Summer Promise (2 page)

That day, like today, Miriam had gone outdoors. She wandered aimlessly through the fields for what had felt like hours, trying to sort out her own tumultuous emotions. Only when the sun began to set did she turn her feet toward home.

And it was on the journey back that she had seen Sarah and Daniel together. Sarah speaking earnestly, her face upturned toward Daniel's bent head. With one hand, she gripped Daniel by the arm. Even from far away, Miriam had felt like a spy, an intruder. But she could not seem to turn away or avert her eyes.

And so she had seen Daniel shake his head. Seen Sarah grip him by the shoulders. And then, as Miriam still watched, Sarah had reached up and Daniel had reached down until the two were in each other's arms. Miriam could see the urgency of the embrace, even from far off. Then Daniel released Sarah, spun on one heel, and walked away. He did not look back, and in the weeks between Sarah's announcement and her departure, Daniel did not visit the Lapp farm. Not even once.

A month to the day after Miriam and Jacob watched Sarah's plane lift off for San Francisco, Daniel asked Miriam to be his wife.

They had been married that winter. Sarah had not come to the wedding. She wrote to say the date fell right in the middle of something called finals week, a series of tests that would prove she had mastered what she had been taught. If she came home then, all her hard work at school would be lost.

I am sorry not to be with you on your wedding day,
Sarah had written.
But I wish you happiness with all my heart.

The six years since then had been both the happiest and the most troubled of Miriam's life. Every day, she awoke to the gift of being Daniel's wife, so full of love for him that it sometimes seemed impossible her heart could contain it all. But every night when she lay down beside him and closed her eyes, the image of that long-ago embrace flickered for a fraction of an instant inside Miriam's eyelids. Nothing she did could ever banish it entirely. And as the years passed and still she and Daniel had no children, that image of her husband and sister together, the image of what might have been, had slowly eaten a hole into Miriam's heart until fear and love resided there side by side.

Was Daniel sorry he had chosen her instead of Sarah? Did he still love Sarah, even after all this time?

“Miriam?” a quiet voice behind her said.

Miriam spun around. A figure was outlined against the block of light that was the open back door.
How bright it is outside!
Miriam thought. Full day. She had been in the farm stand much longer than she realized.

“I thought that I might find you here,” Daniel said. He did not come into the farm stand, but stayed right where he was. “Are you well? Do you want me to turn on the light?”

“No,” Miriam said at once, answering the second question first. “And I am fine. I just—”

“I understand,” Daniel said. “This place will always be your father's, won't it?”

“
Ja,
” Miriam said, as her heart flooded with love for this good man who was her husband. Even in the dark, he saw so much. So why was it that he could not see the one thing Miriam hoped for the most? How very much she needed to know he loved her, that she was first in his heart.

“Are you ready to go up to the house?” Daniel asked. “The others will begin arriving soon. Bishop John and his wife are already there. Leah, their niece, baked you the coffee cake you liked so much at the last worship Sunday.”

“That is kind of her.”

She moved toward the open door. Daniel stepped outside and Miriam followed, blinking against the sudden light. While Daniel waited patiently, Miriam closed and locked the farm stand door. As she turned toward him, Daniel extended one hand, the faintest question in his blue eyes. Miriam hesitated just a moment, and then linked her fingers with her husband's. Daniel's grip was sure and strong. Miriam's love for him rose like a great flood inside her heart.

Please, God,
she thought.
If it is Your will, let Daniel and I walk heart in heart as we now walk side by side.

And what if that isn't His will?
a voice inside her asked.

“Are you ready?” Daniel asked softly.

“I am ready,” Miriam said, temporarily banishing the voice of doubt.

Together they walked up the hill toward the farmhouse in the bright morning sunshine.

Two

M
iriam twisted her hands in her lap, battling the urge to turn her body around on the hard wooden bench so that she could see the entrance to the barn. All morning, people had been arriving for the funeral service. Amos Shetler had come first, driving his wagon with the long bed that would carry Jacob's coffin to the
graabhof
, where her father would be buried. Amos's oldest sons, Samuel and Ben, had taken charge of buggy parking, while the youngest, Enos, had stayed near the farm stand, showing
Englischers
where to park their cars. In next to no time, or so it seemed to Miriam, the big Lapp barn had filled almost to bursting with all those who had come to honor her father.

But Sarah had not yet arrived.

Where can she be?
Miriam wondered. She stopped twisting her fingers to pluck nervously at her dark apron. Without warning, she felt strong yet gentle fingers close over hers. She started, and then turned to face Rachel Miller, Bishop John Miller's wife, who was seated at her right side. The spot on Miriam's left side was empty, waiting for Sarah. As she met Rachel's calm, dark eyes, Miriam felt the prick of tears at the back of her own.

“Dear Miriam,” Rachel said in a low voice. “I'm sure Sarah will be here soon. Perhaps you should wait by the door. I'm sure your sister will appreciate seeing you the moment she arrives. She has made a long, sad journey to come here.”

Miriam shook her head, as if to dispel the thoughts that so troubled her. “How did you know what I was thinking?”

Rachel gave Miriam's hands a last squeeze and then let go. “It's only common sense,” she said. “This is an important day for you and for Sarah. Go wait for her. It will make you feel better. And do not worry. No one is going to start the service without both of Jacob's girls.”

Grateful for Rachel's understanding, Miriam rose and turned toward the entrance to the barn. Bright sunlight streamed in through the open double doors. As was the tradition in worship services, the men and boys sat on one side of the barn, and the women and girls sat facing them on the other. Miriam gazed out across a sea of dark dresses and aprons, the fronts of the women's white
kapps
peeking out from the black head coverings they wore for the funeral. Across the center aisle, the shoulders of the men in their sober black frock coats they donned only for serious occasions brushed together. Miriam saw the scattering of dark
Englisch
dress among the crowd.

Out of the corner of her eye, Miriam saw Daniel start to rise to his feet as well. And then, suddenly, all of Miriam's attention was claimed by the shape of a woman carving a dark outline into the bright square of the open doors. Could this be Sarah at last? Quickly, Miriam hurried down the aisle. The figure in the doorway took a few tentative steps, as if uncertain where to go, or perhaps it was just that her eyes were having trouble adjusting to the softer light of the barn after the brightness of the outdoors.

As she approached, Miriam could see that the woman was wearing a simple black dress with a row of dark buttons down the front of the bodice. A triangle of dark lace covered her pale blond hair, which was cut in a chin-length bob. She wore sheer black stockings and a pair of high-heeled black shoes. In spite of herself, Miriam felt her footsteps falter. Could this, this stylish
Englisch
woman, really be Sarah?

She looks like a stranger,
she thought. The last time Sarah had visited, she had come in Plain clothes. Miriam remembered her saying that she'd put them on before leaving for the airport, so she would fit back in easily. And now, did she no longer want to fit in, to be part of them?

Sarah started forward, her hands outstretched. “Miriam,” she breathed. Her hands found Miriam's and held on tight. “Oh, Miriam, I'm so sorry. The taxi had a flat tire, and it took forever to get it sorted out. I was so afraid I wouldn't make it in time. I hope you didn't worry.”

“You are here now,” Miriam answered as she returned her sister's tight grip. “It's all right. Everything will be all right.”

And, suddenly, just like that, it was.

The grip of Sarah's fingers felt just as they always had, strong but also trusting, as firmly connected to her as when they were children. It didn't matter what she looked like or how long she had been gone. It didn't matter that she had chosen an
Englisch
life, and Miriam, a Plain one. It didn't even matter that Miriam was now a married woman, that her last name was Brennemann now. With their hands clasped tightly together, they were the Lapp girls, here to honor the father they both loved.

“I saved you a place right beside me,” Miriam said.

Right where you belong.

Hands still tightly clasped, the sisters walked together to take their place at this last tribute to their father.

* * *

Several hours later, under a hot noonday sun, Miriam stood in the graveyard, gazing down at her father's grave. A gentle mound of earth now covered Jacob Lapp's final resting place, but Miriam knew that the earth would settle in the days to come. Wind, rain, and sun would do their work, and soon the grass would begin to grow. The place where her father lay would no longer look fresh and new, like a sudden interruption. It would look like it belonged.

In the days since her father's death, Miriam had tried to imagine this moment. What would she feel as she gazed at the graves of her parents, now resting side by side? What final wish or image of her father would flit, quick as a hummingbird, across her mind? But now that the moment had actually arrived, it was as if Miriam had no conscious thought at all. Instead, a clear, bright light seemed to flood her entire being. In it, there was no place for words, and no need for them. Miriam was filled, as she was absolutely certain Jacob was, with the light of the grace of God.

“Miriam?” she heard a voice say softly. Automatically, she turned toward the sound and found herself looking up into Daniel's face. Only then did Miriam realize that tears were streaming down her cheeks. She could see them, see herself, reflected in her husband's eyes.

Ach
, Daniel's eyes . . . they are beautiful, so beautiful!
Miriam thought. Even here, in these circumstances, the color of Daniel's eyes had the power to take Miriam's breath away, to take her by surprise. They were a blue so vivid they had always inspired one of Miriam's rare flights of fancy, for it had always seemed to her that Daniel's eyes must be made from a slice of summer sky.

As she looked into them now, Miriam saw both a question and a reassurance. She reached up and touched Daniel's cheek in silent thanks, watched his eyes light with surprise. He reached to cover her hand with one of his own. With his other hand, he offered her a white handkerchief. She took it and wiped the tears from her face.

“I'll go tell Rachel that we will be up at the house soon,” Daniel said. “You stay with Sarah. I'll be back in a few—”

“I can't stay with Sarah,” Miriam protested. “I don't know where she is. She's gone. She was here a minute ago. But after we finished the Lord's Prayer, I . . .”

She stopped as a strange expression flitted across Daniel's face.

“Miriam,” he said softly, “Sarah is standing right behind you.”

Miriam swung around. Sure enough, Sarah was right behind her, staring at their father's grave. Her eyes were sad but without tears.

“I'm sorry for disappearing so suddenly like that,” she said. Her gaze met Miriam's and then skittered away. “I'm not sure quite what happened, in all honesty. There was just something about all the people and seeing the grave being filled up, shovelful by shovelful. I just . . .” Her voice trailed off.

“I can understand how it might be difficult,” Daniel said, his voice soothing. “It's been years since you've been home. And then, to come back to this . . .”

“Thank you for saying that, Daniel,” Sarah answered. Was it just Miriam's imagination, or were her sister's cheeks stained with just the faintest blush? “Your words are very kind.”

“You are looking well, Sarah,” Daniel replied.

Sarah gave a snort of not particularly amused laughter. “I
look
like I sat in a plane all night long. Miriam is the one who looks well, don't you think?” The compliment increased Miriam's discomfort. It was not their way to talk about appearances.

“Daniel!” A voice from a short distance away cut across the awkwardness of the moment.

“Is that Lucas?” Sarah asked.

“
Ja
. You haven't forgotten us after all,” Daniel answered with a smile. He turned toward his younger brother and called, “I'm coming!” He turned back to Miriam and Sarah. “I'll return with the buggy in a few moments. Then we can all go back to the house. I'm sure Mamm and Rachel will have everything ready by the time we return.”

Now that the funeral and the rituals of burial were over, most of the mourners would be returning to their own homes. But some, those who were particularly close to Daniel and Miriam or who had traveled a long distance to attend, would return to the Lapp farmhouse for a meal before heading home. Like almost everything else that had happened since Jacob's death, the meal was being prepared by family and friends—in this case, Daniel's mother, Amelia; his sister-in-law, Annaliese; and Rachel, Bishop John's wife.

Daniel made a half gesture, as if to touch Miriam's shoulder, then stopped short. Without another word, he turned on one heel and strode off. Miriam and Sarah were left standing beside their father's grave, alone.

“I don't know how to do it, Miriam,” Sarah said. “I thought about it on the plane, all night long. I was hoping, once I was actually standing here, that I could find the way, but I can't seem to. I don't know how to tell Daed good-bye.”

A quick pang of sympathy speared through Miriam. She had been given the gift of several days beside her father's body, praying and saying good-bye. But Sarah had not received this gift. She no longer lived at home, no longer lived a Plain life.

Miriam reached to put an arm around her sister's shoulders. “Maybe you don't have to,” she suggested. “Not today, anyhow. Let it go for now, Sarah. Try to be at peace with God.”

“I
am
trying,” Sarah said, and Miriam heard the catch in her sister's voice. “But I've never been as good at that as you are, you know.”

“I always think of you as being good at everything,” Miriam said, surprised.

Sarah shook her head.
“
No,” she said, “you're the one who's always been such a quick study.” She smiled at Miriam. “Even in San Francisco, I've never met anyone who's so capable.”

Miriam didn't know how to answer that; it was so different from her perception. It always seemed to her that things came easily to her sister. Sarah was the one who seemed so good at everything—at sewing and baking and quilting and putting up preserves. She had a talent for singing and gardening. She even had a knack for working with the animals. Miriam remembered an ornery rooster who used to follow her sister everywhere. Sarah was the only one who could get near him without being pecked half to death.

Miriam felt the breeze come up. It lifted the strings of her
kapp
and set them to fluttering. Miriam followed their dance with her eyes. Her eyes fell on the plain stone marking her mother's grave. There would be one for her father before the month was out. Her parents, so long separated by the early death of her mother, were together at last, safe in the arms of a merciful and loving God. She gave Sarah's shoulders a squeeze and then let go.

“Sarah, do you remember Mamm?” she asked.

“Not really.” Sarah shook her head. “Do you?”

“A little bit, least I think so,” Miriam answered, as the image she remembered most clearly sprang into her mind.

The figure of a woman leaning over her bed, tucking in the covers with sure and gentle fingers before bending low to give Miriam a kiss good night. Their breath made soft white clouds in the night air. It was winter, and the upstairs bedrooms were cold. The light of the kerosene lamp filled the room with its pale glow. But try as she might, Miriam had never been able to bring her mother's features into focus. Edna Lapp's face remained a blank, her form little more than a smooth, dark outline.

“Did you ever wonder why Daed never married again?” Miriam asked.

“Of course I did.” Sarah nodded. “I used to wonder all the time. And then I'd try to picture what life would be like if he chose this woman or that one.”

“You didn't!” Miriam exclaimed. She turned her head to stare at Sarah.

Sarah's jaw was set and her face slightly flushed. “Oh, yes, I did,” she replied, her tone making it all too clear that these memories were not particularly happy ones. “Remember all those stomachaches I used to get right at bedtime? It's because I was imagining how different things would be once Daed married again.”