The Days of Redemption (12 page)

“You know you sound terribly awkward, don'tcha?”

“
Jah,
” she said sheepishly.

“Shall we go inside, then?” He opened the door to the pizzeria.

“Sure. I'd rather focus on pizza than on my problems.”

“I, as well.” As he approached the hostess stand, he sniffed the air appreciatively. “It smells like heaven in here. I don't know if pizza will help our worries, but I have a feeling that it can't hurt. I haven't had a slice of pizza in ages.”

Seeing the pure enjoyment on his face, just from the thought of pizza, made Viola realize that she'd never really taken the time to think about all he'd given up when he moved away. “You had to make do with all kinds of changes, living far away, didn't you?”

“I did.” When the hostess greeted them, he held up two fingers before continuing as they followed her to a booth. “Most things I didn't miss. I learned to like many of the foods in Nicaragua, like empanadas and rice and beans and tortillas. But there were some things that couldn't be replaced. A thick slice of pepperoni pizza from Pizza Palace is one of them.”

After they were seated and ordered two waters, Viola chuckled. “That's something, don't you think? An Amish man wasn't missing roasted chicken, but pizza.”

He grinned. “I'm Amish, but not an Amish saint, Viola. I've never been one to ignore the calling of a thick slice of pepperoni and mushroom pizza.”

She wrinkled her nose. “We don't have to have mushrooms on our pizza, do we?”

“We don't have to do anything you don't want to do,” he said softly.

She knew that he was referring to much more than how she liked her pizza. The look in his eyes was an invitation for more. For more of a relationship, more dates, more time spent together. And that would have been all well and good, if he wasn't leaving in six months.

“I'll take any kind of pizza you want,” she said, keeping things light. “I'll even pick off mushrooms if you really want them.”

“I had no idea you were so agreeable.”

“I'm usually not. You must have caught me on an off day.”

“I think your off days might be my blessings. Tell me, do you get in an agreeable mood often?”

“Most would say not often enough.”

Their banter continued over a pizza loaded with enough sausage and vegetables and pepperoni that Viola had to use a knife and fork to eat her piece neatly.

They chatted about everything and nothing. Without either of them saying it, both of them were eager to brush off serious conversation and focus on things that didn't matter.

They talked about foods they liked and the times of year they hated. She entertained him with stories about being a twin, and he told her tales of playing baseball after church with his friends. And in the midst of their laughter, they both realized that meaningless conversation wasn't meaningless after all.

It was good to be able to laugh and relax together. Neither wanted to take every moment of every day too seriously.

And then, all too soon, it was time to go.

“It's after two. I'm sorry I kept you here so long,” he said, eyeing the clock.

“I can't believe we were here two hours.”

“Time flies, for sure.”

When they got back out on the sidewalk, he buttoned up his coat while she wrapped a thick wool scarf more securely around her neck. “Where are you off to now? You're done with work today, right?”

“I am. My aunt Lorene lives nearby. I'm going over to her house to bake cookies. We're hosting church this weekend, so there's lots to do to get ready. I need to be available for my sister, and for my
mamm,
too, in case anything else falls apart in the
haus.
”

“Do you need some help? I could stop by sometime this week. Other than visiting my father, I don't have a lot going on.”

“There's no need. But thank you.”

“Are you working tomorrow?”

“I am.”

“Then I'll look for you then, Viola. Thank you for having lunch with me.”

Viola smiled before turning away.

“Viola?”

She stopped and turned to look back at him. “Yes?”

“Would you . . . Would you want to go to lunch again soon?”

“I would.” There was no reason to be coy.

He grinned. “Great. I'll talk to you about it tomorrow.”

After waving a hand at him, she turned back around and picked up her pace. Thinking about his smile, her body warmed with happiness. He'd asked her out again, and she'd accepted!

But as she stopped at an intersection, nerves and doubts got ahold of her again. Once she'd agreed to this lunch date, she'd hoped that it would prove to her that he was not the man for her. But instead of that happening, she'd discovered that they were able to talk easily about most any topic. They could banter, and then switch gears and begin to share meaningful thoughts and concerns.

And even more, she appreciated his ability to put his imperfections in God's hands, and to be guided by Him. For the first time, Viola considered adopting that way of thinking. It would feel so good to let someone else take control of her life. To put her faith and worries and fears into someone else's hands.

Lovina had always preferred to sit at the kitchen table instead of in the
sitzschtupp,
the good living room
,
when she was alone. Years ago, Aaron had ceased asking her the why of it. He liked to sit in his thick easy chair. It felt better on his back, and he liked the way the cushions curved around his sides.

But she liked the sturdiness of the hard ladder-back chair against her spine, and the way the scarred, smooth oak felt under her hands. Sitting at the head of the table made her recall other days. Better days. The days of serving breakfast to six scrubbed faces every morning before her busy children went off to school. When she'd have women over to help with a quilt, or write down recipes for a new bride.

Of course, she also had memories of her mama's kitchen table. Back when she was in high school, she used to do her homework at the kitchen table. Her mother would give her a Coke and read the paper or talk on the phone while she struggled through conjugating French verbs. Or her history homework. Or geometry. Boy had she hated geometry!

She'd been sitting at one almost just like this when Jack had asked her to go to the homecoming dance with him. She still remembered how handsome he'd been, his hair damp from his shower after football practice . . . a bruise on his cheek that she'd fussed over. He'd blushed from all her attention.

She'd thought she was in love.

Leaning back, in the quiet of her kitchen, where no one was around to see . . . Lovina allowed herself to smile. He'd been so nervous when he'd asked her to the dance. Jack Kilgore, one of the most popular boys in her class!

She'd tried to play it cool, but inside, she'd been so giddy and excited, she'd hardly been able to stand it. No doubt she hadn't fooled him for a second.

“Lolly, will you go to the dance with me? I promise, it will be a great time.”

She remembered thinking that she should be coy. Maybe tell him that she wanted to think about it for a day or two. But all those ideas had flown out the window. Instead, she'd beamed like she was the happiest girl in the world. “I'd love to, Jack,” she'd said.

Then he'd reached out and squeezed her hand. Just once.

Lovina glanced down at her hand, now red and rough and lined with age and years of hard work. For a brief moment, all she saw was smooth, creamy skin and neatly filed nails. Her hand had looked so small in his. It had looked perfect.

She'd run to the phone the minute he'd left and called up all her best girlfriends. They'd giggled and squealed and oohed when she'd described how his hand had felt on hers.

And not a one of them had thought she was crazy when she'd admitted that she wasn't going to wash it for days. . . .

“Mamm?”

With a start, she saw Peter standing in the doorway. Bringing in with him the present.

Clenching her hand, she hid it under her apron, as if it might give away her thoughts. Abruptly, she got to her feet. “What do you want?”

His look of concern vanished to barely concealed irritation. “I told Marie I'd ask if you wanted to help with the tablecloths today.”

Ever since Marie and Peter had moved into the main house, she'd continued to help iron and lay out the tablecloths. No one else did it right. Even though it was only Monday, Lovina felt sure that her daughter-in-law was running around in a panic. Getting a
haus
ready to host church was a lot of work.

But after twenty years of ironing tablecloths, she didn't feel like doing it.

“Marie can do the tablecloths this time. I'm going to stay here.”

After studying her for a long moment, Peter turned on his heel and walked out. Not bothering to ask if she was all right, or why she'd changed her mind after years of being the one in charge of the proper care of their tables.

Actually, she realized with some dismay, he was acting just the way she'd taught him to act. The way she'd taught all her children to be. Dutiful. Respectful.

When the door closed, she leaned back in her chair and sighed. She'd made a great many mistakes in her life. She'd been too critical with her children. Too formal with her husband. Too distant with her grandchildren.

But those mistakes were nothing compared to the mistakes she'd made her senior year in high school.

Just as nothing had been as sweet as her first dance with Jack.

Closing her eyes, she coaxed her brain to turn back to that wonderful, carefree time. Back when she'd rolled her hair in pin curls and then fastened the hard-won ringlets back with bows.

Thought about the white gloves and the strapless pink dress. About her red lipstick and the blue eye shadow.

And how she'd felt when she'd slow-danced in Jack's arms. And even though later that night everything had fallen apart, that dance had been so special.

Magical. So much so that hardly anything had matched it since. As she remembered the music that played and the way her satin dress had felt against her nylon-covered calves, she smiled.

She rarely gave in to weakness and let herself think back to those days.

But today? Today she was going to live in the past.

There was a message waiting on Edward's home phone when he glanced at it after walking back from Daybreak.

“Edward! This is James Cross,” the familiar voice boomed in his ear. “I hope you're having a good time being back in Berlin, and are enjoying your visit with your father.” He paused. “Listen, something's come up and I wanted to talk to you about it. How does your schedule look next Tuesday? Can you stop by the office? I'd like to speak to you in person, if I may. Let me know. Oh, and let me know if you'd like someone to pick you up. We'd be glad to arrange that.” Mr. Cross closed the message with both the office and his cell phone number.

Well, that was unexpected.

Since Ed had the office phone number already memorized, he called there first. “Edward Swartz here,” he told the assistant who answered. “Is Mr. Cross available?”

“Hi, Ed. This is Michele. Mr. Cross isn't in, but he did want me to ask what time you can come in next Tuesday. Do you have a time that's convenient for you?”

“How about nine in the morning?”

“Nine will work for him. I've penciled that in. Do you need a ride?”

“Thanks. That would be great.”

“All right then.” Ed heard Michele click a couple of keys on her computer. “Are you still at the same address?”

“I am.”

“Okay. Looks like Jared Schilling can pick you up at eight fifty next Tuesday morning. Will that work?”

Mr. Schilling was one of the directors. “That will be fine with me,” he said dryly.

“I think we're all set. See you—”

“Hey,” he said quickly, before Michele hung up. “Do you know what this is all about?”

“I think Mr. Cross would rather be the person to talk to you about this.”

“Can you at least tell me if I'm in trouble?”

Michele chuckled softly. “You're not in trouble, Ed. Don't worry about that.”

“All right. Thanks. I'll see you next week.” When he hung up, he couldn't help but wonder what reason they could have for meeting with him. There might be some questions about the mission in Nicaragua. Or they could be asking if he could do some office work while he was living in Berlin.

But at the edge of his mind was the slim possibility that they wanted to talk about another job for him. What if they wanted to send him out again sooner than later?

What if it was to someplace even farther away, such as one of the mission sites in Africa?

Before he came home, he would have accepted any appointment without hesitation. He would have believed that God had put the opportunity in front of him, and that he needed to be mindful of that.

But now he wasn't so sure.

Perhaps God had placed him back in Berlin for a very special reason. To be with his father, to rescue Gretta, to find his home again . . . and to meet Viola.

Was he willing to say goodbye to so much just as he was finally learning to say hello to it all?

“Lovina doesn't want to iron the tablecloths?” Marie asked, dismay rich in her voice.

“I'm afraid not.”

“Why not? What in the world is she doing?”

Peter thought about sharing the truth. About how he'd found his mother sitting at her kitchen table, staring at her hands like they were new attachments to her body. But twenty-some-odd years of marriage had brought him wisdom. If he shared that, it would only heighten the tension between his wife and his mother. “She looks a bit under the weather. Matter of fact, I wouldn't be surprised if she was taking a nap right now.”