Almost Amish (15 page)

Susan had stopped just inside the porch door, so Julie walked over to find seven envelopes. The top one was addressed to her from Thomas, so was the next. She smiled as she turned toward the third. It was addressed to Susan, so she set it to the side. So were the fourth, fifth, and sixth. There was one final envelope, addressed to Julie from one of her friends at church. She picked up her three envelopes in her left hand and took Susan’s in her right. “Here you go, sweetie. Looks like even us old people get a little bit of mail.”

Susan nodded, cast a quick glance to the envelope as she took it, then simply turned her attention back to the kids and their reading. They were all smiling and giggling, their eyes shining.

Again, Julie felt almost overcome with happiness. “It’s amazing how much a letter means when you’ve been without texting or email or Facebook for a while, isn’t it?”

No one answered her. They were all far too involved in the reading of their treasures to have even heard her speak.

She took Susan by the hand. “What say we go sit in the living room and read ours in comfort . . . at least the relative comfort of our hard, wooden, Shaker-style chairs?”

Susan nodded, her eyes slowly coming back into focus. “Sounds good.”

Julie opened her first letter from Thomas. It was written in his usual block-style print, not quite a full page long. He wrote about being busy at work and missing the family, and then he started in on a story about his attempt to use the coffeepot.

I put the coffee beans into the grinder, just like you showed me, put the water in the tank, and flipped the switch. It made a rather unusual sound, or so I thought, so I opened the lid to take a quick peek. Mistake! The coffee grinder sent coffee shrapnel flying through the air at Mach 3, where they eventually made safe landing in the dining room, living room, and kitchen floors. In fact, tell Brian when he’s looking through his telescope tonight to see if he notices any shards of French roast in the asteroid belt.

Julie had to set the letter aside for a moment while she laughed. Thomas was funny that way. Brilliant though he was, machinery with more than an on-off switch was bound to cause him trouble. The television setup, voice mail, anything computer-related that didn’t require an all-out tech, those were all left in Julie’s realm. “Maybe he does need me, at least a little bit.”

Whitney came into the room and dropped onto the floor beside Julie, a fistful of mail still in her hand. “Hey, kiddo, you want to hear what your father did with the coffeepot the other day?” She looked down at her daughter then and saw the tears running down her cheeks. She immediately dropped onto the floor beside her and said, “What’s wrong?”

Whitney shook her head. “I should have stayed home and played travel ball this summer. Look at these pictures” She held out a half dozen pictures of the girls playing volleyball, drinking milk shakes, and sitting on the beach.

“Are you missing your friends?”

Whitney shrugged. “Did you notice there’s a new girl in the pictures? She just moved to town. Coach let her join the travel team, and she’s supposedly a really good setter. Mom, they say she’s
really
good. That’s
my position.
What if I don’t even get to play next year? What if I don’t make the team?”

“Honey, you’ve already been selected for next year’s team. And who says you can’t improve your skills this summer? You’re not playing on an organized team, but you can practice. We’ll get you a ball, and you can work on your setups against the wall of the barn or something. Remember how you used to do that against the side of our house?”

“I remember how mad Dad got when I got dirty round marks all over the off-white stucco.”

“Yes, well, at least that’s not a problem here. Besides, what if we put up a volleyball net somewhere out back? It might make for some fun family activity in the evening.”

“Playing against you and Aunt Susan?” Whitney looked almost offended.

“Hey, we may be older than you, but we’re not in that bad of shape. I’m saying we could at least give it a try.” Julie glanced toward Susan, hoping she might have overheard, but she was reading a letter intently and seemed lost to the world. “Or . . . maybe some of the kids that you met at church Sunday would want to play sometime?”

“Doesn’t really matter if they want to or not if I’m not even allowed to go to youth group, now does it?”

“I’ll find Kendra and talk about that this afternoon. I’ll insist she let you guys go.”

“Insist? Really?” Whitney’s face lit up. “Wow, I like this new, stronger mom I see emerging.” She bounded back into the kitchen.

A new, stronger mom
. Julie just sat, thrilled at the words and knowing her daughter had no idea how much they meant to her. No idea how much Julie wanted to really be that person.

After lunch, Julie left the kids to their conversations and went in search of Kendra, whom she found in the shack lingering over some sort of paperwork. The producer barely glanced up. “Do you need something, Julie?”

“Yes, I’d like to talk to you about youth group. The kids want to go tomorrow night, and I think it’s important that they do.”

“No. I did some checking, and they use electric guitars, amplifiers, and drums there. That’s hardly appropriate in our situation.” She went back to writing, subject dismissed.

Julie straightened her spine. “They need to be around other people their own age.”

Kendra didn’t look up. Didn’t acknowledge her in any way.

“The cameras aren’t allowed inside church, so it’s not like the world will see it. Besides, Amish teenagers have a time where they are allowed to experience the outside world. It’s called . . .” For the life of her, Julie couldn’t remember the word, the one word that would help her make her case.

“
Rumspringa
.” Kendra rubbed the back of her neck. “But the Swartzentruber Amish apparently don’t participate in that particular custom. Since we’re in their part of the country, then your kids shouldn’t either.”

“Ninety-five percent of our viewers will not know the difference. Our kids need an outlet.”

Kendra still didn’t answer. She picked up her iPhone and pushed a couple of buttons, then said, “Could you come in here, please?”

Gary opened the door almost immediately. “What’s up?”

“Would you be able to take the kids to church in the wagon tomorrow night? If they’re going to do something like that, they need to go by horse and buggy to add at least a hint of authenticity.”

Gary shook his head. “I’ve got to leave town tomorrow. Chris can do it, though. He’s spent a fair amount of time around horses, and I showed him how to hook everything up.”

“I don’t know. . . .” Kendra shook her head.

Julie was a bit taken aback at the thought of sending the kids off with the wild-looking Chris, but she was determined to win this battle for Whitney’s sake. “Kendra, the kids need to do this.”

“All right, we’ll try it just this week and see how it goes.”

“Thank you.”

“Make sure you remind the kids that Chris is a production assistant. They’re not allowed to talk to him during the ride there and back.

“I’ll remind them.” Julie walked back to the house, excited to share the news.

The kitchen was empty, but voices were coming from the living room. She walked through to find the girls sitting on the floor, surrounded by fabric and Rosemary in the rocking chair, leaning over talking to them.

“Hello, Rosemary.”

She looked up and smiled at Julie. “Hello yourself.” She nodded toward the fabric on the floor. “After I got everyone broken in last time, I thought perhaps you all might enjoy your own project, so I brought over some more fabric for you all to go through. When I’m here, we can all work on the main quilt together, but I thought everyone might enjoy her own private piece to sew on in the downtime.”

“That sounds wonderful, thank you.” Julie hoped they would eventually get this place dialed in enough that they would be able to relax and do some sewing just for fun. At this point, the chores seemed to overwhelm all else.

“Did you sew with your mother, Rosemary?” Angie looked up at the woman, a glint of true interest in her eyes.

“Not as much as I would have liked. Mama was an excellent seamstress, and she made a big part of our living from making clothes for other people. My father had tuberculosis and spent months at a time in the State TB Hospital, so most of Mama’s sewing was about earning food money. Usually, though, we’d start working on a quilt or two around Christmas. She would use the scraps from the clothes she’d made during the year, so it was always a bit wild looking.” She chuckled.

“One Christmas Eve, we had just finished our Christmas quilt and were sitting bundled under it around the wood stove. It was especially cold that year. I can still feel it in my bones when I think back to that night. Since it was Christmas Eve, we burned a bit more wood than our normal allotment—Mama said it just wasn’t right to be cold on Christmas—but truth was, in that drafty old house, we were cold anyway. The room hung thick with the smell of smoke, but I didn’t mind. No, I was dreaming of the next morning and what I might get from Santa, and my sisters and brother and I were singing Christmas carols. Mama kept trying to get us to go to bed, but we were much too excited.

“All of a sudden, we heard this really loud sound, like a thump. We all looked around, wide eyed, when an orange came rolling across the living room floor. We stopped our singing and stared around at each other. About that time, we heard the thumping sound again, and out came another orange. Oranges in December were a treat back in those days, so we were more excited than today’s kids would be about candy.

“My mother looked up and nodded. ‘Santa must be in the attic. Spilled those out of his sack, most likely. Hope he doesn’t come down here and find you all still awake.’ ”

“Did it work?” Whitney asked.

“I’ve never run faster in my life as I did toward my bed that night. Didn’t dare move, either, until it was the next morning.”

“Where’d the orange come from?” Whitney asked.

“Years later, I asked Mama about that. She said she’d had ’em hidden in the folds of her skirt the whole time. She tossed them out when we weren’t looking.”

“You’re a good storyteller, Rosemary.” Angie continued to cut the fabric, but her hands were moving slowly and she was obviously thinking. “I really enjoy good stories.”

“That’s one of the talents the good Lord gave me, I reckon.”

“Storytelling and quilting,” Julie mumbled, more to herself than anything; then she looked up at Rosemary. “I don’t mean this to sound offensive, because I’m asking this question about me as much as you, but do you ever wish He’d given you talents that were a bit . . . more useful?”

“Trying to outthink God is never a good idea.” She sat up a bit straighter in her chair. “Never underestimate what you have. My quilts have kept plenty of people warm over the years. And stories, well, they can be a powerful thing.”

Angie nodded. “I think so, too. Your version of the loaves and fishes got me thinking a bit differently.”

“Exactly my point. You’ve got to do your best with the things you’ve been given.”

Angie’s head was slowly nodding. Julie looked up to see if Susan noticed, but she didn’t. She was busy perfecting a stitch and hadn’t seen a thing.

When the kids arrived home from school that afternoon, they were red-faced and moving slowly. The heat had really ramped up over the last twenty-four hours, and the mile-long walk was rarely in shade. They all sank down at the kitchen table with a glass of ice water.

“I don’t know how people lived here before cars and air-conditioning.” Whitney fanned her face with her notebook. “I feel like I could pass out right now.”

“Me too.” Angie took a sip of water. Her face was bright red. “It’s exhausting to be this hot. I think I feel like getting a cold shower and going straight to bed.”

“No early bedtime tonight, my friend. We’ve got youth group. Remember?”

Angie rested her chin in her hand and shook her head slowly from side to side. “By the time we finish our afternoon chores, I just don’t think I’ll have the strength tonight.”

“Did I hear you say that we’re taking the buggy, Mom?” Brian looked up, his face so red his freckles hardly showed.

“Yes. That’s the plan.”

“Is Gary taking us?”

“No, he had to leave town. Kendra said she’d have one of the production assistants take you instead.”

“Did she say which one?” Both of Angie’s hands were locked tight around her water glass as she waited for an answer.

“Chris, the boy with the black hair. Gary’s been teaching him about the horses and buggies and such.”

Angie stared into her glass, seemingly mesmerized by the chunks of ice. Finally she lifted her cup, took a large sip, and said, “I’m going out to do my chores now so that I’ll have time to shower and rest up before youth group. Come on, Whitney, let’s get going.”

Whitney turned up her glass and emptied it. “All right, I’m coming.” She looked down at Brian. “You too, twerp.”