14

Tim propped open the solid wooden door with his foot and stood behind the smudged glass of the storm door, watching for Mrs. Knackstedt’s car. The brown shag carpet still showed flattened paths where he’d pushed the vacuum last night. He’d washed most of the dirty dishes, and the ones he hadn’t gotten to were stacked in a big orange Tupperware bowl and hidden in the belly of his stove. So the kitchen looked neater, too. He couldn’t begin to explain why he’d felt the need to straighten up his house for the Knackstedts’ next visit, but the little bit of cleaning gave him a feeling of satisfaction.

Promptly at eight fifteen, her car rolled up the lane, and children spilled out the moment it stopped. Both Adrianna and Parker ran for the porch, waving when they spotted him behind the glass door. Bekah and her mother came more slowly, the ribbons from their caps gently lifting in the evening breeze. He opened the storm door and greeted the two younger children with a hello.

Adrianna bounced past him, her little braids bobbing on her shoulders. She held a battered, duct-taped box aloft. “We brung Mousetrap. It was Momma’s game when she was a little girl.”

“It still has all the pieces,” Parker said.

Tim swallowed a chuckle at Parker’s solemn tone. “Don’t know that I’ve ever played Mousetrap. Is it fun?”

“Yes!” Adrianna’s blue eyes sparkled, and she nearly danced in place. “You gotta catch your ’ponents’ mouses. Bekah doesn’t like Mousetrap ’cause she says it reminds her of catchin’ real mice under the kitchen sink.” She grabbed Parker’s wrist and tugged. “C’mon, Parker. Help me set it up.” They plopped onto the carpet as if they’d visited Tim’s house dozens of times.

Tim opened the door again, offering a silent invitation for Mrs. Knackstedt and Bekah to enter. Bekah carried an aluminum pie pan covered with plastic wrap. Beneath the wrap, Tim glimpsed what appeared to be cookies. He raised one eyebrow. After he’d done all that vacuuming, he wasn’t keen on the kids scattering crumbs all over his floor.

Bekah held the pan to him. “These are for you.” For a moment, uncertainty flitted across her face. “Um . . . do you like oatmeal raisin cookies?”

Truthfully, he’d never cared much for cooked raisins, but he wouldn’t admit that to Bekah. Tim took the pan and smiled at the girl. “Home-baked goodies are a real treat around here. Thank you.”

Bekah seemed to wilt with relief. She inched toward Parker and Adrianna, who’d begun to softly squabble with each other over how to set up the game board. “I’ll help them with the game, Mom.”

Tim and Mrs. Knackstedt were left standing just inside the door, staring at each other. He released a self-conscious chuckle. “Well, let’s get busy, huh?” He pushed the wooden door closed with his hip to hold in the cool from his window air-conditioner. Moving to set the pan of cookies on his freshly wiped counter, he gestured to the desk where his computer sat. “I pulled your template up so you can add that contact form. But I think we need to get you set up with an email address first, so let me open a new window.” He clicked the mouse, and a new screen appeared. He pulled out the chair and pointed to it. “Have a seat.”

Mrs. Knackstedt slid gracefully into the chair, smoothing her skirt over her knees. Tim’s nose filled with the essence of soap as he propped one hand on the desk and leaned close to her shoulder. Julia had always dabbed perfume behind her ears. She loved flowery fragrances, and Tim had loved tipping close and inhaling the aroma that clung to her clothes and hair. The scent of soap—clean, fresh, appealing—raised a longing inside of Tim. He swallowed hard and focused on the task at hand.

“I suggest you get a Gmail account.” He kept his tone brisk and businesslike. “It doesn’t cost a thing, they have a built-in spam filter so you won’t have to wade through lots of junk to find your customers, and it’s very easy to access.”

She laughed lightly, turning her face slightly to peek at him. “Easy is best.”

Up close, he was surprised by the length and fullness of her eyelashes. She didn’t need makeup to enhance them. He straightened to put some distance between them. He’d been living alone too long if he was starting to see this Mennonite woman as attractive. “Yeah, I figured. So . . . have you decided what you want to use as an email address? Something that relates to your business is best.”

Her brow puckered. “What is yours?”

A burst of giggles sounded from the living room. Tim flicked a glance in that direction, torn between heartache and a desire to laugh along. Of the things he missed, Charlie’s carefree laughter was high on the list. He whisked his attention back to Mrs. Knackstedt. “Well, I have mine set up through my Web site for an additional fee, so mine is ‘Tim at Roper Orchards dot com.’ You’ll use ‘gmail dot com’ for the latter part of your address. I suggest you use your business name for the first part.”

“So . . . ‘Threads of Remembrance at gmail dot com’?” She laughed softly, the tinkling sound of her laughter combining with the more raucous giggles coming from a few feet away in the living room. “That seems rather cumbersome.”

“It’s a little long, yes, but it’s to the point.” Tim shrugged. “Or you could use your name. Whichever you think would be the most relatable to potential customers.”

She bit her lower lip, clearly contemplating the best option. While she thought, Tim looked again at the children. Adrianna and Parker were fully engrossed in their game, but Bekah was looking around the room as if memorizing details. She caught him looking at her. Without a word, she pushed to her feet and crossed the carpet to stand beside him. But she didn’t say anything, so Tim returned his attention to Mrs. Knackstedt.

“Did you decide?”

Mrs. Knackstedt sighed. “Although it’s lengthy, I believe I’ll go with ‘Threads of Remembrance’ for the first part. You’re right—it’s the most relatable.”

“All right, then. Let’s get you set up.” Tim gave directions for establishing an email address, then explained how she would access her account at the library to check for messages. She listened intently, as did Bekah. If the girl’s regard were a flame, Tim felt certain he’d have a hole burned through the center of his head.

He sent a test message from his account, and when it popped into Mrs. Knackstedt’s inbox, she clapped her palms together. “Oh my! It works!” Then she laughed, and Tim couldn’t stop a bubble of laughter from climbing his throat. He remembered his early days in the world, learning about various technologies. She had no idea what she’d been missing, holed up in her Mennonite community. It felt good to open a small part of the world to her.

Tim drew in a satisfied breath. “It sure does. Okay, let’s get that contact form up so customers can start contacting you.”

Bekah stayed close, watching every move her mother made in completing the information on the Threads of Remembrance Web page. Several times she opened her mouth, as if to ask a question, but words never escaped. Tim wondered what went on behind her big brown eyes, but at the same time he was half glad he didn’t know. Bekah seemed like a nice enough girl—a little forward, maybe, but not obnoxiously so. Still, he felt a little uneasy around her. As if she were examining him from the inside out.

As soon as Mrs. Knackstedt finished the form, she gave Tim a tired look. “All right. It’s all set up. Now what?”

“Now we go live. Did you bring a credit card with you to start the service?”

“Credit card?” Dismay flooded her face. “I don’t have one.”

Once again, Tim felt like an imbecile. Of course she wouldn’t have a credit card. But if she had a debit card connected to her bank account, they could use that. “All right, then. Your debit card?”

Pink stained her cheeks, matching the dusky flowers on her caped dress. “I use checks. I haven’t requested a debit card.”

He wished he’d thought about mentioning the need for a credit or debit card earlier. He took so many things for granted after his years away from his simple upbringing. Tim scratched his jaw. “Well, Mrs. Knackstedt, you’re going to need one or the other. There’ll be a monthly fee for the Web site, and the Web site company requires electronic payment.”

Her face fell. “Oh. So all this work we’ve done . . . all the time I’ve taken from you . . . is for nothing.”

Her defeat pierced him. Especially since she seemed more concerned about what it had cost him in time rather than her own potential loss. Without a moment’s thought, he reached into his hip pocket and removed his billfold. Flipping it open, he extracted his Visa card. “I tell you what, we can use this to get things started, and—”

She threw both hands upward as if under arrest, her eyes wide. “I can’t allow you to pay for my Web page.”

Tim frowned. “Not indefinitely—just to get it started. You can go to the bank tomorrow and request a debit card. When you have it in hand, come over and we’ll switch the payments to your account instead.”

She shook her head. “I just can’t.”

Bekah leaned close to her mother and whispered, “Mom . . .”

“Not now, Bekah,” Mrs. Knackstedt said. She looked at Tim. “I appreciate all you’ve done, but using your credit card . . .” She pursed her lips for a moment. “ ‘The borrower is servant to the lender.’ ”

It took Tim a moment to realize she’d quoted from Proverbs. He couldn’t recall the chapter and verse, but he’d heard the warning many times in his childhood. Did she see him as some kind of Old World feudal lord, trying to gain control of her? Resting his weight on one hip, he continued to hold the Visa out between two fingers. “I think you misinterpret my intentions.” With effort, he maintained an even tone. “Around here, neighbors look out for each other. All I’m trying to do is help you get that Web page running so people looking for your kind of service can find you. I thought that’s what you wanted.”

She stared at the silver card caught in his fingers. “It is. But I can’t be a party to creating indebtedness for you.”

Suddenly he understood her hesitation. She was opposed to having him incur a debt. A voice—deep, harsh, critical—from his past slammed through his brain: “Only a fool relies on credit. You might as well sell your soul.” Heat filled his face. He jammed the card back into its slot in his billfold.

“Please, it isn’t that I don’t appreciate—”

“I understand.” He tried not to be curt, but he heard his own voice and realized he’d failed. Drawing in a deep breath, he counted to ten and brought his irritation under control. It wasn’t her fault. She’d probably been given the same reprimands from her father at some point in time. He withdrew a different card. His debit card. “Would you like to use this one instead? It will come directly from my checking account, and you can give me cash to pay me back.”

Bekah poked her mother’s shoulder. “Mom?”

Mrs. Knackstedt turned to her daughter. “Bekah, Mr. Roper and I are talking.”

“I know, but I have an idea.”

The woman sighed. “What is it?”

Bekah’s brown-eyed gaze flicked to Tim and then back to her mother. She clasped her hands in a prayerful position. “What if you let Mr. Roper pay to get your Web site started, and I’ll pay him back?”

“Pay him back . . . how?”

The girl lifted a hopeful face in Tim’s direction. “By doing housekeeping for him.”

Mrs. Knackstedt’s face flooded with color. She turned a flustered look on Tim. “I am so sorry. I’m sure Bekah didn’t intend to infer that—”

An amused snort escaped his nose before Tim could control it. Then he doubled over, laughing harder than he could remember laughing in years. Here he’d washed up some dishes, hidden more of them away, and even tried to turn his carpet inside out with the zealous use of a vacuum, and the girl saw through it all. Yes, as he’d suspected, she didn’t miss a thing. He waved one hand at the mortified mother, struggling to end his noisy bout of amusement.

“Don’t apologize.” His voice trembled with suppressed laughter. He gave a tug on one of Bekah’s trailing ribbons, the way he used to do to tease his sisters. “Bekah knows need when she sees it. But it only costs twelve dollars to get that Web page going.” He grinned at the girl. “Just how much cleaning could I get for twelve dollars?”

Bekah’s face lit. “I would dust, and vacuum, and mop floors, and clean your kitchen and bathroom, and wash your sheets and towels, and—”

“And that would be way too much for one little girl.” Tim softened his protest with another smile. Even though she tended to push her way in, he admired her desire to help her mom. She wasn’t a bad kid at all. “Worth lots more than twelve dollars.”

Bekah hung her head for a moment, then jerked her gaze to his again. “Would it be worth, maybe, a bushel of apples in the fall? We could barter—housecleaning for fruit!”

Mrs. Knackstedt shook her head, her expression flabbergasted. “Honestly, Bekah, I do not know what has gotten into you.” She gave Tim another apologetic look. Rising, she took hold of Bekah’s elbow. “Go help your brother and sister put their game back in the box. Then we’re going to get out of Mr. Roper’s way.” She waited until Bekah scuffed off and then turned to Tim again. “I sincerely appreciate all you’ve done. But now that I know what to do to make the Web site go . . . go live, I’ll wait until I have my own debit card to share with the Web site company. It won’t mean much more of a delay. I can wait long enough to take care of the financial side of things myself. I’m very sorry I placed you in such an awkward position. I should have realized I’d need some way to pay for this page.”

Tim chuckled again, still amused by Bekah’s scheming. “This is all new. It takes time to get familiar with everything that’s required.”

An appreciative smile graced her face. “Thank you for understanding. And thank you for being so kind to Bekah.” She frowned slightly, her gaze shifting to the children. “I don’t know what’s gotten into her lately. She’s never been so blatantly forceful. I fear she’s—” She stopped midsentence. Tim waited for her to continue, but she remained silent.

He cleared his throat. “You know, Bekah’s suggestion wasn’t all bad.”

The woman zinged her attention back to Tim.

“About bartering, I mean.” He held out his hands to indicate his surroundings. “I don’t have time to keep up with cleaning like I should—especially not in the summer and fall. But I don’t really have money to pay for a steady housekeeper. If Bekah’s willing to come over here, say, once or twice a week during the summer and then once, maybe, on Saturdays after school starts, and give the place a going-over, we could work out a trade for apples in the fall.”

“Really?” came a voice from behind him. Bekah dashed across the floor and stopped beside her mother, her hands clasped beneath her chin. “Can I do it, Mom? Huh? Please?”

Tim watched indecision play across Mrs. Knackstedt’s face. He supposed having a young girl in his house—he being a single man and all—might give cause for concern. He should’ve thought of that before making the suggestion. He amended his request, his heart thudding as he considered what changes might come into his life if she agreed. “Parker could work, too. I bet he could cart off broken limbs or do some grass cutting.”

He angled his head and cocked one hip, assuming a nonchalance he really didn’t feel. “You’ve got a long summer ahead with three kids underfoot and a business to get off the ground. Who knows—you might get more done with them away from the house now and then. So whaddaya say, Mrs. Knackstedt? Can we barter?”