Sarah's Garden (2 page)
Chelsea spoke up. “Sarah can do it,” she proclaimed stoutly, so that her father nodded in agreement and a murmur of ascent went around the table.
“Yes, Sarah, you can.” Father went on, “It is your nature to hide among the garden plants you love,
jah
? But there are others to minister to, a world to understand so you can be sure that you do not conform to its ways and people. Sarah, there are people to meet and to serve.”
Sarah nodded, but her heart was thumping and she felt sick to her stomach.
“
Jah
, Sarah, perhaps you’ll meet your husband at the stand this year, unless you marry your old friend Jacob Wyse,” Luke suggested, then ducked when John Kemp gave him a cuff on the shoulder.
“What?” Luke asked. “She might.”
Chelsea smiled down the table at her brother. “Maybe it’s you, Luke King, who should visit the stand . . .
You
might find a wife!”
Luke flushed as his brothers laughed. It was a common joke among the family that none of the boys had yet to marry, with James, the eldest, being nearly twenty-eight. The simple truth was that there was barely time for courting when they all worked a farm as large as the one the Lord had provided for the King family.
Despite the laughter around her and her brother’s sincere apology, Sarah had no time to worry about a husband when faced with the prospect of dealing with the responsibilities of the stand and all the strangers who would stop as customers. It was one thing when the King family hosted church meeting and she could stay in the background, or at picnics or berry picking when she busied herself with the younger children. But to deal with a parade of strangers on her own . . . and
Englisch
strangers at that. She swallowed hard at the staggering thought and questioned her fears. She couldn’t recall any reason for her reticence; she’d only ever known kindness from those in her community. Yet she was afraid.
She realized that conversation had resumed around the table and the world was spinning for the others of her family. Her brother Samuel was speaking.
“There’s been more work done today at the Fisher farm, Father. I noticed when I was plowing the south end. Soon we’ll have new neighbors.”
“Yes, we will, and they will be
Englisch
neighbors.”
There was brief silence around the table, though Sarah couldn’t quite pick up the threads of conversation from her own miserable musings.
“It’s a strange thing to think of
Englischers
working an Amish farm,” Luke commented and Father raised an admonishing hand.
“It was an Amish farm, but all of the earth belongs to
Der Herr
. And I must say that the
Englisch
may care for the place much better than the Fishers ever did. As our neighbors, we must extend goodwill and, further, good expectations. You all know this.”
Luke nodded in agreement as Father continued.
“It is good to remind ourselves on occasion—kindness, fairness, goodwill. All as
Der Herr
would do Himself and as the
Ordnung
instructs.”
“I will make some friendship bread to take to them,”
Mamm
murmured. “Perhaps the wife will enjoy the recipe as well.”
“No wife,
Mamm
.” Father smiled. “Only a single man, a doctor of veterinary science, and his hired help.”
Chelsea laughed. “Oh no, just what we need in the area . . . another bachelor to compete with the King brothers.”
“He may well have a hard time of it, though, as a vet and an
Englischer
. Everybody loved old Dr. Lapp,” Samuel remarked.
“
Jah
,”
Mamm
muttered. “He was a good man. Such a sad loss for his family.”
Sarah sat quiet and sober. She could find no interest in either her food or
Englisch
neighbors with the thought of her new responsibility at the roadside stand.
Her father leaned close and whispered, “The Lord will help you, Sarah. You will see.”
She smiled at him, though her hazel eyes were full of unshed tears.
“Jah
, Father.
Jah.
”
T
he red sports car made short work of the bumpy dirt driveway to the Fisher farm, and Dr. Grant Williams grinned in his rearview mirror at the shocked expression on his housekeeper’s face.
“Are you still with me, Mrs. Bustle?”
“You know that I am, sir. You might ask Mr. Bustle how he’s feeling, though; he tends to get a bit carsick.”
Grant glanced at the older man seated next to him in the passenger seat. “Bustle?”
“All is well, sir.”
Grant smiled. The Bustles were the type of old-fashioned servants and family friends who were rarely, if ever, seen in the modern world. At nearly a spry sixty-years-old each, they’d been with him since childhood, since his parents had died, and he loved them. But nothing could persuade them from ceasing to call him “sir” or from giving him the formality they believed he deserved as their employer.
“We ’re here.”
In the half-light of the late spring evening, the three-story red brick farm estate appeared rather austere, though evidence of a cheerful renovation existed in the piles of new wood and machinery that dotted the front lawn. Large fragrant lilac bushes framed the brick walkway that led to the generous porch, and lightning bugs flashed like tiny lanterns of goodwill.
Grant helped Mrs. Bustle from the car and waited for her inevitable comment.
“Looks like it could do with a good cleaning.”
Grant chuckled. He expected them to speak their minds, and Mrs. Bustle rarely disappointed.
“I asked you both to move with me to this rural mountainous community from Philadelphia because I couldn’t do this without you. Whatever you need to get this place going so I can start practicing . . . well, you just have to let me know.” He was surprised at the emotion in his voice. At twenty-seven, he was focused on accomplishing his goals in life, and establishing a veterinary practice in this area was one of his personal benchmarks. His father had been a medical doctor who was deeply devoted to the Amish people, and Grant felt it was his legacy to continue in serving where his father had left off. Although his father left him enough money in a trust to last two lifetimes, he felt a strange tightness in his chest as he stared up at the old farmhouse that held his name on the deed.
“If I may, sir.” Mr. Bustle cleared his throat. “Your parents would have been proud.”
Grant clapped the older man on the shoulder and then linked his arms around both of them. “Thank you, both of you.”
Mrs. Bustle sniffed. “Could be I’m going to need a hired girl. Maybe one of them Amish girls.” She pronounced it
Aim
-ish, but Grant didn’t bother to correct her. Everything was new, and it was late.
“Let’s go in, shall we?” He produced an old-fashioned ring of keys and helped Mrs. Bustle up the steps. The heavy door swung open once he’d fumbled with the latch, and he moved to turn on the newly installed overhead chandelier. Cobwebs and dust were in heavy residence as well as boot tracks from workers on the dusty hardwood floors.
“I had to have electricity put in. You remember I told you that the house was previously owned by the Amish.”
“As much of the land hereabouts is,” Mr. Bustle remarked.
“Yes, we ’re ‘strangers in a strange land,’ aren’t we, Bustle? But I mean to build a life here, a life that will honor my father and mother—with God’s help, of course.”
“You’ll have to build your bed first, I bet,” Mrs. Bustle announced, returning from her perusal of a side room.
“That’s why we have clean sheets in the car. I’ll get them now, and you . . .” Grant bent to bestow a quick kiss on Mrs. Bustle ’s aged cheek. “You will have the first bed we build . . . er, make up. I’ll be right back.”
He slipped outside into the twilight and noticed the warm, far-off light from the adjoining Amish farm. There was something poignant and serene about oil lamps shining through windows that made him think of home, though his parents had long been lost to him. He leaned on the low roof of the sports car and drew a deep breath of the fragrant night air. Life was going to be different here; he just knew it. He felt a stirring of excitement in his soul.
S
arah slipped outdoors at four thirty into the first hint of dawn. It was her favorite time of the day, if the truth be told. It allowed a full half hour of private time with both the Lord and the kitchen garden before the others were wide-awake.
When she had been a little girl, she could remember believing that God came to walk with her in the garden because she could sense Him the most when she was close to the soil and the plants. And today she longed for His company more than ever. The last week of April had flown by in the flurry of planting and hoeing and weeding, and today was her first day of work at the roadside stand.
She sighed as her eyes traced the faint lines of plants and the shadowy layout of the ground. She let her delicate fingers trail along the leaves of the sweet corn, and she wriggled her bare toes in the damp earth. She fancied that the plants always seemed to rustle in response to her early morning greetings as she carefully stepped over rows of carrots and cress, parsnips, radishes, and salad greens. She breathed a silent prayer for the coming day as her toes met the carpet of moss that she cultured as a natural insulator to keep the fruits and vegetables cool for picnics and Sunday gatherings. She supposed she ’d need a lot of moss at the stand to cover the produce and hold in the coolness, for the day promised to be as warm as the one before. She passed the kale and the kohlrabi, stroked the green heirloom tomatoes, and then ventured farther into the flower garden. Careless of her clean apron, she knelt next to the wild roses and curled close to the scented blooms, deep in thought.
Dear Father of all, please help me today. Help me not to be afraid but to bring glory to You in my manners and speech. Give me pleasant words to speak and a quick wit to think. Bless all who come to the stand today. Bless the
Englisch
who come, Father, and the new
Englischer
who just moved in across the way. Help us to be good neighbors, and—
Her prayers were interrupted by the whispered call of her name. It was Chelsea, swathed in her voluminous nightdress, picking her way barefoot through the garden. Startled, Sarah rose. She knew that her sister and brother-in-law had stayed for the night, but she was still surprised to see Chelsea this early.
“Chelsea,
Mamm
will be furious if she catches you out in your nightgown. What are you doing?”
Chelsea’s neat teeth flashed white as her gown. “I’m looking for you, and . . .” She lowered her voice. “
Wann er schnarit, halt er much waker
.”
Both girls burst into giggles at the thought of John Kemp snoring loud enough to keep someone awake. He was so quiet by daylight.
Chelsea caught Sarah’s hand, and they turned toward the apricot trees.
“I’m so happy about the baby, Chelsea. Do you know when . . . ?”
“In the autumn sometime, but I didn’t come out to talk about that. I wanted to give you some advice about the stand. And I talked with John . . . If you want, I could come with you this first day, just to see how you get on.”
Sarah considered. It would make things easier, but she should begin as she meant to go on. She knew it, and she could not start by hiding behind her beautiful sister.
“
Nee
, Chelsea, but thanks to you and John. I must do this alone.”
They had wandered among the apple trees, and now the first streaks of dawn began to appear over the mountains.
“All right, but quickly then, before we go in. The
Englisch
like to barter for their prices, so banter with them a bit. They will stare at you, perhaps, and your clothes. I always wore my second best to the stand. And I like that wine-colored blouse you’re wearing today. Give all the children free tastes or samples, then the
mamms
will be more likely to buy. And smile . . . speak English . . . and be prepared for odd questions from the
Englischers
. They always want to know things like whether they can become Amish.”
The girls laughed together again, though Sarah’s heart thumped at all of the hurried information. They wended their way back toward the house just as lights glowed from the kitchen windows and warned them to hurry inside.
Breakfast was a whirlwind for
Mamm
and Sarah during spring, and today was no different. Sarah flew through her chores of gathering the eggs, making the biscuits, setting the table, and then helping to wash the dishes and have the kitchen spotless by 7 a.m., so she would have a whole hour to prepare and gather the necessary items to take to the stand. Father had instructed Luke that he would be the one to drive the wagon of goods the mile up the road to the stand daily and to help Sarah unload before returning to the fields.
Sarah was grateful for the help and now stood in the middle of the kitchen garden with baskets at her feet, staring in perplexity at the array of plants, wondering what to take.
“
Kumme
, Sarah . . . at least let’s dig some potatoes. They always sell.” Luke ’s tone was impatient and snapped Sarah back to attention.
“
Jah
, you gather the potatoes. Dig some onions too, please. Then I will get canned goods from the root cellar . . .
Ach
, and wash everything clean with the hose, Luke.”
Her brother grinned. “Now you sound like Chelsea.”
“Good.” Sarah took heart at his words and made her way to the outside entrance of the root cellar. Her black shoes and stockings flashed against the whitewashed stone steps as she ventured into the cool, dim interior and made her way to where jars and jars of canned fruits and vegetables stood on shelves in neat rows. She plucked tomatoes, peaches, sweet corn, and mushrooms into a basket, then had to half unload it again because it was too heavy to get up the stairs. By her second trip up, Luke had the small wagon ready, with vegetables dripping clean in baskets. The dark horse, Shadow, stood waiting while eating out of a feed bag.