The Thorn (8 page)

"I know Mom and Dad need you to help around here - and you're working at Mr. Browning's. Certainly I don't expect you to adjust your work schedule to baby-sit Mattie Sue."

"I'll do what I can." That is if Brandon lets you take the job.

Hen waved her hand casually. "Or ... maybe one of our sistersin-law might be a better choice."

Rose immediately thought of Josh's wife. "Kate's home all day with her three girls. Maybe between Kate and me, something can work out."

Hen paused and glanced toward the pastureland. "I'm determined to pull this off, Rose."

You always do what you set your mind to....

The sound of songbirds was thick in a nearby tree, and Rose tilted her head to watch them, feeling a bit awkward. Hen had come here to bare her soul.

They sat quietly and observed their father talking with the bishop and Christian near the entrance to his woodshop. Nick had returned - Rose hadn't noticed when - and glanced their way. Hen looked at Rose, seemingly nervous. "Is Nick eavesdropping on us?"

Rose almost made an excuse for him, but she kept still. Maybe he was eavesdropping.

Hen kept her voice to a near whisper. "You mustn't think poorly of me, Rosie. Please don't."

Rose looked at her sister. "Ach, my mind's just a-spinnin' - I can't help it."

The distinctive sound of a horse's hooves on the road was the perfect background to Hen's peculiar news. What Hen had told her about wanting to work at the Amish fabric store was the very last thing Rose had expected to hear from the sister who'd shunned her own people and upbringing to marry the English boy she loved.

"You and I both know what Brandon will say when you tell him," Rose ventured.

"Well, I'll have to sometime." Hen fussed with her plainlooking skirt, flicking off imaginary bits of lint.

"Your husband despises your Amish roots," Rose whispered, a lump in her throat. "You know that as well as anyone."

Wednesday morning Rose didn't have to wait around for her grayhaired grandmother to arrive from the larger of the two Dawdi Hauses next door. Mammi Sylvia came right over and began making blueberry muffins and scrambled egg and cheese sandwiches. Mamm smiled broadly, since she loved this kind of breakfast.

Mammi Sylvia took Mamm's smooth hands in hers, like Mamm was just a child, and leaned down to kiss her forehead. At times the way she treated Mamm made Rose wonder if she thought Mamm had regressed in her mind.

"You feeling up to hot cocoa with your breakfast, Emma?" Mammi asked.

Mamm's eyes lit up. "With some whipped cream?"

Rose had to smile. "And a cherry on top of that, jah?"

Mamm turned and nodded her head. "Sweets on sweet, I always say."

"Which reminds me, we should be Navin' more snitz pie." Mammi Sylvia went to the pantry and opened the door, peering inside. "Looks to me like you're nearly out of sugar."

"You need me to get some?" Rose offered.

"No, no." Mammi waved her hand. "I've got extra next door."

Having her mother's parents living on the other side of the wall from the main house was as handy as all get-out.

She eyed the wicker basket next to Mamm's wheelchair and thought of the market baskets and other items, including the tin money box, lost to the ravine the day the buggy tipped over and rolled. Sometimes, when Rose thought of it, she had to keep from marching down there in broad daylight to scour the craggy creek area. Surely Mamm's old tin was still sitting deep in there somewhere.

After a delicious, filling breakfast, Rose took the family buggy to Mr. Browning's, at her father's urging. She was hesitant to inconvenience Dat in any way. Mamm, of course, could ride with her mother anywhere she needed to go, if necessary, although it was doubtful Mamm would be going anywhere today. Rose knew Mamm was still hoping to attend Friday's birthday get-together for Mamm's older sister Malinda. All of them - Mammi Sylvia, Rose, and Mamm - were going up to Bart for some birthday cake and ice cream, and Dutch Blitz, a lively card game they liked to play. And a mystery meal was also planned. Rose loved a good mystery - craved them nearly as much as the wholesome romance novels she liked to read.

When she arrived at Gilbert Browning's farmhouse, Rose tied Alfalfa to the hitching post still there from a former Amish homeowner. Any of their other horses might have balked at being tied to the post for long. But she knew she could go about her work and return to find Alfalfa contentedly nibbling on the grassy row near the lane.

The landscape seemed to pour over her as Rose took in the enormous cornfields in several directions. The little woodshed to the side of the house had been piled with newly split logs just since she began working there.

She studied the house with its three prominent dormer windows facing the road, wondering when the exterior had last been painted white. The fact that electricity had been installed at some point made the clapboard house, with its peeling front porch, more comfortable for Mr. Browning, who had to be in his late fifties if he was a day.

She nuzzled the horse and gave her a sugar cube. If Rose found she was needed longer, she would free her from the buggy, but that always took extra time. Last week, she'd cleaned the kitchen so thoroughly she knew she would be primarily cooking today. She hoped Mr. Browning or his neighbor had purchased everything on the grocery list she'd jotted down last time.

One thing for sure, the man had a fondness for meals with chicken as the main ingredient. He'd insisted she make him fried or baked chicken, chicken salad, and chicken casseroles with noodles or rice. He was a man of peculiar habits, having explained that his late wife liked to cook lots of chicken dishes for him. So, for now, chicken it was.

Rose made her way up the front steps, noting the sagging front porch railing. She wished someone would sand, prime, and paint the whole porch, because a good sprucing up was definitely needed.

She knocked on the door, noticing Donna Becker, Gilbert Browning's neighbor, across the yard, shaking throw rugs. Donna gave Rose a jovial wave.

"Come over before you leave today, all right?" the dark-haired woman called. For a moment Rose considered the Englischer, whom she guessed was in her midthirties. Certainly the woman was older than Hen.

Rose agreed, smiling and waving back. "Might be ten o'clock or later till I'm finished here."

"By then you'll be ready for some warm cookies," Donna said as her fluffy white Old English sheepdog, Farley, came out onto the back porch.

"I'll look forward to it. Denki!" Rose turned back to the house just as Mr. Browning called from inside. She said, "Good mornin' to ya," as she pushed the door open.

Usually, he came to the door when she knocked or rang the bell, but today he was quick to say he'd had a bad night and was tired. "I'll try to make it snappy, then," she told him, setting about to wash the many dishes.

"I don't mean it's necessary for you to hurry." He tapped his black pipe on the arm of his oak chair. "Take your time."

She again recalled the bishop's grandson's tale and wondered where in this house the frogs and dead fishes had been discovered after the flood. A quick glance at Mr. Browning, and she doubted he felt up to talking about such things just now. She could only imagine where the critters had shown up. If they had.

She looked in the refrigerator and was pleased to find the items she'd requested. The fridge had been organized and cleaned, which surprised her, as she hadn't done a thing to it last time she was there. The butter was located in its designated spot behind the small compartment in the door, and so were the fresh eggs, all lined up in a neat row. The spills she'd noted last time had been wiped clean, as well. Had the man taken time to straighten up?

When she'd gathered the thawed chicken breasts, butter, and milk onto the kitchen counter, she glanced toward the pantry. "Do ya like brown rice or white better?" she asked, not turning to look at him.

"Doesn't matter, Miss Rose. Whatever you want to cook."

Well, how about some pork chops or a nice juicy steak? She smiled at herself, knowing she'd never talk up to him that way.

A quick trip to the pantry, and Rose found both brown and white rice on the shelves, along with several kinds of nuts, boxed cereals, and oatmeal. "Have you ever eaten homemade granola bars?" she asked, making small talk as she emerged. "I have a delicious recipe."

"What's in it?" he asked.

"Well, let's see - oats, Rice Krispies, marshmallows, and nuts, too. Oh, and sunflower seeds and coconut."

"Any peanut butter?" He suddenly looked chipper.

She smiled over her shoulder. "Yes, peanut butter and some honey, too."

"Sounds tasty."

"All right, then. I'll make up a nice batch for ya. You can nibble on them all week." First, though, she set to work making a large chicken casserole with brown rice to make it more filling to eat for several days. Next she mixed up the ingredients for the no-bake granola bars before readying his weekly dish of scalloped potatoes.

Once the side dish was in the oven, she cleaned the counters and the double sink. Then she swept and washed the kitchen floor, as well as the hallway that led to the first-floor bathroom.

After she had also scrubbed the bathroom, she returned to the kitchen to wash her hands. Looking over at Mr. Browning, she offered to dust and sweep in the small sitting room adjacent to the kitchen. It was the room behind the doorway where he always sat, like a guard. "Wouldn't you like more of the house cleaned today?" she asked, holding the broom and dustpan. "I'd be happy to."

"No, no ... and besides, the sitting room rarely gets used." He gave an uncomfortable chuckle.

Rose wasn't one to argue with a man, yet it was apparent the dust stood thick on the lamp table not but a few feet from Mr. Browning's chair. "Looks like the tables could use a good dusting, at least."

He stared back at her. "There's plenty to keep you busy in the kitchen," he said, a gruff edge to his words.

Backing away, she didn't understand why he expected her to clean only the kitchen and one small bath. "What about your bedding and linens? Don't you want them washed?" At home, every Monday morning without fail, she and her grandmother stripped the beds to wash up all the sheets and towels, and every stitch of clothing from the week, then hung them out to dry on the clothesline. She had no idea when Mr. Browning had last done his laundry.

"I do my own washing," he replied, a hint of pain in his eyes.

She guessed he must be telling the truth, since he smelled fresh enough. Even so, she suspected the upstairs had to be languishing, not getting a thorough cleaning. "Just want to help out," she said, going back to sit at the kitchen table to write the next week's grocery list.

"Well, if you want to do something more, you can bake me a chocolate cake," he suggested, his tone more friendly. "Would you mind?"

"I know the best German chocolate cake recipe."

"I should've asked when you first came in." He seemed embarrassed.

"That's all right." She brightened and went to the pantry again, closing the narrow door after her in order to get to the shelving behind it, where the flour and sugar were kept.

She was startled by a rustling sound overhead as she reached for the flour. Looking up, she eyed the ceiling. "Hmm," she whispered, "maybe Mr. Browning has mice instead of frogs."

She carried the dry ingredients to the counter and set them down. Reaching for a clean measuring cup from the cupboard directly above her head, she couldn't remember having seen a single mousetrap anywhere along the kitchen floorboards. Didn't Mr. Browning know it was important to have several set in a drafty old farmhouse? Especially one situated on the very edge of a cornfield.

Glimpsing the man, she saw that his rounded chin had come to rest on his chest, and for a fleeting moment she pictured how his face might appear with a full beard like her father's.

She couldn't very well ask him about mousetraps at the moment. Sighing, she wrote on the grocery list for next week: 3 mousetraps. He could read it when he woke up.

Quickly, Rose mixed together the ingredients for the cake, wondering if today was the lonely man's birthday. Or, if not that, then a "special memory day," as Hen's best friend, Arie Miller, now Zook, used to say, back before she and Hen parted ways.

Whatever the cake represented to him, she hoped Mr. Browning wouldn't have to celebrate alone. For the life of her, she wished he'd wake up before she left the house in another hour or so, since now she had to stay to bake and frost the cake.

Once she'd put the cake in the oven, she set the timer and made the frosting. Then she wandered to the window and pinched off the dead heads on the African violets she'd brought over, and tested the soil for dampness.

She walked down the hallway on the south side of the sitting room that led to the back door and looked out past the woodshed, wondering if she'd have time to stop in and see Donna today, after all.

Standing in the doorway, she noticed the latch was locked. She took in the sweep of the large backyard, where a single rope swing hung from a gnarled old tree. Why had Mr. Browning chosen to rent such a large house? Was he accustomed to this much space in Illinois, when his wife was still living?