wheelbarrow of junk from the old barn and dumped it by the wagon. The last one. The old barn was still old, but at least it was empty. He sat down in the shade next to the hose bib and turned it on, squirting his hair, his face, his shirt with tepid water. He couldn’t remember March in Pennsylvania being so hot. It’s like the weather had gone from winter to summer, skipping spring. Or maybe he’d just been so distracted and preoccupied and depressed that it felt to him like spring had been skipped.

“The place looks . . . amazing.”

He looked up to see Luke Schrock standing a few feet away. “I didn’t even hear your horse and buggy.”

“That’s because I came by foot. Such a nice day, I thought I’d just walk it.” Luke sat down next to Jimmy, back against the building. “Have you seen much of your mother lately?”

“She knows where I am.”

“Hank says you’re holding a grudge.”

“He’d be right.”

Luke grinned. “Just don’t hold on too tight.”

“Oh, I’ve already forgiven my mother.” He took a swig of water from the hose and turned it off. “I just haven’t told her yet.”

“Maybe by the time Easter rolls around, you need to let her know.” He brushed his hands together. “Jimmy, you’ve done a great job cleaning out Jake King’s junk. Are you ready for phase two?”

“Phase two?”

“Getting Sylvie back.”

“What? I thought cleaning out the farm was the way to get her back. Show her how serious I am about her.”

“No, that only shows her you’re serious about the farm. Now it’s time to get serious about Sylvie.”

“How do I do that when she’s living hours away?”

Luke took in a long-suffering sigh. So dramatic, this deacon.

“Jimmy, you and Sylvie, you hardly knew each other. You were attracted to each other, but did you really know each other?”

“We worked together every day since October.”

“What’s her favorite color?”

Jimmy had no answer.

“Favorite season? Favorite food?”

Jimmy lifted a finger in the air. “Well-done waffles.” He wiped a water drop off his chin. “No, hold it. That’s my favorite.”

Luke’s eyes squeezed shut, as if he could barely tolerate Jimmy’s denseness.

Jimmy leaned his head against the barn. “So how do I get to know her when she’s living . . . who knows where?”

“Now you’re starting to ask smart questions. I’ve been waiting a long time for that.” He picked up a sack by his side that Jimmy hadn’t noticed. Opening it, he said, “You start with this.” He pulled out a box of stationery. “I trust you have a pen.”

“You mean, write Sylvie a letter?”

“Every day. Until you win her back.”

“And you think a letter a day will do that?”

“It will if you do it right.” Again, that look. Like Jimmy might be the most dim-witted man in Stoney Ridge. “You need to court her.”

Jimmy went completely still. To court a girl. Court Sylvie.

Luke rose to his feet and patted the tops of Jimmy’s bent knees, before he started ambling off toward the road.

“Luke!”

Almost at the creek, he swiveled. “What now?”

“I don’t even know where she lives!”

“Izzy does. Ask her.” He lifted his hand in a wave as he hopped the creek.

Jimmy stayed in the shade, leaning against the barn, for a very long time, thinking. It dawned on him that he had never really set out to court a girl. Never. The girls courted him. Even Bethany, who had a firm backbone, she was the one who was waiting for him. He’d never had to wait for a girl, not until Sylvie.

He walked over to the new old barn to start feeding the horses . . . and stopped when he heard something odd. A creaking sound. Then another, and another. Like someone was pulling rusty nails out of wood. He spun on his heels, turning in a circle, trying to figure out where the creaks were coming from. Then he realized what was happening. The walls of the old barn were caving in. He stood there, stunned, as the entire building began a slow collapse. The sound was immense, so loud that Luke shouted to him from the hill. He turned to Luke, hands raised in the air, as if to convey a message of “What can I do but watch?” and then turned back as the old weathered building came crashing down. Jimmy stood there, stunned, as the air filled with a dust cloud.

Luke ran back down the hill to his side. “Man! Did you see that?”

Speechless, Jimmy could only nod.

“What happened to it?”

Jimmy blew out a breath he hadn’t even realized he’d been holding. “All the stuff inside, it had been keeping the walls up.”

“Wow. Do you realize how close you came to getting buried alive in that old wreck?”

Lord-a-mercy, he hadn’t even thought about that. Luke was right, though. Jimmy had spent all week pushing the wheelbarrow in and out of that flimsy matchstick of a barn. The more he thought about what a close call he’d just had, the more his chest started to pound.

Luke gave him a pat on the back. “Not sure what plans you had for the wood, but Teddy Zook might be able to use some of those posts and beams.”

“No,” Jimmy said, still shaky. “Termites. Everywhere.” In fact, the collapse saved him the trouble of tearing it down. But he’d nearly lost his life! This was the closest he’d ever come to meeting his Maker, even after four years breaking horses in Colorado.

Luke grinned. “In that case, we’re going to have us a good old-fashioned bonfire.”

A familiar pang began in Jimmy’s stomach. He could just imagine the delight on Joey’s face while watching the bonfire of the old barn. Man, he missed that boy.

After Luke left, Jimmy walked around the heap of the old barn, tossing stray boards into the center pile, hearing them clack. Contemplating mortality made a man think about things he might have put off.

Luke was right. Jimmy needed to court Sylvie. Woo her. Make her his. But how?

He pondered the idea of courting Sylvie like he was preparing for battle, determined to win her. With the Lord’s help, he would court her. With the Lord’s help, he would love Sylvie as she ought to be loved.

Another question pulled at him, burned a hole inside of him.

Was it too late?

Dear Sylvie,

Greetings from Stoney Ridge.

I asked Izzy for your address. When she told me that you were living with your father, I felt more than a little concerned. I hope your father has stopped calling Joey the name Willie Jitmit. I also hope you are doing well.

Not long after you left, I moved into Rising Star Farm and have continued to clean it out. I even emptied out the old barn. Luke stopped by and said the place looked amazing. Minutes after he left to head back to Windmill Farm, the old barn collapsed. Completely imploded. All those termites had been having a field day. We had a bonfire to burn the infested wood. It was quite a sight. I was sorry Joey missed it.

Prince is happy as a sire. The maiden mares’ bellies are growing round. This time next year, Lord willing, there will be a little Prince (or Princess?) running around the pastures. I hope to pay off the full amount of overdue property taxes due this year . . . thanks to Juan Miranda. He is partial to Prince.

By the way, Juan Miranda is spending a lot of time at Windmill Farm, getting to know Izzy. She sure seems happy to have a father in her life. She says fathers are undervalued yet just as important as mothers.

Just the other day, I stopped in the Sweet Tooth Bakery and there was Juan Miranda and Grace Miller, having coffee and cinnamon rolls, laughing over something. They didn’t notice me watching them. They were pretty fixed on each other. I decided not to tell Izzy that piece of information. Maybe I’m getting a little wiser in my old age?

Well, that’s about it for now. Please tell Joey howdy from me.

I guess I’d like to ask: Do you want me to write again?

Your friend, Jimmy Fisher

P.S. What is your favorite color?

Sylvie returned home from helping an elderly neighbor set up hummingbird feeders all around her backyard, with hopes of controlling the mosquito population. She enjoyed it, and so did Joey, but it seemed like the majority of her time was spent with people in their sunset years. She’d forgotten how old most of the people were in her father’s church. Most of the young people had left.

She stopped at the mailbox and opened it, then stilled when she saw a letter addressed to her. She knew instantly who it was from. She knew because she loved his distinctive handwriting. No cursive, all print.

She set the letter aside, tucked in her pocket, until a time when she wouldn’t be interrupted. Later that evening, after she got ready for bed, she held the unopened letter in her hands. Her thoughts spun out, wondering why he had written. What did he want to tell her? Her first assumption was that Jimmy was explaining his engagement to Rosemary Blank. Edith Lapp was a determined woman, and she’d made up her mind about Rosemary. How many times had Sylvie seen Rosemary’s buggy roll up for supper at Edith’s house? At least a dozen.

How would he tell her? How would he put an end to her meager hopes, the ones she couldn’t quite relinquish? She tried to imagine it, tried to prepare herself. He would say that he appreciated her as a sister in Christ and hoped they could always stay friends and blah, blah, blah.

Okay. Get it over with. She tore the letter open before she lost courage.

She scanned it. Then she reread it. And then she hopped out of bed, found a piece of paper and a pen, and she wrote him back.

Dear Jimmy,

Greetings in the name of Christ.

It was quite a surprise to get your letter today. My first thought about that old barn was that it was a blessing it collapsed when no one was inside. My second thought was, good riddance to it! It was an eyesore.

To answer your questions: My father has not been unkind to Joey. After both daughters have left his home, he seems softer. Older. I think he’s been lonely. I worry he is not well, though he refuses to see a doctor because he thinks they are all quacks.

I’ve told him that I read the Bible for myself now. He grumbled, said I was full of pride—probably there’s some truth in that—but he hasn’t stopped me.

I suppose I wouldn’t mind hearing from you. When I first got your letter, I thought you might be telling me news about Rosemary Blank.

Sincerely, Sylvie

P.S. My favorite color is pink.

Jimmy’s return letter came in two short days.

Dear Sylvie,

Greetings.

I am just getting ready to paint the house. White, I think, with black shutters. Unless you think blue shutters would be better?

Your father is wrong to say you are full of pride. You are the most humble person I have ever met. Maybe too much so.

Your old friend, Jimmy

P.S. There is nothing to tell about Rosemary Blank and me. Nothing at all.

P.P.S. The three-legged dog desperately needs a name. What do you think of calling him Hop-a-long?

P.P.P.S. Have you seen much of your friend who taught you about Arabian horses?

Once again, Sylvie found a piece of paper and wrote Jimmy back. She stuck a stamp on the envelope and took Joey into town that very afternoon to mail her letter, before she lost her nerve.

Dear Jimmy,

Greetings to you in the name of our Lord.

Hop-a-long is an ideal name for a three-legged dog. I should have given him a name, but he came to us in poor condition and, honestly, I didn’t think he would live very long. I thought it might be easier on Joey if he didn’t have a name when he passed. Then that silly, wonderful dog surprised us and survived. Love can work wonders.

Green shutters are my favorite. With pink azalea bushes out front, along the porch.

My friend who taught me so much about Arabian horses married a woman with an allergy to horses. They have two sets of twins, under the age of two, and I heard that they are expecting another clutch. He works long hours for his mother-in-law at her bakery. He looks a bit worn out, so much so that he fell asleep in church last week, snoring loudly, and the deacon called him out on it in front of everyone.

Cordially, Sylvie

P.S. Joey talks about you often. He wants my father to put up a tire swing, but my father says rubber wheels are of the devil.

Luke woke, disoriented. He rubbed his eyes, blinking at the bright March sun coming through the window, wondering what time it was. He’d been out late to deliver a death message to Sol and Mattie Riehl. A favorite cousin had died of cancer, and it hit Sol hard. Luke hadn’t returned until past midnight.

He turned over and realized Izzy’s side of the bed was empty. He heard a voice he recognized downstairs. David’s. Was he here on a deacon duty? He jumped out of bed and hurried to dress. He opened the door and was about to call down to say he’d be coming, when he stopped, curious. He thought he heard David mention his name to Fern. He crept a little closer to the top of the stairs and listened. Something had happened, something good. He could hear the jubilance in David’s voice.

“Fern, today is one of those rare moments in life when it all feels worthwhile. All those years of patiently trying to redirect him. We’ve seen a miracle of God unfold right before our eyes.”

“I have to give you credit,” Fern said. “You saw his potential when few others did. You and Amos. Frankly, you more than Amos.”

Luke leaned his head a little farther down the stairwell. What in the world were they talking about?

“And you, Fern,” David continued. “You saw it too, back when he was one of your wayward boys. I think you and I both always had a hunch about Luke. That if the passion he had for disrupting life could be used for good, there would be no stopping him. These last few years, as he gained strength in his recovery, then became deacon—despite how difficult that first year of being a deacon was. He’s never given up. He reminds me of Saul in the New Testament, converted into Paul. All that destructive energy has turned into constructive energy. With the Holy Spirit guiding him, Paul became a remarkable leader among men. That’s what’s happened to Luke. Guided by God’s Spirit, he has become a remarkable leader. I’m blessed we are leading together. Our church is blessed to have him as deacon.”

Luke stepped back into his bedroom and quietly closed the door. He sank to his knees, his emotions overcome by such affirming words. Tears streamed down his face. It felt as if he’d been waiting his entire life for something like that, not for pride’s sake, but for a sense of meaning and purpose. “Lord, let my life count. Let me be a light in the darkness.”

When he felt he had a handle on his emotions, he wiped the tears off his face with the back of his hands and took in a deep breath. He opened the door and went down the stairs. David was still there, having a cup of coffee at the kitchen table.

“Morning,” he said, bending over Katy Ann’s high chair to plant a kiss on her head. He tried to act nonchalant, but the words he’d overheard still warmed his heart, made him feel close to tears. Chin tucked, he said, “Where’s Izzy?”

Fern looked to David. “Do you want to tell him?”

“Izzy’s over at Dok’s office.” David took a sip of coffee, maddeningly slowly.

Luke’s heart started to pound. “What’s wrong? Has something happened?”

Fern waved her dishrag at Luke. “Nothing’s wrong. Just the opposite. Tell him, David.”

David grinned. “There was an infant in the Baby Box early this morning. A little boy. Dok is checking him out. Izzy is over there now.”

“A baby,” he said softly. “A baby?” Tears stung Luke’s eyes.

“There was a little tag tied around the baby’s ankle. It gave the child’s birthdate.” David cleared his throat, and his eyes seemed a little shiny. “And it said he was from New York.”

Luke covered his face with his hands. It took him a long moment before he could speak, before he could get words past the clog of tears in his throat. He blew out a puff of breath and dropped his hands, looked at David. “It’s working.”

“It’s working.” David’s eyes glistened. “One by one, we are making a difference.”

It was working. If Luke thought his heart was starting to pound, now it was thumping wildly. It was working! One by one.

In one month’s time, Jimmy was getting and sending a letter every single day. He watched for the mailman’s arrival each day and rushed to the box. He wasn’t sure what had filled his mind before the letters started. They absorbed him completely, even to the point where he would stop whatever he was doing so that he could jot down something on a notepad to tell Sylvie in the letter he wrote each night. Her letters were longer, far more interesting, and far more clever than his. He spent long hours late at night writing, tearing up, and rewriting letters to her. He’d never worked this hard to get to know a girl before, to understand her better. And it was worth every minute. In a strange way, it was almost easier to get to know her without being physically close to her. He’d been so attracted to her, there were times he could hardly concentrate when she was near.

He hoped Sylvie enjoyed the letters as much as he did. He thought so, but just in case, he ended every letter in a question. Knowing Sylvie as he did, she would feel a sense of responsibility to answer him. That girl was all about responsibility.

Dear Sylvie,

Greetings from Stoney Ridge.

The house is painted. Green shutters have been put up to frame each window. Pink azalea bushes are planted out front, though they won’t bloom until next spring.

I put up a new tire swing today because the fat cat has taken up residence in the old tire and he hisses at me if I get too close to him. Sometimes I think he is plotting to kill me. Or at the very least, to shred me. Tell Joey I read recently that if a housecat were as big as a person, it would kill its keeper.

Fondly, Jimmy

P.S. What is the best part of your day?

Dear Jimmy,

Greetings in the name of Christ.

The best part of my day is when Joey is asleep, and I have some time to myself in the evening.

Last night, I woke to the sound of a flutter of feet in the hall and suddenly there was Joey, standing in my room. “Mem, ask Jimmy if there might be kittens in the old tire swing.”

I told him I’d ask you and please could he go back to sleep.

Warmly, Sylvie

Dear Sylvie,

Greetings.

Would you believe that Joey was right? That fat cat made a nest of kittens in that tire swing. Turns out he isn’t a fat he but a fat she. We need to change its name from Lloyd.

The best part of my day is when the mailman arrives and there is a letter waiting in the box from you.

Fondly, Jimmy

P.S. Seems like we should change the name of the fat cat. What do you think of Jezebel?

Dear Jimmy,

Greetings in the name of Jesus.

Joey has suggested the cat’s name be changed from Lloyd to Lulu. It occurred to me that the cat might seem like it is trying to kill you (I don’t think it would truly kill you, though who knows what goes on in a cat’s mind?) because you keep calling it Lloyd. Try Lulu.

My father surprised me yesterday by asking Joey if he would like to go fishing. Joey didn’t answer for the longest time, and I held my breath, afraid he might say no. If he said no, chances were my father would not ask again. But I needn’t have worried. Joey said he would like to go, but he didn’t like putting worms on a hook because he was afraid it might make the worms cry.

My father looked at him, befuddled, and then he smiled. More like a rusty grin. Hours later, they came home with two small fish and I fried them up for dinner.

Blessings,
Sylvie