A Simple Hope: A Lancaster Crossroads Novel (40 page)

“Are you okay?” As she approached along the shoulder, she could see that the wheel had broken off its axle. “Wow, look at your wheel. This cart isn’t going anywhere. Are you all right, sir?”

“Just resting,” he said without looking up. His distress was obvious, and she knew that the open road with the noonday sun beating down was no place to be resting.

“Is there someone you want me to call? It’s really hot out here.”

When he looked up, his face was pale and damp. “There’s nothing can be done that will be done,” he muttered, closing his eyes.

Well, that didn’t make much sense. “What was that?”

“It’s the … no matter. It’s all under
Gott und Himmel
.”

She frowned. Was he having a stroke or something? “I’m no doctor, but you look overheated.” She knew the symptoms of dehydration; she was a self-made expert on the topic. “Why don’t you come with me?” She reached out a hand, hoping to take his arm, hoping that he would come along. She couldn’t leave him here, and she didn’t want him to be mad at her for calling an ambulance. Already, she had a bit of a rep as a drama queen.

Much to her relief, he took her hand and straightened. “Let’s get you into the van, where it’s cool. You can sit awhile and drink some Gatorade.”

He didn’t answer, but he didn’t resist at all. When she opened the door, he climbed right into the passenger seat. She handed him the open bottle. “Small sips,” she said, and he obliged.

Taking a seat behind the wheel, she looked over at the older man, who sat with his eyes closed. Occasionally he would rouse and take another sip, and a deep breath. That was good. He seemed to be coming out of it, his skin pink and dry now.

“It is really hot out there,” she said sympathetically. “I’m going to give you a ride into Halfway, okay? That seemed to be the direction
you were going. Or do you want me to take you to the clinic in Paradise?”

“No, no clinic. I must get the berries to Halfway.”

“The berries?”

As he became more cognizant, he explained that his cart was loaded with strawberries—dozens of flats of dark red berries that were going to spoil in the sun if he didn’t get them to the market now. Zook’s market, in Halfway.

Shandell sighed. “Your cart isn’t going anywhere, but I’ve got an empty van here.” Would the Tates be mad at her for moving berries when she was supposed to be working for them? What if the berries stained the inside of the new van?

One more glance at the Amish man, stubborn and determined as he mopped his brow with a handkerchief, was enough to get her going. “Let’s do it,” she said, pushing open her door.

The berries, ripe and shining in the sun, were contained in cardboard flats. Well, at least that would save the van. The man began handing her stacks of three flats, and she transferred them into the van, using the side and rear doors to maximize space. The whole thing only took about twenty minutes, but in the scorching heat of the sun, it seemed like a day in the desert.

As she drove, she called Zoey to let her know what was going on. “So I’m driving this Amish man to Zook’s market, with a van full of strawberries.” When she explained about the heat and the broken wheel, Zoey approved of her decision to help. It occurred to Shandell that Zoey and Tate should meet them at the market and help unload. This could be the perfect chance for the newcomers to connect with the Old Order Amish community.

Fortunately, Zoey understood that this was a rare opportunity. She and Tate were waiting at Zook’s market when their van pulled up. Some of the Amish people seemed surprised to see the man pull
up in a van. Two older Amish men asked him questions in Deutsch, but he waved them off.

“Work first, talk later,” he said. He showed Shandell and the Jordans the table where the strawberries were to be set up for sale, and a young boy of eleven or twelve waiting there promptly jumped up and began to pitch in.

They needed to wend their way around shoppers and other vendors, but with the Jordans pitching in they unloaded the strawberries in record time.

When it was done, the Amish man mopped his brow in the shade of the barn. “Thank you,” he told Shandell, then turned to the Jordans. “Thank you all.”

Tate, with his charming manner, jumped in and introduced himself and his wife. “And this is Shandell Darby, the assistant manager of our inn. We didn’t get your name, sir.” The Amish man’s eyes opened wider as he turned back to Shandell. “I’m Jimmy. Jimmy Lapp from the Lapp orchard.”

Shandell’s mouth dropped open. Of course! Those dark eyes, those broad shoulders. This was James’s father. She felt a little sick inside. This was the man who really hated her.

“Mr. Lapp … I didn’t realize you were …” She rolled her eyes. “Do you know who I am? I guess this is God giving me a chance to apologize.”

He nodded. “At first, I didn’t recognize you without this blue hair I’ve heard so much about. But now? I recognize you. I see that the Good Samaritan now has a name. It’s Shandell.”

“
T
hat’s a new personal best, James.” The physical therapist pumped a fist in the air, and James grinned, recognizing the celebration sign that Englishers loved to give. “You can now stand on your own for an hour and a half.”

“It’s progress,” James said. “Should we try awhile longer?”

“If you think you can do it, let’s go for it,” JJ said, making a note on his clipboard.

Keeping his breath steady, James looked away from the clock and noticed an Amish man standing just inside the doorway. He blinked, startled to recognize his father.

“Dat?” He was the last person James had expected to see here.

“Don’t let me interrupt.” Jimmy removed his straw hat and held it to his chest. “I know you’ve got exercises and therapy and whatnot, but I’ve come to see all this hard work I’ve been hearing about.”

James didn’t know what to say. He had long hoped for his father’s
approval of his treatment, but he had never expected Jimmy to appear here at the clinic.

JJ looked up. “Is this your father?”

James introduced the two men, and JJ gave Jimmy a quick rundown of the treatment and James’s improvements.

“Around here, your son is like Superman,” JJ said. “There’s no challenge too big for James, and he’s a hard worker.”

Jimmy nodded. “We like to have a good work ethic in our family,” he said, “but James got the best of it, I think. His brothers, not so much.”

Is that my dat talking?
James wondered, pleased to be recognized. Dat had never noticed James’s hard work at the orchard.

After a short chat, JJ backed away and Dat stepped up to James.

“I met your Englisher friend today. Shandell.”

The news set James slightly off-balance. He touched the bar, steadying himself. “Really? Did she come by the house?”

“Nay. She rescued me.” Turning his hat in his hands, Jimmy told the story of the Good Samaritan who had come along and saved him and his strawberries.

The hand of Gott moves gently
, James thought, knowing it was the will of the Almighty to bring Shandell and Jimmy together.

“I talked to Bishop Samuel about … well, many things. I see that you getting help and medical treatment from Englishers doesn’t take away from your Plain living. Samuel pointed out that Plain folk use cars for things like doctors’ appointments and whatnot. I just benefited from a vehicle to get me out of the sun and bring my produce to market. If it helps you get to treatment, we can hire a car to take you back and forth.”

“Denki, Dat. You know, a few weeks ago, I would have gladly taken a car. But going in the buggy every day with Rachel, it’s been a good time for us.” He faced his father, daring to meet those penetrating, dark eyes. “You made the right choice on that, Dat.”

Jimmy looked down. His eyes were on the hat that he turned in his hands. “Sometimes a father is hard on his sons. Especially the oldest.”

“Because a father must be a teacher. Remember Doddy’s favorite expression about the grindstone of life? ‘Life is a grindstone,’ he used to say. ‘Whether it grinds you down or polishes you up depends on what you are made of.’ ”

Dat gave a short laugh. “He said that all the time when I was a boy. He’d be hard on me for goofing around, and when I complained, he’d say that he was trying to polish me into something smooth and shiny.”

When Dat looked up at James, his eyes twinkled with tears. “A father does what he thinks is best for all, but in the end a man is just a man and Gott is the Almighty. You’ll see what I mean in a few years, when you have children of your own.”

A smile tugged at James’s lips. Ya, he would. God willing, he and Rachel would have a dozen children of their own.

He clapped James on the shoulder. “I’d best get going. I just stopped in to say … good job, son. You’re proof of Gott’s great love.”

From the doorway of the physical therapy room, Rachel watched the father and son. Tears stung her eyes at the reconciliation that was long overdue. It was an answered prayer.

As tears blurred her vision, she saw the two men as a scene in dabs of color. The cool ocean blue of mats beneath them. The stark black and white of Jimmy’s clothes, opposite the softer gray of the shorts and T-shirt the doctors had James wear here. The warm chocolate brown of Jimmy’s eyes. The blush of pleasure on James’s cheeks.

She swiped at her tears and smiled. Such beautiful colors! But what color would she put on the halo of sunlight around them—the swirl of healing and relief and love? Oh, those were wonders that only the Almighty Father would capture in color. His perfect masterpiece.

I
am grateful to loyal readers who share my enjoyment of escaping to a simpler lifestyle. In this age of gold cell phones and global messaging, I cherish the opportunity to write about a society with traditional family values. Instead of looking to institutions outside the home for education, religion, and entertainment, the Amish—like James’s father, Jimmy Lapp—strive to keep these functions in the home.

No one can surpass Dr. Violet Dutcher’s eye for story detail, cultural detail, and the nuances of Amish living. Many thanks to Dr. Vi for the inspiration and encouragement she provides.

A huge shout to Junessa Viloria, the one and only editor who seems to love these characters as much as I do. Working with you is always a joy.

And to the excellent staff at Ballantine Books, denki!

ROSALIND LAUER grew up in a large family in Maryland and began visiting Lancaster County’s Amish community as a child. She attended Wagner College in New York City and worked as an editor for Simon & Schuster and Harlequin Books. She currently lives with her family in Oregon, where she writes in the shade of some towering two-hundred-year-old Douglas fir trees.

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