Waiting for Summer's Return (28 page)

Peter cleared his throat. “Well, Summer Steadman—”

“Are you sure you have to go?” The question burst out from Thomas, as if against his will. Tears quivered on his thick lashes.

She brushed the glistening moisture away with the gloved end of her finger, feeling her smile quaver with the effort of not breaking down herself. “Yes, sweetheart, I must. Nadine has no one now—not even God. She needs me.”

“But I need you, too!” Thomas held Patches across his chest as he glared upward.

Summer wished she could hug his hurt away, although she knew a hug wouldn’t fix the ache in Thomas’s heart. Time would have to heal the wound. Time and prayer. She told him gently, “It makes me feel so special, Thomas, that you need me. But think of all the people you have right here who love you—your father, your great-grandmother, your teacher, your friends. And I expect to hear from you. Will you write to me?”

The boy scowled, staring off to the side, but when she touched his chin, he lifted his gaze to meet hers. Remorse filled his eyes. He threw himself against her, burying his face against her shoulder as Patches squirmed between them. “I’ll write to you, Summer. I’m sorry I’ve been mean. I’ll miss you. I … I love you, Summer.”

“Oh, Thomas …” Summer rested her cheek against his hair as tears flooded her eyes and distorted her vision. “I love you, too.” She glanced up at Peter, who stood to the side, twisting his hat in his large hands, much the way he had the first time she’d met him. She reached one hand toward him, and he took it, linking her with both father and son.

A deep feeling welled up inside of her—a feeling that seemed to have been hiding beneath the surface, waiting for its opportunity to present itself. It chose to rear up, strong and sure, at a time when she should not speak of it. Tears pricked behind her eyes, and she swallowed hard. She loved the boy, yes. She also loved the man. The notion caught beneath her breastbone and held with an intensity that nearly took her breath away. Why, oh why did her heart tell her this now? Now, when she was leaving?

They stood together—one hand held tightly in Peter’s grip, the other arm wrapped securely around Thomas’s sturdy back—until the conductor called, “Last call! Bo-o-o-ard!”

Peter gave her hand a final squeeze before releasing it. Thomas stepped back, his face blotchy with the effort of holding back tears. Summer watched as Peter cupped his hand around Thomas’s neck and the boy leaned against his father’s bulk.

“Ma’am, are you boarding?”

Summer glanced at the conductor as the train’s stack belched a great billow of smoke and the ground beneath their feet vibrated with the mighty heaves of the engine. “I … I …” She pointed stupidly toward the car.

Peter nodded, his eyes unnaturally bright. His image blurred as tears filled her eyes, but still she didn’t turn aside. Thomas cried silently, his shoulders shaking. Summer brought her hand upward, reaching for Peter. He reached back, nearly lunging.

He took her hand and pulled her against his chest in a hug that stole her breath and sent her heart winging somewhere in the clouds. The embrace lasted only a few seconds—a few glorious seconds—and then his strong hands caught her shoulders and set her in front of him. He peered into her face, his thick brows low, his expression serious. His tongue sneaked out to moisten his lips, and then his voice came—his gentle voice of distant thunder. “My prayers go with you.”

“And mine will be with you.” The words choked out on a sob. The tenderness in his blue eyes nearly melted Summer. Never had anyone looked at her with such an expression of adoration. She read in his eyes the same feeling that filled her own heart, yet neither of them spoke of it. How she longed to hear the words from his lips—to hear him say, “I love you, Summer.” At the same time she realized leaving would be impossible if he gave voice to the thought.

She must say good-bye and get on board that train before her traitorous tongue gave her away. Her lips parted, the words formed, but—

“Go now.” Peter spoke the words in a low, harsh growl. Taking her by the arm, he marched her to the train and helped her onto the step. Tears glinted in his eyes as he looked up at her. “You have safe trip, Summer Steadman. God be with you.”

The train jerked, a
chug-chug
sounding, then it vibrated as it started to roll. Gritty gray smoke hung over Peter’s head, and Summer blinked, needing one last glimpse of this dear man. Thomas trotted up next to his father and waved.

The train picked up speed. Wind tossed her hair and tangled her skirt around her ankles. She clung to the railing with one hand and waved. Tears distorted her vision, but she waved. And waved. The train turned a bend, and the man and boy disappeared from sight. Even then, she remained on the top step, her hand raised in farewell, as the rushing wind carried away the sounds of her mourning.

31

P
ETER HEAVED A SIGH
and looked down at his son. Tears rolled down Thomas’s cheeks, just as they had Summer’s. His memory would always carry the picture of Summer, clinging to the railing, a silver trail of tears staining her cheeks. He hugged the boy tight against his side. An emptiness sat in his chest. Summer’s leave-taking had left a hole. A lump pressed in his throat, but he swallowed hard against it. Crying would do him no good. She was gone, and now they must accept it.

His arm around Thomas’s shoulders, he turned toward their waiting wagon. “Come, boy. Let us go home.” As he and Thomas plodded across the ground, heads low, he prayed for relief for the boy’s aching heart.

And for his, too.

“Boston, Massachusetts! Next stop, Boston!”

The conductor’s call startled Summer out of drowsing. She straightened in her seat to peer out the window at the landscape. A rush of familiarity filled her. Yes, she was nearly there. A knot of apprehension tightened her belly. Boston. The place where she was born and raised. The place where she met and married Rodney. The place where her children were born. Her home.

And yet no longer her home.

Through communication with God in prayer during this journey, she had reached peace about returning to Boston and assisting Nadine. Yet a part of her still longed for Gaeddert, where Peter and Thomas were probably sitting down to breakfast with Lena, while Patches hid beneath the table, waiting for Thomas to “accidentally” drop a morsel or two. She felt a smile tug at her lips as she envisioned it. In her heart, she was with them.

She closed her eyes, reliving that all-too-brief moment when Peter had pulled her into his arms. She felt the scratchy shirt beneath her cheek, his hard arms around her back, the tickle of his beard against her forehead. Taking in a deep breath, she tried to capture the essence of the man, but all she could smell was sweat and acrid coal smoke.

The reminder brought her eyes open again. Peter was in Gaeddert, and she was in Boston.
Dear Lord, how my heart misses him. Please remind me that you are enough. I have my joy in you
. The simple prayer revived her, and she resolved to not allow despair to bring her down.

The train whistle blasted as the mighty locomotive slowed its pace. The whistle, screeching brakes, and huffing steam created a cacophony of sound that nearly pierced Summer’s eardrums. The train lurched in its attempt to come to a stop, and she braced herself against the back of the seat in front of her to keep from tumbling to the floor. With one final blast of the whistle and a great release of steam, the locomotive came to a heaving halt in front of the Old Colony Railroad Station.

Passengers filed past her as Summer pressed her face to the window, scanning the crowds for a glimpse of her mother-in-law. She spotted Nadine alone and searching beneath the center bricked archway of the depot’s entryway. Summer could read sorrow in the slope of Nadine’s shoulder and the droop of her chin. For the first time since the train had pulled out from Hillsboro five days ago, she was truly glad she had come. She jostled her way off the train, waving as she called, “Nadine! Nadine, I’m here!”

Nadine pushed through the crowd to meet Summer in the center of the wide concrete sidewalk. Summer found herself embraced by Nadine for the first time in her memory, but the hug lasted only a moment. Her mother-in-law pulled back sharply, distaste on her face.

“Phew, Summer. You are as unpleasant as the mule that pulls the milk wagon.” She took hold of Summer’s arm and tugged her toward the street. “Come, let’s move away from the others before your odor offends. We’ll get you home and into a bath.”

Summer released a brief laugh. Nadine hadn’t changed. “A bath sounds heavenly. The only washing I’ve been able to do since I left Kansas has been in sinks in depots where we made water and coal stops. There wasn’t even a place to change my clothes.”

Nadine’s eyes swept from Summer’s head to her feet, and her scowl deepened. “I should think the uncleanliness would be unbearable. And wherever did you get that dress?” She herded Summer to a waiting carriage. “Did you lose all sense of decorum while living on the Kansas plain?”

Summer had no answer. She merely shrugged.

“Well,” Nadine went on in a brisk tone, “you’re back now. All vestiges of that uncivilized prairie will soon be erased.”

Summer intended to retain her memories of the prairie town and its people, but she made no argument.

Nadine’s servant, Clarence, waited to help the ladies aboard the carriage. He took Summer’s hand as Nadine’s strident voice continued. “Climb well over on your own side, please.” Summer obeyed, and Nadine seated herself. The carriage door closed behind them, and within moments a jerk indicated forward motion. The steady
click-click
of wagon wheels rolling over cobblestone filled Summer’s ears, nearly covering the deep sigh Nadine released.

“Ah, Summer, I admit I’m relieved to have you here.”

In all the years of marriage with Rodney, Summer had never engaged in a conversation with Nadine. She wasn’t sure how to proceed now. Praying silently for wisdom, she offered, “I’m pleased you asked.”

Nadine looked out the window. “Of course, it would be lovely if all of you were—” She stopped abruptly.

Impulsively, Summer scooted so she could touch Nadine’s knee. “It’s all right to mourn. You’ve suffered a tremendous loss. But the mourning will not last forever. There is a time to mourn and a time to laugh. I’m here now, and I promise I will help you find the laughter again.”

Nadine shook her head. “Never again will I find laughter.”

Summer leaned back, her heart twisting in sympathy. “You’ll find laughter, but it will take time. Trust me.”

As Nadine continued to stare out the window, Summer’s resolve strengthened. Peter had taught her the meaning of joy. Summer would now teach it to Nadine.

“Schlop die gesunt.”
Peter paused in Thomas’s bedroom doorway. The slanted shaft of yellow light from the lamp on the table did not reach the boy’s face, but Peter sensed the frown that rested there. “Are … are you thinking of Summer?”

A long silence followed the question and then finally a soft answer. “I miss her, Pa.”

Peter crossed the shadowy floor to sit on the edge of Thomas’s bed and put his hand on the boy’s chest. The heaving told Peter his son fought tears. He blinked to hold back his own tears. “She is a special friend. It is fine for you to miss her, but do not let your missing her make you bitter.” Peter spoke to himself as well as his son. He remembered the bitter days following Elsa’s death. Summer was not dead—but that almost made it harder. Knowing she was alive and not with them was somehow more painful than a death.

“I keep wondering what she’s doing. If she thinks of us at all.” Thomas’s voice seemed almost eerie in the gray room. “Her letter didn’t say she missed us.”

No, the letter that had come did not say she missed them. Peter knew, though, she did—that she thought of them as often as they thought of her, that her heart ached as much as theirs did.

“Words on a page are not always the best at sharing what one feels.” Peter felt Thomas’s chest rise and fall. He found comfort in his son’s steady breathing. “But you remember how Summer treated you when she was here. You remember the way she took care of you and taught you with such kindness. Do you think she has forgotten that?”

A soft swish of movement against the starched pillowcase told Peter the boy shook his head.

“She has not forgotten. She thinks of us.”

“How do you
know,
Pa?”

He smiled. “I know because I know Summer. And I know she loves you. Love does not drift away, son, like leaves falling from a tree. Love endures. You do not need to worry that she has forgotten you.”

A sigh came from the bed. “I hope you’re right.”

Peter leaned forward and placed a kiss on his son’s forehead. “I am right. I am your pa. Am I not always right?” He heard the soft answering chuckle, and he smiled again. “You sleep now. Tomorrow you write Summer a letter. You will feel better once you have told her how you feel.”

“All right, Pa.” The boy yawned. “Good night.”

Peter left the room, closing Thomas’s door behind him. He should go to bed, too, and sleep like the rest of his family. But his restlessness sent him to the stove, where he poured a cup of coffee. He crossed to the window and peered into the inky night. Across the country, did Summer stand at a window, peering outward, her thoughts on Gaeddert?

“
Ach,
Lord, a foolish man I am, standing here heartsick. All the blessings you have given me, and I think only of what I do not have.” Somewhere in the distance a coyote howled. Patches raised his head from the rug by the stove and growled. Peter crouched next to the pup and gave his ears a reassuring scratch. The coyote called again, its mournful cry causing the hairs on Peter’s neck to stand up. Patches whined.

“Shh, now,” Peter soothed the dog. “A coyote is nothing to fear. He is only lonely and calls for someone to listen. So we listen,
ja
? It hurts us not at all.”

Peter ran his hand down the pup’s back with long, firm strokes, and finally Patches rested his chin on his paws. His ears remained perked, listening, but he stayed quiet. Peter rose and returned to the window. He caught a glimpse of his reflection in the glass, and despite himself a grin found its way to his face.

He clasped his beard with one hand and thought about the last evening when he and Summer sat at the table well into the night and talked. She had told him there were no better men than he. The words warmed him as much now as they had then. Other things she had said—admiring his mill, asking him questions as if he should know the answers. She had made him feel clever and strong and … yes, even handsome. She had touched his heart.

Turning from the window, his focus went to Thomas’s bedroom door, and more memories crowded in. Summer with Thomas at the table as they studied together. At the sink as they washed dishes and talked. And at the grave site, inside the picket fence, their hands clasped, as Summer shared memories of her children. How motherly she had been toward his boy. She did not have to love Thomas, only to teach him—that had been their agreement—but how much more she had given.

If Peter was honest with himself, he knew part of the reason he had not sought a new wife was concern that a woman could not love another woman’s child as her own. He would not take someone as his wife who did not care as deeply for his son as he did. But Summer had dispelled those fears. He knew Summer loved Thomas. Maybe as much as she had loved her own children. How many times he had wondered if he wanted her as his wife. Now he wondered why he had questioned it. Summer had been the perfect choice.

A deep sigh found its way from his soul. Summer was gone now. She had made her choice, and it was the right choice. Nadine needed her. Summer had much to teach Nadine. She had come into his life and she had taught him, but then she had said good-bye. This was the way of life, with seasons coming and going.

Summer had belonged to them for a season. But the season had ended. He must let her go.