A Love Made New (8 page)

As soon as she stepped out the back door, Abigail froze as the windy cold whipped around her. Joel was engaged. Or at least he would be, officially, when it was announced in church tomorrow. She didn't understand her reaction to the news. She was over Joel. When she thought of him now, it wasn't with love, but with regret. Yet here she was, unable to sort out how she felt. Asa probably thought she was
ab im kopp
.

The door behind her opened. She flinched and closed her eyes. Asa. He always seemed to be around at her most embarrassing moments. She nearly died inside when he caught her stuffing her face with candy. Then she grew angry at the thought of him judging her. Never mind that he never did actually judge her. But she knew what he had to be thinking.
As fat as she is, she shouldn't be eating that candy.
She even imagined the words in his deep voice. So she did the only thing she could think of to keep her humiliation at bay—she continued to eat. He wouldn't see her hidden shame, at least not reflected on her face.

“Abigail.” He came up behind her and she felt his coat across her shoulders. Typical Asa. He was kind enough to warn her about Joel and Rebecca. Why wouldn't he be just as kind dealing with her reaction to the news?

“Come inside,” he said, his hands on her shoulders, as if he was making sure she wouldn't whip off his coat and throw it back
at him again. His coat didn't fit her any better than it had weeks ago. Yet she seemed to be enveloped with warmth.

She turned toward him and looked up into his eyes. Snowflakes speckled his blue-black hair. He was wearing a short-sleeved shirt. She knew he had to be freezing. Yet neither of them moved as their gazes locked. Then he brushed his thumb over the corner of her mouth.

“Chocolate,” he whispered, drawing his thumb away.

That one word was the equivalent of an ice bucket sloshing over her. She had chocolate on her mouth from her candy binge. She stepped away from him and went back inside. A moment later she heard the door shut behind her.

She leaned against the counter, trying to slow her heartbeat, her lips still tingling from where he had touched her. Then her stomach rebelled and she put her hand over it. She shouldn't have eaten that much chocolate at once. She shouldn't have gone outside in the cold. She shouldn't be so affected by Joel's engagement news.

She shouldn't want Asa Bontrager to touch her again.

She heard him come up behind her and she took in a deep breath. It was time for her to be practical. To not let her emotions and impulses take over like they normally did. To not read anything into Asa's kindness. Fortifying herself, she removed his coat, turned, and smiled. “
Danki
,” she said, handing it to him. “That was
dumm
of me, to forget
mei
coat.” Her voice sounded like a cross between a bullfrog and one of Homer's squeaky dog toys, so she cleared her throat. “I appreciate you letting me know about Joel.”

He took the coat and peered down at her with a concerned gaze that reached clear to her cold toes. “Are you sure you're all right?”

“Of course!” She laughed to show him she was fine. It came out like a strained garble, but it was the best she could do. Then she managed part of a real smile. “Honestly, Asa, I'll be okay. I've been through worse.” She hadn't meant to say that last part.

“I know.” His voice and gaze were steady. “That's why I'm worried about you.”

“Don't be.” She moved past him and pushed the kitchen chairs back under the table. Then she smiled at him again. “Everything is okay.”

“Are you sure?”

“Positive.” Her smile widened, and it even reached a little bit of her heart. “I appreciate
yer
thoughtfulness,” she said.

Something flickered in his eyes before he took his hat. He put it on his head. “If you need to talk, let me know.”

“I will.”

“I mean it.” The intensity in his eyes nearly undid her. “I'm here for you, Abigail.” He put on his coat, gave her one last look, and left.

Somehow, deep in her heart, she knew he meant it.

N
aomi finished polishing the coffee table in Rhoda Troyer's living room. Tomorrow would be the first time Rhoda had hosted church since her husband, Emmanuel, left. Rhoda could have refused to host and no one would have questioned her about it. Naomi was surprised she had agreed; this had to be hard for her. That was why she was here helping her friend get ready for tomorrow's service and fellowship.

Sol was out positioning the benches for morning worship in the barn with a couple of other men. Naomi also wondered what he thought about hosting the service, but she wouldn't ask. She knew what it was like to want to keep feelings close to the heart.

“What's next?” she asked Rhoda as she stood, feeling a bit of a pinch in her back from bending over. Getting older wasn't for the faint of heart. Although she was only in her early forties, her body felt older than that. Raising two children, being separated from her husband, not knowing where he was and only gaining contact with him through letters . . . it had all taken its toll on her over
the last twelve years. She still missed Bartholomew, just as much as she had since the day he left. His smile. His sense of adventure. His gentle touch. She glanced at Rhoda, who was dusting off a lampshade, and felt compassion. Emmanuel had only been gone a few months, but Naomi remembered that those first months of being without Bartholomew had been the hardest.

“I think we're almost finished.” Rhoda smiled, but her eyes remained sad. Naomi once again thought having church service so soon was a bad idea. Emmanuel had been their bishop for over twenty years, since before Naomi moved to Birch Creek. Since he'd left, Rhoda had attended every church service and was attentive to Bishop Yoder's sermons. But hosting church? Naomi thought that could wait until next year.

“I appreciate
yer
help,” Rhoda added. “It's nice to have company.”

So maybe that was it. They had a common bond, even though it was for different reasons. Naomi and Rhoda had grown closer since Emmanuel left. Naomi had been the first woman to visit Rhoda and try to encourage her shortly after Emmanuel's departure. But Naomi had also been wrapped up in her own family drama, with Andrew and Joanna having relationship problems. Shortly after, Andrew had confronted her with the lie she and Bartholomew had concocted about his departure. Although their intentions had been to keep their children safe, they had deceived them. Bartholomew wasn't the man they thought he was. He hadn't left the family because he wanted to. His illegal actions from his youth had caught up to him. They were all paying the consequences, and she didn't know how much longer they would be paying them.

She went to Rhoda, leaving her own troubles behind so she
could comfort her friend. “Since we're finished cleaning, how about we have a cup of
kaffee
before I
geh
home?”

Rhoda smiled again, and this time a little of the emotion reached her eyes. “I'd like that.”

Naomi followed her into the spotless kitchen. Rhoda prepared the coffee while Naomi sat down. From her chair at the table she could see snow falling outside the kitchen window. She'd have to leave soon before it got too thick. But there was still time to visit with Rhoda.

Rhoda set a mug of coffee in front of Naomi, then sat down. She didn't say anything, just stared at the steam rising from her own mug.

“Do you need any help preparing the food?” Naomi asked, then blew the steam from the hot beverage.

“
Nee.
I went to the grocery store yesterday and stocked up. Besides, you know everyone brings food, whether or not they decide to stay for a visit.”

This was true. The citizens of Birch Creek were generous. The community had pulled together even more after Emmanuel left. “I thought I might make some deviled eggs for tomorrow.” Those had been one of Bartholomew's favorite snacks.

Rhoda's eyes widened and she shook her head. “Emmanuel wouldn't like that.”

Naomi frowned, the mug still near her mouth.

“He never approved of the name of those eggs.”

“Deviled?” Naomi's brow lifted. It was a cooking term, and she honestly never thought about the word
devil
being a part of the word.

“
Ya
.”

“So you never made them?”

“I never will make them,” she said in all seriousness. “I would appreciate it if you would bring something else. When Emmanuel comes back and finds out we served deviled eggs in his home, he will be upset.”

“When is he coming back?”

Rhoda glanced at her mug. “In God's time.”

Naomi set down her mug. How many times had she told herself the same thing about Bartholomew? That he would return at God's behest, and not a moment sooner? Still, it was a bitter pill to swallow, not knowing when he would return, waking up every morning wondering if this was the day she would see her husband again, only to go to bed that night alone once again. “I'm sorry,” she said, her heart going out to her friend who was no doubt suffering the same way.

“
Nee
need to be sorry.” Rhoda took a drink from her coffee as if they were talking about the weather instead of her absent husband. Determination replaced the sadness in her eyes. “
Mei
Emmanuel will return.”

Naomi wasn't sure what to say. She looked at Rhoda with concern. Her brown hair had gotten grayer the past few months, and more lines creased her forehead. There was always a strain tugging at her mouth and melancholy in her eyes. For Rhoda's sake she hoped Emmanuel would return soon. But other than his family, he had little reason to come back to Birch Creek. He was in the bann for several reasons—hiding funds from the community, leaving his wife, abandoning his bishop duties. If—when—he returned, he would have to confess. He would be forgiven, of course. But in the back of her mind she wondered if Emmanuel Troyer would ever face what he had done. They had been fortunate the community hadn't split when he left.

“Have you heard from him?” Naomi asked. Normally she
wouldn't pry like this, but Rhoda's confident stance made her wonder if Emmanuel had been in contact with her.

Rhoda lifted her chin, but Naomi saw her bottom lip tremble slightly. “
Nee.
I have not.”

Naomi pressed her lips together and picked up her mug. While she didn't have Bartholomew's physical presence, he was still very much a part of her life. She didn't know what she'd do if they hadn't remained in contact through letters over the years, even though he wasn't supposed to make contact with her or his family. He had agreed to forge a new life, to leave his old one behind. But he hadn't. Not really. Like her, he had faith that one day he would see his family again. And it hadn't been long after he left and she and the children moved to Birch Creek that she received his first letter, with instructions on how they could communicate in the future. She at least had something tangible to hang her hope on. But Rhoda . . . she'd received only silence from her husband. Yet she still held on to hope.

The kitchen door opened and Sol came in. There was a mudroom off the Troyers' kitchen, so he had already taken off his coat, hat, and boots. “Hi, Naomi,” he said, then blew on his hands, which were red from the cold.

“Hello, Solomon.”

“Snow's getting heavy.” Sol went to a cabinet and removed a mug, then hesitated before pouring coffee. “You might want to head for home soon. I can bring
yer
buggy around for you if you want.”

“
Danki
.” She had parked her horse and buggy near the Troyers' barn. “I appreciate it.” She turned to his mother. “But Rhoda, are you sure you don't need help with anything else?”

She nodded. “
Ya. Danki
for coming over.”

Sol set his empty mug on the countertop and left the kitchen. “I'll be right back.”

A couple of minutes later, Naomi went to the mudroom and slipped on her boots, then her navy blue coat and scarf and black bonnet. She tied the bonnet around her neck and pinned her cape over her coat.

“Here.” Rhoda came into the mudroom. She handed Naomi a thermos. “Hot coffee. For the drive home.”

Naomi smiled, touched by the thoughtful gesture. “I'll see you tomorrow, then.”

Through the small window of the mudroom Naomi saw Sol bring around her horse and buggy. Outside, she thanked him again, climbed into the buggy, and left, praying for Rhoda, Sol—and, of course, Bartholomew—as she made her way home.

Bartholomew Beiler opened the door to his apartment, shut and locked it behind him, and tossed his keys on a small table. He pulled off his work boots and left them by the door, then went to the recliner and plopped down. Fatigue washed through him. He had put in another twelve-hour workday on the assembly line at Taylor and Sons, which he'd been doing since he started at the glass factory almost five years ago. He was tired, but he didn't mind the work. The longer he stayed there, the less time he had to spend alone. He was willing to work Saturdays, so they were happy to give him plenty of overtime. He was happy to get it.

He leaned back against the chair and ran his hand over his face. Twelve years of this, being separated from his family, living alone, living in this world but not remotely a part of it. His only friendships were superficial, the ones he had at work, and he had to keep it that way. Sure, the guys invited him out for drinks sometimes after a hard shift. A few of them had felt sorry
for him over the years and tried to get him to come to their houses for Thanksgiving or Christmas. But Bartholomew—or Jack Collins, as everyone else knew him—always had an excuse.

It was his fault he lived like this, friendless and separated from his family. He'd made the decision to rebel against his strict Amish parents in the worst possible way—by dealing drugs. Then he'd met Naomi.

He sighed at the thought of his wife. His beautiful, strong, courageous wife. She had changed him, made him want to be a better man. And for a time, he was. But because of his mistakes she had to finish raising Irene and Andrew alone. She was both their mother and their father. She was also his rock, the first person he thought of every morning when he woke up and the last he thought of every night before he went to sleep.

He bolted from the chair, frustrated. Naomi had changed his life, but the past had caught up to him. He was arrested, then turned state's evidence. His information had led to the arrest of several people high up in a complex drug ring in Florida. But not everyone had been caught, and for their own protection his wife and children had to move to Birch Creek, a small Amish community that was barely a blip on the map. He was sent even farther away with a new identity to start a new life. But he couldn't . . . not when all he wanted was his wife and children by his side.

He went to the kitchen and flung open the fridge door. The refrigerator was nearly empty except for a six-pack of pop and a bottle of mustard. He had a couple pizzas in the freezer. Another gourmet dinner tonight. He grabbed one of the cans, shut the door, and was about to pop the top when he heard a knock on the door.

Ice chilled his veins. Although he knew he was under protection by the U.S. Marshals Service, Bartholomew remained
constantly on guard. Slowly he set down the can and crept to the door. He peered through the peephole, then blew out a relieved breath. After unlocking the two chain locks and the dead bolt, he opened the door. “Hey, Mike.”

A tall man built like a football linebacker strolled through the door. His salt-and-pepper hair was cut short against his head, the bristles brushing the top of the doorjamb as he walked inside. “Jack,” he said with a nod, taking a quick visual survey of the small living room. There wasn't much to look at—a short couch and matching recliner, a flat-screen TV perched on a cheap stand, and an old coffee table. Still, Mike's eagle-sharp eyes continued to peruse the room.

“Want something to drink?” Bartholomew asked, closing the door.