The Calling (36 page)

On it were scrawled only two words:
I’m sorry.

Bethany saw Rusty kneeling next to the garden plot of the Group Home, thinning radish starts. She was wearing jeans that were too short and a ratty-looking brown sweater that was much too big. Sunlight streamed on her tangled bird’s nest of long red hair, making it seem as if it had caught fire.

Bethany stood a few yards away for a while before letting Rusty know she was there, and looked at her, truly looked at her, as if she were seeing her for the first time. She looked beyond the angry eyes and tough-girl attitude, and saw a young, mixed-up teenager.

A purple martin darted between them, flapping its wings in sudden terror. Bethany spotted a cat slinking toward them on a garden path. She smiled. Jimmy’s purple martin houses were attracting all kinds of creatures. She sat on the edge of the wooden garden bed. “How’d you like to learn how to bake bread?”

The funniest expression crossed Rusty’s face—wariness and calm and hope, all mingled together. Then she dropped her eyes and tugged on her cutoff jeans. She shrugged. “Beats weeding, I guess.”

“Good. Put your tools away and meet me in the kitchen in the Grange.”

A few minutes later, Rusty joined Bethany in the kitchen. Bethany pointed to the sink. “Wash your hands. Then wash them again. Get the garden grit out from under your fingernails. Scrub them like a surgeon heading to the operating room.”

Rusty scowled at her—which didn’t surprise Bethany because she knew Rusty didn’t tolerate anyone telling her what to do—but she went to the sink and started to scrub.

Bethany stirred a packet of yeast into a jar of warm water and set it aside. She measured flour into a big bowl, created a well, and added a tablespoon or two of oil. Then she picked up the yeast, now stirred to life—thick and bubbly—and dumped it into the well.

Rusty peered over her shoulder. “That gray stuff is alive.”

Bethany laughed. “It is. It’s a living organism. When water is added to yeast, it wakes it up.” She picked up a sturdy wooden spoon and stirred it together, stirred and stirred, until it was a thick, lumpy blob of dough. She scattered a layer of fine white flour across the surface of the countertop, divided
the dough into two pieces, one for each of them, and gave half to Rusty. “It’s going to be sticky to start with, but just keep kneading and it will get better. If it’s too sticky, dust it with a little more flour.”

Rusty pounded it with her hands.

“Whoa! Keep it steady. Watch me. Do what I do.” She pushed the heel of her palm into the dough and it squeezed upward, cool and clammy. “You knead dough by folding it, and then pressing the heel of your hand into the fold, like this.” She folded, pressed, folded, pressed. Bethany loved the way it felt, spongy and cold, and how it started to change under her palm as she kneaded it.

“Why do you have to knead it so much?”

“You’re releasing the yeast into the flour and water and salt. It’s a miracle, in a way, to think of delicious bread coming out of such simple ingredients.” She glanced over at the sticky lump in Rusty’s hands. “Add a little bit of flour as you go so it doesn’t stick to your hands.”

“How do you know when it’s done?”

“The more you bake bread, the more you’ll just know, but until then, there are a couple of ways to know for sure: If it holds its shape when you lift the ball in the air. If you poke it and the hole fills in.” She grinned. “Or if your arms get tired.” She stretched her ball of dough and pounded it down on the countertop. “It’s not ready until it’s not sticky. It should seem like a smooth, firm ball. Good thing is you can’t knead it too much. Not like pastry dough.”

Rusty crinkled up her face in confusion and Bethany realized this girl knew absolutely nothing about cooking. She probably had never tasted a homemade piecrust before, buttery and flaky. “When the ball is elastic and doesn’t stick to
you at all, it’s time to let it rise for a few hours. Then we pound the air out of it, knead it some more, let it rise again, and bake it.”

“That’s a ton of work for a slice of bread. Why don’t you just buy a loaf of Wonder Bread from the store?”

Bethany gave her a look as if a cat had spoken. “Later today, after you eat a piece of this bread right out of the oven, with butter melting on it, then I’ll ask you the same question.” She watched Rusty push and pull the dough, a serious intent on her face, and thought she might just be enjoying herself. “But if what you’re really asking is why anyone would bother to go to all this work—I love to bake bread. I love to cook from scratch.”

“Why? It’s simpler to just buy stuff.”

Bethany was surprised. Rusty was easier to engage in conversation than she would’ve expected. Almost as if she was just waiting for someone to show genuine interest in her. Geena, no doubt, had probably discovered that right away. “I get a lot of pleasure out of nourishing and feeding people. It makes me happy.”

Rusty mimicked Bethany’s movement: pressing the dough with her palm, then rolling and pressing it again.

Drumming in Bethany’s head was Geena’s prophecy about being a mentor to these young girls. It gave her a shivery feeling down her spine, like how she felt after one of Naomi’s visions came true.

As they pushed and pulled at the dough, Bethany said, almost whispering, “Rusty, do you have any idea where Jake Hertzler is now?” She had told herself not to ask Rusty about Jake. Told herself, yet out it blurted. She didn’t want to talk about him, to think about him, but in the back of her mind,
she had a hope that Rusty might be able to help the police find him.

Cornered and knowing it, Rusty pressed her lips together and stilled. “No,” she said at last. “I haven’t heard from him since . . . that night.”

“I’m not judging you. I know Jake can be a smooth talker. But I wondered how he found you in the first place.”

A tiny shade of relief passed over Rusty and she started to push and pull the dough again. When she had her words lined up, her voice dropped to that calm tone she used on the night of the attack. “I’ve known him for a while. He used to get drugs and stuff for me and my friends. He drove by the Group Home and recognized me. Paid me a bundle to destroy the gardens.” A combative light came into her eyes as she looked squarely at Bethany. “But I didn’t hurt your dog. I wouldn’t do that. That was all Jake. I didn’t know it was you he was after.”

“I’m grateful for your help that night.” Back and forth with the dough, back and forth, pushing and pulling.

“He’ll be back. Your brother’s got something he wants.”

Bethany froze. “What? What could it be?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know if it’s a thing or if it’s information. I just know he’s determined to get something. I’d tell you if I knew anything more.” Rusty jammed her fist at the dough. “He’s a bad one, that Hertzler. Bad through and through.”

That he is.
Bethany hated the man, hated the man with such force she shuddered with it and felt no shame for it. She should, though. It shamed her that she felt no shame.

Rusty didn’t offer up another word about Jake and Bethany was fine with that. She didn’t think she could stand one more
fearful thought about Jake Hertzler. “So what’s new at the Group Home?”

“Old Biddy Green is leaving.”

Bethany looked up. “The housemother? She’s leaving?”

“Yup. Her mother is about to kick the bucket so she’s gonna go take care of her.”

“When is she leaving?”

“As soon as they find some sucker to take her place.”

Bethany grinned. “Mrs. Green wasn’t so bad.”

Rusty rolled her eyes. “She spends most of the day on the couch watching soap operas.”

Bethany shaped the bread into balls and put them in a large wooden bowl, then covered it with a damp dishcloth and set it near the oven.
Someone to take her place.
She glanced over at Rusty, an idea starting to surface. With a sense of sudden purpose, she said, “You might be surprised. Mrs. Green’s replacement could be an ideal match.”

Geena woke in the middle of the night and somehow knew, without a doubt, the time had come to leave Eagle Hill. Rose and Vera had returned, the Schrock family didn’t need her help any longer, and she sensed that inner prompting she was always listening for. It was time. “I get the message, Lord, but what am I going home to?” She waited for an answer, eyes on the ceiling.

Nothing.

“I’d really prefer to get the full picture, Lord, if you don’t mind. I’ve never been good at that step-by-step thing.”

Nothing.

“Well. Fine, then. I’ll head back to my apartment in the city and wait for further orders.”

Nothing.

In the morning, Geena stripped the sheets off the bed in Bethany’s room and packed her suitcase. She looked around to make sure she had left the small room the way she found it. She would leave, but not until after breakfast. She wasn’t about to miss her last Amish breakfast. She thought she smelled the sweet scent of freshly baked blueberry cornbread all the way up in her room. It was the Inn’s specialty and always served at the first breakfast for new guests.

When Geena went downstairs, she found Bethany alone in the kitchen. The kitchen clock chimed softly while she helped herself to a cup of coffee. “You’re up earlier than usual.”

“The new guests in the guest flat are bird-watchers. They wanted breakfast at 4:30 a.m. so they could go birding at dawn.”

“And you accommodated them?”

Bethany smiled. “Not me. Rose did. She likes birds, herself.”

Geena sat at the kitchen table and set her mug down. “It’s time I head back to Philadelphia.”

Bethany glanced up, disappointment on her face. “So soon? Do you have a job? Do you know what you’re going to do?”

“No. God hasn’t told me that part yet.” Not yet. Soon. She felt confident of that. Each day, she went to the Sweet Tooth Bakery for coffee and a cinnamon roll, then spent a few hours in the corner of the bakery using the wi-fi. She had emailed dozens of résumés and sent emails to colleagues. She had received one answer back from a church that showed mild interest. They were looking for a youth pastor, though she would have to move to a remote section of South Dakota. She was willing. She would go anywhere God called her. Even South Dakota.

Bethany turned off the burner at the stove and set down the spatula. “Geena, would you consider applying for the job as housemother at the Group Home? Mrs. Green can’t leave until she finds a replacement, and Sylvia told me just yesterday that there haven’t been any qualified applicants. Being housemother probably doesn’t pay much money and you’d be doing more counseling than preaching. I know it’s not quite what you had in mind, but you’re so good with the girls. Would you consider it?”

The suggestion caught Geena by surprise, so much so that she hesitated a moment before answering. “Thanks, Bethany, but I’m committed to serving in churches.”

“But who’s to say what kind of church? Isn’t serving God what you want to do? You’re wonderful with those girls. And being a housemother is a position that plays to your strengths. You’ve said that was important.”

Geena managed a kind smile and hoped it didn’t look as patronizing as she felt. It was sweet of Bethany to worry about her, but how could an Amish girl possibly understand what it was like to be a trained seminarian? Just as Bethany opened her mouth to say something more, Geena cut her off. “Breakfast sure smells delicious.”

Bethany clamped her lips shut. A loud clunk hit the ceiling and her eyes rolled upward. “I hear those boys stirring upstairs. I’d better finish up.”

An hour later, Geena had said her goodbyes to the Schrock family with promises to return, and drove away from Eagle Hill. She passed by the Sisters’ House, the Grange Hall, the community garden, the Group Home. As she turned the corner onto Main Street, she heard the voice of God. It said gently,
Stop. Go back. Feed my sheep.

Instead, she headed down Main Street and noticed the Sweet Tooth Bakery. She loved that little shop.

She heard the voice again:
Geena, make a U-turn.
Watch over
my flock.

She checked her GPS for the road that would lead her east on I-76. To Philadelphia. She clicked on her blinker.

Again, she heard the voice:
Go to the
Group Home and care for those girls.

As soon as the words formed in her head, she understood. She had been asking the wrong question:
Which church should I serve
in?
Surely the answer was to look around and see the church was everywhere. She hesitated. And she almost went back. Instead, she stopped at the Sweet Tooth Bakery and bought a cinnamon roll. She loved those cinnamon rolls.

Then she went back.

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