He moved forward a few more steps but maintained a respectful distance. His hands deep in his pockets, he asked again, “Can I do anything . . . to help?”
To his surprise, a short, humorless laugh rang out. “Oh, Thomas . . . that’s funny.”
He crunched his brow.
Lifting her apron, she mopped her face. The cloth hid her face from view, but he heard her murmur, “How very, very funny.” She dropped the apron and laughed again.
Thomas took a shuffling step backward. Could she be addle-pated? Her comment made no sense.
Her shoulders rose and fell in a mighty sigh. Although the crying had ceased, her chin still quivered, as if she had a tenuous grip on control. She faced him again. “You—of all people—asking if you can help, after the way I . . .”
Thomas removed his hands from his pockets and crouched, propping his elbows on his knees for balance. The minimal light filtering through the open door and cracks in the siding created a gloomy, oppressive setting. He was eager to escape, yet something held him captive. Maybe Belinda was right—something was funny.
“I’m really all right,” she said. Her voice sounded hollow and stuffy, but the tone was matter-of-fact. “It’s just that sometimes I need . . . release. I can’t cry in front of Mama or Malinda—it upsets them. So I come out here.”
Thomas thought about the selflessness of her act. He nodded slowly. “My pa says God gave us tears to express the feelings underneath.”
Belinda blinked twice, looking at him. “My father didn’t have patience for tears.” She dropped her gaze and toyed with her apron. “Maybe that’s why I have so many tears now. I’ve been storing up.”
Thomas had no idea what to say in response.
Suddenly her chin bounced up, and she fixed him with a panicked look. “Please don’t say anything to your parents about finding me here. If your stepmother mentions it to my mother, she—”
“Don’t worry.” Thomas held out one hand. “Your secret is safe with me.”
Belinda sucked in her lips, examining his face. Her shoulders relaxed. “Yes. You were always truthful as a child. I can trust you.”
He met her gaze. “But I do think you need to find some help. Sitting out here crying doesn’t make anything better, does it?”
Belinda sighed. “Apparently not. Mama has been crying for weeks, and she’s no better than the day we put Papa in the ground. And Malinda . . .” She sighed again, a sound heavy with unspoken burdens.
From his position near the door, Thomas couldn’t touch Belinda, but he had the urge to stretch out his hand and take hers. To offer comfort. Instead, he linked his fingers together and cleared his throat.
“I remember when Summer first came to live on our property.” He kept his voice low. Many memories pressed for release, but he pushed them aside. “She was sad. I even wondered if she had lost the ability to smile. But over time, with prayer, with Pa’s patient teaching, and . . .” He hesitated. He didn’t want to take too much credit, yet he knew he had played a role in Summer’s recovery from deep sorrow. Finally he said, “And with me growing to love her and need her, she found a reason to live again. To love again. God planted the willingness to love again in her heart. That doesn’t mean she’s forgotten her other children or her husband, but she’s been able to put the past behind her and move forward. It will happen for your mother . . . and you, too.”
Belinda stared at him, her expression unreadable. For long moments they remained in silence. The light had dimmed a bit, indicating the setting of the sun. A turtledove cooed his soft evening song, harmonizing with the sweet whisper of wind.
Finally Belinda said, “Thank you, Thomas.”
Her voice, soft and tremulous, had a strange effect on him. His stomach turned a somersault. He pressed his palms to his thighs. “Y-you’re welcome. You’ll be all right now?”
She stood, straightening her skirt with impatient, embarrassed motions. “Yes. I’ll be fine. But I need to . . .” She glanced toward the doorway, which he blocked.
His neck flooded with heat. “Oh.” He stepped aside.
She moved past him, but when she reached the opening she paused and peered up at him. Her blue eyes, dark in her pale face, held him captive for three interminable seconds, and then without a word she hurried across the yard and closed herself in her house.
Thomas remained in the shed’s doorway for several more seconds, trying to understand the odd feelings coursing through him. For the first time, he had looked at Belinda Schmidt and seen something besides his childhood nemesis. He had seen . . . a woman. And an attractive woman, at that.
Shaking his head, he stalked out of the shed and closed its door with a firm
click
. A glance at the rising moon told him he’d used up the time he meant to spend walking. He jammed his hands into his pockets and turned back to his parents’ house, but his mind remained on the house across the alley. On Belinda.
The moment he stepped into the kitchen and closed the door, Abby came running with Gussie on her heels.
“I want to give it to him!” Gussie squealed.
“No, me! Papa let me carry it!” Abby responded, holding a square of white—an envelope, he realized—away from Gussie’s reaching hands.
Thomas strode forward and plucked the envelope from Abby’s grasp before the two managed to destroy it with their tussle.
Abby stuck out her lower lip. “I wanted to
give
it to you, and you
took
it.” She folded her arms across her skinny chest and glowered up at him.
Thomas tapped the top of her head with the envelope and waggled his eyebrows. “Well, now I’ve got it, so all is well.”
With a giggle, Abby dropped her sullen pose and scurried away. Gussie chased after her. Chuckling, Thomas watched them disappear around the corner before turning his attention to the envelope.
In the upper left-hand corner, he read the name—
Miss Daphne Severt
—and his stomach turned another somersault.
S
EATED
ON HIS BED
and leaning forward, Thomas angled the pages to catch the lamp’s glow so he could read Daphne’s letter. Once, twice, and then again. By the third time, he nearly had it memorized.
The letter was surprisingly brief. A mere three paragraphs in length. Short paragraphs. Daphne always had so much to say, and it was a surprise that she didn’t write long, chatty letters. It also seemed wasteful to use an embossed sheet of stationery—which added weight and expense to the mailing—on what could have fit neatly on a penny postcard. But, he had to admit, her three brief paragraphs gave him much food for thought.
Harry spends every day at campaign headquarters. He looks forward to you joining him in the battle to put Thomas E. Watson in the White House.
Eagerness made Thomas’s heart thud. Watson’s backing of the Farmers’ Alliance, which worked to prevent deflation of agricultural prices, had won Thomas’s support. Raised by a man who made his living from the bounty of farmers, Thomas had a personal stake in protecting the livelihood of those who raised crops. He puzzled over Harry’s zealousness for this particular candidate, but he supposed Harry’s reasons weren’t as important as his actions.
My father has several positions at the Boston Beacon for which you would be qualified. I am certain the wage would be sufficient to secure your interest.
Thoughts of working for the Severt family newspaper brought a rush of excitement. As Daphne said, the wage would no doubt far exceed what he currently made from
Herr
Barkman. But more than that, it would be a challenge and a chance to use the skills he’d acquired in college.
Boston is terribly lonely without your presence, my dear Thomas. I await your hasty return.
The shortest paragraph gave him the biggest jolt. The thought of Daphne Severt longing for his return made him feel flattered. There certainly could not be a lovelier woman than Daphne. And she wanted to spend time with Thomas, the big, clumsy son of a Mennonite miller.
He looked again at the words
my dear Thomas
, and his chest constricted until he could hardly draw a breath.
Her
dear Thomas . . . Her
dear
Thomas . . . The words made him feel so special. So . . .
desired
.
He carried the letter to his nose and sniffed, hoping for an essence of Daphne—she always held the subtle fragrance of oranges.
But no citrusy scent lingered on the page. Disappointed, he lowered it to his lap. The absence of the distinctive aroma made his heart pine for the presence of the delicate woman. Leaving the page unfolded, he propped it against a stack of books on his bureau top so he could see the neat lines of script.
Lying back on his bed, he linked his hands behind his head and stared at the simple letter. Plans raced through his head.
Talk to Pa about the job opportunity in Boston.
Finish up the last section of the Schmidts’ roof.
Contact Nadine about moving in with her again
—
or contact Harry about locating a small apartment.
Make travel arrangements.
A light tap on his door interrupted his thoughts. He sat up and called, “Come in.”
The door cracked open, and Summer’s face appeared. “Were you sleeping?”
“No, not yet.”
She pushed open the door a little more and stood in the doorway. “I wanted to say thank you.”
He crunched his brow. He couldn’t think of anything he’d done to warrant thanks.
“These past days, having you home again, has brought a measure of peace to your father’s heart. He was so afraid you would be disappointed in him.”
Thomas opened his mouth, but she held up her hand.
“As you know, he wanted you to have the gristmill, and now it’s gone. But seeing you willingly accept the job of roofing and getting to spend his evenings with you has eased his heartache. It’s given him a fresh outlook on his situation here.” She moved into the room and leaned forward to kiss Thomas’s cheek. “I know it isn’t the kind of job you want to have, and he knows it, too, but for now . . . you’re making him very happy. So thank you, Thomas.”
A lump filled Thomas’s throat. “I’d do most anything for Pa.”
But can I forgo my commitment to Watson’s campaign and a job opportunity in Boston?
A soft smile rewarded his words. She cupped his jaw with her hand, the touch tender. Then she slipped from the room, closing the door behind her.
Thomas spent a restless night, dreaming repeatedly that his arms were tied to horses being driven in opposite directions. The desire to please Pa battled against the tug of a future in Boston. By the time the morning sun sent light through the slit in his curtains, he still had no firm answers. He only knew he couldn’t leave Pa. Not yet.
“Good-bye, Mama. Have a good morning.” Belinda placed a kiss on her mother’s cheek. “I’ll be home at noon to fix you some lunch.”
Mama lay in her bed with her graying hair in tangles across the pillow. Her skin appeared sallow, her cheeks sunken from weeks of refusing food. Although her eyes were open, she didn’t so much as glance at her daughter.
Belinda swallowed tears. “I love you, Mama.”
Her mother rolled to her side, facing away from Belinda, and pulled the covers to her chin.
Belinda sighed and left the room. Across the hall from Mama, scuffling sounds came from Malinda’s room. Her sister was awake.
Belinda tapped lightly on the door.
“What do you want?” Malinda called from inside the room.
“May I come in?” Belinda maintained a pleasant tone.
“No. I’m not dressed.”
Belinda closed her eyes, resisting the urge to sigh. “Would you please try to convince Mama to get up and eat some breakfast? I left toasted
zwieback
on the table.” Mama had always relished dipping the crusty halves of the leftover two-level rolls in coffee.
A long silence followed, during which Belinda wondered if Malinda had drifted back to sleep. Finally a brusque reply came.
“Fine.
Au’dee
.”
“Good-bye,” Belinda offered in return, then headed down the narrow hallway and out the front door to walk to work. When she reached the road, she heard a sound that immediately brought a smile to her lips—laughter. Loud. Boisterous. Full of joy.
Like a magnet, the sound pulled her, leading her between two houses, across the alley, and alongside the house rented by the Ollenburgers. When she reached the corner of the house, she stopped, suddenly unwilling to intrude into the merriment. But another burst of laughter urged her forward a few inches, just enough to peek around the edge of the house.
The scene that greeted her made her feet itch to rush around the corner and join the fun. Peter Ollenburger and all three of his little girls frolicked on the dew-kissed grass. Belinda clamped her hand over her mouth to hold back her own laughter. Their shadows, stretched long by the morning sun, wove in and out as the children dashed back and forth in a dance of uninhibited glee.
The girls’ high-pitched giggles carried over
Herr
Ollenburger’s deep belly laugh. He tickled and teased, his fingers poking ribs and tugging curls, while the girls darted away and then back again, their bright faces begging him without words. But Belinda heard the words in her imagination:
Me, Papa! Now me!
Had she ever played this way with her own father? No, of course not. Papa had been too stern, too formal to allow himself to play. Not even in the house, with no watching eyes, would he have behaved in anything less than a dignified manner. And look what they had lost out on because of it. What wonderful memories the Ollenburger girls were building. Belinda wished she had similar memories on which to reflect now that her father was gone.
Instead, she remembered Papa’s coldness, Mama’s criticism, Malinda’s constant ups and downs. Their lives reflected an inward misery that had matched her own until the day three years ago when she had asked Jesus into her heart. Why hadn’t her parents, who claimed to love God, shown evidence of the joy of the Lord rather than being trapped in the dictates of
do’
s and
do not’
s? With a sigh, she opened her eyes for one last glimpse at the Ollenburgers’ fun.