When Hope Blossoms (28 page)

People turned to look over their shoulders. Surprise registered on faces. Whispers broke out across the room, and children pointed. Tim squinted his eyes against the pain stabbing in his head and turned slowly to look at what had caused the uproar. There, in one big cluster, the Mennonites from Ohio stood just inside the double doors at the back of the worship room.

The director waved his hand, and the pianist came to an abrupt stop. Reverend Geary hurried down the center aisle and greeted the guests as if the community church welcomed a group of visitors at the close of every service. More whispers floated across the room as Reverend Geary and the oldest of the Mennonite men spoke quietly together. Then Reverend Geary threw his arm around the man’s shoulders and herded him to the pulpit. He said, “Folks, sit down, please, and give this man your kind attention.”

More whispers rippled, but everyone settled into their seats. Reverend Geary held his hand toward the Mennonite man, granting him permission to speak. The man pressed his hat against the front of his buttoned black coat and leaned toward the microphone on the pulpit.

“I thank you for letting us come in and interrupt your worship. I am Dillard Gerber. My wife and me and several people from our town in Ohio moved here to Weaverly a couple months ago. We haven’t got to meet most of you yet, but we hope to make good friends with all of you.”

The lingering German inflection in the man’s voice brought back childhood memories for Tim. His father had spoken with the same thick accent. Tim fidgeted, the pounding in his head growing more intense by the moment. Would the man hurry? He wanted an aspirin and to get out to his land. To begin to make order out of chaos.

“As you all know, the storm that come through yesterday did a lot of damage to one person’s home. Timothy Roper, who lives next door to the land we farm. It burdens us to see our neighbor’s house and barn destroyed. Especially since he’s been so kind to one of our members. Mrs. Knackstedt, would you come up here, please?”

Amy Knackstedt separated herself from the group and moved to the front of the church with a graceful ease. Rather than joining Mr. Gerber on the raised dais, she stood on the floor and bounced a shy smile across the sea of faces. But she didn’t catch Tim’s eye. Disappointment slouched him into the pew.

“Mrs. Knackstedt told us this morning about all that got damaged, and she wanted us to be able to help Mr. Roper the same way he’s helped her and her children. So she brought us the idea of a barn raising.” A murmur swept through the room. Mr. Gerber nodded, his smile growing. “You see, back in Ohio, when someone needs a barn, we all get together and put it up. It don’t take long when you have many hands. Between us who just moved here, we have half a dozen pairs of hands.” He held his leathery palms aloft, earning a few chuckles. “But we can always use more. So we thought, since this is Mr. Roper’s church family, maybe some of you would want to join us and get Mr. Roper another barn built.”

The man paused, his gaze searching the congregation until he found Tim. A gentle pleading entered his eyes. “That is, if Mr. Roper will allow us to serve him in this way.”

I
realize this is difficult for you, and it gives me no pleasure to upset you, but the issue really needs to be settled.”

Amy faced the insurance agent and squirmed. Dad, seated beside her on the sofa, placed his hand on her knee and squeezed. His presence provided comfort as past memories took their ugly grip. “I don’t understand why the question has been raised again, Mr. Corey. Gabe has been gone almost three years now. Farmers Aid Agency wouldn’t have paid the claim if they hadn’t deemed Gabe’s death an accident, would they have?” Amy remembered the day the sizable check arrived in her mailbox. She’d held it, tears raining down her face, praying the payout was proof Gabe hadn’t chosen to leave her.

“I’m afraid that some information, which we consider pertinent, has come to light.” The man pinched his lips tight. “We’ve received a sworn affidavit claiming your husband was deeply depressed at the time of his death.”

Amy looked at her father, who looked back at her. Confusion marred his brow. She knew the same question that hovered in her mind tormented him, as well. Who in Arborville would have done such a thing? Amy knew townspeople had talked—the passage of years hadn’t erased the speculative whispers. But to contact the insurance company and make such an accusation . . . What had that person hoped to gain?

The agent removed a handkerchief from his pocket and swiped it across his forehead. He glanced toward the open window, where a soft breeze fluttered the curtains. Muffled clanks, the
rat-a-tat-tat
of power tools, and a cacophony of voices—evidence that Mr. Roper’s barn raising was already in full swing—carried through the window. Amy wished she could be with Mr. Roper, the Mennonite builders and their wives, and the gathered Weaverly residents rather than sitting under the insurance agent’s scrutiny.

Mr. Corey turned to Amy again. “We must investigate the possibility that your husband committed suicide. In which case, an accidental death claim is null and void.”

Dad straightened in the seat, his shoulders squaring. “Do you mean to say your company would take money from a widow and her children?” Dad’s tone was respectful, but Amy heard the undercurrent of disbelief.

Mr. Corey’s expression turned grim. “I am saying, Mr. Ohr, that if your daughter accepted money under false pretenses, not only will she need to return the money, but she may face criminal charges.”

Amy gasped. “But I did nothing wrong!”

The agent fixed Amy with a penetrating look. “Then you’re denouncing the witness’s signed statement that your husband was depressed?”

Tears threatened, but Amy held them at bay. As painful as it would be, and even if it meant losing her home, losing the machine that allowed her to provide for her children, losing her security and dignity, she had to speak the truth. “Gabe suffered great remorse. What loving father wouldn’t suffer remorse and depression if he felt accountable for permanently disabling his son? But did he elect to end his suffering by leaping to his death?” She shook her head, willing away the niggling doubt that lingered in the back of her mind. “Only Gabe can answer that question.”

Dad gave her knee several brisk pats. “Mr. Corey, how do we prove these accusations wrong? What do you need from us?”

The man held his hands outward. “I’m here as a courtesy. We intend to fully investigate Gabriel Knackstedt’s state of mind. Thus far, our company has received signed statements indicating he might very well have deliberately jumped from the elevator. Mrs. Knackstedt’s comments today seem to substantiate those claims. Of course, if you have evidentiary statements to the contrary, they should be notarized and submitted to our main branch.”

He handed Amy a business card. “The accidental death case was reopened two weeks ago. It will remain open for three months. If, by the end of that time, we haven’t received convincing arguments to support an accident claim, then we will expect a check for the full amount you were paid. It can be mailed to the address on the card.”

Amy held tight to the crisp white rectangle, fear creating a lump in her belly. How would she return the money? After paying for Gabe’s simple funeral, she’d given the remaining balance to the fellowship’s benevolence fund. Some of those funds were used to purchase her long-arm machine and the house in which she now lived, but some had been used to assist other members of her former fellowship. She could sell the house and her belongings, but she’d never be able to recover all of the money.

Mr. Corey flicked an unsmiling glance across both Amy and her father. “Any other questions?”

“What if I can’t pay it back?” Amy blurted.

Mr. Corey cleared his throat. “I’m afraid that isn’t an option, Mrs. Knackstedt. It must be paid back if it was received erroneously.” The man rose, and for the first time a hint of sympathy appeared in his eyes. “I know this has come as a shock to you, and I apologize for the necessity of opening old wounds. But surely you understand we can’t pay an accident claim if it truly wasn’t an accident.”

Amy pushed to her feet and stood on quivering legs. “I do understand, sir. I just . . .” How would she prove Gabe hadn’t jumped? As much as it pained her to admit, she wasn’t one hundred percent certain herself. She drew in a deep breath. “I’ll be in touch.”

Mr. Corey held out his hand, and Amy’s father shook it. Amy followed him to the door and opened it for him. All three children sat on the edge of the porch, their bare feet dangling. They looked up as Mr. Corey stepped outside. Bekah scowled at the man, but Parker and Adrianna offered shy smiles.

He ignored the children and looked toward the east, where a near-steady hum of bangs, bumps, and voices continued. “It sounds as if a construction crew is hard at work.”

Parker lumbered to his feet. “The Mennonites are building Mr. Roper a barn ’cause a tornado blowed it down. He needs a new one for his apples.”

Mr. Corey stared at Parker, an unreadable expression on his face. Then his shoulders jerked, as if he were awakening. “I see.” But it was clear he didn’t follow Parker’s explanation. He nodded at Amy. “Good day, Mrs. Knackstedt. I hope to hear from you soon.” He crossed the mushy ground and climbed into his car.

Dad gave Amy a hug, whispering a promise to pray for God to make known the truth. He hugged and kissed the children by turn, then joined Mr. Corey. The two drove away. The moment they turned the corner at the end of the lane, Parker grabbed Amy’s hands.

“Can we go to the barn raising now? Please? I wanna see what Mr. Roper’s new barn looks like.”

Adrianna bounced up and added her begging to Parker’s. Only Bekah remained silent, her narrowed gaze seeming to bore a hole through Amy.

Amy gently freed herself from Parker’s grip. Mr. Roper had specifically asked her to keep the children away from his property. Although she, too, was curious about the progress being made, she would honor the man’s request. “No. We need to stay home.”

“But, Mom!” Parker and Adrianna chorused.

Amy gave the pair a firm look. “Barn raising is a workplace for men, not a play area for children. It can be dangerous. We’re going to stay here.” She aimed her finger at their crestfallen faces. “Stay in our yard. I’m going to go prepare our lunch.” Ignoring their groans, she went inside.

In the quiet of the kitchen, she sank into a chair and lowered her head to her hands.
God, I want to know the truth. There’s no new beginning here for the children and me with the uncertainty still hanging over our heads. Even if it’s painful, knowing is better than forever wondering. Even if it means returning the money, even if it means facing criminal charges . . .
Tears pressed behind her closed lids. She sniffed and finished her prayer.
Reveal the truth, Lord, so we can put this part of our lives to rest. Oh, Father, reveal the truth so I can be free.

“It’s kind of like a miracle, isn’t it?” Dean Bradley threw his arm around Tim’s shoulders, his face tipped toward the very top of the barn, where plain-dressed men swarmed, securing large panels of bright green tin to the preformed rafters.

Tim had witnessed barn raisings before—at least three in his former town—but he agreed it was an amazing process to see a large structure go up in such a short amount of time. Familiar with the Mennonite way of working together, Tim saw the greater miracle in how quickly they’d secured materials. Mr. Gerber and two others had driven to Kansas City Sunday afternoon, and Monday bright and early trucks had rolled in with everything necessary to replace the old wood barn with a new metal one. They’d even chosen red metal siding so it would emulate the look of the former dwelling. Tim didn’t know who’d paid for the materials, but he intended to find out before the Mennonites left that evening.

Dean whistled through his teeth. “And nobody even in charge! They just all seem to know what needs to be done, and they do it. I’ve never seen a project go so smoothly without a foreman shouting out directions. And I’ve never seen such a group of hard workers in my life.”

Tim remained silent, but inwardly he acknowledged how much the Mennonites had accomplished. Thanks to the children’s efforts, the entire orchard was raked clean of debris. The two oldest youth spent the day at the burn pile, turning branches and scraps of wood into ashes. Nobody’d gone hungry with all the food the women had carted in. Between meals the women—after Mr. Gerber did a walk-through and gave the okay—entered Tim’s damaged house and retrieved everything that hadn’t been ruined by rain coming through the roof. A handful of Weaverly men helped carry heavier items to the storage shed. Tim planned to sort through it all later, but the women had excitedly reported just how much was salvageable. They seemed as happy as if the things belonged to them rather than to a stranger.

In one day, the group of workers had accomplished what would have taken Tim weeks to accomplish on his own. He couldn’t deny being grateful for their unselfish giving, but a part of him resented their intrusion. It seemed, once again, the past had sneaked into his present, giving him reason to lament long-ago choices.

Dean gave Tim’s shoulder a whack and dropped his arm. “You know, Tim, it must feel good to know you come from such a strong heritage. Me? I didn’t grow up in the church. Started attending when I was in college at the invitation of my roommate. I’m grateful to have a relationship with Jesus now. But if I’d grown up witnessing this . . .” He swept his arm outward, indicating the bustle of activity of women cleaning up, men gathering tools, and children hauling trash bags of debris to the end of the lane. “I’d be a better man, I think.” Tipping his head, he gave Tim a serious look. “From the first time we met, when you enrolled Charlie in school, I’ve admired your dedication to doing everything you could to help in your son’s education while running this business pretty much on your own. I think I’m seeing where you inherited your work and family ethic. It was passed down from generations of family-oriented, good-hearted, hardworking people. I envy you, Tim.”

Dean strode away, joining the men who piled scraps of leftovers in the bed of Christian Hunsberger’s pickup truck. Tim stood rooted in place, Dean’s words reverberating in his head. Dean
envied
him his Mennonite heritage? But Dean didn’t know the other side—the critical-of-mistakes, unrealistic-expectations, work-from-dawn-to-dusk side that Tim had despised as a teenager. If Dean witnessed that part of the hardworking, family-oriented lifestyle, would he still be envious, or would he be relieved that he’d been spared such an upbringing?

Dillard Gerber marched toward Tim, a wide smile on his sun-reddened face. “Well, Mr. Roper, it’s all up except for the finishing. Since it’s past suppertime, we’re all gonna go to our homes now. But tomorrow some us will come back and put in your windows and get the door in place.”

“You don’t need to bother.” Tim heard the abrasiveness of his tone, and he tempered his voice. “Not that I don’t appreciate it. What you’ve all done here today . . .” He hadn’t deserved their help. Not after abandoning the people of his faith. “Thank you. Thank you very much. But it’s enough. I can finish on my own.”

Gerber frowned. “The windows you can sure do on your own. But the door? It’s a sliding door. A big one.” He stretched his arms from side to side and then up and down. “It’ll take a couple of strong men to lift it. You can’t do that all by yourself.”