months he had sold off his tools one by one or bartered them for a meal or a night’s lodging.
“Well, until something comes along he’s got work with you. The Lord has surely blessed him in having you and Gertrude still here,” the bishop said.
“Speaking of work I’d best get back to it,” Luke said as he drained the last of his coffee.
As the bishop took his leave and Roger walked slowly back to the hardware store, John stepped from the shadows of the storeroom into the sunlight that bathed the loading dock. There was work to be done—a pile of newly delivered lumber that his uncle had instructed him to sort and stack by size and type in the pole shed outside the store. But when he stepped into the yard he heard feminine laughter coming from the rooms above the livery.
He took a moment to enjoy the sight of the women moving in and out of the apartment, up and down the outside stairs carrying various items they seemed to think he might need. Then Lydia came out onto the tiny landing at the top of the stairs to shake out a rag rug.
She was laughing at something one of the other women had said, her head thrown back the way he remembered from when they’d been teenagers. And in that laughter he heard more clearly than any words could have expressed exactly why he had decided to return to Celery Fields. He had come back to find answers to the questions that had plagued him. He had come back to the only place where he knew there was a path to forgiveness and from there a safe haven to rest in while he found his way. He had come back because even eight long years had not erased the memory of this girl turned woman whose laughter had always had the power to stir his heart.
Chapter Three
When Lydia glanced up and saw John watching her from the loading dock, the laughter she’d been sharing with the other women died on her lips. How could she possibly have gotten so caught up in the pleasure of the work and companionship with the others that she had been able to forget that he was back in her life, whether she wanted it or not? That the place the women were scouring and setting to order was where John would live—was already living? How had she forgotten who would be eating off those mismatched dishes that she had washed and dried and stacked so precisely on the open shelf above the stove?
She had helped scrub the walls and floors and even made up the narrow bed that occupied one corner while engaged in the normal chatter. At events like this, women enjoyed catching up on news from families that had moved back north when the hard times hit, or the decision of the newest member of their cleaning party and her husband to move to Florida and start fresh after a tornado had destroyed the family’s farm in Iowa. And so the morning had passed without a single thought about John Amman. His presence in town was far too recent and their encounters had been rare enough that it was easy to lose herself in the work and the conversation. It was truly amazing how easily she had been able to simply dismiss the man from her mind.
But now seeing him standing in the back doorway of the hardware store, filling the space with his tall, lanky frame, she could not seem to stop the images of him living in that small apartment from coming. He would rinse the dishes she had washed for him at the sink as he looked out the small square window with its view of her house. He would hang his clothes on the pegs that she had wiped free of dust above the bed. He would sleep in that bed under a quilt that Greta had brought to add an extra layer to the one already there. It was a quilt that Lydia and Greta’s grandmother had made. A quilt that had once covered the bed Lydia and Greta shared when they were children.
She felt the heat rise to her cheeks as these images assailed her and John stepped closer to the edge of the dock, his bold gaze fixed directly on her. The other women went about their work, glancing shyly in his direction as their laughter and discussion dissolved into expectant silence. Lydia stood frozen on the steps, her fingers gripping the small rag rug until her knuckles went white. She felt as if her cheeks must be glowing like two polished red apples.
Greta stepped onto the porch landing next to her. “He’s watching you,” she whispered.
Hilda Yoder cleared her throat. “We have more work to do,” she instructed with a glance at John and then a lift of her eyebrows to Lydia. “Greta, take this mop bucket and get us some clean rinse water.”
“I’ll do it,” Lydia said firmly. Greta had no business hauling buckets of water up and down that steep staircase.
“I hardly think that...” Hilda began but then pressed her lips into a thin line and said no more.
Lydia handed the rag rug to Greta and took the bucket. She descended the stairs without looking at John, but she knew he was following her every move. Dumping the soapy water, she set the bucket aside and prepared to prime the pump until the faucet spit out fresh water. Above her she knew Hilda Yoder was watching with disapproval. She saw John leap down from the loading dock and walk slowly toward her. She could not help feeling a little like the sandpiper she’d once seen caught in a fisherman’s abandoned net at the beach.
She reached for the pump handle but John was there first, his fingers closing around the handle and brushing hers. “Let me,” he said softly. Lydia snatched her hand away as if she’d gotten too close to a hot stove. Then, not knowing what else she might do, she looked away while he primed the pump until the faucet squirted clear water into the pail.
Without a word he carried the full, heavy pail up the steps and set it on the landing careful to keep his eyes lowered so as not to give offense to any of the women Hilda had herded quickly inside. His delivery complete, he hurried back down the steps, past Lydia, who had waited in the yard, and back to the loading dock where he turned his back to them and began sorting through a lumber pile of mixed-size pieces.
“That man has been too much out in the world,” Hilda Yoder huffed as Lydia mounted the steps and all the women went back to their work.
“It may take him some time to settle back into the old ways,” Pleasant said with a glance at Gert, who was clearly embarrassed by her nephew’s action. “After all, he has been eight years in their world. Still, the important thing is that he has seen the error of his youthful decision and come home to us.”
There was a general murmur of agreement among the women. But Lydia had her doubts that John would ever truly return to their ways. The only reason he’d come back now was because he’d clearly had nowhere else to turn. In Celery Fields he could be assured of forgiveness and the care of the community. From what she knew of outsiders, they were not quite so generous to those who were down on their luck. No, she knew John Amman perhaps better than any of them or, at least, she had once a long time ago. It simply was not possible for a man to change so completely, was it? To have finally learned his lesson and abandoned the wanderlust of his youth? To be satisfied at last with the quiet, simple life of his Amish roots?
“Hilda, you don’t think there’s any possibility for someone to vote against him tomorrow, do you?” Greta asked, her eyes wide with worry.
“John Amman has sought his forgiveness from Bishop Troyer,” Pleasant reminded Greta. “We will wait to hear his recommendation tomorrow.”
“Nevertheless, the congregation has to be unified in its acceptance,” Hilda reminded them. Lydia saw Gert Hadwell press her fist to her mouth. She hoped, for Gert’s sake, that Hilda had not got it into her head to vote against John. Not that she would put it past the older woman. Hilda saw herself as carrying the standard for what was right in their small community. In many ways her opinion carried almost as much weight as the bishop’s.
But to Lydia’s relief Hilda positioned herself next to Gert in a gesture that could only be read as one of support as she glanced around the room. “I
