A Reluctant Bride (8 page)

She walked inside, memories immediately washing over her with so much force she had to use the counter for support. Every inch of the store reminded her of her parents. She picked up a yellow pencil off the counter and put it in the plastic cup next to the simple cash register, one her parents had purchased last year after Sadie had begged them to buy it. Despite acquiring the little bit of technology Bishop Troyer had approved for their business, her mother had still used a calculator, a scrap of paper, and her favorite yellow pencil to tally up customer purchases. “This way is easier for me,” she'd said more than once when Sadie asked why she wasn't using the register.

Sadie stared at the cup of yellow pencils, the memories dissolving into anger. She hit the cup, knocking it over and spilling the pencils. They tumbled off the counter and rolled on the concrete floor. She didn't bother to pick them up.

She opened the door to the office and sat down in her father's old emerald green desk chair, one he'd bought at an auction when Sadie was a little girl. She turned on the small battery-operated lantern on the desk. Light flooded the room. She stared straight ahead at the plain cork bulletin board her father had used to tack up his scribbled notes and reminders. Every inch of the board was covered, and some of the notes overlapped other notes. She couldn't bring herself to look around the office, with its stacks of catalogs, order forms, and invoices shoved wherever space allowed.
Daed
had never been organized with his paperwork, yet he claimed to know where everything was. “I got a system,” he'd said time and time again, and sure enough, he was able to produce any document or catalog without hesitation.

Rubbing her left temple, she opened the top drawer of the desk, and after rummaging for a bit, pulled out a pad of paper. She began writing down expenses—first the taxi fares she and
Abigail had incurred since the accident, then the taxi fare to send Abigail to Middlefield. She wrote down the words
ambulance
,
hospital
, and
rehabilitation center
, but left the amounts blank. She'd get the bills soon enough for those. Then she estimated how much money the store had lost from being closed for two weeks. When she finished writing down the amount, she tossed the pencil onto the desk.

She spent the next few hours looking at invoices and bank account statements, finding bills that were either due soon or hadn't been paid and were overdue. She was shocked to discover how far in the red—a term she'd read about in that accounting book—the store's finances were. She propped her elbows on the desk and put her hands on either side of her head. How could her father have been so irresponsible with money? Did her mother know? She couldn't imagine her parents had any secrets from each other. Then again, she never would have imagined they would have been this deeply in debt.

She sighed and lifted her head. Abigail couldn't know about this. Neither could Joanna. And she couldn't continue to let the store bleed out money. She and her sisters had no income without the store. They'd have nowhere to go if she had to sell their property to pay their debts.

Every muscle in her body tensed. She needed help, and there was only one person she could turn to. The community had established a fund for any member in need. All the families that could contribute did so yearly, and Bishop Troyer managed the money. He was in charge of disbursing the emergency funds, and this certainly qualified as an emergency.

The idea of going to him and admitting her father's mismanagement not only galled, it felt like a betrayal. Like she was tainting her father's memory. The bishop would be discreet—Sadie had
never heard of anyone receiving the money, even though she knew that over the years there must have been times when the fund was needed. She pushed back from the desk and stood. She'd only ask for enough to cover the expenses from the accident. Somehow she'd figure out the rest. She locked up the store and headed for her buggy. It was suppertime, but this couldn't wait.

As she put on Apple's harness, it slipped through her fumbling hands and fell to the ground. She picked up the harness and tried again. Maybe Sol wouldn't be home. Maybe Aden would be far in the backyard with his bees. Maybe she wouldn't have to explain too much to the bishop about her father's mismanagement. Maybe he would write her a check from the fund on the spot.

Maybe a miracle would happen.

But as she headed toward the Troyers', she had the feeling she wouldn't see a miracle anytime soon.

The clink of silverware against plain white dishes was the only sound in the Troyers' dining room. Aden held a fork in his hand, but he could barely bring himself to eat the open-faced meat loaf sandwich his mother had prepared for supper that night. He was still concerned about Sadie, even though he hadn't seen her since her parents' burial. He glanced at Sol, who was shoveling the food into his mouth as if he couldn't get it down his gullet fast enough. His brother had always eaten that way, polishing off a meal in record time, then excusing himself as soon as possible. Which was fine by Aden. The less time he spent with Sol, the better.

“I gotta
geh
,” Sol said, shoving back from the table, barely
giving a glance to his mother as he stood. He hurried out of the room. He never explained where he went, although Aden suspected whatever he was going to do most likely would involve booze and trouble. He set down his fork in disgust.

“Delicious supper, Rhoda. As always.”
Daed
wiped the corner of his mouth with a paper napkin and gave her a small smile. Then he looked at Aden, his expression frosty. “Is there something wrong with
yer
food?”

“
Nee
.” He quickly shoveled a forkful of meat loaf into his mouth. He swallowed, barely chewing it. Of course his father would ignore Sol's rude behavior and focus on nitpicking Aden's every move.

A sharp rapping sound came from the front door.
Mamm
quickly stood. “I'll get it,” she said and hurried from the kitchen.

Aden turned to his
daed
, who was finishing off the last bit of tea from his glass, and fought the deep-seated resentment that never wavered. How many sermons had his father preached on the Ten Commandments over the years—the commandment to
honor thy father and mother
in particular? Aden loved his mother. He honored her. But he had to scrape the bottom of his soul to find a shred of respect for his father.

“We have company.”

Aden looked up as
Mamm
came into the kitchen, followed by Sadie. His heart stilled at the mix of emotions passing over her face. Sorrow, exhaustion, grief . . . and shame? Her rosy cheeks shone with it, and her gaze never strayed to his. She barely glanced at his father when he started to speak.

“What can we do for you, Sadie?”

She held a black leather purse and rubbed her thumb back and forth on the strap. The black bonnet that covered her white
kapp
framed her face, and Aden couldn't pull his gaze from her.
He wished he could erase the past and ease her pain. But there was nothing he could do.

“I was wondering . . .” Her thumb moved faster across her purse strap until Aden thought she might rub the color right off the leather. “Could I talk to you for a minute?”

The bishop nodded and stood. “We can
geh
into
mei
office.” He didn't say anything else, and Sadie followed him out of the kitchen.

His mother began to clear the table. Aden stood and started to help, but she shook her head. “I'll take care of it,” she said. She always declined his offers of help, especially when it came to doing anything in the house.

“I'll check on the hives then,” he said, pushing his chair up to the table. The bees were fine, but he couldn't stay in this house. Not when he wanted to know what was going on with Sadie. The urge to listen in on her conversation with his father overwhelmed him. He fought against it and went outside. But instead of going to his hives, he looked up at the sky, taking in the streaks of pale pinks, purples, and oranges. A beautiful sunset. He briefly wondered if Sadie appreciated sunsets as much as he did. Then he shrugged. It didn't matter what she appreciated. He would never find out. He sighed and headed toward his hives, one of the few things in his life that brought him peace.

Sol made his way along a dark, almost empty road. He wasn't quite sure how he'd strayed in this direction after leaving his house, and he didn't care. He brought the whiskey bottle to his lips and took a long drink, letting the amber liquid burn his throat. He had a couple of bottles stashed away in the top loft of the
barn, where his father would never find them. A few more deep gulps from the bottle and he wouldn't have to think. Or feel. He would be numb, if only for a little while.

He tipped up the bottle and took another long pull. His father knew he drank spirits, but for some reason he looked the other way when it came to Sol's drinking habits. As long as he didn't do anything to publicly embarrass his old man, nothing was off limits. But it hadn't always been that way. There was a time when his father had held a tight rein on Sol, measuring what seemed to be his every waking breath and comparing it to some unattainable standard of what a real “man” was. When Sol fell short his father took action . . . and Sol had permanent scars to remind him of his failure.

He blew out a breath, his brain already fuzzy and his legs starting to wobble as he was transported to the past. He had just turned twelve, and his father's discipline had changed. Even now, years later and through a whiskey-induced haze, Sol could remember the first time his father had told him to punish his brother, under the guise of turning his sons into men. Aden had been eight and had been late bringing the four cows they owned back into the barn. That deserved correction, and his father instructed Sol not to touch Aden's face or any other part of his body that would show a bruise.

Sol hadn't wanted to do it. But he chose self-preservation over his little brother, and it wasn't long before taking out his frustration on Aden became routine. Eventually his brother had stopped crying. He'd stopped trying to dodge the blows. He started looking Sol straight in the eye and taking whatever Sol gave him.

And every day, Sol had to live with that.

When he'd twisted Aden's arm behind his back the day the
Schrocks died to get him to leave the store, it had been nearly two years since he'd touched his brother. But Sol had seen the pain and shock on Sadie's and Abigail's faces, and he couldn't handle it. He had to get out of there. But Aden wouldn't listen to words. So, like his father had said dozens of times over the years, sometimes physical force was required.

He took the last drink from the bottle and let out a bitter chuckle. What would the community say about their bishop if they knew the way he treated his sons? His father would justify it, of course. He always did to their mother, though Sol doubted she truly knew the extent of
Daed
's disciplinary methods. Never sparing the rod wasn't a proverb in the Troyer house; it was the law. No one ever questioned Emmanuel Troyer—not as a bishop, and definitely not as a father.

He threw down the bottle. It smashed into dozens of sparkling shards that littered the street. He meandered farther, his drunken steps zigzagging from the asphalt to the soft ground at the shoulder of the road, then back again.

A few minutes later he tripped over his own feet and landed facedown on the street. His cheek stung as he levered himself up to an unsteady standing position. He needed to find a place to lie down, to sleep off the whiskey so he could get up in the morning and go to work. Lately he'd been drinking too much and had missed work a couple of days over the past two months. He'd also shown up to work hung over. At the rate he was going, he knew he would lose his job.

But at that moment, Sol didn't care. He walked into an empty field, collapsed to the ground, and passed out.