JOHN WANDERED OUT to the wood shop, determined to keep working, while waiting for word about his father. Bishop Esch was due to go to the hospital this morning while John and Matt decided to visit in the evening, using the local van drivers who usually helped the Amish travel far for a small price.
John thought of the pleasure he felt in seeing Tabitha working in his home kitchen and looked forward to the promise of pie and her presence that afternoon. He gazed at some cherry wood his fater had got in not that long ago, and an idea came to him, resounding and simple. He wanted to make something for Tabitha, to say a thank-you for her willingness to serve Matt and him while his daed was ill. But not only thanks… I want to tell her how much I love her without words, to say what I cannot, what I will never say.
He pushed aside the dark thoughts with determination and walked over to the long pieces of cherry, already seeing in his mind’s eye what he wanted to make—the perfect gift—a pie safe. A pie safe went back more than a hundred and fifty years in Amish American life, and although it had no padlock on it, the free-standing cupboard was used to keep household critters out of pies and other baked goodies. Some Amish women, like his mamm, also used it as a pantry of sorts while others kept it for dishes or different ready-needed kitchen items. And although John could see the obvious quality of the wood that he had, he was more interested in the tin-punching required to make the traditional doors on the safe. Intricate designs or pictures of everyday objects were often punched, and even fancier punchings were allowed in the Amish community. But, he realized as he gently fingered the wood, all of his plans would have to wait as he knew he had to finish the desk he and his fater had started on before his daed fell ill.
John sighed as he picked up a piece of sandpaper and tried to concentrate on his work instead of the sweet thoughts of Tabitha sharing his early morning breakfast.
Tabitha hurried to the cold frames to pull the carrots left over from the winter. Cold frames were an ingenious way of keeping bumper crops coming, no matter the season, and she had enjoyed experimenting with the greenhouse-like effects of the low, angled, miniature gardens.
She’d loved every minute she’d spent with John that morning, feeling a peculiar intimacy in the simplicity of breaking bread together, but now, she knew that Aenti Elizabeth wanted to make carrot jam.
“And I’d better hurry if I hope to have time to do the rhubarb pie,” she muttered aloud to herself.
She took the bunches of pulled carrots to the outdoor water pump and cleaned off most of the dirt, then she hurried inside.
Fortunately Fram had gone fishing, and Tabitha was left in the companionable silence that usually existed when she worked with Aenti Elizabeth.
She’d already gotten the jars ready, glistening glass atop several tea towels, and now she put the cleaned carrots in a large pot atop the stove to boil.
“How were John and Matthew this morning, Tabby?” Aenti Beth asked suddenly.
“Ach. . . fine. I told John that I’d make their lunch for as long as his family’s gone—with your permission, of course.”
“Certainly, child, and I do pray that Daniel makes a full recovery. I know you must feel the same for John’s sake.”
Tabitha stilled for a moment in confusion. “For John’s sake . . . of course, but I—”
Aenti Elizabeth gave a rueful laugh. “Ach, Tabby, forgive me. Nee, you’ve never said anything about you and John courting, but I’ve got eyes, haven’t I? And I’ve known you since you were a wee maedel. . . there’s not much you can hide from me.”
“Oh, but Aenti Beth,” Tabitha cried, putting down the colander she held ready to drain the carrots. “It’s not . . . I mean, John was planning on going away to his onkel Samuel’s to work. He was due to leave today even.”
“Then you’re not courting?”
“Nee. . . I mean . . . it’s rather complicated,” Tabitha finished lamely. Then a sudden conviction came from her soul, and she knew that she couldn’t keep prevaricating to her beloved aenti. She opened her mouth, prepared to cleanse herself of the lies that had haunted her of late, when her aenti spoke.
“Love is never easy, child, and I won’t question you further. Let’s finish the jam so you can set about lunch.”
Tabitha sighed, then fetched the sugar and lemon juice and was about to add it to the carrot pulp when there was a knock on the back door.
She went to answer it and was surprised and overjoyed to see Letty standing there.
“Why, Letty, I’m so happy to see you. Kumme in.”
But Letty’s plump cheeks flushed and her eyes welled with tears. “Ach, Tabby . . . I can’t. Not when I’ve made such a terrible mistake.”
“Ach, but it was only a misunderstanding between us and I—”
“Nee,” Letty shook her head. “You don’t know. I’ve done something that will really hurt you.”
John was finishing the varnish on the back leg of the desk and Matt was sawing maple wood when Bishop Esch drove up in his buggy. Both of the bruders immediately stopped work and went to where the bishop was tying off his horse.
“Gut day to you, sir,” John said. “Do you have word of Daed?”
“Ya.” The bishop looked up at the taller men and stroked his long grey beard. “Your daed’s to have a second surgery this afternoon. The doctors are to try to put a stint in the heart vessel that’s positioned oddly—they’ll give it a gut go, they say.”
“What about the risk?” John asked.
“There’s always risk in life, sohn. You must kumme to know that.”
Yeah, thanks for the cryptic word of support. . . that’s all I need right now. The wise bishop apparently sensed his thoughts though, because he abruptly gestured to Matt.
“Matthew, I need a bit of firewood. The nachts are still chilly. Do you mind?”
“Uh . . . sure.”
John watched Matt stride off, knowing his bruder understood as well as he did that the request for wood was really a simple excuse to get John alone to talk.
“Let’s go inside the haus, shall we, John?” Bishop Esch asked, already mounting the steps to the front porch.
John followed, knowing that it was no request of the older man—if the bishop asked you for something, you usually did it, and John had been too well trained in the Ordnung of his community to do anything differently.
Bishop Esch sat himself down at the table and John did the same, watching the other man idly lift a molasses cookie from the plate that Tabitha had brought for breakfast.
“Gut cookies,” the bishop muttered, brushing the crumbs out of his beard. “Your mamm make these?”
John felt cautious for some reason but responded truthfully. “Nee, sir, Tabitha Beiler provided breakfast this morning.”
“Hmmm . . . she’ll be a fine wife one day as her cooking matches her comeliness.”
John didn’t say anything, and the kind old eyes of the bishop twinkled in his direction. “Perhaps a wife for you, John?”
John sighed. “What gossip have you heard, sir?”
Bishop Esch laughed. “I must admit that my Barbara is not the most discreet of Gott’s creatures. She has mentioned that you and Tabitha are courting.”
“Rumors,” John said, “never come to any good.”
“John, I’ve been bishop of this community since before you were born, and I’ve watched you and Rob Yoder grow up, side by side, friend by friend, into fine young men. Men I will, in vain, say that I am proud to know. It’s only that I wouldn’t want anything to destroy that friendship—one, not unlike David and Jonathan in the Bible, I think. Is not Rob ‘closer than a bruder’ to you?”
John bowed his head, and a rush of memories flooded over him—hunting, fishing, scrambling for wintergreen berries with freezing hands and then tramping home for marshmallows in hot cocoa. And then later, serious talks about life and living in the Amish community. Rob truly was closer than a bruder, but John could not deny his love for Tabitha.
“Ya,” he whispered finally. “So you know that Rob has his heart set on Tabitha?”
“Again, Barbara heard something from Letty—and there we have it. I only want you to think, John. Perhaps to remember Phoebe Graber as well.”
“Why Phoebe?” John’s tone bordered on the defensive.
“What did you learn from that situation—from that—love?”
John frowned, beginning to feel mired in the conversation. “It’s not the same,” he bit out.
Bishop Esch lifted a gentle hand. “John, it’s not my intent to trouble you or to make you doubt your feelings—I only want you to consider Rob—who is not here to speak for himself.”
“I know that,” John said low and with a troubled look at the older man. “I know.”
“Danki, John. I only wanted a minute of your time.”
Yeah, but you just ruined my whole day. . . and possibly my life.