Christmas at Promise Lodge (18 page)

“Rain barrels would be just the thing for the downspouts around the lodge!” Rosetta said excitedly. “Think of how much easier it would be to water the nearby plants and bushes—or to carry water to your produce plots for planting the tomatoes, Mattie. Especially if there's a pump in the lid.”

Mattie nodded. “Makes a lot of sense to use rainwater rather than just drawing water from the lake. Sounds easier than dragging hoses around.”

“Maybe you should take a look at what-all's in my shop,” Marlin said as his gaze lingered on Mattie. “I've got a catalog, but you'll get a better idea of the various barrels and sizes we produce if you look at them firsthand. Come on up and I'll show you around.”

Mattie felt her face tingling. She wasn't sure how she felt about Marlin's attention, but what could it hurt to look at his rain barrels—especially because supporting his shop would be an investment in her produce business? “I'll do that,” she murmured. “We've been so blessed to attract new residents with such diverse skills.”

Chapter Twenty

Amos concentrated on his plateful of food so he wouldn't have to watch Bishop Floyd missing his mouth with his fork at the opposite end of the table—and so he wouldn't see Marlin making eyes at Mattie. Was there no end to Kurtz's nerve, flirting with her in front of everyone who lived at Promise Lodge? Each time Mattie looked at the new preacher and encouraged him with her bright-eyed questions—or held a bowl of food between them for far too long—Amos felt steam coming up out of his collar. He was becoming so upset, he didn't even want to stay for pie.

“Get me out of here,” he murmured when Truman had cleared the last of the gravy from his plate with a roll. “I want to go home—
now
—but don't make a big fuss about it. Just roll me out.”

Truman frowned. “You're not well?” he asked, leaning closer. “By the way you were tucking away your food, I thought you were doing a lot better.”

Roman, too, lowered his voice so the other conversations covered theirs. “You've not even been here an hour,” he said as he studied Amos's face. “Is it not dark enough in here? Would some sunglasses help, or your pain pills or—”

“I've had enough. I—I need to go home and rest,” Amos hedged. His sudden exit would bring on a lot of concerned questions—more pity that he didn't need—but the sooner he got out of this difficult situation, the sooner he'd feel civil again. If he let slip a remark about Marlin's behavior—and the way Mattie was eating it up—he'd get himself into hot water for sure.

“I'll head for the bathroom,” Amos murmured, “and when you two come to assist me, we'll just keep on going.”

Truman's raised eyebrow expressed his doubts about this scheme, but Amos didn't let it stop him. Nodding at Preacher Eli as though nothing was wrong, Amos backed away from the table and wheeled himself out of the noisy dining room, presumably toward the bathroom tucked beneath the big double staircase in the lobby. A few moments later, Truman and Roman joined him, grabbing their coats. Before anyone came out to ask what they were doing, the two younger men rolled Amos out to the porch and then hefted him, wheelchair and all, down the steps.

Amos could tell his companions weren't keen on leaving the dinner. Once they were situated in the truck, with him in the backseat and the two of them up front, the interrogation began.

“So what's really going on here, Amos?” Truman asked as he started the engine. “You know
gut
and well that Roman and I will have to answer everyone's questions when we return without you.”

Amos shrugged. What went on in his absence didn't really concern him. “Say what you want. Tell them my headache was making me cranky—”

“Last you told me, your headache was nearly gone,” Roman interrupted. “I was glad you felt like joining everyone for dinner today—getting out of your house—but you didn't even wait around for pie.”

“
Jah
, something's fishy about that,” Truman put in, watching Amos in the rearview mirror as he drove. “You were feeling fine when we picked you up. Next thing we know, you'll become as antisocial—and maybe as incapacitated—as Floyd. Why do I suspect you're not taking the antidepressants Dr. Townsend prescribed?”

Amos recognized a jab when he heard one—and he avoided answering about the meds, as well. “I was shocked to see how far the bishop's slipped, considering that Roman's told me Floyd's getting in-home therapy,” he said earnestly. “It bothered me to watch the poor guy fumbling with his fork. From where I sat, I couldn't ignore it.”

“Even with medication and therapy, Floyd's recovery will be slow,” Roman pointed out. “We have to wonder if he'd be doing better had he accepted treatment right after you two fellows fell. I suspect he'll be a burden to his family for quite some time,” he added ominously. “If that's God's will for our bishop, I have to wonder what He's got in mind for you, Amos, if you choose the same stubborn path Floyd first took.”

Amos scowled. Up until now, Roman and Truman had been very patient with him, so he couldn't miss their criticism. The truck halted in front of his house. Without ado, his two assistants helped him down from the truck, positioned him in his wheelchair, and pushed him into his curtained front room.

Before Amos could thank them for humoring his whim, Truman stood in front of his wheelchair with his hands jammed into his coat pockets. His expression was none too tolerant. “What's this really about, Amos?” Truman demanded again. “I have a sneaking suspicion you got all bent out of shape watching Mattie chat with Marlin. The whole time you were staring at them, you looked ready to spit nails.”

Amos glared. He had
not
been that obvious about watching them. “I was appalled at their shameless display of—have they been seeing each other, and you've not told me?”

“You turned her loose, remember?” Truman challenged.

“Seems to me that Mamm asked Marlin about his shop, and he was just making conversation,” Roman remarked with a shrug.

“She's your mother. You don't think about her trying to attract a man's attention,” Amos countered. “I found it discourteous—disconcerting—that Mattie would flirt so openly in front of—”

“As I recall, Amos, you told Mattie to leave you be—and not to grow old alone,” Truman reminded him bluntly. “Now that she's doing as you told her, you don't like it much, do you?”

“I still think Marlin was just being polite,” Roman insisted, “because Mamm's never shown any inclination toward him before today. But if you want to stew about it, that's your choice. I'm going back to have my pie and some of Irene's pumpkin crunch. Then I plan to spend the rest of the day with Mary Kate. Don't wait up.”

“You have another choice, as well,” Truman said as he grabbed the doorknob. “You can let your jealousy darken your heart—and strain a lot of relationships—or you can end this problem instead of becoming a part of it. Your call, Amos. God helps those who help themselves.”

After the door closed firmly behind them, the house echoed with silence. Amos remained in the middle of his shadowy front room, reeling with emotions he didn't know how to handle—not to mention the criticism from Truman and Roman.

Amos slumped in his chair. In truth, Mattie might as well have thrust a butcher knife into his heart and given it a vicious twist. What could she possibly see in Marlin Kurtz? Amos had broken his engagement to Mattie for her benefit . . . but he'd never imagined she would seek out another man's company. Mattie's wide-eyed attention to Marlin and the roses in her cheeks told Amos that she was interested in the other preacher. And when she visited Marlin's new shop, Amos could imagine all sorts of scenarios where the two of them would be alone. Rain barrels would be the furthest things from their minds . . .

Amos wheeled himself into his bedroom, sinking into the lonely gloom that was such a contrast to the lively chatter and wonderful food he'd left behind in the lodge dining room. After asking a few questions, everyone there would continue enjoying their holiday with no further thought of him. The pies would be passed around, along with whatever other goodies the women had baked—and Irene's pumpkin crunch . . .

You should've at least stayed for dessert
, he chided himself.
You can blame Kurtz for getting your dander up by making sure he got to sit by Mattie, but it's you who left that door wide open
.

Meanwhile Truman would be enjoying Rosetta's company, and Roman would spend the day with Mary Kate—maybe taking her for another sleigh ride. Amos thought back to the rides he'd taken with his wife, over frosty hillsides that sparkled with snow. He sighed loudly, regretting that he'd never had the chance to take Mattie in his sleigh. He'd originally built it with Mattie in mind, for courting her that winter so long ago when he'd intended to marry her . . .

This is your own stupid fault, you know. You should've known better than to put your weight on the corner of the shed roof,
his conscience mocked him.
You could've followed the doctor's advice, too—could be taking those pills and physical therapy instead of sitting here in the dark alone, letting another man make Mattie smile. Twice you've lost her now, because you lacked the gumption to hang on to her.

Amos glanced around his dim room. The rant inside his head had sounded so much like his father, he wondered if Dat's spirit had come to give him a talking-to. His
dat
had lectured him again and again after Mattie's father had insisted she must marry Marvin Schwartz—telling Amos he would be eternally sorry if he didn't reclaim the young woman he loved.

“And you were right, Dat,” he murmured.

Bothered by these unpleasant thoughts, Amos stripped down to his long johns and crawled into bed. It wasn't even two in the afternoon, but if he went to sleep, he could forget about how everyone else was having a fine Thanksgiving . . . and the way Mattie was probably smiling at Kurtz even more, now that Amos wasn't there to witness their flirtation.

As soon as Amos closed his eyes, however, his father started in on him again.

So you're going to take this lying down? Going to sleep your life away?
Dat's voice hammered at him.
What happened to all those grand plans you made when you came to Promise Lodge? Will you sit idly by—in that blasted wheelchair—while other folks carry on in your place—while other men take up where you left off ? I raised you better than that, Amos.

Amos turned to face the wall, hoping that if he ignored his father's spirit, it would go away. In all the years since his
dat
had passed, Amos had never sensed his presence, so why was the voice of Tobias Troyer haunting him now? After turning their small farm over to Amos's older brother, his father had died peacefully in his sleep at the ripe old age of ninety-five. Why had Dat stopped playing his harp up in Heaven to pester the son who'd never quite measured up—and never would, by the sound of it?

It was downright annoying, the way Amos couldn't seem to fall asleep—and he was too spooked to turn over and see if Dat's ghost was visible in his dark room. Amos concentrated on breathing in and out, suspecting there was a message or a lesson in this situation, if he would sit up and figure it out. But he didn't.

Next thing Amos knew, he was back home in Coldstream, in the house he'd built for Anna the third year they were married. His wife was very large with their first child, terribly fearful about being pregnant, worrying at every turn whether eating this or doing that would hurt the baby. She complained about how badly her back ached and how her ankles and feet had swollen in the unbearable summer heat. Amos grew so impatient with her fretting that he took a construction job in the next county, knowing he'd be away from home for at least a couple of weeks . . .

Amos sensed he was dreaming, recalling the difficult days of a marriage that had felt second-best, yet he couldn't seem to wake up. When he entered the house again after he'd finished the construction job, the neighbor lady, Ruth, informed him he had twin daughters—scornfully adding that Anna might have died birthing them had Ruth not heard her desperate cries through the open windows. When Amos saw his wife sitting up in bed with a red, puckered infant in each arm, his first thought was that he now had two more mouths to feed so he'd need to work even harder. Although having children was the natural order of things for married couples, he was terrified by the idea of being a father.

“You weren't much of a husband, Amos,” Anna lamented as she looked at him from their bed. Her voice sounded far away, coming at him from the past, yet her gaze remained piercing. “Always had other things on your mind. You were married to me, but you were in love with someone else.”

Amos gaped. Hadn't he given Anna and their kids the best he had? Hadn't he made a point of living on the far side of Coldstream from Mattie and Marvin Schwartz? Even after he'd become a preacher, he'd resisted the temptation to spend much time in the Schwartz home—except to advise Marvin that he needed to get treatment for his diabetes, and needed to curb his temper. When Schwartz had broken Mattie's nose, Amos had still kept his distance, even though he'd been tempted to give Marvin a dose of his own abusive medicine.

But Amos had never guessed that Anna had any inkling of his deep feelings for Mattie. Maybe—because he realized he was caught up in a dream—some of the things Anna was saying were skewed. As Amos walked closer to the bed, intending to ask his wife more about her thoughts, the twins disappeared from her arms. Anna sensed his questions, yet turned her head and refused to answer, pouting. In a matter of seconds, her face underwent several rapid changes, from being young and fresh to appearing sallow and lifeless. She slumped sideways, tumbling out of bed and beyond his reach—

“No—wait!” Amos awoke with a gasp. His long johns were soaked with sweat and his heart was hammering. The memory of how he'd found Anna dead one wintry morning felt excruciatingly vivid, as though it had happened only moments ago. She'd been feeling puny from a bad case of the flu for more than a week, and there hadn't been much he or the doctor could do for her. After Amos had fed Anna some soup, she'd nodded off and he'd spent the rest of that night in the barn with a mare that was having a difficult time foaling.

“I always thought you were more attached to that horse—to all of your fine horses—than you were to me, Amos,” Anna said.