An Amish Kitchen, page 4
“Mammi . . . you know that we never talk about those foolish pieces of glass and that time in my life.”
“Did you tell Abram?” the old woman asked, a gentle persistence playing about her lips.
“Nee . . . there’s nothing to tell.”
“Tell him sometime.”
“Mammi . . . please.”
“Suit yourself. I’m going to have a bit of a lie-down. Mind that you take that tincture of stinging nettles over to Tabitha Yoder if you’re out walking today. She told me Sunday that her sinuses were really acting up.”
Fern didn’t care at the moment about the Widow Yoder’s sinuses. “You’re going to rest? Why? I know you’re not feeling well, and I think we should see Dr. Knepp. I’ll bring the buggy round.”
Her grandmother smiled and held up a protesting hand. “Deborah Zook . . . you’re forgetting one of the first lessons I taught you. Can you name it?”
Fern frowned. “Listen to the patient,” she mumbled.
“Correct. I’m saying that I am fine, so what do you do?”
“Hound the patient until she admits her problem?” Fern put her arms around her grandmother, and they laughed together.
“Not quite what I’ve taught you, but I’ll settle for that nap.”
“Fine, but when I get back, if you’re not feeling well . . . Ach, all right. Have a nice rest.”
Fern watched the beloved bent figure as she left the room and then turned back to her baking with a heavy heart.
“Now I want you kids to be gut for Emma, you hear?” Abram called over his shoulder to the crowded wagon behind him. The dutiful chorus of ya’s did little to soothe his mind or his conscience.
Although Joe had insisted that the kinner come over and help Emma with some cleaning to give Abram a breather, he still didn’t feel quite right about ditching the kids so that he could go off in search of advice about women from his other gut friend, the Widow Tabitha Yoder. Yet he had to find some way to get his addled head straight again, especially after watching Fern laughingly take bites of the moist gingerbread, licking her lips with the small pink tip of her tongue and . . .
“Abram!” Matthew called. “We’re here.”
He hauled on the reins as he realized that he’d nearly passed Joe and Emma’s small but neat home. Emma came outside on the front porch, and he forced a smile to his lips as he hopped down, trying not to look at the ponderous protrusion of her abdomen. Maybe having the kids help her wasn’t such a gut idea after all, but she smiled in greeting, looking capable and happy as Mary scrambled from the wagon to run to her side.
“Got your hands full of blessings, Abram?” Emma asked in her soft, shy voice.
“Ya, and you too. Are you sure it’s not too much with your two kinner? This passel can be more of a hindrance than a help at times.”
Emma shook her head. “The midwife said it was good for me to be active. And if they can give a bit of a hand with some dusting and such, I’d be grateful. And you can go have a bit of spare time to breathe.”
The screen door eased open behind Emma, and Little Joe toddled out to grab hold of his mamm’s dress.
“Uh . . . he’s gettin’ big,” Abram offered, still a bit uncomfortable with the size of Emma’s belly.
“I know, and Rosemary is too. I think she favors Joe. She’s down for a nap now. Anyway, come on, children. I’ll give you each a job to do!”
Abram lifted John out of the wagon and caught a brief hold on Mark’s shirt. “Behave.” He bent to hiss in his bruder’s ear, then ruffled his hair with affection.
The whole brood disappeared into the house, and Emma waved good-bye. Abram waved back, then climbed into the wagon, his jaw set with determination.
Fern stepped into the lush herb garden adjacent to the back kitchen door. She let her fingers trail with delight over the leaves and flowers: echinacea, licorice, milk thistle, valerian, and so many more that she knew by touch and smell. She prayed as she walked; as far back as she could remember, growing things in God’s creation and the work she did in her grandmother’s kitchen were as linked with praise as anything else she could imagine.
Dear Lord, she prayed, how amazing it is that when You rose from the dead, Mary recognized You as the gardener of the place. Ach, how true it is that You like to garden our souls. You’ve called us Your “field,” and I pray that You would continue to do a great work in the garden of my mammi’s life. Give her strength; bless her health . . . And, Gott, please, for Abram Fisher, help him with this task of taking care of things. Maybe let him be more willing to accept help, and guide my thoughts in regard to this man. Amen.
CHAPTER SEVEN
ABRAM SET THE BRAKE ON THE WAGON AND STARED FOR a long minute at the large, pretty house. Ezekiel Yoder had left his young wife more than well off, having married late in life after building up a fine leather tooling business.
His jaw tense, he decided that maybe he was a bit narrisch coming here in the first place. He let his mind rove back to the time he’d first been to this house, shortly after Ezekiel had died. He’d been asked to fix box sills on the downstairs windows so that Tabitha might grow pansies to brighten the front of the house. He’d actually been a little leery of her then, thinking she might want to be more than friends—like most of the women he’d encountered in his life. Instead, he’d discovered an intelligent friend, one who was willing to listen to him without chiding. They kept their friendship private, though; Abram did not want to set tongues wagging about him and Tabitha, who was more or less happy in her widowed state. He jumped down and approached the steps only to look up in surprise when the front door eased open with a cozy squeak.
“Abram Fisher! You’ve caught me cleaning and everything’s a mess. But come in—what’s wrong?”
He sighed. She knew him well.
He mounted the steps, then let her close the door behind him. He let her take his hat, and his gaze swept the beautifully carved furniture and the light-blue walls. It was a homey room, and against his will he thought of Fern. He’d love to give her a home like this . . . He nearly groaned aloud at his wayward thoughts and dropped onto a nearby couch. Tabitha joined him there.
She spoke with a laugh. “It must be bad if you can’t even get it out.”
He looked at her pretty, smiling face. “Women,” he managed.
Her smile grew to one of delight. “Women? Or . . . woman?”
He rolled his eyes. “Okay . . . woman.”
She clapped her hands. “Who?”
He put his face in his hands and mumbled, “Fern Zook.”
“Fern? Why, she’s wunderbaar! Beautiful eyes, kind, loving . . . she’d be a great mother.”
He shook his head. “No, no, no.”
“But why?”
He looked up, then stretched his legs out tensely. “I don’t want any woman. I want to farm—to keep things simple.”
“Well, Gott never meant for things to be simple—I should know.”
He touched her hand. “You miss Ezekiel?”
“Always. And believe me—loving someone is worth the pain of losing them.”
“I just don’t know,” he said. “Look, I don’t want to bother you. I’ve got some errands to get done. I only wanted to talk for a minute.”
“Well, my advice is to seek her out.”
“We’ll see.” He rose and offered a hand to help her up. As they walked into the hall, they were both startled by a quiet knock at the door.
Fern stopped at the screen door. She couldn’t help but recognize the shadowy figure of the man standing behind Tabitha Yoder. She clutched the bottle of stinging nettles, wishing wildly for a moment that she might shatter the glass. Instead, she turned and spun off the porch, intent on walking as far away as possible, even as she told herself that she had no right to think anything of what Abram Fisher did with his spare time. He’d never given her any indication that he was interested in her.
“Well, there goes Gott’s intervention,” Tabitha said with a smile. “You know what she’s probably thinking . . . Go after her!”
He nodded, confused by the sudden apparition of all of his thoughts. “Right.” Then he stepped out the door into the bright sunlight of day.
He could see Fern’s straight back fading into the distance of the dirt road, and he couldn’t help himself when he clambered onto the wagon seat with haste and tugged on the reins. He drew up beside her within moments and set the brake, hopping down to catch up with her.
“Fern . . . Fern, wait.”
She kept going, swinging one arm and ignoring him completely.
“Fern!” Something whispered in his mind and he found himself hollering to her as she stirred up the dust on the dirt road with her furious steps. “Fern . . . tell me about the windows!”
She stopped and spun on her heel to stalk back to him. He swallowed as he admired her blazing green eyes.
“Who do you think you are, Abram Fisher? Who?”
And then he found himself praying that the answer to her question would come to him . . .
CHAPTER EIGHT
THE SUN PLAYING ON THE SHADES IN HIS CHESTNUT hair was momentarily diverting as he removed his hat to wring it between his strong hands. She stood close enough to smell him, to breathe in that mysterious male scent that was uniquely him. His dark-blue eyes were intent but hesitant, and she clutched the brown glass bottle in her hand a bit tighter.
He was beautiful, like some towering oak, but with enough vulnerability in his stance to make him approachable. And she wanted to approach him . . . to shake him, startle him, touch him. She couldn’t believe he was bringing up the windows. She pursed her lips and almost turned to go when he spoke.
“I don’t know who I am right now, Fern.” His deep voice was threaded with tension. “I don’t know what I want, what I’m doing, but I know that you . . . you matter . . . in this world.”
She arched an eyebrow at him, trying to still the beating of her heart. “And?”
He reached out long, calloused fingers to touch her wrist, his thumb rubbing against her rapid pulse, making her hand feel small and delicate in his much larger one. “And . . . those windows. I made you cry . . .”
She pulled her hand away from the tempting pressure of his grasp. “And here you are at the Widow Yoder’s . . . Did you make her cry too?”
He frowned. “Look, I was—paying a visit to a friend, all right?”
She took a deep breath and felt all of her anger drain away. She bowed her head. “Abram Fisher, I don’t know what’s come over me. It’s all right for you to . . . visit . . . anyone you want. I have no right—”
He lifted her chin, and she felt unbidden tears drip from the corners of her eyes. She reached her tongue to lick at the salty fall and found him tracing the track of her tears with a gentle finger. Somehow she found her voice, feeling convicted suddenly to tell him the truth.
“The windows . . .” She smiled through her tears. “It’s silly, really.”
“Not if it pains you so,” he said in a soft voice.
“Ya . . . I guess that’s true.” She sniffed. “Two years ago an Englischer came through selling roofing and windows and such.”
He dropped his hand to her shoulder. “I remember. I think Daed sent him packing.”
“Well, we didn’t. Mammi thought it was a gut investment. So the Englischer stayed and did the work with some of his men. One of the workers, Henry, took a liking to me, I guess. I was out in the garden one evening, and he—well, he kissed me and . . . I thought he really cared for me. But I heard him laughing with the other workers the next day, telling them that he’d kissed the plump Amish girl and left her wanting more . . .” Her lip trembled. “It was my fault; I should not have let him kiss me. And I am pl-plump.”
Abram slid his hand from her shoulder back to her hand, twining his fingers through hers. He took a step closer, and she could feel the press of his long legs against her skirt.
“Fern,” he whispered hoarsely. “Do you know how beautiful you are? Enough of life is full of sharp edges and spare lines.”
She forgot that they stood in the middle of a traveled road in broad daylight, and felt sheltered by his shadow. He said her name and she waited, melting inside, as he moved closer, the brush of his mouth as light as feather down . . .
“Abram!”
He broke away with a muttered word as Matthew burst from the field at the side of the road, gasping for breath.
“What is it?” Abram stepped away from her, and Fern wrapped her arms around her chest as she anxiously watched Matthew sink to his knees in front of his older brother.
“Matt . . . what’s wrong?”
“Emma Mast . . . Her baby’s comin’. And the midwife’s not there.”
“I’ll go get my mammi,” Fern said, moving toward the wagon.
“Ca-can’t,” the young boy gasped. “The baby—it’s coming now, right on the kitchen floor. You’ll have to come, Fern.”
Fern felt Abram’s gaze sweep over her. “Can you do it?” he asked urgently.
“Ya . . . ya. Let’s go.” She caught her breath and began to pray.
CHAPTER NINE
EMMA HAD SOMEHOW MANAGED TO CORRAL ALL OF THE kids into one of the bedrooms.
“I—told them—to do coloring books,” she panted as Fern sank down on the kitchen floor beside her. “Said—we’d have—a contest. I should have gotten into bed . . . but it all happened so fast this time.” She moaned faintly, and Fern put her hand on the other woman’s shoulder.
“Shh, Emma. Save your strength.” She glanced up at Abram and Matthew.
“Matt, can you stay with the kinner? Tell them everything’s all right. And take that plate of cookies with you and a pitcher of juice. You did a great job finding me.” Fern smiled as she spoke.
Abram patted his bruder’s shoulder as he passed, loaded down with the food and drink and a stack of paper cups.
“Maybe I should go look for Joe,” Abram suggested. He wasn’t squeamish, but he was embarrassed as could be for Emma’s sake.
“You’ll stay right here, Abram Fisher,” Fern said. “I may need you . . . We may need you, right, Emma?”
Emma managed a tight smile. “Ya . . . it’s all right.”
Fern rose and went quickly to the sink to wash her hands; Abram followed, mixing his hands up with hers as they got at the water.
“Hold your hands with your fingers up,” she instructed. “Let the water run down your elbows. And don’t touch anything if you can help it.”
He did as he was told, standing awkwardly nearby as Fern returned to Emma and gently raised her skirts.
“Ach, Emma, we got here right on time with the Lord’s grace; I can see the head. Your boppli has dark hair.” Fern’s voice was full of happy encouragement. “Now, do you have any blankets or sheets ready for the babe?”
“Last—room on the left.”
Abram was already on his way. He scooped up a pile of small bedding and hurried back, handing the items off to Fern and then going to the sink to rewash his hands before she could tell him to do it. He came back in time to see Emma’s grimace of pain and a small head emerging; he looked at the plastered ceiling.
“Abram, come here, please,” Fern said low. “The cord’s around the baby’s neck.”
He moved forward and dropped to his knees beside Fern. Suddenly everything felt all right, normal even. He was helping his best friend’s wife and child, and Fern was there . . . her competent hands guiding his to hold the infant’s wet head while she carefully unwrapped the cord. Abram held his breath, and the slippery, tiny body was cradled in his hands. The little girl opened her mouth and let out a mewling cry that set him laughing with joy.
“It’s a girl, Emma, and she seems fine.” Fern took the baby from him to lay against Emma’s abdomen, then went to work with some scissors and thread that she pulled from her apron pocket. “Mammi says to always be prepared,” she murmured as she cut the cord.
Then she looked at Abram with her big green eyes, and he felt something strange turn over in his chest. She was so beautiful, so capable . . . How had he ever thought her pushy? He wanted to kiss her, right there on the Masts’ kitchen floor. He had the deranged notion that if he did, a garden might spring up around them, filled with the scent of roses and heather . . .
“Danki, Abram. Danki!” Joe was shaking his shoulder, and he realized sheepishly that Fern had risen and moved away while he still knelt beside Emma.
He got to his feet and shook his friend’s hand, then clasped him close in an emotional hug.
“I wanted a girl,” Joe mumbled. “But it didn’t matter, really—just so she’s healthy.”
“Well, let’s make sure that Emma and the baby stay healthy by getting them into bed. I’ve still got a few more chores to do,” Fern said.
Abram gently helped Joe carry his wife to the bedroom and listened to Fern’s sweet-toned voice through the thin wall as she gave the news of the baby to the other children. His chest was tight with emotion as the kinner replied with a roar of approval, and he almost laughed aloud when he heard Fern shush them. She would make a wonderful mother.
“Matthew told me he left a note for the midwife; she should come soon to check you and the baby out,” Fern said as she surveyed a very content Emma nursing her newborn.
“We don’t know how to thank you and Abram for coming.”
Fern smiled. “Derr Herr allowed this time, and you can tell your daughter that He willed that she be born in the kitchen, the heart of the home.”
Emma smiled back. “So you were with Abram when Matthew found you?”
Fern flushed and concentrated on tucking the bedclothes more neatly about her patient’s legs. “Ya . . . we were talking.”
“Abram doesn’t normally talk much—except to Joe. I think it’s nice for you two.”
