“We will talk about this, Liddy,” he said. “I think I deserve an explanation.”
She almost broke her silence at that. He deserved an explanation? This man who had promised to write, had promised to come back to her? This man from whom she had heard nothing for eight long years? This man whose memory had so dogged her through the years that he had made it impossible for her even to consider accepting the attention of any other man in his stead?
She kept her eyes on the sandy lane before her and concentrated on covering the ground between the barn and the house as quickly as possible without spilling the milk. But the path was narrow and he was walking far too closely. Their arms were in real danger of brushing if she wasn’t careful. She had to do something before they came into Hilda Yoder’s view. Surely at this hour the wife of the dry-goods store owner would be at her usual post by the shop window watching the goings-on in town.
John said nothing more as he continued to keep pace with her. In truth he seemed to be unaware of the awkward situation. Not knowing what else to do, she broke into a run, not caring whether the milk sloshed over the sides of her pail. To her relief he made no attempt to follow her. He just stood where she’d left him on the path watching her go. “See you tomorrow at services, then,” he called after her. “And after I’ve been forgiven and reinstated you’ll be free to speak with me. I expect to have your explanation, Liddy.”
Her explanation? She ran up the steps to her back door and hurried inside.
Safe in her kitchen with the door tightly closed, she scanned the lane that led to town and the parts of Celery Fields’ main street that she could see from her window. She cringed at the idea that anyone might have heard him call out to her. Her breathing was coming in gasps as if she’d run a good distance instead of a mere few feet, and she found it necessary to sit down for a moment.
It was not exertion that caused her breath to suddenly be in short supply. It was John—being close to him like that, remembering all the times they had walked together, and facing the reality that he was back in Celery Fields and gave every appearance of intending to stay.
She moaned as she buried her face in her hands.
After a moment she sat up straight and forced her breathing to calm. She would do what she always did when faced with a challenge. She would set boundaries for herself, and for John Amman, as well. They were no longer children. He would simply have to accept that she had certain duties as a member of the community—
duties that did not include answering to him.
With her confidence restored, she stood, smoothed the skirt of her dress and put the milk in a glass pitcher before storing it in the icebox. Then she took a deep breath as if preparing to dive into the sea and set forth once again, this time to do her part to clean and refurbish the place next door where John Amman had taken up residence as her neighbor.
* * *
John knew he should not have called out after Lydia ran from him. Even as a girl she had hated anything that drew attention to her. For that matter the entire encounter could have caused her grave discomfort if anyone had seen or heard. “Not exactly the best way to worm your way back into her good graces,” he muttered as he headed for the hardware store.
On the other hand, why should he be the one trying to win her favor? Wasn’t she the one who had said she would wait and then shunned him as had everyone else? He’d written to assure her that he had every intention of returning once he’d made enough money to set up a business of his own. She had always understood his aversion to farming. She had even been the one to encourage him to start some sort of shop and they would live above it and she would help out on Saturdays and after school. But when he’d explained to her that it would take money to start a business and his father would never accept the idea that John would not one day take over the family farm, she’d insisted that God would provide.
He knew what she meant. In her mind if owning his own business were God’s plan for his life then the opportunity would simply present itself. “You just have to be patient—and vigilant for God’s signs,” she had instructed.
But patience had never been one of John’s attributes. When he reached the age of eighteen with no sign from God, he decided to seek out other possibilities. After all, hadn’t Bishop Troyer taught them that God helps those who help themselves?
“And where did that get you?” he grumbled as he put on the denim apron his aunt had left for him and began sweeping the loading dock behind the hardware store. He brushed the accumulated debris into a dustpan and dumped it in the bin next to the loading dock. Then he set the broom and dustpan inside the door and rubbed his hands together as he moved to a place where he could better listen in on his uncle and Luke Starns as they sat outside Luke’s shop. With no one allowed to converse with him, this was his only recourse for gathering information.
“Warmer today,” Roger said. “After the last spell of frosty mornings I thought we might be in for a stretch of cold weather.”
“Good for the crops that it’s passed,” replied the blacksmith, who was sipping a cup of coffee. He was a quiet man, as John had observed earlier that morning when the blacksmith handed Gertrude a box of kitchen items that Greta had gathered from her own supply to place in the rooms above his business. The idea of this silent giant of a man married to the vibrant and petite Greta made John smile.
A few minutes passed while the men discussed weather and crops and business. Then Bishop Troyer crossed the street from the dry-goods store and joined them.
“Bishop Troyer,” Roger said as he stood and offered the head of their congregation his chair. “Did you speak yet with John Amman?”
“Yah. We have spoken already twice. I am convinced that he has learned the error of his ways and come home to make amends,” the bishop replied. “Everything seems to be in order for tomorrow’s service.”
“Then I can have him working the counter come Monday.” This was not a question but something John realized his uncle had been dreading.
“Should bring you a bunch of business,” Luke said with a chuckle. “Folks will want to get a look at him after all this time. They’ll be curious about where he’s been and all.”
“They can look all they want at services. On Monday I need him to be working, although I’m not sure how we’re going to have enough business to support the three of us.”
“I seem to recall that this entire matter had its beginning in John wanting to start a business of his own,” Bishop Troyer said.
Roger let out a mirthless laugh. “With what? He has nothing. Gert had to buy him the clothes he’s wearing now and he owes a debt of gratitude to Luke here that he has a place to stay.”
“Still, he must have a skill if the plan was to open his own shop.”
“He’s a tolerable woodworker,” Roger allowed. “Clocks and furniture mostly. He built that cabinet where Gert keeps her quilting fabrics. And the clock we have in the store—that’s his work.”
John saw the bishop exchange a look with Luke. “I reckon Josef Bontrager took up that business in John’s absence,” Luke observed.
Roger stared out at the street. “You’ve got a point there. Not much call for handmade furniture these days.”
Was it John’s imagination or had his uncle raised his voice as if to make sure John heard this
