Summer Promise (6 page)

“But you had enough for this trip?”

“I've been saving a little from every paycheck for two years now. So, yes, I finally had enough.”

The sisters fell silent once more. They came to the end of the long drive and turned onto the road, and the farm stand came into view.

“Do you remember how Daed came up with the name for the stand?” Sarah asked, abruptly changing the subject.

“Of course I do,” Miriam said with a smile. “He said he plowed up so many rocks to clear the land for it, there was only one choice.”

“Stony Field Farm Stand,” Sarah said. She and Miriam reached the back door. “You keep it locked now,” Sarah went on. “I noticed that when I came down earlier.”

“Daed decided it would be best.” Miriam put the key into the padlock, twisted to open it, and then slipped the padlock off the door. “There was some vandalism a year or so ago. Somebody went around making mischief all over the county. They never did figure out who it was. So Daed decided we should lock the doors to the farm stand, since it's so close to the road. I don't think he ever really liked doing it, though.”

She stepped across the threshold, fingers going unerringly to the switch for the overhead lights. The interior of the stand felt close and warm, though Miriam had closed it up no more than an hour or so before. She threaded her way through the stand to open the doors at the front, just as she had that morning. Afternoon sunshine streamed in, followed by a quick, fresh breeze.

“There now,” Sarah said. “This feels just right.”

“Really?” Miriam asked in surprise. “I would have thought—” She stopped short, biting the tip of her tongue.

“What?” Sarah inquired.

“It's just that I associate the stand so much with Daed.” Miriam faltered. “He spent almost all his time here toward the end, when he couldn't work in the fields at all. I was going to say that this was one of the places that seems most empty without him, but then I thought—”

“You thought there was no way I'd feel the way you do,” Sarah filled in, “because I wasn't there at the end. But you think I should have been. You think I was wrong to go. You've always thought so.”

“I didn't say that,” Miriam protested.

“That doesn't mean you don't think it,” Sarah answered shortly. “You've never understood why I felt I had to leave. Admit it.”

“All right, maybe I haven't,” Miriam said. “But that's not the same as saying I think it was wrong for you to go.”

If you hadn't gone, I might never have married Daniel,
she thought. But she knew she could never say such a thing aloud.

“I don't know very much about your life,” she went on slowly. “You've only been home twice in six years, until now. And you don't really talk about life among the
Englischers
much when you're here, not to me anyhow. I didn't think you wanted to talk about it—at least not to me.”

“That's not true. What do you want to know? Just ask,” Sarah said.

“Everything. Nothing. How should I know?” Miriam exclaimed, throwing up her hands. “Sarah, I don't want us to quarrel. I'm not even sure how we got into this conversation in the first place.”

“Neither am I,” Sarah said. “I'm sorry.” She huffed out a breath that was not quite a laugh. “I seem to be saying that a lot today . . . And if you tell me an apology never hurts, I'll think you've actually turned into Daed, so just don't.”

“Well, it doesn't,” Miriam said. She bit down on her bottom lip to hold back a smile.

“I know,” Sarah replied. “I probably know it better than you do, in fact. I was the one who did most of the apologizing when we were growing up, as I recall.”

“What was it Berthe Meyer always used to call you?” Miriam asked.

“High-spirited,” Sarah answered with a snort of laughter. She gave a theatrical shudder. “Berthe Meyer. Don't remind me.”

“Sorry,” Miriam said, then clapped a hand across her mouth as Sarah's laughter rang out, full-blown. “I did
not
do that on purpose,” Miriam said, as she felt her own laughter bubble up. “It just popped out!”

“Guess Berthe still brings out the worst in both of us.”

“Sarah,” Miriam protested, but she was laughing herself now.

Berthe Meyer was the most outspoken woman in the district. She'd been known to try even Bishop John's patience. She had not approved of Jacob Lapp raising two young girls on his own. As a result, she had seldom approved of Miriam and Sarah and hadn't hesitated to say so.

“Enough of this nonsense!” Sarah said, with a stamp of one foot. “It makes me giddy. Give me something to do so I can settle down.”

“There's not much left,” Miriam admitted. She put her hands on her hips and turned in a slow circle, gazing at the farm stand's interior. “We could take stock of the jams and canned goods, I suppose. Those are always big sellers among the
Englischers
and I don't want to run out.”

“Counting canned goods,” Sarah repeated. “Sounds perfect for me.”

“Take this,” Miriam said. She reached beneath the cash register, opened a drawer, and brought out a notebook. “It should tell you who brought in what and how many of each kind. If we're down to two jars of anything, write it down. Then I can speak with whoever it is on Sunday to see if she has more that she'd like to bring us.”

“Pen? Pencil?” Sarah asked.

“Here,” Miriam said, fetching a pen from the same drawer. “Sometimes we keep extra preserves on the top shelves,” she added. “You should check there, too. You'll probably need the stepladder for that.”

“Okay.” Sarah nodded and got to work. Miriam stood for a moment, uncertain of what she should do herself. As Miriam stood hesitating, Sarah picked up a jar of strawberry jam and lifted it up toward the sunlight. “These look so good!” she said. “I'm not surprised the
Englischers
buy so many.”

“Don't they ever make any of their own?”

This was a question Miriam had always wanted to ask, but it seemed rude to ask any of her
Englisch
customers.

“Some do.” Sarah nodded. “It used to be considered kind of old-fashioned, but lately it's sort of—I don't know—come back into style.”

“Style?” Miriam echoed.

Sarah laughed. “You expect the
Englischers
to make the same sense you do,” she observed. “That's not going to get you very far.”

“How did you ever get used to living among them?” Miriam asked. “Wasn't it hard?”

“It was, at first,” Sarah acknowledged. “Actually, it still is, sometimes.” She set the jar back on the shelf and turned to face Miriam more fully. “There are so many people in San Francisco, Miriam! I'd never seen so many before. And all so different from one another, not like the people here at all.”

“We're not all the same,” Miriam protested.

“No,” Sarah agreed. “Of course not. But you all agree to abide by the
Ordnung
, or at least you agree to try. That's part of what becoming Plain means, isn't it? It's part of what keeps you separate from everyone else. Right?”

“Yes.” Miriam nodded. “I can see your point.”

You, she thought.
She says
you
, not
we.
Not anymore.

“Take the clothing, for example,” Sarah went on. “All the women here wear similar dresses—different colors maybe, but very similar. And all the women and girls wear
kapps.
But the
Englischers
, most of them anyhow, don't want that at all. They want to be unique individuals, not part of a crowd. You've seen the fashions on the tourists. The women might wear skirts or dresses or jeans or shorts. They use their clothing to distinguish themselves, to make themselves different and attractive.”

“But—” Miriam said, then stopped.

“No, go on,” Sarah said.

“How can anyone live like that? How do you know who you are?”

“Those are good questions,” Sarah admitted. “And they're ones a lot of people struggle with. Not just people like me. Lots of
Englischers
struggle with them as well. But do you want to know something funny?” Sarah went on with a smile. “The things I struggled with the most, at first anyhow, weren't anything so profound. There were just so many things to
do
, Miriam! Wonderful things like museums and libraries, even just walking around. Some days, I got dizzy just thinking about them. Others, I ended up doing nothing at all because I couldn't decide what to do first! And then there was the noise.”

Sarah shook her head. “I'm still not used to that, to tell you the truth. It still catches me off guard sometimes. Cars honking and buses roaring up and down the streets, radios blaring, people walking down the street talking on their cell phones. It's like you can almost
see
the sound. When I first started school, I used to lie in bed in my dorm room at night, trying to re-create in my mind the silence of my old room at home.”

“And could you?” Miriam asked, fascinated in spite of herself.

“I could,” Sarah said. “Right up until the moment my roommate started snoring.”

“Oh, no!”

“Oh, yes,” Sarah said with a grin. “The first night it happened, I almost cried. But I'd promised myself I would never do that, so . . .”

A sharp trilling sound, like the ring of an old-fashioned phone, cut through the air of the farm stand. Both sisters jumped.

“What on earth?” Miriam exclaimed.

But Sarah was busy digging her fingers into the back pocket of her jeans and pulling out a slim, brightly colored phone. She glanced at the front.

“It's work; I have to take this,” she said, as she checked the number. She set the pen and notebook on the counter beside the cash register. “I'll be right back. Sorry.”

She put an index finger to the front of the phone, then swiftly moved the phone to her ear.

“Hello, this is Sarah Lapp,” she said as she stepped outside.

Miriam shook her head with an inward smile. There was Sarah complaining about the city's noise, and her own cell phone went off, as if she were importing the din to Lancaster. Miriam found herself grateful that she and Daniel didn't have cell phones and the only nearby pay phone was in Daniel's father's barn.

She picked up the pen and notebook Sarah had abandoned, determined to finish the job herself. Abruptly a wave of weariness swept over her.

It can wait until tomorrow,
she thought. Taking stock would be a good task for Leah, a good way to introduce her to some of the inner workings of the farm stand.

Miriam leaned her arms on the counter, gazing out the front doors.
Why am I so tired?
she wondered. The day was only just half done, and she had hardly done anything, not by her usual standards.

I guess I'm still getting used to life without Daed,
she thought.

She straightened up.
I'll spend some time in the garden,
she decided. Tending the kitchen garden had always been one of her favorite activities. She didn't even mind pulling the weeds, not that she allowed many to take hold. She tended garden too well for that.

Feeling better now that she had a definite purpose, Miriam closed up the farm stand and locked the back door behind her. She could see Sarah, a ways down the drive. She was pacing back and forth, speaking animatedly into the cell phone.

That looks serious,
Miriam thought. Could there be trouble at Sarah's job?
I don't even really know what it is she does,
Miriam realized.

Sarah was right. She
did
seem like a stranger.

Is that what we feel like to her?
Miriam wondered. But what she really wanted to know was . . . did Daniel feel that way about Sarah?

This was a possibility that Miriam had never considered before. The Sarah who was here, today, no longer matched the Sarah of Miriam's memory, the one she conjured up in her mind's eye. Did Daniel feel this way as well? If he did, would it bring him closer to Miriam, who was so close and so familiar? Or would the new Sarah seem even more interesting? Next to Sarah, would Miriam seem drab and dull?

Suddenly, the sky seemed to darken as Miriam walked to her empty house alone.

Six

M
iriam was halfway to her house when she saw a small figure dashing toward her.

“Miriam! Miriam!” an exuberant voice called.

It was Daniel's youngest brother, ten-year-old Matthew, pelting down the drive as fast as his bare feet could carry him. Unless Miriam missed her guess, he had run all the way from the Brennemann farm. Though both the Lapp and Brennemann farms had many acres to their names, the farmhouses had been set so as to be reasonably close together, the country equivalent of side by side. Family members could get from one farmhouse to the other by cutting across a great open meadow. There was no need to go all the way to the main road. But, like the farm stand and the Lapp farmhouse, the Lapp and Brennemann farmhouses were hidden from each other by the gently rolling hills that dominated the countryside.

Miriam didn't think she had ever met a boy who loved to run as much as Matthew Brennemann did. His mother, Amelia, always claimed it was because he was doing his best to catch up to his four older brothers. Considering that the twins, Jonas and Joshua, the next closest in age, were seventeen, Miriam didn't think Matthew was going to slow down anytime soon.

“Hello, Matthew,” she said with a smile. She stopped walking, standing still in the center of the drive while Matthew ran a great circle around her. “Are you well?” she asked. “Is everything all right at the farm?”

“
Ja
,” Matthew panted.

He completed one more circuit then skidded to a stop in front of Miriam, his chest rising and falling with his quick breaths in and out. He looked like he belonged on one of the postcards the
Englischers
were always asking to buy, Miriam thought. Matthew's hair was as pale as corn silk. A smattering of freckles raced across his nose and cheekbones. In his dark pants, sky blue shirt, and dark suspenders, he was the perfect image of a Plain child.

“Mamm asks, will you and your sister please come to supper,” Matthew went on. “She's making chicken and dumplings. They're Daniel's favorite, and mine, too, so you should say yes.”

“Of course I will say yes,” Miriam replied with a smile. “And I'll tell you a secret: Chicken and dumplings are my favorites, too.”

“Hooray!” Matthew shouted. As if her acceptance had been the secret signal for the start of the next race, Matthew began to run once more. He shot past Miriam, arms outstretched like airplane wings. He made a wide, banking turn before heading back across the fields toward home. “I will tell Mamm,” he called over his shoulder as he went by. “Don't be late or all the dumplings will be gone!”

“I will not be late,” Miriam called back.

She turned and began to walk home briskly, all her earlier weariness gone. Next to her own home, the farm where Daniel had grown up was Miriam's favorite place on earth, always filled with the joy and laughter of family life. And the seriousness, too, Miriam acknowledged. Nobody could raise seven children without encountering life's ups and downs.

What was the phrase the
Englischer
man who had stopped at the farm stand a couple of weeks ago had used? She could still see him in her mind's eye, red faced and perspiring. His car had broken down several miles down the road and, for some reason Miriam could not now recall, he'd been without a cell phone. He had stopped at the farm stand, assuming he could call from there, and had been taken aback when Jacob explained that the closest phone was a pay phone in the Brennemanns' barn.

A walk in the park. That was it,
Miriam thought.
He said life's not always a walk in the park
. She remembered how the pronouncement had made her father smile. “Nope, not always a walk in the park,” the man had said, “but that doesn't mean you can't stop to smell the roses
.”
When Miriam had protested that they had no roses, the man had given Daed a wink. “So I see,” he'd replied. “Guess I'll just have to settle for that basket of tomatoes instead.”

She had felt foolish at the time. But now she thought she could see what the
Englisch
man had meant. You could not always predict what life would bring, but you could always try to make the best of it.

Supper with Daniel's family might be just what Miriam needed to chase away her dark thoughts.

I must take something to Amelia,
she thought. Something that would express Miriam's appreciation for being asked to supper. Something to celebrate both the sweetness and the hard work of family life. Her mind busy with just what this might be, Miriam continued on toward the house.

* * *

“Your blackberry jam,” Amelia Brennemann exclaimed that evening as Miriam handed her a basket with several jars nestled inside. She had tucked a clean white dish towel around them to keep them from being jostled too hard. “Oh, Miriam, you shouldn't have, but I won't say no! Do you know, no matter how many jars of jam I make, I never seem to make enough. I don't know where the boys put it.”

“Hollow legs,” Miriam suggested with a smile.

She stepped across the threshold and into the kitchen. As was the case in Miriam's own home, visitors used the front door only for formal occasions. It was the kitchen that was really the heart of the farmhouse. At the moment, the room was filled with the good smells of the summer supper they were all about to enjoy. Amelia's oldest daughter, fifteen-year-old Elizabeth, was putting the finishing touches on setting the big kitchen table, which was spread with a fresh oilcloth. Lucas's wife, Annaliese, was keeping an eye on the stove. Her three-year-old daughter, Jane, was right beside her, clutching at her legs, her dark eyes huge as she regarded the newcomers.

“Look who is here, Jane,” Annaliese said as she sent Miriam a warm smile. Annaliese had grown up in a nearby district. She and Lucas had met when Annaliese had attended the wedding of a cousin. They had been married the next winter, just a year after Miriam and Daniel. Miriam and Annaliese had liked each other at once. “Miriam has come.”

“Miriam!” Jane crowed. Miriam knelt and opened her arms. The child catapulted into them. Miriam lifted her up, burying her face in the crook of Jane's neck. She breathed in the child's sweet scent.

“You smell like sunshine, Jane,” she said, trying to ignore the fierce ache of longing that had suddenly reared up to grab her by the throat.

“Outside!” Jane demanded.

Miriam gave her nose a tweak. “Not now. Now we are getting ready for supper. Are those hands clean? Let me see.”

Obediently, Jane extended her hands, palms facing up. Miriam leaned closer, her face almost in Jane's hands. The child chortled at this.

“Well, they
look
clean,” Miriam admitted. “But I'll tell you what. I need to wash mine. How would it be if you helped me with that? That way, we can make sure yours are clean, too.”

Jane gave an enthusiastic nod. “Jane is a good helper,” she informed Miriam.

“Jane!” Annaliese protested even as Miriam laughed.

“Now, where did you hear that?” she inquired. With the child still held tightly in her arms, Miriam moved toward the kitchen sink with its small hand pump. Clearly accustomed to the routine, Jane leaned over and held out her hands.

“But where is Sarah?” Amelia asked.

“Here I am,” Sarah said. She stood, hesitating, just inside the kitchen door.

“Don't just stand there,
schatzi
. Come inside and let me get a good look at you.”

“Amelia,” Sarah said.

Even occupied as she was, Miriam heard the catch in Sarah's voice. She looked up quickly and thought she caught the bright sheen of tears in her sister's eyes. Sarah had changed from her jeans to a blue calf-length skirt with the same flowered shirt.

“Gracious!” Amelia exclaimed. “What are they feeding you out among the
Englischers
? You've grown so tall!”

“It's the shoes,” Miriam said.

“Shoes!” Jane shouted.

“Jane,” Annaliese said reprovingly, though Miriam heard the thread of laughter in her tone. “Inside voices in the house.”

“No, no,” Sarah said with a slightly watery laugh. She dashed a quick hand across her eyes. “I hate to admit it, but Miriam is right.” She extended one foot to show Annaliese her shoe.

“Oh, my goodness,” Amelia said as she got a good look at the platform sandals Sarah wore. “Sarah, have you left your common sense by the side of the road? You'll break your neck, walking around here in shoes like that.”

“Better not let Elizabeth see them.” It was Daniel's voice. He materialized in the doorway, his broad shoulders filling up the space. Lucas was right behind him. Unless Miriam very much missed her guess, they had both done their washing up at the pump in the yard, just as they had when they were boys. “She'll want a pair and her
rumspringa
isn't 'til next year.”

“Daniel!” his sister protested. Her cheeks flamed bright red, but she looked at the shoes, Miriam noticed.

“Daniel!” Jane said. She began to squirm in Miriam's embrace. Daniel moved to Miriam's side. He chucked Jane under the chin and she gave a squeal of delighted laughter. Miriam turned and placed the child into her husband's waiting arms.

Daniel lifted Jane up into the air, then angled her downward so that her feet were aimed into empty space and her forehead touched Daniel's own. To Miriam's astonishment, the child fell silent, her dark eyes gazing into Daniel's bright blue ones. A wave of emotion swept over Miriam, powerful enough to make her dizzy. She laid a hand on Daniel's arm to steady herself.

Miriam's breath caught in her throat. In that moment, it seemed to her that her entire being narrowed down to the place where her fingers curled around Daniel's arm. It seemed to her that she could feel the rush of blood through Daniel's veins, hear the beating of his heart. And through it all, woven so tightly throughout Daniel's being that it could not be separated out, it seemed to Miriam that she felt something else.

Love.

Love for the child he held in his strong and capable hands. Longing for a child of his own body, one he and Miriam could call their very own. And it was the same, the very same, as the longing that ran inside Miriam's own blood, moving through every corner of her being with each and every beat of her own heart. Miriam flushed abruptly, unbearably warm. Spots danced before her eyes.

“Miriam?” Daniel murmured.

“Here, let me take the little one.” Annaliese materialized behind Miriam. Daniel lifted Jane over Miriam's shoulder to hand her to her mother. Miriam's hand slipped from Daniel's arm. She blinked, as if she'd been asleep on her feet and had suddenly awakened. Her vision cleared. Daniel made a motion, as if to reach for her, but Miriam was already shifting back, desperate to regain her balance in more ways than one. Daniel's hand dropped to his side.

“When's supper? I'm hungry!” Matthew flew into the kitchen as though he'd been fired from a slingshot, banging the screen door behind him. “I told Miriam not to be late or else I'd . . .” He caught sight of Sarah and pulled up short. “Is that—”

“Miriam's sister, Sarah?
Ja
,” Daniel interrupted smoothly. He turned from Miriam to catch his youngest brother by the back of his shirt collar, tugging him backward, gently, until Matthew bumped into the front of Daniel's legs.

“Mind your manners, now. Is that how you welcome a guest to your home?”

“She's not a guest. She's Miriam's sister. You just said so,” Matthew protested. He squirmed, trying unsuccessfully to escape from Daniel's grasp. “That makes her family, doesn't it?”

“
Ja
,” a new voice agreed. “That is so.”

“Martin,” Sarah said as Daniel's father came into the kitchen. Just as his sons had, he came in from the yard. Sarah moved to him, giving Matthew's hair a quick ruffle as she passed by. She extended her hand and Martin took it gently, engulfing it within his own. “It is so good to see you.”

Martin smiled. “And you.” He angled his head, his expression puzzled. “When did you grow so tall?”

“I didn't,” Sarah admitted with a laugh. “It's my shoes. I had no idea they'd be the topic of so much conversation! Maybe I should just take them off.”

“No time for that,” Amelia announced. “It is time to eat.” She put her hands on her hips and gazed around the kitchen. “Where are those boys?”

“Here we are, Mamm,” Jonas said, as he and Joshua came in from outdoors. At seventeen, the twins were tall and gangly and still a little shy. Both had been baptized at the end of their
rumspringa
year, but neither was yet courting for a wife. Thirteen-year-old Hannah was hard on their heels. She carried a sturdy garden basket over one arm.

“Come, come.” Amelia made a beckoning motion with her hands. “Stop dawdling,
mei kinder
. Sit down and eat before the food gets cold. Set down those vegetables, Hannah, and put Jane into her high chair while Annaliese helps me get the food on the table.”