Winter of Wishes (5 page)

“You’re lookin’ perky in that aqua sweater, honey-bug,” she remarked as she bussed
Rebecca’s cheek. “And I’m hearin’ from a lot of folks out there that they found us
on their computers, thanks to your website.”

Rebecca grabbed an apron from the pegs on the back wall. “Looks like you could use
another set of hands. Is Rhoda okay?”

“Oh, bless your heart,” Miriam murmured. “Rhoda’s startin’ a caretaker job for a fella
over by New Haven. Sure seems excited about it, too.”

“Seriously?” Rebecca gaped. “So with Rachel gone on weekends, and Hannah just starting
out—”

“We’re feelin’ a little pinched,
jah
,” Naomi chimed in. She poured the egg-and-milk mixture over the sausage, bread, and
cheese she’d arranged in a big steam-table pan. “My Hannah’s hoppin’ around like a
scared rabbit, not used to this kind of bustle yet. We’ll be findin’ another girl
or two to help us out front, soon as we can.”

Rebecca slipped an order pad into her apron pocket. “Where can I sign on? I don’t
have classes on Fridays or Saturdays this semester, and I graduate next month.”

Miriam nearly dropped the tray of sticky buns she was carrying to the glass bakery
case out front. “Oh, but I couldn’t expect ya to quit what you’re doin’ and—”

“We couldn’t pay ya what you’d make for your computer jobs, either,” Naomi said with
the same concern in her voice.

Rebecca hooked her arms around both their shoulders. “Just feed me some of your wonderful
food.” She kissed Miriam’s cheek with loud enthusiasm. “You’re my mamma, and I’m so
glad I found you. I couldn’t possibly work for pay.”

When Rebecca scurried out to the dining room, Miriam exchanged a startled but ecstatic
look with Naomi. “Now what do ya think about that? Seems God’s answerin’ prayers mighty
quick today, ain’t so?”

Andy sat at the kitchen table watching a miracle: his kids were eating breakfast!
Together, and without squabbling. The twinkle in Rhoda’s eyes when she had lured them
to sit down should’ve been his first clue that this young woman did indeed know how
to handle children.

“It’s Special Saturday,” she announced as she stirred up a bowl of batter. The bacon
was already arranged on a plate, which was the only invitation Andy needed to take
his place. As though Rhoda sensed his son was the pickier eater, she wore a secretive
smile as she poured batter onto the griddle.

“It’s a B!” Brett exclaimed when she flipped the first pancake onto his plate. “And
it’s for me!”

“And here comes a T for your sister,” Rhoda replied. “Seems to be an A on the griddle,
too—but let’s don’t start eatin’ until we’ve had a word with the Lord. Since ya got
served first, will ya say our grace, Brett?”

Guilt flickered in Andy’s chest. Years had passed since they had blessed their food.
And why was that?

But he couldn’t blame everything on his ex. The sound of his son’s voice repeating
the grace he himself had said as a child made him vow to do better in the God department.

After the quick
amen
, both small hands grabbed for the syrup bottle, but Brett withdrew his. “After you,
Taylor the Toad,” he said in a debonair voice.

His sister’s eyes widened as they did when she was ready to protest her brother’s
teasing, but then she demurely removed the bottle’s cap. “Why, thank you, Brett the
Baboon,” she replied in a honeyed falsetto. “How very kind of you to wait.”

Andy glanced down the table. Rhoda was smiling—and smearing peanut butter on her pancake,
followed by some of the apple butter she’d brought from home. “May I please have the
peanut butter when Rhoda’s finished with it?” he asked.

Taylor poked a large bite of pancake into her mouth. “Who ever heard of peanut butter
and jelly on pancakes? And you’re gonna eat that, too, Dad?”

“Never hurts to try new things,” he replied. “Adds some protein and fruit, instead
of pouring on straight sugar. Is that the Amish way to eat pancakes, Rhoda?”

“It’s the way I eat them,” she said as she passed him the apple butter. “But then,
my sister Rachel has always made fun of me for doing it, too.”

One bite made a believer of him. The peanut butter added a richness, wonderfully complemented
by apple butter that was darker and spicier than any he’d ever tasted. “Maybe we could
entice Mom to the table for this—but don’t wait on us,” he added. He plucked a strip
of bacon from the platter as he rose from his chair. “Might take her a while to come
out if she’s still asleep.”

Andy realized he was feeling more lighthearted than he had in a long, long time. No
dull ache hovering behind his eyes. No knots in his stomach from juggling work and
classes and fussy kids and an ailing mom. As he opened the downstairs bedroom door,
another pleasant surprise awaited him, too: his mother sat in the chair beside her
bed, putting on her slipper socks. Her hair looked like a gray haystack caught in
a windstorm, but she’d gotten up without his nagging at her about eating regular meals.

She glanced at him. “Bacon?” she asked in a hopeful voice.

“It’s the real deal, Mom,” Andy replied as he stepped in to help her. “Rhoda’s making
pancakes. She’s already got the kids eating out of her hand, too.”

A clipped laugh escaped her. “Sounds . . . messy.”

His brow furrowed—and then he got it! His mother had caught the old play on words
and she’d played back. Andy slipped an arm around her as she started up out of her
chair. “Actually, Rhoda straightened the kitchen and wiped down all the surfaces before
she started to cook.
Messy
might be something that disappears from this house now. Can you imagine that?”

“Nope. Too hungry.”

Andy’s eyes widened. Here was yet another minor miracle: his mom wanted to eat! Was
it wishful thinking, or was she walking a little faster, with more confidence, as
they headed toward the kitchen?

“Gram, look! Alphabet pancakes!” Taylor crowed as they approached the table. “I got
a T and then an L, for my initials!”

“I got a B and B, for Brett the Baboon!” his son chimed in. He was spreading peanut
butter on his pancake, and he had fetched the grape jelly from the fridge.

“
My
pancake!” Andy’s mother teased, pointing a wrinkled finger at Brett’s plate.

“B is for Betty.” Taylor glanced toward Rhoda, who was already pouring more pancakes.
“But I don’t think Brett’s gonna share this one, Gram.”

Andy took his seat again, content to watch this peaceful scene . . . letting the anger
that had once filled this room fade from his memory, along with the vicious words
his wife had hurled at him before she walked out. Megan had been a reluctant cook,
at best. He could have tolerated her lack of culinary interest had she been more patient
with the kids. More honest with him.

As Rhoda approached him with more pancakes on a plate, Andy let go of the rancor such
memories called up. How could he remain bitter when a kindhearted young woman was
flipping an A and an L onto his plate, and a fancy cursive B onto his mother’s?

His mom chortled with delight. And wasn’t it the most wonderful thing, that her interest
in everyday living had returned—at least for this meal?

“Thank you so much, Rhoda,” he murmured as he watched his son jam another bite of
pancake into his mouth. Even the smears of tan and purple around Brett’s mouth seemed
something to be thankful for—not to mention the way Taylor carried the bacon platter
to her grandmother.

“You’re quite welcome,” Rhoda replied.

And weren’t the simplest exchanges, the quiet niceties, fulfilling in themselves?

 

 

Why was making someone else’s beds and cleaning someone else’s bathrooms more fun
than doing those same chores at home? Rhoda put the final load of clothes in the dryer,
marveling at how quickly laundry got done when she didn’t have to run the clothes
through the wringer and hang them on hangers or a clothesline—and then fetch them
inside, frozen stiff. Although it hadn’t taken but a moment for Andy to explain the
controls on the electric washer and dryer, she reminded herself not to wish for such
luxuries at home. She peeked into the room where the computers were, gratified to
see Taylor dusting while her brother organized their games and something they called
DVDs in the hutch where the children’s computer sat.

“Rhoda, shall we talk for a moment? It’s almost four o’clock and I need to pay you.”
Andy stood in the kitchen doorway, waiting for her.

“Where has the day gone? I’ll start your dinner while we talk, if that’s all right.”

“All right?” he teased. “That’s just the latest of the wonderful ideas you’ve had
since you set foot in my home.”

Rhoda glowed from the many compliments he’d paid her today. “Well, I won’t be here
tomorrow, ya know. Sundays are for spendin’ time with the Lord and your family, even
when there’s no preachin’ service.”

Andy’s eyes widened. “You don’t go to church every Sunday?”

She shook her head as she chopped an onion over the hamburger she was browning in
a large skillet. “Services’ll be held at our house tomorrow, so we’ve been reddin’
up the rooms and cookin’ for the common meal that follows the preachin’. Might have
a hundred-fifty folks there, so it takes a little gettin’ ready.”

“How on earth do you fit so many people into your home? And how do you feed them all?”

While his questions sounded incredulous, Rhoda sensed Andy Leitner was sincerely interested
in her day-to-day life. “When Amish folks build a home, a lot of the downstairs rooms
have partition walls that come down,” she explained. “That way, we can fit in all
the pew benches and the tables where everybody eats afterwards. And believe me, after
about three hours of church, sittin’ on those hard wooden benches and kneelin’ on
the floor now and again, we’re ready for movin’ around while we set out the food!”

He was leaning against the counter, watching her stir the sizzling hamburger as he
considered the Sunday morning ritual that had been a part of her life forever. “Three
hours?” he murmured. “So where are the kids all that time? They surely don’t sit through—”

“Oh,
jah
, they do,” she said. “We’re raised up to be quiet and prayerful during church, nappin’
on our
mamm
’s or
dat
’s lap when we’re wee little. As we get older, we listen to the preachin’. Or at least
we figure out how to sit so folks
think
we’re payin’ attention!”

Andy’s laughter filled the kitchen. “Your sense of humor surprises me, Rhoda. Most
of us non-Amish people associate your plain, dark clothing with a stern personality.”

Rhoda enjoyed the light that shone in his deep brown eyes. “We’ve got ya fooled, Andy.
We Amish are really very happy people, for we find joy in every little task. And we
work together instead of tryin’ to do everything by ourselves.”

His expression softened then. “Now there’s a worthwhile idea,” he reflected. Then
he watched as she placed the cooked hamburger into a soup pot that already held chunks
of cooked carrots and potatoes. “When did you find time to prepare this food, Rhoda?
And how did you figure out what to make for us?”

She shrugged. “It’s no different from goin’ to the fridge in the Sweet Seasons of
a morning, seein’ what we’ve got on hand or what we need to use up,” she remarked.
“Ya had the meat in your freezer and the veggies handy, and a big can of tomato juice.
Should be enough soup here for your supper tonight and another meal tomorrow, I’m
thinkin’. I’ll leave it simmerin’ real low, so don’t forget about it!”

His sigh made her look up. While it wasn’t her place to speculate about Andy Leitner
or his personal life . . . those had made for interesting topics to ponder while she’d
been cleaning. He pulled his wallet from the hip pocket of his well-worn jeans.

“Would it be feasible for you to work weekday afternoons, so you’ll be here when Taylor
and Brett get home from school?” he asked. “Mom needs a nap by then. I’d feel a lot
better if you were here to keep the kids from killing each other—or so my son won’t
blow up the kitchen with experiments from his favorite science kit.”

“
Jah
, that’s perfect! I can help Mamma at the café mornings, and come here to redd up
and make sure you’ve got meals in the fridge that just need warmin’.”

Once again Andy’s expression told her of his relief and gratitude. “Rhoda, you’re
a godsend,” he murmured. “You have no idea how you’ve lightened my load—not to mention
how you’ve gotten my kids to cooperate. And you’ve made my mother smile.”

When had anyone ever complimented her so profusely? While Rhoda knew better than to
expect such praise for doing everyday tasks, she couldn’t look away from Andy’s earnest
expression. He was an attractive man, head and shoulders taller than she, with thick
brown hair trimmed well above his collar. He was seeking care for his ailing mother
and trying to raise his children right, while completing his nursing degree. What
a hardworking, honorable fellow he was . . . so why would any woman leave him?

None of your beeswax. Nor should ya think about keepin’ him company
.

And where had
that
thought come from? Rhoda focused on the soup she was stirring. He would be at the
hospital most of the time she was here with his family, after all. That was for the
best, because Hiram Knepp would be asking about this new job, deciding if it was proper
work for her to do as a young, unmarried woman.

As Rhoda accepted the money Andy handed her, she let out a gasp. “Oh, my stars, this
can’t be right! I only—”

“Is that not enough?” He reached into his wallet again. “You were here eight hours
today, and with minimum wage being more than seven dollars, I haven’t even paid you—”

“Stop!” Rhoda pressed his hand down to keep the rest of his money in his wallet. “Fifty
dollars is more than I’ve ever earned for—well, I’m
ferhoodled
at the thought you’d pay me this much!”

He relaxed. Smiled at her until little crinkles framed his chocolate-colored eyes.
“There’s that interesting word again,” he said quietly. “Crazy mixed-up, are you?
Well, to me you seem like a very sensible, industrious young woman, Rhoda. You earned
every bit of this money today, what with helping Mom shower and style her hair, and
getting the kids to eat and clean up their rooms, and—well, I stand in awe. Truly
I do.”

Rhoda’s cheeks prickled and she looked away. “You’re too kind, sayin’ such things.”

“I meant every word.” He placed the money on the countertop . . . maybe so he wouldn’t
touch her again?

Does Andy feel little jolts through his system, too, when ya touch him? Or are ya
bein’ silly, gettin’ a crush on this fella because he’s so different from the Amish
boys you’ve known all your life?
If she was to continue working for Andy Leitner, she would have to keep closer watch
on her feelings—and her imagination. “I’ll call my ride now, if I may use your phone,
please.”

“Whatever’s in my home is yours to use, Rhoda. Shall we set your hours at two o’clock
until around seven, when I’ll be home from my shift at the hospital?”

“
Jah
, that’ll work just fine.”