Keys of Heaven (6 page)

Eric took the book with something close to reverence, opened it to the pages Henry had been working on—and Justin tapped it in the middle so the book folded shut and fell through his brother's fingers.

As neatly as a basketball player stealing the ball, Justin caught it before it hit the ground. “What's this?” He flipped it open, riffling through the sketches of mugs, bowls, and even an art piece or two that were in the first few pages.

Henry was both taller and faster—and knew a thing or two about basketball. In less than a second, the book was snapped shut and back in his pocket.

“None of your business.”

“But it's Eric's business?”

“If I choose to make it so, yes.”

Justin's brows drew down over his eyes. “What is
up
with you, dude?”

“Not a thing. But something's up with you. You might consider sharing the spotlight with someone else once in a while. Selfishness is a total bore, dude.”

“What the— Where do you get off?”

“Right here. Have a nice afternoon, boys.”

He made it halfway up Yoders' hill before he turned around.

And saw Eric—alone—standing knee high in the corn at the top of the creek bank. He had followed Henry up the slope and stood watching him go, like a small child in the ocean who had no clue how to swim.

T
he Saturday afternoon sun was beginning its descent, the light catching in the branches of the trees, when Sarah finished picking the peas. Her bowl was full, and with them she planned to make a chicken potpie for supper, with new potatoes and the baby carrots she'd thinned from the feathery square that made up one element of the Ohio Star design in her garden.

A buggy turned into the driveway and rolled up to the house, so Sarah took the bowl and made her way across the lawn to greet her visitor.

Linda Peachey looped the reins over the rail in front of the rock garden with hands that shook. She turned, a hesitant smile flickering on her lips and the inside of one wrist pressed protectively to her stomach. “Hallo, Sarah.
Wie geht's? 
”

“It's
gut
to see you, Linda.” No matter how close it might be to dinnertime, Sarah couldn't look at a woman this thin without wanting to feed her. Not only that, she felt a little guilty for not having gone to see her long before this. “
Kommscht du.
I'm hungry for some blackberry pie, and if you keep me company, I won't feel guilty about having a piece.”

“
Neh
, I don't want to trouble you.”

“No trouble at all. I like people to indulge my bad habits.”

Linda smiled and followed her into the kitchen, where Sarah didn't waste an instant cutting the pie, pouring cream over it, and setting it down in front of her guest. A pot of what she had taken to calling
meadow tea
followed, which filled the kitchen with the scent she loved, and would do this young woman's body some good even as it lifted her spirits.

“You have such a way of making food seem like a gift,” Linda said on a sigh of contentment as she scraped up the last of the pastry.

Sarah cut another piece and slid it onto her plate. “Food
is
a gift—from God.”

“And I'm thankful for every bite.” She hesitated, concentrating on her pie so that, Sarah suspected, she could put off telling her what she'd come for.

“My sister-in-law Amanda was telling me the other day that you might stop by.” Sarah took a sip of tea. “I'm glad you came.”

“Amanda is a
gut Freind
. Did she say what I was looking for?” Any other woman might have taken offense at being talked about, but Linda seemed to find it a relief that a way to start the conversation had already been opened.

“Not really. She seemed a little shy about it. About
die Bobblin
, I mean.”

“It's not easy.” Two slices of pie seemed to have taken the edge off, and Linda picked up her mug of tea and breathed in the scent. The tremor in her hands made the china clink against her teeth as she sipped. “Crist doesn't want to talk about it anymore, so I'm left to bend my friends' ears.” Her blue gaze met Sarah's. “At least with you, there's a hope of being able to do something besides talk.”

“I'm no expert, Linda. I'm still learning.”

“Then we can learn together. If you think you can do something for me, then I'm willing to do as you say. I can't pay you very much, but in the fall, the boys will go hunting and I can see that you get some meat for the winter.”

“I'd never turn down that offer.” She gathered her words together. “So if we are successful, have you thought a little about the situation you would bring a little
Boppli
into? Is there a chance that you and Crist will have a home of your own?”

Linda's gaze fell once more to her mug. “I don't think so. We can't afford to buy in this county, and if we moved away, we'd be leaving both his family and mine. Neither of us are willing to do that—and we don't think it's God's will that we do, either. But it's all we can do to pay a little rent to Arlon and help with the farm.”

“Shouldn't his boys be helping, too?” The question shot out of Sarah's mouth before she could stop it. “I'm sorry. It's none of my business how he and Ella bring up their family.”

“I can see why you would say so. The boys are high-spirited, but they have good hearts.”

“But Linda, if they helped their father and uncle, they wouldn't have the energy for such high spirits, and the farm would be more profitable—would be able to support you better. And make an environment that you could bring a baby into. A calmer environment.”

Linda took another sip of tea—something a woman did when she disagreed with you, but didn't want to argue. Then she said, “I am in the place that God has put me, and I'm content there. If it's not His will to bless us with children, then I must be willing for that. But if there is something I can do, I want to do it.”

Sarah reined in her human nature, which wanted to tell this trembling reed of a young woman that living hand to mouth on a tumbledown farm with no peace was not conducive to bringing life into the world, and her body was telling her so. How could God want her there when she could not do His will for a woman and a wife?

Sarah didn't have the answer, but she could do a little to help.

“There are some things you can do,” she said gently. “You have plants growing in your yard and in the woods behind your place that can nourish you. We'll start with this meadow tea. I'll give you the recipe and I want you to drink four cups a day—one with each meal, and one in the evening before bed.”

Linda nodded. “That will be no burden at all. I love the smell of it—like a fresh-cut field in summer. What does it do?”

“Besides cleaning out the lymph system, which promotes healthy breasts, it's a nerve tonic. It reduces stress.”

“I'm not stressed,” Linda protested.

“When you came in, you were shaking.”

The other woman waved a hand. “I was just hungry. I was so busy today I forgot to eat lunch.”

Sarah knew when to knock on a door, and when to go around the side and open a window. “The body needs calm and a good sleep at night, so this will help you there as well.”

“And you said that some of the ingredients grow around us, so I won't need to buy them?”

Sarah made up her mind between one word and the next. “I'm not going to charge you for the things I give you. We're experimenting.” Linda tried to protest, but with a smile, Sarah kept right on going. “There's also a plant called lady's mantle. Ever heard of it?”

Her patient shook her head.

“I'm just learning about this one, but Ruth Lehman says it's excellent for fertility. She says that when you look at the plant, you can picture a lady—a mother—covering you with her cape to protect you and the baby. That's how the herb works.”

“I'll take her word for it.”

“I know, a little fanciful, but no more than smelling a fresh-cut field in our tea,
neh?
I'll give the lady's mantle mixture to you as a tincture. Just put a couple of drops in a glass of water and drink it. You'll be running to the bathroom every five minutes if I ask you to drink two kinds of tea.”

“I'll be running to the bathroom anyway. Between tea and this lady's mantle, that's a lot of water every day. More than I drink in a week, I think.”

Sarah made a mental note to write this down in her patients' journal. Poor Linda was probably dehydrated as well as being under stress and suffering from clogged-up plumbing. “We all need water, and lots of it. You may not think so, because I can see you're retaining water, but the more you drink, the less you'll retain. There's a reason the Bible tells us the water of life flows from the throne of God. We can't live without lots of it—or Him.”

At last Linda smiled, and Sarah could see that her resistance was crumbling. That was
gut
. A patient who was motivated to do the right thing wouldn't stop after a day or two and then wonder why she wasn't getting well.

“
Kumme mit
, and I'll show you what plants to pick and how to prepare them.”

When Linda went away an hour later with a cardboard box containing a bottle of tincture, some packets of dried herbs, and several handfuls of cleavers and chickweed, Sarah waved farewell.

“See you in church tomorrow,” she called, and Linda waved through the buggy's open door in acknowledgment.

Because that, Sarah suddenly realized, was what had been missing in Linda's eyes.

Joy.

There was resignation, and she had said she was content. But in someone who loved God and was loved in return, a person should be able to see more than those pale substitutes.

P
riscilla had never been so thankful for a Sunday as she was today. Church was held that week at Bishop Dan Troyer's home, on the other side of Willow Creek and down the county highway about four miles…so far away that the likelihood of running into Justin Parker was zero.

She was looking forward to a whole day where she'd be guaranteed a little peace.

Though why he should disturb her peace so much was not quite clear yet. He made her nervous. He wanted too much of her time. And yet there was something about him that was causing a little root of compassion to grow in her heart—though he would be the first to tell her that he felt sorry for her and not the other way around.

She and Katie and Saranne had breakfast on the table by the time Mamm and Dat got in from the milking, and once they'd cleaned up and changed into clean
Kapps
, their blue Sunday dresses with the white organdy capes and aprons, and their good black oxford shoes, Dat had led out the horse and harnessed him up to the family buggy.

The sun had barely lifted its face above the trees when they were on their way. Church began at eight thirty and lasted until eleven thirty—which was about the length of time it took for Priscilla's behind to begin going numb from the hard wooden bench.

The sermon was on faith, from Hebrews 11 and 12, and Priscilla listened to the preacher tell the stories of those in the Old Testament who had been faithful no matter what their circumstances. Who had believed that faith was the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things they couldn't see.

Some people might think that was a contradiction in terms—you had to be able to see evidence, didn't you?—but to Priscilla there was no contradiction. Her faith in God, in her church, in the rightness of it, was a faith in something that was real and had form. Like the breeze in the trees outside, you might not be able to see it, but you could see what it did.

Nobody could argue that the wind didn't exist.

God had allowed Justin to come here, the way He allowed mosquitoes and the burrs that formed in the forget-me-nots when they went to seed. Annoying and persistent though they were, they had their season, and their season always passed.

The Parkers would be gone on Wednesday, and she could stop looking over her shoulder. She wasn't afraid of him—not at all. He was more like a newborn puppy or a baby, all noise and need, unable to look after itself without someone nearby to pay attention to it. Frankly, since he was neither puppy nor baby, she didn't have the patience. Or the time. And maybe that was what made him so persistent.

Dat's edict from the spring was still in effect, with no sign of relenting. To keep her out of trouble and from thinking about frivolous things like band hops and dates, none of her chores had been given to her sisters despite the fact that she worked three days a week at the Rose Arbor Inn. So Sundays were a relief in more ways than one. She could rest without the list of things to do ticking itself off in her mind.

After a tasty lunch of cheese, pickles, peanut butter spread in a thick layer on Evie's homemade bread, jam, and two kinds of pie, everyone trickled outside to enjoy the warm sunshine and visit for a while before the ride home.

Pris's buddy bunch had already congregated in a circle at the far end of the garden, exchanging news and taking sidelong glances at the sixteen- and seventeen-year-old boys hanging out by the barn door.

Rosanne Kanagy, her sidekick, as a girl's best friend was known in their district, bumped shoulders with her as Pris merged seamlessly into the group and the girl on the other side made room for her. “I haven't seen you in days. I miss you.”

“I miss you, too. But until Dat sees that I've learned my lesson after that field caught on fire, I may as well be working two jobs.”

“You didn't start that fire—you put it out. But we've plowed that ground before. Any news from Joe?”

“He writes every week. They've just been on a trail ride with some Japanese businessmen, and Joe says it went well.”

Rosanne looked as if she couldn't believe it. “What are Japanese businessmen doing at a dude ranch riding horses?”

Priscilla shrugged. “Joe says it was a team-building exercise. I don't even know what that means, or why they needed to come all the way from Japan to do it, but the end result was that he and Simon both got a hundred-dollar tip.”

By now everyone was listening, and Pris pushed her glasses up her nose self-consciously.

“Do you like being a
Maud
at the Rose Arbor?” one of the other girls asked. “I've never been in there—I've heard it's nice.”

“It is nice,” Pris said, glad to share something she enjoyed. “Each bedroom is named after a different kind of rose, and Henry Byler made mugs for Ginny Hochstetler, with the roses painted on the side.”

“I hear he's sweet on her,” Rosanne said. “Isn't she Mennonite?”

“Her husband was. Very liberal—they're divorced. I don't know what church she goes to now.”

Rosanne nodded. “I saw them driving together in the car, her and Henry. She was laughing.”

“She laughs a lot,” Pris told them with a smile. “Ginny can see the funny side of just about anything. Even the Parkers. They're staying there right now. She made eggs on stuffed French toast and the husband asked her to do his eggs over. They weren't cooked right.”

“How can you cook an egg wrong?” someone wanted to know. “You put it in the pan, cook it until it's not runny, and eat it.”

“He wanted his just so, runny but not transparent, and finally he went into the kitchen with her and did it himself,” Priscilla said. “I was in there folding napkins and couldn't believe anyone would be so ungrateful for the meal served to him that he would criticize it. But she just laughed and said she'd learned something.”

“He'd be making his own breakfast every day if it was me,” Rosanne said. “But I guess for two hundred dollars a night, he can afford to pay for two breakfasts.”

“I can see why his kids are the way they are,” Priscilla confided, and the little circle leaned in to listen. “The older boy flirts all the time and follows me around while I make the beds. He's supposed to be on vacation, but he has nothing to do so he's bored silly. I finally asked him if he'd like to help and he went away, only to follow me down to the creek and try to walk with me.”

“Is he good-looking?” the girl on her left said with a laugh.

“He's so exhausting I've stopped paying attention to his looks,” Priscilla said with some asperity. “Lucky thing Henry Byler was there and distracted him long enough for me to get up to the field and home. I don't want him knowing where I live or he'll be whining at the door like a lost puppy.”

“Cheer up—it's not forever,” Rosanne said. “They have to go back to wherever they're from sooner or later,
neh?
 ”

“Wednesday. So really, it's only Monday that I'll have to deal with him.” She stopped, and looked past the shoulders of the girls on the other side of their circle. “Don't look now, but the Peachey boys are trying to sneak up on us.”

“The Peachey boys don't sneak,” Rosanne said in a low tone. “They just stampede in and laugh at you when you tell them how rude they are. Come on, let's take a walk.”

And before Pris could agree or disagree, Rosanne had looped her arm through hers and that of another girl, and the three of them broke the circle on their side just as Benny and Leon Peachey intruded on the other, teasing the nearest girls and laughing as they scattered.

“Any other boy would wait until a girl was alone or at least ask politely if she wanted to take a walk,” Rosanne grumbled. “Who else would bust in like that where they weren't wanted?”

“Maybe they think they are wanted,” Barbie Kaufman said, looking over her shoulder at the brave girls who were actually talking to them.

But Benny spotted that glance, and before the three of them could join a group of grown-ups or do something sensible like go in the house and wash dishes, he had loped over to take Priscilla's other arm, mincing a little as if he were mimicking their steps.

“Hi, girls,” he said. “Want to go for a walk?”

“Not with you,” Rosanne told him, as severe as a spinster chasing little boys out of her apple trees. “Let go of her and go away.”

“Why? I was talking to Priscilla. Say, Pris, does Joe know you're keeping company with
Englisch
boys?”

Priscilla shook him off, but he kept walking up the driveway with them. Just wait. If he was still at her elbow when they got to the ditch, he was going to get a surprise.

“I don't keep company with them,” she told him stiffly.

“That's not what I saw Friday, down in the creek bottom.”

“Where were you? I didn't see anyone.”

“Me and Leon were up in one of the maple trees. We were going to do cannonballs into the creek, but when you walked by underneath, we thought we'd better give you two some privacy.”

“I wish you
had
done a cannonball,” she told him, the words tumbling rashly out of her. “Next time, give me a hand getting rid of him instead of hiding up in the trees like a pair of scared birds.”

“Scared!”

Good. Maybe she'd offended him.

“Wasn't us who was scared, I bet.”

Or not.

“Not scared exactly, but I sure was glad to see Henry Byler. But still, it would have been nice if you'd showed your faces and let him know I wasn't all alone down there.”

For once in his harum-scarum life, Benny Peachey didn't laugh. In fact, the merriment faded from his blue eyes as he searched her face, looking for the truth. “You serious, Priscilla Mast? This
Englisch
boy bothering you?”

“He's a nuisance.” She wished now she'd never said anything. Now they would all think she saw bogeymen in the bushes. “He's staying at the Inn and I don't want to be rude in case it reflects badly on Ginny and hurts her business.”

Benny looked thoughtful for all of five seconds before the grin broke out on his face again. “A little thing like you couldn't hurt anything. Say, can I take you home from the singing tonight? It's here, so everyone is staying on for supper.”

Rosanne and Barbie both gaped at the effrontery of him, asking such a thing right out in front of a person's girlfriends.

“Benny, for goodness' sake,” Pris said in exasperation. “You know I'm writing to Joe!”

“But he ain't here, and I am. What do you say?”

“She says no, she's coming home with Malinda and me,” Rosanne told him with perfect timing. See, this was why they were best friends. They looked out for each other. “We live way closer to her place than you do.”

Priscilla nodded, never letting on for a moment that this was the first she'd heard of it. “Sorry, Benny.”

But if she thought he was going to break his heart over being turned down, she learned differently when not ten minutes later, she saw him walking under the trees with one of Malinda Kanagy's friends, who was at least a year older than he was.

Boys. Honestly.

The more she knew of them, the more she wished Joe Byler would come home sooner rather than later.