The Amish Blacksmith (34 page)

I spent the afternoon over at Amanda's. It wasn't our usual routine, but she was still flying high from last night's party and wanted to go over everything. The fact that I couldn't care less—and told her so—didn't seem to matter. Undaunted, she replied that she had to talk about it with somebody, and because Priscilla was my responsibility too, it was my place to sit and listen.

We ended up at the kitchen table, the plans and lists and charts that Amanda had used for the party spread out in front of us as she went through and recounted even the tiniest detail. I would have been bored out of my mind after the first five minutes had it not been for the presence of her mother and her twin sisters, Naomi and Nettie, who were over at the counters working together to can what looked like about four bushels of peaches. Not only did they let me hop up and pitch in whenever they needed something heavy lifted or a jar twisted open, but they all talked and laughed a lot as they chopped and sliced and boiled and stirred and poured, making a difficult job quite fun. They also kept up a running banter about the over-the-top event Amanda had pulled together, forcing me to stifle a smile several times.

They were just teasing, but I knew there was a little truth behind their words. Amanda's mother, in particular, seemed rather put out with her daughter, and I didn't blame her. The Amish had things like parties and gatherings and food and games down to a science. There was a way you went about this stuff that followed a fairly standard formula. That made it easier for everyone, and it lessened the possibility of pride because no one party was ever more outstanding than another.

Amanda, on the other hand, had been determined to put on something truly unique and special, qualities not valued among our people. The longer
I sat listening to her, the more I had to wonder whom she had been trying to impress. Not until I was leaving did it strike me that perhaps she'd seen it as an opportunity to show off to me the kinds of skills one might look for in a wife. My only wish was that her gifts with planning and cooking and entertaining were equaled by a gift of humility.

As I drove home late in the afternoon, pondering these things, my mind went to the party's guest of honor, the one who had been the beneficiary of Amanda's efforts. With a laugh to myself, I realized that, in a sense, Priscilla was the un-Amanda. For her, just the thought of being unique and special and impressive and noticeable would send her running in the opposite direction.

Priscilla was still on my mind as I neared the Kinsinger farm and turned into the driveway. The first house on the left was Owen and Treva's, the same house where Priscilla had once lived—and where her mother had died.

As I reached the barn and pulled to a stop, I sat there for a long moment, thinking again of that tragic accident, a fatal slice of the knife while canning acorn squash. That, in turn, led me to think of Naomi and Nettie at the Shetlers' today, working with their mother to put up the peaches. Then it struck me.

Canning was hard work that required many hands. Any other 14-year-old Amish girl would have been in the kitchen with her mother at canning time, not out in the barn nor up in her bedroom.

This thought led me to a new theory, that on the day Sharon Kinsinger died, mother and daughter had had an argument, one that ended with Priscilla being sent to her room. Later, when Sharon accidentally cut herself, she had gone up there for help, expecting Priscilla to be inside. But she hadn't been. Instead, she must have slipped out when her
mamm
wasn't looking, leaving the room empty. No wonder Priscilla felt responsible.

By sneaking away from the house, she'd essentially sealed her mother's fate.

T
WENTY
-F
OUR

A
manda's vision of romantic bliss between Priscilla and Matthew did not materialize. Over the course of the next week, Amanda popped in to see Priscilla a few times, chatting up all of Matthew's qualities and his general wonderfulness, but it seemed to make no difference. Priscilla wasn't interested. Realizing that for himself, Matthew had already politely declined to pursue things with her on his end. Or, as Amanda put it, he was going to back off, despite how much he liked her, because he wasn't a pushy kind of guy.

I wasn't all that sure, however, whether his interest in Priscilla was genuine or just a figment of Amanda's imagination. From what I had seen at the party, at least, Matthew hadn't exactly been falling all over himself to get to know the guest of honor. Instead, he had been shy and stiff and his usual scarecrow self, treating her like one guest among many.

And yet Amanda persisted. After her third “girl chat” with Priscilla of the week, I felt just bad enough about her intrusiveness on the matter that I decided to apologize on my girlfriend's behalf.

Here at the end of June, the days were growing longer and sunnier, and a brief cool snap had been making the weather just about perfect. It was nearing sunset on the last Saturday in June when I finished up some chores and
went looking for Priscilla. I checked all the obvious places and finally found her down in Treva's vegetable garden, alone, carefully thinning out some cabbage plants on her left and replanting them in an empty row on her right.

I asked if I could help, and though her expression made it clear she wished I wouldn't, she said I could if I wanted to. I jumped right in, glad to have something to do with my hands as we talked. That always made for easier conversation, just two people chatting as they worked on something together.

“If you're the second wave sent in to extol Matthew's virtues, don't bother,” she said.

In return, I couldn't help but laugh. Loudly. “Quite the opposite, in fact,” I assured her. “Mostly I just wanted to, um, apologize for what has turned into a one-woman crusade that is probably driving you crazy. I don't know why Amanda is so determined to see you and Matthew together, but the next time I talk to her, I'm going to request she back off.”

Priscilla continued with her digging without a reply.

“If you don't feel like dating anyone, then you shouldn't have to date anyone,” I added diplomatically.

Her head jerked up. “You don't think I should be dating?”

“Of course not. I—”

“That there's not a man alive who could possibly be interested in poor, weird Priscilla?”

And there it was. The side of this woman that was as prickly as a pinecone. The side that drove me crazy.

I couldn't even think how to reply, and I didn't want my tone to sound as irritated as I felt, so I kept silent for a while, doing my part with the digging. In the quiet, she must have realized she'd overreacted, because after a while she glanced over at me again and spoke in a much softer, almost repentant tone.

“There is someone, a man back home,” she said, her face blushing a pretty pink. “He's older than I am but quite kind. And he doesn't think I'm weird at all.”

My first thought was a snarky one.
Even if he did, he wouldn't say so because he needs a mother for his eight children.
Of course I couldn't blurt that out loud. I dug at the ground with vigor as I replied.

“I never said men wouldn't want to date you, Priscilla. I was just saying don't feel bad if you don't feel like dating Matthew—or any other guy around here, for that matter—if you don't want to.”

I looked up to see that she was staring at me with an odd expression, one I couldn't read. Then she returned her attention to the earth in front of her and said, simply, “I'm here only temporarily, remember.”

Again, for some reason I couldn't explain, I found myself digging with intensity, my jaw set. Finally, I could hold my tongue no longer. Sitting back on my heels, I stabbed the spade into the dirt and crossed my arms over my chest.

“Seriously? You're seriously considering that guy's offer?”

Priscilla also sat back, her eyes narrowing as she looked back at me. “Offer?”

With a flush of heat, I realized I had no business sharing with her something Amos had told me in confidence. Backpedaling just a little, I muttered, “You just said there's a guy back home. I assume he wants to court you?”

“Not that it's any of your business, Jake, but Noah and I have already been courting. He's asked me to marry him.”

“What did you tell him?”

“Again, not your business, but I said I would have to think about it first.” Waving away a persistent bumblebee, she added, “When I felt God leading me to come back here to Lancaster County, I broke things off with him—temporarily, at least. I didn't know how long I would be gone, and I felt he should be free to date others in my absence.”

“Sounds like true love to me,” I quipped.

She ignored my sarcasm. “Like I said, I told him I would have to think about it first. So that's what I've been doing. Thinking about it.”

“Thinking about it.”

“
Ya
. Would you have me say yes—or no—in an instant? Without genuine consideration? Without certainly of God's will?”

“It seems to me that you either know or you don't.”

“It seems to me that I already told you this was none of your business,” she said. Then she put aside her tools, stood, and marched off toward the house.

I didn't see Priscilla again until the next morning, as we all gathered in the driveway, ready to go to church. I'd had all night to think about our conversation, and I felt terrible about it. Even though apologies never came easily to me, I didn't hesitate now to pull her aside to tell her how sorry I was for butting into her private affairs.

“I was way out of line. I don't know what got into me.”

She seemed to consider my words thoughtfully and then responded with a nod. “
Danke
, Jake. I forgive you.”

She turned to move away, but I reached out and caught her elbow.

“One more thing.”

I dropped my hand as she paused to look back at me.

“Next Friday is the Fourth of July, which, you know, is big with
Englischers
. Natasha is having a barbecue at her estate, and she's hired me to be there for the fireworks part, just to stay in the stables and help keep an eye on any of the horses that might get spooked by the noise. I told her how you helped with January, and she suggested I bring you along too.” When Priscilla didn't respond right away, I added, “She'll pay by the hour, in cash, at the end of the night.”

Looking into Priscilla's face, I could almost see the battle raging. After our conversation in the garden, I was most likely the last person she wanted to spend time with. On the other hand, not only was this a paying job—albeit a brief one—but it would mean spending time with horses.

“
Ya
. I could do that.”

I thanked her and turned away before she could see the relief in my smile.