Chapter Five
Dan rinsed his coffee mug and placed it in the drainboard. “Max is here,” he said, turning from the window. “I thought he said eight o’clock.”
“He did.”
“It does not rile you that he is half an hour early?”
“Why would it? Breakfast is over and the dishes are done, your lunch is packed, and I’m ready.” Willa patted her hair, which was finally long enough to twist into a thick, stubby little bun. Not that her hairstyle mattered. The minute she stepped outside, it would be hidden under a black cap. The clothes, the shoes, the hats . . . as someone who wasn’t Amish, none of it was required of her. But blending in made life easier, and so since the day she’d arrived, when Anki had produced secondhand clothes from her friends, she’d worn them, always.
Dan opened the door, and in walked Max. Why hadn’t she noticed before that he stood a good six inches taller than his partner? Dan’s chest was broader, his shoulders and biceps more muscular. And yet somehow, Max seemed like the bigger man.
“Good morning,” he said.
“Right back atcha.” What a stupid thing to say! She felt the heat of a blush creep into her cheeks and tried to hide it by fussing with her apron ties.
He shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “I am early, so if you have things to do, I can wait.”
“No, it’s fine. I’m ready.” Facing Dan, she said, “Anki is in the parlor, reading. I fixed her some tea—with lemon, just the way she likes it—and put a plate of her favorite cookies beside the mug. So she’s all set, probably for an hour or two.”
“I know. I just checked.” His smile disappeared, and in its place appeared a scowl. “I will be here for at least that long. There is a brush pile to burn, and more wood to chop for winter. We will go to her shop afterward. She has not been there in a while, and I am trying to talk her into going to check on things.”
The shop, as he’d called it, sat forty or so yards from the house. According to Anki, the building had been a large shed when Dan’s parents worked the land. Soon after their wedding, she’d said, she and Dan cleaned up the old tools, sold them, and used the money to buy paint and brushes, and install the shelves and counters where she displayed canned and baked goods. Willa pictured the shop’s whitewashed walls, where Dan had hung Anki’s paintings of buggies and horses, mountain vistas, and wildlife. Willa hadn’t painted in years, and suddenly, she missed it. Later, she’d ask Anki about borrowing a few brushes and paint, and she’d find out if she still had a knack for it. Maybe the common interest would help them both deconstruct walls of sadness.
Willa scooped Frannie up from her highchair as Max said, “We will be back soon.”
“No need to hurry.” Dan started for the hall, but stopped in the doorway. “Think maybe you should wear a muffler around your neck?”
Max returned his partner’s grin. “In fifty-degree weather? I will overheat and pass out, and Willa is not strong enough to pick me up.”
“Your decision.” He shrugged. “But if her first time driving the stick shift throws your neck out of joint, well, you were warned.”
Dan’s laughter followed him all the way into the parlor, and echoed in her ears as she walked after Max to the driveway. During her months with the Hofmans, Willa had witnessed more than enough to understand why Dan, at first, had seemed rigid and heartless. Seeing his smile, hearing his laughter, made her feel good.
“Well, there she is,” Max said, gesturing toward the truck.
“She?”
He only shrugged.
Willa balanced Frannie on her left hip as her right fingertips traced the truck’s left-side contours, from the strangely shaped taillights to the wood cargo box, and one of two vertical chrome smokestacks that rose behind the cab. “The only thing I’ve seen anything like this was on the highway, on eighteen-wheelers.”
Another shrug.
When she reached the gold lettering on the driver’s door, she faced him. “You named her?”
“No . . .”
“But this says ‘Li’l Red Express.’”
“The manufacturer did that.” He snickered. “Remember the old line, ‘It was the best of times, it was the worst of times . . .’? Well, near as I can tell, the designer decided to foil some newfangled government restrictions that were written that year by building something of a hot rod, disguised as a pickup truck. She can go zero to sixty-five in under a minute.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
And then, looking like the proverbial boy caught with his hand in the cookie jar, Max shook his head.
“Relax, and quit lookin’ all worried. Every time I’m behind the wheel, I’ll have Frannie with me. No way I’m gonna put this baby to the test with my precious baby on board.” She gave the smokestack a pat-pat-pat. “What a shame though, huh?”
He opened the door, and without warning, Frannie scrambled inside. Seated behind the steering wheel, she squealed happily.
“Have you made any changes to Li’l Red?”
“Nope.”
“Well then, all I can say is, somebody loved the color red.”
He seemed hesitant. Had seeing Frannie bounce up and down, banging on the wheel, changed his mind?
And then it hit her: It wouldn’t matter if he had!
“What’s wrong? A spider? She doesn’t get much attention out there in the shed.” Max gently moved her to the right and stuck his head in beside Frannie. “I’ll get it.”
“Chivalry is alive and well in Pleasant Valley,” she teased. “There isn’t a spider, but if there was . . .” She flexed her bicep. “. . . I would have no problem mashing it.”
“You know, I believe you.” He straightened, leaned a forearm on top of the open door. “If not a spider, then what?”
“It’s just, well, Frannie wouldn’t be safe. How would I install a car seat—if I had a car seat—in there?”
His face took on that older-than-his-years look again, and rubbing his chin, Max said, “Let me give it some thought. Folks tell me I have a gift for jerry-rigging things. I’ll figure out some way to make it safe for her.”
“Newfangled? Hot rod? And now jerry-rigging?” She gave his shoulder a playful poke. “My grandfather used to say stuff like that. How old are you, Max?”
“Not quite thirty. Now, here is my idea: We will take a short ride to the dirt road that runs alongside Trout Run. I will drive until we get there.”
“But . . . Frannie . . .”
“I will drive like your grandfather.” He winked. “And you will hold her. When we get there, we will change places.”
“Do you believe the folks who say you have jerry-rigging talents?” she asked, carrying the baby to the passenger side.
“Definitely.”
Self-assured, hard-working, and serious as a judge. And you should know about judges, since you’ve seen your share of them.
Willa climbed in, thinking he was the oldest thirty-year-old she’d ever met. A symptom of being on his own for so many years? She sent a silent prayer of thanks heavenward. Life was tough enough without taking it so seriously.
The baby clapped. “Bye-bye?”
“Yes, sweet girl, we’re going bye-bye.” Now, Willa thanked God for Frannie, because without her, she might be as grumpy as Dan or as old-in-the-head as Max.
“All buckled up?” And when she nodded, he put the key into the ignition. Willa watched carefully as he grasped the choke nob and eased it out a bit. With his left foot on the clutch and the right on the brake, he drew the gear lever toward himself, then moved it up.
“First gear?”
“First gear,” he echoed, and released the brake.
Once the speedometer registered fifteen miles per hour, he depressed the clutch again, and this time, moved the gear arm down a notch.
“Second gear,” they said together.
“Okay if I ask a question?”
“We will be there soon.”
“Oh. Good. But that isn’t what I was going to ask.”
Max grinned at Frannie, who babbled happily as she fiddled with the radio’s station-selector buttons.
“I thought the Amish weren’t allowed to have electricity and plumbing and . . .” She pulled Frannie closer, out of reach of the radio. “. . . and gas-powered vehicles. But you guys here in Pleasant Valley, well, you have all that stuff.”
“You have been with the Hofmans since early spring and have not asked them?”
“I’ll admit, it crossed my mind. Every time I opened the fridge, used the washing machine or vacuum cleaner. Guess I just never felt comfortable enough to bring it up.”
“Because Dan can be . . . crabby?”
“Maybe.”
He veered around a big rock in the road, and to his credit, she barely noticed.
“In my grandparents’ day,” he began, “everyone followed Old Order rules. These days, a few members of the community still abide by them, but most have shifted to New Order.”
“Speaking of shifting, are you in third gear now?”
“Fourth, actually.” He looked her way long enough to wink.
“Maybe I’ll call you Mr. Smooth from now on,” she teased. “What you said just now, about Old Order versus New ... Was it difficult for those who exchanged long-standing traditions for more modern ways? It makes perfect sense. Changing, I mean. Because really, how could any of you compete with the service companies and businesses in town, doing things the older, slower way?”
“We could not. And yes, I can name one or two who believe their way is God’s way, and that He disapproves of us.”
“Now that doesn’t make sense. Isn’t pride one of the biggest no-no’s for the Amish?”
Max chuckled. “Yes-yes.”
So he did have a sense of humor. Willa liked that. Liked it enough to try to encourage more of it.
Max downshifted, then stopped and engaged the emergency brake.
“Did your mother teach you about using this each time you park?”
“Yes . . .”
“And that you should not let up on the clutch until it is fully engaged?”
“I don’t remember why, but she mentioned that. Yes.”
“Yes-s-s!” Frannie hollered.
He leaned close enough to rub noses with the child. “Ready?” he asked.
“Weddy!” she answered.
They traded places, and as she slid behind the wheel, Willa wondered if she was ready. Whether or not she accepted his generous offer depended more on his promise to make the truck safe for Frannie than her ability to drive it.
Gently, patiently, Max recited the step-by-step shifting process, and much to her amazement, she managed with very little lurching and gear-grinding. Every few minutes, he issued a challenge: Slow down. Speed up. Stop. Back up. Even more surprising, she met each with even less jerking and grating of gears.
So why, then, did he look so nervous?
* * *
Willa looked at him and, smiling, whispered, “Sleeping?”
Frannie exhaled a sweet baby sigh and snuggled deeper into his collar, and his heart thumped with fondness. “Mmm-hmm,” he whispered back.
A few minutes ago, he’d noticed that the baby was struggling to keep her eyes open. So he’d turned her around and guided her head onto his shoulder. Within seconds, her soft, steady breaths were puffing against his cheek, and the feelings of fondness intensified. He liked knowing that she trusted him enough—already!—to fall asleep in his arms. If this was what fatherhood felt like ...
Max stared through the windshield and tried to ignore the thought.
“We are coming up on Pleasant Valley Road,” he said quietly. “When we get there, make a right.”
“Where are we going next?”
“My place. And on the way, you’ll see what it feels like when the speedometer needle crosses forty.” Frannie stirred slightly. “Because this little one ought to be home, where she can stretch out in her own bed.”
“Will you give me a tour?”
“Not much to see, really.”
“Anki told me you built your house, all by yourself.”
“Rebuilt is more like it, but true . . .”
“Then I’d love to see it, upstairs and down. The basement, even. The yard. The shed where Li’l Red lives. Everything.”
He’d seen the difference her touch had made at the Hofmans’. Little things like hand-crocheted doilies protecting windowsills from the houseplants’ overflow, the embroidered tablecloth that covered the wood kitchen table, a well-worn quilt, draped just so from the arm of Dan’s favorite chair. She’d even found ways to pretty up the bathroom—quite a feat when the Amish goal was plainness—by folding bath and hand towels in half, then in threes, before stacking them on the open shelves. Max didn’t know if he wanted a woman who paid that much attention to detail traipsing around inside his house. Had he washed the breakfast dishes and made up his bed? Swept up the kibble that always ended up on the floor beside Rascal’s bowl?
“When do we turn?”
“In another mile or so. Just past the church, the road will jog right, then left. I’ll let you know when to turn onto Carson Lane.”
“That’s where your house is?”
“Mmm-hmm,” he said, absentmindedly stroking Frannie’s hair.
“I just want to say ... you’re a very nice man, Max Lambright.”
No doubt because he’d offered her his truck. He couldn’t very well take credit for that. Not until he’d found a way to make it safe for Frannie.
“I appreciate your offer to loan me the truck,” she said, “but that isn’t the only reason I think you’re wonderful.”
Then maybe because Frannie’s diaper had leaked, and he hadn’t complained about the dampness that seeped through the thigh of his jeans?
“I heard what you said to Anki last evening.”
How was that possible, when she’d been in the kitchen, and he’d been upstairs in the Hofmans’ room?
“Then you must have ears like a hoot owl, to hear through carpet-covered floorboards.”
“My ears work just fine, but not as fine as a bird of prey. No,” she said, making the final turn off Pleasant Valley. The truck’s gears protested as she slowed, but not much. “Sorry,” she said, wincing. And then she continued, as though nothing had interrupted her. “There’s a heat grate in the kitchen ceiling. On the other side of it . . .”
“The Hofmans’ room,” he finished for her. Max searched his mind, wondering what, exactly, he’d told Anki before going downstairs for supper. Something told him Willa would remind him.
“She seems fragile, but in my opinion, Anki is anything but. A person can’t dig in their heels and stubbornly refuse to listen to anyone if they’re delicate.”
He’d thought the same thing on more than one occasion, with good reason.
“If that sounded harsh, or like criticism, I’m sorry. I wouldn’t hurt her for all the world.” She glanced at him again. “It’s your fault, you know.”
“My fault!” Max chuckled.
“If you weren’t so easy to talk to, I would have kept my thoughts to myself.” She pointed. “Carson Lane! I turn right, right?”
“Right.”
When his house came into view, the familiar sense of accomplishment washed over him. Max unbuckled the seat belt, wondering how to ask forgiveness for his sin of pride while gathering Frannie up without waking her.
Willa braked the truck and followed every parking instruction to the letter.
“Oh Max,” she breathed, her voice thick with admiration, “it’s . . . it’s beautiful. Anki said it was, and she didn’t exaggerate.” Turning slightly to face him, she said, “I thought all Amish houses had to be white.”
“I bought fifty gallons on sale and couldn’t return it. The labels said ‘white.’” He looked at the house. “The labels were wrong. And so is waste.”
“Well, I’ve never seen a lovelier shade of yellow. Pale. Subtle. Like . . .”
“. . . butter,” they said together.
And then they laughed.
Together.
Again.
“Hey, this saying the same thing at the same time is getting to be a habit,” she said, opening the driver’s door.
He watched as she ran around to his side of the truck and opened the passenger door.
“Let me take her,” she said, sliding her arms around Frannie, who grinned sleepily.
She was so close that he could smell the faint scent of bath soap. So close that he could feel the heat of her breath on his cheek. So close that if he turned his head, just a little, he could kiss her. If he wanted to. And oh, how he wanted to!
“Frannie! Oh my goodness,” she said. “Oh my goodness. Max. I’m . . . I’m so, so sorry!”
Instinct made him lay a hand on his thigh, a futile attempt at hiding the damp spot. And when he remembered why it was damp, he withdrew it.
The baby’s eyes, those big brown eyes, had dimmed. She looked sad. Hurt. Confused, because she had no idea why her mother seemed upset.
“She is only a baby.” He reached up, stroked a fingertip across her pink, chubby cheek. “I will wash the jeans and forget all about it.” He touched Willa’s cheek now. “And you will, too.”
She tilted her head, trapping his fingers between her cheek and shoulder. “But Max, you’ve been so good to us. You saved Frannie’s life!” Willa looked around the truck’s interior, at the keys still dangling from the ignition. “I don’t . . . I can’t . . . I’m not sure how . . .”
He couldn’t stand to see her upset. Couldn’t stand to see her beautiful eyes shimmering with unshed tears. Tears caused by feelings of gratitude . . . and wretched indebtedness.
“You have to listen to me, Willa.”
She blinked, sniffed, nodded.
“You are listening?”
Nodding, she sent him the barest of smiles.
“You owe me nothing, except . . .” He put one foot on the ground, and when she backed up, put the other one down, too. They stood face-to-face, with Frannie looking from him to Willa and back again.
“Except friendship.”
She’d developed a certain fondness for Pleasant Valley’s residents, but so far, nothing beyond polite courtesies had developed. A rational, reasonable person would consider Max’s simple words proof that God had answered her prayers for something more, something deeper. Why, then, instead of feeling grateful and satisfied, did she feel disappointed?
The baby reached out, grabbed his hair. “Max . . .”
He kissed the back of her plump little hand, and looking into Willa’s eyes, said, “Would you like to see it now?”
“Oops,” she said, gathering her composure, “you caught me daydreaming.” She blinked. Forced a smile. “See what?”
“Everything,” he said, reminding her of what she’d said, moments ago. “Everything.”
* * *
Willa made quick work of changing the baby’s diaper. She’d just finished slipping a dress over Frannie’s shoulders when a medium-sized dog ran toward them, full throttle, and stopped just short of Max’s boots. Its thick, multicolor fur gleamed in the sunshine. Lured by its doggy smile, Frannie struggled to get down.
“Here,” Max said, taking her from Willa, “let me introduce them. And don’t worry. He is as gentle as a newborn.”
Her little girl went to him without a moment’s hesitation.
Max got onto his knees. “Frannie, this is Rascal,” he said, guiding her palm along the dog’s forehead. “He is soft. Soft Rascal.”
Frannie tried to make the S sound, and Max nodded. “Yes, soft. Rascal is soft.”
Willa loved the way he’d emphasized the S and the F. If he kept this up, she’d be speaking like him in no time!
“Well,” he said, standing, “if we are going to see everything, we had better get started!”
Frannie looked over Max’s shoulder and waved at Willa. He whispered something that made her smile. “Mama come?”
“Yes, sweet girl, Mama is coming.”
She followed them onto the covered porch, where two bentwood rockers faced Hoye Crest, the highest point in Maryland. A month from now, snow would blanket it, and the rest of Backbone Mountain, but even now, the view was magnificent. No wonder he’d chosen this west-facing site.
As he opened the wide Craftsman-style door, beveled windows caused rainbows of sunlight to puddle on the entry floor.
She knocked on the door’s center panel. “Did you make it?”
“I did.”
“And the chairs on the porch?”
“Yes.”
Nodding, Willa trailed behind him into the parlor where, straight ahead, caramel-colored leather love seats faced one another. A low table that matched the entry door stood between them. Centered on the left wall stood a huge woodstove. Directly across from it was a bookshelf, and to the right and left, tall, narrow wood-framed windows. He’d covered the floors with the same material.
“Black oak?” she asked.
“Wild cherry.”
“It’s beautiful.”
His smile said what words needn’t: I know. But, being Amish, Max couldn’t admit pride in his home or his expert craftsmanship.
“Hungry?” he asked, leading the way to the kitchen.
“No, thanks. I have to make supper for Dan and Anki. And Frannie, of course.” She stood at the sink and looked into the yard. Turning, she asked, “Why don’t you join us?”
“I would not want to wear out my welcome.”
Impossible, she thought. But then, it was the Hofmans’ house, and Max knew them far better than she did.
She made her way around the room, admiring white cabinets that formed an L. Here, as in the parlor, light poured through tall, narrow windows. Unlike those in the parlor, though, he’d trimmed these in white. He waved her closer, so she could stand beside him and through the windowed door, at the deep covered porch and the vast lawn beyond it.
“Next time you visit, I will show you the workshop,” he said, nodding toward a tidy, low-slung building. He must love nature’s light, she thought, counting three windows on either side of its door.
“That’s where Li’l Red lives?” she asked, pointing at a nearly identical building to its right.
“It is.”
She could see that he’d built the double barn doors more than wide enough to accommodate the truck, with room to spare against the side walls.
Facing the cabinets again, she said, “Everything is so neat and clean. Does someone come in, help with the housework?”
“Someone like you, you mean?” Frannie had stuck a finger into his ear, and laughing, he removed it.
Someone like you, she repeated silently. “I wasn’t always a live-in maid, you know. I earned a teaching degree from Philadelphia’s Drexel University.”
“Impressive.”
She heard no rancor in his voice, and yet, the word annoyed her. Maybe because you wasted your precious degree, running off with Joe and . . .
Willa didn’t want to think about the rest.
As though Frannie sensed her need for a reminder of the good things that had come after Joe, she reached out. “Mama?”
Willa gathered her close, blew kisses onto her neck.
“Is what Anki said true? You did all this—all of this—by yourself?”
He held out a hand, showed her his calluses. “Took the better part of a year, but I did not mind. Hard work and long days kept my mind off my problems.”
Anki had provided just enough information about his background to stimulate Willa’s sympathy. And curiosity. She sat at the table, held Frannie on her lap. “What problems?”
He opened the fridge, slid a plate of ham and a wedge of cheese from the top shelf. “Sandwich?”
His way of saying “I’d rather not talk about it”?
“No, thanks. It’s almost suppertime. If I don’t clean my plate, Dan will launch into a ‘why waste is a sin’ lecture.”
He placed the ingredients side by side, like components to be assembled on a factory assembly line: Bread. Cheese. Butter. Knife. Meat. “That does not happen ... when you live alone.” Max shrugged. “Do you want milk, then?”
“Sure.” Until this point, he’d seemed so confident. Independent. Happy to live alone. “Just one glass, though. Frannie and I can share.”
He opened a cabinet door, grabbed two stoneware mugs, and filled them to the brim.
“People say I’m a good listener, y’know.”
Max handed her a mug, then went back to building his sandwich. By not responding to her offer, he’d underscored her earlier assumption that he preferred not to talk about his past. What kind of friend would she be if she didn’t respect that?
After completing the sandwich, he cleaned everything up, then carried his plate to the table. Straddling the chair across from hers, he shook his head.
“I believe you are a good listener, but . . .”
“But talking about the past is painful.” Frannie rested her head on Willa’s chest. “It isn’t easy, reliving hard times. But it isn’t healthy, keeping it all inside, either.”
“I have not heard you speak of your experience.”
Was he challenging her to talk about her background, or hinting that, as his friend, she should allow him to deal with the past in his own way? He was hurting. Deeply. Willa could see it glinting in his eyes. It was evident in the brittle edge to his usually smooth voice, too. A moment ago, Max had plainly said that he expected nothing from her but friendship. A good friend, she decided, would set aside curiosity in order to respect his need for privacy.
Forearms resting on the chairback, Max studied her face for a moment. She was tempted to crack the age-old “Is there spinach in my teeth?” joke when he said, “How did your father die?”
Although his question came as a surprise, Willa admitted, “I’m not sure that he is dead. He left before I was born.”
His brows drew together, then dipped low in the center of his forehead. “I . . . Willa . . . I am sorry.”
She’d heard the words before, but couldn’t remember when they’d sounded as heartfelt.
“Must have been difficult for your mother.”
Willa smiled, remembering how serene her childhood had been, thanks to her mother’s sacrifices. “Yes, and I wish I’d figured that out sooner. A lot sooner, so I could have shown her how much I appreciated everything she did for me.”
He blinked. Shook his head. And although he hadn’t asked her to continue, she heard herself say, “Mom kept so much to herself, to protect me. My father’s desertion, money troubles, her declining health—”
“Willa . . .” he interrupted, fingertips resting on her wrist, “shhh.”
His touch was comforting, and might have moved her to tears, if Rascal hadn’t chosen that moment to put a paw on her thigh. Seeing it, Frannie loosed a happy squeal, and bent over to press her forehead to his. Willa and Max laughed at the baby’s affable actions. Then, squirming, she slid off Willa’s lap. Breaking contact with Max, Willa got up and latched the screen door. In seconds, the pair stood side by side, Frannie babbling and pointing at something outside, Rascal looking on as if he’d understood every word.
Willa returned to her chair, and Max said, “Have some milk.” He shoved the sandwich closer. “A bite to eat.”
Rascal barked, drawing their attention to a bird that had landed on the porch railing. Frannie drew him into a sideways hug and, finger over her lips, whispered, “No-no-no!”
“I didn’t understand, not fully, anyway, why Mom so willingly made sacrifices and kept things from me. And then Frannie came along.” She met Max’s eyes. “I know it probably sounds melodramatic, cliché, even, but I’d die for that little girl.”
“What it sounds like,” he said, “is the truth.”
She’d fed morsels of her history to the social worker ... but only because Alice threatened to withhold help if she didn’t. When Anki’s curiosity got the better of her, Willa added cursory tidbits. Joe asked about her past—once—but Willa had known he’d find ways to use it against her. She’d kept most of it to herself, believing people couldn’t judge what they didn’t know. What was it about this man that made her feel she’d be safe, baring her soul?
“Mom collapsed at work,” she continued. “By then, she’d given up all but her easiest job, as a secretary for a law firm. Her boss called an ambulance, then picked me up at school.” She described the scene as it flashed in her memory: her normally energetic mother lying still and quiet and nearly as pale as the sheets beneath her; a virtual parade of nurses and doctors and lab techs; hours of waiting as they put her mom through a succession of tests and scans.
“They diagnosed stage four pancreatic cancer. Sure as I’m sitting here, I know Mom would have tried to protect me from that, too, if the ER doctor hadn’t asked me who would help me care for her until . . .” She shook her head, unable to say until the end.
“Were there any? People to help, I mean.”
“Her boss and coworkers loved her. Everyone loved her. So they took turns, delivering meals, doing light housework, making sure she took her meds while I was in school.”
“Good. They helped a lot, then.”
“Yes. For a while, they came by once or twice a week.” Until they didn’t anymore . . .
“And when the good deeds proved more demanding than expected, you did it all, alone.”
“Yes.”
“What about your schooling?”
“It could wait. Mom couldn’t.”
“All that, while you were little more than a child.”
Her childhood had ended when her mother got sick. Admitting it made her feel self-centered and shallow. Instead, she said, “Then her doctor suggested hospice.”
Max folded his hands on the table, and after staring at them for a moment, said, “You are a remarkable, admirable woman, Willa Reynolds.”
The list of her mistakes sped through her mind. “No, I’m not.”
He opened his mouth, no doubt to disagree, but she stopped him with, “I could tell that she was holding on, to spare me. I had to make her realize that it was okay to let go of the pain and suffering, that I’d be fine without her.”
“And were you?”
In place of an answer, Willa told Max how her mother’s boss sat her down, explained the details of the will he’d written for her. “‘Frugal living and wise investments of her own parents’ inheritance,’ he said, “allowed her to prepay the rent and my tuition. So I know what you mean, about working hard to keep your mind off ... things. Mom went to a lot of trouble to make sure the plans we’d made for my future wouldn’t change, just because . . .”
“Because she was not with you anymore.”
Nodding, Willa said, “A few minutes before she died, she made me promise that I’d graduate high school, then college.”
“And you did.”
Willa nodded.
“Let me guess. At the top of your class.”
That made her laugh a little. “No, but I held my own.”
“And afterward?”
“Afterward,” she said on a sigh, “I got a little lost. Made a lot of wrong turns that led to dangerous side roads and dead ends, and took me far, far from God. If my mother had known about any of that, it would have broken her heart.”
For the longest time, Max didn’t speak. Should have kept your big mouth shut, Willa told herself. He’d only listened this long because of his big, caring heart. Did he feel sorry for her? Or was he silently devising ways to avoid her now that she’d admitted her sins?
“Death is cruel.”
Willa took a deep breath, released it slowly. If anyone knew about that, it was Max.
“Would you like to see the rest of the house now?”
“I’d love to, but I really should get her home, start supper, and finish my other chores while it’s cooking.”
“Next time, then.”
Next time. His simple, matter-of-fact statement gave her hope that he wasn’t just being polite, that he really wanted her to visit again.
The dog’s cold nose touched her calf, and Frannie did her best to mimic him. Children and pets, the perfect distraction. . . and mood lifter.
Stooping slightly, she looked into the pup’s face. “I just love that you have one blue eye and one brown!” Straightening, she faced Max. “What did his parents look like?”
“The mother is a border collie. Not a purebred, but she has all the traits: long black-and-white fur, stand-up ears, blue eyes. The father dog was a mysterious stranger, but my guess is Rascal got those brown splotches and the brown eye from him.”
“How did you come up with his name? He’s so well-behaved!”
“Not at first! As a pup, he got into so much mischief—chewing boots and work gloves and my tools’ wooden handles, shredding newspapers, stealing food right off my plate—that one day, in the middle of a well-deserved scolding, I said, ‘You are such a rascal!’ It fit, so . . .”
At the mention of his name, Rascal treated them to a doggy smile, and his bushy tail wagged hard enough to stir up a breeze.
“Funny thing, as soon as I named him, his behavior changed. The only time I need to discipline him now is when he barks at the neighbors’ livestock.”
“And birds,” she teased. “I have to say ... I know people whose faces aren’t as expressive. Makes me wonder what he’s thinking!”
“He is thinking that the sooner I bring you home, the sooner I can get to work, making the truck safe for our girl here.”
“Can Rascal ride with us?”
“No, because until I make the improvements, he will not fit.”
“Oh. True.” But wait ... had she heard correctly? Had he just said our girl? Willa tensed, and warned herself not to read too much into it. “I’m sorry we’re so much trouble.”
“Trouble?” He shook his head. “I have no family to spend my time with, so I enjoy it.”
It seemed unfair, a real shame, that someone as good and decent as Max had no one to share his life with.
She carried his plate and their glasses to the sink. “We’ll make it up to you. I promise.”
He said, “Oh?” But she heard “How?” And as she searched her mind for the answer, Willa remembered that he still wore the jeans that Frannie’s leaky diaper had dampened. “Would you like to change before we go?”
“No, it is fine.”
Anki had told her that Max had spent his childhood helping his grandparents work their farm, so she supposed he’d contended with worse stains. Still, she felt obliged to let him take her home so that he could get out of the jeans sooner rather than later.
“I’ll run a few repayment ideas past you during our ride home.”
“For one thing, you should know that I do not like to repeat myself. It is a waste of time, one of the few things God granted us that, once gone, can never be replaced.”
She didn’t understand and said so.
“You owe me nothing. I am my own boss and do as I please. Got it?”
“Got it.”
He stepped onto the porch. “And for another thing, I will not ride. You need more practice. Lots more.” He held out his arms and added, “Come to Max, Frannie.”
Yet again, he’d said one thing, and she’d heard another: Come to Max became Come to Papa.
Wishful thinking? she wondered, climbing into the truck.