Love Redeemed (18 page)

“Feeling sorry?” Anger coursed through Phoebe, jolting her upright in her chair. For the first time in days she felt a spurt of energy. “Don't I have a right? I've lost my sister and my other sister hates me and my parents are sick with grief—”

“But you're alive. And God loves you. He cares for you. He's right there with you.”

“I'm not sure I believe that.”

“So you'll believe in Him in the good times and scorn Him in the bad?”

“Nee. I don't know. Jah.” She scrubbed her eyes with the back of her hand. “I can't feel Him like I did before. Even when it's hot, it's so cold and so dark.”

Irene moved. A second later she wrapped her arms around Phoebe in a hug. “I know,” she whispered. “I know, but God is all the light you'll ever need in your life. Stop feeling sorry for yourself and start living the life He wants for you. He gave us free will. We mess up and He forgives us. He forgives us. That's the most important thing to remember. He forgives us.”

Phoebe broke away from Irene's grasp. She laid her head on the table, just as Irene had done all those years ago. She needed to rest, just for a few seconds. She closed her eyes, embarrassed to let herself go in front of this woman whom she barely knew.

The sound of pots and pans clattering told her Irene had gone about her business. A hum filled the room. A sing-song hum that Phoebe recognized.
Jesus Loves the Little Children.

She lifted her head. “I have to go now.”

A high, pain-laced cry wafted through the backdoor. “Mudder! Mudder!”

“That doesn't sound good. It's Melinda. I'll be right back.” Irene wiped her hands on her apron and trotted away. “What is it, little one?”

Phoebe stood, unsure what to do. She wanted to go, but she couldn't leave Irene in the lurch if something had happened. What if the child was really hurt? The question knocked her back in her chair. She would be no good to Irene. Not anymore.
Gott, help me.

Despite all that had happened, she wasn't a coward. Phoebe forced herself to stand on weak legs and march through the open door. She found Irene examining little Melinda's skinned knees and tear-stained face while Joanna, her older sister, sat on the edge of a trampoline, short legs swinging and a concerned look on her sun-kissed face.

“I fell off the trampoline.” Melinda, who looked to be about five, announced with a sniff. “It hurts.”

“I told them they were jumping too high, but they didn't listen.” Abram patted the thick haunches of a Shetland pony that wasn't much taller than he was. He had the self-satisfied look of an older brother
who had proven himself right about something. “They were trying to fly.”

“Were not,” Joanna shot back. “We were trying to do back flips.”

“Silly girls. You may have broken your fingers.” Irene touched the girl's dirty hand, then inspected her face. “Your nose looks fine. You'll survive. Serves you right for not listening to your bruder.”

“He's too bossy.” The girl's tears subsided, but she still looked miffed at the situation. “My nose feels like it's flat. My knees and my elbows hurt.”

“That's going to be a nasty bruise on your cheek.” Irene rose. “Phoebe, could you stay with her while I get my doctoring things?”

“I don't think—”

“You'll do fine.”

Irene sped away, leaving Phoebe to face Melinda, Abram, and Joanna. They all looked at her expectantly, as if she could fix things. She couldn't fix anything.

“You're Lydia's big sister, right?” Abram slapped the reins on the Shetland. The pony began to trot around the yard, making a circle around the trampoline. “The girl who died.”

Kinner always got right to the bottom of things. Not like adults, who pussyfooted around.

“Jah.”

“That was sad.” Joanna said. “We're real sorry.”

“I appreciate that.”

“I didn't know little girls could die.” Melinda's forehead wrinkled like she was thinking hard on something. “My daed explained it to me.”

Phoebe wished someone could explain it to her.

“Girls don't know nothing,” Abram informed them as he rounded the bend behind his pony.

“Do too,” Joanna argued. “Stop pretending you're driving a buggy. Daed isn't gonna let you drive anytime soon.”

“Will too.”

“Will not.”

Phoebe held up a hand. “Stop it, you two. Neither of you know what your Daed will do because he hasn't done it yet.” She couldn't
help but smile at their glowering faces. “He'll do what he thinks is right, won't he?”

“Jah.” Abram went back to his pony, but he gave Joanna one last dark look. “He knows I'm big and strong. I helped him put up hay last week.”

“My daed is smart about a lot of stuff. He says we will go to be with the Father in heaven when we die.” Melinda smiled up at Phoebe, bits of grass and dirt sprinkled across her bruised and battered face. She held out her uninjured hand. Without thinking, Phoebe took it. “I think it's like sitting on my groossdaadi's lap.”

“I think you're right.” Phoebe managed to keep the quiver from her voice. She smoothed a finger across the back of the little girl's hand. Her skin was soft as a baby kitten's fur. “That's a nice way of thinking about it.”

Irene strode back into view, the handle of a basket over one arm. “I know I have some bandages in here and splints from when Abram fell off the horse.”

“You fell off the horse?” Phoebe couldn't help herself. “And you made fun of your sisters?”

“I was a lot littler then.” Abram's face flamed red, but he lifted his chin. “I got right back on.”

“After I splinted your fingers and taped your ribs.”

“I'm tough.”

“That you are.” Irene favored her three children with a smile. “You all are.”

The picture of this kind women with her flock of kinner around her warmed Phoebe's hurt heart. She wanted this. She wanted it more than anything. “I have to go.”

Irene looked up from taping the splints—a little too long from the looks of them—to Melinda's small fingers. “Rachel's not back to drive you home.”

“I'll walk. I need to think.”

“Wait. I want to send some cookies with you.”

“That's not necessary.”

“Yes, it is. I never send a guest home without some of my cookies.”
Irene patted Melinda's head. “Stay put. Don't be running around. You're done for the day.”

Phoebe followed her into the house where Irene picked up a brown cloth napkin and dropped half a dozen snickerdoodles and gingersnaps in it, tying the napkin around them. She presented them to Phoebe with a shy smile. “Share them with your special friend.”

“I don't have one.”

“I think you do.”

“We'll see.” On an impulse she didn't recognize, Phoebe hugged the woman. “Thank you for telling me your story. I know it must be hard to dredge it all up again.”

“I'm starting a new quilt on Friday.” Irene trailed after her to the front door. “Why don't you come to town with me tomorrow and help me pick up some notions? I need thread and material.”

A new calm lay on Phoebe's shoulders like a spring shawl, light, but enough to ward off a pervasive chill. She could face the people of the town if she had Irene on her side. “I'd like that.”

“I'll pick you up on my way.”

Chapter 14

D
espite the lazy spin of a ceiling fan overhead, the air in the fabric store seemed stuffy to Phoebe. It smelled of furniture wax and enough dust to make her want to sneeze. At first she'd dreaded this foray into town, sure that everyone would stare and point.
There's the girl who ran off to kiss a man and left a little girl to drown. There's the girl who let her parents and family down. There's the girl who was selfish and irresponsible. There she is.
She should wear a big sign that read
SINNER
. Now that she was here, she felt a curious lifting of her heart. It might be stuffy and it might smell a little, but the fabric store was one of her favorite places.

Right up there with the bakery. She let her rapturous gaze encompass the rainbow of colors around her. Rack upon rack displayed every kind of fabric available in all colors and patterns. She could spend all day here. All week if she had money in her canvas bag. She might not be much of a cook, but she was handy with the sewing machine. Time to get back to it. Time to stop feeling sorry for herself and be of some use to Mudder.

She trotted after Irene. The woman's lips were pursed and her forehead wrinkled in concentration as she fingered bolts of sturdy cotton in blues, greens, blacks, and purples, keeping up a running commentary on the quality and price. The process of buying material could be a lengthy one because Plain women spent so much time and effort
making clothes. The material had to be a good quality that would last, but not so expensive as to eat up their household budget.

“Isn't this pretty?” Phoebe ran her hand over a piece of pale pink, silky fabric. It felt soft under her fingers, like baby's skin, but she would never wear this color, even if she could. Prone to spilling kaffi and tea or soup, she always had stains on her clothes as it was. No sense in wearing a dress that showed everyone how
doplich
she really was. “So shiny.”

“And so pink.” Irene shook her head, her disdain tempered by her sweet smile. “All I see are little handprints.”

Phoebe grinned. Irene was right. Best stick to dark colors. Sarah liked to grab ahold of her dress and hang on for dear life. Lydia always had dirty hands.

Her gut wrenched and her lungs deflated as if she'd taken a kickball to the stomach. When would this stop happening? This thinking of Lydia as if she were still here. Being caught off guard and remembering all over again the horror of her death. It happened to her every morning when she first opened her eyes and dragged herself through the blessed haziness of sleep to wakefulness. Lydia died. The thought hit her again and again.

“You gonna buy that material?” Lois Mattox, the owner of All Your Needles and Notions, had that puckered-up look that always graced her face. Like she'd drunk a pint of vinegar. “If not, you best keep your mitts off it. Stains real easy.”

How did she know? Phoebe turned her back and caught Bertha Weaver staring at her. Bertha had come to New Hope in a second wave of families from Bliss Creek. However, she'd been the first young woman to get a job in the small, tightly knit town. Phoebe had observed—to herself only—that the two women, one Englisch and the other Plain, really could've been twins born under other circumstances. Dour faced. Always watching as if they thought a customer might steal something. Plain folks didn't steal, but New Hope folks had to learn that for themselves. New Hope hadn't been much interested in having Plain folks around—too much tourist nonsense, according to the local sheriff, but things had thawed out after Bethel and Elijah's wedding. Even the mayor had come by the celebration afterwards.

Bertha didn't look like she was celebrating now. Sniffing as if she needed a handkerchief, she sidestepped a toddler following after Ben Knepp's fraa, who was headed for the cash register. Bertha stopped on the other side of a long row of flannel that would make lovely, warm nightgowns once winter made an appearance.

“I'm surprised to see you out and about so soon.” She sniffed again. Maybe she had allergies. “I heard you were a bit down and out after all that went on.”

In other words, Phoebe should be ashamed to show her face. “I'm helping Irene prepare for the quilting frolic later this week and she's getting some fabric for school clothes.”

“Making yourself useful.” Her words suggested otherwise.

“I try.”

“That's not what I heard.”

Phoebe eyed the door. Maybe she should wait in the buggy. “How much is this plum-colored material here? It's a nice color. Mudder would like it.”

“How is your mudder?” Bertha had never been one to take a hint. For someone so young, she really did look like a dried apple with wrinkles around her mouth from frowning so much. “I haven't seen her in the store since…in ages.”

“She's working hard, as always.” Working hard and growing thinner and frailer by the day. “She'll be at the frolic on Friday. You should come, if you don't have to work. Of course, since you spend all day with material and notions and whatnot, quiltings probably aren't as much fun for you as they used to be.”

“And Hannah?” Bertha was like those sharks Phoebe had seen photos of in magazines. They got ahold of a person's leg or arm and wouldn't let go until they tore it off. “Will she be at the frolic too?”

“Hannah's fine.”

“I heard she hasn't said a word since before the funeral.”

The women in their district had plenty of work to do, yet they still found time to chitchat about other peoples' business. It was the downside of living in such a small community. Hannah said words. Not many. Not any to Phoebe, but she did say words. “That's not true—”

“I think I have what I need.” Irene bustled down the aisle that separated Phoebe from Bertha. “I'll get eight yards of the black, eight yards of the blue, six yards of the dark green, and six yards of the lilac. The girls need new dresses for school. What about you, Phoebe? Did your mudder ask you to bring home anything?”

Grateful for Irene's perception, Phoebe hurried after her, avoiding Bertha's accusing gaze. “No, she said she had everything she needed. What about thread? Do you need thread?”

“I do. I go through it like I do flour in the kitchen. I never have enough.”

“That's what Mudder says.”

“Bertha, are you doing the cutting today or is Lois?” Irene heaved the bolts of fabric onto the enormous counter in the middle of the store. “Did you hear my list or do you need me to repeat it?”