Stranger's Gift (42 page)

The realtor was anything but pleased to arrive the following week for a showing of the property to find it buzzing with activity. John was in the kitchen watching Nelly and Agnes instruct a crew of homeless women in the process of turning baskets of whole fruit into jars of homemade marmalade. He'd suggested they set up this part of the program in the house since the kitchen easily provided everything they needed.

He'd heard the approach of what sounded like an entire motorcade and glanced out the window. The realtor had practically leapt from the lead car before it came to a full stop, ran back to say something to the occupants of the cars behind him, and then headed up to the house.

“John, I thought we had an appointment,” Peter York said, his smile revealing overly white teeth and not quite reaching the hard glints of his steel-gray eyes. “What's going on?”

John ignored the question by asking one of his own. “Developers?” He nodded toward the two other cars, where men in suits had gotten out and were beginning to look around in the proprietary way that John hated, as if they already owned the place.

“From Tampa,” York replied. “I told you that they were driving down today and that we would be here at eleven and that after they—”

“Okay. Show them around. I'll open the front door so you can come in that way to show the house, although I doubt they care what it's like. I'll be in the kitchen if you need me.” He started back inside and heard York following him.

“Look, you cannot have these people around when I'm trying to show the property,” he seethed.

“These
people
happen to be friends of mine, and as long as I own the place, I'll have anyone I like around, okay?”

“But John …”

Suddenly John remembered how the young man's eyes had fairly danced with excitement the day that John had chosen him to represent the property. At the price he had suggested, the young realtor stood to make a hefty commission. Clearly, at the moment he saw that commission going up in smoke.

“Look,” John said, feeling a little sorry for him, “you said this place would sell itself, so why should it matter who is here or what they are doing?” He sniffed the air, catching the aroma of fruit mixed with spices cooking, and smiled. “Take your time, Pete, and there might be a jar of homemade marmalade as a bonus.”

York winced, and then he noticed Zeke sauntering across the yard toward his clients and he took off to intercept him. John saw Hester standing outside the packinghouse, watching the scene unfold. He caught her eye and signaled that everything was all right. She smiled and headed back inside.

John stood for a moment staring at the spot where she had been. Ever since he'd agreed to let her use his place for the project, they had worked together in a kind of easy camaraderie. There had been no repeat of the embrace they'd shared, an embrace that had been interrupted by the sound of workers seeking the shade outside the building to enjoy their lunch. Shyly she had pushed away from him and thanked him again before running to the house to tell the others the news.

After that, she had come every day bringing others with her as they worked to set up the packinghouse. With nothing else to do, John had fallen into the habit of working alongside them and become part of the group that bantered back and forth in easy friendship as they worked together to install a new conveyor belt and build more counter space for the sorting and packing processes. More and more Hester would turn to him with some new idea and seek his opinion. More and more when she left at the end of the day, she would take a moment to find him and thank him again for loaning them the space. And more and more as he watched her pedal off, he felt the need to call her back, keep her close.

“You're not making this easy on the kid,” Margery observed when John came back inside. She had taken to calling Peter York “the kid,” and the way she said it John understood that it was not a compliment.

“He stands to make a boatload of money,” John replied. “Making that kind of money shouldn't come easy.” He picked up a dish towel and started to dry some of the marmalade jars that she'd been washing.

Margery grinned. “Some would say you're starting to have second thoughts about selling this place.”

“And some would be wrong.”

“You planning to stay around here after the sale?”

“I'll probably head back to Indiana.”

To his surprise Margery burst out laughing. “And do what? Go back with your tail between your legs to those folks that shunned you? That's not you, John. Amish or not, that is not who you are, and that place is no longer your home.”

“If I stayed I'd have to find work.” He hadn't allowed himself to think about staying. It was what he wanted, but he hadn't seen any option other than to go back to Indiana.

“I'll hire you,” she said.

John laughed. “Yeah, that'll work. I know so much about boats and running fishing charters, and I'm such a people person.”

“You're improving on that last score, and the rest can be learned, but you've got a point.” She put her wrinkled hand on his. “It's a serious offer, John. Give it some thought, and if not, then something's bound to turn up.” And then she turned her attention to one of the homeless women standing just inside the door smoking a cigarette. “Get that poison out of this kitchen,” she barked and shooed the woman out the door and followed her down the porch steps, passing Hester along the way.

“Hi,” she said, wiping her brow with the back of her hand. “How are things going in here?”

“Coming along,” John said.

“Do you have time for a walk?” she asked.

“Sure.” He folded the towel and followed her outside.

Down near the pier they could see Peter York gesturing and pointing out something that had the businessmen looking anywhere but up to the house and yard, where John had to admit the scene was not exactly enticing to a prospective buyer. Zeke lounged under a tree, strumming his guitar, his long hair falling over his face. Nearby two men dressed in cast-off and out-of-season clothing unloaded baskets filled with oranges and set them on the conveyer belt that carried them into the packinghouse. Rosalyn in her traditional Mennonite garb and the toothless woman and her friend carried empty baskets out of the packinghouse and stacked them in the back of Samuel's beat-up camper.

“Not exactly good advertising for this place,” Hester said.

John shrugged. “They aren't buying the people, or the buildings for that matter. What those guys want is the land and the location.”

“Still, we're not doing you any favors here. Maybe if you know someone is coming to look at the place, we could shut down for that time period.”

“And what? Hide in the attic?”

She smiled and ducked her head. “I was thinking more that we simply wouldn't come out to work that day. I mean, you know in advance, right?”

John shrugged. “Most of the time, not always. It's going to be fine, Hester.” He cast about for a change in topic. “Did you get those ferns planted?”

“Not yet,” she admitted. “I actually don't think there's much hope for them. I'm really sorry.”

He shrugged. “As long as you kept them in water and shade, they should be fine. Besides, I have plenty more. How about I come over tonight after we close things down here and we get them in the ground?”

“Come for supper,” she said. “I'll invite Rosalyn and Samuel.”

He took her hand. “Does it always have to be a group, Hester?”

She looked up at him but did not pull away. “No, but if you are asking for a date, John Steiner, then ask.”

“Okay. I'd like to come by and help you plant those ferns, and after that I thought maybe we could go for ice cream, chocolate.”

She ducked her head, surprised that he had called her bluff. “Now you're talking my language,” she murmured.

Hester felt like a silly teenager the way she was worrying over her hair and touching her cheeks and lips and wondering if John might kiss her again.
Grow up
, she silently chastised herself. She should be grateful that God had seen fit to let them become friends. Who would have thought that might ever happen given the way they had met?

But when she'd challenged him to call the evening a date, he hadn't backed down. Of course, he never backed down when challenged. She sighed. That was his way, and his way was going to make it impossible for him to sell his property if she didn't do something. After all, using his packinghouse had always been intended as a temporary fix so that they could get the project up and running. But it had worked out so well and John had been so accommodating that little thought had been given to finding a more permanent solution.

“Well, that will stop right here and now,” she murmured as she gave her hair a final pat and went to her father's study to use the telephone.

“Jeannie?” she said when her friend answered. “Sorry to bother you, but I was thinking that we really need to be looking for another place to sort and store the fruit. I remembered that you had said Zeke's brother, Malcolm, showed an interest in the project. Do you think he might know of a space we could use?”

“But John's place is so perfect,” Jeannie protested. “The season is upon us, and we have to act or wait until next year.”

Hester told her about the realtor's visit that day. “When those men got back in their cars, it was clear that they had lost interest. They looked like they couldn't wait to get away. Like it or not, Jeannie, we are hurting John's chances.”

Jeannie sighed. “I know. Okay, here's the number for Malcolm's office.”

“Thanks,” Hester said, jotting down the information. As she hung up the phone, she heard John coming up the front path. He was whistling and sounded like he didn't have a care in the world. Somehow that made Hester think that things might just work out after all—for everyone—and she closed her eyes in a silent prayer of thanksgiving before going out to meet him.

To her surprise he had arrived on a bicycle. He leaned it against the fence and made his way to her. “Ever tasted gelato?” he asked.

“No.”

“Me neither, but I hear it's something pretty special, and I thought we might celebrate the restoration of the garden by taking a ride to town. There are a couple of places on Main Street that sell it.”

“Where did you get the bike?”

“Zeke brought it by this afternoon.” He picked up one of the buckets of ferns. “So where do you want these?”

They worked together in an easy silence until all the ferns had been planted and watered and he had helped her place the orchids so that they received the proper light and showed off their beauty to perfection. “My mom used to say she had a black thumb,” John told her. “Couldn't grow a thing.”

“But you lived on a farm. Surely she had a kitchen garden.”

“She did. My dad planted it for her and tended it until he died; then I took over.”

“My mom could get anything to flourish,” Hester said. “She used to have a little herb garden out back and her orchids, of course. We'd hear her out there in the yard talking to them.” She took on the singsong cadence of her mother's voice. “Now, look at you hiding there. Come on out here where you can get some sunshine, baby.” She chuckled at the memory.

“You do know that you were doing the same thing when you were placing that last orchid,” he said.

“I wasn't,” she protested, but she saw in his smile that she had been talking to the plant.

“You like to keep that soft side of yourself hidden, don't you? Why is that?”

“I don't know what you mean. “She felt a familiar defensiveness tighten her throat.

“Yes, you do,” he said, stopping to lean on the shovel and meet her eyes directly. “When you think no one's looking, you let go a little. Like that day when the creek flooded and we got everybody to the church. I saw you with the children and your grandmother's neighbors. And out at my place when you're working with the volunteers from the homeless community, there's a kind of tenderness to you that doesn't always come out.”

She stiffened. “Well, I'm sorry to disappoint you.”

John sighed and set the shovel aside. “I'm trying to pay you a compliment, Hester. I guess I've been living like a hermit for too long, but I'm trying to tell you that when I see you in situations like that, like this, I realize why I can't seem to stay away from you.” He held out his arms to her.

Silenced by the feeling of joy that seemed sure to overwhelm her, she walked into his open arms and rested her cheek against his chest. And for the first time in a very long time, she felt as if she had found the safe harbor that she had always thought she would find only in her work. “Thank you, John,” she whispered. His answer was to tighten his hold on her. Then as she lifted her face to his, she heard Agnes Crowder calling her name.