IT WAS MID-OCTOBER AND A BRIGHT, BEAUTIFUL MORNING. But Abigail had seen the sun far too early for her liking, having been up half the night with a laboring sow. She had always felt more competent in working with the farm animals than she’d ever felt in the house, and the past night had been no exception.
The kitten, now a spry, streaking little thing that she’d named George, had kept her company while she’d let Joseph sleep. Now she came out of the barn, having finished tending to the mother and piglets. She wiped her filthy hands on her apron and blinked in the sunlight—then stopped dead, staring at the apparition of a low-slung blue convertible and a tousled red-haired Englisch girl with a devastating white smile. She was talking to Joseph, who leaned against the car door with familiarity, looking down into her face.
Abigail straightened her spine and walked toward her husband.
“Oh, here’s Abby now. Abby, this is Molly, a—friend from the past.”
Molly scooted her charming figure forward on the front seat and leaned to extend a hand to Abigail. “Hi,” she said with a bright smile.
“Hello,” Abigail returned, catching Joseph’s eye. “Joseph has mentioned you . . . your hair . . . It’s lovely.”
Molly giggled and looked at Joseph. “Thanks. It was always his favorite, but I guess he went and chose a blonde anyway. I can’t believe you’re married.”
Abigail was working herself up to a boil, and Joseph must have sensed it, because he straightened from the car and looped an arm around her waist.
“Married as can be,” he said with cheerful vigor.
“Well, I just was out this way and asked around for you. I’m staying at a bed-and-breakfast in town. I thought I’d stop for a few minutes,” Molly offered, clearly wanting an invitation to stay and visit.
Abigail tried to ignore the girl’s desire for hospitality, but her heart convicted her. “Would . . . you like to come in, then?” She felt Joseph’s surprise.
Molly smiled. “Of course. Thanks.” She reached out her slender arms to Joseph, who moved away from Abigail to swing her out of the car.
“I’ll just go on in and change my apron and leave you two— friends—alone for a moment,” Abigail said sweetly, though her heart was pounding. She marched past them and entered the kitchen, where she stood frozen for a moment. Then she found herself beginning to pray. “Please, Lord, give me patience, an extra measure, in this situation. Please bless this girl, Molly. Oh, Lord, please guard Joseph’s heart. Help him not to remember too much of his time with her.”
She realized that they were on the porch and rushed to change her apron. She was slicing apple bread when they came in and was grateful for something to focus on.
“Mmm . . . a real Amish kitchen . . .” Molly looked around her like she was in a museum. “I’d like to paint it, Joseph.”
“We like the light blue,” Abigail said.
Molly laughed. “No, I mean paint it . . . like a scene, honey. I’m an artist.”
“Oh.” Abigail blushed, feeling foolish. “Would you like a drink?”
“What do you have?”
She was about to reply when Joseph interrupted, for some reason in a dry tone. “Lemonade, tea, or springwater, Molly.”
The girl laughed again, tossing her curls. “Things sure have changed, haven’t they? I’ll have tea, honey. If it’s cold . . .”
Abigail nodded. “Of course. Please sit down. Joseph, what would you like?”
She kept her expression placid, though she felt furious with him for some reason. After all, he had no idea that the girl was going to come looking for him . . . did he?
“Nee, you sit. I’ll get the drinks. Do you want lemonade?” Joseph asked.
Abigail could tell that something was bothering him by the tense set of his jaw, but she wasn’t sure whether she was the cause, or Molly. After all, her conscience pricked her, she was the interloper here in a way. She’d forced this marriage upon him when maybe he’d been wanting to marry this beautiful Englisch girl instead. But if that were so, why had he come back? She stopped trying to puzzle it out when she realized Molly had asked her a question.
“I’m sorry. I was thinking . . . Please, what did you say?”
“I asked how long you’ve been married . . . It can’t be long. I was seeing Joseph as recently as a year ago.”
Abigail flushed and met her husband’s eye. He returned her gaze with an expressionless face. She pursed her lips, then smiled with sweetness, moving to slide an arm around Joseph’s lean waist.
“Actually,” she murmured, batting her eyelashes with a coy effect, “we’re still newlyweds. Isn’t that right, my love?”
Joseph half turned toward her body and stared down into her eyes. “Indeed. And I hope that we’ll always feel like newlyweds, even when we’re old and gray.”
Abigail flushed beneath his intense eyes and at his unexpected words. She also noticed that Molly looked none too pleased with his response.
“Well,” their visitor said with a toss of her curls, “I suppose that’s nice, but what is it that they say—‘Young marriages are the most fragile’?”
“I’ve never heard that saying,” Joseph remarked. “Now let’s finish our drinks. I’ve got work to get back to, as does Abby.”
Molly quickly recovered her composure. Indeed, if Abigail didn’t know any better, she would have believed the girl’s sincerity and goodwill. But to someone who’d led boys on in the past herself, it was obvious to Abigail just exactly what Molly was up to.
She sighed within herself, kept up a silent running stream of petition to the Lord, and was glad when Joseph finally escorted the girl to the back porch and out of their lives for good.