Amanda Weds a Good Man (20 page)

The flash in Wyman's eyes told Amanda she'd gone too far. She had challenged his old habits and the Old Ways, and at first impulse, he intended to put her in her place—to make her submit to
his
will. But he held his tongue . . . sipped his cocoa as he considered her words and his response to them.

“Jah, that's the idea I got from listening to Jerome,” he finally said. “But I'm in a bind here, Amanda. It's one thing for you to not get along with the bishop and his wife, but it's another matter altogether that our home is in the Clearwater district. If we live here, we worship here.”

Her throat constricted. “I know that,” she said in a strained voice.

A tense silence surrounded them as they each gazed straight ahead. Then Wyman set his empty mug on the old end table. “I was ready to come after you, Amanda, to lash out about how you made me look bad in front of the kids—”

“And you had gut reason to do that.”

“—but when I behaved that way with Viola, asserting my rights as the man of the family,” he went on, “nothing was gained by it. We all felt bad. The kids were afraid of me—Eddie and Pete were still young enough that they didn't know everything—”

Amanda couldn't help but smile. Jerome had gone through that know-it-all phase as a teenager, too.

“—and Viola's resentment festered below the surface for days. Took us way too long to clear the air,” he murmured ruefully. “So maybe I'm catching on, jah? Maybe this time around I know what I stand to lose, even if holding my tongue—considering your requests—goes against the grain of everything I've believed as a man raised in the Plain faith.”

Amanda let out the breath she'd been holding. That was quite a statement for Wyman to make. And if she hoped to honor her husband, her marriage, she had to give—and give in—at least as much as he had.
Courage is fear that's said its prayers
, she reminded herself. She had prayed fervently about this matter since her wedding day. Did she have the faith to face her husband with her true feelings?

“I love you, Wyman,” she said quietly. “I was wrong to be afraid of you. Wrong to run away rather than trusting you with my troubles.”

His lips quirked. “Oh, maybe not,” he said as he squeezed her hand. “Your instincts about people are pretty keen. You were smart to bring Jerome—”

“Oh, coming here was
his
idea. There was no keeping him away.”

“—because after that day he drove his eight-mule hitch over so I could have time alone with you, I had him figured as a fellow of like mind,” Wyman said with a short laugh. “Guess he told
me
a thing or two today. I believe it when he says he'll be keeping close watch over how I treat you, too. I'm not wild about that, but I
am
crazy in love with you, Amanda. So I'd better act like it, ain't so?”

Amanda sighed, releasing the tension she'd held for too long. Her whole body relaxed. How could she remain upset with a man who said such loving words? Wyman had taken her troubles to heart rather than forcing her to back down . . . or to fit into the empty space Viola had left in his life. “Do . . . do you want to go upstairs?” she whispered.

Wyman smiled and softly kissed her cheek. “Let's stay right here,” he murmured. “When I was Simon's age I wondered why the cellar door had a sliding lock—and a time or two I got in trouble for using it. But now I realize why my parents—or maybe my grandparents—put it there. Jah?”

Amanda nodded. Her body thrummed as her husband slipped up the stairs to slide the bolt into place. What a relief it was that Wyman had agreed to consider her emotional needs . . . that he was offering his affection rather than insisting she accept it. And what a blessing, that together they would somehow resolve her problems with the bishop.

A
s James surveyed the scene in the Lambrights' front yard, his heart swelled. Despite a few distant clouds, they were enjoying a sunny autumn day—Indian summer, folks called this final warm spell before winter, when most of the leaves had fallen and the fields were bare. Emma, Jerome, and Abby had pulled together quite a surprise: what with his two sisters' families from Queen City plus the Brubaker bunch, Vernon, and the neighbors, nearly forty people had come to celebrate his mamm's eightieth birthday. A dessert table was set up with the cake and punch, as well as trays of other treats and freezers of homemade ice cream. Mamm was seated at a gift table with Emma to help her, while everyone else sat in lawn chairs or on quilts spread on the lawn.

His mother was grinning like a kid as she opened her gifts—embroidered kitchen towels, a pack of blank recipe cards, new kapps and black stockings . . . useful items for around the house, mostly. When she tore the paper from the next box, however, her eyes got nearly as large as the lenses of her glasses.

She held up a bright red pitcher painted all over with white and yellow daisies. “I was eyeing this pretty piece at the mercantile a while back—but there's no name with it! Who was so nice as to get it for me?”

The guests looked eagerly at one another until finally James's dat raised his hand. “I'm glad you like it, Eunice,” he said. “Happy birthday eighty times over—and you know that's one of Amanda's pieces, ain't so?”

James held his breath. Such a pleasure it was that Dat had chosen a gift for its cheerful beauty and that Mamm had been so tickled to receive it.

“Jah, I recognized it right off.” His mother held up a matching pie plate and two mugs, which had been in the same box. “Amanda, I'm real glad Merle latched onto these before you had to take your pieces out of the store. I'll think of you every time I see them, and it'll brighten my day.”

Amanda flushed modestly. “Denki for saying that, Eunice. I hope you'll enjoy using those dishes as much as I liked making them.”

As the folks around them murmured their agreement, James leaned close enough to his dat that the arms of their lawn chairs bumped together. “You did real gut, Dat,” he murmured. “Mamm loves the pottery you got her.”

“Jah, sometimes I get lucky,” his father said with a chortle.

As his mother opened more of her gifts, James let his gaze wander over the crowd. He was glad to see that Gail, Ruthie, and Beth Ann Yutzy were whispering with Lizzie on their quilt—but Wyman's and Amanda's expressions gave him pause. As was the custom, Amanda sat among the women while her husband had situated himself with the men, but both of their faces bespoke a tight-lipped determination to keep their troubles to themselves.

And wasn't that a regrettable state of affairs for newlyweds? When Abby had removed Amanda's pottery from the mercantile shelves, word had gotten around about the Clearwater bishop's reaction to it. Still, James sensed other matters were causing this handsome couple to appear so . . . preoccupied. It was one thing, the way his parents groused at each other after more than sixty years of marriage. A couple in the prime of their lives, however, with a large house full of healthy children, had so much to be thankful for now that they were together.

One big happy family,
Abby had predicted when Wyman and Amanda had announced their engagement. Yet their faces told a different tale, not a month after they'd tied the knot.

“And would you look at this?” his mother crowed. “Another piece of Amanda's pottery, in blue with those same daisies! Thank you, James.”

“You're welcome, Mamm,” he called over to her. “Happy birthday!”

His heart thrummed as he observed the joy on his mother's face. And who could have guessed as she opened the next presents, from Emma and Abby and Jerome, that each of them had also chosen colorful platters and serving bowls with Amanda's distinctive daisies on them?

“My word,” his dat remarked. “I think we must have bought nearly every piece from that display.”

“Jah, we did!” Emma chuckled as she stood beside her mother. “And, Mamm, I see this as a sign we can get rid of some of your old, stained pie plates and—”

“Puh! I'm saving these pretty pieces for gut,” Mamm informed her. “Think how they'll brighten up the china hutch and the plate rail—and, Vernon?” she added as she peered at the crowd through her old-fashioned spectacles. “You're not going to make me hide these away because they're too fancy, are you?”

Their bishop chuckled until his white beard quivered. “Eunice, it's a wonderful day indeed when these dishes have brought you such joy,” he replied. “And just as we've been blessed by Amanda's pottery—every piece with its own useful beauty—I believe God has found the perfect home for them. I only wish I'd seen her display before Abby took it down, so I could've bought some for my aunts. Maybe if there's an item or two left—”

“You're too late,” Abby chirped. “We've sold every last dish and pitcher, as well as several wind chimes and necklaces from the greenhouse. Now
that's
a witness to how much local folks appreciate your talent, Amanda and Vera.”

Amanda appeared amazed and gratified, and James was pleased that word of their pieces had gotten around Cedar Creek before Uriah Schmucker had banned them. Each church district tended to reflect the personality of its bishop, and he was grateful to Vernon for being more understanding—and less conservative—than many of the leaders in neighboring Plain communities.

When Matt's Rosemary cut the big birthday cake she'd baked and decorated, and everyone had eaten a generous square of it with ice cream, the adults settled into smaller groups to visit. His sisters' youngsters were playing tag with Ruthie, Beth Ann, and the Brubaker kids, while Matt's Border collies frolicked with them. It was a fine afternoon, indeed, and James figured on spending some of it with Abby. She and Emma were circulating in the crowd, pouring more punch, however. When his dat began to chat with Jerome, James moseyed over to where Sam and Vernon were talking with Wyman.

“I sense there's trouble at your place, son,” the white-haired bishop was saying. “Uriah was at our regional bishop's meeting this past week, telling us he'd visited your place twice in two days. I was sorry to hear he
broke
things in his zeal to put Amanda on the higher path—”

James leaned against the nearby tree, hoping his presence wouldn't make Wyman uncomfortable.

“—and I'm wondering how she's handling that,” Vernon went on in a sympathetic voice.

Wyman seemed torn between dodging the truth and sharing only part of it. “Amanda . . . well, she ran off,” he admitted. “Went back to her farm to tell her troubles to Jerome.”

Vernon's eyes widened while Sam leaned into the conversation. “How long was she away?” the preacher asked with a scowl. “And what did you say to her when she came back?”

“Jerome returned with her and he gave me quite an earful, I can tell you. He thought we Brubakers hadn't made much effort to fit Amanda and her belongings into our home,” Wyman replied. “And what with the static the ladies at church gave her about the girls' dresses being too short and too colorful—this before Uriah smashed her pottery and broke her great-uncle's wheel—my wife has declared she wants nothing more to do with him or the Clearwater district.”

“Oh, my,” Vernon murmured. “It's more serious than I imagined.”

“And what're you going to do about
that
?” Sam demanded.

James considered this. Never had he imagined Amanda running off—but then, he could understand how so many criticisms from so many folks could make a new bride feel like an outcast. He couldn't imagine members of the Cedar Creek district being so unfriendly.

“I . . . don't know what to do,” Wyman confessed in a barely audible voice. “Uriah's actions aside, Jerome made some tough points that have me wondering if I've married the right woman but . . . for the wrong reasons,” he continued ruefully. “I thought I'd be doing Amanda a favor, providing for her after Atlee's death. I should never have assumed she would take up where Viola left off, as far as managing the house and raising our eight kids—much less dream of us having more.”

“It takes time to adjust to a difference in routine, not to mention all that additional responsibility,” Vernon pointed out.

“But that's the life of a Plain wife, and Amanda was well aware of that,” Sam countered. “Wyman, I hope you've told her she can't have her way just because Uriah's forbidden her to make her pottery.”

“Oh, it goes a lot deeper than that.” Wyman stared into his punch cup as though he wondered how it had gotten empty. “Jerome pointed out things I'd tried to forget about Viola's passing. And when he said that her death could just as easily have been his fault because
he
had trained the mules that bolted that day, I realized I was still feeling her death was
my
fault. I should have been guiding those mules in the rain, instead of working halfway across the field while my wife walked alongside the baler.”

“Survivor guilt,” Vernon murmured. “I've seen it eat away at a lot of folks. Since I doubt Uriah will counsel you about this, Wyman, why don't you and I set up a time to discuss it? I've lost a wife, too, you know. I understand some of what you're going through.”

“That might be a gut thing. Uriah tells me I've given my wife way too much leeway.” Wyman turned in his chair to find her among the women sitting near the cake table. “And meanwhile, what am I to do about Amanda not having her pottery anymore? Viola lost a vital part of herself when Uriah ordered her to give up her painting . . . and even though such artwork goes against our Plain ways, I can't condemn Amanda to the same fate.”

“You think she's going to have
time
to make pottery, along with running your home and raising eight kids—or more?” Sam asked.

“That's not so much the issue,” Vernon insisted. He leveled a steady gaze at Sam, as though telling the new preacher to ease up a bit. “Even if Amanda can't find the time, having the
choice
to pursue her talent would make an important difference in her outlook. And in her emotional health, as well.”

Sam sat back in his lawn chair, pondering the bishop's words. “Sounds similar to Barbara's midwifing,” he admitted. “I've told her she's to give it up now that she's a preacher's wife, but she insists it's a God-given skill that serves the community.”

“And it is,” Vernon agreed. “While we Old Order men have stood by our beliefs about women and their work for centuries, there are times when the blacks and the whites might deserve a second look. Life's often more like that sky over there—a spectrum of grays rolling around us, defying our attempts to define absolute right and absolute wrong.”

James glanced behind him, to where the bishop had gestured. “We're in for a storm later today.”

“Jah,” Sam remarked. “Look at the way the cedars are blowing along the creek.”

James caught a movement among the women: Abby was picking up a tray of cookies, heading toward the men, who sat in scattered bunches. As she held his gaze, James's breathing stilled. So kind and thoughtful she was, never idle, and a friend to all. But would he face a challenge like Wyman's after they married? Would her Stitch in Time business become a matter of contention—especially because her brother seemed so intent upon the women in his family toeing the Old Order line? Would Abby feel as trapped and desperate as Amanda did, if she had to remain at home caring for his elderly parents and then the children as they came along?

“Sweets for the sweet?” Abby murmured as she offered him the tray of treats.

James fought the urge to kiss her, right in front of everyone. Instead, he chose a fried pie she had made—Abby drizzled her glaze in a way he'd come to recognize these past months. “Pineapple lemon, jah? My favorite.”

“That's why I made them.”

James closed his eyes as the tart-sweet filling covered his tongue. Such a simple delight, yet it made his concerns about marrying Abby float away. If God had brought the two of them together, surely He would bless them with every happiness.

That's what Wyman thought, too, when he married Amanda.

Even so, James lost himself in Abby's brown-eyed smile and then watched her move among the other fellows with her tray. Later today—
today
—he would find the right moment, the right words to make this wonderful woman say
yes
. After all, he had to ask before she could answer.