An Amish Family Reunion (12 page)

“How did you know the story before we got there? Have you been to Niagara before?”

“Nope. I read all I could before the trip in the library. You know what? I’ve never met anyone like you. And now that I’ve found you, I have a business proposition for you. Are you interested?”

She took a long pull from her water bottle while studying him closely. “A business deal? What could the two of us possibly make and sell?”

“I was thinking about a book—a children’s picture book, to be exact. I could make up a story and you could create illustrations that would endear our tale in every child’s heart across America.” He gazed out the window at the suburban sprawl of homes. “Maybe even the world.”

“Are you serious?” she asked, afraid he might be teasing.

He looked her in the eye. “I’ve never been so serious about anything before in my life. What do you say, Miss Miller? A joint venture of an artist and a storyteller.”

She didn’t need to think about it, not for a minute. “Absolutely, yes. I would love to.” Phoebe would remember little about the remaining drive back to Ohio. Not the video, or the scenery of New York and Pennsylvania, or even the rest of the conversation with Eli. She could only think about one thing: She was about to become a children’s book illustrator.

M
atthew recognized a bad sign when he saw one. When his foreman dropped him off at his driveway on Friday night, his house was dark. A sole kerosene lamp burned on the kitchen table in the back of the house.

“Thanks, Pete,” he called, slamming the truck door. “See ya Monday morning.” Pete waved and drove home to his own family, while Matthew slung his duffel bag over his shoulder and walked up to face the music.

It wasn’t as though he’d had much choice regarding his quitting time. When the owners of one of the horses he trained arrived late in the day, it was his job to present the horse and remain until everyone was satisfied. The stable’s groom had handpicked tangles from the horse’s tail and mane, but Matthew had to work him in the lunging ring to show off the progress that had been made since the last visit. Later, he’d tacked the horse out himself while the owners asked plenty of questions. He had a few of his own. Owners had different opinions as to how saddlebreds should be prepared for the prestigious show circuit. Because they paid very high fees for the services of Rolling Meadows Stables, it was his job to give them what they wanted, even if that meant sticking around until seven on a Friday night.

Matthew entered his home through the back door, careful not to let the screen door slam. He knew his children would be asleep by now, postponing his reunion with them until morning. “Martha?” he called in an exaggerated whisper.

After a few moments, his wife shuffled into the room. She wore a long nightgown, white socks, and an exhausted expression. She’d released her waist-length hair from its bun, and it trailed down her back in a loose plait. Despite her frown, Matthew thought she looked beautiful. “Evening,
fraa
. Sorry I’m late for supper.” He hung his straw hat on a peg and went to the sink to wash.

“Late? Six-thirty or seven would be late. Supper is done and over with. I kept a bowl of stew warm for you so long that I’m sure it’s not fit for hogs anymore…if we owned any hogs.” She crossed her arms over her bodice. “I started supper at three o’clock. Now it’s nine. That’s bedtime, not the dinner hour.”

Matthew considered suggesting that she start cooking at four or four-thirty, considering his schedule, but then squashed the notion. No sense stirring up a hornet’s nest when their time together was short. “Since, as you mentioned, we don’t own a pig, give me whatever stew you have left.” He kept his voice neutral, trying not to sound angry as he poured himself a glass of cold milk.

“Do you mean to say you haven’t eaten yet?” Martha sound genuinely shocked.

“That’s exactly what I’m saying.” He shot her a look over the refrigerator door. “I was working late tonight, Martha, not having dinner in a fancy restaurant with my boss.” His neutral tone had evaporated.

She hurried to the stove and pulled a bowl from the oven with pot holders. She set it on his place mat along with some slices of homemade bread. Matthew sat down with his milk and stared into his supper. The colors and shapes of what had been potatoes, carrots, peas, onions, and beef had blended together into a greenish goo. “Good grief! How many times did you stir the pot? This looks like you put it through the butter churn.”

“Quite a few times. I didn’t want it to stick to the bottom of my Dutch oven.”

He shrugged. “Suppose it all ends up like this in my belly anyway, but could I have a spoon instead of this fork?”

Martha brought a spoon, sat down across from him, and began to cry. “I’m sorry. I should have let it set out at room temperature. Cold would have been better than ruined. Want a sandwich instead?” Her large brown eyes were moist and shiny.

“No, this will be fine. Maybe a few pickles if we have any left.” He patted her hand before she sprang to her feet.

She placed a plate of pickles on the table. “I know you like your new job at Rolling Meadows. And I understand that more money means we can save faster for a place of our own someday, but—”

Matthew interrupted, seeing a perfect opportunity to share his good news. Setting down his spoonful of mush, he extracted four twenties and a hundred dollar bill from his wallet. “You can put this into our savings account.” He took another piece of bread to scoop stew.

Martha stared at the money and then picked up the hundred to study the face of Benjamin Franklin. “Isn’t this the guy who invented the lightning rod? Plenty of folks’ barns are still standing due to that man’s ingenuity.” She smiled at the cameo picture before dropping the bill atop the others.

He finished his milk in three long swallows. “
Jah
, I think so, but the important thing is I got that money this week as tips in addition to my regular paycheck.” Pride bubbled up despite his better intentions. “Owners gave me those twenties just for bringing their horses out for inspection. And the owner who kept me there so late tonight? After looking at his watch he apologized and handed me a hundred dollars! I tried to refuse it, but he insisted. He said he knew I only got home on weekends and had forgotten today was Friday.” He tapped the bills into a neat pile, his stew forgotten. “Summer is only beginning—the busy season for saddlebreds. Just think how many tips I might make by summer’s end.”

Martha’s soft brown eyes hardened. “Do you ever listen to yourself, Matthew Miller? Money, money, money—it’s your favorite topic of conversation these days. What would your dad say?”

“I believe he would say that a man must support his family while saving for his own farm. And maybe he’d throw in something about wives not being so all-fired-up critical of their husbands all the time.”

Unfortunately, he’d spoken loud enough to wake the baby. His daughter’s cries came wafting down the stairs from her second-floor bedroom.

Martha rose to her feet with dignity, although the brittle glint in her eyes was gone. “Please put your bowl in the sink when you’re done,
ehemann
. I’ll wash it tomorrow. I’ll be upstairs.”

Matthew leaned his head back and stared at the ceiling for answers. The stew had hardened into a thick plaster that could patch holes in drywall, but he didn’t care. He was no longer hungry…except for a way to make his impossible-to-please wife happy.

With spring-cleaning behind her, Julia knew what she needed—an afternoon at her sister’s house. Sipping coffee, eating sweets, and chewing the fat often cured what ailed a woman better than a doctor’s pills or therapies. She had sent a note to Hannah early that morning that she would be coming over after lunch and to be prepared. She was in the mood to gab.

After fixing sandwiches and fresh berries in cream for Simon and Henry, Julia ate her sandwich with one eye on the wall clock.

“Are we keeping you from an important engagement,
fraa
?” asked Simon, brushing crumbs from his beard into the palm of his hand.

Henry grinned while grabbing his second turkey-and-Swiss. “I know what
ren-dez-voo
she has cooked up. I delivered her note after breakfast.” He pronounced the foreign word exactly how it looked, yet Julia couldn’t imagine where he’d seen it in print.

“I have a date next door with my sister. And a spice cake is in the oven. That’s why I’m clock-watching.” She got up to crack open the oven door for a quick peek. Satisfied, she pulled out the Bundt pan and set it on the cooling rack.

“Spice cake? You baked a spice cake while your son and I suffer with tiny strawberries that could have benefited from more time on the vine?”

“Suffer with?” Julia wrinkled her nose. “One would think a deacon wouldn’t throw around that word so lightly.”

Simon leaned back in his chair, his eyes twinkling. “True enough, yet I would think a good wife and mother would cut a couple slices of fresh-baked cake for her hardworking menfolk.”

“A good wife might do just that, but I intend to take an intact cake next door. Goodness, Simon. It would look as though I stopped for a snack along the way.” She reached for her plastic cake tote from the cupboard.

Henry winked at his father. “If you’ll share your dessert,
mamm
, I’ll drive you to Aunt Hannah’s and come back at four to pick you up.”

Julia pondered that for a moment and then reached for a knife. “Make it three thirty. I have a pot roast for supper that’ll need two hours in the oven.” She whacked two fat slices from the tubular cake and then shoved the ends together to form a smaller circle.

“Well done, son.” Simon retucked his napkin into his shirt. “I suggest you hurry back from Seth and Hannah’s.”

Henry scrambled toward the door as Julia set the cake into the tote. “Be back soon,
daed
. Please don’t eat both pieces.”

Julia appreciated the ride to her sister’s. After her son had thoughtfully helped her from the buggy, she carried her disfigured dessert up the steps to enter Hannah’s kitchen. She sniffed the air like a bloodhound. “Peach cobbler?” she called.

“What a nose!” Hannah said, laughing as she delivered a baking pan to the table trivet. “The market had ripe Florida peaches on sale. I bought a half bushel since ours are still green.”

Julia retrieved cups, the coffeepot, and a pitcher of milk before settling onto a tall-backed chair. “Where’s Phoebe?”

“Checking on my new lambs in the high pasture. She took her tablet, so it will probably take hours to count the flock.”

“And Seth?”

“Gone to the grain elevator with a load of hay.”

“
Gut
, we’re alone.” Julia removed her spice cake from the carrier. It listed badly to one side.

Hannah studied it curiously. “What happened here?”

Julia sliced two large pieces. “Cake thieves—right here in Winesburg. The area is swarming with them, but it shouldn’t affect the taste any.”

Hannah sampled a forkful and smacked her lips. “Oh, this is yummy! You must give me your recipe.”

“I will, if you give me some advice about my Leah.” Julia tried a forkful of cake and smiled.
The sour cream did make a big difference
.

“It’s a deal. How are the Bylers since the passing of Amos?”

“Joanna is planning to travel to Wisconsin to visit her sister. Jonah wants to go with her and wants Leah there too.” Julia pulled over the peach cobbler and began slicing it up. “Leah thinks she should stay home to run Joanna’s cheese business and keep baking.”

“I thought Jonah employed several workers.” Hannah took a small piece of cobbler.

“
Jah
, three. They can run the dairy fine while Jonah’s gone. And check that Joanna’s cheeses stay at the correct temperature for proper aging. But Leah says she must fill her pie orders.”

Hannah shook her head. “This advice will be easy, dear
schwester
. Your daughter should start packing her bags. First, her place is with her husband, and he wants her in Wisconsin. Second, the county can survive a few weeks without her pies. Absence might make hearts grow fonder…and waistlines slimmer. And third, that gal needs a break from her kitchen. Sometimes Leah acts as though she’s fifty-three instead of twenty-three. A change of scenery might do those two some good.” She lightly patted her belly.