Fearless Hope: A Novel (8 page)

He took a rest and read over what he had written. It was good. A little different from the stories he was known for, but good.

He walked around the table, nervous as a cat, putting his hands in his pockets and then on top of his head. Could something as simple as an antique typewriter be the key to opening up the well of creativity within him that had gone dry?

Authors are every bit as superstitious as professional athletes. Most have their little rituals, favorite candles, special writing socks, certain music. One writer he knew could write only with a pet parrot sitting on top of her head.

On the left-hand side of the maroon typewriter were five completed pages. It was satisfying to see his work lying there in such a tangible form. He seldom bothered to print out pages from his computer. They went straight from his keyboard to his editor, electronic submissions so insubstantial that months of his life could be deleted with a keystroke.

“May I?” the old woman asked, indicating the pages of writing.

“Be my guest.”

For some reason, it felt like the very first time he had ever allowed someone to read his work. The same new-writer nervousness. Would she like it? Would she laugh? Cry? Be bored? Criticize?

She did none of these things. Instead, she read to the end and then looked up at him almost in wonder.

“Where did you learn to write like this?”

•  •  •

He had not told anyone in Holmes County what he did for a living. Fame created a wall once people knew who he was, and he did not want to erect that wall between himself and this sweet lady. He just wanted to be treated like everyone else . . . and write.

For the first time in ages, he just wanted to write!

“My name is Logan Parker,” he said. “I—I just like to dabble.”

Actually, that was pretty close to the truth. “Dabbling” was an exaggeration, considering how little he had actually written these past few weeks.

She looked deeply into his eyes. “You should be a writer, young man,” she said. “You have a gift. And it is a sin to waste such a God-given talent.”

Her attempt at encouragement brought a lump to his throat. It took him back to when he first began to write—when the dream had been fresh and clean and not sullied by the realities of trying to move massive quantities of books.

“I’d like to purchase this typewriter.” He reached for his wallet. “How much?”

She didn’t answer. Instead she cocked her head to one side. “I don’t believe I shall sell it to you.”

He noticed a price tag, handwritten in an old person’s unsteady hand, dangling from the handle. It read $300.00.

He pulled out his wallet and tried to hand her three one-hundred-dollar bills, but she put her hands behind her back.

“No,” she said. “I’m sorry, Mr. Parker. It is no longer for sale.”

He was puzzled. Could she be suffering from dementia?

“I don’t understand.”

“I won’t sell it to you, but I
will
rent it to you,” she said. “My name is Violet Hanover. I used to teach high school English at Garaway High School. I am afraid that if I let you walk out that door with this instrument under your arm, you will never come back and you will never finish this story. If that were to happen, I would be devastated because . . .” She beamed at him. “I cannot wait to see how it turns out.”

Bless her heart.

“I might even be able to give you a few pointers from time to time,” she said. “I’m an awfully good proofreader.”

He just bet she was.

He was intrigued. It had been a long time since anyone had shown any interest in his writing except to wonder how soon he could crank out the next book.

“What do you mean, you’ll rent it to me?”

“Do you have a day job, Mr. Parker?”

“Not exactly.”

“Perhaps you could come here every day?” Her smile never wavered. “Let’s say around one o’clock.” Her voice had taken on the echoes of the teacher’s voice she might have used when dealing with a promising but recalcitrant student. “I shall have a cup of tea waiting for you. You may sit here at this table and type until the store closes at three.”

“How much do you want for rent?”

“Your rent, Mr. Parker”—her faded blue eyes twinkled again behind her thick glasses—“is to let me read whatever you manage to write each day.”

“But you will have customers.”

“And I shall tend to them. But no one will be allowed to purchase this writing instrument from me.”

This was one of the strangest offers he had ever received as a writer. To sit in this out-of-the-way antiques shop tapping away at an old typewriter while a ninety-something former girl pilot brought him tea.

He loved the idea.

Writing on a state-of-the-art computer in the silence of his old farmhouse was certainly not getting him anywhere. Instead, he would give this a try for a day or two. If things went well, he would have learned a new method of getting over writer’s block. If things went badly, well, he couldn’t be in any worse shape than he already was.

“I’ll be back tomorrow,” he said. “At one o’clock. I’ll bring some Earl Grey tea. That’s my favorite.”

“Don’t bother. I just happen to have quite a stash of excellent
Earl Grey. I’ll see you tomorrow.” Then she made a comment so adorable and old-fashioned that it made him smile long after he left. “Make sure you have your thinking cap on when you come back in here, young man! I shall be expecting great things from you.”

“M
ay I put this on your bulletin board?”

The Amish woman was dressed in a dark green dress and was holding hands with two cherubic children. She dropped one child’s hand long enough to give a card to Violet.

“What is it?” Violet asked.

Logan ripped a sheet of paper out of the old typewriter and added it to the growing pile of manuscript pages in front of him. This was the most prolific he had been in ages—as long as he was writing on the antique typewriter. He and his laptop were still at odds.

There was something about working here, with people coming and going, that was
energizing. Sometimes he listened in on the conversations swirling around him, but more often the voices of customers became background noise as he immersed himself in the culture of 1942 Germany.

“I’m looking for work,” he heard the young woman say.

He felt sorry for Violet. As tenderhearted as she was, it would be hard for her to turn the woman down. He doubted that there was enough work here for Violet to hire her.

The story was going well and he was excited. He had gotten books about World War II out of the library and ordered more
through a local bookstore. Each night he read copiously and each day he spent sitting at this table spinning a story unlike any he had ever written. For several hours a day, he looked at the world through the eyes of a frightened, twenty-two-year-old war correspondent who was falling in love with a courageous young girl pilot.

Sometimes people stopped to chat. More often they respectfully didn’t.

His deadline for the next sociopathic thriller for his New York publisher loomed, but he put it aside as he indulged himself in the story that had grabbed him by the throat and would not let him go. He had stopped coming in at one o’clock. Instead, he came in as early as the store opened in the morning and stayed until it closed.

Violet was as good as her word. She proofread, made insightful comments in the margins of his manuscript, provided him with pots of tea, and helped him with historical accuracy. In return, he frequently treated her to dinner at one of the local restaurants.

The Amish woman lifted the youngest child, a little boy, onto her hip. “I’m looking for work cleaning houses.”

Logan’s ears perked up. A housecleaner? Ever since he’d started writing on a consistent basis again, his house was falling apart. Clothing, dishes, papers, books were stacked and toppling over.

“And I also cook.”

She cooked? “Oh, honey,” Violet said. “How can you clean houses and cook for other people with those two children?”

“They are
very
good children,” the Amish woman said.

Logan lost interest. A woman who planned to drag two children along with her couldn’t possibly do a decent job. If he hired her, the children would probably tear the place apart.

On the other hand, the older child, even without her mother
holding her hand, was standing perfectly still, looking up at Violet, being as good as gold. The little boy astraddle his mother’s hip, with his little suspendered pants and minuscule Amish hat, was adorable.

Although the woman and her children had their backs to him, there was something familiar about them.

Violet looked at the little card she still held in her hand. “Why are you looking for work, dear?” she asked kindly. “Has your husband lost his job?”

“My husband is gone,” Hope said. “He was killed by a bull.”

“Oh!” Violet glanced up from the card. “You must be Henry and Rose Miller’s eldest daughter. I heard about your loss. Such a tragedy! Doesn’t the church have alms to help you?”

“
Ja
, but I want to do my part. I’m a hard worker and my small house does not take much time to clean. I have several hours to spare each day.”

She turned slightly, and he realized that this was the pretty Amish woman with the sad face he’d seen walking to church with her children.

He’d guessed right. She was a widow. His heart went out to her. Having someone to sweep, wash dishes, and tidy up really would be helpful. The children seemed quiet and obedient.

“I could use some help,” he said.

She turned to see who had spoken.

“You?” she said. “You would hire me to work for you?”

“Yes,” he said. “Would that be a problem?”

There was a long hesitation while she considered. “How many hours?”

“How much time would you like?” he said. “My house is a mess. You said you can cook, and I’m getting tired of eating every meal in restaurants. If you want to come over a few hours each week, I’d be obliged.”

She turned a questioning gaze to Violet as though she was not at all sure what to think about this offer.

“He’s quite nice,” Violet reassured her. “And he spends most of the day in here working on his book anyway.”

“Your wife does not clean or cook?”

It was interesting that she immediately assumed he had a wife. He supposed that was because most Amish men his age would be married, but he had no desire to discuss his relationship with Marla. The situation was a little complicated to explain to an Amish person, especially since it did not fit into their moral code. In fact, he was beginning to regret ever having looked up from his typewriter. This could be a mistake. The woman was a little too attractive for comfort. Having her working around his house could be distracting.

“My . . . wife is presently living in Manhattan,” he explained. It was close enough.

“She does not live with you?” There was suspicion in the woman’s voice.

“She has a job there,” he answered.

“He is writing a book.” Violet beamed like a proud mother. “It is very good.”

The woman was uninterested in his writing. She had gotten stuck on the fact that his “wife” was living in another state.

“Why does she not live here with you?”

“I enjoy living here, and she does not.” Slightly annoyed that he was expected to explain anything about his living arrangements at all, he was brief. “We’ve worked out a temporary compromise.”

He had not expected to get the third degree. That was one of the disadvantages he was discovering about living in a small community. People actually seemed to think that they had a
right
to information about one another’s lives.

“My name is Hope Schrock. I will clean the house for you.”
Hope sounded as though she were bestowing a favor upon him. “You will be pleased.”

Her confidence was amusing. This was a woman who seemed to know her own worth.

“Let’s start out with a couple hours a day,” he said. “We could try it for a week or two and see how things work out.”

“I can bring my children?”

“If you can wash the dishes and do a little laundry and sweeping with your kids around, it doesn’t matter to me. How much do you charge?”

She named an hourly wage that he thought ridiculously low, to which he readily agreed. The relief he saw on her face transformed her. She smiled and her smile lit up the room. The woman even had a dimple in her right cheek. “You will not be sorry,” she said. “I am a
gut
worker.”

“I’m sure you are.” He wanted to get back to the scene he had been writing before it grew stale. He rolled a new piece of paper into the typewriter.

“I can start tomorrow?” She sounded hopeful.

“Sure. That’s fine, whatever you want to do.” He wrote out the address on a piece of paper. “Here’s where I live.”

She glanced at it and turned pale. “Are you sure this is where you live?”

“Of course I’m sure.” He frowned, wondering what the problem was. “Why do you ask?”

“Because that was my parents’ home for many years. I grew up there. I did not know it had been sold.”

“I’ve not lived there long,” he said. “The back door is unlocked whenever you want to go over.”

“
Ja
,” she said. “The lock never worked too
gut
on that door anyway.”

He did not hear her. He had already gone back in time to 1942 and didn’t notice when she left the store. He barely registered
the fact that Violet had brought a fresh pot of Earl Grey to the table.

“I didn’t realize you’d bought Henry and Rose’s place,” she said. “You might want to know how they lost it, if Hope is going to be working there—it was a terrible thing in this community.”

He looked up from the typewriter. “I’m listening.”

“Henry was one of the finest farmers around, and that’s saying something. Then an
Englisch
friend took him to a horse race over near Columbus. Henry always loved horses. The track also had a casino attached. Henry started disappearing for days at a time. Rose didn’t know what to do. She thought he was having an affair, and was so ashamed, she didn’t tell anyone for a long time. She didn’t know he’d gotten addicted to gambling. No one figured it out until he was in such deep debt he lost everything—including the farm. It caused quite a stir around here.”