Sisters of the Quilt Trilogy (66 page)

M
atthew read the letter one last time before scrawling his name at the bottom. He folded it and shoved it into the envelope addressed to Elle. Against everything he’d spent years hoping for, he went to the mailbox, placed it inside, and lifted the red flag. An early-morning summer breeze carried the burnt smell from the Bylers’ barn. The memory of flames leaping toward the sky last night left a sick feeling in Matthew’s gut. But that didn’t compare to the twisting ache that breaking off with Elle was causing.

Trudging into his workshop, he couldn’t help but rehash how little he’d seen Elle since she went to live with her father more than two years ago. Each trip back she was different, more of an Englischer and less of the Elle he’d fallen in love with. He’d seen the look in her eyes, the one that said she no longer admired who he was or what talents he possessed. He wasn’t in the same class of people as she was, and her visits seemed only to confirm that for her.

She’d spent the last year driving all over the U.S. while snapping pictures, but somehow her car just couldn’t make it down these familiar roads very often. She’d signed some sort of contract without realizing exactly what it meant, and Matthew had been patient as she tried to get in her hours so the contract would be fulfilled. When it was time for instruction to begin, she had to get special permission to finish out her contracts among the Englischers and yet still be allowed to take instruction classes. As a testimony to Elle’s ability to talk people into things, her bishop agreed. At first her efforts to be here for instruction had given him hope, but she hadn’t made it for the last two lessons, nor had she called or written him.

Her agreement with her father not to call Matthew had ended quite a while ago, but her letters and phone calls had dwindled to nothing, and it was time he accepted reality. Her father had won. Elle would never be baptized into their faith.

Pulling on his tool belt, Matthew ran down a mental list of what he needed to get done today.

Luke was traveling, taking a week to handpick supplies and stock up for this next year. This was the fourth buying trip in as many months. Matthew went on the last three. Luke had avoided going for a while because of Mary, but now he wanted to get his time in so he wouldn’t need to travel as Mary grew closer to her November due date.

Sarah drove the half-loaded produce wagon toward Miller’s Roadside Stand.

She was sick of her parents always whispering about her odd behavior. Her hand had a burn on it, and she didn’t know why. So what? If the constant gray cloud that clung to her thoughts would go away, maybe she could explain how she felt. But it never did.

Weariness made her movements hard during the day, but the nights were even worse. Fires blazed everywhere, creeping across Amish land until they burned right through her home. She shuddered.

After pulling the wagon under a shade tree at the roadside stand, she climbed out and looped the horse’s reins around the hitching post. The stand had a blue and white tentlike covering, lawn chairs for the vendors, and plenty of parking for customers. The Millers’ home was at the high point of the property, just a couple of hundred feet from the street. They rented a portion of their stand to anyone who needed a good place to sell things. Since the Lapps’ house was so far off the main roads, this was one place they had always come to sell the extra yield from the family garden.

Leaning over the side of the wagon, she grasped the handles of the bushel basket.

“Sarah,” Lizzy Miller called from her front porch.

Setting the heavy container on the ground, Sarah figured the girl was helping her mother collect this month’s rent for the roadside stand. Sarah waved, letting her know she’d heard her. Then she reached into the wagon and unloaded the rest of the baskets while Lizzy hurried down the hill toward her.

“Did you hear?” Lizzy panted. The girl had graduated the eighth grade with Sarah years ago.

“Hear what?”

“The Bylers’ barn burned down last night, all the way to the ground!”

The words shot through Sarah, making her feel woozy. Was her nightmare coming true? She set the small baskets of raspberries on the ground and straightened. “You sure?”

“Go see for yourself.”

Without answering Lizzy, Sarah climbed into the wagon and took off.

It was quite a jaunt to the Bylers’, but within thirty minutes she was pulling up at their place. Smoke was still rising from a few spots. Lizzy was right; there wasn’t a salvageable piece of timber anywhere.

Unable to remove her eyes from the damage, she got out of the wagon and edged up to the smoldering embers. The barn had been a full, strong structure. She’d been to singings and church meetings here throughout her life. Hannah had taught her how to jump from the loft into a pile of hay in this barn. Stepping around the smoldering parts, Sarah walked through some of the ashes. How could such a strong building, with thick timber running in all directions for support, be reduced to this?

The tongue is afire, a world of evil … and sets on fire the course of life
.

A shudder ran through her, and those words looped through her mind again and again.

Aiming to find where the loft had crashed from its high position to the ground, Sarah continued walking around the edge of the building. Sadness deeper than any laughter or joy she’d shared in this building twisted inside her.

Wondering if the tiny corncob dolls she and Hannah had made and buried under the ground in the tack room more than a decade ago were still there, Sarah went to the spot where she thought they should be buried. The area had been along the outer wall. No smoke rose from that area. She held her hands over the cinders. They gave off no heat. Soot covered her hands and dress as she moved a few burnt two-by-fours. When a portion was cleared, she grabbed a piece of burnt tin from the roof, knelt where she thought they should be, and began digging.

Matthew heard the door to the paint shop open. David had finished his other chores and had arrived to add another coat of shellac to the fifteen buggies that were close to being fitted to their undercarriages. Matthew worked another spoke into place on its wooden-hoop frame, hoping to get a dozen wheels done before nightfall.

As the morning wore on, sounds of the outdoors echoed through the open windows, allowing him to hear when the mail carrier approached. A desire to run to the mailbox and snatch back the letter gripped him. His palms became sweaty as he imagined the postal vehicle slowly heading, mailbox by mailbox, toward the Esh place. Ignoring his anxiety, he wrestled to line up the spokes that sprawled from the wooden hub with the hand-drilled holes in the circular frame.

He reminded himself that long before Elle’s father showed up, her bishop had asked her to wait until she was at least twenty-one to join the faith. At the time he hadn’t understood the reason, but the bishop had turned out to be right. Some Englischers had tried living Amish. It never lasted for more than a few years before they pulled out of the faith, sold their places, and returned to the easier ways of the fancy folk.

He’d thought it would be different for Elle since she’d been raised Amish half her life. As the mail carrier closed the metal lid on the Esh mailbox and drove off, Matthew went to the barn and bridled his fastest horse. He needed a few minutes away from the shop.

Holding on tight, he spurred the horse across his property, jumping every fallen log, trampling through the creek, and riding at breakneck speeds across the flatlands. The warm breeze whipped through his shirt, cooling the sweat against his body. His straw hat flew off, but he didn’t slow. He should have known Elle wasn’t likely to return to the Plain life. He tightened his grip on the reins and dug his heels into the horse, wishing he could outrun reality.

When Matthew spotted the profile of a female across the meadow, he slowed the horse to an amble. She seemed to be kneeling in the grass. He tugged at the rein and clicked his tongue, heading the horse in that direction.

As he came closer, he could make out a white prayer Kapp on her head. He thought it odd that the woman didn’t seem to hear the approaching hoofbeats against the dry ground.

A childlike voice drifted through the air. “The tongue is a fire, a world of evil … and sets on fire the course of life.”

“Excuse me.” Matthew brought the horse to a full stop. The girl jumped up. “Sarah?” She was covered in soot, and the hems of her skirts were torn. “What are you doing out here?” He scanned the edges of the fields. “Is someone with you?”

She shook her head, looking terrified. Dark soil covered the green and brown grass beside her, and he realized she’d been digging in it. “What are you doing?”

“I … I was burying something for Hannah.”

“Hannah?” He steadied his horse. “When did you talk to her?”

She turned her back to him, knelt, and put whatever was in her hand into the hole in the ground and covered it. When she stood, she stepped on the fresh dirt, packing it down. “I haven’t spoken to her.” After wiping her dirt-covered hands down her apron, she turned her palms upright, as if she were offering him a gift. But her hands were empty.

“How did you get this far from home without a horse?”

“I came to bur—” She didn’t finish her sentence.

Matthew tried again. “Did you drive a horse and buggy to the Yoders and then walk to this spot?”

“I went to Miller’s Roadside earlier, then drove the horse and buggy to the Bylers’. From there I drove to the back part of your property and walked.”

Matthew was even more confused now. Sarah had always been skittish and odd, to his way of thinking, but this behavior left him more uneasy than ever. Her hands trembled as she tried dusting them off. He decided not to try to figure this out. He’d just talk to Luke about it when he got home. “Can I give ya a ride back to your buggy?”

She nodded, and he reached a hand down to help lift her onto the horse’s back. She wrapped her hands around his waist. Not liking this one bit, he dug his heels into the horse. “Geh.”

M
artin stared into his sister’s almost-black eyes, weary of this conversation. He’d been at this session for more than an hour. Hannah was baby-sitting Kevin and Lissa at his house, and he’d told her he’d be home by five. It was Friday, so she didn’t need him to relieve her for classes or the clinic, but she did have plans of some sort.

Faye needed to live at the rehab center for a few more weeks, but all the intervention had accomplished so far was schedule chaos for Hannah and him. Hannah arrived at his home by six in the morning, and she needed to leave his house by five in the evening, Monday through Thursday—except on Tuesday. Tuesdays were the worst. She had that quilting thing at the clinic and often ended up taking Kevin and Lissa with her and dropping them at the house before going to the crisis center. He had to leave work at four in the afternoon, cutting off at least three valuable hours of work time to care instead for his sister’s children.

With Dr. Smith listening silently, Faye had gone through a whole box of tissues, but they’d landed in the same place they always did. She claimed that everyone in the family hated her because they blamed her for her mom’s death. Martin denied it. He didn’t blame her for that, but the drugs and alcohol abuse were her choices. She had to be accountable for that.

But not for the accident.

Still, what led to the shattering of their childhood made more sense each time he came here. Occasionally when she shared a recollection, it caused other memories to flood his mind, and in some ways he understood both Faye and himself more now.

When Martin talked to his dad about doing phone sessions, he refused. Flat out. Martin didn’t intend to tell Faye he’d contacted their dad. It was hard enough to get her into rehab and counseling without reminding her how little their dad wanted to do with her.

She grabbed another tissue. “Can’t you see how Dad manipulated me to fight with Mom and then, after the accident, he just abandoned me?”

“Dad’s never manipulated anybody. You ran off, Faye. But even then, he kept giving you money, supporting you.”

She sniffled. “Don’t you ever wonder why he did that?”

“He’s done nothing but try to help you.”

The counselor shifted in her chair. “Okay, we’ve covered a lot today. I think this session has been extremely helpful.”

The doctor continued talking, drawing things to a close, but Martin wasn’t listening. He’d heard plenty, and none of it was new. Faye just didn’t get it. No one blamed her but herself. She had destroyed her own life, not Mom or Dad or him. Surprisingly, on this trip he’d heard one encouraging thing: she was attending chapel services.

After the counselor closed the session with prayer, Martin left without another word.

Thanks to his sister, he had a mess of a life to keep up with, including juggling her two children—with Hannah’s help.

Hannah.

Despite having built a good friendship beforehand, he and Hannah were being taxed by this stuff with Faye. Hannah had cut her hours at Dr. Lehman’s clinic, but she couldn’t cut her school, study time, or clinical rotation hours.

She worked harder than anyone he knew and continued to amaze him. For quite a while after first meeting her, Martin kept dating, looking for other possibilities—because of her age and background. But a part of him kept hoping that when she was older, she’d be the one he’d been waiting for. The one he’d been looking for since he’d realized the importance of God in his life.

When he was a kid, his mother had told him, “When you get old enough, date, date, date, but never settle for less than the one you know in your heart is right for you.” He’d like to hear what advice she’d give him now.

But she was gone, thanks to his sis—

Oh God, please …

His stomach clenched in a knot, making him feel sick. He had to pull to the side of the road. Like a spray of cold water in winter, chills crashed over him.

Faye was right.

Dear God, I do blame her
.

Memories of how he’d coped after Mom died seeped into his mind from somewhere he didn’t know existed. He’d always believed he and his dad were good people caught in an awful situation, but where did that leave Faye? And why hadn’t he seen any of this before now?

He turned the car around to go see his sister.

With Lissa and Kevin playing in the yard, Hannah sorted through another box in Martin’s storage room inside the cottage behind his home, looking for items to donate to the women’s shelter. Martin cared nothing about this stuff from his childhood and Lissa’s and Kevin’s infancy. It was time to put it to good use. Since Martin was late again, she continued digging through it. She’d already brought out a bassinet from the storage room, cleaned it, and set it up. The washer and dryer had worked all day on old blankets, sheets, and baby clothes.

Through the screen door, she could hear the children’s voices as they made pies from outdated flour, eggs, and milk she’d found when cleaning out Martin’s fridge and cabinets. Kevin and Lissa were mixing the items with sand and had a table set for a bake sale. Their childish excitement over old foods had made her smile.

Even though she was still living at the cabin, she spent more time on Martin’s property than at home, and it was unexpectedly stressful. She’d discovered that the cottage behind his place was more her style than his house. His fully air-conditioned, electronically endowed, television-crazy home made her long for the cabin. Most of all she missed having time to enjoy her garden. Martin’s manicured lawns, maintained by paid help, were picture perfect, but they didn’t compare to the beauty of the landscape at Zabeth’s place. As soon as Martin came home today, she’d head for the cabin and weed the garden.

In a few weeks both Kevin and Lissa would begin school. She’d updated their immunizations and taken care of the paperwork. Martin had enrolled them.

Remembering she’d seen one more box of items she hadn’t gone through yet, Hannah went back to the storage room. She opened the box and pulled out folded sheets and blankets one by one. As she came to the bottom of the box, she noticed frayed edges of fabric under a store-bought blanket. She removed the top item, revealing a patchwork quilt that showed clear markings of being designed by Zabeth. Pulling it out and laying it in her lap, she noted the tiny black squares of material added to the defined pattern. Hannah smoothed her hand over the well-worn quilt. It was Zabeth’s work all right, and it looked like someone had abused it before packing it away. The fabric patches—leopard skin, white silk, pink tulle, crimson satin, brown suede—were not Zabeth’s usual choices, which meant she’d made it for someone special with fabrics from his or her personal life. It had to belong to a Palmer—Faye, Martin, or their parents. Whoever received it hadn’t understood; a quilt was like a person, possessing strength and honor as well as frailties and needs. Right then, she decided to work on the quilt at the next quilting.

Hannah took it to her car. As she was closing the door, Martin pulled into the driveway.

She waved as he got out of his car. “Hey, you’re even later than usual.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“The kids have eaten, and there’s a plate for you in the oven if you want it.”

“You’re leaving now? Are you on call or something?”

“There are only so many hours of daylight, Martin, and it’s hard to weed a garden in the dark. I have rotation this weekend. That makes this my only time to do something outside of school, work, and baby-sitting.”

He scoffed and pulled his checkbook out of his back pants pocket. “Just let me write a check to cover what you’ll make on that garden.”

Hannah blinked. “What?”

“Oh, come on, Hannah. This is ridiculous.” He filled in a check and held it out to her. “Forget the garden. We’re both pulling double duty as it is, and this will more than compensate.”

“Do you think money is the answer to everything?” She pulled her keys from her dress pocket and got into her car.

“Get out of the car, Hannah. Now.”

She rolled the window down. “Excuse me?” She released the brake and pressed the clutch. “I resent being treated like a child. Moreover, I refuse.”

Before she pressed the accelerator, Martin stepped behind the car. She slammed on the brakes, turned off the motor, and jumped out. “Are you crazy?”

“Don’t get angry with me and just leave. Stay and scream until all the neighbors hear you, but don’t ever do that.”

In that moment she realized that a similar situation was how he’d lost his mother. She shut the car door. “You want me to stay and scream? Fine! Your all-air-conditioned, highly technical, very modern house is driving me crazy!”

“Yeah?” He screamed back. “Well, when you go off by yourself, you drive me nuts, and I have no cabin of refuge!”

They stared at each other.

Hannah propped herself against the car. “I drive you nuts?”

He shrugged. “Maybe.”

Standing in front of her was her closest friend, a man who’d made himself vulnerable by reaching out to his sister because she’d asked him to. “I’m sorry.”

“Yeah, me too. And I won’t ever try to put a price on that stupid garden of yours again.”

She laughed. “Deal.”

Kevin ran from the backyard, carrying a pan of
pies
with him. Stress was etched on his young face, and Hannah realized the raised voices had him in a panic. Lissa was right behind him, looking as if she was about to cry.

Before she could say something, Lissa pulled on Martin’s leg, her dirty hands leaving imprints. “Who’s leaving?”

Martin put Lissa on his hip.

Hannah picked up Kevin. “Nobody. Not right now. I might go to the cabin later.”

But the concern in their eyes said they’d heard the anger between the adults and didn’t believe her. “Your Uncle Martin and I were playing. That’s what you heard, but you know what I think? I think your uncle is hungry and needs a nap.”

Martin nodded. “May I please have food and a nap?”

Kevin giggled. “Naps are for babies.”

“Are not!” Lissa yelled.

“Whoa.” Martin held up his hand. “Answer my question first.”

Hannah pointed at him. “You may have food, but it’s too late for a nap. So … after you eat, you, Kevin, and Lissa may come with me to the cabin.”

“I’d rather have a nap.”

Lissa shook her finger at him. “You better watch it, Uncle Martin. Hannah won’t let you have a snack with your dinner.”

Martin gaped mockingly at one and then the other. “What?”

Lissa giggled. “And even if you’re good, she doesn’t allow television.”

He touched the end of her nose with his index finger. “Yeah, I’ve heard that before. But that means you’re just happier when I’m home, right?”

“Thanks, Martin.”

He chuckled as he set Lissa’s feet on the ground. “No. I thank you, Hannah.”

Hannah put Kevin down and took the
pie
from him. She bit her bottom lip and bounced the pan filled with gunk up and down.

Martin pointed at her. “If you start this, I’ll finish it.”

She stepped in close. “Promise?” she taunted right before smacking him in the chest with the pie. She took Lissa into her arms and took off running to get another pie.

Martin whispered something to Kevin, who ran into the house. Instantly they were divided, the girls against the boys. From the pie-making area, Hannah grabbed a handful of gunk. Kevin came back outside with a bottle of ketchup and mustard. He passed the ketchup bottle to his uncle. The two guys moved in close, and she flung the goop at Martin, missing completely. He mocked an evil laugh and stepped in closer.

“Don’t you dare, Mart—”

He squirted the red sauce over her bare feet and across her dress. He then aimed the bottle at her face. He roared with laughter before aiming the bottle at Kevin.

“Yeah, get me, Uncle Martin. Get me!”

The next ten minutes were spent with Kevin and Lissa playing dodge ketchup. When the bottle was empty, the four of them were a mess.

Martin and Kevin went to one bathroom to get cleaned up, and Hannah and Lissa went to another. Twenty minutes later the kids were clean and dressed in warm clothes and sent back outside to play, with all yucky stuff off-limits for the night.