33

Amy watched her neighbor’s face as he paged through the album of photographs Bekah had organized. In typical masculine fashion, he held his emotions inside, but the slight shimmer in his eyes, tremble in his hand, and tightly set jaw spoke very clearly. He was touched. And seeing his response put a lump in her throat.

Although she’d invited him to sit on the sofa and look at the album, he’d elected to stand in the doorway. Parker and Adrianna had gone upstairs to nap when they’d returned home, but Bekah stood beside Amy, her hands clasped at her rib cage and her gaze fixed on Mr. Roper’s face. The moment he closed the back cover, Bekah lifted one hand to gesture to the book. “The pages . . . all those little pockets? You can take the pictures out and move them around if you want to. You don’t have to leave them like I put them.”

“It’s perfect just the way you have it.” Mr. Roper didn’t lift his head. His hands held tightly to the album. His Adam’s apple bobbed in a swallow. “Thank you.”

Bekah’s breath whooshed out. “You’re welcome.” She backed up a few inches, waving toward the sewing room. “I’m . . . gonna go do some sewing.” She flashed a secretive grin at Amy. “With school starting next Wednesday, I won’t have as much time to work soon, and . . .” She zipped around the corner.

Mr. Roper looked after her, a tenderness in his eyes. Then he shifted his face slightly, meeting Amy’s gaze. A warm smile slowly climbed his chiseled cheeks, making Amy’s heart patter in response. He patted the album’s smooth denim cover. “I thought these were gone forever. I can’t believe she . . .” He shook his head, releasing a soft sigh. “She’s a good kid—a thoughtful kid. You’ve raised her right.” A soft laugh rumbled from his throat. “And I’m sure grateful to have them. I never should have told her to throw them out. Don’t know what I was thinking.”

Amy wondered if she should tell him about the boxes of clothes and what she and Bekah had done with them. But the quilt was more Bekah’s project than Amy’s. Bekah should be the one to share it with him. Amy glanced at the album, longing sweeping through her. “I’m glad she brought them here, too. Of course I don’t have photographs of Gabe or . . . or anyone else. Our sect—” She shrugged. He understood the Old Order Mennonite lifestyle. “I carry pictures in my head, of course, but over time . . .”

“They become fuzzy?”

“Yes. And then you aren’t sure if what you’re remembering is real or merely a figment of your imagination.”

An odd pain creased his face. “Yes. I suppose you’re right.” His voice sounded tight, distant.

Eager to restore his relaxed, warm countenance, Amy said, “But you have the photographs now, to keep your wife’s and son’s faces alive in your mind. I pray the photographs will be a comfort to you, Mr. Roper.”

“Tim,” he blurted.

Amy tipped her head, puzzled.

“Call me Tim. We’re neighbors, after all, and . . . and I’d like us to be friends.”

In her entire life, Amy had never addressed an adult male—other than Gabe, of course—by his first name. What would the fellowship members think? Or her father? They’d surely disapprove, considering it forward. Yet she discovered she wanted to cast off the formal address. She wanted to be friends. She wanted to be more than friends. . . .

Lord, guard my heart. The wisest thing would be to continue referring to him as Mr. Roper, but her time here might come to an end soon. What would it hurt to call him by his first name? “I’d like that, too. And please, call me Amy.”

“Amy . . .”

Not since Gabe’s death had any man, other than her father, called her by her given name. Hearing it in his deep, warm vocal tone brought a rush of unprecedented pleasure.

“Well, Amy, I should probably . . .” He grabbed the screen door handle and pushed, the discordant creak of the hinges a direct contrast to the smooth delivery of his voice uttering her name. Stepping out onto the porch, he gave a quick, almost bashful, nod of good-bye and then turned and tromped off the porch, holding the album tight in the bend of his elbow.

Amy watched through the mesh screen as he climbed into his pickup, his movements strong and sure. She remained watching until his truck turned off at the end of the lane, dust whirling behind it. Even then, she watched until the dust settled. Then, with a soft sigh, she turned from the door. And she found Bekah standing in the doorway between the living room and sewing room, watching her.

Tim pulled into his driveway and parked in front of the barn. With the new, wider doorway, he could pull his truck clear inside, but he’d developed the habit of parking outside. His hand still rested on the cover of the photo album, and even while he’d driven the short distance between the Knackstedt place and his own, his mind’s eye had skipped through the images carefully saved behind layers of clear plastic.

Flashes of Julia and Charlie played through his memory, followed by other images not captured on photo paper but preserved in the back recesses of his mind. Yet he couldn’t be sure if the remembrances were actual events. “You aren’t sure if what you’re remembering is real or merely a figment of your imagination.” He completely understood Amy’s comment. After all the years that had slipped by, he couldn’t be certain the way he remembered his father and mother was even remotely close to fact. And it bothered him.

He picked up the album and hopped out of the truck, crossing the slanted path of shade cast by the tall barn. The whirr of the central air unit greeted him as he neared the house, and cool air whisked across him as he stepped inside. He plopped onto the sofa, laying the closed album on his lap. Work waited—he needed to finish the new slatted display boxes for apples, and he’d intended to mow the picnic meadow again before sunset—but for the first time in more years than he could count he wanted to look back. Wanted to remember.

So he tipped his head back, closed his eyes, and deliberately sought snatches of time from his years living beneath his father’s roof. The first memories to surface were sour ones—angry words and fierce reprimands. The reason he’d left. But as he forced his mind backward, other pictures emerged. Mom’s sweet smile, her soft hand on his forehead as he drifted off to sleep. Laughing with his brothers as they swung hand over hand from the barn rafters. His youngest sister’s delighted squeals as he spun her in the tire swing Dad had hung from the old oak tree in the backyard. And Dad . . . Dad on the couch with the children gathered at his feet while he read aloud from the Psalms.

A lump filled Tim’s throat. As a very young boy, he’d thought his dad’s voice must be just like God’s voice—rich, tender, filled with strength and wisdom. When had it all changed? He couldn’t recall the moment when peaceful acceptance of their simple lifestyle turned to discontent and a feeling of being restrained. Timothy Rupp Sr. had done his best to drive the rebellion from his eldest son’s soul. But it hadn’t worked. Instead, he’d driven the son away.

Something tickled Tim’s cheek. A loose hair or a spider’s web? He reached to brush it away and encountered moisture. His eyes popped open, releasing another tear. He swiped at the trickle of wet with his fingers and sniffed hard, determined to gain control. But despite his efforts, a new trickle slid down his cheek and met his lips, salty and warm. He sat up, pushing the album onto the sofa cushion beside him. There he remained, bolt upright, staring at the album while images flashed like bolts of lightning across his memory. Julia, Charlie, Dad, Mom, his brothers and sisters . . . How he missed them. All of them.

He groaned, burying his face in his hands. Real or imagined? Were the reasons for staying away so long from his parents and his Mennonite heritage based on truth . . . or the mistaken remembrances of a rebellious youth? And how would he ever know for sure?

Ask.

The suggestion came with such force, he almost thought it had been given by an audible voice. Tim’s head jerked upright, his eyes seeking. But the room was empty, as always. Licking his lips, he whispered a question. “Ask . . . who?”

He didn’t need a thundering voice from the heavens for an answer. He knew who to ask. The person who’d witnessed Tim’s leave-taking. The person who knew why Tim had marched down the road that day so long ago. His heart set up a mighty clamor in his chest, just considering talking to Dad after all this time apart. He and Dad might argue, exchange more ugly words. Dad might not want to talk at all. He’d stated clearly that if Tim left, he shouldn’t ever come back. Dad’d been angry that day—angrier than Tim had ever seen him. But maybe, just as Tim often regretted words spewed in a moment of fury, Dad wished he could take the words back. He’d never know unless he asked. His heart continued to pound hard against his ribs, apprehension making his mouth like cotton. But the more he thought about it, the more he wanted to do it.

Back then, his folks had owned a telephone. They kept it in the barn rather than in the house, but they had one. Tim glanced at the clock, and a prickle inched its way across his scalp. Right about now, in Indiana, if Dad were still alive—was he still alive?—he’d be out in the barn, climbing into his work coveralls, preparing to bring in the cows for milking. He’d hear the phone ring because the machines would still be silent.

But would they still have the same number? Check online. As if propelled by a stout breeze, Tim shot across the room to his desk where his computer sat, ready and waiting. A few clicks, and he sat staring at the entry for Timothy Rupp, Goshen, Indiana. His breath came in little spurts, his hand shaking so badly he had difficulty copying the number onto a scrap of paper. He took several deep breaths, releasing the air slowly, bringing himself under control, gathering courage. His breathing fairly normal, he removed his cell phone from its pouch. Put it back. Brought it out again.

“You’ll never know unless you ask,” he told himself in a firm tone, his voice bringing back memories of his father’s firm, no-nonsense tone. Sucking in one more long, deep breath, he lifted the cover on the phone and, with deliberate pokes of his finger, entered his father’s telephone number.

Ring! . . . Ring! . . . Ring! . . . Ring! Dad must be milking already. Half disappointed, half relieved, Tim pulled the phone away from his ear and started to flip it closed. But then a male voice, familiar and yet belonging to a stranger, said, “Rupp Dairy. Timothy Rupp speaking.”

Dad! Tim’s entire body began to quiver. He pressed the telephone receiver tight against his cheek to hold it steady and drew in a shuddering breath. “Dad? It’s me . . . Tim.”

Silence. Tim gulped. “Tim. Your son.”

Another few seconds of silence ticked by, and then a strange gurgle came through the line. Tim held the telephone out for a moment and frowned at it, puzzled. Then he put it to his ear again. The gurgling exploded into wracking sobs interspersed with stammered speech. “Tim . . . my son . . . Oh, thank You, my God and Father. How long I’ve prayed . . . my son, my son . . .”

Tim’s body went weak. Had he not been sitting, he would have collapsed onto the floor. As it was, he nearly dropped the telephone. Dad . . . crying. Tears filled his eyes, and he clutched the phone two-handed, his desire to climb through the line and embrace his father so strong it was all he could do to keep the seat of his pants planted on the chair. “Yeah, Dad. It’s me. It’s me.” For several minutes they cried together—miles apart yet connected by the unending bond of love.