12

Amy inwardly groaned. Why couldn’t her children have been born with her tendency toward reserve rather than their father’s uninhibited nature? She stepped forward and curled her hands over Bekah’s shoulders, turning the girl toward the house. “Take your brother inside.” Bekah stiffened, but she obeyed. Amy faced Mr. Roper. “Please pardon Bekah. She’s young and is sometimes too forward.”

The man brushed his scuffed boot toe against the grass. “She’s just looking out for you. Can’t blame her for that.”

Amy’s heart warmed. He was a kind man. Even so, she didn’t want to take advantage of his good-heartedness. She proceeded carefully. “Bekah’s right that I’m considering starting a Web site for my business. But of course”—she held her hands outward in a gesture of futility—“I’m completely untrained in such processes.”

He scratched his head, sending his billed cap askew. “Do you know how to work a computer at all?”

Amy released a light laugh. “I have a sewing machine with a programmable board. I’ve mastered it. But an actual computer? No, I’ve never operated one.”

“And you don’t own one?”

She shook her head. “Not yet.”

He chuckled. “Well, then it’s gonna be pretty hard to set up a Web site.”

Amy inched backward, slipping into the slant of shade cast by the house. “One of the fellowship members suggested I use a library computer to get started. Then buy one when my business has increased a bit.”

He tilted his head, his brows crunching together. “What is it you do, exactly?”

“I make remembrance quilts.”

His expression didn’t clear.

“People give me clothing articles and other types of fabrics that remind them of someone. They fill out a questionnaire about the person’s life, and I create a quilt to represent that individual from the textiles they’ve given me.”

He stared at her as if confused.

Amy shrugged, uncertain how else to explain her business. “The quilt is meant to bring warm memories of the person it represents.”

Although he didn’t smile or nod, the cloudy look disappeared from his eyes. “I see. A . . . a worthwhile service, I’m sure.”

“It’s been well received. Since it’s my only source of income, I need a little more . . .” She sought a word. “Stability. Some of the fellowship members felt a Web site would help people know how to access my service.”

Mr. Roper ambled to the edge of the porch and rested his elbow on the railing. He popped his cap free and wiped his forehead with his bare forearm. Settling the hat back in place, he fixed her with a hesitant look. “I’ll be honest—my Web site’s the best thing I did to bring new people to the orchard. Folks drive from all over Kansas to pick apples and grapes. A lot of them make their own applesauce right there on the grounds. I keep a little meadow mowed so they can have family picnics near the trees. Since I’m kind of away from everything—” He chuckled. “How many folks know Weaverly, Kansas, even exists? I needed a way to let them know I’m here. And a Web site did that for me. Anybody doing a Google search for orchards in Kansas will find Roper’s Orchard and everything they’d need to know about it.”

Amy shook her head, confused. “A what search?”

He smiled, the chiseled lines of his face softening with the action. “Google. It’s an Internet search engine—people use it when they’re trying to locate information.”

She wasn’t quite certain what he meant, but she nodded.

“So I’d say setting up a Web site is a good idea for building your business.”

Amy’s pulse sped. “And . . . you’d be willing to show me how to set it up?”

That low-toned chuckle rumbled again. “Well, Mrs. Knackstedt, the hardest part is gonna be finding a time that suits both of us. The library closes at five every day. I work pretty much sunup to sundown during the spring and summer to get the orchard ready for visitors. And then folks start arriving in the fall, keeping me occupied. I won’t have daylight hours to spare until close to winter. I imagine you’d want to get this going before then?”

Amy nodded slowly, her hopes fading. “That would be best.” She thought about the money she’d deposited in the Weaverly bank upon arrival in town. The amount would carry her and the children through the end of the year if she were very careful in how she used it, but not much beyond. “I’ll need to be bringing in a more steady income by then.”

He blew out a breath. “To be honest, the only way I see this working is if I can help you during the evenings—after my work is done for the day. And since you don’t have a computer set up in your house, well . . .”

Amy hung her head, defeated. Mr. Roper’s open response to Bekah’s impulsive request had seemed as if God were opening a door for her. Now it slammed shut in her face. She’d have to find another way to market her business. She didn’t have a computer and she didn’t have the funds to purchase one. She forced the dark thought aside. She and the children would muddle through. God would provide. He always had.

She started to thank Mr. Roper for his time, but before she could speak, he pushed off from the railing. “I guess we’ll have to use mine.” A blush stole across his tanned cheeks. “That is, if it isn’t breaking any fellowship law for you to come to my place in the evenings.”

Tim leaned past Mrs. Knackstedt’s shoulder and moved the mouse, using the cursor as a pointer. “See? Pictures are included in the template. You just replace the ones they’ve preloaded with your own.” Mrs. Knackstedt had selected a template intended for a floral business, but Tim supposed its muted pastel palette would appeal to quilt lovers, too. “Do you want me to clear these out?”

“Yes, please.”

Over the past half hour of tutoring her on how to use the computer, he’d discovered she was always very polite. Not that he would have expected anything less, but learning something new had to be frustrating. Yet she remained unflustered. Her even temper and appreciative attitude made it a pleasure to work with her. With a few clicks, he cleared the preset images from the page. “There you are. Now it’s ready for your pictures.”

She placed her hand over the mouse. “I only have the one you took, so this shouldn’t take long.” For several seconds she sat without moving, her face aimed at the monitor. Then a weak chuckle sounded. “Um, how do I put my picture on here?”

“Use the drag-and-drop option. Just take it from your open file and put it on the Web page.” Tim commandeered the mouse and demonstrated, depositing her single photograph directly in the middle of the page. He deleted it. “Now you try.” He watched while she slowly manipulated the mouse into dragging the photograph to the lower left-hand side of the template. The woman’s movements were slow, clumsy, much like her son’s as he played a board game with his little sister on the floor behind them.

Tim had been more than a little embarrassed when the kids plopped down on the carpet and set up their game. Why hadn’t he thought to run the vacuum sweeper before they came? He’d had plenty of notice. But Mrs. Knackstedt hadn’t raised any protests to her children being on the floor, so he decided not to worry about it. He wished the older girl would join the younger ones rather than standing beside Gator’s rickety old desk, observing his every move. Her unwavering gaze unnerved him—as if she was waiting for him to do something inappropriate. But he supposed it was best to have somebody keeping watch just in case any of the Mennonites of Mrs. Knackstedt’s fellowship asked questions about their time together. She’d indicated she would ask their advice about visiting his house for her tutorial on Web site building, and he assumed they’d given the go-ahead or she wouldn’t be here.

Mrs. Knackstedt released the mouse button, and the photograph Tim had taken two days ago of a small, colorful quilt fell into position. She let out her breath in a whoosh. “There.”

The relief in her simple comment made Tim want to laugh. “That’s where you want it?”

She sent an uncertain look upward. “Is it not okay there?”

Tim shrugged. “I’m not saying it isn’t okay there. Just wanted to make sure it was what you intended. The mouse can be tricky if you’re not used to it. I can adjust the image for you if you’d like.”

Bekah stepped forward, crowding Tim. She poked her finger against the monitor’s screen. “Mom, I think you should put it more up here.”

Mrs. Knackstedt shook her head. The black ribbons from her cap swung gently to and fro, stirring embers of memory to life in Tim’s mind. “I want it there because eventually I’ll add more pictures. The photographs will make a border across the bottom that will draw the visitor’s eye.”

Tim hadn’t thought of designing the page in that manner, but he agreed. Apparently Mrs. Knackstedt’s ability to create patterns in quilts extended to making pleasing patterns elsewhere. “Good thinking,” he said, then inwardly kicked himself. She was a grown woman, not a child in need of affirmation. He waved one hand toward the screen. “Finish filling in the price of each of your services in the information box, then I’ll show you how to make a contact form so people can reach you from the Web page.” He stuck his hands in his pockets and took a backward step, careful not to plant his heel on the board of the Candyland game or on either of its players.

Bekah spun to face Tim. “Are you gonna take pictures of all Mom’s quilts as she finishes them, Mr. Roper?”

Tim bit the inside of his cheek. He hadn’t considered becoming a long-term assistant in this project. He’d assumed he would get Mrs. Knackstedt set up and then let her use the library computers to visit her page and make changes there. But if she was like many of the Old Order Mennonites, she probably didn’t own a camera. How would she keep adding new images without assistance from someone? Did he really want to be that someone? “I’m not sure. Maybe your mom will decide to buy herself a camera and write it off as a business expense.” If she did, it would free him from future involvement in her business.

He inched around the game to the counter that separated the kitchen from the living room. Things that never bothered him when he was by himself seemed to stand out now that he had company in the house. Dirty dishes filled the sink, and crumbs from his sandwich at noon dotted the tan Formica breakfast bar. He couldn’t do anything about the dishes without making a lot of noise, but he used his hand to surreptitiously sweep the crumbs onto the carpet. Some of them landed on the toes of Bekah’s sneakers. Why hadn’t he noticed her following him?

The girl linked her hands behind her back. “I guess working all day in the orchard, you don’t have much time to clean up, huh?”

Tim almost snorted. She was nothing if not blunt.

“Bekah . . .” Mrs. Knackstedt gawked at her daughter. “Be polite.”

Bekah put on an innocent face.

Tim forced a laugh. “Yeah, since I’m so busy outside, it does get a little messy around here.” He raised one eyebrow and aimed a teasing look at the girl. “ ’Course, just being me in the house, my dirt doesn’t offend anyone.”

Bekah didn’t smile. “How long have you owned the orchard, Mr. Roper?”

Did she think it’d been years since he’d done any cleaning? “Owned it? Six years.” But he’d lived on the property and worked the trees and land for two decades. More than half his life. So why did the years prior to coming here still haunt him?

“And you work it all by yourself?”

Mrs. Knackstedt cleared her throat. “Bekah, you’re being nosy.”

Bekah pushed a single crumb around on the countertop with her finger, her head low. “Sorry.”

Her dejected pose stirred Tim’s sympathy. Even though she had been nosy, he couldn’t resist gently chucking her under the chin with his fist. “All by myself isn’t so bad. It gives me lots of time to work. And I get plenty of company in the late summer and fall when the apples are ready to be picked. You wait and see how many people show up here when it’s picking time.”

Parker lifted his face to blink at Tim. “I picked apples one time.”

Tim pretended surprise. “That right?”

He nodded, his hair bobbing. “Uh-huh. I helped my dad.”

“I bet you were a big help.”

Parker shrugged. “I dunno. I can’t help him now. Dad died.”

Tim wasn’t sure how to respond to Parker’s statement. Before he could form an answer, Mrs. Knackstedt called, “Mr. Roper?” Grateful for the interruption, he hurried to the desk.

She leaned back in the chair, holding both palms toward the computer. “I think I have it all set up. Besides the contact form you mentioned, that is. Is there anything else I should include?”

Tim looked the page over carefully. Rather than a full Web site with multiple pages, she’d taken his advice to start small and add to it as her business grew. A single page would be easier for her to manage, and lesser bandwidth meant less cost. Besides, one page was enough to cover everything, he noted as he examined the header, list of services, and sample photograph.

“It looks as though you’re ready for—” He slapped his forehead. “Oh, wait. Weren’t you going to include something about hiring out your machine to quilt other people’s projects?”

She groaned. “That’s right. I got so focused on the pricing of my own creations, I neglected to include that service.” She started to lean forward over the keyboard, but her gaze shifted to the clock on the wall. “Nine fifteen? I didn’t realize it was so late.” She pushed away from the desk, the wheels on the rolling chair squeaking in protest. “We’d better head home so I can get the children to bed.”

Without receiving a word of direction, Bekah crouched down and helped her brother and sister put the game pieces back in the box. Tim was amazed the children had entertained themselves for over an hour with one simple game. He didn’t know of many other kids who would have been as patient.

As soon as the children finished cleaning up, Mrs. Knackstedt ushered them out the door. Floodlights mounted on the barn bathed the area in a soft yellow glow, so even though the sky was a steely gray, they had no trouble making their way to their vehicle.

Tim followed the family across the yard and stood beside their car while Mrs. Knackstedt waited for the kids to climb in. He rested his hand on the car’s hood. “It shouldn’t take long to get the communication form set up. But you’ll probably want to list an email address. Do you have an account?” What a stupid question. She didn’t have a computer or a cell phone. Why would she have an email account?

She grimaced. “Not yet. Is it complicated? Or expensive?”

“It isn’t complicated, and many email accounts are free. We can get you set up when you come back to finish your page. Do you . . . do you want to get that done tomorrow night?”

She’d opened her door, but she paused in the weak glow cast by the car’s interior light. “If you’re sure you don’t mind hosting us two evenings in a row. We can certainly wait a few days, if you’d rather.”

They’d already delayed several days while she waited for the fellowship’s approval. Besides, he didn’t have anywhere to go, anyone else to see. The thought brought a hint of melancholy. He shrugged, tossing the fleeting feeling aside. “Tomorrow’s fine. Sooner you get it up and running, the sooner you can start bringing in business.” And the sooner he’d be shed of helping her. What had gotten into him lately, thinking he needed company? Especially Mennonite company . . .

She smiled. “That’s true.” The light above highlighted the snow-white of her cap and made her sleekly combed hair seem even darker in hue than it had inside. Her widow status and position as mother of three had left Tim considering her as a middle-aged woman. Now, looking into her open, appreciative face, he suddenly realized she wasn’t middle-aged at all. She was still young. Early thirties at most. Pretty too, in a clean, wholesome way not often seen.

He took a stumbling backward step. “Then come on over tomorrow around eight or so.” He trotted to the porch. Her car revved to life as he stepped back inside. She and her kids would be here again tomorrow. His heart gave a funny half-skip—part anticipation, part dread. He glanced around. Where had he stashed that vacuum cleaner?