mean I could just tell Luke not to...”
“Greta, if John Amman has indeed come home to stay then we will need to adjust to that—all of us.”
“If you’re sure...”
“I’m sure. Now shouldn’t you be getting home? Luke will be wanting his supper.”
Greta smiled as she heaved herself out of the chair and waited a minute to catch her breath. Then she took her daughter from Lydia, called for the boys and herded them onto the porch. “I left you something for your supper,” she said as she and the children headed back toward town.
Greta had been the homemaker for Lydia and their father from the time she’d been old enough to reach the stove and counters in the kitchen. Even with her own house and brood to care for she still felt the need to make sure that Lydia was eating.
“I do know how to cook,” Lydia reminded her.
“Not well,” Greta shot back, and both sisters laughed.
Lydia stood on the porch watching Greta waddle down the path toward her own house at the end of town. As she turned to go back inside, a movement on the landing above the livery caught her eye.
John Amman was standing in the open doorway of the apartment Greta’s husband had once occupied. He was watching her and, as Lydia stared back, he raised his hand, palm out flat in the signal they had shared as teenagers.
He remembered.
* * *
By week’s end everyone in Celery Fields and the surrounding area made up of small produce farms owned by Amish families knew the story of John Amman. And as far as Lydia could see, John did not need a forgiving father on the scene to kill the fatted calf in celebration of his return. He had his aunt. Gertrude Hadwell took John in as if he were her beloved son.
Only a day after his return he was working in the hardware store as if he’d never left. Oh, to be sure, at Roger Hadwell’s insistence, John’s chores were confined to the loading area in back. That way no customers would be placed in the awkward position of having to openly shun him. But Gert made it clear that by Monday he would take his place behind the counter.
In the meantime his aunt had organized a frolic, the name given to occasions when Amish women gathered for some large work project such as cleaning someone’s home or completing a quilt top. To Lydia it seemed exactly the right word for such events. No matter how difficult the work, the women always enjoyed themselves—sharing news and rumors and laughter. This time, the cause for gathering on Saturday morning was to properly clean and furnish the rooms above the livery for John. Of course, everyone in town knew how Gert Hadwell had grieved the fact that she had never had children of her own. It was understandable that people would put their happiness for her above their concern about John’s past. Besides, John would not be on-site for the cleaning.
So on Saturday morning Liddy sat on a stool in the barn behind her house squeezing warm milk from the cow as she tried to decide her next course of action. Much as she dreaded it, Lydia could hardly refuse to join the other women. If she failed to attend the frolic the day’s chatter would no doubt focus on her at some point. She could not bear the thought of the others gossiping and recalling how she and John had once been sweethearts. The newcomers would have to be filled in on the romance that had ended when John left town. Lydia had no doubt that she would be forced to endure curious glances and abject pity when she attended services on Sunday.
No, better to do whatever seemed prudent to get through the first rush of excitement over John’s homecoming. Not much happened in Celery Fields and John’s return was, indeed, cause for excitement. It had certainly taken everyone’s mind off her own stunning break from tradition a few weeks earlier, when Lydia had decided to forego the black prayer kapp of a single woman and the habit of sitting on one of the two front benches with her nieces and the other unmarried girls. Rather, she had taken a seat in the rear of the section reserved for the married women and widows. To punctuate her action she had replaced the black kapp that she had worn since joining the church with one of white.
As she had hoped, during the service the other women had not wanted to create a stir and so had simply focused their attention on the words of the hymn and sermon. One or two had gently nudged those girls in the first two rows, who had turned to stare. Of course, once the service ended and the women gathered in the kitchen to prepare the after-services meal, there had been whispers and knowing nods until Lydia had realized she would have to say something.
“It seems plain that there is little likelihood that I shall ever marry,” she announced, drawing the immediate and rapt attention of the others. “As I grow older—having nearly reached my thirtieth year now—and having served the community and the congregation for several years since my baptism, is it too much to ask that I be allowed to sit with the women of my age?”
She had taken her time then meeting the eyes of each woman in turn. Some had looked away. Others had registered sympathy, even pity, for her plight. Hilda Yoder, wife of the owner of the dry-goods store, had chewed her lower lip for what seemed an eternity and then given Lydia’s decision her blessing.
“Makes perfect sense,” she said with the crisp efficiency with which she pronounced most of her edicts. “Now, shall we attend to the business at hand and get this food set out?”
And that had been the end of any public discussion on the matter. So at least John’s return had taken people’s attention away from that. Of course, if she didn’t go to the frolic...
Lydia would go to the frolic—and to supper at Greta’s after services on Sunday. By that time John would have contritely sought the forgiveness of the congregation and been officially welcomed home. If she could just get through the next few days, surely by the end of the coming week everything and everyone would settle back into the normal routine of life in Celery Fields. Oh, no doubt, she and John would cross paths in town or at some gathering, but in time...
“Hello, Liddy.”
Lydia had been so lost in thought that she’d been unaware of anyone coming into the barn—much less John Amman. He was dressed “plain” in clothes that were obviously new and store-bought. The pants were half an inch too short and the shirt stretched a little too tightly over his shoulders. He was clean shaven and his face was shaded by the stiff wide brim of his straw hat. His blond hair had been recently washed and trimmed in the style of other Amish men, although it was more wavy and unruly than most.
She turned her attention to the cow, determined not to allow John or any thought of him to further disrupt her plans for the day.
“Why do you wear the prayer covering of a married woman, Liddy?” He leaned against the door frame, one ankle crossed over the other. “My aunt tells me you have never married—and in her view you have little thought of ever doing so.”
Lydia bit her lip to keep from speaking. He was to be shunned at least until the congregation could hear from the bishop and take a vote to reinstate him. She squeezed the last of the milk from the cow’s udder and stood up.
John reached for the bucket of warm milk and his boldness unnerved her. Someone could be watching—people were always passing by on their way to and from town and it was Saturday, the busiest day for such traffic. If she were seen standing right next to John Amman tongues would surely wag, no matter whether she shunned him or not.
She wrestled the bucket from him and quickened her pace as she headed out into the sunlight. Surely, he would not follow her where everyone could
