Love Finds You in Sugarcreek, Ohio (13 page)

With Bobby happily “helping” Lydia bake cookies, Joe set to work heating water on the stove. The moment it was hot enough, he added some cold water, rolled up his sleeves, and plunged his hands into the now-warm soapy water. The daadi haus wasn’t so big that he couldn’t scrub down most of it by nightfall.

He was whistling a tune, down on his hands and knees, and scrubbing the kitchen floor when he heard a noise and looked up. Rachel had entered the house. Once again, she was not in uniform—and she looked absolutely stunning.

“Hi,” she said.

He concentrated on wringing out the rag he had been using. “Hi, yourself.”

“You’re really going to do this? Move in here?”

“I really am.”

“You will miss having electricity.” Rachel dropped into one of the kitchen chairs.

“I doubt it. I’ve lived without it before.”

“Oh?”

His unusual childhood had been a matter of much discussion in the media at one time. He had no intention of discussing it any further.

He noticed she was not wearing her habitual stark ponytail and had gotten a new haircut that framed and softened her face. She had the features of a true beauty, the fact of which she seemed utterly unaware.

“Aren’t you working today?” He glanced away, afraid to spend any more time thinking about how lovely she was. The last thing he needed was to develop an attraction to a nosy cop.

“Nope.” She crossed her long, denim-clad legs. “Bertha asked me to help you.”

Her T-shirt fit her perfectly, and those jeans accentuated curves he had never noticed when she was wearing her uniform.

He stared hard at the floor he was mopping. “Why?”

“She thinks the sooner you move in here, the healthier it will be for Bobby.”

He went to the sink to dump the dirty water. As he passed by her, he noticed a scent so enticing it made him want to bury his nose in her hair and inhale.

Not a good thing to have on his mind right now.

He busied himself by pouring out the bucket of water and refilling with fresh. “Bertha’s probably right.”

“She usually is. Drives me crazy sometimes.” Rachel stood and looked around the half-cleaned kitchen. “So—what can I do to help?”

Joe felt a little strange about allowing Rachel to help him; he still didn’t know if she considered him a friend or a foe. But Bertha had sent her over here, and it wasn’t his place to send her away. He just wished he wasn’t suddenly
so
aware of her as a woman.

“I was planning on scrubbing down the study next,” he said.

“All those windows will need polishing. I could do that.”

“You’re dressed too nice.”

She seemed startled that he had noticed. “I—I went shopping today.”

“I can tell.”

Was it his imagination, or was Rachel starting to blush?

“I have some work clothes upstairs in the farmhouse,” she said. “I’ll put something else on.”

“Might be a good idea.”

Strangely enough, she didn’t move. Nor did he. They stood in the middle of the wet kitchen floor, staring at each other. Aware of each other. Only inches apart. As though truly seeing each other for the first time.

It was awkward…and intense. The air grew heavier, making it difficult to breathe.

As though drawn by a magnet, Joe’s hand lifted and touched a strand of her silky hair.

She didn’t move.

His index finger moved to her cheek, and he gently caressed the curve of her jaw. Her sudden intake of breath at his touch broke the spell that had fallen upon them.

Joe turned away first, avoiding her gaze, busying himself with heating fresh water…angry with himself for doing something so stupid.

Rachel hesitated, as though trying to process what had just happened. Then, without a word, she ran into the farmhouse.

She came back with Windex and paper towels, wearing a flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled up—and determinedly acting as though nothing at all had just transpired between them.

Joe was relieved that she looked ready to work instead of ready to walk into a lonely man’s dreams.

Unfortunately, she still smelled like a mix of ginger and oranges—a scent he was determined to ignore as they carried their cleaning supplies into the study.

“I remember my grandfather reading in here,” Rachel said as she sprayed the window cleaner on a dingy pane. “He kept peppermints in a drawer and always gave me one when I came to visit him. I would sit on his lap, and he would tell me stories about our people.”

Joe pulled an armload of dusty books off the shelves and laid them on the desk. “You must have loved that.”

“I did. He was kind to me.”

Rachel was so engrossed in her task that she didn’t notice him watching her as the late afternoon sun made the natural highlights of her light brown hair shine like burnished gold. She didn’t notice as his eyes traced the curves of her body. She didn’t notice as he forced his gaze away from her.

Rachel was not the type of woman he had ever thought he would be interested in—and he didn’t want her in his life now. Not as things were.

But he couldn’t help thinking about what a ferocious and wonderful mother this half-Amish girl would make some lucky child. What a strong companion and loyal wife she would be to some fortunate man.

Joe fought against the fantasy of him and Rachel together. He fought against indulging in the dream that he was an ordinary man who could build a simple life for his son in the sweet Ohio town of Sugarcreek. Dreams like that weren’t for people like him.

Joe applied one last stroke of off-white paint over the dark paneling in the living room. Yesterday, with Rachel’s help, he had finished the kitchen with the same color.

Based on what he had seen within the aunts’ farmhouse, the Amish preferred plain white walls. Fancy colors were studiously avoided—with the exception of their quilts, dishes, and exuberant flower gardens.

However, with Bertha’s permission, he had chosen a light blue for Bobby’s bedroom, one close to the shade his wife had used in his son’s old bedroom back home. Grace had called it “desert blue” and had insisted on having the other twenty-two rooms of their home professionally painted in what she had called “Navajo colors.”

Joe had hated the extravagance of that house but had purchased it because Grace wanted it so badly. He loved simplicity. Always had. Grace’s need for show had been a struggle for him to accept.

This Spartan daadi haus suited him perfectly. The austerity of it reminded him of the bare, windswept huts he had known as a child.

Finished with the living room, he took his painting supplies into Abraham’s study, which, as a small treat for himself, he had saved for last.

He laid a few newspapers on the floor and opened another fresh can of paint. He had never realized how the simple act of smoothing paint onto walls could feel so cleansing. He loved this task of covering the years of stains and smudges with the bright, light paint. It satisfied something deep within his soul. It felt as if he were making his own life new again with each stroke. Each finished room felt like a small rebirth.

If he could just hold on here for a while longer, perhaps he could manage to live the simple life he craved. Maybe he could blend in and become that average guy no one took notice of. An ordinary Joe, living an ordinary life, in an ordinary town, doing an ordinary job. No pressure. No press. No one hounding him for an autograph or an interview.

It was a vision entirely too good to be true. The most he could hope for was a respite. He knew that somehow, some way, it would eventually come out that he was here, and then the nation’s ravenous curiosity about him would be fueled by those who wrote the news.

Abraham’s desk was so heavy when he tried to move it more into the center of the room that he pulled drawers out to lighten it. The top drawer held old-fashioned pump fountain pens, a bottle of ink, two yellow pencils that had been carefully sharpened with a pocket knife instead of an electric sharpener, and a more recent book than the ones on the shelves. He reached in and drew out a hardback copy of
Forty Years Preaching Christ on the African Plains.

It was, Joe knew, written by a famous African missionary, telling the stories of a life spent building congregations in some of the poorest villages in the world.

He turned to the back cover, where there was a full-page picture of the author, Dr. Robert Mattias. His father’s familiar, craggy face stared up at him. Joe had read the book, of course. His dad had been a master storyteller, and the book was good—part adventure and part hard-core evangelism.

It had been a small publishing success in the Christian book market a few years earlier. Joe would bet his life that every penny of royalties his father received had gone into the stomachs of his people and the drilling of more wells for fresh water in the war-torn countries where his father had labored.

That
was the kind of man his father was.

The book included some stories of himself as a small boy. His father’s love for him had shown through, in spite of the rift now between them. He felt a pang as he pictured his father bending over a desk, penning page after page. How amazing that it had somehow touched the life of an old Amish bishop, and possibly in the very place Joe would soon be residing!

Joe knew that some people would call this a coincidence, but his father had never believed in coincidences. He had taught Joe that God watched over every aspect of the lives of those who served Him.

The problem was, both men, Abraham and his father, had lived lives dedicated to serving the Lord, filled with integrity and sacrifice.

And he…well, he hadn’t.

Joe put the book back in the desk, poured the white paint into a roller pan, and began covering the years of accumulated nicks and stains on the walls. He wished it were as easy to renew a damaged life as it was to repaint a stained wall.

Rachel yanked at her thick hair with the delicate hairbrush Lydia had left for her in the bathroom. Once again, she had spent the night at her aunts’. The problem was, it was no sacrifice to do so anymore. No sacrifice at all. For the past week, as Joe had worked on the daadi haus, she had found herself drawn to the farmhouse like a moth to light every free minute. She had tried to convince herself that she was merely coming over to help.

The fact was, she had never felt so conflicted in her life. There had been that moment when she and Joe were alone together in the daadi haus, when both of them had felt the electricity crackling between them. Neither had acknowledged it in any way. It was too bizarre to contemplate.

And yet, several times, as she cleaned the rest of the windows, or trimmed out the baseboards, or dipped the roller in the fresh paint, she had sensed Joe staring at her—but when she turned, he had immediately glanced away. Several times she had caught herself doing the same thing.

This could not continue. This could not be. He was a stranger, a drifter, a man without a past or a future. She wanted him gone.

No, she didn’t. Yes, she did. Didn’t she?

Her mind slowly revealed once again—as though pulling a jeweler’s polishing cloth away from a rare stone—that breathless moment when they had stood motionless in the kitchen, looking into one another’s eyes, nearly paralyzed by the unspoken and shocking realization that there was a powerful attraction between them.

Who would have guessed that simply cleaning a house together could have such an effect?

This was crazy. She had to put up her guard…defend herself against this guy’s charm. And his smile. And the kindness and understanding she read in his eyes.

She chided herself. She couldn’t let her attraction to him blind her to the need to be on her guard for her aunts. Regardless of Ed’s evaluation that Joe was simply a good man fallen on bad times, she still needed proof.

But his fingerprints had not been in the database, Kim had found nothing in her computer search, and the license plate had been a dead end. She had even attempted other calls to the used-car salesman who had lent Joe his truck, but his secretary kept saying he was out.

All she knew for sure was that men who lived decent, honest lives didn’t drive into a strange town with no job, no connections, no friends, and no money.

It was imperative that she keep reminding herself of this fact, or she would be a goner with one more look into those incredible blue eyes.

She gave up on her hair and laid the brush on the bathroom sink. Today she had been pressed into service yet again by her aunts. They were determined to help Joe put the finishing touches on the daadi haus.

He hadn’t asked for any help, but the aunts just couldn’t keep their noses out of his business. Having made him their personal project, they were bent on turning the daadi haus into a real home for him and Bobby.

The daadi haus was nearly finished and the aunts had been gathering many useful things together as a housewarming surprise.

She couldn’t wait to see the look on Joe’s face when Lydia, Bertha, and Anna took over his home today.

She found Lydia and Bertha in the kitchen, each armed with housekeeping paraphernalia.

“Is everything ready?” she asked.

“Just a few more things,” Lydia said. “Anna decided that her collection of seashells would look good in Bobby’s room.”

At that moment, Anna came down the stairs clutching an old shoe box. If Anna was giving Bobby her seashells, this was a serious sacrifice. She had gathered the shells on her one and only visit to see relatives in Sarasota, Florida, twenty years ago and had shown the shells to everyone who came to visit ever since.

Rachel knew that there were exactly 143 seashells. Everyone in the family had the number memorized, after hearing Anna count them over and over again through the years.

“Bobby and Joe are gonna be
so
surprised!” Anna jiggled the shoe box. “I can’t wait!”

“Me either.” Rachel meant it. She couldn’t wait to watch what happened today.

Joe met them at the door with a paintbrush in his hand and a bemused look on his face as they bustled in, carrying various boxes and bags. Bobby was delighted about having company and proceeded to jump up and down on the old couch as he screeched and made faces.

“Whoa, partner.” Joe laid the paintbrush on an old newspaper and grabbed his son in midair. “I don’t think the couch can take too much of that.”

Anna set her box of shells on the scarred coffee table and exclaimed, “We’re gonna make your house nice, Joe!”

Joe hesitated only an instant before he smiled. “Thank you, Anna. Is there anything I can help carry in—or is that it?”

Rachel crossed her arms and leaned against the door frame. “Oh, there’s a lot more, Joe. They still have a ton of stuff over in the kitchen.”

“I don’t deserve such kindness.”

Strangely enough, he sounded as though he meant it.

“That’s exactly what I told them”—she softened her comment with a smile—“but they wouldn’t listen to me. Come help me carry the rest of it.”

She and Joe went for the final load while the aunts unpacked the things they had already brought.

In the aunts’ kitchen, Rachel picked up a box. “I’d appreciate it if you’d try not to hurt their feelings today. They have good intentions.”

“You still don’t get it, do you, Rachel?”

“Get what?”

“Those three ladies could hang pink polka-dot curtains in the living room and a giant velvet picture of Elvis on the wall and I’d still be grateful.”

“They’re Amish, Joe. They don’t do pink polka-dots or velvet Elvis pictures.”

“You know what I mean.”

Rachel searched his eyes one more time to see if there was a criminal behind the gentle voice and unruly beard. Ed was right. The criminal she had imagined simply wasn’t there.

From one box, Joe lifted a garish calendar imprinted with bright pink Victorian-style cabbage roses. He held it at arm’s length and gave her a lopsided grin. “Isn’t this a little fancy for an Amish home?”

“Pink cabbage roses are Anna’s favorite. The only wall decorations most Amish have are Scripture plaques or old-fashioned calendars. A few will hang jigsaw puzzles of farm scenes and landscapes when they’re finished working them.”

“If it makes Anna happy, I’ll go nail this up in the kitchen right now.”

“That would definitely make her happy.”

Through the open door, they heard Bertha singing a hymn.

“Let’s go see what the ladies are up to.” Joe’s eyes twinkled with amusement.

“Brace yourself. I overheard them making plans last night.”

“I can’t wait to see.”

As they entered the daadi haus, Rachel saw that one of Lydia’s handmade quilts had been spread over the old brown couch. It had transformed the couch into a work of art. She wondered if Joe had any idea what that Amish quilt would be worth at auction. Probably not. She wasn’t entirely certain that Lydia did.

Cushions covered with the same pattern had been placed on the two armchairs. A wooden bowl of nuts and fruit sat in the center of the coffee table, along with several out-of-date but brightly colored and much-treasured
Countryside
magazines.

Through the kitchen doorway, she saw Bertha and Lydia absorbed in their transformation of that room. A plain dark green tablecloth had been laid catty-corner on the square Formica kitchen table. Green crockery from the aunts’ own kitchen was lined up on the counter. Bertha, seated at the table, happily threaded white curtains onto empty curtain rods.

She could hear Anna chatting merrily with Bobby in his room. Suddenly, as though Anna had told a joke, they heard Bobby belly laughing.