The sun shone broadly in Samantha’s eyes as it reflected off one of the few remaining patches of snow at the cemetery behind the church. She shivered, but not from the cold. Father slipped his arm in hers and hugged her. Cecilia stood a few feet away looking decidedly forlorn.
Reverend Tidewell cleared his throat as he paused beside the newly erected headstone. “Greta Larkin wasn’t but four. She was a special child, full of God’s love. She often sought comfort in my wife’s lap.”
Samantha looked over at Mrs. T. Her cheeks were moist, and not even the constant dabbing of the handkerchief hid the sorrow. Mama’s words came back: They have no children of their own, so you girls and Brady are their family.
There were not many dry eyes that Samantha could tell. Neither Crabtree showed emotion, nor did Oskar Bedloe, although he did seem to have a never-before-seen bothersome twitch.
Blinking, Samantha tried to make the tears come. Greta, who had often called Samantha “Tha” because she couldn’t manage the whole word, had left this world. Then, Samantha noticed Greta’s father. Matthew Larkin stood as close to the coffin as possible, as if determined to retain contact with his youngest child. He wasn’t crying. Not a drop. His head was bowed, but there was a peace to the expression. He’d fallen apart at Greta’s mother’s funeral. Reverend Tidewell had tried to offer comfort back then, but Mr. Larkin cursed at the preacher and at God.
Samantha moved closer to her father and wished she was anywhere save there. Unable to stop herself, she peered over at her mother’s grave. Jacob stepped in front of it.
Did Jacob think she didn’t know what her mother’s grave looked like? Even with him standing in the way, she could see it clear as—but she couldn’t see it, nor could she see the head-stones for Mama’s two babies who’d gone to Heaven before her. All Samantha could see was Jacob.
He rolled his hat in his hands. Samantha noted the pain in his eyes and felt it. He’d tried everything! The onion poultice drove Samantha, eyes and nose running, from the room. Betsy heated stones in the fire to put at Greta’s feet. For three hours the girl lingered, caught somewhere between life and death. Yet despite Jacob’s best effort, death won. And why did Matthew Larkin have a peaceful look on his face when Jacob looked so torn?
The Reverend droned on, his face red from the cold. A few tufts of white hair escaped from under his hat. Samantha shifted from one foot to the other. Greta’s wake was on its second day and would be ending soon. They’d moved to the cemetery less than an hour ago, and the mourners were all stamping their feet trying to ward off the cold that paid no attention to the bright, shining April sun. Bright and shining like Greta’s smile.
Samantha turned her attention back to the coffin, closed now and looking hauntingly insignificant among so many mourners. People came from as far away as Wabash Springs. Funerals always garnished a crowd. They brought food, comfort, and other things as well. This morning, Samantha had brushed away the salt and earth that the Bunk brothers had placed on Greta’s stomach. They were superstitious men claiming that salt was a symbol of the spirit and earth represented the flesh. All Betsy wanted was for Greta’s dress to stay clean. The coffin was lined with the Pieced Star quilt the sewing circle had been working on. Mrs. T left it incomplete, saying that like Greta, more time was needed.
Everyone bowed in final prayer. Samantha mimicked the others and tried to concentrate. From the corner of her eye, she could see Martin inching closer. He’d stayed away the last three days, partly in respect, partly in anger. He hadn’t liked it a bit when she left with Jacob Stahl, no matter the reason.
With a start, Samantha realized that Martin wasn’t sad, because Martin didn’t know Greta, indeed didn’t know most of the townspeople. Oh, he knew their names, what they did, where they lived, and possibly a family background, but he didn’t know them. He’d always been with the crowd but never in it. Why hadn’t she noticed that before? He’d be the perfect lawyer—detached.
Betsy leaned against Tyson. He’d come to the store yesterday for crape. Samantha had refused to charge him for the material and visually dared Cecilia to interfere. To her surprise, Cecilia had added some black muslin after Samantha hurried upstairs to fetch the mourning attire she no longer wore.
Today, Betsy wore the black Samantha had so unwillingly shed only a few months ago. Did I look that forlorn? Samantha wondered. Looking at her father, she noted his eyes on Mama’s grave. Rachel was gone but not forgotten. For the first time, Samantha felt an inkling of relief that she’d taken off the mourning. Yes, God, Samantha thought, You knew that Betsy would need it more than I do.
Reverend Tidewell ended his eulogy. Samantha took a step toward her father and Cecilia, but before she could catch up with them, Martin stopped beside her. “Sap’s rising. Mother wants to know if you’d like to go with us tomorrow for a gathering.”
“This is hardly the time to be talking about having fun.”
“This is exactly the time. Greta is gone, and you were barely an elbow cousin. Don’t start grieving again, Samantha. This time I might not wait.”
Samantha felt her mouth fall open, very unladylike, and she hurriedly closed it. Looking around, she noticed that everyone had moved in the direction of the Larkin farm. Most women would be stopping by home to gather up more food to take. Her father and Cecilia tarried by the schoolhouse, keeping Samantha in sight.
“Wait for me, indeed, Martin Crabtree. You were not even here while I was mourning. Besides, you’re waiting in vain.”
He blinked, and unreasonably, Samantha felt a bit smug. Then, she caught sight of Jacob beside the Stahl clan. He looked back at her, and Samantha knew that at the slightest provocation, he’d leave his family and stand beside her.
That’s what it was about: God, family—
Family? When had she started thinking about Jacob and the word family as a combination. The dreaded blush rose to her cheeks. Jacob Stahl made her uncomfortable. No, not uncomfortable. Jacob made her feel like she’d never felt before. No, she couldn’t deal with it now. She hurried to catch up with her father and Cecilia.
Everyone knew the Stahls had the best maple trees. Jacob jumped off his wagon and started unloading the sap buckets and yokes. He’d spent six days without a crisis. Greta’s death weighed heavy on his mind. What could he have done differently?
Master Jarrod drove up in a hay wagon. He’d wedged in almost fifteen schoolchildren. Laughing and singing songs, they served as a good reminder that life went on. Behind them came at least four more wagons from town.
Jacob’s heart lightened when he saw Samantha scramble down from the Gerhards’ wagon. Not wanting to appear too eager, Jacob slowly walked over as Elsa handed down the troughs and paddles. “Let me take that for you.” Jacob reached over Samantha’s head. Her bonnet had slipped, and blond curls beckoned his fingers. He wanted to touch her. He wanted to bury his face in the fine strands of her hair and tell her he loved her.
She’d made some huge steps in recovering from her mother’s death and accepting Cecilia. Jacob knew Greta’s death set things back some. It only made him want to grasp life and love with both hands before it was too late.
“Thought things would have been started by now,” Shane remarked.
“It’s still early.” Jacob put a hand to Samantha’s back and liked the way she moved in the direction he guided. It was the first time he’d touched her without it being a tease as a boy, or a doctor giving comfort. It felt better than he’d dreamed.
Then she sent him a smile meant just for him, and he experienced a taste of heaven.
Not counting the schoolchildren, over ten adults came to the Stahls’ land to gather sap. Jacob set the men to boring holes in each maple. Jacob had whittled out the insides of ash branches to form the tubes, which the older schoolboys now bored into the holes. When that was done, the men drove nails under the tube. The women came behind and hung buckets on the nails.
As children screamed with delight to watch the sap drip, Jacob watched Samantha. He noted the way her hair swayed in the wind and how it blew against her cheeks. He fought the urge to brush her hair back. She’d not like it if he touched her so intimately in public. Not when he hadn’t bothered to ask her father permission to call. He needed to get his affairs in order, garnish a nest egg, and prepare for family life. Right now his pay had more in common with the barter system than the monetary one.
The noise from the children putting their tongues at the end of the spouts to taste thin, icy-cold sap drew him from his meanderings. The afternoon, spent with Samantha, proved what he already knew. He was in love.
“I saw you at the sap running,” Clara said, settling into a chair at Mrs. T’s house, and pulling out her piecework. “You certainly looked all cozy with Jacob Stahl.”
The blush started at Samantha’s cheeks and spread clear to her ears.
“Oh.” Clara clasped a hand over her mouth. “I was just teasing, but there is something to tell, isn’t there?”
Samantha started to say no. The word wouldn’t surface.
“Are you throwing over Martin?” Clara’s piecework dropped in her lap. “Did something happen? What?”
“Clara, leave Samantha alone. You’re making her uncomfortable.” Mrs. T’s scissors cut a perfect square for her new pattern.
“Jacob’s a good man.” Betsy spoke her first words. She’d arrived late to the sewing circle, somberly nodded a greeting to her friends, and sat down to sew without talking. They’d left her to her thoughts. Two weeks had passed since Greta’s funeral. Betsy’s needle shook as it wove in and out of the fabric with such determination that, left up to her, the quilt pieces would soon be finished.
“Of course he is,” Elsa agreed.
Surely there was a comment to be made, Samantha thought. And by me. The words stuck in her throat. It felt so strange to be thinking these thoughts about Jacob. He was nothing like Martin. Martin was excitement, adventure, and mystery. Jacob was more like an old shoe. One that fit comfortably but had been in the family forever.
“Jacob is a good man,” Samantha finally said.
Betsy’s head stayed bowed. Elsa nodded with a knowing gleam in her eye. Clara frowned, clearly aware that somehow she’d missed a major upheaval in the midst.
Mrs. T changed the subject. “Girls, I have today’s Scriptures. I think Ecclesiastes, the third chapter, will do: ‘To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under heaven: a time to be born, and a time to die.’” Mrs. T paused, as did every thimble.
Betsy’s piecework lay in her lap, the needle carefully threaded into the edge. For a moment, Samantha thought Betsy would make a move, but she didn’t.
Elsa rubbed her stomach, almost an unconscious movement. Looking at her friends, Samantha was struck by her love for them.
Mrs. T continued, “‘A time to plant, and a time to pluck up that which is planted.’”
Clara gave a little gasp. Her needle flashed in and out of the handkerchief she hemmed. At least six times this afternoon, she’d mentioned her trip and the importance of having enough toiletries. She would leave tomorrow morning. Samantha tried to drive the thought from her mind, but Mrs. T, with her infinite wisdom, reminded the girls to cherish the remaining time.
“‘A time to love, and a time to hate.’”
This time Samantha’s flush had nothing to do with Jacob Stahl. Hate? Did she hate Cecilia? No, not possible. Samantha had been taught better than to hate. Dislike maybe. Resent probably. But hate?
“‘God shall judge the righteous and the wicked: for there is a time there for every purpose and for every work.’” Mrs. T closed her Bible and bowed her head in silent prayer. The other three girls did the same.
Yes, thought Samantha, changes were coming. Not only in the lives of her friends, but in her own life as well.
And there was nowhere to hide.