When Hope Blossoms (24 page)

She wandered the periphery of the room, looking for something to clean, but she’d dusted and vacuumed on Tuesday. The house still looked clean. She couldn’t find anything out of place. With a sigh, she plopped onto the sofa. The moment her bottom hit the cushion, an idea struck. She’d wanted to ask Mr. Roper questions about why he decided not to be Mennonite anymore. With Parker always around, she hadn’t been given a chance, but Parker was gone today. She didn’t have any pressing tasks waiting. Mr. Roper was still in the barn—she knew because the golf cart he drove around the orchard sat between the barn and the house.

She hopped up, then paused. Mr. Roper had been kind of funny this morning. Standoffish instead of friendly. Maybe she shouldn’t bother him. Slowly, she sank back onto the sofa, but then she stood again. She might never have another chance to question him alone. She had to do it today.

Anticipation quickening her pulse, she checked the dials on the washer and dryer. Still plenty of time before the towels needed to come out. With a skip in her step, she hurried out the door and across the yard. Wrinkling her nose, she entered the barn. “Mr. Roper? Can I talk to you?”

He turned from the rough workbench in the far corner of the barn. Iron parts lay scattered across its top. He dropped a hunk of iron next to the others with a
clank
. “Okay.”

Although he didn’t sound overly friendly, he didn’t seem perturbed, either. Bekah skittered forward. The smell of turpentine threatened to singe her nose, but she stepped up next to the bench, resisting the urge to pinch her nose shut with her fingers. “What’re you doing?”

“I took apart the apple grinder to clean the parts. It gets a little gunky when it’s not in use. I guess I need to find something other than gunnysacks to cover it during the off-season.”

Bekah glanced across the collection of odd parts to be polite, but she hadn’t come to talk about grinding apples. Shifting to face him, she blurted out the question that had burned in the back of her mind for weeks. “How come you’re not Mennonite anymore?”

The man’s eyebrows dropped low. “What?”

Bekah hunched her shoulders, intimidated by his scowl. But she couldn’t seem to stop the torrent that poured from her lips. “Did you quit being Mennonite because you wanted . . . more? Sometimes when I look at other kids and the clothes they wear and the things they get to do, I wish I could be like them instead of like me. Sometimes I wish I had a cell phone”—she flicked a glance at the little silver phone tucked in a pouch on his belt—“and a radio or a television. I wish I could get my hair cut in a really cute style instead of wearing it under my cap like the old ladies, and paint my fingernails, and maybe put on makeup. Sometimes I don’t want to learn to sew and cook and clean. I just want to have fun and go swimming in the public pool like other kids. Sometimes I wonder what it’s like to be like . . . like you.”

She paused, her chest heaving. Mr. Roper stared at her. Even in the muted light, she recognized surprise in his eyes. He didn’t say anything, so she licked her lips and said, “You used to be Mennonite, but now you’re not. And you’re happy about it, right? So why’d you change, Mr. Roper? Why aren’t you Mennonite anymore?”

T
im dropped the oily rag on the workbench and wiped his palms down the front of his filthy jeans. He should never have asked these kids to come to work for him. He’d planted ideas in Bekah’s head. Ideas that had no place in her youthful Mennonite mind.

He wanted to disregard her questions—pretend he hadn’t heard them—but looking into her pleading face, he didn’t have the heart to turn away. With a sigh, he plopped onto an upturned apple crate and clamped his hands over his wide-spread knees. “Have you ever heard the expression, ‘The grass is always greener on the other side of the fence’?”

The girl’s face puckered. “Sure.”

“What do you think it means?”

“It means some people think what they have is never as good as what other people have.”

Tim nodded. “That’s a good way to put it. And it’s something you should remember.”

She folded her arms over her chest, crushing the modesty cape of her pale yellow dress. “But why?”

Tim worked his thumbs back and forth. His calluses caught on the worn denim, creating a soft
skritch-skritch.
“ ’Cause otherwise you’ll always be discontent. And that’s no way to live your life.” To his surprise a Bible verse, long buried, found its way out of his mouth. “‘ . . . godliness with contentment is great gain.’” What was the reference? He couldn’t remember, but it came from First Timothy.

Bekah scowled. “You sound like my mom. She always quotes the Bible at me instead of just telling me what she thinks.”

“Parents do that,” Tim said. “My dad did it, too.” Over and over and over . . . until Tim had had enough and walked away in search of that greener grass.

“But didn’t it make you mad?” The girl tipped her head, scrunching a white ribbon against her shoulder. “Didn’t you ever wish you could do what you wanted to without someone saying, ‘No, the Bible says you shouldn’t,’ or ‘No, that doesn’t honor God.’ ” She released a mighty huff and threw her hands wide. “Well, you’re not Mennonite anymore, so you don’t have to worry about it. Aren’t you happy now?”

Happy? Tim examined his life. He’d found a level of happiness with Julia and Charlie. He’d found satisfaction in working the orchard, in watching the trees blossom. But if he were honest, somewhere in the back of his heart, something was missing. It had been missing for years. What would Bekah say if he confided how much it hurt that he’d never been able to share his lovely wife and precious son with his own parents?

His chest constricted, imagining his parents together with Charlie. How Mom would’ve adored the cheerful little boy with the heart as big as the endless Kansas sky—and Charlie would have adored her in return. Tim’s choice had robbed Charlie of a loving grandmother. Because of Tim, Charlie had never enjoyed a huge family gathering at Christmas or Thanksgiving. He’d never played in the haymow with a half dozen cousins. Tim assumed Charlie had cousins. By now most of his younger siblings were probably married and had kids. It was the Mennonite way to marry and raise a family.

Tim’s chest ached as his thoughts tumbled onward. He couldn’t call his dad and ask for advice or tell him about the promising abundance of Gala apples in this year’s crop. He couldn’t go ice fishing with his brothers or tease his sisters about being courted. If he had nieces and nephews, did they even know he existed? Or had his family buried him, the way he’d tried to bury them?

So he had a cell phone. He wore blue jeans instead of homemade twill pants. He watched television on Saturday nights and had even gone to the movie theater on a regular basis with Julia. He lived a regular, normal, everyday existence similar to every other citizen of Weaverly. He had more than he’d owned as a boy in possessions and conveniences. But was all that enough to replace what he’d given up the day he threw his hat at his father’s feet and proclaimed he was fed up with the rules and regulations and he wanted out? Tim couldn’t honestly say yes.

And he wouldn’t have come face-to-face with any of these painful questions—he wouldn’t know for sure that he wasn’t happy—if those Mennonites hadn’t chosen to buy the land next door and settle in Weaverly.

He jerked upright, his knees cracking. “Bekah, I think you’d better head home now. And maybe”—his throat tightened down, making it hard to speak—“it’d be best if you and Parker didn’t come back here anymore.”

Bekah gaped at him in dismay. “B-but, I haven’t finished—”

“No more questions!” He didn’t mean to bark, but his tone reflected his inner turmoil.

Tears flooded Bekah’s eyes. “I . . . I meant I haven’t finished your laundry.”

Tim’s shoulders slumped, the burden of regret bending him toward the ground. Regret for choices in the past. Regret for the present. He shook his head, flicking his hand toward the barn’s wide opening. “Go then. Finish up. And then . . . we’re done. You’ve earned your apples. When they’re ready to pick, I’ll let you know.”

The girl stood staring at him, wide brown eyes swimming with unshed tears. Her chin quivered. “I . . . I didn’t mean to make you mad.”

A bitter taste flooded his mouth. “I’m not mad, Bekah, I’m—”
Sad. Weary. Lonely. Riddled with regrets.
There were so many things he could say. But he wouldn’t share those deepest emotions with a thirteen-year-old Mennonite girl. He swallowed, then spoke very kindly. “Just go. Please?”

Bekah spun and dashed out of the barn. But not before she burst into tears.

Tim turned to his workbench and braced his palms on the warm, worn wood, letting his head hang low. Why had he opened himself to these kids? It hadn’t done them—or him—any good. With a growl of frustration, he swept his hand across the row of cleaned parts, flinging them across the bench and onto the floor. The discordant clatter rang in his ears, but he welcomed the painful ring. It covered the sound of Bekah’s heartbroken sobs.

Tim skipped lunch. He wasn’t hungry, and he didn’t want to risk crossing paths with Bekah. He spent the rest of the morning and the early afternoon in the orchard, checking the trees for signs of insect infestation. He’d had the trees sprayed, but he’d learned that sometimes, even with insecticide, troublesome bugs invaded his trees. To his relief, he found nothing alarming. Pinching a few smooth green leaves between his fingers, he acknowledged the one positive in the long days of record highs and no rain—apparently even the bugs thought it was too hot and dry to bother coming around.

Walking the length of the rows, he examined each sprinkler head, adjusting several. His back ached from bending down and straightening again and again. But he had to make sure the water would go to the roots of the trees rather than shoot in the air where the droplets could evaporate before they did any real good. It was a mindless task, leaving him open to meandering thoughts, but he managed to hold introspection at bay by humming country-western tunes he’d heard on the radio.

As he bent down to adjust the angle of the last sprinkler beneath the Gala trees, his cell phone vibrated. He straightened with a groan, pressing one hand to his lower back while yanking the phone free of its holster with the other. A fleeting thought trailed through his brain—
Probably Mrs. Knackstedt, calling to read me the riot act for upsetting her daughter.
But a glance showed a Topeka number glowing on the little screen.

Blowing out a breath of relief, Tim put the phone to his ear. “Tim Roper here.”

“Tim, hey, this is Eric at Cecil’s Auto Repair.” A nasally twang blasted Tim’s ear. “Good news. We got your truck finished. Took forever to get the right tie rod in. Kansas City sent the wrong one, so we had to send it back and reorder. Sorry for the delay. Boss says we’ll give you a ten-percent discount on parts and labor since you had to wait more’n four days.”

Suddenly the wait held a silver lining. Tim didn’t have money to spare, and he wouldn’t turn down the discount. “I appreciate that. When should I come get it?”

“We’re open ’til seven tonight—”

Tim checked his wristwatch. If he left within the next two hours, he could make it with time to spare.

“—or you can come in anytime between eight and six tomorrow. Just come to the east shop and ask for Mark. He’ll be the one to make sure they discounted your invoice.”

“Okay. Thanks a lot.” Tim disconnected the call, then stood in the dappled shade of the trees, tapping the telephone’s slick edge on his open palm. Christian Hunsberger had said he’d be glad to take Tim to Topeka to retrieve his truck when the repairs were finished. Tim appreciated the man’s willingness but preferred not to rely on one of the Mennonites. Who else could he call? In his mind’s eye, he flicked through people from town. Not one name stood out as a person he felt comfortable calling to ask a favor. With a jolt, he realized he really didn’t have anyone he considered a friend in Weaverly. Acquaintances, sure. Lots of them. But he couldn’t think of one person who would willingly drop what he was doing to drive Tim to Topeka. The thought didn’t sit well.

Pressing his lips in a grim line, he popped open his phone and scrolled to his contacts. There were so few, he easily located Christian Hunsberger. The row of numbers glared up at him, as if daring him to use them. Tim gave the button a sharp poke with his finger. One ring, two, then three. He started to punch the disconnect button, but then a cheerful female voice greeted, “Hello! Hunsberger residence.”

Tim cleared his throat. “Hello. May I speak to Christian, please?”

“Christian is in the fields. This is his wife. May I take a message?”

Tim groaned inwardly. Of course the men would still be out working. And by the time they finished, it would be too late to make the trip to Topeka this evening. He quickly revised the request he’d been prepared to make. “This is Tim Roper. Your husband towed my truck to Topeka last Sunday.”

“Oh! Yes, Mr. Roper. He said you might be calling. Is your truck ready to be picked up?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“I’m sure you’re happy about that. We do rely on our vehicles, don’t we?”

He wished she’d be a little less congenial. He caught himself wanting to smile at her perky tone and welcoming demeanor. Kindness seemed to ooze right through the telephone. Tim swallowed. “Yes, I guess we do. Could you ask your husband if he’s available to take me tomorrow? Anytime between eight in the morning and five in the afternoon would be fine. The shop’s open until six.”

“I’ll tell him just as soon as he gets home.” The woman’s sweet voice eased some of the tension in Tim’s shoulders. “You can expect a call by suppertime.”

“Thank you.” Tim slipped the phone back in its holster. His stomach growled. By now Bekah was long gone—he could safely return to the house and have an early supper. Just as he reached his yard, the phone vibrated. Tim snapped it open. The Hunsbergers’ number showed on the screen. The men must have come in early.

He jammed the phone to his ear. “Mr. Hunsberger?”

“No, this is Ellie Hunsberger again. I know I said I’d have Christian call you, but I just remembered something.”

In the background, Tim heard homey sounds—a child’s singsong voice, spoons clanking against pots, and cabinet doors opening and closing. Family sounds of supper preparation. They made his heart pang. “What’s that?”

“Christian’s aunt plans to go to Topeka tomorrow to do some shopping. She owns a Chevy van, so there’s plenty of room for passengers. Since she’s going in anyway, she said she’d be glad to take you to the auto repair shop before she does her own errands.” A self-conscious laugh carried through the line. “If you’d rather have Christian take you, it’s fine. I just thought, well, rather than sending
two
cars . . .” Her voice drifted off, but Tim didn’t need to hear the rest of her thought to follow her reasoning.

It might be a little strange, riding with a Mennonite woman instead of a man, but a ride was a ride. And once he had his truck back, he wouldn’t need to bother these people again. “There’s no sense in wasting gasoline. Please let her know I appreciate her thoughtfulness.”

“I will. She intends to leave early—eight o’clock, she said, so she’ll pick you up around eight fifteen. Maybe eight twenty at the latest. She’s taking one of our other fellowship families with her, and she’ll pick them up first.” A bang sounded in the background, followed by a child’s shrill cry. Ellie Hunsberger raised her voice over the din. “But as I said, her van has plenty of seats, so there will be room for you and Amy Knackstedt and her children.”

“Oh, but—”

“Good-bye now, Mr. Roper.”

The phone went dead. Tim slapped it shut and curled his fist around it, battling frustration. Trapped in a van with Mrs. Knackstedt, Bekah, Parker, and Adri? Tim released an audible groan. Raising his face to the blue sky overhead, he uttered his first prayer in years. “God, what are You trying to do to me?”