ABRAM DID SOMETHING THAT NIGHT THAT HE HADN’T done since he was a child; he slid out of bed and dropped to his knees on the hardwood floor to pray. Though he knew he could talk with Derr Herr anywhere, the position seemed to matter. Tonight he needed guidance beyond the ordinary. He had no explanation for Fern’s behavior, unless she had seen him offer a friendly hand to Tabitha and in truth believed that the other woman was someone he was in love with. And yet, what right did he have to question what Fern did or didn’t do? He realized that he wanted that privilege, but had no idea how to go about it.
Fater Gott, I surely have changed over the last few days. Yet You are one who never changes. Help me to manage these new feelings for Fern. Bless her and her life. Help me to get along all right with the kinner and the farm until the folks get home. Give me the right words of comfort and kindness to say to everyone, but especially to Fern. Let me serve her one day, Fater, as I seek to serve You. Amen.
He rose from his knees, feeling a peace inside, along with a resolute decision to go tomorrow and ask Fern what she was feeling. He had just put his head to his pillow and drew the light cover over his bare shoulder when the night was cut by an earpiercing scream.
Abram’s eyes flew open and he jumped from bed, knocking his knee against the bedside table. He hobbled out of his room in the direction of the screams, knowing it was one of the boys who cried. He burst into Mark and Luke’s room, prepared for anything from a hippopotamus to a bed fire.
Luke sat in the middle of his bed howling like a banshee, while Mark danced around making vain efforts to hush his brother.
“What is going on?” Abram struggled not to raise his voice.
“My mole!” Luke wailed. “I had him under the bed in a cardboard box. But Mark took him out and now he’s gone. His name’s Moldy. What are we going to do?”
Abram sagged against the door frame. “A mole? Do you know how big a fit Mamm would have if she knew you were keeping one of those pests in the house? Why, she’d—”
A scream from across the hall made Abram nearly jump. He rushed to Mary’s room and flung open the door. The little girl stood in the middle of the bed, looking petrified.
“Abram,” she cried. “There’s a mole under my bed!”
“Of course there is,” he muttered, then bent to look for the errant pet.
Fern knew that her grandmother wondered at her quiet behavior during their warmed-up supper, but for once the older woman didn’t seem to question overly much. So Fern washed up their few dishes, then cast about for something to do that would not involve thinking of Abram Fisher.
Her grandmother called from her bedroom, and Fern hurried to the cozy, first-floor room with its nine-patch quilt and carved wooden furniture. A single kerosene lamp burned on the bedside table, illuminating the well-worn Bible open on the bedside table. Her grandmother had slipped into her nightgown and was sitting up in bed, her long, gray braid undone.
“I remember how you used to come in here every night for prayers and a story when you were a little girl.”
Fern smiled as she sat down in the rocking chair next to the bed. “I did, didn’t I? You made me feel so loved. You always have.”
“But,” her grandmother said, eyeing her shrewdly across the top of her reading glasses, “it is a man who makes a woman feel loved the best at times. Your grandfather did that for me.”
Fern nodded, wanting to avoid treacherous ground in the conversation. But her grandmother wanted to talk.
“The licorice plants are coming in thick this year,” she said.
Fern smiled. “I know. I used to love to taste the leaves.”
“Ya, we’ve had many a gut taste from our herb garden, eh? But there are some things in life that we must taste that cannot be grown but by the Master Gardener.”
“Like what?” Fern asked softly, pleased and comforted by her grandmother’s insightful mood.
“Ach, a taste of faith, for example.”
“What would that be?”
The old woman smiled, the light catching on the faded blue of her eyes. “A taste of faith is a taste of love. It’s one step nearer to the Master, to understanding His heart, His desire and plan for our days.”
“You make it sound so beautifully simple.” Fern thought of her tangled emotions about Abram and longed for the peace she heard in the dear voice. Perhaps such wisdom was meant only for the old, the truly wise of heart.
“Fern, is there something that troubles you, child?”
Fern thought. She didn’t want to break the moment with burdens of her own, so she shook her head, then rose. She went to the bed and laid her cheek close to her grandmother’s while the old woman wrapped her with arms of love and comfort. It was more than enough to bring balm to Fern’s troubled soul, and she slipped from the bedroom with a tender smile on her lips.
Abram surveyed the tired faces of his younger siblings as they sat down to breakfast on Saturday morning. He was tired too, having spent half the night looking for the mole, which had probably made its way back outside where it belonged. But he was determined to get the kitchen into some kind of order before approaching Fern. He knew his mamm would be disappointed to see the messy state of things, and he planned to make sure that everyone worked together to get things in running order.
He glanced down at a short list he’d made before breakfast. “Mark . . . dishes.”
“Awww . . . Abram, why can’t I—”
“Not another word. Matthew, you put the dishes away once they’re dried, and water the plants on the windowsills if you think you can revive them.”
Matthew nodded readily.
“John and Mary, the floor. Get everything off of it and put it where it goes, including crumbs. You can use the small broom and dustpan.”
The children nodded, and he began to relax.
“And, Luke . . .” He glanced at his bruder, whose bottom lip still trembled over the loss of his mole. “You’ll help me scrub the floor and countertops and table. We, uh, might find a trace of that mole.”
Luke’s face brightened considerably.
“All right. Let’s work, and then we’ll take a little walk.” Abram rose with a clap of his hands.
“Where will we go?” Mark asked.
“Never mind . . .”
“I bet I know.”
“Dishes,” Abram said. “Now.”