Saving Gideon (21 page)

She used a piece of yarn to mark her place in the book on raising alpacas for fun and profit and set it on the table at the foot of the couch. She had learned that the piece of yarn, as well as the one she and Samuel had played with most of the afternoon, had come from Miriam’s loom.

Upon first learning this, Avery worried the others might take exception. But seeing the yarn again was like a trip down memory lane for the women. She’d learned a lot about Gideon’s late wife through them. Miriam King Fisher was gentle and unassuming—two things she herself was not. Miriam was a fine woman, and well-respected in her community. She worked hard to pull her weight and fulfill what was expected of her. She tended the house and the sheep, and ran her own loom to make yarn and wool goods to sell in the marketplace. She sounded wonderful, and Avery could understand why he missed her so.

A part of her, just a tiny part, was jealous. She knew Gideon had loved his wife, his grieving alone was testimony to that, and that Miriam was admired by his family. Avery wished she had a little of that for herself—the love of a good man and family. She had been young when her mother died, but not so young that she didn’t remember life with her. Though her mother was loving and caring, Avery couldn’t imagine her in Ruth Fisher’s shoes. Her mother just wasn’t that . . . motherly.

And Avery could never proclaim that her family was very close. Her father had a brother they hadn’t seen in years. Avery knew the two men talked regularly, but neither one carved time out of their schedules to visit the other. Her mother’s family lived in Fort Worth, and she only saw them at charity functions they had been mutually invited to attend.

But today . . . today had been amazing. She knew what her friends would think about this new crowd. They would assume the Amish were simple and uneducated, but Avery loved them. The ladies talked about canning and jellies, pickles and diapers. The men worked hard and ate heartily. The sense of community and togetherness was tangible and something she had sorely been missing in her life. She hoped for another work frolic or even a barn raising soon. She wanted more to store up and keep with her after she had gone. From now until she to returned to Dallas, Avery planned on making the most of her time here.

She pulled out the Bible and started to read. It was slow going, reading in German, translating, then looking up the words she didn’t know. But it was a satisfying challenge, like a lesson hard won. Maybe when she got back to Dallas she would buy a German Bible and her own copy of the translation dictionary to continue her study. She could get an English copy, but the slower pace helped the meaning sink in, forced her to keep her attention on the words and her mind on the meaning.

Her reading was interrupted by a soft knock at the front door.

Gideon poked his head in before she could bid him to enter. “I’m just headin’ off to bed now,” he said.

Not once in all the days since she had been on his farm had he felt it necessary to let her know when he was going to bed.
Why had he picked tonight of all nights to check in with her?

She stood, not missing the fact that he toed the threshold, not setting foot into his own house.

“Okay, then.” She closed her finger in the Good Book to hold her place.

He nodded toward the Bible she held in her hands. “Don’t stay up too late readin’.”

“I won’t.”

He hesitated as if wanting to say more, then with a small nod and a quiet, “
Gut nacht
,” he closed the door behind him.

“Good night,” she murmured after him.

Then she understood. Today meant as much to him as it did to her—the fellowship, the closeness. She wished she could have more of it, and felt reluctant to see it pass.

There would be tomorrow, but how many more days would she have to savor the stillness of Amish life before she had to return to the crazy pace of her life in Dallas?

Morning came far too early for Avery’s taste. Despite Gideon’s warning, she stayed up late reading. Still, she dragged herself up and put away her “bed,” then staggered to the kitchen to start the coffee before getting dressed for the day.

She poured a cup for herself just as Gideon came into the house, looking refreshed and renewed and
not
like he’d stayed up half the night. She poured him a cup as well, and they sat down at the table to drink their morning brew together before she started breakfast.

Avery looked at him over the rim of her cup. “It’s Sunday.”

“
Jah
.”

“Have you given any thought to going to church this morning?”

“
Jah
.”

“You have?” She set her cup down so hard, some of the coffee sloshed onto the table. “That’s great.” She jumped up to get a rag to clean up her mess, unable to keep the smile off her face. His mother would be so relieved to see him in the congregation today.

Gideon squinted at her. “I only said I had given it thought. I did not say that I was going.”

“Gideon.” She dragged his name out across several syllables. “You should go.”

He didn’t say anything, just rubbed a hand across the stubble on his chin.

Avery wondered if his beard was itching him since it had been growing back in, or if he wasn’t ready to face everyone in the district with his nearly-bare face.

He shook his head. “
Nay
. No. I can’t do it. Not with everyone . . .” He pushed his chair back and stood in one jerky motion. One minute he was sitting across from her and the next he stood with his back to her while staring out the window.

“What are you going to do?”

He didn’t answer.

“Just hide out here until . . . until—”

“I die, too.”

His words were quiet yet they reverberated with heartbreak. It was all about grief.

She moved to go to him, then stopped herself. He wasn’t hers to comfort. Never was, never would be.

She sat back in her chair and said the first thing that came to mind. “When you are brokenhearted, I am closer to you.”

He turned. “What?”

“When you are brokenhearted, I am closer to you. Psalms, I think. I just read it, so you’d think I’d remember.”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“It
does
matter.” She squirmed, but held her place. “You’re pushing everyone away. Even God. And right now you need them . . . you need
Him
the most.”

He took a deep, shuddering breath, then grew still. “Let’s have a picnic today.”

She stared at his back. “You’re avoiding the issue.”

“We could pack some sandwiches and maybe a jar of
Grossmammi’s
pickles.”

“Gideon, you can’t hide like this.”

“Go down to the creek. There’s a big old tree down there, just perfect for eatin’ under.”

“It’s going to catch up to you one day.”

“Louie would love it down there. Dragonflies to chase. Moss to roll around in.”

She released a sigh. “All right, all right. A picnic it is. But this isn’t over.” She knew when she had been beaten, but she wasn’t giving up. Even if it was the last thing she did before she left, she vowed she’d get Gideon back to church.

He was right about one thing. Louie loved the creek. He romped around and pranced through the grass like a big dog. Snapped at the promised dragonflies, chased butterflies, and in general had a high old time while she and Gideon sat under the shade of the giant oak and ate the food they’d packed.

Gideon finished first, and stretched out on his side, twirling a blade of grass between his fingers as he kept watch on Louie who darted back and forth, yipping at one insect or another. She sat cross-legged next to him, her legs tucked under the folds of her skirt. Yet another mark on the “pro” side for Amish attire.

“These are the best pickles I have ever eaten.” She took another bite, savoring the crunch and tangy flavor.

Gideon shrugged. “Old family recipe. Or at least that’s what
Mamm
says.”

“I thought homemade pickles were supposed to taste bad.” The episode of the old
Andy Griffith Show
came to mind, where Andy changed out all of Aunt Bea’s pickles for store-bought ones.

Gideon shrugged again. “This is all I’ve ever eaten.”

“Really?” That seemed so strange to her, but after three weeks of living among the Amish, she could believe it. They were so self-sufficient, so capable. There didn’t seem to be anything they couldn’t do—including make homemade pickles.

“’Cept on a fast-food hamburger.”

She tried to picture him eating a cheeseburger wrapped in paper, but the image wouldn’t surface. Instead she saw him
chew, chew, chewing
her failed attempt at chicken pot pie.

A giggle escaped her, followed by another and another.

“What’s so funny?”

“You.”

“Me, what?”

“I mean . . .” she struggled to pull herself together, to stop laughing. “When you were eating the pot pie I made. You were too polite to tell me that it was awful, instead you just kept eating and eating and . . .” She sucked in a deep breath. “That’s not funny, is it?”

“No, but I like to see you laugh.”

Then it happened again. A moment like the one in the buggy, where all the air seemed to stand still, and there was no one in the world except the two of them.

Their eyes met and held.

She reached out a hand to touch his face. Slowly, fingers trembling.

But he grabbed her hand before she could make contact.

“
Nay
.” His eyes blazed with an emotion she couldn’t name. She wanted it to be longing, but thought it more like anger. He’d had something special with his wife and even if it was over, he wasn’t ready to move on. She had been too bold.

She pulled her fingers from his grasp. “I . . .” She wanted to apologize, but couldn’t. It wasn’t the truth. She wasn’t sorry. He was handsome and gentle and kind. And she had wanted to touch him, kiss him. It felt as natural as breathing, and she couldn’t feel sorry about it.

Instead she stood and walked to the water’s edge. The wind had started up again, and it ruffled her hair, whipping the growing strands into her eyes.

He drew up behind her. “Annie, I . . .”

Avery didn’t turn around. She just shook her head. “It’s okay.” Thankfully her voice sounded steady and calm, not at all turbulent, like she felt inside.

“But—”

“Louie!” she called, searching the tall grass for signs of her tiny pooch. Anything but to have to turn around and hear Gideon say those words to her. He didn’t deserve her rudeness, but she couldn’t look into his eyes again, couldn’t see that flash of shock when she’d been so forward. It was one thing to realize that she had made a mistake, and another altogether to have him say it out loud. “Louie V.!” She let out a shrill whistle, watching for him with a steady and unwarranted intensity, until he appeared in view.

“I’ll get the quilt,” Gideon said. “It’s time to go home.”

He folded up the quilt they had brought to use as a picnic blanket, while Avery picked the strands of dry grass out of Louie’s hair. He squirmed in her arms, preferring to run free rather than be pampered. He certainly had adjusted to farm life.

Together they walked slowly back to the house, the only sound coming from the wind in the trees and the occasional cry of a sparrow. They were almost to the porch when Gideon finally spoke.

“Annie, I—”

“Don’t say it.” She set Louie on his feet, and he immediately trotted over to the group of dogs lying in the shade of the barn. “You don’t have to say it. I know you loved your wife. And I know that I’m too bold. I should have never—” she broke off. “Anyway, I’m sorry. No, I’m not. But I should apologize for being so forward. I’m English, what else can I say?” She attempted a smile, but it felt more like a grimace.

He nodded once. “Accepted. I’ll be in the barn.”

His words sounded so final, even though it was only the middle of the afternoon.

She watched him retreat, his back to her. “What about supper?”

He didn’t turn around. “Don’t worry about me. I don’t think I’ll be hungry.” Then he disappeared into the barn, taking a chunk of Avery’s heart with him.