A Simple Hope: A Lancaster Crossroads Novel (4 page)

“Put a hard-boiled egg on there,” Mamm said. “The children dyed three dozen or so for Easter. We’d best get using them.”

As she prepared an egg sandwich for her brother, Rachel realized that it was not really Ben’s turn to go to the city. As they usually rotated the chore of going to Philly among the teens in their family,
it had to be Rachel’s time to go. She was grateful that her parents were letting her off the hook on account of the way her nerves iced over at the prospect of riding in a car or van.

“That’s not a problem at all,” the bishop had said when she’d told him about her fear. “Stick to a horse and buggy and your life will be right as rain.” Samuel had a way of making it seem so simple, but in her heart, many things were still jumbled and twisted as a knot of yarn. Trusting her faith, Rachel looked to Gott to let her emotions settle, smooth as a pond. Three months after the accident, she was still praying for that simple peace.

The silver lining in the cloud was the way the young folks from the van had come together after the accident. In the past few months, Rachel had grown closer to Elsie Lapp, Ruben Zook, and Zed Miller, the other young passengers in the van. Well, Zed was a good bit older than the rest, but having spent years away on his rumspringa, he had been lumped in with the young folks now that he was back in the community. With Dylan Monroe guiding their discussions, just talking about the accident and their fears had helped everyone in the group. Unfortunately, James’s injuries had kept him away from the meetings. Rachel was sorry he hadn’t enjoyed the benefit of support from the others. These days, James seemed so alone. Ya, he was surrounded by family, but he reminded her of a lone eagle, hovering and circling on its own.

Sometimes she wondered if her secret plan might cheer him up. She had never mentioned it before, but now, with James confined to a wheelchair, she wondered if it might give him hope just thinking about a small one-story home in town. James would take the buggy to the orchard each day, and they would live Plain, but, oh, how nice it would be to buy milk at the market instead of having to milk a few head morning and night.

And her paintings were a part of that plan. If she could sell her work, she could help pay their home expenses. The day of the crash,
she had met with an Englisher woman who had thought she could sell Rachel’s art in her Philadelphia gallery. Claudia Stein had told Rachel to get busy, because she would need a dozen paintings to stage a show.

A dozen paintings!

On that January day, Rachel’s spirit had jumped for joy at the prospect of so many sweet hours spent dabbing paint into pictures. She had wondered if that much money would convince her mamm and dat to let her skip some of her regular chores on the dairy farm so she would have more time for her side business. After the crash, she had backed away from Claudia’s offer, but now she considered the practical side. She and James might need a good source of income. Especially if James wouldn’t be working for a while.

Now she considered telling James about her secret plan. Maybe it would give him hope. He might begin to see a good life ahead, a future with Rachel that would be workable whether or not Gott healed his legs.

The kitchen grew warm and noisy as the family assembled. Dat talked about the spring weather and Mamm ladled out bowls of oatmeal from the head of the table. As her siblings began to take their places at the kitchen table, Rachel carried the large platter of scrapple to the table.

“That’s enough for me,” twenty-year-old Abe said, eyeing the platter of meat. “What are the rest of you going to eat?”

With quick hands, Jacob served himself. “I could eat a bear.”

“Why are you guys always so hungry?” Molly asked as she passed a bowl of oatmeal down the line.

“Hard work gives a man a good appetite,” Davey said, stabbing a slice of meat with his fork. The boy was six years old, but he copied his older brothers to a T.

When everyone was seated, Nate King called for the prayer. Rachel bowed her head and silently gave thanks for the meal and for
the love of her family. Before the accident, she had taken the love and comforts of home for granted. Now, each day she reminded herself to keep her eyes wide open to the blessings of her family.

The conversation turned to the new calves, born last month, who were still being bottle-fed by Molly and Davey.

Twelve-year-old Bethany said she wished she could care for the calves instead of milking. “Or maybe the cows could be milked later in the morning. That way, I wouldn’t have to get out of bed so early.”

“But then you’d be late for school,” Rachel pointed out.

“I wouldn’t mind that,” Bethany said as she reached for her glass of milk.

“But the milking is easier with the machines,” Rachel reminded her sister. Three years ago, Dat had brought in milking machines powered by a gas generator. Once the machines were hooked up, milking was done quick as could be. They cut milking time down to almost nothing.

“When
was
the last time you milked a cow?” Rose asked her pointedly.

Rachel shrugged. “I didn’t mark it on the calendar.”

“It’s been that long?” Rose shook her head. “I knew it. If Rachel doesn’t have to help with the milking, how come I do? I’d rather work in the stables.”

“Cows need milking,” Dat said without looking up from his oatmeal. “That’s what we do.”

“Not Rachel,” Ben said. “She paints.”

Rachel pursed her lips together to keep from snapping back. Leave it to Ben to say something like that. He’d caused their parents so much worry, going off on motorbikes and trying to dodge chores. He was eighteen now; he’d never taken much to dairy farming, and he had no trade in sight.

“No one’s painting pictures when there’s chores to be done,” Mamm said. “Rachel’s a big help to me, here in the house.”

“But Mamm, the cows need her, too,” Jacob teased. “They miss her.”

“Brownie says she’s forgotten what you look like, Rachel,” said ten-year-old Amos, who knew every cow by name. “When I asked her about you, she said, ‘Rachel moo-who?’ ”

Laughter filled the room. Molly and Davey joined in with Amos’s mooing, and everyone laughed some more.

“I always knew that Brownie was a funny cow,” Dat said wryly.

Taking in the happy faces, Rachel let the gentle ribbing slide off her back like rain on a duck. Besides, she couldn’t stop chuckling at the thought of Amos talking with the cows, and the cows talking back.

Davey’s brows knitted together. “Did Brownie really say that?”

“We all know that milking cows don’t talk,” said Dat, ever the voice of reason. “But if they did, I’m sure Amos would speak their language.”

“Ya.” Amos wiped his milk mustache with one sleeve. “I speak English, Dutch, and cow.”

A
fter breakfast, James was about to head back out to the orchards when his father called to him.

“James, will you wait a little bit?”

Stopping the chair, James waited until Peter and Luke grabbed their hats from the wall peg and squeezed past. How he wished he could follow them out the door on his own two feet. Then he turned back to his father.

“I was just going to check on our supply of Bordeaux spray. We need to start spraying. Don’t want fire blight on the apples or pears.”

“You can do that later.” Dat motioned him toward the living area. “
Kumm
. I want to talk with you before the bishop gets here.”

“Bishop Samuel?” Unease prickled the back of James’s neck. The leader of their church was kind but intimidating. It wasn’t easy to pass under the stern gaze of a man who decided what was right by Gott. “Why is he coming here?”

“I asked for his help.” Jimmy sat down and rested his large hands
on his thighs. From the way Jimmy kept his gaze on the floor, James could tell that his father was uncomfortable, too. “At a time like this, we need to look to our bishop for answers.”

Answers about what?
James wondered as he rolled his chair to a stop beside the sofa. “What do you want to ask the bishop?”

Jimmy lifted his dark eyes to his oldest son. “James, there’s no denying you’ve been through the wringer since that accident. It was a terrible thing, and we’ve all done our best to move ahead and do the right thing for you.”

“And I’m grateful for all that you and Mamm have done. All the support from the community. The auction and fund-raisers. I know the chiropractor and doctors and hospital cost a lot, Dat, but with everyone’s help, the bills are nearly paid off, aren’t they?”

“Close to it.” Dat pointed toward the old carriage house, which had been turned into an office for the orchard. “I got a special file for the medical bills. You can take a look next time you come into the office.”

Which might be never, as far as James was concerned. He couldn’t abide the stale air and mountains of papers that made up the office. Ledgers and files. As if this wheelchair wasn’t enough of a hindrance; a desk seemed to be invented to strap a man down to the earth without an inch of movement.

It was James’s turn to stare at the floor. “I know my injury used a lot of the family’s money, but the orchard is a profitable business. And I’m going to keep it running for my grandchildren and their grandchildren, too.”

“Grandchildren? You don’t even have children yet. You’re counting your chickens before they’ve hatched.”

More disapproval. James could not say anything without his father cutting it down. He rubbed the knuckles of one hand over his smooth-shaven face. How could he explain his connection to the orchard? How winter, spring, and summer had become synonymous
with dormant, bloom, and harvest? How few joys could rival the sheen of healthy bark and the scent of peach blossoms? And all of Doddy’s lists of things to do, categorized by type of fruit and season—they were all in James’s mind, a fruit gardener’s encyclopedia.

You’d think that Jimmy would understand all this, having grown up on the orchard, too. But Dat had left the growing to his father, while he had focused on the business side of the orchard. It was an arrangement that had worked fine, until the accident. Now, as James dared to take in the older man’s square face, framed by dark hair and a beard below his chin, he wished that his father understood that the injury hadn’t changed James—not really. He was still Jimmy’s oldest son, still capable of overseeing the acres of fruit trees, even if he did it from a wheelchair.

In the awkward silence, James heard the clipped patter of horses’ hooves in the distance. The bishop was approaching.

James pushed up on the armrests and shifted in his chair, wishing he could roll down the ramp and escape to the orchard. “Lots of work to do outside,” he said, hoping that this meeting would be short.

“You’ve always been a good worker,” Jimmy said with a flicker of approval in his dark eyes. “But now that you’re off your feet, it’s time you learned the other end of the business. Get acquainted with the bookkeeping and sales.”

“But I’ve always managed the orchards. Right now I can’t do everything, but that’ll change when I get walking again.”

“Mmm.” It was the growl of a discontented bear. “We’ll have to see about that. I’m not sure of Gott’s plan for you, but I know you’re not meant to be tangled up with these Englishers. Isn’t it enough that they come in their buses and vans, swarming like ants in the town? I see them in Halfway and then I come home to find my house full of doctors and nurses, drivers and therapists. There’s
an outsider here every day. It’s getting so you’d never know this is an Amish home.”

Jimmy kept his distance from Englishers, which was not so unusual. Most Amish kept to other Amish; that was how their community worked. But living side by side with the English, there were times when they couldn’t be avoided, and this was one of them. There were no Plain folk in the medical profession. Amish children finished school after eighth grade, and then worked the farm or learned a skill. Preacher Dave had told James that no Amish settlement had ever allowed a person to go to medical school. Dave thought it was a matter of pride—hochmut. He pointed out that the higher knowledge gained in worldly society might override a person’s good Amish values. If James wanted to work with doctors to get rehabilitated, he had no choice but to deal with Englishers.

“Dat, they taught me how to get myself in and out of bed. How to wash myself and … all the physical therapy, moving my legs so they don’t wither and die. Folks like Haley and Dylan, like Doc Trueherz, they’ve helped me come a long way.”

“I’m grateful to them, but they’re not our friends or family. It’s time to back away.” It was not the first time Dat had spoken of keeping distance from Englishers. His dislike of fancy folk had been forged years ago, when he was a boy, and an Englisher had injured his best friend. An incident so upsetting that Jimmy refused to talk about it.

“Dat, all Englishers are not bad people.”

“Ya, this is true, but the Bible tells us to stay separate from that world. I know the bishop will agree with me on this. A man must keep a good Amish home. So … next time the Englishers visit will be the last time. It’s wrong to have so many dealings with outsiders.”

“But the orchard has dealings with outsiders. We work with the Englisher stores. We sell our fruit to thousands of Englishers.”