When Grace Sings (8 page)

Understanding dawned. She released a little gasp that caught his attention. “You want to go to college, don’t you?”

He frowned, zinging a look toward the barn. But his father and her uncle were inside. They couldn’t overhear. He almost seemed to deflate, his tense frame collapsing and his head dropping low. “Yes.” He swallowed. “Yes, I really do.”

“What do you want to do?”

“I want to be a teacher.” The longing in his voice proved how much he wanted it.

“Then why don’t you?”

He sent a sideways glance that communicated frustration. “Because I can’t.”

“Why not?”

His face twisted with a snide grimace. “Because in my fellowship, teachers are women. Men are farmers, or furniture makers, or business owners. They aren’t teachers.”

A chilly blast of wind slapped the house, rattling the windows and releasing a low howl. Alexa pushed her hands into the pockets of her jacket and crossed the flaps. “Just because it’s never been done before doesn’t mean it
can’t
be done, right? My mom grew up right here in Arborville as part of the Old Order fellowship. She went to college and became a nurse. That was new to her fellowship. But her family was proud of her for doing it.” Of course, they hadn’t
realized what else Mom was doing—raising a baby on her own and keeping it secret. But that information wouldn’t benefit the confused young man standing on the porch with her.

Steven sighed. His breath formed a little cloud. The temperature had dropped more than Alexa had realized. “My family wouldn’t be proud if I asked to go away to school. They’d be—”

“Steven?” Mr. Brungardt waved from the open doorway of the barn. “Clete says a storm is brewing. We need to leave soon, but come look at this barn first. You’ll have to do some patching on the roof and on the north side, but the loft is still usable. Come see.”

Steven bent his elbows and did a push-up off the railing. The old wood complained as it released his weight. Looking toward the barn, he finished softly, “They’d be disappointed. They want me to marry Anna—Grace and farm my grandfather’s land. So that’s what I’ll do.” His expression resigned, he moved slowly toward the rotting steps.

Alexa watched him go, disjointed thoughts tumbling through her mind. He planned to bring Anna—Grace here, but he didn’t really want to do it. He wanted to go away somewhere and become a teacher. If he pursued his desire, she wouldn’t have to live next door to the girl her mother had given up for adoption. Was it selfish to hope his dream came true so she didn’t have to face what would certainly be her worst nightmare?

Arborville

Alexa

Alexa always looked forward to Sunday. Traditionally the Zimmermans gathered for a meal and a time of fellowship after Sunday service. When Grandmother Zimmerman’s son and daughters brought their families together, there were fourteen of them in all—a dozen more than had sat at Alexa’s kitchen table during her growing-up years. She loved the noise, the happy chaos, even the messes. When she sat at the table with her grandmother, aunts, uncles, and cousins, it didn’t matter that they weren’t her blood relations. They were her
family
, and she savored every moment with them.

Today they gathered at Shelley’s house, and for the first time since giving birth two months ago, the youngest Zimmerman sibling, Sandra, joined them rather than going home to rest. Although Alexa tried hard not to play favorites, she couldn’t help feeling drawn to Sandra. Only six years older than Alexa, Sandra seemed more like a sister than an aunt. From their very first encounter, Sandra had openly accepted Alexa into the circle of family, unlike Clete and Shelley who’d struggled with the idea of their older sister having a child without the benefit of a husband. Not until the truth was revealed about Alexa’s parentage had Clete and Shelley relaxed around her. But they hadn’t completely accepted her yet.

To Alexa’s delight, Shelley seated her next to Sandra, and she anticipated the chance to chat with her young aunt. However, the children were especially boisterous. Grandmother blamed their unusual rambunctiousness on the storm that had blown through yesterday afternoon, declaring them “little barometers.” Whatever the reason, their loud voices hindered conversation between Alexa and Sandra, but from experience Alexa knew that Shelley would send the children to the kitchen for dessert. She’d be able to visit with Sandra then.

Just as they finished their meal—savory homemade chicken pot pie so good Alexa battled a groan of delight with every mouthful—Shelley rose to cut the pies Alexa had brought along to share. Sandra and Derek’s little Isabella wakened from her nap on a blanket on the living room floor and let out a quavering wail. With a sigh, Sandra pushed to her feet. “I suppose it’s only fair she’s hungry when the rest of us are. Shelley, may I take her to your bedroom and nurse her?”

Shelley began herding the children into the kitchen. “There’s not a chair in there, but if you don’t mind sitting on the bed, go ahead.”

Sandra scooped up the baby and headed for the hallway. “Alexa, I’m trusting you to save me a piece of the peach-pecan.”

“Will do,” Alexa laughingly promised. She helped Shelley serve half portions to each of the children, from Clete and Tanya’s eight-year-old Jay down to Sandra and Derek’s three-year-old Ian, then carried plates to the dining room table for the adults. Shelley followed with a pot of coffee. As Alexa started to sit down to enjoy her dessert, an idea struck and she picked up both her and Sandra’s pie plates. “Aunt Shelley, would you mind if I took this in to Sandra?”

Shelley hesitated for a moment, pursing her lips, but then she nodded. “Just tell her not to drip pie filling on my quilt.”

Alexa flopped a pair of napkins over her arm and then headed to the bedroom hallway. She passed the open doorway where twin-sized beds draped with pink-and-white-checked quilts, nearly buried beneath a pile of stuffed
animals, identified the room as Ruby and Pearl’s. The door at the end of hall was closed, but Alexa could hear Sandra’s soft voice coming from behind it. She tapped on it with her elbow.

“Who is it?”

“Alexa. I have your pie.”

“Get in here!”

Giggling, Alexa balanced everything on one arm and opened the door. Sandra had propped a pillow in her lap and draped a blanket over her shoulder. Isabella’s little body formed a misshapen lump under the blanket.

Sandra kept one arm wrapped around the baby but held her other hand toward the pie and wiggled her fingers. “Gimme.”

Alexa laid a napkin out on the bed next to Sandra’s hip and put the plate on top of it. “Shelley said not to make a mess on her quilt.”

Sandra grinned. “Of course she did.” She took her fork and eagerly stabbed up a bite. “Mmm … I love peaches and pecans together.” She ate another bite, even closing her eyes in exaggerated enjoyment. Then she pointed her fork at Alexa. “You know, you should experiment with this pie recipe and make a breakfast cake with peaches and pecans. I bet your guests would love it.” An impish grin twitched her lips. “I’d be willing to be your official taste tester until you got it right.”

Alexa laughed again. Sandra always managed to make her laugh. She sat carefully on the edge of the bed and held her plate under her chin to catch any crumbs. “I might take you up on that. Especially now with a long-term guest in place, I’ll probably need a few more recipes so he doesn’t get tired of the same things morning after morning.”

“Mother said you put him in your apartment.”

Alexa already missed the privacy the little summer-kitchen-turned-cottage had given her, but it seemed awkward to have him in the house with Grandmother, even if they did have a nurse come in at night. “Yes. I moved into one of the guest rooms.”

“What happens if you get enough reservations to fill all three guest rooms?”

All three rooms filled would be a blessing, but she didn’t expect to be that busy until spring. She shrugged. “I’ll just camp in with Grandmother for a night or two. We’ll make do.”

“It’s nice you had a place to house a long-term guest,” Sandra said. “Of course, eating your good cooking every day for three months, he just might decide to propose by the time he’s supposed to leave.”

Alexa cringed. “Oh, I hope not.”

Sandra burst out laughing. The lump in her lap jerked, and one little arm flung itself from beneath the blanket. Complaining whimpers followed. Alexa averted her eyes as Sandra whisked away the blanket and situated Isabella again. When she draped the blanket back in place, she said, her tone teasing, “What’s the matter? Don’t you like the hunka-hunka gorgeous type?”

Alexa gawked at her aunt. “Sandra!”

Sandra’s entire body vibrated with suppressed laughter for several seconds, making the mattress bounce. She patted what Alexa presumed was Isabella’s bottom based on the location of the lump and shook her head. Her twinkling eyes and teasing grin didn’t match the mesh cap with its trailing ribbons. “What? I might be a wife and mother, but I still have eyes in my head. A crosseyed person couldn’t help but notice how good-looking the reporter from Chicago is. Even Mother said so.”

The heat that often plagued her when Briley Forrester aimed his amazingly handsome, rich molasses gaze in her direction filled Alexa’s face again. She whacked at the pie with her fork, her head low. “You’re right. He is good looking.”

Sandra snickered. “Thought so.”

Alexa set her desecrated pie aside and turned a serious look on Sandra. “Can I ask you something?”

“Sure.” Sandra went back to eating her pie, her expression devoid of teasing.

“How old were you when you got married?”

“Nineteen. Same as Shelley. Same as Tanya when she married Clete.”

An image of Steven Brungardt’s sober, uncertain face flashed in Alexa’s memory. “Did you marry because you wanted to, or because it was expected?”

“Because I wanted to, of course.” Sandra tipped her head, the ribbon from her cap puddling on the bump created by Isabella’s little head. A hint of worry glimmered in her eyes. “Are you wondering if you’re old enough for courtship?”

Alexa shook her head firmly. “No. I’m wondering why I’m not interested.”

Sandra turned her back for a moment, bringing Isabella from beneath the blanket. She adjusted her clothing, then tipped the baby over her shoulder. Facing Alexa again, she gently patted Isabella’s back, the last few bites of her pie apparently forgotten. “Maybe you just haven’t met anyone yet who makes you want to consider marriage.” Sandra spoke, her voice low. “I was only sixteen when I met Derek, but I knew from the first time he and I spent an hour together that I wanted to be his wife. I felt … safe with him.”

“Sixteen …” Alexa propped her hands on her knees and chewed the inside of her cheek. “Wow. That was awfully young.”

Sandra smiled. “I suppose so. But you have to remember, Alexa, around here sixteen is different than sixteen in most places. In the Old Order community, by sixteen you’ve been out of school for two years already, you’ve learned all you need to know about maintaining a household, and you’ve spent some time at a job either in your parents’ home or workplace or somewhere else. Sixteen is probably elsewhere’s twenty.”

“I’ll be twenty in December.” Alexa sighed. “Do you think if I’d been raised in Arborville instead of Indiana, I’d be ready for marriage?”

“I don’t suppose there’s any way to know that for sure, but I also don’t think there’s any expiration date, so to speak, for finding the one you want to spend your life with. Don’t feel as though you need to rush it just because Shelley and I were settled by the time we were your age.”

An uncomfortable feeling wrapped itself around Alexa. For as long as she could remember, she’d wanted to be part of an extended family, to belong with them. She’d finally met her mother’s family and had been accepted in their
ranks, but her upbringing outside of the Old Order sect set her apart. Or maybe it was deeper than that. Maybe her birthright set her apart. Mom was born and raised Old Order. Alexa was neither. What was her birthright?

Sandra stood and turned to lay Isabella on the bed. She tucked a soft cloth beneath the baby’s cheek and covered her with a little blanket. Her movements were tender, the expression on her face sweetly affectionate. Alexa could imagine Mom tucking her in the same way when she was tiny. Yet, watching, not even one tiny ember of desire for a child of her own stirred in Alexa’s heart. She lacked so many of the motherly traits Mom and Sandra seemed to possess. Was she like her biological mother, who had abandoned her in a box behind a garage?

Sandra picked up her plate and fork and gestured for Alexa to follow her. In the hallway, she offered a repentant grimace. “Alexa, I’m sorry if my comment about the guest from Chicago made you uncomfortable. I was teasing you, and I shouldn’t have. Mother says he is a real flirt and she’s worried about you. She doesn’t want to see you … well …”—pink stained her cheeks—“be pulled in by a flatterer. She’s not sure having him there for weeks on end is a good idea. But she doesn’t want to tell you how to run your business.”

“I can handle Briley Forrester.”

Sandra gave Alexa’s elbow a gentle squeeze. “I’m sure you can. You’re a sensible, mature girl, and your head is on straight. But if he makes himself too much at home and gives you trouble, then you tell Clete, and he’ll step in. Okay?”