Sarah's Garden (3 page)

Sarah peeled layers of moss from the ground and laid them over the open baskets of the more delicate items. Then, on impulse, she scooped up the gray field cat, Grimes, for company and clambered up into the wagon seat next to her brother. She dabbed at her perspiring brow as they started off and hoped her cape would hide any wet stains at her armpits until they dried. They jolted down the dirt road, and Sarah cast anxious looks at the canned goods, but everything held still.

Once at the stand, Sarah paused to admire the workmanship of the long, three-sided wooden building with its four narrow steps. A hearty slanted roof with a generous overhang protected against the elements, and Father had placed heavy tubs of spring flowers on either side of the steps.

Luke helped her unload the wagon, then waved a quick farewell as he drove off, leaving Sarah alone to do the woman’s work of “arranging,” as he called it. It was hard work to haul the baskets up on the tables and then to spill a few items out enticingly, but she hurried on, speaking reassuring phrases to the cat.

“Now then, Grimes. We ’ll put the glass jars right up front where the sun can catch their sparkle, and I’ll let some of the carrots trail out like this . . . and then I’ll . . .”

“Hello? Are you open?”

Sarah nearly jumped out of her skin at the sound of the deep masculine voice. She turned with an onion in hand to find a tall, blond
Englischer
poised on the steps leading up to the stand. His dark blue eyes were set in a strong-boned face, and he was smiling, a cheerful, inquisitive flash of kindness.

Sarah felt as though she were watching herself like a character in a book, struck by some invisible force of accord in her spirit when she looked at the man. She moved to put the onion down, felt it miss the table with a disconsolate thump, and watched it roll over to the stranger. He picked it up and offered it to her with a long, outstretched arm; she took it.

“Um, I could come back later, if you’re not ready yet. My housekeeper needed a few things for today, and I thought I’d just walk over. I guess I should introduce myself—I’m Dr. Williams, from the Fisher farm. We moved in over the weekend.”

Sarah swallowed and supposed he thought her a complete dolt at her lack of response. Her head ached as she squeezed the onion and smiled as Chelsea had instructed her.

“Dr. Williams
. . . jah
—yes, of course. Welcome. I’m certainly open for business, if you like.”

“Great. Please call me Grant, and you are?” He’d moved up onto the platform near her and she had to crane her neck to see his face, while he ducked his head to avoid bumping into the angled roof.

“I’m Sarah . . . Sarah King.” There. That was nicely said, though Grimes the cat was probably being friendlier by winding himself through the doctor’s long legs.

Dr. Williams scooped up the sleek cat. “Ah, a good mouser, by the looks of him. Please let me know if he gets a litter sometime. We ’ve need of a good cat.”

Sarah nodded and blushed. She ’d grown up on a farm, but it was unseemly of her to discuss litters with a strange man, veterinarian or not. The thought propelled her to replace the onion and slip onto the tiny hardback folding chair beside the small table where Luke had left the money box.

“Please, Dr. Williams . . . have a look about.”

He put the cat down and smiled at her again. “Sarah King. Daughter of Ephraim King, correct?”

“Yes.”

“Well, we’re neighbors, Miss King—so again, call me Grant—unless . . . wait, are you allowed to call me by my first name? I grew up around the Amish as a kid, but that was a long time ago, and I don’t know how to address a young woman.”

Sarah wanted to smile. Here was an
Englisch
question that seemed strange. “I may. But it might appear . . . forward. So I won’t. I’m sorry.”

The doctor nodded. “So then, to appear ‘not forward,’ I shall call you Miss King. It is Miss, right?”

Again Sarah was thrown by the man’s question. Standing among the common bushels of potatoes, it seemed too intimate to discuss whether or not she was married, but she nodded an affirmation, then looked away, pretending to concentrate on the money box. Indeed, when she lifted the tin lid, she saw a note written in Chelsea’s hand that read “Smile!” so she plastered a wider lift on her soft lips and hoped the doctor would choose something soon so she could finish setting up before any more customers came.

“This moss is a good idea—a natural insulator. Do you reuse it? You can, you know. Just dampen the root structure again and plant it back in the ground.”

“You grow moss, Doctor?”

He laughed. “No, that’s just me giving out relatively useless facts; vets do that sometimes. By the way, your English is lovely, very melodic.”

Sarah ducked her head and blushed. She ’d never been told anything as directly complimentary, and she knew that this was a taste of the world outside. Idle words. It never occurred to her that they might be true.

He lifted a basket of apples and added an onion and several potatoes. “Now I’ve done it, right?” he asked as he approached her table. “You think I’m trying to make you vain by paying you a compliment.”

She shook her head to protest but then decided that would be lying. Her pretty brow knitted in confusion, and she bit her lip.

“Miss King, you are the first person I’ve met from the area, and seeing as though I value the truth in all its freedom, I want you to promise me something.”

She looked up at him and realized he was being sincere, but what could she possibly promise an
Englischer
and one so much of the world?

“If I can, I will.”

He plopped the basket on the table, which quivered under the weight. “Good. Promise me you’ll always tell me the truth. The whole truth. I need a friend in the area, one who will help me understand more about the Amish—your faith, your ways—or I will never be accepted as a doctor here.”

“That’s true,” she agreed, and he laughed though she couldn’t understand why.

He leaned an elbow on the basket. He was so close she could smell his soaping and could also see the tiny gold flecks in his blue eyes.

“So do you promise?” he asked.

“What are you promising, Sarah King?”

Sarah glanced around the doctor’s tall frame at the sound of Jacob Wyse ’s voice; she been so involved in her talk with the
Englischer
that she hadn’t heard her friend Jacob come up the wooden steps. His overly long chestnut hair brushed his broad shoulders from beneath the brim of his dark hat as he came to stand at the doctor’s shoulder. She vaguely acknowledged their mutual good looks, one dark and the other so fair . . .

“Is it your concern, Jacob—whatever I promise?” she asked, then went on before he could reply. “Dr. Williams, please meet Jacob Wyse. He has a horse farm nearby.”

The doctor immediately turned and offered a hand in the close confines of the space. Jacob shook it with a tightness around his handsome mouth that Sarah couldn’t help but notice.

“Hi . . . I’m the new vet. Just moved into the Fisher farm.”

“Tough business, then. Getting the locals to trust you. The old vet was golden.” Jacob’s tone suggested that this
Englischer
might fall far short.

The doctor glanced back to Sarah. “Right. That’s what I was just talking with Miss King about.”

She stared up at the two men until the doctor rocked back on his feet. “So how much do I owe you?”

She glanced at the basket before her—then had a sudden inspiration. She smiled. “You’re my first customer, ever, so please just take the things for free today.”

“Thank you, Miss King.”

“You’re welcome, Dr. Williams.”

He inclined his head and picked up the basket. He moved to turn, and Jacob was forced to back away to give room for him to go down the steps.

“Have a good day, both of you,” the doctor called. There was something knowing in his brief look back that annoyed Sarah. He must think that she and Jacob were a couple.

She frowned up at Jacob when the doctor had reached the high road. “And what was that about, I’d like to know? You were rude.”

“Was I?” Jacob asked, picking up an apple.

“I was just making our new neighbor feel welcome, and you had no right to interrupt. I can make conversation with whomever I choose.”

He laid a few coins on the table and took a bite of the apple with his strong teeth.

“I’ve known you since we were babes, Sarah King, and I know when your eyes shine that you’re happy. Don’t go getting happy over some
Englischer
.”

“You’re
narrish
,” she snapped, opening the money box and depositing his coins.

“I’m not crazy; let’s just call it protective.” He reached his tanned fingers to brush her cheek and she drew back. He dropped his hand.

“You are my friend, Jacob Wyse, that’s all. I’ve told you . . .”

He nodded; his hazel eyes, very much like her own, shining with renewed good humor. “And, as my friend, you know how patient I am.”

She rolled her eyes, then straightened as a large brown car pulled up and several
Englisch
women in makeup and colorful dresses climbed out.

“Go away,” she hissed. “I’ve got customers.”

“All right. But beware of
Englischers
wanting promises . . . or anything else for that matter.”

She sighed aloud as he went down the steps and tipped his hat to the ladies as he passed. The women smiled in return, clearly charmed.

They approached the stand and glanced over the produce. One of them stared at Sarah for a long minute and then asked in a casual voice, “Honey, is there any way we can buy your clothes?”

Sarah’s head began to ache once more as she schooled her expression of disbelief into politeness and smiled at her customers.

G
rant Williams whistled along the dirt road that led home. He’d found the Amish stand and the young girl charming and decided he’d visit the roadside stand often, at least as long as the obviously protective Mr. Wyse allowed. He had no desire to get off on the wrong foot with any of the local Amish. He was nodding to the workers mixing cement on his front lawn when a terrible banging echoed from inside the house, followed by Mrs. Bustle’s abrupt shriek.

He took the stairs two at a time with the basket in his arms and entered the house, letting the screen door slam behind him. The sounds had come from somewhere in the back, and he made his way to the kitchen where Mrs. Bustle was sobbing and Mr. Bustle was patting her back.

“What’s wrong?” Grant asked, depositing the vegetables on the counter.

“I was about to light the stove, which is really a pain in the neck, Mr. Grant . . . when I opened the draught and a mother rat and her babies came tumbling out as cozy as can be. I might have cooked them!” She shuddered. “Now they’re running all over everywhere. I can’t have rats in my kitchen!” Her voice rose as her ample bosom shook in its household apron.

“Of course not.” Grant met Bustle ’s eye and struggled not to laugh out loud. “Why don’t you go into the front room and have a seat while we catch up the rats and . . . take them out back.”

“Mr. Grant, I’ve known you since you were little, and I’d do anything for you, but please don’t expect me to just sit down when those . . . creatures might be crawling anywhere.”

Her eyes grew saucer wide and she didn’t contain her scream. “Ahhh! There’s one now! Get me up on the table, up, up, uuuup!” Grant and Bustle were helping her up to sit atop the kitchen table when a firm knocking sounded on the back door. Everyone froze until Grant scooped up a cringing baby rat, slipped it into his shirt pocket, and opened the back door with a flourish.

A serious-faced Amish woman in a staid black bonnet stood with hand raised to knock again. She held a linen-wrapped package in the other.

Grant loved the spontaneous, and this was too fun. “Hello, ma’am. May I help you?”

“I’m Mrs. King, from next door. We ’re neighbors.” Her voice was pleasant, though she looked doubtfully at him. He noticed that she didn’t try to peer over his shoulder as others might have done, and he appreciated the lack of nosiness.

“Mrs. King, please come in. I just had the pleasure of . . .” He paused, uncertain as to whether he should mention meeting her daughter in case the girl might get in trouble for socializing. “Of . . . helping my housekeeper clean up a bit.” He held the door wider and the tiny rat chose that moment to peek up out of his shirt pocket.

Mrs. King stepped inside and nodded to the Bustles, who were still frozen. Then she glanced at Grant’s pocket and looked to the floor.

Grant patted his pocket and glanced at Mrs. Bustle. “We ’re having a few guests of the rodent variety, I’m afraid.”

Mrs. King lifted her head and offered him the linen package, then she began to roll up her long blue sleeves. “That’s friendship bread—it’s real tasty. Now I’ll help you round up the rats, although that one in your pocket appears pleased to be staying.”

Grant laughed, charmed once more. Here was a practical woman who was willing to truly be a neighbor. “I’m Dr. Williams, but please call me Grant. And this is Mrs. Bustle, my housekeeper, and Mr. Bustle, my jack of all trades.”

Mrs. King smiled and nodded again. “All right, Dr. Williams. Mrs. Bustle. Mr. Bustle. I think I should have brought you a kitten instead of the bread.”

Mrs. Bustle was adjusting her skirt and answered in a quivering voice, “That would be a blessing, I’m sure.”

Mrs. King bent and caught up another baby rat, which she handed to Grant, who deposited it with its tiny sibling in his pocket.

“I’ll send one of the boys over tonight with a cat.” She glanced at the poor condition of the old stove, then spoke again. “Or we ’d be pleased to have you all to supper, if you’d like, and you can take your pick from the barn cats and perhaps enjoy a story or two afterward from my husband. He loves to entertain.”

Grant accepted with alacrity. He knew that being invited to supper in an Amish home was a big step toward establishing a relationship with the community.

“Thank you, Mrs. King. We would love to come, wouldn’t we, Bustles?”

The older pair nodded.