When Hope Blossoms (25 page)

A
my herded the children to Margaret’s van the moment it pulled into the driveway. Although she was beginning to feel at ease with the older woman and realized her brusqueness wasn’t intended to be unkind, she still didn’t want to create an unnecessary delay. Margaret liked to keep to a schedule.

She opened the sliding door behind the driver’s door and gestured for the children to climb in. Parker gave Adrianna a boost and then clambered in behind her. They flopped into the middle seat.

Margaret leaned sideways and advised over her shoulder, “We’ll have another passenger, too—your neighbor, Mr. Roper—so let’s leave room for him. Children, climb into the rear seat, please.”

Adrianna and Parker moved to obey, but Bekah shot Amy a panicked look. Amy gave her daughter an assuring pat on the shoulder. Bekah had come home yesterday with very sore feelings. Although Amy regretted the hurt her daughter had experienced, she couldn’t deny relief that the decision to sever the children’s time with Mr. Roper had been taken out of her hands. She disliked being the bad guy. She whispered, “It’ll be fine. Just a short ride—thirty minutes.”

Tears shimmered in Bekah’s eyes. “Can’t I stay here, Mom? Please?”

Amy hesitated. At thirteen, Bekah was old enough and responsible enough to be left alone, but motherly protectiveness rose up anyway. “Are you sure, honey? We’ll be gone most of the day. You won’t get lonely?”

“I can work on my dress, and I have a book to read. I’ll be fine. Please?” Bekah’s voice dropped to a raspy whisper. “I don’t want to see him. Not yet.”

Amy sighed and gave Bekah a quick hug. “All right. But stay in the house and keep the doors locked. I’ll call from a pay phone in town to check on you. You have the numbers for the fellowship members by the telephone if you need something.”

Bekah’s arms tightened around Amy’s neck, almost a stranglehold. “Thanks, Mom.” She darted back to the house.

Amy peeked to make sure both Parker and Adrianna were settled in the rear seat, then gave the sliding door a pull. She trotted around the hood and opened the front passenger door. As she started to climb in, she glanced at the middle seat. “Should I take the back and let Mr. Roper sit up here, do you think?”

Margaret laughed, her double chin wobbling slightly. “I think I’d rather have you to talk to. Besides, there’s plenty of leg room in that middle seat. He’ll be fine. Fasten your seatbelt and let’s go.” She pulled out of Amy’s lane onto the highway.

A gaping hole in the van’s dash showed where the radio used to be. The van had air-conditioning, but Margaret left it off. The front windows were lowered several inches, allowing in the morning breeze which, thankfully, hadn’t turned hot yet. Way in the north, a few puffs of white interrupted the pale blue expanse of sky. Amy pointed. “Do you think we might get some rain?”

Margaret squinted toward the clouds. “They don’t look very promising yet, do they? But we can pray they build during the day. I don’t think anyone would complain about a rainshower.”

Amy nodded in agreement, then turned her attention to Mr. Roper’s trees as they drove past the orchard. Parker had mentioned that the man’s grapevines had withered too much to produce this year, but the trees looked full and green. Apparently his every-day sprinkling was keeping the trees adequately nourished. Dots of yellow, red, and pale green peeking from the leaves offered the assurance of a good apple crop. Amy winged a quick, silent prayer heavenward that the apple crop would be abundant enough to cover the loss of the grapes.

Margaret turned into Mr. Roper’s lane. He sat on his porch, his long legs stretched over the single riser and feet planted wide on the ground. He pressed his palms to his knees and rose as the van approached and ambled to meet them. Amy’s chest pinched a bit when he peered through the front window at her and seemed to flinch, his steps slowing. But then he trotted the remaining distance and opened the sliding door.

“Thank you for the ride,” he said the moment he closed the door behind him. He shoved a ten-dollar bill through the gap between the front seats. “This is to help pay for gasoline.”

Margaret sniffed, lifting her chin. “You put that right back in your pocket, Mr. Roper. I was going to Topeka anyway. Having an extra person in the van doesn’t cost a bit more than going by myself.”

His hand remained between the seat, the bill rippling a bit in the breeze whisking through the open windows. “Are you sure?”

“I’m sure.”

“Well . . . thank you, then.”

Margaret put the van in reverse and backed up. Amy watched Mr. Roper’s hand slowly withdraw. She sensed it bothered him to accept the ride without paying for it. Male pride—never wanting to take without giving in return. But Mr. Roper had to know fellowship members looked out for one another and for their neighbors. He might not be Mennonite any longer, but he still followed the Mennonite practice of helping his neighbors. She’d been the recipient of his assistance many times.

They headed up the lightly traveled Highway 31, their ears filled with the howl of the wind coursing through the windows. Oddly, the children didn’t jabber at Mr. Roper. They’d witnessed Bekah’s upset, and they were probably feeling unsure of him now. The thought saddened Amy when she remembered Parker calling the man his best friend. How quickly things had changed.

Margaret eased onto Highway 50. The four-lane road, although far from crowded, seemed very busy when compared to the typical traffic that went past Amy’s house. But the main thoroughfare would bring customers to Mr. Roper’s orchard, and hopefully to her business, as well. When she’d checked her email at the library, she’d been thrilled to find three inquiries about her services.

Turning in the seat, she sent a shy smile to the silent man in the middle. “Mr. Roper, I want to thank you again for helping me get my Web site and email set up. It is already bringing customers to me.”

The wind ruffled the short-cropped hair on his forehead, showing the line of white where the sun hadn’t touched. He sat with his legs spread wide, his open palms resting on his thighs. Although he didn’t smile, he offered a nod. “I’m glad it’s helping.” He turned to look out the window.

Feeling rebuffed, Amy started to turn forward, but Parker called out, capturing her attention.

“Mom, what time will Grandpa get here Monday?”

Margaret sent Amy an interested look. “Your father is coming for a visit?”

Amy nodded. She answered Parker. “He thought around ten thirty.” Her pulse immediately increased its tempo as she thought about the visit and the conflict it might bring to her door.

“Will he eat lunch with us?” Parker’s voice rose, holding a hint of excitement.

“I’m not sure, honey. Remember, he isn’t coming by himself. But if he stays, we’ll have to fix something special, won’t we?” Amy settled into the seat and looked at Margaret. “It will be a short visit—maybe only an hour or so. And it’s . . . it’s really more for business than pleasure.” She didn’t know how much to say. The fellowship members didn’t know the whole truth of Amy’s change of communities, and she wasn’t sure she wanted them to know. Yet she desired to have someone praying for God’s favor.
Lord, should I trust these people? Will they support me, or turn away in revulsion?

Margaret kept her eyes on the road. “Concerning your quilting business?”

Amy nearly chuckled. She should have known Margaret would ask questions. “No, not really.” Although the outcome might very well affect her quilting business. If the insurance agent determined Gabe’s death hadn’t been an accident, would they demand back the money the elevator owners had given her to compensate for her loss? If so, she wouldn’t be able to keep her quilting machine. Or her new house. Her heart pounded hard and painfully beneath the modesty cape of her dress. “It has to do with my husband. And how he died.”

Margaret’s lips pursed into a sympathetic pout. “You said he died in an accident?”

Before answering, Amy whisked a quick glance into the rear seats. Parker and Adrianna had their heads together, talking quietly. Mr. Roper’s eyes were closed, his head back. His Adam’s apple bounced in a swallow, but he appeared to be asleep. With a soft sigh, Amy turned to Margaret.

“Yes. He was on top of a grain elevator, checking a clogged grain spout, and he”—she gulped, heat rising from her middle to sear her chest—“fell. He was killed instantly.”

“Oh, Amy . . .” Margaret released the steering wheel long enough to give Amy’s hand a quick squeeze. “What a shock for you.”

Despite the passage of years, the shock hadn’t left. It would never leave until she knew the truth about his tumble from the top of that elevator. Was it really a fall that stole him from her, or had he jumped to his death? Pain writhed through Amy’s belly.

“Leaving you with three children, and one of them handicapped. Such a burden . . .” Margaret clicked her tongue on her teeth.

Amy swallowed. She didn’t see her children—not even Parker, with his challenges—as a burden, but she chose not to refute Margaret’s comment. Being widowed was a burden. Carrying this horrible uncertainty was a greater burden.

Suddenly Margaret sent a low-browed look at Amy. “Was Parker born disabled?”

Although the woman had broached another painful subject, Amy decided it wouldn’t hurt for the fellowship members to know Parker’s history. “He was as normal as any other little boy until he was four years old. One day, he was riding on a tractor with his father, and a tire blew. The tractor jerked, and Parker was bounced off. He hit his head.”

Memories from that awful day crashed over Amy. In the back of her tongue, she could still taste the strong antiseptic that permeated the hospital’s halls. “For three days, he lay in a coma, and we didn’t know if he’d live. But we prayed unceasingly, and the swelling went down in his brain. God roused him from the coma, so we were able to bring him home again. But, of course, he wasn’t the same little boy anymore.” And Gabe, riddled with guilt, was never the same man.

Margaret shook her head. “My, Amy, you have suffered many trials. Yet you’ve maintained your faith and you stand strong, a testimony to God’s hand on your life. You must make your heavenly Father very proud.”

Tears stung behind Amy’s nose. She offered Margaret a wobbly smile of thanks.

They fell silent then, Amy unwilling to continue to speak over the wind noise. A sign indicating the Topeka turnoff appeared on the right, and Margaret angled the wheel to follow the exit ramp. She called, “Mr. Roper, would you please tell me how to find the auto repair shop?”

The man roused, tipping forward to rest his elbows on his knees. He gave instructions, and minutes later Margaret pulled into the parking lot of Cecil’s Auto Repair Shop. Mr. Roper’s familiar pickup truck sat at the edge of the lot. Mr. Roper thanked Margaret for the ride, then climbed out without offering a good-bye to the children or to Amy. She watched him amble toward the cement-block building, an ache in her throat. But she couldn’t define its cause.

Tim paused with his hand on the doorknob and watched the white van pull out of the parking lot. His chest felt tight—as if his lungs had grown too stiff to draw a breath. Bits and snatches of the women’s conversation rolled around in his brain, one comment rising above the others.
“My, Amy, you have suffered many trials. Yet you’ve maintained your faith and stand strong, a testimony to God’s hand on your life. You must make your heavenly Father very proud.”

Why did the older woman’s statement bother him so much? Maybe because Tim had spent the last two decades disappointing the heavenly Father to whom he’d entrusted his life when he was not quite twelve years old. He’d probably never hear the words for which every good Mennonite longed—
“Well done, thou good and faithful servant. . . .”
The realization stung a lot more than he wanted to admit.

Giving the doorknob a twist, he pushed open the heavy metal door and stepped into the shop’s cool, messy office. Sniffing against the onslaught of grease and gasoline, he paid his bill, listening as the mechanic explained everything they’d done to get his truck in working order.

“Still got some dents in the fender, but it’ll take a body repairman to fix that,” the man finished.