Appleseed Creek Trilogy, Books 1-3 Page 7

  A tear rolled down Ruth’s cheek, her voice a whisper. “She should never have left me.”

  “Ruth, Becky did—”

  “There’s the farm.” Gruffly, she brushed away the tear and turned to her window.

  The farmhouse sat on the property about a quarter mile from the asphalt road. A screened-in porch dominated the front of the house, and chest-high teddy bear sunflowers grew in a cheerful line. Beyond the house stood several wooden outbuildings and a large barn. All the whitewashed wood buildings sat on a tan brick foundation. Black and white dairy cows congregated in the fenced area around the barn. North of the barn, soybeans grew low to the ground. Plain clothes hung from a double clothesline in the sweltering afternoon heat. There was no breeze.

  “It’s suppertime,” Ruth said. “Daed will be home.”

  I glanced at her. Is that a bad thing?

  As the truck bounced along the gravel driveway, the screen door to the house snapped open and two tow-headed Amish children ran toward the truck. The little boy squealed. “Timothy!”

  A little girl of about three years old cheered. She wore a light purple dress and a white apron. Her hair was tied back in a bun but was otherwise uncovered. She held a faceless doll by the leg, its clothes similar: a dark blue plain dress, black apron and bonnet.

  Ruth’s face broke into a grin. “That is my bruder, Thomas, and, schweschder, Naomi.”

  I shifted the truck into park. Thomas and Naomi ran full tilt for the driver’s side door. They pulled up short when they saw my face sticking out of the window, their smiles dissolving as if I stole the last piece of apple cake. “It’s okay,” I assured them.

  Ruth hopped out of the car and said something to her siblings in Pennsylvania Dutch. Their faces brightened, but they observed me with curiosity. I slipped out of the truck, then held out my hand. “I’m Chloe.”

  Thomas, who was no more than seven, squeezed my fingers. Naomi watched her brother closely and did the same thing.

  Thomas asked Ruth something in their language, but I heard Becky’s name.

  Ruth shook her head.

  The screen door swung open again, and an Amish man stepped outside, his blond hair and beard streaked with gray. Behind him a much younger woman followed. She twisted the edge of her black apron in her hands.

  “Ruth.” The man’s voice cracked with anger.

  Ruth ran to her father. He spoke to her, making no attempt to lower his voice. He knew I didn’t understand a word. He glared in my direction, said something else to her, then walked toward me. My shoulders tensed.

  “I’m Rebecca’s father.” He spoke in English, with no trace of an accent.

  “It’s nice to meet you . . .” What do I call him? Mr. Troyer? Brother Troyer? How do Amish greet each other? I decided to avoid saying his name at all.

  “You’re the Englisch girl. Rebecca’s friend?”

  I nodded.

  The woman inched across the lawn. She gripped the end of her apron in her hands. “Do you know where my children, Becky and Timothy, are? Is it true what Deacon Sutter says? Is Bishop Glick dead?”

  Becky’s father’s eyes flicked to his wife. “Martha.” He added something in Pennsylvania Dutch.

  I swallowed. “I’m so sorry. It’s true.”

  Mrs. Troyer gasped, and Naomi ran to her mother. She buried her face in her mother’s apron, crushing the doll to her as if it too needed comforting.

  A white pickup’s tires crunched on the gravel drive, then shuttered to a stop. The passenger door opened, and Timothy climbed out, followed by Becky cradling her arm in its hot pink cast. The driver waved and backed down the driveway.

  The woman’s eyes fixed on her eldest daughter’s broken arm. “My boppli.”

  Thomas ran to them. “Timothy!”

  Naomi squealed and raced after him, too, her tears forgotten. The doll thumped against her leg as she sprinted. Timothy knelt and grabbed a child in each arm, hugging them until the youngest Troyers shrieked.

  Thomas and Naomi pounced on Becky next, and her drawn face broke into the tiniest of smiles. Ruth joined her siblings and grabbed her older sister around the waist. “Becky, are you home for gut?”

  Becky’s tiny smile disappeared.

  “Ruth, you’re squishing me.” Thomas had become caught between the sisters’ hug.

  Ruth let go long enough to let Thomas and Naomi slip away. Mr. Troyer spoke in their language.

  Timothy strode over to him. “I’m sorry, Daed. Yes, it’s true.”

  Mrs. Troyer pulled a white handkerchief from her apron pocket. “She’s hurt.”

  “The doctor said it was a clean break.” Becky inched closer to her mother, dragging Ruth, who didn’t look like she planned to let go any time soon, with her. “I will be fine in a few weeks.”

  Mr. Troyer examined Becky’s arm. “It is your right arm.”

  Becky nodded.

  “Your painting arm.”

  Tears gathered in the corners of Becky’s eyes.

  “Rebecca, go into the house,” Mr. Troyer said.

  Becky stepped out of her mother’s embrace and shook her head. “No.”

  Her father’s eyes doubled in size, warning her. “Rebecca.”

  Becky raised her chin. “I’m going home with Chloe.”

  Her father’s brows knitted together, and he said something I couldn’t understand.

  She replied in English. “No. I can’t stay here. It’s better for the family if I go. I need to protect you. You can tell everyone you wouldn’t let me come home. The district will be mad.” She turned to me. “Chloe, are you ready to go?”

  “Umm . . .” I looked from Becky to her family.

  Mr. Troyer spoke to Timothy, who replied in their language.

  Did Harshberger offer Pennsylvania Dutch classes? I needed one if I spent much more time with the Troyer family.

  Becky glared at them. “What happened has nothing to do with my art. It was an accident. I’m so sorry.” Her voice broke.

  Her mother rushed over and wrapped her eldest daughter in a hug. In her mother’s arms again, Becky began to sob.

  Despite all of Becky’s troubles, a twinge of jealousy nicked my heart. What I wouldn’t give for my mother to hug me like that one more time.

  Mr. Troyer’s jaw relaxed. “It is time for supper. We will eat first, then talk.”

  Becky sniffled as her mother guided her to the house. Thomas bounded after them, and I wondered if the youngest Troyer son ever walked anywhere.

  Naomi pulled on the hem of my T-shirt.

  To my surprise, Mr. Troyer waved me in, his expression resigned. “Yes, Chloe, please join us.”

  Timothy watched me, hands stuffed into his pockets and expectation in his eyes. Would it be better for me to bow out gracefully? Or accept the dinner invitation?

  My stomach growled, making the decision for me.

  Chapter Thirteen

  I followed the Troyer family inside. The kitchen looked typical with its refrigerator and oven. My forehead wrinkled. Nothing about it said “Amish” to me.

  “They are powered by propane.” Timothy smiled. “There is a propane tank behind the house.”

  “That’s okay?” I whispered.

  “For our order, yes. For other orders, no.”

  My forehead wrinkled again, but Timothy only smiled.

  I took in the rest of the kitchen, its white walls with maple crown molding around the ceiling. The kitchen was at least twice the size of the Greens’ and four times the size of the one in my rental.

  The inside of the home was spotless. Rows of home-canned pickles, jams, jellies, and peppers lined the shelves of a gorgeous wooden hutch. In front of the hutch, a long kitchen table with enough room for the entire family was set and ready
for supper to be served, including places for Timothy, Becky, and me.

  An elderly man with a fluffy white beard and round wire-rimmed glasses stood in the doorway between the living room and kitchen. He held himself upright with metal braces on each arm. “About time you all came in,” he said. “I’m hungry. I even set the table for the young people to move this along. I knew they’d be coming in. No one can pass up one of my daughter’s home-cooked meals.” He rubbed his stomach.

  Naomi giggled.

  “I’m hungry, too, Grossdaddi,” Thomas declared.

  Becky’s grandfather stuck out his cheek as the children passed. Each grandchild gave him a kiss, even Timothy. I just smiled, but the man angled his cheek in my direction, awaiting another kiss.

  I gave him a peck on the cheek.

  He stood a little taller. “I like her.”

  Mr. Troyer said something I didn’t understand.

  “Daed,” Becky’s mother said. “I’m sorry, Chloe. My father thinks because he is old he can behave as he likes.”

  The old man settled into a padded chair at the table. “Chloe.” He let the name roll around on his tongue. “I like the name. You can call me Grandfather Zook. All the Englischers do.”

  I nodded. “It’s nice to meet you.”

  Thomas and Naomi washed their hands in the sink, which looked just like the one in my home, and fought over who got to sit next to their grandfather. Timothy and his father also washed their hands while Becky, Ruth, and their mother started serving food.

  In the Green house, Tanisha’s father was the cook. If Mrs. Green was cooking, our choices were Chinese or Mediterranean takeout or pizza. Mrs. Green did an excellent job teaching both Tanisha and me how to dial a phone. That’s where our culinary training ended.

  “Can I help?” I asked, unsure of what I could do other than carry platters to the table.

  “No,” Mrs. Troyer said. “You’re our guest. Please sit.” She pointed to a spot on the wooden bench next to Naomi. The little girl scooted over so that we touched, and she grinned up at me. My heart melted a little.

  Mrs. Troyer hummed to herself as she pulled a roast out of the oven. She moved with assurance, and in her kitchen, she was transformed from the anxious woman I met a few minutes ago. She set the roast in the center of the table in front of her husband. As their mother sat down, Ruth and Becky, using only her left arm, placed the last few side dishes on the table: green beans with ham, red-skinned potatoes with parsley, sliced white bread, pickled beet slices, and roasted vegetables.

  Becky slid onto the bench on my other side, and Ruth sat by Timothy, who was directly across from me.

  “Let’s give thanks,” Mr. Troyer said. Even though I couldn’t understand a word, I felt the sentiment and received the same comfort the Greens’ blessing over the meal would always give me. In the middle of the prayer, Mr. Troyer said Becky’s name. Next to me, Naomi tensed up until her father pronounced, “Amen.”

  Mrs. Troyer asked for my plate and piled it high with more food than I could eat in a week, let alone at one sitting.

  “My daughter makes the best canned beets in the county,” Grandfather Zook said proudly.

  I forced a smile as Mrs. Troyer set the plate in front of me, eight huge beet slices on the side of the plate between the red potatoes and green beans. I hated beets. Somehow, I knew, I would choke them down.

  “Daed,” Mrs. Troyer said. “How could you know that? Have you tried every pickled beet in the county?”

  His eyes twinkled. “I don’t have to taste them all to recognize the best.”

  Mrs. Troyer gave him a shy smile.

  Mr. Troyer peered up from his dish at his father-in-law. “We should not be prideful.”

  His wife’s smile faded.

  Grandfather Zook appeared unconcerned by his son-in-law’s comment and diced the roast beef on his plate into small, uniform pieces. “Someone opened the door to the chicken pen again last night. Ruth and Thomas had an exciting morning chasing the chickens around the yard.”

  “We got them all,” Thomas said.

  Timothy frowned. “What do you mean again?”

  “It’s the third time this week. I suppose we are lucky. The Sutters found tire marks driven right through their soybean field. It destroyed the crop.”

  Timothy stopped eating. “How long has this been going on?”

  Grandfather Zook opened his mouth, but his son-in-law snapped at him in Pennsylvania Dutch.

  Timothy looked at his father, then lowered his gaze to the table.

  Grandfather Zook changed the subject. “Thomas helped Mary Fisher take strawberries to the Fisher fruit stand again today.” Another twinkle appeared in his eyes. “This is the third time,” he said. “Mary Fisher lives on the next farm. Gut family.”

  “Grossdaddi!” Thomas’s cheeks grew red.

  His mother gave him a warning glance. “Thomas, don’t raise your voice.”

  “Ya, Mamm.” Thomas scrunched up his nose at his grandfather.

  Grandfather Zook sipped his water. “She is too old for you, grandkinner.”

  Thomas scrunched his nose again. “She’s ten.”

  “And you are seven.”

  The meal reminded me of Christmas dinner with the Green family. Lots of food piled high on plates, lively discussion, and the whole family gathered together. There were differences of course. Tanisha’s little brother would have been playing a handheld videogame under the table, and her grandmother would have fallen asleep. However, the same love and warmth I had experienced with the Green clan was in this room.

  Except for the proverbial elephant in the room—the accident—it must be like Christmas dinner every day for the Troyer family. No one spoke of the accident. Instead, Grandfather Zook entertained the family with stories about his three younger grandchildren. They pretended that it upset them, but the children clearly loved the attention. He also asked about Becky and my house, and laughed when I described how rundown it was and that we had no furniture to speak of.

  Mr. Troyer didn’t seem to find my description nearly as funny.

  Through it all, Becky barely touched her food, her eyes ever-fixed on her plate. Timothy also stayed quiet.

  Figaro! Figaro! Figaro!

  I swallowed a groan. Tanisha had programmed that ringtone into my cell before she moved to Milan.

  The Troyer family stared at me.

  “I’m so sorry.” I reached under the bench seat for my purse.

  Mr. Troyer frowned, as if I’d just fallen a few pegs in his opinion.

  “What was that?” Thomas asked.

  “Someone is singing under the table,” Grandfather Zook said. “We must have a musical mouse.”

  Mrs. Troyer straightened. “There are no mice in my home.”

  “A spider then.” Grandfather Zook tugged his beard. “He is very talented.”

  Thomas’s eyes grew wide. “Spiders sing?”

  “Grossdaddi is teasing,” Ruth said.

  Thomas squinted. “I knew that.”

  My face burned like I had stepped under a heat lamp. “It’s my cell phone. That’s my friend Tanisha calling from Italy.”

  Thomas stared at me. “She called you all the way from Italy?”

  I nodded.

  Figaro! Figaro! Figaro!

  I knew my face had turned the same color as my hair. “I’m so sorry. Will you excuse me for a minute? It must be important for her to call me back like that.” Clumsily, I climbed out of the bench seat and hurried from the table, but not before noticing the scowl on Mr. Troyer’s face.

  Outside, I answered the phone. “Tee?”

  “Did you hang up on me?” Tanisha asked by way of greeting.

  I stepped under the shade of a large elm tree about ten yards from the
house. “No. I silenced your first call.”

  “Nope. I think you hung up.” She sounded strange.

  “Why didn’t you leave a message? Is something wrong?”

  “Of course something is wrong. You didn’t answer your phone and I needed to talk to you.”

  I sighed. “Tee, this really isn’t a good time.” I glanced back at the house. “I’m—”

  “Cole dumped me.”

  “What?”

  She sobbed.

  “Tanisha, honey, tell me what happened.”

  “He said he thought about it.” She gasped for air. “He said being apart for two years was too long to wait to get married. He said I either come home and marry him now or not marry him at all.”

  “That’s ridiculous.” My jaw tightened. Cole was lucky he was hundreds of miles away in Florida. Had he been in front of me, I would have given him a piece of my mind—or kicked him. Kicking him probably would have felt better.

  The screen door opened, and Timothy stepped outside.

  “I found out right after Mom and Dad left for the airport.” Tanisha continued to whimper. “They are on the plane by now. I can’t even talk to them. Cole knew when my parents were leaving. Why did he wait until then to tell me?”

  “Because he’s a jerk,” I wanted to say. My best friend defenses were up right now, and Cole was the enemy. “I’m so sorry, Tee. I know you’re upset.” I glanced at Timothy standing on the porch, waiting for me.

  “Do you think I should call him and tell him what a huge mistake he is making?”

  “No! He should be calling you. He’s probably realizing what a colossal error this is right now.”

  She sniffled. “I doubt that.”

  “Well, if you do break down and call him, make sure it’s in the middle of the night Florida time.” My anger rose at Cole. “You might as well wake the idiot up from a dead sleep. You can blame it on the time difference.”

  She laughed in my ear.

  Timothy continued to watch me from the front of his parents’ house. “I hate to do this, Tee, but can I call you later to talk more?” I pulled the phone away from my ear to check the time before continuing. “It must be evening over there. I can call you tomorrow.”