Waiting for Summer's Return (15 page)

“But she’s going to be.” Thomas stuck out his chin. “You’ll see.”

Rupert shook his head, a gloomy look in his eyes. “If your pa marries her, there’s going to be big trouble, Thomas.”

“I don’t think so.” Thomas sat beside the pile of blocks. “Now, are we going to build or not?”

Rupert stood for several long seconds, chewing on his lip and staring at Thomas. Finally, he sighed and sat down, too. “Okay, let’s build.”

Even though he and Rupert built the best, highest, most elaborate block tower ever, Thomas found no joy in the creation. All the shine of a friend’s visit and the first snow was lost with Rupert’s ominous statement,
“There’s going to be big trouble.”

17

S
UMMER TURNED FROM
the window and blinked blearily at the boys, who sat together at the table creating a picture of a lamb with the pieces of a jigsaw puzzle. Although the boys had been well behaved, her nerves felt frayed by the red-haired boy’s constant scrutiny. The tension had worn her out. “Thomas?”

“Yes, ma’am?” Thomas looked up, but his friend’s focus never wavered from the puzzle.

“Do you suppose you boys will be all right if I turn in early? I can hardly keep my eyes open.”

“Sure, we’ll be fine.”

The other boy lifted his face just enough to send Summer another look full of suspicion. She shivered and forced a weak smile. “It’s dark, so I’m sure your fathers will be here soon.” She pointed to the stove. “I left some salt pork and potatoes in the skillet. Remind your father to eat, will you?” She felt a blush build as she remembered the boy’s father prodding her to eat.

A secretive smile tipped up Thomas’s lips, and he sent Rupert a knowing look that gave Summer an uneasy feeling. “Yes, ma’am, I’ll tell him you said so.”

“Thank you.” She hesitated. Was it negligent to leave the boys unattended? The grandmother had toddled off to bed nearly an hour ago. A yawn pressed at her throat, and she knew she wouldn’t be able to stay awake much longer. Thomas was a responsible boy—surely they would be fine. She crossed to the table and touched his shoulder. “You sleep well tonight, Thomas.”

“I will, ma’am.
Schlop die gesunt
.”

“Thank you.” She looked at Rupert. “Good night, Rupert.” He didn’t respond.

Summer closed herself in the bedroom and leaned against the door, her eyes closed. Thomas’s good-night message echoed in her ears. How much the boy was like his father in appearance and mannerisms. Yet, with the typical openness of children, he was much less restrained than his father.

She smiled, remembering the brief conversation they had shared when Rupert had visited the outhouse.

“Mrs. Steadman, do you have a first name?”

The question had taken her aback, and she had stammered out, “Well, of course I do. It’s Summer.”

The boy’s eyes had widened. “Summer? I like that name.”

She had shared the reason for her unusual name, watching his eyebrows rise. When she was finished, he had exclaimed, “You’re like me, then. You don’t have a ma, either.”

She had shaken her head. “No, I don’t.”

Abruptly, he had turned the conversation back to her name. “May I call you Summer? When it’s just us, I mean? Not in front of Rupert.”

It had pleased her to think of the boy using her name, so she had given permission. Now she wondered if she’d done the right thing. Would his father approve? Even now, after a month with the family, he still referred to her formally as
Frau
Steadman, except that one time he had called her
woman
. Her face flamed with the remembrance. What would her name sound like spoken by his deep voice?

When her thoughts ran in those kinds of directions, she knew she needed rest. She made a pallet of blankets on the floor, lay down, and quickly fell asleep.

Ach
, it had been a long day. But the Ratzlaff barn was rebuilt, the offending tree now lay stacked as firewood, and his own animals munched hay in their stalls. Peter could turn in. He entered the house as quietly as his big feet would allow so he would not wake anyone. He was surprised to find Thomas at the table.

“Son, you still are awake?”

“I was waiting for you. Rupert went home over an hour ago.” The boy went to the stove and raised the lid on a skillet. A good smell greeted Peter’s nostrils. “You’re supposed to eat. Summer went to bed, but she left this for you.”

Peter frowned. “Summer?” He hung up his coat. “Of what do you speak?”

The boy blinked, his expression innocent. “Mrs. Steadman. She said I could call her Summer.”

“But why?” He plodded to the table and seated himself heavily.

Thomas shrugged as he scooped food onto a plate. “It’s her name.”

The woman’s name was Summer? The word brought images of blooming flowers and golden wheat, of cottony clouds and whispered breezes. Summer … Ah yes, the name suited the woman. “How did a woman get an unusual name as that?”

“She told me how.” Thomas placed the plate and a fork in front of Peter. Pressing the heels of his hands on the edge of the table, he explained. “Her folks had a boy—Summer’s brother, William—but after him, they lost four babies in a row. So when Summer was born in early summer, her mother said they maybe shouldn’t name her since she probably wouldn’t live. They called her Summer for the season.”

Peter thought about this explanation. It did not seem as though the parents cared a great deal if they had no hopes of her living. But perhaps they only shielded their own hearts from possible pain. He knew the woman did this—tried to shield herself from Thomas. The boy had weaseled his way into her heart anyway. He suspected
Grossmutter
had found a spot there, too. The thought warmed him.

“Summer’s Ma died when Summer was ten years old, almost the same age I am now,” Thomas went on, bringing Peter’s attention back. “Her pa, too. Both of them died in a carriage accident.”

She was an orphan? The thought pained Peter. She had lost her husband and children after losing parents? What a great deal of sadness she had borne.

“Her brother and his wife took care of her after that.” Thomas scowled. “And even though she didn’t say so, I felt like she wasn’t very happy with them.” He shrugged. “Sometimes I don’t think she’s very happy with us, either, but she did smile today. Twice.”

A smile was still rare on the woman’s face. If she had smiled twice today, Thomas was working miracles. “I think your friend is just careful, Thomas.” Peter paused. How should he word his thoughts? “People who have lost much are always worried about losing more. So they guard their hearts. It is not that she does not feel the happiness; she only wishes to hide it so as not to be hurt should she lose something more.”

Thomas seemed to consider what his father had said. Finally he nodded, his expression somber. “I think I understand. Is … is that why you haven’t found another wife?”

Peter felt his lips twitch. The boy was growing up fast. “What is this? You want to be matchmaker for your father?”

“No.” Thomas grimaced. “But Stuart and Fannie Jacobs got a new ma when their pa married Martin Hett’s ma. So Martin got a new pa, too.” He gave another shrug. “Grown-ups just seem to get married. Why don’t you?”

Peter chewed his lower lip thoughtfully as he examined his son. “Do you want a new mother, boy?”

A blush stole across Thomas’s cheeks. “Sometimes.” His voice was so soft, Peter nearly missed the single word answer.

Peter did something he had not done for many years. He lifted his son onto his knee. The boy had to curl his back to nestle his head on his father’s shoulder. Peter wrapped his arms around him.

“
Ach,
boy, you are almost too big for this, but I think for now we both need it.” Peter kissed the top of Thomas’s head. “You know I love you, and I want to give you the things that will make you happy. But a mother …” He chuckled. “Well, that is not something I can order from Nickels’ Dry Goods, for sure.”

“I know.” The boy’s breath stirred Peter’s beard.

“The Hett woman and Jacobs married for good reason.
Frau
Hett had a farm she could not run by herself. Jacobs has fine strapping boys to help. By their marriage, they solved problems. But …” How much could the boy understand? Although he was growing up, he was still very much a boy inside. The way he curled on his father’s lap proved that.

“But …?” Thomas lifted his head.

“But to me, son, if a man proposes marriage to a woman, he should feel about her like he feels for no other. God means for a man and a woman to cleave to one another. How can they do this if love does not exist between them?” Peter looked intently into his son’s face. “Do you understand this, Thomas?”

“Yes. I know how much you loved Ma.”

Peter swallowed. Elsa had been his light, his God-chosen love. No other light would ever shine as bright for him again. “
Ja,
my love for her went deep. I still feel it inside my heart. Until I feel for someone else the way I felt for your dear mother, I cannot think of proposing marriage.”

Thomas twiddled with the buttons on his father’s shirt. “Do you think it’ll ever happen?”

Peter answered honestly. “I do not know, son. I know God gives gifts, and love is one of them. If He wishes for me to have a wife, He will let the love to bloom again.” Peter took Thomas’s chin in his hand. “But no matter if I marry again or I do not, one thing does not change, and that is my love for you, boy.” His voice turned gruff with emotion. “You are one of my God-given loves.”

“I love you, too, Pa.” Thomas threw his arms around Peter’s neck and clung.

Peter clasped the back of Thomas’s head, his fingers in the boy’s coarse hair. “I know, Thomas. I know.”

They sat together for several minutes, until Thomas’s hold loosened and his arms slid from Peter’s shoulders. The boy had fallen asleep. Peter carried him to his bed, threw back the blankets, and laid him on the sheet. After untying the boy’s boots and tugging them from his feet, Peter covered his son’s snoring frame, kissed his forehead, and tiptoed from the room.

He returned to the chair, staring thoughtfully out the dark window. His bedroom door was closed. Behind it, the woman no doubt slumbered. What kept her here? She had family. He had mailed two letters for her to the parents-in-law who lived in Boston. Why did she choose to remain in this town rather than return to them? She said it was her children’s graves, but there must be more.

Peter thought he knew. Love for the boy. He had watched it blossom between the pair. The boy’s questions tonight were not idle ones. Thomas looked at this woman—Summer—and saw her as more than his teacher.

Peter thought back on the years since Elsa’s death. Having Elsa’s grandmother here had always seemed to be enough. The woman had mothered Elsa through her childhood and young adulthood. She had done the same for Thomas. Peter had never considered that the boy needed anything more than his father and great-grandmother to care for him. Now, though, Thomas’s words made Peter realize the boy longed for a mother.

Peter searched his own heart, bringing forth an image of
Frau
Steadman. There was much about her to admire. Her way with the boy, her kindness toward
Grossmutter,
her willingness to help in his house and assume chores that were not part of their bargain. Her appearance was also pleasing. Now that she was eating and filling out, she had lost the gaunt look.
Frau
Steadman was an attractive woman.

Peter rubbed the back of his neck. He wished to give his boy all the things that would make him happy, but on this one thing, should he not think of himself? While marriages of convenience were not uncommon, a marriage of convenience was not for Peter Ollenburger. Marriage for love—the same as he’d had for his dear Elsa—was all he could accept.

On Sunday morning, Summer awakened before dawn lit the room. She frowned, trying to determine what had pulled her from sleep, and then she heard it—the sound of a cough. She rose to her feet and left the bedroom. With her ear pressed against Thomas’s door, she waited. The sound came again.

Alarm filled her breast, and she entered the room without knocking. She touched the boy’s forehead. “Thomas? Are you sick?”

The boy opened his eyes and squinted upward. “Oh … Summer, I don’t feel good.” He coughed again.

“I’ll get your father.” She pulled on shoes, but she didn’t take the time to button her coat—just slipped it on over her nightclothes and dashed through the frost-laden predawn to the barn. Pushing through the door, she called, “Mr. Ollenburger, come quickly!”

A scuffle sounded from a stall in the shadowed corner, then the man stepped into the murky light. He was attired in pants with suspenders over long johns, and his hair stood on end; his eyes appeared wild.
“Was? Was ist es?”

“It’s Thomas—he’s sick.” Summer choked back a sob as fear pressed like a weight on her chest.

Mr. Ollenburger turned back into the shadows. Summer danced with impatience beside the door. It seemed ages before he emerged with untied boots covering his feet and his coat flapping. “Come.” He took her arm, and together they ran back to the house. When they entered Thomas’s bedroom,
Grossmutter
was there, stroking the boy’s hair and murmuring to him in low tones.

Whispering to her, Peter took the old woman by the shoulders and gently shifted her to the side. He leaned over his son. “What is wrong, boy?”

“My throat,” he croaked. “It hurts.”

The man sat on the edge of the bed. “Only your throat?”

The boy nodded.

Mr. Ollenburger looked up at Summer. “It is only his throat. Sore throats he gets when chilled he has been. He will be fine.” He covered Thomas to the chin. “I will fix you a gargle, son. You rest.”

The grandmother resumed her spot and continued to stroke Thomas’s hair as Mr. Ollenburger guided Summer out of the room. Looking down at her, he smiled. “Come now, Summer Steadman, you must not look so troubled. Boys get sore throats. There is no need for such worry.”