The Amish Groom ~ Men of Lancaster County Book 1 (19 page)

He said it in an almost condescending way.

“Learning the family trade
was
my high school.” I pulled out the package of hamburger and set it on the counter. “It’s no different than a vocational high school. I know about those. And it’s never seemed to bother you before that I finished school at eighth grade.”

“I just think it’s weird, that’s all. I’ve always thought it was weird.”

My patience with his attitude was reaching its limit. I needed to know what was up with him. “So why the attitude with me?”

“Why your attitude with me?” Again, the disrespectful tone.

“You know, Brady, when Dad first called me, he said you
wanted
me to come.”

“So?”

I had the onion in my hand and I tossed it on the counter. It rolled into the sink.

“So why are you acting like you wish I weren’t here? Is it because you think the reason is for me to keep you from quitting the team?”

He didn’t answer, so I continued. “Because I have news for you, little brother. I’m not Dad. I don’t care what you do about football.”

Brady’s eyes flashed anger and then went steely cool. “You told Dad you’d do your best to make sure I didn’t quit.”

“No. I told him I would do my best to make sure you didn’t make a decision you would later regret. That happens, you know. If you want to be on the team, then I want you on the team. If you don’t want to be on the team, then that’s fine too. All I ask is that you think it over carefully before you make a decision that big.”

He narrowed his eyes and glared at me with suspicion. We were getting nowhere. If anything, the vibe between us now was worse than it had been the day before.

“Believe it or not,” I continued, “I want whatever you want. I want you to be happy and to make of your life what will bring you the most joy and to God the most honor.”

I could almost hear
Daadi
’s voice through my words, though when he spoke this way it felt comforting and wise. Out of my mouth, it just seemed to agitate Brady even further. He wouldn’t respond or even look at me.

“Do you think I’m lying to you?”

He shrugged, his lips pinched tightly together.

“You do. Why? When have I ever lied to you before?”

Brady picked up one of the library books. “Apparently, never.”

I blinked. “What does that mean, ‘Apparently, never’? You think I’ve been less than honest with you in the past?”

He opened the book and began to thumb through the pages. It took supreme effort not to pull it from his hands and send him to bed without dinner. That’s what
Daadi
would have done. And maybe even our own father. But I wasn’t Brady’s grandfather or his father. I was his brother.

Half brother.

I prayed silently for wisdom to know what was eating away at him and how to draw it out so we could settle this once and for all.

“First of all,” I said, trying to keep the anger and frustration from my voice, “I have never, nor will I ever, lie to you. Second, if you want to quit the team, that’s fine. I’ll stand with you. It’s your life and your future.”

He put the book down. “I never told Dad I wanted to quit the team.”

“But he said—”

“Maybe you should ask me what
I
said.”

He had me there. It hadn’t been my intention to begin this conversation in this way. “You’re right. I was going to ask you tonight over dinner how you were feeling about being on the team. I did this all wrong. Can we start over?”

Brady shook his head and laughed as though I still didn’t get it. “Not that it’s truly any of your business, Tyler, but I happen to like football. What I don’t like is Dad needing to cram his dreams for greatness down my throat. And if my playing football is going to bring out the worst in him, then I am going to take up marching band. Because I am telling you right now, I will not spend the next three years and then the next four years and then who knows how many years after that in the NFL, should I get lucky enough to play for them, being Dad’s…never mind.”

And there it was. As I’d suspected, Dad really was coming down way too hard on his younger son. Before I could think of how to respond, Brady continued.

“Just forget it. Look, I have no plans to quit the team. At least not while you’re here. But if I do, it’s
my
decision to make. And mine to regret, for that matter. See, I do understand the consequences and I do take them seriously. Okay?”

“Okay.” I was quiet for a moment. “But even if you stay on the team, you really need to talk to Dad about this when he gets home.”

Brady rolled his eyes. “I already have. He doesn’t get it.”

“What if you and I talked to him together?”

He barked out a laugh.

“I’m serious, Brady. Once he returns, I think the three of us should sit down and discuss this whole issue. Calmly and respectfully. Trust me. He already knows you’re not happy with him right now. And I’ll be there beside you to back you up.”

My brother sighed. “Right.” He stood, picked up his glass, and brought it to the sink. “Just like you’ve always been there before.”

I had no idea what he was implying. All I knew was that he didn’t respect me anymore—nor did he trust me, for that matter. Had I let him down somehow? Certainly, I had lost credibility in his eyes. I couldn’t imagine how that might have happened, but I hoped I would find out soon. The chip on his shoulder was huge, far too big to be knocked off in a single conversation.

I decided to leave it alone for now.

“Okay, maybe now’s not the time to talk about this. I’m hungry, and I’m sure you are too.”

He seemed relieved that we were dropping the subject for now. I asked him to turn on the grill, and he walked to the door, pausing before he went out.

“Oh, yeah,” he said, turning back. “Lark picked up Aaron after practice today. I asked her about the photography thing. She said she might have a few suggestions for you.”

“Pardon?”

“Aaron’s sister. The photographer, remember? Her name is Lark. She couldn’t think of anyone who might be willing to teach you offhand, but she offered to ask around. She wants to talk to you first, though, hear what you have in mind.”

“No problem. Should I call her?”

“She said she’d just meet you after the football game Friday night. You’re coming, right?”

“I’ll be there.”

F
OURTEEN

T
he rest of the evening passed without further conflict. Something was still between Brady and me at the dinner table, something we would need to get back to soon, but we managed to bury the hatchet, temporarily at least, and share an uncomplicated evening. That would have to be good enough for now.

Later, before getting in bed, I updated my list.

The Pacific Ocean shines like glass.

Some young women tint their hair with colors not found in nature.

Reading and researching simply for knowledge is uncommon, at least once one is no longer in school.

Sitting back in my chair, I thought of the various things I wanted to explore while I was here, including photography and bike riding.

I hadn’t gone bicycling in many years—not since my mother died, in fact. But I’d seen some bicycles in the garage, and for some reason I had been feeling the urge to hop on one and take it for a spin ever since. Maybe I just wanted to experience that old sensation of flying down the street, like a plane about to take to the sky.

Or maybe I just wanted to feel closer to my mother, doing something I had memories of us having happily shared together.

The next day, Thursday, when Brady came downstairs for breakfast—just cereal and a banana this time—he seemed to be in a much better mood than he had when I’d arrived home the night before.

He poured cornflakes into a bowl. One flake spilled onto the counter and he tossed it to Frisco. “So what’s up for today? More fascinating journeys into the world of research and libraries and history?” He was being sarcastic again, but this time it felt a little less mean spirited and more like simple teasing between brothers.

I smiled. “You never know.” I didn’t feel like sharing with him my plans for the biking. “Maybe I’ll find some things to do around the house. Something useful. Any ideas?”

With a shrug, he dug into his cereal, thought for a moment, and then said, “You know how to make a container garden?”

“A what garden?”

“A container garden. My mom wants one on the south side of the backyard so she can grow her own herbs and lettuce and stuff. That’s what people do in the suburbs, I guess. Dad was going to hire somebody to do it, but he hasn’t yet.”

“I could probably build that,” I said, eager to have a project at last.

“You’ll have to take out the bushes that are there first. They’re right where she wants it.”

“No problem. Great, actually.”

He regarded me with a lopsided smile. “Nice to know I’ve made your day.” He picked up his bowl and took it to the table. “You know where to go to find out what a container garden looks like, right?”

I smiled back at him. “Internet?”

He gave me a thumbs-up. Another one for my list.

The first—and often only—step in any quest for knowledge is to search the Internet.

When Brady left for school and the dishes were done, I headed into the backyard to check out the south side of the house. I found a loose pebble walkway that led to a small garden shed. It was neat and orderly, likely used by the hired gardener and no one else. Walking along a leafy hedge, I could see the area Brady had been talking about. It was about eight feet deep and twenty feet long, give or take. Frisco seemed particularly enthused about my interest in the backyard, and when I tried to head back to the door, he dropped a red rubber ball at my feet. Wishing I had a farm for the little guy to explore, I took pity on him and threw the toy for him to fetch ten or eleven times, much to the dog’s delight. As I did, I had to admit that he was growing on me.

“You’re no Timber,” I told him as we headed back inside, “but you’ll do for now.”

I made another cup of coffee to sip while I used Dad’s computer to find out what a typical Southern California container garden looked like.

I hadn’t really been in the study until that moment. As soon as I stepped inside, I was hyperaware that the room was my dad’s and no one else’s. Two tall, potted palms stood by French doors that opened to the fire pit in the backyard. Built-in bookshelves lined one entire wall, though my dad didn’t appear to own a lot of reading material. The shelves were sparsely populated with books, leaving the remaining space for models of military helicopters, a wedding portrait of him and Liz, and pictures of muscle cars. The few books Dad had were mostly related to collectible cars, his military career, and the places he had lived while he was in the army. As I scanned the titles, I saw that he had a pictorial guide to Germany, where he’d been stationed when I was born. I ran my finger along the spine, knowing I would want to take a look at it later.

I walked to the desk, put my coffee mug down on a leather coaster, and rolled back the office chair. As I settled into the seat and scooted forward, I was startled to see my own face staring back at me. On Dad’s desk, next to the computer and facing the chair, was the framed photo of Brady and me at the beach, the one I had looked for in the living room. Several seconds passed before I was able to move on mentally from the knowledge that he kept my picture, one of perhaps only a few that he had, sitting on his desk, in the one room of the house that was solely his.

I powered on the computer and checked my email account to see if Dad had sent a note to let us know he arrived safely in Qatar. I also wanted to write to him about the container garden—to let him know I could make it and wanted to make it while he was away. There was indeed an email to me from my father, letting me know his flight had been trouble-free and that he would be in and out of communication while he was over there working. I typed back a quick message about the container garden idea, asking if he or Liz had a preference on what shape it took. I also told him Brady and I were settling in just fine.