The Beekeeper's Son (The Amish of Bee County Book 1) (9 page)

Deborah, on the other hand, showed all the signs of missing someone special. She hadn’t said anything since the move, but the moping around and the surliness spoke volumes. Idle talk around the quilting frame back in Tennessee had suggested her daughter had been passing time with Aaron Gringrich for more than a bit, but Deborah had said nothing. How would she feel about a man like Phineas, scarred for life, not only physically, but on the inside?

Her daughters were not shallow. They understood that physical beauty meant nothing. Only the heart counted. Phineas’s heart and soul seemed damaged, but there was no damage that couldn’t be mended by God Himself. Her bishop back home had told her that after Timothy’s death. She tried to live every day
as if it were true. Only God’s touch could mend her own broken heart, it seemed. She was blessed a man such as Stephen would want her as his fraa.

Blessed.

She sighed as the screen door slammed and Mordecai’s broad back disappeared. Only then did she let herself feel that slight, but still ugly, pinch of jealousy. Mordecai hadn’t come to sweeten her up with honey. He’d come for her daughters.

Eve had nothing to worry about on Stephen’s behalf. Abigail had best get used to seeing herself as spoken for. Everyone else did.

NINE

Deborah put out her hand. She could see the writing on the envelope Onkel John held, the curious look on his face—so like her mother’s in the blue eyes and high cheekbones—telling her he wanted to know who Aaron Gringrich was and why he would send a letter to his niece. John’s expression said he didn’t like her getting a letter from a man. John wasn’t her father, but he was the head of the house where she now lived.

She didn’t need disciplining. Getting a letter from a friend didn’t violate any Ordnung rule as far as she knew. But then, she didn’t really know what the rules were in this district. Only the ones back home.

John snatched the letter from her reach. “Does Abigail know of these letters?”

“Jah.” Deborah struggled to keep her tone respectful. “She knows I’ve written to Aaron. We’re friends.”

John grunted and slapped the letter onto her palm with a sharp crack. “I’ll mention it to her as well.”

Deborah had nothing to hide. She slid her arms behind her, clasping the letter in both hands. Not to hide it, but because
it was private. Between Aaron and her. Finally. His first letter despite the fact that she’d written him four times already. “I better get back to the garden.” She edged toward the door. “Danki for the letter.”

“Didn’t do nothing but fetch it from the mailbox.” Onkel John frowned as he thumbed through the stack of mail in his hands. He dropped leaflets and flyers and a tool catalog on the scarred oak end table that served as a desk of sorts. “Don’t think I haven’t noticed you moping around the house. It doesn’t do your mudder any good. She’s got a hard row to hoe without her kinner looking like their horse just died.”

The words stung worse than a slap. Deborah swallowed a heated retort. “I know.”

“You got a roof over your head and food in your belly. You might try appreciating that. Know that Gott has a plan for you and it’s prideful of you to question it.” His long nose wrinkled as if he smelled something rancid. “Your mudder is trying her best to do right by you and your bruder and schweschders.”

“I know and I count my blessings.”

“Don’t look that way.”

“I’m . . . homesick, that’s all.”

“Best get over it.”

If only it were that simple.

Onkel John cocked one long finger at her. “You’d do better to stop mooning over some boy you most likely won’t see again and start settling in here. We got some good young men who need fraas. We need new blood, more kinner, to keep this district going and make it stronger.”

Deborah managed a nod.

John stared at her a second longer, his mouth pursed in a
frown that made him look like her mudder when Deborah burned the beans. “And don’t you be filling my girls’ heads up with stuff and nonsense about how great it is in Tennessee. Ain’t no better than it is here.”

Deborah nodded a second time, afraid if she opened her mouth to speak, she’d blurt out all the words whirling in her head. It
was
better there. Greener. Prettier. Cooler. The colors were brighter and the air fresher and cleaner. Flowers bloomed in purple and pink and orange and yellow. A riot of colors that made her heart squeeze for the sheer joy of it. Here the drabness weighted her down like a heavy, thick, humid fog until she could barely pick up her feet and move. She wanted to settle in a corner and turn into a big lump of clay.

She didn’t care what Onkel John thought. She would go home. She would see Aaron again. She would wrap herself in the beauty of a day in Tennessee. Maybe in the fall when the leaves turned orange and red and yellow and the breeze held a hint of winter. They’d have a fire in the fireplace and make fried pies and tell stories.

Soon.

“Ain’t you got work to do?” John’s frown had deepened. He jerked his head. “Standing there daydreaming won’t get the cucumbers and squash picked or the tomatoes and beets canned.”

“I came in to get the water jug.”

“Tell Eve I’m headed into town to buy lumber.”

Deborah wanted to know what the lumber was for, but she didn’t ask. Maybe they would build an addition to this house and she’d be able to breathe again. Maybe Frannie was wrong about them moving. Maybe they were expanding this house. It looked like Eve might be expecting again. ’Course, no one had said that
and no one would. No need to speak of those things. Only to make more room in a house already full to the rafters.

Deborah waited until John stomped through the front room and disappeared out the door, letting the screen door slam behind him. She slid into the hickory rocking chair and turned the envelope over in her hands. Aaron’s familiar block print was so neat and tidy, just like him. She wanted to rip open the envelope; yet she waited, savoring the moment.

Lifting it to her face, she inhaled, imagining she could smell the mouthwatering aroma of Elizabeth Gringrich’s cinnamon rolls. Knowing Aaron, he’d written this letter sitting at the kitchen table after everyone turned in the for the night, the pole lamp casting shadows around him, a cinnamon roll on a plate in front of him next to a tall glass of tea. He’d waited until everyone had been asleep and then picked up his pencil and paper to write to her.

Slowly, savoring the moment, her heart fluttering in her chest and her breathing light and fast, she opened the envelope, taking care not to tear it.

Deborah,

I hope things are going better for you now that you’ve had a few weeks to get used to your new home. It sounds different. I would like to see the armadillo. I wouldn’t mind tasting some of that wild grape jelly. Especially if you made your rolls and some peanut butter and marshmallow cream to go with it. I’m writing now to tell you my news. You know my family moved to Carroll County from Ohio many years ago, but I don’t think I told you most of Mudder’s family still lives there. My Aenti Ruth’s husband died a few months ago and she needs help on her farm. Daed has asked me to go work her fields for her
and take care of the livestock, her sons all being married and moved to Missouri with their families now.

I leave on the bus tomorrow. I don’t know when I’ll be back. Truth be told, I’m excited at this new road. It’s a lot of responsibility to take care of Aenti Ruth’s farm. One I would not get here, as Daed will not retire to the
dawdi haus
for many years. And by then I’ll be expected to have made my own way. The farm will go to my youngest brother in the end. I think it will be an adventure, living in a new place up north and meeting new people.

Deborah wiped at her face. The words wavered in front of her. Her big plan shattered like a pitcher of lemonade and fell to pieces at her feet. What was Aaron trying to tell her? She’d promised him she would be back. He’d said he would wait for her. They would finish what they’d started. Neither had spoken of marriage, but they’d been walking the road that would take them in that direction. They’d been through baptism together. How could he change his mind so quickly? Surely that wasn’t what he meant to say. She forced herself to focus on the words, to find his true meaning.

Anyway, I wanted you to know. I’m adding Aenti Ruth’s address in Sugarcreek at the bottom in case you get a hankering to write. I will be busy, though, so don’t be surprised if I don’t write much. Ruth has two hundred acres and pigs and chickens and goats and a dozen horses. I’ll be up to my ears.

I imagine plenty of men there in Bee County already have their gazes on you. It hurts my heart to think of it, but I know it wouldn’t be fair to make you wait. Being apart is too hard. Especially when others might do just as well. I don’t know what
God’s plan is for us, only that He has one for you and one for me. I don’t know if our paths are intended to cross again. It’s hard for a simple man like me to understand. So I’m going to Ohio, and I figure whatever happens, happens. I know it’s hard. It’s not what we wanted, but I figure it’ll be a bit of adventure too. You’re having your adventure in Texas, I’ll have mine up north.

Take care.
Aaron

Take care? Whatever happens, happens? A simple man, indeed. Deborah let the letter drop into her lap. To her surprise a wet spot appeared at the top, a blotch of water. She wiped at her face. No sense in crying over spilled milk. That was what Daed would say. She sniffed, stuffed the letter back into the envelope, and smoothed down the flap.

Swallowing the hard knot of disappointment in her throat, she stood and marched to the room she shared with her cousins and sisters. Kneeling, she tugged a red plastic Tupperware box from under the bed and tucked the letter in with the three she’d received from Josie, much dog-eared from reading and rereading. She wouldn’t be reading Aaron’s letter again. His decision had been carved on her heart with words sharper than the knife her daed used to dress a deer. Aaron hadn’t said as much, but he didn’t think they had a chance. He made it sound as if he didn’t want to stand in the way of her happiness, when it was his that was first and foremost in his mind.

She snapped the lid back on with more force than necessary, then shoved the container back under the bed. With a weariness that almost felt like sickness, she leaned her head against the mattress and closed her eyes.

In the heavy, oppressive heat of the room, the air hung on her like a shroud. She searched for words of supplication but found none. Only a cold, dark void where once had been the little sprig of joy she’d nurtured with hope and the beginnings of love. Something she thought would blossom into love and life with Aaron.

Not likely.

So be it.

She raised her head and got to her feet.

Time to get to work. This place needed some cleaning, so she might as well use some elbow grease to get it up to her standards. They had vegetables to pick and another canning frolic to plan.

She had all the time in the world to whip this place into shape.

TEN

Deborah felt as if she were sixteen all over again, awkward, self-conscious, and stumbling about on two left feet. This wasn’t her first singing, so why did her heart pound and her palms sweat?

She took a deep breath and let it out. Frannie giggled for no apparent reason. Deborah exchanged glances with Leila and Rebekah. Her sisters rolled their eyes and shrugged. Their cousin had been giggling as they walked along the sagging fence that divided a field of cornstalks, only knee-high, from a field of milo just beginning to get heads and up the dirt road that led to Leroy’s house. Deborah hoped her cousin would stifle those giggles during the singing. It would get embarrassing to be with her otherwise, on this, their first time to a singing in Bee County.

She smoothed the clean apron she donned over her nicest blue dress. It wasn’t anything fancy, but it was the least faded. Mudder had insisted Deborah come. Said it was part of joining the community. In an odd little fit of closeness, she had straightened Deborah’s kapp and smoothed her fingers across her cheek before murmuring that the dress brought out the blue of her eyes.

Her mother always said Deborah looked the most like Daed.
The blue eyes were his, but Mudder’s were blue too, so Deborah could only imagine that Mudder wanted to see what she wanted to see. To her, Caleb was a little miniature of Daed. Even without a single photograph, she would never forget what her father looked like. She thanked God for that blessing, at least.

“What are you looking all moony-eyed over?” Frannie did a hop-skip that made her seem more like three-year-old Hazel than a seventeen-year-old who’d been going to singings for over a year now. “This is supposed to be fun.”

It would be more fun if Josie and Aaron and her other friends would be there.
Stop
it.
Aaron was in Ohio by now. Farther away than ever. “I’m not moony. I’m just . . . a little nervous, this being at Leroy’s house and all.”

Having the singing in the bishop’s house made it seem more like another prayer service than a time to get to know the other young folks in this tiny district.

“Will there be a lot of people?” Leila looked festive in her lilac dress and freshly ironed kapp. “Will Leroy and his fraa stay around the whole time? Back home we have the singings in the barn and the older folks stay up at the house. Just come down to check on us once in a while.”

“Our barns are old and messy and dirty and hot.” Frannie waved a hand, her expression airy as if this explanation made perfect sense. The idea of cleaning the barns didn’t seem to have crossed her mind. “Besides, Leroy says adult supervision will make sure we stay on a righteous path. There’re usually a couple dozen of us, depending on who can make it. Leroy and Naomi most likely will sit out in the backyard and visit with Andrew and Sadie.”

Two dozen. Back home there’d sometimes been fifty or seventy-five on a good night.

“How do you . . . I mean . . . doesn’t that make it hard . . . to . . . you know . . .?” Deborah floundered for words. Courting was private, and holding the singings right under the bishop’s nose with a handful of young people defeated the purpose. Most all of them would be in their
rumspringas.
“Do the boys and girls pair up? Do you play games?”