When Hope Blossoms (29 page)

Tim sighed. “All right. I appreciate the help.”

Rubbing his whisker-dotted chin, the man frowned. “I think maybe I’ll bring Mischler and Schell, and Schell’s two oldest boys. The boys can keep working at the burn pile while we men finish up.” He clomped off, leaving Tim alone.

Tim stared after him, realization making him break out in a cold sweat. The burn pile. He’d never made it to the burn pile. The box of photographs he’d intended to retrieve, if they hadn’t been blown away by the tornado or ruined by the steady rain that had fallen all through the night, were now certainly burnt to cinders.

He groaned, closing his eyes in silent self-recrimination. Why hadn’t he remembered to go out there before the workers arrived? Thanks to the Mennonites, he had a barn in place. But Julia and Charlie were gone, and so were his reminders of them.

B
ekah spent the afternoon in her bedroom. It was stuffy upstairs even with the windows open, which made it the least comfortable place to be in the house. Parker and Adrianna thought so, too, which meant they weren’t interested in hanging around her. That suited her fine. She had a lot to think about, and she wanted to be alone.

She sat on the edge of the bed, the box of women’s clothing she’d taken from Mr. Roper’s closet on the floor between her feet, and sorted through the items while her mind tripped over the conversation she’d overheard that morning. She supposed she should feel shameful for listening at the window when the insurance agent talked to Mom. But how else would she know what was going on? Mom didn’t talk about important stuff with her.

A part of her wished she didn’t know what the insurance people thought. She didn’t want to consider the possibility that Dad might have jumped. She’d heard people whisper about it in Arborville, but she’d convinced herself it couldn’t be true. Sure, Daddy’d been sad. They’d all been sad about how the accident changed Parker. She winced, remembering how it had hurt to see her smiling, teasing, always-busy dad shrink into a slow-moving, quiet, sad-eyed stranger. Before the accident, he’d had time for all of them. After the accident, he only had time for Parker. As if he felt guilty about damaging him and had to give him lots of attention to make up for it. Bekah had missed her dad even before he died.

With a sigh, she laid items out side by side on the bed and examined them. Temptation to try on the things and peek in a mirror—to see what she looked like in something other than her homemade Mennonite-approved dress—tugged hard. But fear Mom would come upstairs and catch her prevented her from following through. Some of the things sure were pretty, though, with ruffles and lace and soft, flowing fabrics. Bekah took a few minutes to sort them by color, noting Mrs. Roper’s preference for pastels, before stacking them neatly back in the box.

Then she retrieved the box of little boy’s clothing and went through those piece by piece. Charlie Roper must’ve been an active boy, because the knees of his overalls were worn through. Unlike his mom, he liked bold colors judging by the bright reds, blues, greens, and yellows of his T-shirts.

Fingering the clothing made Bekah sad, and she quickly folded everything and tucked it all back in the box. She slid both clothing boxes into the far corner of her closet and pulled out the shoe box that held photographs. She couldn’t believe Mr. Roper wanted to throw these away. If she had pictures of her dad, she would treasure them. She would put them in frames to hang on the wall. Or organize them in a pretty book.

“He made a mistake,” Bekah murmured. “He’s sad, and when you’re sad you make mistakes.” A lump filled her throat as she applied her thought to Dad. Had he been so sad he made a mistake that day on top of the elevator? Had sadness made him think he didn’t want to live anymore?

Bekah leapt up, scattering photographs across the floor. She knelt and scrambled to retrieve them, her hands shaking. She couldn’t bring Dad back—he was gone forever. But Mr. Roper didn’t have to live forever without the pictures of his wife and son. She could return them to him and maybe give him a little piece of his happiness back again. An idea formed in her mind, bringing a rush of eagerness. Why give them to him stuffed in the shoe box? Instead, she’d put them in a book. A book he could open again and again and remember his family’s smiles.

The this-and-that store in Weaverly had albums for photographs—she’d seen them when she’d shopped there. A man wouldn’t want a fancy book with flowers and frilly stuff on the cover. Just a plain one. Maybe blue or green. And a plain one probably wouldn’t cost very much. Bekah placed the photos back in the box and dug out her money jar from beneath her socks in the dresser drawer. She dumped the contents on the bed and quickly counted the few dollar bills and assorted change.

She nibbled her lip. Almost eight dollars. Would it be enough? Even though the pictures didn’t hold her own memories, it was very important that they be retained for Mr. Roper. She couldn’t understand why it meant so much to her, only that it did.

Oh, please let seven dollars and eighty-six cents be enough to buy an album.

With the prayer lingering in the back of her heart, she stuffed the money in her little pocketbook and raced downstairs to ask Mom for permission to ride her bicycle into town.

Tim heated a can of soup on the little propane stove in the fishing trailer. He bent forward slightly to avoid bumping the top of his head on the padded ceiling. He appreciated the shelter, but if he had to stay in this little camper very long he would end up with a permanent crick in his neck from constantly ducking. Didn’t camper makers realize some men were more than six feet tall?

He crushed half a package of saltine crackers into the broth, then sat on the little bench that folded out into a bed and ate his feeble supper directly from the pan. For a moment, he wished he’d accepted Luke Mischler’s invitation to eat supper with his family. He’d be dining on something more substantial than watery vegetable beef soup. His stomach growled as he swallowed the last spoonful, reminding him how inadequate the meal had been. But sitting down to a meal with the Mennonite family would have drawn him even closer to the newcomers from Ohio. Now that the work was done, he needed to resume his solitary existence. Forget—again—his joint heritage with these people.

He clanked the empty pan and spoon into the shallow sink and stood, slope-shouldered, staring out the tiny square window above the minuscule counter. The completed barn loomed where only yesterday a twisted pile of timbers had rested. Even though he’d witnessed the Mennonite practice of goodwill before, he still found it hard to believe they’d pooled their own funds to purchase the supplies needed for the new barn and spent time away from their families and fields to help him. Tim Roper, a man who had abandoned the Mennonite faith.

With a soft whistle of amazement, he examined the barn by increments, from the sleek green roof panels to the red siding all the way to the rock foundation. Although the metal structure wasn’t as proud looking as the age-worn wood-planked barn the tornado had destroyed, it would suit his purpose. And the colors emulated a ripe Red Delicious. What a gift, that big, metal, barn-shaped building. As soon as his insurance check arrived, he’d pay them back. That should end his contact with the affable Mennonites.

Until picking time.

The men had indicated they’d bring their families out when the apples were ready for harvesting. He scratched his chin, thinking ahead. Maybe he’d offer the families a discount to say thanks for all their help. Then he wouldn’t have to feel beholden to them. Yeah, a discount. That’d even the score.

He turned from the window and unfolded the bench into a cot. He couldn’t recall the last time he’d gone to bed before nine o’clock, but what else did he have to do but sleep? No television, no books to read, no one to talk to . . . Besides, he was worn to a frazzle by the long day of nonstop activity.

As he unrolled his sleeping bag across the thin foam pad that masqueraded as a mattress, his mind drifted back several years. He’d offered a discounted price to a group of Mennonites one other time. Four adult men and a handful of kids had driven over from someplace else in Kansas, arriving in two rented vans with cargo space in the back to cart the apples home again. They’d picked for themselves, and then they’d picked extra bushels to have ready for customers who weren’t interested in pick-your-own, so Tim knocked ten percent off their cost for their trouble.

A sad smile twitched at his cheek as he flopped onto the lumpy cot. That’d been the last harvest before Julia and Charlie’s accident. Charlie had made friends with one of the Mennonite boys—a kid maybe a year or two younger than Charlie who’d been a little slow. Not Down Syndrome or anything Tim could identify—just slow. The boy and Charlie’d had a good time that day, playing in the barn and chasing each other between the trees. Tim and the boy’s father’d had a good talk, too. Even though Tim had wanted to hold his distance from the Mennonite men, he’d felt a kinship with this father who understood what it was like to raise a boy with special needs.

He crunched his forehead, trying to recall the Mennonite boy’s name. It was different—Bumper? Bunker? The name had long escaped Tim’s memory. But he did recall his conversation with the dad. They’d agreed when you had a child who needed extra attention, you stuck close. You gave more of yourself. What had the man said? Tim pressed his memory, determined to recall the exact words.
“When you have a child who will always be a child, you make plans to be there for them. Not just ’til they’re old enough to be out on their own the way you do for most children, but
forever.
”
Tim had nodded at the man’s emphasis, understanding completely.

But then Tim had been freed of his lifelong commitment to Charlie long before “forever” came. He rolled to his side and closed his eyes against the memories, but they continued to play out behind his closed lids. He’d give most anything to have his son and every aspect of responsibility back again. But then his eyes popped open, realization dawning. All these years of working the orchard on his own, he’d convinced himself he was fine alone. He was better alone. No risk of being hurt or abandoned or even betrayed if he was alone. But now, after being accepted by the Knackstedt children, by their mother, and by their fellowship, alone just didn’t sit as well as it once had.

Tim heaved a mighty sigh. He’d handled alone before. He could do it again.
“I can do all things
—
”
Before the verse could complete itself in his mind, he threw his arm across his eyes and forced himself to shut out the world.

Amy set aside her Bible and gave Parker a kiss on the cheek. “Sleep well,” she said, receiving his sleepy smile in reply. Adrianna and Bekah rose from the foot of the bed, and Amy followed them down the short hallway to their bedroom. She tucked Adrianna beneath the sheet, making her giggle by giving her a flurry of kisses on her sweet-smelling neck. With a soft laugh, Amy smoothed her hand over the little girl’s hair. “Sleep well.”

“I will, Momma. ’Night.” Adrianna rolled to her side and scrunched her eyes closed.

Amy turned to Bekah, who stood in the dim glow of the bedside lamp removing the pins from her hair. “Are you going to stay up and work on Mr. Roper’s book?” She kept her voice low to avoid disturbing Adrianna.

Bekah nodded. Hair tumbled down her back in a wave. The sight of her daughter, standing tall with squared shoulders, her dark hair shimmering in the soft light, put a lump in Amy’s throat. What a pretty young woman Bekah was becoming. Bekah lifted the denim-covered album and held it out, her expression bashful. “Want to see what I have so far?”

“Sure.” Amy sat next to Bekah on her bed and laid the album in her lap. She opened the album and admired her daughter’s efforts. Bekah had done a commendable job of sorting the photographs into groupings that complemented one another. A chill tiptoed up her spine as she received a glimpse into Mr. Roper’s family life. Amy turned the pages slowly, examining each photograph by turn. Admittedly, jealousy pricked. How she’d love to have images frozen in time of her children and of Gabe to look at again and again. When she reached the last filled page, she gave Bekah a one-armed hug. “It looks so nice, honey. I’m sure Mr. Roper will be pleased you took the time to do this for him.”