He straightened, his hands coming from his pockets. “Why do you say that?”
A shrug lifted her shoulders. “You were very helpful, but not very . . . involved.” When he didn’t respond, she added, “You seemed many miles away in your thoughts.”
Visions of Boston—a newspaper office, campaign headquarters, his friends, and Daphne Severt—danced through Thomas’s brain. “I was thinking about . . .”
“Boston?”
Her softly voiced query struck like a lightning bolt. “Am I so obvious?”
She smiled. “I would imagine after living in a large city, coming back here must be very dull.”
“No, that’s not it.” Could he trust her with information about the job offer? Maybe saying the words to Belinda would give him the courage to repeat them to his parents. “I’m just thinking about something that’s waiting for me in Boston, and I’m eager to explore it.”
“Oh?” She managed to convey a great deal of interest in the simple query.
“Yes. A job. At a newspaper office—the
Boston Beacon.
”
“Impressive.” Not a hint of sarcasm colored her tone. “When do you start?”
Thomas blew out an angry breath and stalked across the yard to the oak tree. Pressing his palm to the rough bark, he cleared his throat. “That’s the problem. I can’t start until I go back to Boston, and I . . .
can’t
. . . go back to Boston.”
She followed him. The tips of her fingers landed lightly on his forearm, and he looked at her. Tree branches blocked the glow of the moon, casting speckled blue shadows across her upturned face. Her forehead crinkled in curiosity. “Why not?”
Thomas set his jaw, battling resentment. “Pa wants me here.”
“He said that?”
“Not in so many words, but—”
“Then what has he said?”
Thomas snorted in annoyance. “How proud he is of my college degree. How wonderful it will be when I start my business. How happy it makes him to have me under his roof again.”
“Well, of course.” Belinda’s calm, matter-of-fact tone did little to placate Thomas. “But none of that means he expects you to stay here forever. He knows you have a college degree. He wants you to use it. If that means using it in Boston, then surely—”
“You don’t understand.” Thomas barked the words. “How can you? You aren’t an only son, carrying your father’s dreams around your neck like a millstone.”
Belinda cringed, and immediately Thomas regretted his outburst. He reached out to touch her shoulder, then changed his mind, pulling his hand back with a sharp jerk. He swallowed hard. “Belinda, I’m sorry. That was unkind. I didn’t mean it.”
She blinked rapidly, as if clearing tears. When she replied, her voice was low and measured. “My father had no sons, so he wanted grandsons. He gave up on Malinda—he realized she was
onnpaussant
. . . unsuitable . . . for motherhood between her health problems and her unpredictable moods. So it was left to me to marry and give him grandsons.
“Instead I’m taking care of Mama and Malinda. So I understand about not fulfilling a father’s expectation. But I’m doing what is best for Mama, Malinda, and me . . . for now.” She seemed to gain strength as she spoke.
Taking a step closer to him, she said, “Your father’s greatest dream is for you to follow God’s will in your life, Thomas. I know, because he’s told me. He believes your college education will open the door God has planned for you. So if you believe that door waits for you in Boston, he’ll understand. It will be hard for him to watch you go, but he won’t stand in your way.”
At that moment a second voice—deep and thick with emotion— sounded across the yard.
“
Ja
, boy, she is right. And you should have come to me long ago.”
B
ELINDA
SIDLED SIDEWAYS
a few steps, her gaze darting back and forth between father and son. “I-I need to turn in now.
Thank you again for inviting me to your picnic and letting me watch the fireworks. Good night, Thomas.
Herr
Ollenburger.” She turned and scurried off.
Pa watched Belinda go, waiting until she was inside her house before facing Thomas. “Son, I am shamed.”
Guilt smacked Thomas. He stepped forward. “Pa, I—”
“You think I hold you back?”
The pain in his father’s voice made tears sting behind Thomas’s nose. “Not hold me back, Pa, but . . .”
“Tell me, boy.”
Thomas swallowed. “You’re so happy to have me here. I don’t want to hurt you by leaving.”
Pa’s sigh was laden with remorse. “
Ach
, son, for sure it makes me happy to have you here. You are my son. I love you. Having you near brings me joy. But keeping you here out of selfishness? That I do not want to do.” He shook his head. “I make a big mistake if this is what I make you feel I am doing.”
Pa moved forward, stopping a mere three feet from Thomas. Heavy shadows fell over Pa’s face, but Thomas read clearly a mix of pride and anguish in his father’s eyes. “I send you to school—to a college—so you can make best use of the
goot
head the Lord gave you. A
goot
head is a gift. Gaining knowledge is a privilege. The Lord does not want us to squander either our gifts or our privileges. If you have chance to use these things at a newspaper office in Boston, then that is what you must do.”
Thomas whispered hoarsely, “Y-you
want
me to go to Boston?”
Pa shook his head slowly. “What I want and what is best may be two different things, boy. You know sometimes God takes us places we do not see as best, yet His purpose must be fulfilled.” He paused, his jaw working back and forth as he peered sharply into Thomas’s eyes. “Do you believe God has opened this door to you in Boston?”
Thomas sought an honest answer. He felt obligated to return to Boston to honor his commitment to help in the campaign— that much he knew. But was this job God’s plan for his life or was it just . . . happenstance? He couldn’t be sure. He flung his arms wide. “Pa, I don’t know if it’s what God intends for me to do. But I want to go—I want to see where it takes me.”
For long moments Pa stood silently, seeming to examine Thomas. His lowered brows and wrinkled forehead told of his inner conflict, and Thomas waited for a lecture on seeking and following God’s will. But when Pa spoke in a soft, tender voice, it was far from what Thomas expected.
“You are a grown man—no longer my little boy. When you were little, I tell you what to do and I expect you to do it. But now? Look at you, standing tall as me and in possession of a certificate from a college that proves you have sense in your head.” Pa licked his lips. “I will not tell you what to do, Thomas. This you must decide on your own. If you think this job in Boston is where you should be, then you must go.”
Thomas sucked in a sharp breath, but Pa had more to say.
“See, in the Bible it advises to train up a child in the way he should go. I have done that as best as I know how. My job . . . is done. Now your job begins—to seek God’s will and stay in it. I trust you to do that.”
As Pa finished speaking, the back door opened, sending a misshapen rectangle of yellow light across the lawn. Summer’s shadow created a black form in the center of the pale rectangle. “Peter? Thomas?”
Pa turned toward the house. “
Ja
, Summer, still out here we are. We will come in soon.”
The door closed, sealing them once more in a cloak of gray. Pa put his big hand on Thomas’s shoulder and squeezed. “Tomorrow, when businesses open downtown, you go send a telegram to this newspaper office to say you’re coming, and you buy your train ticket. You go to Boston. You seek your path.”
“And . . . and you won’t be hurt?” Thomas held his breath.
“
Ach
, son, of course it hurts to see you go. I love you, and I miss you when you are not here. But that is the way of life—people coming and going. A poor excuse for a father I would be if I held you back and kept you from blooming.” The hand on Thomas’s shoulder squeezed then fell away. “To bed now. I am tired, and I must speak to Summer about your leave-taking.” He turned and headed to the house, his plodding steps and sloped shoulders mute evidence of his heartache.
“Daphne?”
At her father’s voice, Daphne tipped her head in acknowledgement but continued to press her fingers to the piano’s ivory keys.
“I received an intriguing telegram message at work this afternoon.”
Daphne’s hands stilled on the piano keys. She peeked over her shoulder. Harrison Severt, Sr., sank into his favorite parlor chair and fixed Daphne with a piercing look. She turned the stool to face her father, crossed her ankles, and rested her clasped hands in her lap. “Oh?”
Father snorted, his eyes narrowing. “Don’t play cat and mouse with me, Daphne. You know very well who sent the message.”
Daphne’s heart pounded, but not in trepidation of her father’s wrath. No, the pounding heart was an indication of excited delight. Placing a finger against her lips, she gave a few thoughtful taps. “Could the sender possibly be Harry’s good friend Thomas Ollen-burger?”
Her father scoffed loudly, just as Daphne expected. “You are cunning, my dear. I have the sneaking suspicion not only I but this Ollenburger are dancing at the ends of your puppet strings. A shame you weren’t a boy—I could use someone with your expertise for manipulation at the office.”
Not for the first time, Daphne experienced a pang of resentment. Her father’s cavalier attitude concerning her gender hurt, yet she wouldn’t trade her female status. A woman gifted with manipulation could move mountains no man’s brute strength could touch.
“So will you put him on staff?” Daphne now asked, using a deliberately light tone.
“I don’t see where I have much choice, considering the boy already believes a position is waiting.” He shrugged. “As it turns out, one of the men in advertising decided to move back to his home state of North Carolina, leaving me with a proofreading position to fill.”
Daphne flipped her wrists outward. “Perfect!”
Father pointed a finger at her, his thick brows forming a sharp V. “But if this Ollenburger proves inept, Daphne, his pay will be taken from your monthly allowance until it is repaid in full.”
Daphne had expected this. Father always presented a consequence to exercise his control. She blinked in innocence. “Why, certainly I’ll be responsible should Thomas fail to meet your expectations. But”—she angled her chin high—“I have no fear of losing one penny of my allowance. Thomas will so impress you, he’ll soon be one of the most trusted members of your staff.”
Father slapped his knee. “Well, I suppose we shall see.” He rose and left her to her piano playing. However, once he departed from the parlor, instead of resuming the song he’d interrupted, she pushed her feet against the carpet to give the stool a spin as she released a squeal of delight.
Thomas is coming!
Slamming the soles of her slippers against the floor, she brought the whirling ride to an end and dashed up to her room. Behind her closed door, she hugged herself and spun another happy circle. Dizzy from her wild dance and uncontrolled excitement, she flung herself across the bed and laughed out loud for joy.
When Thomas hadn’t replied to her letter, she’d suffered so many moments of worry. He was so different from Harry’s other friends. Maybe her letter wouldn’t have the intended effect. A simpering look and flutter of eyelashes sent most males bowing at her feet, ready to do her bidding. But not Thomas.
She shivered as she considered his physical attributes—the breadth of his shoulders, his great height, and his hands that could easily span her waist if ever he found the nerve to try.
Closing her eyes, she pressed her face into her pillow and allowed her imagination to carry her to sweet dreams.
Two days after sending the telegram to the owner and chief editor of the
Boston Beacon
—little more than a month after his return to Hillsboro—Thomas packed his bags and prepared for another train ride.
While he packed, his little sisters sat in a sorrowful row on his bed, watching him. Their silence, so unlike the unending jabber to which he’d become accustomed, pierced his heart. But they cheered somewhat when he took three prized books from the shelf above his bureau and gave them each a good-bye gift. He knew it would be a few years before they would be old enough to read and enjoy such stories as
The Prince and the Pauper
,
Arabian Nights
, and
Tattered Tom
, yet seeing their faces brighten made him feel better.
His carpetbags stuffed and ready, he said, “You girls go get your breakfast now. When it’s time to go, you can help me carry my things to the station.”
They trailed out in a row, and Thomas followed. Before he could sit at the table, several light taps sounded on the back door. Summer started toward it, but he held up his hand. “Feed the girls. I’ll get it.”
Belinda Schmidt stood on the grassless spot of ground right outside the door, holding a small wicker basket that she offered to him with a trembling smile. “I heard you were leaving. So I—I baked you some
honigkuchen
to take along.”
He remembered her response when Pa suggested Summer could bake honey cookies for Belinda’s mother—she had said they were too much trouble. The thought of her taking the time to make him these cookies brought a lump to his throat. Accepting the basket, he managed a nod. “Thank you.”
She peeked past him to the breakfast table, where his family sat. Her face flooded with pink. “I’m sorry—I interrupted.” She turned to dash away, but Thomas stepped outside and let the door slam behind him.
“Belinda, wait!”
Hesitantly, she turned back, her eyes wide and glimmering. Was she going to cry?
“I . . . I’m glad I had the chance to tell you good-bye. I’ve enjoyed our times of visiting.”
She sucked in her lower lip, blinking rapidly. “I have, too. I . . . I’ll miss . . .” One tear rolled down her cheek. “I’ll pray for you, Thomas, that things will go well for you . . . wherever your heart leads.”
Thomas drew in a deep breath. He hated the thought of her solemn life filled with days meeting everyone else’s needs except her own. Suddenly it became very important that she continue reaching out to people, the way she had done with him.