Summer Promise (16 page)

Daniel smiled. “A sensible man would refuse to answer that,” he said. “And I
am
sensible. Even my mother says so. Wait right there. I'll be right back.”

He rose, turned, and sprinted down the porch steps, heading for the barn. Abruptly Miriam realized that, against all odds, she was smiling.

* * *

Twenty minutes later she brought the horse and buggy to a halt just outside the graveyard. She looped the reins around the stock, and then climbed down from the buggy, giving the horse a pat on the nose as she walked by him. “I'll only be a moment,” she promised in a quiet voice. Then she was threading her way among the graves, making for the place where her mother and father were buried side by side.

Miriam had not visited this place since the day her father was buried, only a month earlier. The earth above her father's resting place was now smooth and green, though the grass was not yet as long as on her mother's grave. Miriam hesitated for a moment, suddenly uncertain, and then sat down at the place where the two graves met.

“Oh, Daed,” she whispered. “I wish that I had known.”

Known how great, how extraordinary, was her father's love for her mother. So great that not even death could erase it from his heart. How had Rachel described Jacob Lapp? Quiet, steady, determined. And she had said Miriam was just like that.

A late afternoon breeze ruffled the grass on top of the graves. Miriam felt it frisking about her face, lifting the strings of her
kapp
. Miriam felt her heart lift along with the breeze.

I did know,
she realized. She had felt her father's love for her mother every day of her life. Jacob's love for Edna Lapp had been inseparable from who he was. He had said as much to Rachel. Because he was courageous, Miriam thought. Brave enough to understand, and to embrace, the innermost workings of his own heart.

Help me, Daed,
she thought.
Help me to be more than simply quiet and steady. Help me to be as brave as you were, all the days of my life.

Brave enough to acknowledge her hopes and fears. And brave enough to live with whatever might come when she finally found the courage to speak them aloud.

Fourteen

M
iriam came awake slowly. Late afternoon sunlight streamed in through the bedroom window, spilling across the honey-colored floors, filling the room with a warm, luxurious glow. Miriam lay still, her head on her own pillow, one hand, palm upward, resting on the pillow where Daniel's head would be when he lay down beside her.

Even in sleep,
she thought,
I reach for Daniel, my love, my husband.

She waited for the familiar pang of pain and uncertainty that thinking about how much she loved Daniel usually brought her. But it didn't come. Miriam wiggled her fingers, just to make sure she was really awake. Perhaps she was still dreaming, she thought. But her sleep had been without dreams. Her sleep had been quiet and calm, exactly as she felt right this moment. Peaceful, like a ship that had been battling a storm at sea for a very long time but had now, finally, made its way safely home to port.

What has happened?
she wondered.

It wasn't as if she had done anything momentous. She'd just taken a nap. That was all. It hadn't been until Miriam had put the horse and buggy away, giving the horse some oats to munch on before coming into the house, that she had realized just how tired she was. She had climbed the stairs to the bedroom, intending merely to change out of her good dress and apron before going back down. Supper would be a cold one and was already prepared, as was always the case on Sunday.

But the bed looked so inviting! Miriam's whole body felt heavy, as if every cell were crying out for her to lie down. Giving in to impulse, she had changed into her everyday dress, but left off her apron and removed her
kapp
, setting it on her dressing table. Then, finally, she had simply given in and curled up on top of the quilt. She'd pulled the knitted afghan that was always draped over the end of the bed up over her legs and feet, closed her eyes, and remembered nothing more.

Miriam pushed herself upright slowly, sitting propped up against the headboard. She could see out the window now and look out across the fields, shorn of their hay, the great, round bales curing in the sun. Miriam inhaled deeply. The rich, green smell, which seemed to be the smell of the very earth itself, filled her nostrils.

I have so much to be thankful for,
she thought. She loved this farm that was, and had always been, her home. She couldn't imagine ever wanting to leave it, as Sarah had done.

Again, Miriam waited for the pang that so often followed swiftly upon any thought of her sister, and again, there was none. Miriam sat very still. Then, again obeying an impulse she could not explain but that would not be denied, she reached out and slid the Bible that always rested on the nightstand into her lap. She held it for a moment, then, abruptly, she released it, letting the pages fall open of their own accord. Only then did Miriam look down.

“‘Clothe yourselves with humility toward one another,'” she read, “‘for God is opposed to the proud, but gives grace to the humble. Therefore humble yourselves under the mighty hand of God that He may exalt you at the proper time, casting all your anxiety on Him, because He cares for you . . . After you have suffered for a little while, the God of all grace, who called you to His eternal glory in Christ, will Himself perfect, confirm, strengthen, and establish you.'”

Miriam leaned her head back and closed her eyes.
I
do
feel stronger,
she thought.
And I have Daed to thank for it.
It was her father who had helped her to see what must be done, the path that she must follow, just as he had done when he was alive.

I have not been humble,
Miriam thought as she opened her eyes. Instead, she had been proud, insisting that the only position for her in Daniel's heart must be the first one, because that was the place Daniel held in Miriam's own heart.

But how fortunate she was! Daniel was her husband. Every day, Miriam could awaken to the fact that Daniel had chosen
her
, not any of the other women in their community. He had asked Miriam to be his wife. His face was the first thing she saw each morning, the last thing she saw at night. Each and every day, Miriam could see and touch the man she loved. She could listen for the tread of his feet upon the stairs and the sound of his voice.

Daed loved Mamm in the same way that I love Daniel,
Miriam thought. But her parents had not been so fortunate. Edna had died when they were both so young. But her father's love had never wavered. It had not died. It had stayed alive and strong. In all the years from the day of his wife's death to the day of his own, Jacob's love had burned, quiet and steady, inside his heart, a heart made courageous by the grace of God.

Miriam closed the Bible gently and returned it to the nightstand. Then she slid from the bed to kneel by its side.

Great and merciful God,
she prayed as she bowed her head,
I thank You for Your guidance. I thank You for opening my eyes. Help my heart find the courage to walk the path You have prepared for me. Let me walk it with humility, being truly grateful for the gifts that You bestow.

For several moments after the words of her prayer had ended, Miriam continued to kneel beside the bed. But it seemed to her in those moments that she was still praying, a prayer without conscious thought, her mind, her soul reaching up and out, reaching in every direction for the clear and glorious presence of God.

She got to her feet filled with the same sense of calm with which she had awoken. She was moving toward her dressing table to retrieve her
kapp
when a movement outside the window caught her eye. Miriam stepped to the window and looked out, and in that moment, it seemed to her as if she were transported back in time to that day six years earlier.

She could see Daniel and Sarah coming across the fields together. Daniel was speaking, gesturing with his arms for emphasis, as he had on that day so long ago. And just like on that day, Sarah stopped him with a touch, the simple gesture of laying a hand upon his arm. For what seemed to Miriam like endless moments, her sister and husband faced each other. Then, Sarah reached up and threw her arms around Daniel's neck. Daniel pulled Sarah to him, burying his face in the crook of her shoulder.

Miriam never knew how long they stood that way. She turned her back on the window and walked to her dressing table. She lifted her
kapp
and settled it over her hair. Then she tied on her favorite everyday apron, the one whose color always reminded her of the roses in the garden.

Then she paused and gazed at her reflection in the mirror. A young woman, her expression serious and her gaze steady, looked back.

This is who I am,
she thought. It was time to prove she was her father's daughter. Time to prove that she had the courage and conviction of what lay in her own heart.

On silent feet, Miriam walked down the stairs to do what her heart knew must be done.

Fifteen

M
iriam, you should have waited for me to do that,” Sarah exclaimed as she came into the kitchen. Not even ten minutes had passed since Miriam watched Sarah throw her arms around Daniel's neck.

As she had throughout their childhood, Sarah thrust a leg backward to catch the screen door so that it wouldn't slam behind her. “I keep telling you that I can help.” She moved to stand beside Miriam as she was laying the table for supper and placed a hand on her arm. “Are you feeling all right? I met Daniel walking across the fields. He said you came home early because you weren't feeling well.”

“I wasn't,” Miriam said. “But I'm much better now.” She set the last knife down on the table, adjusting it so that it was perfectly straight. Then she turned to face her sister.

“I know you and Daniel walked home together,” she said quietly. “I saw you from the window upstairs.”

Sarah's brow furrowed. “What?”

“I saw you, Sarah,” Miriam said again. “Just like I saw you that summer, before you left, before Daniel and I were married. And I want you to know . . .” Her voice wavered, and Miriam broke off. She took a deep, steadying breath, and then went on, “I want you to know that I understand and it's all right.”

The furrow between Sarah's brows became an out-and-out frown. “Understand what, Miriam? What are you talking about?”

“I'm talking about the fact that you and Daniel are in love.”

Sarah's face turned the color of ashes. Her hand slipped from Miriam's arm. “What?” she whispered. “What did you just say?”

“I know that Daniel loves you best, Sarah,” Miriam answered as steadily as she could. “And—” She felt her heart breaking, but she forced herself to finish. “And that he only married me because he couldn't have you.”

There was something about the expression in Sarah's eyes that Miriam couldn't read. Miriam had thought that Sarah would be relieved to know that Miriam knew the truth and that she didn't blame Sarah or Daniel—that she didn't mind. Instead, Sarah looked as if Miriam had stabbed her through the heart.

“I—I've known it since the day you told Daed and me that you were going away,” Miriam faltered on. “I just . . . hid from it, I guess. But I don't want to hide anymore.”

“But everything you know is wrong!” Sarah said. “How can you think such a thing, Miriam? How can you have lived with Daniel all this time and not know?”

“Not know what?”

“That he loves
you
!” Sarah cried. “He's loved you ever since the day he tumbled over and almost squashed you flat when you were, what—two years old!”

“Three,” Miriam answered faintly. “It's Daniel who was two.”

Sarah groped blindly for the chair behind her, then slowly sank down. “Oh, my stars. That's how long
you've
loved
him
, isn't it? Since that same day. Since you were three years old.”

And then, to Miriam's complete and utter astonishment, Sarah began to laugh.

Miriam reached to take her sister by the shoulders, shaking her furiously. “Stop laughing at me. Stop it right now!”

“I'm not laughing at you,” Sarah said. “Really. It's just all so . . . crazy.” She stood up, pushing Miriam's hands away from her shoulders. “I mean it, Miriam.
You
stop now. Stop listening to whatever stories you've been telling yourself and listen to me.

“Daniel loves
you
. He has always loved you.”

“You can't know that. How can you know that?” Miriam whispered.

“Well, how do you think?” Sarah demanded. “Because he told me so. In fact, he has been telling me so, quite relentlessly, since he was thirteen.”

“
But I saw you!
” Miriam cried. “I saw you and Daniel together, this afternoon . . . just like six years ago. I saw the way the two of you embraced, Sarah. Don't try and tell me you don't care for each other.”

“I'm not trying to tell you that,” Sarah said, in a steady, even tone. “We do care, very much. But that's not the same as saying we're in love. We're not. We never have been, Miriam. I don't know why you would ever think we were.”

“Because it's what everyone else thought!” Miriam said. “Do you hear me? Everyone! It was all I heard, after every Sunday worship service, at every quilt frolic when I left the room and people thought I couldn't hear what they said while I was gone. What a lovely couple Daniel and Sarah make. How alike they are.”

“Which only goes to show that people are idiots,” Sarah answered with a snort. “Daniel and I are no more alike than—” She made a face as she searched for the proper combination. “Oh, I don't know!” she finally exclaimed. “Pineapples and bunny rabbits.”

“That's a ridiculous comparison,” Miriam protested.

“I know that!” Sarah said. “I'm thinking that would be the point.”

“Stop trying to sound like an
Englischer
,” Miriam snapped.

“
I
am
an Englischer!
” Sarah came right back. “Or as good as, anyhow. And just because you're Plain doesn't mean you're not trying to change the subject. Daniel and I were
arguing
when you saw us. Actually, both times.”

Miriam shook her head. “You were arguing with Daniel? What could you two possibly have to argue about?”

“I just told you,” Sarah said with exaggerated patience. “You.
You
are the only subject we've ever talked about. All his life, Daniel has been so in love with you, and so afraid that you didn't love him back. He has never known how to tell you.

“Long before I told Daed
that I wanted to go away to school, Daniel decided that he wanted to marry you. But he didn't know how to tell you, how to make you fall in love with him. He was sure you didn't care for him at all.”

“But how could that be?” Miriam asked, astounded. “I'd loved Daniel all my life.”

Sarah gave her sister a long, exasperated look. “I don't think either one of you is very good at saying the things that matter most. Or at least, not the things that are closest to your heart.”

“Perhaps that's true,” Miriam admitted. And there was something else that was true: She had been pulling away from Daniel then, convinced that he loved Sarah.

“Anyway,” Sarah said, “Daniel was in a panic about how to court you. What should he say, how should he say it, when and where should he ask you? I tried to help him as best I could, but I had other concerns. I was trying to understand what I was meant to do with my own life, and once it was clear, I had to act on it before I lost my courage.

“So I meant to wait with my announcement until after Daniel announced his intentions, but that day with Daed, it just came out of me. It was such a huge decision for me, I couldn't keep it bottled up inside.”

“I can understand that,” Miriam said. “But I still don't understand why you and Daniel argued.”

“Because he was furious with me,” Sarah told her. “I think he was counting on me to guide his every step until you were actually married, and instead I left.” She sighed. “I admit, I became impatient with Daniel. The day that we argued, I told him that if he wanted to marry you, then he had to learn to stand on his own two feet and make his feelings known.” Sarah winced. “I told him he had to be man enough to figure this out on his own or he wouldn't be worthy of you.”

Miriam was silent as she took all that in. Was it really possible that Daniel had turned to Sarah—as a kind of adviser—because he was terrified he might not be able to win Miriam on his own? It was possible, she supposed. Daniel had never been one to discuss his feelings or emotions. Still, she had to ask . . .

“But what about when you hugged each other?”

Sarah smiled. “After I scolded him, Daniel came to his senses. He admitted that I was right. Then he apologized and he asked if we could still be friends. I told him we were more than friends, that I'd always thought of him as a brother, and once you two married, we'd be family. That's when we hugged.”

“And today?” Miriam asked faintly.

“Men are so dense sometimes!” Sarah exclaimed. “I met him walking along the road, and he said you had come home early because you didn't feel well. When I asked what the matter was he said he didn't know! He'd just let you come home, alone, while he stayed behind to talk to the men about the horse auction. Of course, he told me that you'd insisted you could go on your own, just the way you insist on never letting anyone help with the housework. It obviously never occurred to him that you might really be unwell—or unhappy. I was very blunt. I told him: “How can Miriam know how much you love her if you never put her first?” He was angry at me, but then he was grateful. So he hugged me—like the brother he has always been to me.”

Now it was Miriam who sat down. She put her elbows on the table and rested her head in her hands. “I don't understand anything anymore,” she said. “This is not what I expected to hear from you.”

“Now,
that
I believe,” Sarah said. She sat down, too. The two sisters sat in silence for several moments.

“You really married Daniel believing he loved me more than he loved you?” Sarah finally spoke. “Miriam, how could you do such a thing? How could you live like that?”

“Because of how much I loved him,” Miriam said into her hands. She lifted her head. “I know you were only joking, but what you said was true. I really have loved Daniel since I was three years old and he was two.”

“And have you mentioned this to him?” Sarah asked.

“Probably not,” Miriam said.

“That's not good enough, Miriam,” Sarah said. “Have you told Daniel that you love him,
ja
or no?”

“No,” Miriam whispered as her eyes filled with tears. “Not right out. Not like that. I thought . . . I suppose I thought that I would show him somehow. Isn't that the Plain way? You know, the way Daed showed us he loved us all those years. He never made flowery speeches.”

“No,” Sarah agreed. “He did not. But he told us that he loved us every single day, when he tucked us into bed each night. Surely you can't have forgotten that.”

“No,” Miriam said, “I have not.”

“So why would you never tell Daniel that you loved him?”

“Because I knew that he never loved me,” Miriam cried. “He loved you!”

“No,” Sarah said. She reached across the table to take Miriam's hands in hers. “You have to believe me, Miriam. Daniel has spent his entire life loving
you
—you and only you. I was like a sister to him, the person who knew you better than anyone else. That's why he talked to me.
So he could find a way to spend his life with you
. If I'd known what you thought—”

“What am I going to do?” Miriam whispered. “Oh, Sarah, I've been so wrong.”

“You don't need me to tell you the answer to that,” Sarah said. “You know perfectly well yourself.”

Miriam pulled in a deep breath, then let it out again. “I'm going to have to be brave again, aren't I?”

“You are brave,” Sarah said. “You're the bravest person I know. And I'll tell you a secret.” All of a sudden, she grinned. “Right before I came in, I think Daniel said something about heading to the barn to check on the horse.”

“Check on the horse!” Miriam exclaimed as she got to her feet. “What's he going to do that for? As if I don't know how to care for a horse and buggy after all these years. Any good Plain woman knows that.”

“Any good Plain wife,” Sarah corrected her, her eyes dancing. “Clearly, there are all sorts of things you need to remind Daniel of.”

Miriam laughed, then clapped a hand across her mouth at the unexpected sound. “I laughed,” she said, her tone full of wonder. “When I came home this afternoon, the last thing I expected was that I would find something to laugh about.” She looked at her sister. “Thank you.”

“Don't thank me,” Sarah said. “Thank yourself.”

“The—barn?” Miriam asked.

“The barn.” Sarah nodded. “I'll just finish setting the table, if I may.”

“You may,” Miriam said.

She turned toward the door. The few short steps it took from the table to the steps were the longest Miriam had ever taken. But finally, she was down the steps and into the yard. She could see Daniel, standing beside the pump, his back to the house, gazing in the direction of the fields Miriam saw from her kitchen window each morning.

Is this what we've been doing all these years?
she suddenly thought.
Looking at the same thing, for the same thing, but never knowing the other was looking as well?

As she got closer, she saw that Daniel's hair was dripping wet. The front of his shirt and half the back were soaked, as if he'd simply thrust his head and shoulders beneath the spigot and worked the pump handle for all he was worth, never caring for an instant where the water would go. It was the first time in all their life together that such a thing had happened.