Emma Blooms At Last (11 page)

Emma wandered back downstairs and sat on the chair nearest the woodstove. At last, she had the peace and quiet she'd been craving, but she'd overturned everyone else's applecart by declaring she couldn't go to the Brubakers' any time soon. Was it so wrong to mourn her mother? To allow time for her emotions to emerge, now that everyone else was returning to their normal, everyday lives? Emma wasn't at all sure what shape her days would take now that Mamm wouldn't be talking with her and working alongside her as they shared every little task.

Maybe working in the back room at the mercantile wasn't such a far-flung idea. Doing Sam's book work and filling bulk food bags sounded a lot more appealing than having to face customers . . .

The front door flew open ahead of Jerome, who held a loaded leather wood carrier in each of his hands. Wyman followed him inside, holding the door for her father, who wore a smug expression.

“We're all squared away! I just talked with Amanda on the phone,” Dat announced. “She agreed that maybe this next Saturday was too soon, so the quilting frolic is now set for the following weekend, on the twelfth of December. It'll work out just perfect, because she'll have the whole set of dishes finished for Abby and James by then, and Jerome can bring them when he comes for us that morning.”

Emma's mouth fell open. “But—
please
, Dat,” she pleaded as she watched Jerome stack the firewood. He was smiling brightly. No doubt he was a partner in this little conspiracy. “Sometime soon I'll—”

“Emma, dear, I know you mean well,” her father interrupted with more spunk than she'd seen in years, “but I've got to get
myself out amongst cheerful folks who are
doing
something, or my recliner's going to swallow me up. I'll have plenty of time for napping by the fire once the snow's blowing and it's too cold to get out.”

Dat gazed at her with unmistakable love, but unshakable authority. “Your mamm would be fussing at us both if we turned into stick-in-the-mud couch potatoes, and you know it, Emma. So that's that.”

O
n the Friday morning after Thanksgiving, Amanda sat immersed in her work, watching a large bowl take shape between her hands . . . breathing in time to the steady
whirrrrr
of her revolving pottery wheel. The set of dishes Sam and Vernon had ordered was coming together as though inspired by those men's faith and spiritual leadership. Most of the pieces were glazed and completed, with only the cups and saucers to make yet—thanks to the way Vera and Jemima had been keeping the youngsters occupied this week. The aroma of chocolate chip cookies convinced her it was time to take a break.

“Mamm! Mamm, some guy's coming to the door!” Simon called out from the kitchen.

Amanda stopped pumping the wheel, easing her hands from the wet bowl so she wouldn't ruin it. Simon's voice sounded strident—and outside, Wags was barking in a way that announced a stranger. With Wyman, Jerome, and Eddie gone to Cedar Creek for the day, she sensed she'd better see who was coming.

As she entered the kitchen, a loud pounding on the door made Jemima and the three little girls freeze in place at the table, their cookie dough forgotten. Simon, too, stood back, staring at the man who was glaring at them through the glass—not his usual excited reaction when someone stopped by.

“Jah, just a minute,” Amanda called out to their visitor.

“Get this mutt away from me!” he snapped. “I'm not in the mood to get bit—and you can't afford it if I do.”

A tingle of fear snaked up Amanda's spine. “Simon, go around back and call Wags,” she said as their mixed-breed German shepherd continued to bark at the man. “Take him into the barn, and let Pete know a stranger's here.”

As the boy darted out the back door without a coat, Amanda washed the mucky clay from her hands at the kitchen sink. Who was this man with such a chip on his shoulder? His short hair and clipped beard didn't look Plain, nor did his uncharitable expression.

Lord, guide our words and actions, and please keep us from harm,
Amanda prayed as she dried her hands. With a glance toward Jemima, who stood over by the oven with Cora, Dora, and Alice Ann by her side, Amanda opened the door just far enough to talk. “Jah? What seems to be the problem?”

“If you're Wyman Brubaker's wife, you've got a
problem
, all right,” the man retorted as he pushed on the door.

Amanda stepped out of his way, again praying that nothing drastic was going to happen now that this irate man had entered her home. “And what might that be? And who are
you
?” she asked, her voice rising. She wouldn't reveal that neither Wyman nor Jerome was home . . . hoped Pete would come out of the barn soon . . .

“I'm Reece Weaver. Does that name ring any bells?” he demanded.

Amanda crossed her arms. It wasn't her way to speak crossly—
especially not to men—but if this was the contractor responsible for building Wyman's new grain elevator, her opinion of him was
not
improving. “And what do you want, Reece Weaver?” she asked in a low voice.

“Where's Wyman?”

Amanda held her ground. She didn't reply.

Reece's expression settled into a knowing sneer. “So he's not home, eh? Probably had a feeling I was coming to collect the money he owes me—and he owes me a
lot
in back payments, Mrs. Brubaker,” he added, raising his eyebrows dramatically. “Tell him I'll see him in court if he doesn't settle up within the next few days.
Got
it?”

Wyman had told her that work on his new elevator had been delayed by the recent snowfall. The concrete foundation hadn't been poured, as they had originally figured on. The weather couldn't be considered Wyman's fault, and he'd met with Reece a few days before, as he'd been instructed to. So why was this wiry, prickly man acting so huffy? If her husband were here, he'd send this nasty man packing.

Amanda pointed toward the door. “It's time for you to leave,” she stated as she advanced toward him. “This is business for you to settle with my husband and his partner, not with me.”

Reece backed up and opened the door, chuckling sarcastically. “You don't scare me one bit, little lady.”

“And
you
,” Amanda said as she stepped out onto the porch behind him, “
you
had better not
ever
come here to frighten my children again, Mr. Weaver. Understand me?”

“Tell Wyman I was here to see him.”

“Jah, you can bet I will.” Amanda stood staunchly on the porch to be sure this intruder went straight to his truck rather than nosing around the farm. As she clutched herself in the frosty air, Wags shot out of the barn, barking fiercely.

“Go get him, boy! Sic him!” she heard Simon say as he and Pete loped into the yard.

“Wags! Boys, call the dog back,” Amanda said sternly, although she was secretly glad Wags was protecting them.

Reece Weaver still had the sense to run the rest of the way to his pickup, but Amanda had a feeling the overgrown pup's attack would only infuriate the contractor more. Why had Wyman and Ray decided this man should build their elevator? She and the boys watched as the truck sped down the driveway toward the road, spewing loose gravel and mud in its wake.

“Who was that?” Pete asked. “Wags sure doesn't like him.”

“Dogs are gut judges of character,” Amanda remarked. “Come inside for fresh cookies, boys. We need to talk.”

As Pete and Simon preceded her into the house, Amanda realized she was trembling from more than the brisk wintry wind. The twins were talking shrilly with Jemima, and Vera and Lizzie had come downstairs to see what the commotion was about.

For a moment, Amanda soaked up the warmth of the sweet-smelling kitchen as she gazed at her family. She'd been very lucky, and probably foolish. Reece Weaver could have grabbed her—could have made more menacing threats—instead of retreating to his truck. But he'd done his share of damage, too.

“Let's sit down,” Amanda said as Jemima pulled sheets of cookies from the oven. “You need to know what's going on here, even if your dat's not one to carry on about his concerns.”

“Why was that man so
mean
, Mamma?” Cora blurted fearfully. “And what are back payments?”

“And what does it mean, that he'll see Dat in court?” the other twin chimed in.

“Mammaaa!” Alice Ann wailed as she toddled across the floor with her arms raised.

Amanda scooped up her youngest and held her close. Why
would any reputable, trustworthy businessman barge into her kitchen and frighten her little children by threatening their father? It was wrong to judge Reece Weaver, but she hoped God was indeed in charge of this situation and keeping track of such a reprehensible man.

“What you need to know,” Amanda began as she joined the kids at the table, “is that your dat's new elevator is costing him a lot more than he'd figured on. He doesn't like to let on about the money—”

“And I smell a rat, as far as the money goes,” Jemima muttered as she placed a plate of cookies on the table.

“But he's concerned about getting our family through the winter,” Amanda continued matter-of-factly. “We believe the Lord will provide—”

“So you're making your dishes again, like when we were little and our first dat went to heaven. Right, Mamma?” Cora handed her twin a cookie and then passed the plate to Lizzie.

“Jah, and we managed just fine back then, didn't we?” Amanda smiled. Her younger daughters were older than their years in many ways because, until she'd married Wyman, they'd grown up without a father.

“So is it true?” Vera asked warily. “Does Dat owe that man a lot of money? He was talking so loud, Lizzie and I heard him through the floor.”

Wyman's eldest child, so like him in her looks, got up to fetch glasses and milk for everyone. It was Vera's way to act as a mother to her younger siblings . . . to be more responsible than most girls were at seventeen.

“That business is between him and your dat and Ray Fisher,” Amanda insisted. “Our job is to keep things running here at home without wasting anything. We've got plenty of food, and we can be careful about our clothes—”

“And we can jiggle the flusher when the toilet runs and runs,” Simon piped up proudly. “Dat says saving water is everybody's job.”

Amanda's hand flew to her mouth as a giggle welled up inside her. Wasn't it just like this boy to help her see the humor in everyday things, even when her nerves were jangled? “Jah, there's that,” she replied. “We can all help in our own ways—and I'm so proud of how you're already doing the chores and taking on more responsibilities so I can make my pottery. You're the best bunch of kids God ever put on this earth, you know it?”

Their wide eyes and smiles were all the gratification Amanda needed. Already she felt as though the incident with Reece Weaver was behind them, and taking a bite of cookie—it was still warm, so the chocolate chips smeared her tongue—improved her mood as well.

“Shall we get back to what we were doing?” she asked when the kids had finished their snack. “And again, we should let your dat handle this situation with Reece Weaver. He's the head of our family, and he'll know what's best.”

“And you're the neck that turns the head, right, Mamm?”

Once again Simon's response took Amanda by surprise. He was grinning at her with all sincerity, his lips and teeth smeared with melted chocolate—too cute for his own good. But she couldn't let his quick wit become a habit that would get him into trouble as he got older. “And who told you that, Son?”

“Dat did. He says
you're
the head of the household, and we're to do whatever you say.”

A pleasant warmth prickled her cheeks. Perhaps Reece Weaver's visit hadn't been all bad, considering what had come of this conversation. “See what I'm saying? Your dat knows best,” Amanda repeated wryly. She kissed Alice Ann's cheek and set the toddler on the floor. “Denki for these wonderful-gut cookies, girls. I'm going to finish making a bowl now, and I'll see you all at dinner.”

T
hat evening as Wyman sat down to supper, he sensed an air of anticipation—or was it urgency?—as he gazed at his children's faces. “We had a gut day at the Graber place,” he reported after they'd given thanks. “Eddie painted the kitchen and Abby's new sewing room bright yellow—”

“Me, I wuv
pink
,” Alice Ann reminded him as she kicked in her high chair.

“And we shifted Merle into the dawdi haus,” Wyman continued as he tickled his toddler's plump knee.

“And we got our quilting frolic set as well,” Amanda remarked as she passed a big bowl of Jemima's fragrant beef stew. “But I had a feeling it was more Merle's doing than Emma's.”

To Wyman's right, Jerome plucked two puffy biscuits from the basket with a resigned sigh. “Emma's understandably upset about losing her mamm,” he said. “Seems to me the roles are reversed there. We all thought Merle would be the one to fold in on
himself, yet he seems to be in gut spirits. And he's really looking forward to playing games again with you twins, too!” he added, grinning at Cora and Dora.

The two four-year-olds, identical in their deep orange dresses, giggled at each other. “Maybe we should play alphabet lotto this time—”

“Or the Let's Go Fishing game!”

Wyman still couldn't tell Cora and Dora apart, but he adored their enthusiasm. No matter how busy he got, when the twins gazed at him with big brown eyes so like their mother's, he felt all warm and fuzzy inside.

“I'll get to play, too,” Simon declared. He spooned up some Jell-O fruit salad, which made a sucking sound that had all the younger kids chuckling. “Merle needs another
man
at the game table—but not a mean fellow like came here today, Dat. Wags chased him back to his truck, though, so now he knows better than to come back!”

As everyone at the table focused on him, Wyman considered his youngest son's remark. “Simon, you've got to control your dog,” he warned. “We can't have Wags getting aggressive enough to—”

“I sent that man away myself,” Amanda interjected. “While I agree that we need to control Wags, the dog's behavior was
nothing
compared to the way Reece Weaver barged in here, saying you owed him money and threatening to take you to court.”

Wyman's heart stopped. Now he realized why everyone seemed more intense than usual. “I had no idea. I—I told Reece he was to deal only with Ray and me,” he stammered as this information sank in.

“Jah, that's what Amanda told him, too,” Jemima remarked stiffly. “It's none of my business, but I don't trust that man any farther than I could throw him. And I was ready to do just that,
after he pushed into the kitchen, past Amanda, and talked about you that way in front of the children.”

“Jah, that was his name,” Simon said under his breath. “Reece Weasel.”

Out of the mouths of babes
. Once again Wyman wondered how he and Ray had been so mistaken about the contractor they'd chosen. “I'll call Reece after supper. This has to stop—and just so you'll know,” he added as he gazed purposefully at everyone around the table, “I do
not
owe him any money, nor do you need to worry about him taking me to court. I've kept my part of the contract all along.”

The kids dug into their supper, seemingly satisfied by his assurances. As Amanda met his gaze, Wyman sensed she intended to continue this discussion later, between the two of them. But there was no unsaying or undoing what Weaver had set into motion.

“Dat, I, um, called about a couple of ads I saw on the corkboard at the bulk food store this afternoon,” Vera said, with a hopeful smile. “They're for cleaning houses a couple days a week. I'd like to take the jobs—if it's all right with you, of course.”

“And I'll handle the laundry and cleaning on the days Vera works,” Lizzie said. “I can do it when I get home from school, so Mamm can keep up with her pottery orders.”

Wyman's eyes widened. Not so long ago, when they'd blended their two families, Lizzie had been the most unsettled of all the children. Now she seemed happy to shoulder more of a load than most thirteen-year-olds would care for.

“And—and since Eddie's got a steady painting job,” Pete piped up, “I could quit school and help out, too. I could—”

“Don't you even
think
about quitting school, young man,” Wyman said sternly. He was ready to challenge Pete's idea about
helping out
as well, when it hit him: his kids now believed the Brubaker family had money troubles. It was one more insidious
seed Reece's visit had apparently planted, like a cocklebur in a rose garden.

“We had a family talk after Mr. Weaver left,” Amanda admitted, “but only so I could assure everyone that we'll be just fine this winter if we don't waste food and clothing and such. Bless you, Vera and Pete, I didn't mean you had to go looking for work. Honestly, I didn't.”

“But I want this job,” Vera insisted. “I've heard some of my friends talk about cleaning houses—”

“For English?” Wyman asked. He didn't like the idea of his attractive young daughter working in strangers' homes.

“Mennonites. The Schrocks and Cletus Yoder, just down the road,” his daughter replied brightly. “I figure if I make my own spending money for fabric and shoes and such, there'll be more to go around for the rest of the kids' clothes.”

While it pained Wyman to hear his daughter talk of covering her personal expenses, he admired her willingness to work. Perhaps taking this job would teach Vera more about budgeting money than she might otherwise learn by staying home. “I haven't had a chance to meet those families since we've moved here, but—”

“I've sold some mules to Cletus,” Jerome remarked. “He's got a passel of sons farming with him, but no girls to help around the house.”

“Leon Schrock's kids are all married, and his wife's in a wheelchair,” Amanda said. “Both of those families have lived in these parts for as long as I can remember.”

Wyman saw the yearning in Vera's face. She'd taken on the full responsibility for the kids, the housework, and the meals after his first wife had died, so she could certainly handle whatever the Schrocks and the Yoders wanted her to do. And she asked for so little. “All right then, give it a try,” he replied, touched by the
happiness that lit up her face. He looked at everyone else then. “I appreciate your new commitments and contributions. It's a lesson in humility for a man who's always supported his family, and yet Jesus tells us that accepting the help of others is better than floundering—or failing—alone.”

When they'd eaten their fill of the hearty stew and biscuits, Wyman wasn't surprised that Pete left the table in a huff. He'd gone through the same phase at thirteen, feeling alienated and off-kilter, so he caught up to his son as they headed to the barn to do the livestock chores.

“I didn't mean to sound so angry about your getting a job, Pete,” he began. “Your intentions are the best, and I know how you miss Eddie when he's in Cedar Creek all week. But if you stop going to school, you'll lose out on important skills you'll need when you have your own farm—your own family to support. It'd be a shame to quit when you'll be all finished with school come next May.”

“Jah. Whatever.” Pete slid the barn door aside on its track with more force than was necessary. “I could be learning real-life skills from
you
, Dat, or—”

“If you'd ask her, maybe Teacher Dorcas could give you some worthwhile tasks around the schoolhouse, since you're amongst the oldest fellows there,” Wyman suggested. “She'd probably be less inclined to criticize your lack of interest in math and spelling if you volunteered for—”

“I'm building a stage and a backdrop for the Christmas Eve program,” Pete interrupted. His eyes flickered with interest, but then he shrugged dolefully. “Once I've finished that, though, she'll probably start finding fault with me again. I really
am
trying, Dat.”

Wyman hadn't yet met the Bloomingdale schoolteacher, and he didn't want to undermine her authority by excusing Pete from
doing his best in school. He sensed his son was going through the same difficult phase that he had endured at thirteen—no longer a boy but not yet a man. “That sounds like the perfect project for you, Pete. You and Eddie did a real gut job building the extra bathroom in our Clearwater barn, before we sold that place,” Wyman replied. “When you're Eddie's age, you'll know better how you'd like to earn your livelihood. Maybe you'll want to work at the elevator, or you'll line up an apprenticeship, but until you've graduated—” He reached out to squeeze the kid's shoulder, but Pete dodged his show of affection and hurried toward the other side of the barn to start the horse chores.

As he stepped up to the phone on the barn wall, Wyman decided to call Ray Fisher before he talked with their contractor. Perhaps his partner in Clearwater had received a visit from Reece as well and they needed to keep their stories straight. He dialed and waited until someone picked up the phone, relieved that the Fishers were in their barn doing chores, like he was. “Jah, Ray, it's Wyman. Got a minute?”

“You betcha. What's up over Bloomingdale way?” Ray asked in his usual jovial tone.

“Nothing gut, far as Weaver's concerned,” Wyman replied with a sigh. As he recounted the day's incident, he felt his pulse speeding up all over again. “I wish I knew what to do about this guy, Ray. Where'd we go wrong?”

“You know,” Ray replied, “I heard the other day that Reece has left the Mennonite church. Gone English, apparently, after a run-in with his preacher. Which matches the pattern we're seeing—confrontation rather than cooperation.”

Wyman considered this. “Do you suppose Reece has stretched himself too thin and he's having financial problems?”

“We shouldn't speculate about that—and I sure
hope
his business isn't in trouble, since he's behind on our elevator,” Ray replied
with a short laugh. “But Weaver's problems don't justify his intimidating your family. How about if I call him and ask when he figures to pour our foundation . . . and maybe fish a little? Better yet, I could stop over at his place in person. He doesn't live but a mile from here, as the crow flies.”

“You're the best friend a fellow ever had,” Wyman murmured.

“Nah, that's
you
, Wyman!” came Ray's immediate response. “Trevor's new Holsteins are settling in, and he's got that old barn shaped up—and the house is enclosed now, where those two trees landed on it. He wouldn't be nearly so far along with his dairy herd and having a place of his own if you hadn't offered us such a gut price on your farm.”

“Well, I wanted you folks to have the first shot—”

“Puh! Trev's future fell right into his lap—and he didn't have to move elsewhere to find land, thanks to you,” Ray insisted. “And now Tyler's excited about managing our computer and marketing programs at both elevators—being full-time with us instead of having to find additional jobs. You've helped both of my boys in ways I couldn't have done myself.”

As he hung up, Wyman couldn't help smiling. His outlook had improved immensely, and he felt that he—with a big assist from God—had made a real difference in the Fisher boys' lives while he'd improved his own family's future as well. It was just a matter of getting through this temporary snag with Weaver.

Wyman returned to the house, gazing up at the full moon, which shone like a golden coin in the indigo sky. Lizzie, Vera, and the twins were tending to the dishes. Simon and Alice Ann snuggled beside Jemima on the sofa as she read them a story. As he entered the room where Amanda was removing fired plates from her kiln, contentment settled over him like an old quilt. She looked up at him, a question in her bottomless brown eyes.

Wyman kissed her thoroughly. He studied a plate she'd made,
running his fingertip around the deep blue edge that set off the cinnamon-colored center. She'd created a different pattern to comply with their bishop's instructions to use subtler colors—and truth be told, he liked this new look a lot better than the daisies she used to paint. “You do mighty fine work, Mrs. Brubaker,” he murmured. “With your pottery and with our kids, too.”

Amanda's smile made him melt like butter. “And how was your call to Reece?”

“It's all gut,” Wyman replied, setting thoughts of Reece Weaver behind him. “Even if the finances will be tight for a while, I'm a wealthy man as long as you're by my side.”