19

The morning of the Fourth of July celebration, Tim rose early and saw to the necessary chores—including setting up the sprinklers so the trees would get a good drink in his absence—before fixing a pot of coffee. He skipped breakfast so he’d have plenty of room for all the goodies in town. Saliva pooled under his tongue as he thought about slow-roasted barbecued beef, baked beans, golden fresh-fried corn dogs slathered with mustard, and an unlimited selection of homemade pies. He’d learned everyone pulled out the stops when it came to these celebrations, and being a bachelor, he took advantage of the opportunity to eat his fill.

Sipping the strong black brew from a chipped ceramic mug, he ambled sock-footed to his bedroom and flicked through the shirts in his closet. He’d wear a button-up western shirt in place of his usual work T-shirts today. For a moment he paused, admiring the crisply ironed neatness of each shirt, perfectly centered on the hangers and spaced so they wouldn’t crush one another. He chuckled. That Bekah would make someone a fine wife someday—she took her role as his housekeeper seriously. Her mother’d done a fine job training her.

Training her . . . He grimaced. People trained dogs, not children. Plunking the half-empty mug on his dresser, he selected a blue-and-tan plaid shirt. As he snapped it, he contemplated the training he’d received while living under his father’s roof. He couldn’t deny he’d been well instructed in caring for crops and tools, in being respectful and responsible, and in Scripture memorization. Not that he leaned too much on the Scriptures these days, even if they did try to invade his thoughts at odd moments.

He scowled at his reflection in the mirror. The older he got, the more he saw his dad’s face peering back at him. Same square jaw, same thick brows, same mahogany hair with a cowlick best hidden beneath a hat. To his consternation, he looked like Timothy Rupp Senior. “But I don’t act like him,” he informed his image. When it came to parenting, he’d never barked orders, expected perfection, or quoted Bible verses at full volume to shame his son. Charlie had never been afraid of his father.

Turning abruptly, he moved away from the mirror and sat on the end of the bed to tug on his boots. Why think about it now? Dad’d probably forgotten he had a son named for himself. Charlie was long gone . . . and Tim needed to toss the past in the closet where it belonged and leave it there.

He rose with a cracking of knees and gave his closet door a good slam. Then he grabbed his cowboy hat from the edge of the dresser, slid it into place over his cowlick, and strode out the door. Behind the wheel of his pickup truck, he drew in a long breath and let it out slowly. By increments. Feeling the tension that had knotted his shoulders during his moments of reflection ease a little more with each deliberate expulsion of breath. By the time he reached town, he was ready to put on a smile—even if it was a forced one—and enjoy a rare day of leisure.

Wooden barricades decorated with strips of red, white, and blue crepe paper blocked Main Street from through traffic, so Tim pulled into the high-school parking lot. Most townsfolk just walked to the city park for the celebration, leaving lots of room for the rural folk to leave their vehicles. He glanced down the row of cars and trucks, identifying neighbors by their mode of transportation. His heart gave a funny lurch when he spotted Mrs. Knackstedt’s blue Buick. So the kids had convinced her to come in—good. He’d give them a wave if he saw them.

He put the truck in park, killed the engine, then pocketed his keys. He didn’t bother locking the truck—nobody in Weaverly would bother it, one of the perks of small-town living—then took off at a brisk pace down the sidewalk, heading for the park on the opposite side of town. His bootheels thudded against the cracked concrete, keeping time with a band playing in the distance. Based on the occasional sour note, Tim surmised the high-school band director had pulled his students together for a summer concert. Although it sounded a little rusty, the marching tune added to the day’s festive attitude.

Only four blocks separated the high school from the park, nothing compared to how much ground Tim covered each day at the orchard. But the ridiculous temperature—probably close to one hundred degrees already at nine in the morning—had him feeling sticky by the time he’d walked half the distance. Maybe he should’ve dressed like the kids racing around, in shorts and a tank top instead of his customary Levi’s.

Several buildings, those no longer in operation, were locked up tight, their windows graced with FOR SALE or FOR RENT signs. Every occupied business had its door propped open with a brick or a bucket of sand. Cool air whisked out at him as he passed by, encouraging him to slow his stride. But food waited at the park, and he was ready to find something tasty.

Tim wove between groups who lingered on the sidewalk, tipping his hat and smiling hello as he went. Down the middle of Main Street, people had set up tables to sell arts-and-crafts items. Townsfolk milled there in the sunshine, examining starched doilies, wooden cars, or handmade dolls. He didn’t meander to the booths. If Julia were here, she’d be dragging him to each display, looking for ideas for her own handiwork. But he had no interest in crafty items. Besides, staying on the sidewalk put him in the shade thanks to the height of the buildings blocking the sun. He stepped off the curb at the end of the business district and crossed the street to enter the grassy park.

“Hey, Tim!” One of the town council members, Greg Eads, raised a hand in greeting, gesturing Tim over to a cloth-draped table under one of the towering elm trees. The red-checked cloth flapped in the wind, threatening to dislodge a square hand-painted sign advertising “Cold Pop: 50¢/can.”

“Come grab yourself a drink,” Greg called. “Looks like you could use it.”

Tim rarely drank pop, and never this early in the morning, but today he’d make an exception. He dug two quarters out of his pocket and dropped them into the money jar on the corner of the table before fishing a dripping can of cola from an ice-filled cooler resting in a child’s red wagon. He bobbed his chin at the wagon as he popped the top on the can. “You planning to take your business on the road?”

The man laughed heartily. “Doubt I’ll need to. I’ve already had to restock the cherry cola—kids love it. Nah, the wagon was my son’s idea. He said it put the cans up high enough that the, uh, older ladies wouldn’t have to bend over to get their cans out of the cooler.”

Tim laughed. “How old is that boy of yours now, Greg?”

His chest puffing with pride, Greg said, “Eight going on eighteen. Playing Little League for the first time this summer. They grow up awful fast, don’t they?” Then he blanched, ducking his head. “Oh, sheesh, sorry. I wasn’t thinking. . . .”

Tim took a swallow of pop, wishing he could swallow the lump of longing the man’s words had innocently stirred. He forced a light chuckle. “Hey, don’t worry about it. You’ve got a right to brag on your boy.” If Charlie were still living, he’d be fourteen already. Big enough to be a help around the orchard or to participate in the Special Olympics with other challenged athletes. If Charlie were alive, Tim would take advantage of every opportunity to boast about his son’s accomplishments, no matter how large or small.

Greg slapped Tim on the shoulder, blasting a laugh that held a hint of embarrassment. “If we can peel you away from your apple trees now and then, why don’t you come to town some Friday evening and watch the youngsters play? I tell you, Tim, there’s nothing like watching a Little League baseball game to take your mind off your troubles.” He swung a look skyward, his lips pursing. “And from what I’ve heard so far this morning, lots of folks are troubled about our lack of rain. Can’t remember the last time we made it through an entire spring without a storm or two.” One brow high, he gave Tim a worried look. “How’re your trees doing? They holding up under the heat?”

“So far, although I’ve already counted the grapes a loss.” The vines were so shriveled, they might never produce again. Tim finished off his pop, then tossed the can in a barrel behind the table, where it clattered against several other cans. “I’ve had to water a lot more than I’d like for this early in the summer. Still, the roots’ve got to have moisture or the trees’ll dry up on me. At least I’ve got well water, so I’m not paying the city to water my trees.”

Tim stepped back from the table as several youngsters ran up and began tossing quarters into the jar. He lifted his hand in farewell. “See you later, Greg. Enjoy the day.” He ambled toward the center of the park, taking in the activities.

The town council did a good job of organizing everything. Years ago, they’d established a contract with a carnival company out of Colorado to provide a few rides and games. Kids swarmed the booths to shoot baskets or plug a balloon with a dart for the privilege of carrying away cheap stuffed animals or straw hats that looked like they’d come unraveled at a moment’s notice. Smaller kids were attached to parents’ hands, but anyone age seven and up ran free, proving how safe folks felt in their little town.

Tim walked the full periphery of the park, his nose barraged by the aromas of popcorn, cotton candy, hot dogs, pizza, and tangy barbecue sauce. He stopped at a booth selling doughnuts and bought two. Then he sauntered on, munching, looking, listening. So many sounds—laughter, chatter, a few screams from kids at the top of the Ferris wheel, tinny music from the rides as well as the continued blasting of the band in the park’s pavilion. His ears ached, unaccustomed to anything more than birdsong, bees humming, and wind in the trees. Yet he didn’t want to go home.

He stepped from behind some metal bleachers that had been set up so people could sit and listen to the band, and he came face-to-face with the group of Mennonites. The women’s dresses and caps and the men’s flat-brimmed hats would have set them apart from the other townsfolk even if they weren’t all clustered in one big group. On the outskirts of their circle, Tim located Mrs. Knackstedt and her children. She held Adrianna and Parker by the hands, and Bekah stood on the other side of Adrianna, her gaze aimed in the center of the park. The older girl’s expression sent a zing of awareness down Tim’s spine. He knew that look—he’d seen it in his own reflection at her age. He started to inch backward and cross in front of the bleachers, but Adrianna turned her head and spotted him.

Her face broke into a huge smile. She yanked free of her mother’s grip and raced to him, her little braids flying. “Mr. Roper! You came, too!” She threw her arms around his legs, nearly toppling him with the enthusiastic hug.

Tim’s arms itched to scoop her up, the way he had the day Bekah had filled his house with smoke, but he gave her head a pat and then gently disengaged her arms. “Hey there, Adri.” He used the nickname Bekah and Parker called their sister. It fit the little girl so much better than the lengthy Adrianna. “Are you having fun?”

The child poked out her lower lip. “No. Momma won’t let me do nothin’.”

Parker trotted to Tim’s side, his smile so wide it split his face in half. Bekah and Mrs. Knackstedt followed closely on Parker’s heels. Bekah didn’t offer a beaming smile like her siblings, but she greeted Tim politely, and he couldn’t resist chucking her under the chin, earning a shy grin.

Mrs. Knackstedt gave Adri’s shoulder a little shake. “Are you complaining to Mr. Roper?” Adri continue to pout, refusing to answer. Mrs. Knackstedt looked at Tim and lifted her shoulders in a delicate shrug. “Don’t let her fool you. She’s already eaten a bag of popcorn and a whole cone of cotton candy. I told her if she got on rides right now, she’d get a sick stomach.” She laughed lightly. “I don’t think she believes me.”

Tim squatted down so he’d be eye to eye with the five-year-old. He tickled her cheek with the end of one of her braids while he spoke. “Your mom’s right. You get on a ride and go whirling around with a bunch of food in your stomach, that food will whirl right out again.”

Adri’s blue eyes grew round. “You mean I’ll throw up?”

Tim coughed to cover a laugh. “Yes, ma’am, that’s exactly what I mean.”

Adri’s infectious giggle rang. “You’re so silly.” She pranced in a short circle and then took a two-handed grip on her mother’s wrist, suspending herself while humming a cheerful melody.

Tim straightened, shooting Mrs. Knackstedt a sly smile. “That might hold ’er for a little while.”

“Thank you.” Relief colored her tone. She flicked a glance over her shoulder to the group of Mennonites. “Would you like to meet the other newcomers to Weaverly? I’d be glad to introduce you.”

Tim wanted to refuse, but he noticed several of the Mennonites peeking in his direction. To walk away would be rude. He’d been taught better than that. So he gave a brusque nod and followed her to the group. As a unit, the white-capped women and black-hatted men shifted, turning to face Tim. Although most wore kind, welcoming faces, cotton filled Tim’s mouth. For a moment he wished he still had faith, because if he did he’d say a prayer for fortitude as he faced a representative piece of his past.