Sarah's Garden (29 page)
Mamm
didn’t want her to go, of course. “Rest a few more days, child. Those plants will be fine.”
“No,” Sarah pleaded. “It will make me feel better faster, please,
Mamm
.”
Mamm
sighed and threw up her hands. “Go on then, but wear my coat.”
Sarah obeyed, lost in the ample folds but feeling so much happier to have the sunshine on her face and the bitingly fresh air in her lungs. She had a faint cough and pulled her scarf close.
“Jacob’s been by most days to ask after you,” Luke told her as he drove the buggy down the high road.
“I don’t know why.”
Luke barked out a laugh. “
Nee
, you’ve no idea.”
She gave him a swat on the arm. “I haven’t encouraged him.” Then she bit her lip, wondering if that was exactly the truth.
“It seems he needs little to encourage him, then.”
“You don’t like him?”
“Me? Jacob is a good man. I haven’t really given it a thought . . .”
“Yes, you have.”
Luke replied slowly. “He ’s not the doctor.”
“That’s the truth.”
She glanced out onto the fields, glazed with white light and the occasional stray stalk poking through with bleak brown. They pulled into the doctor’s lane, and she wondered if the Bustles were home. She concentrated on the ample greenhouse at the back of the house, though, as they drove past the sturdy farmhouse. Luke helped her down, and she felt for the key in the folds at her neck. They entered to the humid warmth and began undoing layers of clothing.
Sarah inspected the plants. The ones on the raised beds were doing well, and the added pots on the tables were growing like wild. The catnip, in particular, stood up straight as wet hair could, and she snipped a bit to take home to Grimes, the barn cat.
Luke called to her, bent to the ground and studying something.
“Sarah,
kumme
, look at this.”
She came around the table of paste tomatoes and bent to the ground. “What is it?”
“Cigarette ashes and several halves of cigarettes. Someone’s been here.”
She thought of Grant but could not imagine him smoking.
“I think we should change the lock on the door,” Luke declared.
Nee
. . . it’s probably nothing. A teenager having some “fun . . .”
“Don’t forget the arsons, Sarah. I want you to be safe . . . the Bustles too.”
“There haven’t been any more arsons, and Matthew Fisher is probably long gone from here. I’ll be fine, but I will sweep this up.”
She went to fetch a broom and came back to find Luke still kneeling. “Move over, Luke King, and don’t be such an old woman.”
“You’re my sister,” he said, rising to his feet, and Sarah was surprised for the first time to see how much he towered over her.
“You’ve grown since I’ve been sick.”
“Thanks.”
She swatted the broom at the ashes until they disintegrated, then scraped up the butts.
“There, no worries now.”
“No, but I’ll be bringing you over here in the future, just the same.”
“Luke King, you’re growing into a fine gentleman.”
He burped, pounding his chest, and they both laughed, forgetting the mysterious sweepings.
S
arah! Sarah King? Are you here?”
Sarah was startled by the deep, masculine voice calling her name from somewhere in the vast reaches of the attics. She scrambled from her desk and entered the main room, amazed to see Jacob standing in her private sanctuary.
He grinned at her irritated expression. “Your
mamm
sent me up—she thought that it might be good for you to have a visitor. What could I say?”
She groaned and turned her back on him, wending her way to her desk, where she plopped down and began parceling away the seeds she ’d been dividing. He followed, of course, and she glanced around to see him duck his head to enter the smaller offshoot room, then to whistle in appreciation as he ran a hand over the top of the desk.
“There’s not many of these around anymore.”
“No.”
“It’s a man’s desk, meant for hard thoughts, not for piddling about with seeds and stuff.”
She swiveled around in the chair to open her mouth in a tirade, and he bent to place a long finger against her lips.
“Shh . . . I’m sorry; I’m just teasing. You bring it out in me. Here, proof of my goodwill.” He laid his hat on the desk and dropped a stack of the latest seed catalogs in front of her. She forgot all about him as she lifted the top edition.
Ach
. . . I’ve been waiting for these.” She studied the pages like “a visual feast and started scribbling notes on a pad and murmuring aloud. “
Catskill Brussel Sprouts, Schoon’s Hardshell American Melon, Purple Podded Pea . .
.”
“Is it English you’re speaking?”
She looked up to find him studying her with amusement, his hip leaned against the edge of the great desk. She bit her lip.
“Sarah King, it’s a shame to treat lips like yours in such a manner.” He leaned closer, his eyes more green now than brown.
She scrambled backward and out of the chair like a scalded cat, hugging the seed catalog to her chest.
“What? Haven’t you been kissed before?” He hadn’t moved but arched a dark eyebrow in disbelief.
“Of course.”
“
Ach
, that’s the problem then,” he said drily. “Still holding out for the first kisser, aren’t you?”
She turned her back on him to face the window. “No . . . at least, I’m trying not to.”
He moved to stand behind her. “Then let me help.” He laid warm hands on her shoulders and she closed her eyes, allowing it. She felt him bend to press his mouth against the nape of her neck and then trailed gentle kisses up to her ear. She tried to feel the same passion she had with Grant, but it just wasn’t there, only an empty ache that left her feeling adrift and lonelier than ever. She turned in his arms and stared up at him. His dark lashes lay heavy on his flushed cheeks and he lowered his head to find her mouth.
“Jacob, please. Stop.”
He opened his eyes and took a deep breath. “I’m sorry, Sarah. I went too fast.” He stepped away and leaned back against the desk, his fingers clenched white against the wood.
“No . . . it’s just . . . me,” she whispered miserably.
“No, it’s not you. Look, I felt awful when you got sick; it was my fault for taking off your shawl.”
She shook her head. “No, it was my fault. I think I was sick for a long time, just heart sick.”
“Can we agree, then, that you’re wounded right now, and just—just try to be the friends we ’ve always been?”
She took a long time to respond. “I’ll try.”
“Fair enough. I’ll come by later to take you sledding if your health permits?”
“Fine.”
“Fine.”
She listened to his steps echo as they receded and stared out the window to the muddy ground below as she whispered aloud, “
Ach
, Grant Williams . . . where are you? Where are you, my love?”
G
rant Williams was less than two miles away studying Pennsylvania Dutch grammar at the home of the bishop. He bent his powerful mind to a differentiation in tenses between the spoken language and the High German used at church meetings and then flung himself back on his narrow bed with disgust. He should have taken a language in school besides Latin, he thought, gazing out the small window to the mackerel sky above. He missed Sarah so much that he hurt, but he had no choice but to finish the course he’d laid out for himself—no, the one that the Lord had laid out.
A brief knock on his door broke him from his reverie.
“
Kumme
,” he called.
The bishop, Ezekiel Loftus, entered, and Grant contained a groan. The little man had been gracious enough to talk in private to all of the deacons, and they had all, including Mr. King, agreed that Grant might study to become part of the community through baptism. However, Mr. King had requested that the studying and preparation might be done confidentially so that Grant would discover if baptism was of a man’s heart or
Der Herr
’s desire.
Ezekiel had latched onto the secrecy idea like an old dog with a bone but still loved to bring Grant bits of community gossip, mostly about Sarah, in an attempt to do Grant was never quite sure what. Sometimes he believed that the man cared for the relationship between him and Sarah, and sometimes he just thought he liked to tease. In either case, any news of her was welcomed as he felt like he was half-starving for want of her company.
He pillowed his arms behind his head and looked at his friend, teacher, and jailer. “What is it today?”
For once, Ezekiel looked hesitant and Grant sat up.
“What’s wrong?’
“Nee
—there’s not really much wrong.”
“Not much?”
The old man produced a satchel from behind his back. “I’ve brought you a disguise.”
“What? What for?”
“
Ach
, you just have to go . . .”
“What’s wrong?” Grant asked again, beginning to be alarmed. Perhaps Sarah was ill or worse.
Ezekiel raised a placating hand. “There ’s nothing wrong with your Sarah, just a bad cold. There ’s nothing else wrong, not yet, anyway.”
“Bishop . . . my patience is about out.”
“All right. You know Jacob Wyse?”
“Yes, so?”
“Word has it that he took Sarah King for a sled ride last week.”
“What?” Grant looked as though he ’d been struck a physical blow.
“Now, now, here ’s just what Ephraim King was speaking of. Are you here studying for the girl or for the community?”
Grant frowned at him and thought hard.
“I want to be Amish, to be part of the community, and I feel closer to the Lord.”
“Fair enough. But I say there ’s no reason that you can’t take a look at the competition, so to speak. And word is they’re supposed to be out for a ride again today.”
“I can’t go out and about. You know how people talk!”
“Which is why I’ve brought you your own Amish man disguise.”
“Amish man . . . I sound like a bad superhero. What do you mean ‘again today’? And how bad is the cold? Does she need a doctor?”
“Just a cold, nearly passed now. The midwife saw her. And just for a little bit of a drive—not like the
Englisch
do it, sliding down hills on their backsides. A sled ride, in a cutter.”
Grant was emptying the disguise satchel. “A cutter?”
“A hand-tooled sled—Jacob’s got a way with horses, you know.”
“Yeah, well, he can just dream on when it comes to having a chance with Sarah. Why, I’ll—”
“Remember, restraint, governance of the self, yielding of the will.” Ezekiel ticked off the virtues on stubby fingers.
“Right. You’re right.”
I’ll knock Jacob Wyse flat
, Grant thought while he tried to appear submissive. The Amish thing was a lot harder than it looked.
“Now put on your disguise. I brought airplane model glue to put the beard on, and the wig should stay with a couple of Ellie ’s hairpins.”
“Where did you get this?” Grant asked, holding up the too large pants and suspenders in one hand and the black fake beard in the other.
“Lockport—last Halloween. I used it in a sermon to illustrate the falseness of ‘putting on’ Amish when the man inside is not right with the community.”
Grant looked impressed as he crawled into the clothes. He peered into the small mirror and squirted on the small tube of glue. The beard stuck. He added the wig and the hat and stepped back. “Well, how do I look?”
“Like you, in a bad Amish costume.”
“That’s great.”
Nee
. . .
nee
. . . I have a good idea. You’ll rub yourself down “with some manure, then no one will get within ten feet of ya.”
Grant snorted. “I don’t think so.”
“I guess it all depends on how bad you want to see Sarah and Jacob.”
Grant growled something beneath his breath, and the bishop looked satisfied. “Come on, we ’ll go out to the barn and then we ’ll try it out on Ellie first. She always gives an honest opinion.”
“Fine . . . let’s get it over with.”
They went downstairs to the side door and headed outside to the manure pile.
“Whooeee . . . you stink!” The bishop rubbed his hands together. “One more thing—put on these dark sunglasses to hide those blue eyes of yours.”
“But the Amish have blue eyes,” Grant protested.
“Not like fire and ice, they don’t. No—one look at your eyes and Sarah would know you for sure.”
“All right.” Grant put on the round sunglasses and didn’t feel like himself. “Let’s go and scare your wife.”
The bishop laughed; Ellie screamed.
“Ezekiel,” she yelled from where she ’d shooed Grant off the porch. “I know the good Lord wants you to bring home the poor and the homeless, but this one needs to stay in the barn! The barn, I tell you! Why, when I think of my kitchen floor—”
Grant removed the glasses and smiled at her. She screamed again.
“Dr. Williams! What are you doing out of this house? Do you know how many womenfolk I’ve had to drive off because they come sniffing the air like there ’s a secret just wafting about?
You go take a bath and get right back upstairs!”
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Loftus. I promise no one will find out.”
“Ezekiel, if this is about that sleigh ride, just let the poor man here alone. It was only a two-hour ride in an open cutter—it meant nothing.”
“Two hours?” Grant repeated.
“
Ach
, Ellie, you let him alone. We ’re just going out for a little while; we ’ll be back before supper.”
“And you’ll both bathe . . . in the barn!”
“Let’s go,” Grant pressed.
“We ’ll use the wagon, Doctor, if you don’t mind. You’re a foul-smelling man.”
“At least my soul and conscience are clean.”
“That will be determined one day, but for now, not even the good Lord Himself would step near enough for you to have your judgment.”
“Then I should be able to look at Sarah all I want, if she won’t come near enough to recognize me.” And that thought sent a chill down his spine.
“We ’ll see, Doctor. We ’ll see.”
J
acob was as good as his word. Later that afternoon, Sarah watched from the window as the cutter came down the lane. She put on her wraps, wanting to avoid any interaction or comment from
Mamm
, but that good lady already had the door open and chattered merrily away.