The Choice (19 page)

Esther waved away Carrie’s offer for a second cup of coffee, hurried to her buggy, and left. Carrie stood at the kitchen door for a moment.

Abel came up behind her, folding his arms across his chest as he watched Esther slap the reins to get the horse moving. “So, that’s your mother.”

“No, no,” Carrie quickly said. “That’s Emma’s mother.”

“So what happened to your mother?”

“My mother died right after Andy was born. My father moved us to Stoney Ridge to be closer to a hospital for Andy. When Dad married Esther, he took over managing her land.”

“Oh,” Abel said. “So Esther brought into the marriage her farm.”

The farm and her godly self, Carrie thought but didn’t say. Instead, she just nodded.

Abel gazed at her as if reading her thoughts. “She has a way of making clear her expectations.”

Carrie’s gaze shifted to Esther’s buggy, turning right onto the street. “Even heavenly angels would find it hard to live up to Esther Weaver’s expectations.”

That evening, Carrie tried to avoid Emma’s glare as Abel read from his Bible, but inside, she was cringing. After he finished, she hurried upstairs to check on Andy. He always kicked off his covers as he slept, so she smoothed the sheet over him. She had just changed into her nightgown when Emma knocked on the door. Carrie braced herself.

Emma came in, wringing her hands as she sat on the bed. “Carrie, Abel ought not to be reading that Bible. It ought to be in our language. You know that as well as I do. And he shouldn’t be praying like that at dinner, either. When Mother hears of this—”

“Emma, this is not Esther’s home. This is my home,” Carrie said sharply. “And it wouldn’t do you any harm to listen to Abel.” The words spilled out so fast she surprised herself with their boldness. Emma was only saying things Carrie had thought herself, just a week or so ago when Abel first arrived.

Emma’s brow wrinkled, creased with worry. She drew her lips in a tight line as she folded her arms against her chest.

“I’d rather Esther not be told about Abel’s way of Bible reading.” Emma went to the door. “It’s not our way.”

“I’m a Miller now.”

“Amish is Amish. There’s no difference.” Emma closed the door behind her.

Carrie used to believe that, but now she wasn’t so sure.

Sol had been named Pitcher of the Month for August. His image flashed up on the large screen in the stadium the day it was announced, and he was interviewed by three newspapers—one of which was the
Philadelphia Inquirer
. His baseball career was taking off, just like he had planned.

In his apartment, he kept a stack of copies of all of the newspapers that wrote about him, even though there was no one to show them to. Not yet, anyway. Soon, he hoped, when the season wrapped up, enough time would have passed that he would be able to call on Carrie. He was sure she’d have forgiven him by now and things could go back to being the way they were before. The way he had planned.

It had been over a month since Abel had come. The long hot summer had flown by fast and the end of the growing season was almost in sight. The tree branches in Carrie’s orchards were heavy with fat, ripening apples.

One afternoon in late September, threatening dark clouds raced across the sky. The wind blew so strong that Carrie took the clothes off of the line, still damp, before the rain started. As she took the last sheet down, she raised her face to the molten gray sky and felt a foreboding. This had the makings of a winter storm. The rain began as the day drew to a close. By supper, the rain had turned to stinging ice pellets.

“Good thing our neighbors got their third cutting of hay done last week,” Emma said.

“But not good for apples,” Carrie said quietly.

“What’s so bad about the rain?” Abel asked, reaching for the butter.

“There’s nothing wrong with rain, but it’s cold enough to hail,” Carrie said, more to herself than to him. “Between the wind and the hail, a lot of apples could get knocked to the ground.”

In the middle of the night, Carrie woke to hear hail bouncing off the roof. She looked out the window and couldn’t believe her eyes. The hail looked the size of Ping-Pong balls, ricocheting off the ground. “Oh God,” she whispered. “Please help.”

In the morning, the sun shone bright and cruel. Carrie dressed quickly and rushed out to the orchards. Andy heard her and followed close behind. Abel was already out there, turning in a circle, stunned. Bright red apples covered the ground like autumn leaves. Carrie picked one up. When she saw the bruise and cuts on it, she nearly cried. Most of the crop had been damaged.

Why, God?
she asked silently.
Why do you have to keep knocking
me down?

Without a word to Abel or Andy, she turned to walk back to the house.

She was almost to the barn when she heard Abel yell out, “Cider!”

Carrie stopped and turned toward him.

Abel ran up to her, holding a bruised apple, and held it out to her. “Andy said you made the best cider in the county.” He spun around. “Didn’t you say that, Andy?”

Andy nodded, not understanding what Abel meant.

Carrie looked at all of the apples on the ground. “You think we could salvage the crop by making cider?” A glimmer of hope showed in her eyes, but then faded as practicality swept in on its heels. “I only have one old cider press.”

“I can put a gasoline motor on it to speed things up.”

Carrie shook her head. “Can’t. You can’t have gasoline around food. I know that from working at Central Market.”

Abel’s brow furrowed as he scanned the farm. Then his eyes rested on the old waterwheel, attached to the barn. His face lit up. “There’s nothing wrong with using water power, is there?”

Carrie nodded slowly. “But that old waterwheel hasn’t been used in years.”

“Just the other day I took a look at it. Nothing’s broke, it just needs a little elbow grease. And thanks to last night’s storm, there’s plenty of water running in the creek. Won’t take much to get it turning. You clean out the cider press and get it ready. I’ll work on the waterwheel—a couple of belts and pulleys and we’re in business. Andy can ride Strawberry over to the Zooks’ and see if Mattie’s brothers can spare some time to get these apples picked up today.” He turned to Andy. “If you don’t mind, you might need to stay home from school today. I’m going to need a partner.”

A wide grin spread across Andy’s face.

Carrie looked around again at all of the apples. Maybe Abel was right. Maybe it could work. Why not try? She had nothing to lose. “I’ll need empty jugs.”

“Make a list. Write down everything you need and we’ll get it today.”

She looked at him, amazed and excited by the idea. “Denki, Abel.”

By noon of that day, the waterwheel slowly creaked to life, then spun as a gust of wind sent it whirling. Abel had rigged a system of belts and pulleys to turn the screws on the cider press. As pressure pounded down on the apple mash, sweet clear cider spilled out.The Zook boys, all eight of them, even their father, had arrived to help pick up the apples and load them into crates.

Carrie and Emma had washed the apples and started adding them into the press, trying to get just the right blend of flavors, as Grace Patterson rode her bicycle up the driveway. Carrie wiped off her hands with the rag and waved to her. Though they were only a few years apart, Carrie’s heart felt a motherly tug when she saw Grace. Today, Grace was dressed with a long flowing skirt and a man’s shirt rolled up at the sleeves. On her feet were combat boots. Her hair was now blond, nearly white. Watching her, Carrie thought it seemed as if Grace wasn’t quite sure who she really was, so she kept trying on a different façade until, one day, she might stumble on the one that suited her.

Grace bit her lip. “I came to ask you something.”

Carrie filled up a paper cup with the cider and handed it to Grace to sample. “So, ask.”

Grace took a sip of the cider, then her face lit up. “That is
money
! Tastes like I bit into a ripe apple.”

Carrie smiled. “It’s my father’s recipe. The storm knocked the apples down so we had to make the cider, just to save the crop. I’m surprised at how good it tastes, though. I was afraid the apples would be underripe but they seem to be plenty sweet.” She pointed to the cider press. “That old thing was made in the 1980s and still works.”

“Dang, that is old.” Grace filled up another cup of the cider. “So . . . ,” she took a sip, throwing a glance in Emma’s direction, “so my arraignment has been scheduled and I hoped . . . you . . . might be able to come to it. To talk to the judge.” She swirled the cider in the cup and watched the bubbles form on top.

“I’ll be there, Grace,” Carrie said without hesitation. “I’ve already written a letter.”

Grace’s eyes flew up to hers. “Thank you so much,” she said, almost a whisper. She drank down the cider and looked around at the filled jugs as Abel and Andy pulled up in a wagon. “Won’t the cider go bad without refrigeration?” she asked Carrie. “Unless you’re making hard cider. A kid in my biology class did that. Took about two weeks to ferment.” Her forehead furrowed. “Then he came to school drunk and got suspended.”

“The devil’s brew?” Emma gasped. “Mother would never approve.” Carrie stopped suddenly and looked at Abel, who looked just as surprised. “Oh no!”

Abel blew the air out of his chest in a great gust. “No, we’re not trying to make hard cider.” He rubbed his chin. “Maybe we could keep the jugs cold in the creek.”

“You could probably stick them in the freezers at Honor Mansion. The kitchen is empty.” Grace swallowed the last drop. “I’ll ask Veronica.”

“That’s a great idea,” Abel said. “Better even to freeze it than to keep it refrigerated.”

Grace crinkled up the cup and handed it to Carrie. In a low whisper she added, “Better still, get Abel to ask Veronica. She won’t say no to anything he asks. She’s got the hots for him.”

Overhearing, Abel looked alarmed. Grace waved and hopped on her bicycle to head back to work.

“Come on, Abel,” Andy said, hopping back up on the wagon after drinking a cup of cider. “I’ll go with you to ask that fancy red-haired lady with the short skirts.” He glanced at his sister. “I meant, the fancy lady with the red car.”

Carrie frowned at Andy. He was worrying her a little.

By the time they returned, given permission by Veronica to use the freezers, Carrie’s cider mill was in production. Mattie had offered to sell the cider at Central Market, where her family had a market stand.

“Maybe Esther would let Emma sell it too,” she told Carrie. “I’ve seen her there, working with Emma at the farm stand now and then.”

Emma had been working for Esther at Central Market every other day as the crops finished up their summer bounty.

“Maybe so,” Carrie said, but she doubted Esther would agree.

Carrie, Emma, Abel, and Andy pressed cider over the next few days. The Zooks loaned their cider press too, so they were able to double the output, and the weather stayed cold so the apples weren’t going soft. Word spread among the neighbors that Carrie’s cider was even better this year than last, and they stopped by the farm throughout the week to buy a jug or two.