Twelve

“Where you going?” Cerise suddenly popped in front of her dressed in those floppy overalls, but with shoes on now for this chilly day and a sweater.

“I’m—going to town,” hedged Rebekah.

“With that bag full of stuff?” Cerise ran along, trying to keep pace. She plucked at Rebekah’s sleeve. “Why all the stuff?”

Rebekah stopped and looked Cerise in the eyes. Oh, how to explain!

“Where are you really going? It’s Saturday, you know.” Cerise’s brown eyes had widened in alarm.

“I’m—leaving. For good,” said Rebekah, starting on, her head bent forward to her task. “Just tell—tell everyone—explain to them—”

“Rebekah, you come and explain! You can’t leave. Where are you going anyway? Where—where’s Aden? I thought—”

Rebekah paused again, looking back to the appled hill fringed at its base with red sweet gum and bright yellow hickories. The hill hid the Mayfields’ cozy house, their new barn. So many good times she’d enjoyed there. Maybe she should—but no! She’d lose her nerve if Betsy started in on her. She plodded on.

But Cerise wouldn’t give up.

“You’ve got to tell everybody good-bye!” Tears exploded down her cheeks. “You can’t go like this! You’re—you’re my friend, Rebekah!” Suddenly she dashed at Rebekah and grabbed her around the waist as best she could, Rebekah being cumbered with her knobby bag.

Rebekah groaned, put her bag down, and wound her arms around Cerise’s slender frame, leaning over to touch her cheek to the little girl’s hair. “I’m glad we could be friends. And—you’ll always be so special to me. But I have to go. I’ll write to you,” she said, struggling to be firm.

Cerise stiffened then pulled back. Standing squarely in front of Rebekah, she placed her hands on her hips, looking almost comically like her mother when she laid down the law. “You can’t go right now, Rebekah! Don’t you realize it’s about to freeze and we’re going to lose all the Shockleys still on the trees if we can’t get them picked? Everyone’s picking apples like crazy except Mama, and I came to see if you would come help, too. You can’t leave us right now! You just can’t!”

Rebekah looked at Cerise, a tumble of red-brown hair framing her tear-stained intense face, then at her own bulging bag by the roadside. “All right—help me put this under some bushes so I can get it later. I’ll go help for a few hours before I go.” She had no idea when her train left, but she’d have to risk missing it, maybe having to spend the night on a bench at the station. She would not spend one more night in Aden’s wagon.

As they walked through the orchard, Rebekah said, “I don’t hear a thing. There aren’t any pickers out here, Cerise.”

“Oh, yes, there are, too! The Shockleys are in the far orchard, t’other side of the house.”

“We have to go by the house?” Rebekah paused, gripping folds of her skirt. Why did she not want to talk to Betsy? Wasn’t it instead that she wanted very much to talk to Betsy? She needed to talk to Betsy!

“It’s the best way to get there,” said Cerise, looking at her friend curiously.

“Might as well stop by then and see your mama a minute,” said Rebekah decisively.

The minute Betsy saw her face, she dusted flour from her hands and held out her arms as if she knew everything.

“Run on to the picking, Cerise,” she said. “I need Rebekah to help me here. You will, won’t you, Rebekah?”

“I—if you need me. Sure.”

Cerise complained but soon ran out the door. As soon as she was gone, Betsy nudged Rebekah into a chair at the table and sat down opposite her. “For once, we need to talk without doing anything,” she said. “Now tell me what is going on. I’ve already heard Aden’s version, but I want to hear yours.”

“You’ve heard Aden’s?” She leaned forward, her heart thudding.

“Yes. I—he came this morning early. He told me—well, I want to hear it in your words ’fore I do any quoting. But—I can tell you this much—it’s one of the few times I’ve seen a man cry. And he wasn’t just crying. He was weeping. His heart is broken, Child.”

“I know,” she said, her voice trembling as she put her hands to her face. “I’ve ruined everything just as we were becoming so happy. But I know he can never forgive me so I—the letter you gave me was from Father inviting me to come home.”

Betsy peeled Rebekah’s hands away from her face and peered into her eyes. “Is that what you want? To go home? Because it isn’t what Aden wants. He’s brokenhearted, not because of what you did, but because of your motives, because he thinks you want to leave him.”

“Oh, I don’t want to! But I must!” Rebekah pulled her hands away to cover her face again; she felt so ashamed before her friend. “I can’t stay any longer; I’ve done such terrible things. Oh, Betsy, I so wanted to make it right. I wanted to tell him all about it and tell him—but I didn’t know how! I didn’t want the money any longer. I hated it! I just wanted—him to understand.”

“Then if you want to tell him, you’d best figure out a way.” Betsy stood up. “Aden’s out there in the orchard somewhere picking apples. You go see if you can’t help. I’ll be here cooking—and praying. Go on now! God’s given you an opportunity. Don’t flub it!”

Rebekah considered her options. If she wanted something so terrifically much, then why not try? What could it hurt? Could Betsy possibly be right? Could Isaac Aden Robards still love me?

Slowly she pushed her chair back and stood, answering Betsy’s encouraging smile with a teary one of her own.

Rebekah started across the porch, saw the well bucket hanging ready to dip water, another empty pail ready for use on a chair nearby. It was turning cold, as Cerise had said, probably going to freeze tonight. Maybe nobody would be in the least bit thirsty. But—she’d take water anyway. The rope squeaked as she let the bucket down, and she heard a splash as it hit water. Behind her, Betsy said softly, “Here’s a ladle we use, Honey.”

Rebekah walked slowly when she came to rows of Shockley trees laden with small, dull russet apples. Mayfield pickers could be heard in the distance singing and calling to each other from various positions, each trying to fill his bag first. Suddenly, as she stood there shading her eyes with one hand, all the singing and joking stopped. She heard only a faint buzz, almost like summer bees working, as apples were snatched and added to others in gunnysacks. The trees’ leafy foliage had turned yellow, and many leaves had fallen. She should be able to spot Aden and his long legs without any trouble. But where was he? She began walking slowly between the trees, heart thudding against her ribs. Adjusting her bucket from one hand to another, she spilled cold water down the side of her dress.

Then she saw him far down a row of trees striding toward her, his face sober, his jaw shadowed by a night’s growth of whiskers. She firmed her chin against an onslaught of tears at the sight of him, but her eyes stung all the same. He had cried for her! So why shouldn’t she cry for him? Carefully she set her bucket down in orchard grass.

Aden stopped a few feet away, folded his arms across his chest, scuffed one shoe in the browning grass.

She hung her head and licked her salty lips, trying to think what to say, desperately wanting to explain everything in a way he would understand. But Aden spoke first.

“I–I’m sorry, Rebekah. I didn’t—there’s so much I didn’t know.”

“You’re sorry?” She looked up quickly. “No, no! It isn’t your fault. It’s every bit my own fault. But, Aden—I’ve changed!”

He smiled hugely then, his strong white teeth flashing. It was as if the sun had just burst through a tremendous bank of snow clouds. His shoulders visibly relaxed. “Betsy told me! I wish I’d known. But it doesn’t matter. I know it now. I’m so happy, Rebekah! You’ll never make any other decision that’s anywhere near as important as deciding to follow Jesus.” He held his hands out toward her, then let them drop straight by his sides.

“I’ve got Jesus joy now,” she said, smiling through her tears. “No matter what happens, He’ll go with me.”

For an eternity they stood there beside the bucket of water, Aden swiping a hand through his thick hair, then hooking his thumbs in the corners of his pockets, Rebekah wrapping her arms around herself.

“I’m sorry about everything, Aden,” she said finally, her voice breaking. “I’m so sorry!”

“Does that mean you’re leaving?” he asked huskily.

“That depends, I guess, on—”

“On what, Rebekah?” he asked, taking a step toward her.

“Well—I know this isn’t quite the way the story goes, but—anyway—” She leaned over and dipped a ladle full of water. “Isaac, would you allow me to give you water—and—and your horses also?”

When he was silent, she looked up anxiously. He was smiling, but there was a glint of tears in his eyes. Closing the gap between them, he leaned over so his lips could connect with her offered ladle, and he placed his hands firmly over hers to steady the vessel. Keeping his gaze on her face, he took a huge swallow, even letting water run down his chin and splash down the front of his shirt.

“My horses aren’t here right now. But I accept for them, too,” he said, his blue eyes sparkling. “We are all very thirsty, especially me.”

Somehow the ladle landed several feet away, and the bucket spilled over, watering a patch of dried thistle. They didn’t notice. They were wrapped in each other’s arms, each absorbing the joy and warmth of the other. “I love you,” he whispered against her tear-dampened cheek, and in answer she raised her lips to his.

“I love you, too,” she said a few minutes later, snuggling under his chin.

“Oh, Rebekah, I thought I was losing you! I’ve prayed so hard you’d want to stay, but I thought I must have made a terrible mistake, that God must never have intended for me to do anything but travel alone up and down the roads in my wagon.” He gripped her shoulders and held her away so he could study her face. “You know, I—uhm—I have to be a dentist”—she nodded—”and I have to tell God’s good news”—she nodded again—”but—I see now that He doesn’t necessarily mean me to keep traveling on and on. Here, look at this.”

His fingers fumbled as he slid a folded document from his shirt pocket.

“What is that?”

“It’s a deed,” he answered.

“A deed?”

“To some property a few miles from here. I thought—a few weeks ago—you were liking it here, liking the Mayfields, and maybe—”

“I was liking you, too,” she supplied with a saucy smile.

“So I thought maybe we—”

“Could build a house,” she finished for him.

“Well?” He lifted one eyebrow as only he could do.

“I had a letter yesterday from Father,” she said, running the tip of a finger along the line of his briary jaw.

“Oh.” He sobered instantly. “How are they?”

“Mother keeps getting worse. She—can’t be satisfied, always wants to go home. So—Father has corresponded with Mr. Jones, and they’ve agreed for him to sharecrop a few acres and live in the house at Thornapple. You know, Mr. Jones bought Thornapple.”

“And—you want to go back there to help?” he asked quietly.

A hawk flew in wide circles above the orchard. Voices of the Mayfields hummed in the distance. One of the dogs let out a playful bark.

“Do you want to go back there?” he repeated urgently.

“Not alone,” she answered. And then she said, “No, I don’t want to go back there, not to stay. Aden, what I really want is home—but not that home anymore. What I want is our home, yours and mine. With you being ‘the repairer of the breach’ and I your assistant. And near here would be absolutely wonderful. I love it here!”

An explosion of giggles crackled from a nearby tree, and Cerise jumped out from behind its trunk. “You’re staying!” she cried, clapping her hands.

From several trees away, Rosemary called, “Cerise, shame on you for eavesdropping!”

But Isaac and Rebekah were oblivious to any disturbance.

“We could go down soon and see your parents, see how your mother is and if there’s anything we can do to help,” he said.

“Thank you. I—don’t know how Father will take care of everything.”

Isaac Aden framed her face with his hands. “We will do whatever we need to do,” he said firmly.

“But I hope we can be back here for New Year’s,” she said. “Because we need to start the new year off camping on our very own place. Maybe—do you think when we finish saving the apples you could take me to see our land?”

He laughed and let out a spontaneous whoop as he picked her up and spun her around.

❧

In years to come, Isaac Aden would tell his children he married their mother because her name was Rebekah. And Rebekah would tell them she sure was glad her parents named her Rebekah. But after she returned to the kitchen or her garden, Isaac Aden would wink at the children and say, “I’d have married that woman if her name had been Izziatorus Opalanckus.” Every time he said it, he chose a more difficult name, and the children rolled with laughter.