Sarah's Garden (16 page)
“Are you Mr. Kemp?”
“John . . . please. And you’re Dr. Williams?”
“Yes. How is your wife doing?”
The young man shook his head and swallowed hard. “It’s our first, you know.
Frau
Knepp has been with her for hours . . . I don’t know.”
Frau
Knepp is the midwife?” “
Jah
. . .” “
“Well,” Grant tried to encourage him. “First labors always take awhile. It’s normal.”
“
Jah
. Please . . . will you come inside?”
Grant considered; Sarah would probably have a fit. “I’d better not,” he said with regret. “I’ve got some calls.”
“Just for a bit . . . I could do with some menfolk’s company.”
“All right . . . for a few minutes.”
John sighed in gratitude, and Grant followed him to the dark screen door.
When they entered the home, they stepped directly into the large kitchen, which was in a state of utter chaos. Sarah stood at a counter, scraping up sugar trailing from a large bag. Fresh apples, in all stages of dissection, were mounded in bowls and kettles while the stove boiled madly. Canning jars stood at the ready but had not been touched while the heavy smell of burnt brown sugar and spices hung thick in the air.
John turned to smile at him. “My wife and my
mamm
—they were making some apple butter when the labor began.”
“Ah.”
“
Danki
, Sarah,” John went on. “I know it’s a mess in here.”
“It doesn’t matter.” Sarah smiled back, though she would not meet Grant’s eyes.
Everyone jumped, including Grant himself, when a strangled moan echoed from behind a nearby closed door.
Ach
. . . ,” John said, moving automatically to the door, where “he then stopped and looked back in desperation.
“Go in there,” Grant said before he realized the words were out of his mouth.
John Kemp’s face took on a whole new light, as if he ’d just been waiting for someone to tell him to go to his wife, and he nodded his head with a broad smile. “
Jah
. . . I will go.” He hitched up his suspenders like he was girding for battle then straightened his shoulders and opened the door. There was a flurry of female voices, but as the minute lengthened they subsided, and John did not reemerge.
“Why did you say that?” Sarah asked, as she emptied more sugar back into the bag.
“Because that’s where he belongs; he ’ll probably help her make it go faster.”
“Birthing is the work of the midwife; it’s the work of the husband to wait.”
“Why? I bet your brother-in-law has delivered hundreds of animals on the farm.”
She looked shocked and he went on. “I’m not comparing animal birth to that of humans, just making a point that it’s a natural process. John was there in the beginning; he should be there in the end.” He helped himself to a Granny Smith apple and watched her, waiting for her response.
She gave him a searing glance. “You are too worldly.”
“No, I’m matter-of-fact. I’m a doctor, remember? It’s not worldly, Sarah, to say the truth.”
“Some truths don’t need to be said aloud.”
“Really? Which ones? Like the one I asked about yesterday?”
“Yes,” she snapped, then bit her lip.
He moved to stand beside her. “I see you’ve repaired your hair covering.”
She looked back down at the sugar. “
Jah
, of course.”
He let his gaze sweep around at the mess, then stepped back, giving her some room. “All right . . . for your sister’s sake, let’s make the apple butter and declare a truce.”
She smiled then, revealing a dimple, and he felt his heart jump in response.
“Do you know how to make apple butter, Doctor?”
He straightened his long back and grabbed a browning, peeled apple. “How hard can it be?”
She rolled her eyes and took the apple from his hand. “First, we must stop the browning. We need to mix vinegar and salt with water.” She glanced about and he read her thoughts.
“Do you need a clean kettle? I’ll wash one.” He rolled up his sleeves as he spoke, peering into various pots to find the least full. He chose one from the stove that was encrusted with dark brown sugar and wondered if they had a green-textured scrubber like he’d seen Mrs. Bustle use.
Sarah handed him a piece of steel wool and he took it wordlessly and began to scrub.
“I’m making a mess,” he confessed after a minute, and she laughed.
“Turn the pot over another that’s boiling . . . here.” She stretched to help him. “The steam will loosen the burnt sugar.” Her blue sleeve brushed his bare arm and he forced himself to step away, concentrating on the overturned kettle instead.
“What’s next?”
“We sterilize the canning jars. I’m not sure if Chelsea had finished all of them.”
“Another clean pot?”
Jah
. . . please.” “
They worked together for a few minutes, and Grant breathed in the companionable peace. He admired her deft movements about the kitchen, bending here and there to clean and straighten or easily peeling more apples to go into the anti-browning mixture for a dip.
“This is fun,” he remarked and felt her glance of surprise. “What?”
She shook her head. “You seem to enjoy whatever you do.”
He lowered his voice. “When I’m with you, yes.”
She snapped a dish towel in the air between them. “Truce, Doctor . . . remember?”
“You have a feisty side.”
“Feisty?”
“Yep.” He smiled smugly, transferring jars from the stove to the counter with long tongs.
“What do you mean . . . feisty?”
“Oh, you’d call it sassy, I suppose.”
She stood stock-still. “I am not sassy. That’s behaving without respect.”
He leaned close to her. “Maybe to your
mamm
; but to me, it’s fun.”
She backed against the counter and turned, reaching for a bag of spices. “It’s time for the cinnamon and allspice.”
He returned to the canning jars and whistled, ignoring her turned back.
He sensed when she turned back to him and he pretended not to notice. “All right . . . last jar. Now what?”
“We stir the mixture on the stove and stir and stir . . . otherwise it will burn.”
“I’ll stir, then.”
He took up the long wooden spoon and stood over the large pot, whistling and stirring, enjoying the warm feel of the steam on his face.
“Do you want me to take over?” she asked.
He grinned at her over his shoulder. “Nope. I’m having fun.”
He ignored her sigh and continued to stir, all the while concentrating on her gentle flurry of movements behind him as she continued to clear up the kitchen. He wondered if it would make any difference in her behavior if he backed off in his attentions; he smiled as he considered the innate curiosity of a hummingbird.
S
arah concentrated on the sandy grains of brown sugar as she scraped the counters clean. She didn’t want to think about the fact that the doctor was so close behind her that she only needed to take a step and her skirt would brush his long legs. She closed her eyes against the sudden desire to turn and touch his back, to rub her fingers against the pale blue cotton of his shirt, which matched his eyes. She shook herself and decided that she was flustered in her excitement over Chelsea, not the doctor . . . or Grant, as he ’d asked her to call him.
Then she became aware of the sudden, palpable silence in the room and sneaked a glance over her shoulder to find him staring at her.
“It’s done, I think.”
“Take it off the heat, then,” she instructed, her voice strained.
He smiled at her, a knowing look. “Yes, we definitely need less heat.”
She couldn’t look away. She watched him close the single-step distance between them and extend his arms to reach the counter on either side of her. She was caught, trapped by the warmth of his body and her own yearning to press herself closer to him.
“You have apple butter on your cheek,” he murmured, and she tried to reach a hand between them to wipe her face.
“Don’t.”
She froze, somehow knowing what he wanted, and she arched her neck upward.
He put his mouth on her cheek, and she blinked at the sensation, knowing that he tasted her skin. He pulled back and she felt like crying out at the loss of his touch, but she watched as his thick lashes lowered, and he bent his head. He brushed his mouth across hers, and she thought of sunshine, and green leaves, and boiling maple syrup. She responded, a tentative foray of her lips that provoked a small sound of approval from the back of his throat. She moved her mouth with abandon, wanting him to make the noise again, when the rattle of a doorknob forced them to turn from each other in haste.
The bedroom door opened wide and Mrs. King emerged, her face wreathed in smiles, just as Sarah managed to grasp to the counter, clutching its edge with white-tipped fingers.
Mamm
. . . how is Chelsea?” “
Wunderbarr
. . . and you are now Aunt Sarah to a
boppli
“boy . . . and on your birthday too!”
Grant looked over his shoulder at her. “It’s your birthday?”
“
Jah
.”
Mamm
nodded in satisfaction. “Our first grandchild . . . John Kemp Jr.” She turned her comfortable frame back to the door. “You may come in shortly, Sarah.”
She shut the door behind her and only the sound of the slow bubbling apple butter broke the silence between them as they faced each other once more.
Grant cleared his throat and spoke hoarsely, “Happy birthday.”
She looked at him and reached trembling fingers to her lips to savor the sensation of the kiss.
“You . . . kissed me.”
“You kissed me back.”
“
Ach
,” she exhaled. “This cannot go on; it cannot. I am Amish; you are
Englisch
.”
“Are we so different, then, Sarah?”
“No . . . I mean, yes . . . we are. I cannot have you, not without losing my faith, my home. I will not do that.”
He pursed his lips. “I don’t want you to lose anything.”
“Then why kiss me?” she whispered in desperation. “How many
Englisch
girls do you kiss like this? Is it your way?”
“No, I don’t go around kissing just anyone. I’m going to talk to your father.”
“What?” she hissed. “Are you
narrish
?
Nee
, you will not talk to Father.”
“Why not? You know I care about you, and I think you care about me. Why shouldn’t I tell your father, so we can stop hiding what is the truth?”
She dropped her face into her hands and gave a faint sob.
“Don’t cry, Sarah.”
“I don’t know what else to do.”
“I don’t want you to cry; I want . . .” He stopped as the front door opened and Luke and Mr. King entered.
“Well, little Sarah . . . you are now Aunt Sarah! And Dr. Williams, you’re here to share the good news as well!” The older man exclaimed jubilantly, and Sarah watched as Grant moved to shake his hand.
“Yes, sir. It’s a boy.”
“A boy . . . a grandson!” Mr. King reached to embrace Sarah, then stretched out an expansive arm to encompass the room. “
Jah
. . . it’s a good day for the King family and for the Kemp house.
Der Herr
blesses us, eh, Sarah? What more is there to ask for?”
Sarah tried to avoid Grant’s eyes as he smiled wryly at her.
What more indeed
?
A
ch
, Dr. Williams,” Father clapped his hands. “I forgot in all of the excitement—the Bilder farm sent word. They’ve a sick old dog at their place and wondered if you might come.”
“Of course. I’ll go at once.” Sarah watched him unroll his sleeves, trying to ignore the sight of the strong, tanned forearms splattered with apple butter. She scuffed one small toe of her shoe at a flour spot on the floor.
“Congratulations again, sir! Uncle Luke . . . Aunt Sarah.” She looked up to meet his eyes, but he ’d already turned and was headed out the door. In a few moments, the sound of the automobile receded into the distance.
Sarah concentrated on filling the sterilized jars full of the rich apple butter and setting the seals while Luke ran an appreciative finger around the hot edge of the pan. She slapped his hand away and listened to Father’s cheerful pacing before the closed bedroom door. Then she checked the paraffin, which was melting in a double boiler. When it was done, she ladled the hot wax over the warm apple butter, making sure that the wax touched all sides of the glass jar to ensure a proper seal; then she screwed on the brass tops and lids and carefully dried each jar. The familiar process soothed her for the moment, and she felt like she could breathe again without thinking of Grant.
Mamm
soon emerged from the bedroom carrying a bundled armful and went straight to Father. Her eyes were filled with happy tears as Sarah and Luke clustered around to see; John’s
mamm
soon joined them from the master bedroom. Father took the baby and gently lifted the quilt Sarah had made with his work-worn hands to reveal a pink, sleeping face with a rosebud mouth and a thatch of black hair.
Ach
. . . Mama, how
Der Herr
has blessed us.” “
Sarah watched the loving exchange of glances between her parents and knew that she longed for such a relationship for herself when she ’d been married as long as they had. She slipped away from the group admiring the baby and went to Chelsea’s doorway. John Kemp’s head was bent over her sister’s, and his shoulders shook as he cried tears of happiness while his wife stroked his hair. Sarah drew back, not wanting to interrupt when Frau Knepp saw her and thrust a bundle of sheets and quilts at her.
“Sarah,
danki
. . . These need to be washed.”
There was no tomfoolery with Frau Knepp, so Sarah turned with the staggering load and headed out back to the washtubs and wringer. Long laundry lines were strung between two oak trees and a handful of carved stick props leaned against a nearby shed. Sarah sighed as she began by pumping the water from the nearby pump to fill the aluminum wash bins. She put several sheets in to soak, then added crumbles of handmade oil soap. Chelsea’s soap held the rich scent of both almonds and berries that was pleasant to smell, so the scrubbing seemed to go by more quickly than usual. She ’d just run her second sheet through the wringer washer when
Mamm
came out to join her.