Stranger's Gift (12 page)

“What exactly is this RV team?” John asked.

This time she met his gaze directly. “In circumstances like these where there has been devastation following a hurricane or tornado, or other natural disasters, members of our fellow churches throughout the region and up into the Midwest mobilize teams of volunteers to come and help. They drive their recreational vehicles—RVs—to the site so there's no need for MCC or MDS to lose valuable time seeking appropriate housing for them. They bring their own tools and supply of food so that they can go right where there's the most need, park their vehicles, and get to work.”

“Sounds like a barn-raising,” John murmured.

“Yes. I suppose that would be an appropriate analogy.”

“And Grady has assigned this first team to John's place?” Arlen asked.

“To assess the damage,” she stressed. “Apparently John has friends in the government who are determined to look out for him.”

“I didn't ask them to,” John protested.

“Still, Grady's under a lot of pressure, and even though most would agree that our mission is to serve where the demand is greatest, apparently he who makes the most fuss …” Her father placed his hand on her arm, a warning to calm herself. In the silence that followed, she covered her embarrassment by setting the cloth satchel down near the front door. It would be the last thing she grabbed as she headed out at dawn.

“Well, good night, all,” Margery said quietly, breaking the uncomfortable silence as she stepped into the bathroom and closed the door.

“You look exhausted, Hester.” Her father stroked her cheek. “Come have a glass of milk.”

“It's been a long day,” she admitted. “I'll just have a little something to eat and then get some sleep.” They could all hear Margery moving into the bedroom and settling in for the night.

“How about you, John? Will you join us for a late snack?”

“Thank you, no. I'll say good night as well.” He took two steps toward his room and paused. “I do appreciate everything you've both done for me today.”

“It's our pleasure to be of service,” Arlen assured him, but Hester seemed incapable of finding a single shred of graciousness to offer the man. She bowed her head, entreating God to give her more patience.

“Sleep well,” she finally managed as she squeezed past her father and headed for the kitchen.

“And you,” she heard John murmur, but neither of them looked at the other.

When John woke the following morning, sunlight streamed through the open window. The rain had stopped for the time being, but it was going to be another steamy day. He reached for the sling he'd abandoned during the night and nearly cried out with the pain that shot through his body from head to foot. Overnight his muscles had stiffened significantly, and minor movements that most people took for granted were suddenly monumental. Slowly he lifted the covers and stretched out his legs, then swung them over the side of the bed, resting his bare feet on a small cotton rug on the wooden floor between the two sets of bunk beds.

He sat for a minute, sorting out the hum of activity. It didn't take long to grasp the fact that all sounds came from outside the window. The rooms next to and across the hall from his were silent. Cradling his broken wrist, he pushed himself off the bed and padded barefoot to the window. In the yard that backed up to Arlen's property, a woman was clearing away fallen palm fronds and other debris while several small children played nearby. He couldn't help but notice that the cleanup had already been taken care of in the Detlefs' yard. Hester? Arlen? They must have been up well before dawn to accomplish that particular chore. When he'd looked out the kitchen window the evening before, the yard had been littered with debris, except for the front garden. He recalled the neatly stacked sections of picket fence and the way the space had been raked and set to rights in spite of the obvious loss of most of the plantings.

John checked the old-fashioned wind-up clock on the dresser.
Seven thirty
. A jolt of panic rushed through him. He knew the routine. Amish or Mennonite—they were up with first light and by seven thirty had already put in what for some people would be considered a full day's work. So the others had left without him. He headed for the bathroom and awkwardly splashed water onto his face with his one good hand. He didn't miss the fact that the washbasin had been filled with fresh water or that the towels he'd used the day before had been replaced with clean ones.
If she thinks she's going to get around me by letting me sleep in while she and the county guy decide the fate of my place
, he thought,
she doesn't know John Steiner
.

On the bathroom counter he noticed an unopened toothbrush and a partially used tube of toothpaste. He scrubbed his teeth with all the vigor of his irritation at the woman and then limped back to the bedroom to dress.

His regular clothes were missing from the hook where he'd hung them to dry the day before. Meanwhile, neatly folded over the back of the room's single chair were the clothes he'd left when he went to bed—Hester's brother's plain clothes. He dressed quickly as his mind raced with alternatives he might put into action to get him out to Tucker's Point. There was always Margery, though there was no sign of her. When he started down the hallway, he noticed that the doors to both Hester's room as well as Arlen's were open and the beds were made.

“Hello?” he called out as he rounded the corner and headed for the kitchen. A single place was set with a foil-covered plate at the small table, and near the stove sat a thermos that, when he opened it, released the aroma of hot coffee. On the counter next to the cookstove were half a dozen shoofly pies still warm from the oven, their crumb crusts glistening with sugar. And spread over a clothes rack were his still-damp but freshly washed shirt and shorts.

There was also a note taped to the kitchen table. He ripped it free and moved to the open back door for better light.

John's instinct was to find Hester as quickly as possible. He didn't want to take a chance on missing her, but the smell of the coffee combined with something cinnamon hiding beneath that foil-covered plate made his stomach growl. He supposed he should eat. After all, who knew when he might have his next meal? Surely he would be able to catch up with her at her grandmother's house.

He poured himself a cup of coffee and took his first bite of the cinnamon concoction that clung to his fingers. The woman was multitalented—John would give her that. The minute he uncovered the pan and released the aroma of the cinnamon roll plus eggs scrambled with fried potatoes, onions, and sausages, he knew that Hester Detlef was a first-class cook. He imagined the pies cooling on the counter would be equally impressive and had to stop himself from cutting into one even after he had downed the feast she'd left for him.

Hester was a conundrum all right. It was barely eight o'clock, and she had already cleared the yard of debris, washed the filth from his clothes, made breakfast, baked pies, and who knew what else. And she wasn't that bad looking either. So the question was why weren't Mennonite bachelors lined up around the block to take her out walking or to a church function or out for dinner in one of Sarasota's many restaurants? Why had Arlen thought it necessary to bring in a suitor from the outside?

John was pretty sure he knew the answer to that one. The woman did not know her place—had never accepted her role in either the community or a relationship. She had a college education, still quite rare among the conservative Mennonite population, and she had taken on a job, albeit an unpaid one, that put her in a position of authority. Being the daughter of the senior minister would only buy her so much in the realm of amnesty and respect. He had the feeling that she just kept pushing the boundaries, and he felt sorry for poor Samuel Brubaker. From the way Brubaker looked at Hester and followed her around like a lost puppy, the guy was probably doomed to …

“Johnny? Come quick!”

There was no arguing with the alarm in Margery Barker's voice. She rushed up to the screened door, banged on it, and bellowed at him. Then she turned and took off at a run. By the time John gathered his wits enough to follow, she was already several yards from the house. “Well, come on,” she yelled. “You didn't break your legs, did you?” She didn't wait for an answer as she turned the corner at the end of the lane. John had been so engrossed in his thoughts that he'd failed to notice that the sun had disappeared behind a solid cover of gray clouds.
So much for a break in the weather
, he thought as he felt the first drops of rain and followed Margery down the lane.

H
ester dragged another sandbag into place and then stared at the floor of her grandmother's carport. In addition to several puddles that were spreading across the concrete slab, water was shooting like a small geyser out of the drain that normally handled any runoff.

“It'll settle down in a bit,” her grandmother assured her as she sipped her second cup of morning tea. “It always does.”

But Hester had her doubts. Those other times Grandma Nelly was remembering followed a heavy rain when the water had gurgled up through the drain like a bubbling fountain. This was something far more dramatic. This was a really good imitation of Old Faithful. According to revised weather reports Hester had heard that morning, the creek was rising faster than anyone had predicted. There was no way they had until noon to get Nelly and her neighbors out of here. They had to go now.

We should have gone yesterday
, she thought.
I should have insisted
.

“Where's Samuel?” she asked, noticing that his small camper was gone from its usual place in Nelly's driveway. He'd been staying with Nelly since arriving in Pinecraft. Nelly clearly thought the sun rose and set in the young carpenter. Hester had hoped to herd the less agile residents living along the creek into Samuel's camper and have him drive them to the nearest shelter and then come back for another group until everyone was safe.

“He left before dawn.” Nelly took another swallow of her tea. “Did I tell you that Lizzie Gingrich's generator went out last night? Samuel went over there to check on it and get it going again, and—”

“Margery went to get help,” Hester interrupted as she dropped the last of the sandbags into place. “We need to get going here, Gramma. Are you all packed?” She didn't mention what her father had told her that morning—that another tropical storm was forming over the Gulf, a storm that had the potential to blossom into another hurricane. “Come on. We need to hurry.”

As if a switch had been turned on, it seemed that Nelly finally recognized the need for panic. “And who's going to help Ivan and Jane next door? And what about Lizzie? She's alone, you know, and just had surgery on her hip. What's she supposed to do?” Nelly pointed to houses in every direction as she continued her roll call of neighbors who were going to need extra help. “At least I can walk and carry my load,” she muttered as she headed back inside the house. “Gott
in Himmel
, Hester, come now! The sink's about to explode.”

Sure enough. Water was gurgling up through the enamel basin in the kitchen. If it was coming up there, then …

Hester raced down the hall to the bathroom, where the toilet bowl was rapidly filling with water and sewage.

“Gram, get your pocketbook and get in the car,” she ordered as she ran into her grandmother's bedroom and started grabbing precious items that Nelly had laid out on her bed. The photo of Hester's grandfather, the Bible Nelly had received when she was baptized and still read several times a day, the basket of quilt squares and the quilt of scraps from family members' cast-off clothing that had covered Nelly's bed for decades. On her way out, she grabbed the small suitcase filled with clothing and toiletries that Nelly kept packed and ready for just such emergencies.

In the hallway, water was already spreading across the planked floor. As she passed the kitchen, she set Nelly's suitcase on the counter and scooped the bottles of medications her grandmother took into her cloth satchel and then ran outside, where her worst fears were realized.

Up and down the street people were racing around, their arms filled with whatever they thought they might most need. These goods they deposited in the baskets of three-wheeled bicycles or the backseats of cars as they urged family members to hurry, then sent someone back for something they had forgotten. Next door Ivan Miller assisted his wife to their car as if the two of them were going out for a Sunday picnic; then slowly he walked back up the front sidewalk to lock the door to his house.