When Grace Sings (26 page)

When they finished eating, Mom rose. “I’m going to take a lunch to your dad. He gets so caught up in his projects, he forgets to eat if I don’t remind him.”

If Mom left again, Steven would have to leave, too. Anna—Grace said, “Why not let Steven and me take it? You’ve already been out most of the morning. Stay home and relax now.” She looked at Steven. “Is that all right?”

Steven gazed at her for several seconds. The same serious expression that had captured his face when he graded papers returned, bringing with it another rush of unease. He spoke slowly, as if weighing his words. “What if … you stay here with your mom … and I take the lunch to your dad? The rain has stopped, but everything is muddy. No sense in both of us getting mucked up.”

“Oh, but—”

Sunny grabbed Steven’s hand. “Will you come back after you take Daddy his lunch? We haven’t colored together yet.”

Steven gave Sunny a little smile and nod before turning to Anna—Grace again. “I don’t mind getting muddy. Farmers are used to getting muddy.” A slight touch of sarcasm seemed to enter his tone, but his face didn’t reflect it. “It’ll give me a chance to talk a bit with your dad—something I don’t do very often.”

Mom started for the kitchen, talking over her shoulder. “Well, it sounds as though we have a plan. Anna—Grace and Sunny, clear the table, please. Steven, I’ll have that lunch ready to go in just a few minutes.”

“I’ll get out of your way here.” Steven headed for the living room, an eager bounce in his step.

Steven

Steven pulled up to the curb outside the stained-glass studio on the edge of town where Anna—Grace’s father had worked for as long as Steven could remember. Even though Andrew Braun’s father and brothers farmed for a living, he was an artist. An
artist
. Something no other man in the community had ever been. If anyone would understand Steven’s desire to break free of the traditional occupations of his faith, Andrew Braun would. And Steven silently applauded the opportunity to talk to the man one-on-one.

He cleaned the mud from his boots on a metal scraper outside the door before entering. He’d never been in the studio. Based on the dozens of framed, bright-colored stained-glass pieces hanging behind the large plate-glass windows, he expected the entire place to be feminine. The smell took him by surprise. There was nothing feminine about the overpowering scent of hot machinery and turpentine. Underneath the odors he detected a slight essence of vanilla—probably an attempt to mask the metallic scent. But it failed. He rubbed his nose.

The high-pitched whine of a power tool pierced Steven’s ears, and he moved farther into the building past worktables and displays of books, sheets of glass, and unfamiliar tools and hardware, seeking the sound. He located it, and the worker causing the noise, in the far corner of the building. Mr. Braun, his face covered by a clear plastic shield, stood behind a tall wood counter and
ran the edges of a bright-red glass diamond along a rapidly spinning cylinder. Tiny bits of glass flew in an arc, catching the light as they fell toward the floor.

Steven waited until he pulled the diamond away from the sander before speaking. “Mr. Braun?”

The man straightened, flicked a look at Steven, then snapped the little switch on the sander. The quiet that fell left Steven’s ears buzzing. Mr. Braun lifted the shield from his face, dropped it on the counter, and swiped his forehead with his sleeve. He popped off his leather gloves as he rounded the wood barricade. “Well, Steven. Hello. It’s good to see you.”

They shook hands, and Steven matched the older man’s grip. Then he held up the lunch Mrs. Braun had prepared. “I brought you something to eat. Your wife was worried about you.”

Mr. Braun laughed. “She’s always worried I’ll forget to eat. Skipping a meal now and then won’t hurt me. I don’t get as much exercise as I should.” He patted his stomach through his tucked-in flannel shirt. “But since you brought it, I’ll eat it.” He took the sack and moved to a bench stretched along the back wall. “Come. Sit.”

Steven didn’t need a second invitation. He bowed his head while Mr. Braun asked a blessing for his meal, then patiently waited until he’d taken the sandwich and small thermos of soup from the bag. When the man seemed settled, he opened his mouth to finally ask the question only Mr. Braun could answer.

“How’s the work coming on the house?” Mr. Braun spoke before Steven had a chance.

He cleared his throat, forcing his question aside. “Pretty well. Still a lot to do, but it’s a lot better than it was when I first started.”

“As long as it sat empty, I’m sure it was in disrepair.” Mr. Braun took a big bite of his sandwich, chewed, and chased it with a draw from the thermos. “But your dad says it has the potential to be a real nice place. Livvy and I are eager to drive over and see it.” He took another bite before adding, “Of course, we’ll wait until you’re ready for company.”

“You can come anytime,” Steven said, mostly because it was the right thing to say. He rubbed his palms up and down his thighs, gathering his courage. “Mr. Braun, I—”

“You know, Steven, I think it would be all right if you wanted to call me Andrew. It won’t be long now, and we’ll be related.” He grinned, but his eyes seemed sad. “Maybe if we get a little friendlier, I won’t have such a hard time letting you take my daughter away.”

Steven swallowed. “All right. Andrew.” It seemed strange calling one of his elders by his given name, but it also seemed to put the two of them on more equal footing. Maybe it would make talking to him easier. “May I ask you a question?”

“Sure.” He lifted the thermos for another drink.

Steven examined a half circle-shaped window with some sort of purple flowers on a vine hanging from the ceiling by thin silver chains. “How did you know you wanted to do this kind of work? It’s not exactly …” He sought a word. “The
norm
for an Old Order Mennonite man.”

Anna—Grace’s father laughed. “No, it sure isn’t. And to be honest, it isn’t something I planned to do.”

Steven looked at him in surprise. “It wasn’t?”

“Nope. I knew I liked creating things. Even dabbled a bit in a woodworking shop shortly after I finished school, but somehow it wasn’t quite right. Then when Beth Quinn—you probably remember her as Beth McCauley—came to town and decided to open this shop, she needed help. At first I helped because it was wintertime, not a lot to do on the farm, and she was my uncle Henry’s stepdaughter so it seemed right to give her a hand. But in a very short time of working here, I realized how much I liked stained-glass art.” He turned a serious gaze on Steven. “It satisfied me, down deep. I finally came to recognize this was God’s plan for my future. I’ve been here ever since.”

Steven nodded slowly. “And your parents … they didn’t mind?”

Another laugh burst out—this one full of self-deprecation. “Oh, they minded all right. Especially my dad. But he was mostly worried about whether
I could make a living with stained-glass art. It’s the man’s responsibility, you know, to support his family. Dad just couldn’t see it happening.” He nudged Steven with his elbow. “But you know, God worked that out, and now Dad’s one of my best supporters. Especially since Beth and her husband moved to the Kansas City area to open a second studio and left me in charge of this one.”

He placed the empty thermos on the bench between them and wadded up the paper sack and sandwich wrapping. He rose, smiling at Steven as he did so. “When you really set out to find what God wills for your life, things fall into place. Seems to me there’s even a Bible verse to that effect.” He scratched his head for a moment. “From Psalm 139, verse 3, I believe. ‘Thou compassest my path …’ To me, that means He has a road mapped out for me to follow. If I ask for His guidance, He’ll direct me in the way He wants me to go.”

A bitter query found its way from Steven’s mouth. “But what if someone else puts a roadblock on your path?”

“Well, then, I would say you should step up your prayers, because either you’re on the wrong path or the other person needs to hear God’s voice more clearly. Pray God would move the roadblock if you’re meant to continue, or ask Him to open a new path that is more of His choosing for you.” Suddenly he frowned. “Steven, are you having second thoughts about marrying Anna—Grace? Because if you’re uncertain—”

Steven leaped up. “No, sir. I love Anna—Grace.” Sometimes he worried they were marrying too soon, but he couldn’t imagine marrying anyone but her.

The man blew out a little breath. “That’s good to know, because she loves you and is very committed to you. Her mother and I are pleased, too.” He rose and put his hand on Steven’s shoulder, the touch fatherly. “We know you’ll be a faithful husband and a good provider for our girl.”

“Yes, sir.”

Andrew turned and shot his wadded-up lunch bag like a basketball into the trash barrel. Then he picked up the thermos and pressed it into Steven’s
hands. Putting his arm across Steven’s shoulders, he aimed him for the front door. “Farming is an honest trade, and you’re starting off much more secure than many young men your age thanks to your parents’ generosity. Whatever challenges you’re facing right now getting the house in order will all be worth it the day you harvest your first crop, whether that crop be in Arborville—if that’s where you and Anna—Grace decide to keep your home—or somewhere else.”

Andrew opened the door and ushered Steven through it. He lifted his hand in a wave. “Thanks for bringing me the lunch. It was good to talk to you, but I’d better get back to work. I’m a little behind on this project since my order of glass didn’t arrive on time. Please tell Livvy I’ll be home by six.” He closed the door before Steven could respond.

Steven dragged his heels along the wet sidewalk, one hand in his pocket, the other gripping the thermos tightly enough to dent its sides, and his head low. He’d been certain Anna—Grace’s father would recognize his desire to step outside the norm and pursue a vocation different from any of the Old Order men before him. He paused, looking toward the studio. Should he go back inside and tell the man what he really wanted to do?

“Step up your prayers …”

Andrew’s advice whispered through Steven’s mind. With a sigh that formed a little cloud in front of his face, he aimed himself for his truck. He’d go back to Anna—Grace’s house for an hour or two. He’d color with Sunny, talk some more with Anna—Grace and her mother. Then he’d close himself in his bedroom at home—his parents’ home—and step up his prayers, the way Andrew Braun had told him to do. He only hoped God would answer them by tearing down the roadblock, not forcing him on a different route. Because those few minutes he’d spent going over test papers were the most satisfying minutes he’d spent in years.

Arborville

Alexa

The weekend before Anna—Grace’s arrival at the B and B passed so slowly it seemed as though time stood still. And Alexa didn’t mind one bit. Despite her careful preparations, despite the prayers for God to ease her discomfort, despite telling herself again and again it would be fun to have someone her age staying at the farmhouse with her, she still wasn’t ready. Not emotionally. Had it not been for the copy of the awful photograph Briley had taken at the Meiers farm that she found taped to the backside of a pantry cabinet door, she wouldn’t have smiled once the entire weekend. If Monday wanted to wait another week to arrive, she wouldn’t complain.

Sunday after she and Grandmother returned from Shelley’s house, where they’d had lunch with the family, Grandmother went to her room to nap and Alexa wandered upstairs to the room she’d blocked off her scheduling calendar for Anna—Grace’s use. At first she’d intended to give her the room with the attached bathroom, but Grandmother talked her out of it.
“If someone calls, they’ll be more likely to want the private bath than the shared bath. But Anna—Grace will be grateful no matter where you put her, so save the private bath for a paying guest.”
She hoped her grandmother was right and Anna—Grace wouldn’t feel as though Alexa gave her second best.

She wandered the room—the one she called “Ruth 2:10”—and examined every detail to be certain it was ready for its occupant. Of the three rooms, this one was the most feminine with its pair of white iron twin beds covered by matching Roman Square quilts pieced and tied by Grandmother’s quilting circle at church. The quilts’ calico patches of palest shell pink, moss green, and eggshell gave the beds a dreamy, step-back-in-time feeling. Cream-colored eyelet curtains at the windows matched the flounced dust ruffles on the beds, their delicate softness a perfect contrast to the dark burled-walnut dressing table and bureau.