When Grace Sings (6 page)

He didn’t bother to remake the bed before hefting the mattress into the
wooden frame. A click of the cabinet doors, and not only was the bed hidden from sight, but the space felt much larger. He whacked the dividing curtain aside and padded on bare feet to the bathroom. He dipped his knees to bring himself low enough to see his whisker-dotted reflection in the mirror while he brushed his teeth. The ceiling of the tacked-on room sloped toward the east and was better suited for munchkins than for full-grown men.

But if he decided to take a soak, the claw-foot tub was like the one in Aunt Myrt’s old-fashioned bathroom, so it would accommodate his length. For now, though, he wanted a shower. He twisted the knobs until the water temperature satisfied him—the hotter the better—then stepped into the center of a clear plastic circular curtain that protected the walls from spatters. He had to arch backward to fit beneath the rain-shower nozzle, but the water flowed hot the entire fifteen minutes of his shower and felt good.

He shaved, smirking at himself as he did so. Those
Duck Dynasty
guys had nothing on some of the Amish men he’d seen. Maybe he’d let his whiskers grow, too, while he was here so he’d fit in better. Nah. A beard wouldn’t be enough to make him fit. When he’d scraped his face as smooth as he could get it, considering his thick, dark whiskers, he splashed on spicy aftershave and then dug through his suitcase. He chose a deep plum shirt similar in color to the one the helpful boy had worn yesterday and a pair of denim jeans absolutely nothing like the boy’s homemade, suspendered britches. The shirt was pretty wrinkled from its journey, but he gave it several sharp snaps and managed to work out the worst of the creases.

As he dressed, he glanced at the bureau lurking in the corner of the sleeping area. He should probably put his clothes in it rather than leaving them in the suitcase. Maybe later today. Or tomorrow. Aunt Myrt’s voice tiptoed through his memory.
“Procrastination is just a fancy word for lazy. Laziness isn’t a worthwhile trait. Don’t put off for tomorrow what you can do today.”
With a sigh he yanked open the drawers and transferred his clothing, then plunked the suitcase in the corner.

He shook his head and said with a light chuckle, “There ya go, Aunt
Myrt.” The sound of his voice startled him. He’d never spoken to an empty room before. Maybe the silence of the place was doing weird things to him. Rather than examining himself, he tugged socks and shoes over his feet and headed across the yard for the door Alexa had indicated would be open when he was ready for coffee. Caffeine ought to chase the weirdness out of him.

He moved with wide, eager strides across the dewy yard. A sloping concrete slab almost creamy in its newness led to the screened porch door, and inside the porch he located the door for the kitchen. It had to be the kitchen door based on the good smells seeping from behind it. His nose detected cinnamon, sausage, coffee … a tantalizing combination. His stomach growled and saliva pooled under his tongue in anticipation. Maybe he’d ask if he could be served up right away instead of waiting another fifteen minutes ’til it was eight o’clock.

He gave the square etched-glass window on the door a few taps with his knuckles before pushing it open. The kitchen was empty save for the wonderful aromas, but he heard voices from somewhere in the house. So, feeling a bit like an intruder, he moved past the warm kitchen through a short hallway lined with cupboards from floor to ceiling and stepped into a good-sized dining room, where a table big enough to seat at least a dozen people lurked in the middle of the hardwood floor.

Alexa sat at the head of the table. She glanced at him, her face flooded with pink, and she lurched to her feet. “Mr. Forrester … good morning.”

Two men—one older, one who looked a little younger than Briley—and a gray-haired woman sat on opposite sides at one end of the table. Based on their clothes, Briley surmised they were Mennonite. Alexa’s family, maybe? The men turned backward in their chairs to peek briefly at Briley. Each gave a nod of greeting, then focused again on the contents of their plates. He couldn’t blame them. Whatever they were eating smelled great. The older woman held her fork motionless and appraised him with a steady look. A slight smile curved her lips, but he sensed she was taking stock of him. He fought the urge to fidget.

He covered his unease by aiming a smile at Miss Zimmerman. “I know I’m a little early, but you said you’d have coffee ready, so …”

She tossed her napkin onto the table and gestured to the chair next to the older woman. Silverware rolled up in a green cloth napkin and a mug were already in place. “Please have a seat and I’ll get your plate and some juice. The coffeepot is there on the sideboard, along with cream and sugar. Just help yourself.” She scurried out of the room with her ponytail bouncing on her spine.

Briley sauntered around the table—it was a fairly long walk, given the length of the table and the size of the room—and hooked the mug with one finger. Making it spin like a pistol, he moved to the sideboard and then stilled the mug’s rotation with a clamp of his hand. He set the mug gently on the wood top. No sense in scratching things up if he could avoid it. Although he’d distinctly heard conversation when he came in, no one spoke now. The scrape of forks on plates seemed extremely loud in the otherwise quiet room. Were the trio at the table watching him? He chose not to look. He filled his mug to the brim and raised it for a sip. Strong and flavorful with a rich, almost nutty aftertaste. Perfect.

Smacking his lips in satisfaction, he turned toward the table. At the same time, Alexa bustled through the doorway with a glass of pulpy orange juice—fresh squeezed?—and a plate so filled with food he couldn’t even see the pattern around the edges. She followed him to his chair and set the plate in front of him, careful not to brush his arm as she leaned in.

“There you are. Would you like ketchup or some hot sauce for your casserole? I used spicy sausage, but one man’s ‘spicy’ is another man’s ‘mild.’ ”

Briley glanced across the table to the other men’s plates and noted they hadn’t added anything to theirs. He presumed that meant it would be flavorful enough. “No, thanks. This looks great. Thanks, Miss Zimmerman.”

With another quavery smile, she backed away and returned to her chair. She sat and placed her napkin in her lap, but she didn’t lift her fork. “Mr. Forrester, let me introduce you to my grandmother, Mrs. Zimmerman, and our other guests. Joe Brungardt and his son Steven are from Sommerfeld, Kansas.”
She turned to the pair of men. “Mr. Forrester lives in Chicago. He’s a newspaper reporter.”

He was actually a tabloid reporter, but he wouldn’t correct her. He extended his hand across the table. “Hello. Very nice to meet you.”

The father rose from his chair to shake Briley’s hand, but the son only bobbed his head in greeting.

Briley shifted his attention to Alexa’s grandmother. Instead of a dining room chair, she sat in a wheelchair. The new-looking ramps in the front and back suddenly held great meaning, and an unexpected wave of sympathy struck him. He offered her his most charming smile—the one Aunt Myrt had bemoaned could melt butter. “It’s nice to meet you as well, Mrs. Zimmerman. You have a beautiful home.”

“Thank you.” Her words were polite, but her eyes held apprehension. “It would only be a plain-looking farmhouse were it not for Alexa. She gave the house a makeover for my birthday and then set to work fixing things up in here and turning what used to be the summer kitchen into a cottage. Now everything looks like new.”

Briley took a bite of the casserole. He chewed slowly, savoring the blend of flavors, then swallowed and wiped his mouth. “Obviously your granddaughter is a woman of many talents. A decorator, a gourmet cook, already operates her own business … What else do you excel in, Miss Zimmerman?”

Alexa’s cheeks blazed pink. She rose jerkily, blinking rapidly in the Brungardts’ direction. “Mr. Brungardt, I see your plate is empty. Would you like another serving? There’s plenty left.” The man nodded, and Alexa took his plate and disappeared into the kitchen.

Briley forked another bite of casserole to keep from chuckling. Her pretense of caring for the other guests hadn’t fooled him. He’d been around females enough to know when one found him attractive. Most young women preened or openly flirted. Alexa, either shy or unaccustomed to social interaction, did neither. Wouldn’t it be fun to break down her barriers? Now that he’d figured out the
us
indicated her and her grandmother—and of course he
should have surmised she was single when she referred to herself as
miss
—she was fair game.

He’d have to be cautious, though. The grandmother’s legs might not work, but he suspected nothing was wrong with her vision. Or her senses. He could tell she’d already pegged him as untrustworthy, the same way a lot of older people did when they looked at his shadow of dark whiskers, spiked hair, and leather jacket. He might have some trouble winning this one over.
“You’ve got to fit in if you want them to open up to you.”
Len’s warning rang through his mind. It wouldn’t be nearly as much fun, but he’d behave himself.

Alexa returned with a plate heaping with casserole and a face empty of the pretty blush. Breakfast continued with soft chatter among the two guests—from Summer’s Field, was it?—and the Zimmerman women. Briley didn’t intrude upon the conversation. Listening with a reporter’s ear, he searched for any tidbits that might find their way into his article. To his disappointment, nothing of merit arose.

When the older Brungardt had finished his second serving, he pushed his plate aside. “That was very good, Miss Zimmerman. If you wouldn’t mind writing down the recipe, I will take it home to share with my wife. I think it would be a good one to have at our fellowship breakfasts.”

Briley perked up. “Fellowship breakfasts?”

Mrs. Zimmerman answered. “Our church membership often gathers together for meals. We share food and our concerns and the things that give us reason to celebrate. We’re very much like a big family.” She paused and tipped her head, making one of the ribbons from her cap crunch against the flowered shoulder of her homemade dress. “Do you come from a big family, Mr. Forrester?”

Briley broke off a chunk from his baked apple. “No, ma’am.” He stuffed the apple into his mouth.

The elder Brungardt turned to his son. “Are you finished with your breakfast?”

“Yes.”

“Let’s get our things and head to the farmstead, then.”

“Yes, sir.”

Briley observed the younger man out of the corner of his eye. He was so polite. So serious. Maybe even a little resigned.

Mrs. Zimmerman said, “My son doesn’t plan to meet you at the property until after lunch. You can stay here and relax until then, if you like.”

Both men stood and pushed in their chairs. The father said, “It’s been a long time since we were there, so I’m eager to see how the house and outbuildings look.” He flung his arm around his son’s shoulders, smiling for the first time since Briley entered the room. “We want to make sure the roof hasn’t caved in and the walls still stand.”

“Clete has maintained the property, the way his father taught him.” Mrs. Zimmerman lifted her chin. “He wouldn’t have watched everything fall apart without contacting you. He’s a responsible renter.”

Briley surveyed Brungardt’s face for signs of resentment. According to his research, the Amish and Mennonite were nonconfrontational, but Mrs. Zimmerman had come close to issuing a challenge. Would Brungardt meet it?

The man waved one broad hand in dismissal. “Of course he is, Mrs. Zimmerman. I wouldn’t expect anything less from Cecil Zimmerman’s son. But as I said, we haven’t been there in more than a dozen years. Things change in that amount of time, and if Steven is going to live in the house, then—”

“
Live
in it?” If Mrs. Zimmerman was able, Briley suspected she’d leap out of the chair and grab the man by his shirtfront. Her startled gaze bounced from the pair of Mennonite men to Alexa and back to the elder Brungardt. “But what of the land? Clete grows wheat there every year. We depend on that acreage.”

The Brungardt son hung his head. The father’s face pinched into a grimace of regret. He patted his son’s shoulder. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Zimmerman, but the land belongs to Steven now. That’s what we wanted to talk to Cletus about. Steven will be farming it from now on.”

Mrs. Zimmerman stared at the man with her mouth open. Alexa crouched
down and whispered something into her ear while the two Brungardt men shifted from foot to foot, clearly uncomfortable.

Briley sipped his tepid coffee, his mind whirling. What an interesting turn of events. Might he have arrived in Arborville in time to see a feud erupt between supposedly nonconfrontational people?

Steven

If the floor opened up and swallowed him, Steven wouldn’t complain. Standing there with Dad’s arm heavy on his shoulders, Mrs. Zimmerman whispering frantic messages to her granddaughter, and the man from Chicago smirking into his coffee cup, he’d never been more uncomfortable.
God, I’m supposed to be able to do all things through Christ who gives me strength. Why can’t I find the courage to tell Dad I don’t want to be a farmer like him?