Light Shines on Promise Lodge Page 8

  As he closed the greenhouse door behind him, Jonathan’s heartbeat settled into a happy thrum. He was on the right track—he just knew it.

  When he was making his way back to the picnic, however, he realized that everyone—including Cyrus—would see what he was doing . . . and if Laura happened to reject him in front of all those people, Jonathan sensed he’d never ask another woman for a date.

  He detoured behind the ten cabins and placed the mum on the small concrete slab at the back door of the one he shared with his brother. Then he moseyed back toward the crowd, where folks were lining up to fetch a piece of Laura’s birthday cake and congratulate her. Somehow he found himself at the end of the queue of well-wishers—and Cyrus was nowhere in sight—

  And then he was face to face with Laura, holding out his empty plate.

  “Chocolate or lemon?” she asked with a bright smile. “And we have homemade ice cream to go with it, too!”

  Jonathan felt tongue-tied, yet he heard himself say, “What if I have a piece of each, with a scoop of that vanilla ice cream? And—and what if you fix your plate and join me, Laura?”

  Her mouth dropped open. She looked downright dazzled by his invitation. “Jah, I’d like that,” she murmured as she placed two large squares of cake on his plate. “Where shall we go?”

  “How about if I set out a couple of chairs behind my cabin? It’s shady there—and if Bishop Clayton feels another sermon coming on, we won’t have to listen.”

  Where had that come from? It wasn’t his way to make light of church leaders—but Laura’s mouth was an O and her eyes were twinkling. “I’ll be there as soon as I scoop us up some extra ice cream!” she replied. “I wouldn’t be a bit surprised if he started in on us again while everyone’s eating their cake.”

  Somehow Jonathan’s feet carried him away from the crowd, because his mind was too awash in wonder to guide him anywhere. Laura had said yes, just like that! She seemed delighted to have an excuse to get away from the picnic.

  When he reached the cabin, he quickly carried out the two chairs from the small table where he and Cyrus sometimes ate—and then he hauled out the table, too. Jonathan had just set the scarecrow planter in the center of the table when Laura appeared from around the side of his cabin. She had the mischievous look of one who was skipping a church service. And she was giggling!

  “How did you know?” she teased as she slipped into one of the chairs. She set down her plate, as well as a bowl that held several scoops of chocolate and vanilla ice cream. “Bishop Clayton was starting up the porch stairs as I was scooping our ice cream! We escaped just in time!”

  Now that Jonathan had performed the minor miracle of convincing Laura to join him, he had a shy moment when his mind couldn’t form words. He was aware of gazing at her with what was probably a goofy grin on his face, yet she didn’t seem to think he was acting weird.

  “What a wonderful birthday surprise!” Laura said, patting the chair beside her. “First the Kuhn sisters bringing out two big cakes—and everyone singing to me!—and now I’m here with you for our own private party. There must be something magical about turning eighteen if so many fine, fun things are happening.”

  There must be something magical about turning eighteen . . .

  As he sat down, Jonathan watched her lips move. He was held spellbound by the sight of Laura lifting a big spoonful of ice cream to her mouth before he reminded himself to hold up his end of the conversation. “Eighteen,” he repeated softly. “It’s a big milestone. By then you’ve been out of school awhile and you’ve had time to figure out what to do with the rest of your life—”

  “Oh, I haven’t settled on any one option,” Laura put in with a decisive nod. “I enjoy baking and selling my goodies at Mattie’s produce stand, because you meet interesting people there. But if another opportunity comes along, I’m on it! Phoebe and the other ladies here are my inspiration because most of them—like my mamm—started entirely new lives and businesses when they were forty—or older!”

  Jonathan cut a forkful of cake, relieved that Laura was a talker. She’d made an interesting observation, too, rather than nattering about every inconsequential thing that came to mind. “I’ve been impressed by all of the residents of Promise Lodge since I arrived last winter,” he remarked. “You think outside the box instead of assuming that things have to be done the same old way. Bishop Monroe’s a fine example, training and selling his Clydesdales to folks who show them rather than farm with them.”

  “Oh, but those horses are beautiful, and so huge,” Laura said breathlessly. “And it’s wonderful, the way Bishop Monroe has hired Lowell Kurtz and Lavern Peterscheim to help him, too. By the time they’ve finished school, those boys will be ready for new careers instead of automatically going into their dats’ barrel-making and blacksmithing trades.”

  Jonathan nodded. “Truth be told, Sam and Simon’s nursery business is already much busier and more profitable than the store we left behind in Ohio,” he said. “Cyrus and I were lucky they asked us to come along, because our futures would’ve been limited back home, where their older brothers were in charge of the business.”

  Laura’s blue eyes sparkled as she focused on her bite of ice cream. “You’re meeting some new girls, too,” she said softly. “When families intermarry and swim in the same gene pool for too many generations, you run into problems when the kids come along.”

  Jonathan swallowed hard. The idea of marrying and making babies had always seemed intimidating—a dream he could never attain—yet Laura was discussing it matter-of-factly without overtly hinting that he should marry her.

  Or was she flirting with him, and he wasn’t savvy enough to realize it?

  When Laura looked at him, Jonathan’s world stood still . . . until a little tickle of happiness deep down in his soul gave him the nerve to hold her gaze for what seemed like forever.

  Laura smiled and relaxed in her chair. “I’m really glad you asked me over, Jonathan,” she murmured. “Before, you’ve always been with Allen and Cyrus, and I never really got a chance to know you for you—because those guys are always horsing around or ganging up on Gloria.” She let out a contented sigh. “It’s so quiet and nice here. And look at this! You’ve even put a centerpiece on the table. Most guys wouldn’t have a clue about doing that.”

  “I—that’s for you!” Jonathan blurted. His nerves came back in full force, because he really wanted her to like his gift. “It’s colorful and cheerful—like you!—so it’s your birthday present, Laura. I—I’m glad you noticed it.”

  Her smile was nothing short of glorious. “Wow,” she murmured as she picked up the planter. She turned it this way and that, smiling at the ceramic scarecrow and the mum’s bright orange flowers. “What a wonderful-gut gift. I can plant the mum to bloom again next year, and even if it doesn’t make it—because I don’t have much of a green thumb—I’ll still have the planter you gave me. Denki, Jonathan.”

  “You’re welcome,” he whispered. He was too awestruck to say anything more.

  After a moment, Laura teasingly tapped his plate with her spoon. “You’ve got a puddle of ice cream. The only way to keep it from running over is to slurp it straight from the plate, ain’t so?”

  “Or to soak it up with my other piece of cake,” he said as he pressed the remaining cake into the melted ice cream with his fork. “Slurping from my plate would lead to disaster, for sure and for certain.”

  “Oh, but there’s a technique to it—see?”

  Before Jonathan could blink, Laura tipped her plate so the liquid ran neatly between her lips without spilling a single drop. She’d obviously practiced this move—but her expertise was soon lost on him. All he could see was her lovely neck stretching toward the plate . . . her lips moving on the rim . . . her throat muscles contracting each time she swallowed. All the while, she was trying not to giggle and make a mess.

  “Now you try it!” she urged him when she’d lowered her plate. “A guy with steady, strong hands
like yours won’t have any problem at all.”

  She’d noticed his hands? Immediately they began to tremble—one more reason Jonathan didn’t dare drain his plate the way Laura had. She was gazing at him with such sparkling eyes, however, that he didn’t want to disappoint her—didn’t want to lose the lightness of the moment—so he grabbed the bowl that held the remaining scoops of ice cream.

  With his fork, he deftly kept the blobs of melting chocolate and vanilla in the bowl as he lifted it to his lips. It was all he could do to concentrate on sipping the sweet, thick liquid as Laura followed his every move. Many times he and Cyrus had drained their cereal bowls this way, so he made short work of the melted ice cream before returning the bowl to the table.

  “How’d I do?” he asked, glancing down at his shirt. He was relieved that he hadn’t spilled anything, because Cyrus would never let him hear the end of it.

  Laura laughed. “Anybody can drink from a bowl, but I’ll let you off easy this time,” she teased. “It’s my birthday, so I can play nice. And since I’m eighteen now, you can kiss me, jah?”

  Jonathan’s mouth dropped open, yet the color rising in Laura’s cheeks told him she was as surprised by her flirtatious suggestion as he was. It seemed reassuring that such a levelheaded girl could blurt out words before thinking about them—the way he sometimes did. And if she wanted him to kiss her . . . had she been thinking about such a kiss before their impromptu private party?

  Jonathan watched his hand as it gently cupped Laura’s soft cheek, as though he had no control over it. Laura eased toward him, appearing jittery yet determined to make the most of this moment. It was up to him as the man, the older one, to lead the way into whatever a kiss might bring, wasn’t it?

  When his lips met hers, magic happened. They didn’t kiss for nearly long enough, but when her sigh mingled with his, Jonathan eased away before he could mess things up—or overthink a simple gesture of affection that most guys his age took for granted.

  Laura’s cheeks were bright pink. “I—I hope you don’t think I was too—”

  “I can’t think,” he whispered.

  “Nobody’s ever kissed me, but I thought since it was my birthday—”

  “Nobody’s ever kissed me, either.”

  Jonathan froze. Why had he admitted such incriminating information? He was twenty-four, and he’d been to Singings and the other group social activities that all Amish kids participated in, but now he felt so exposed he might as well be sitting beside Laura without any clothes on.

  He looked away, waiting for her to question him. Or mock him. After sharing such a brief, lovely moment, he’d surely messed up any chance of ever spending time with Laura again—

  “We all have to start somewhere, with somebody,” she murmured. “I’m glad I got to start with you, Jonathan.”

  His heart got softer than the ice cream left in the bowl. When he looked at Laura again, she seemed younger and more fragile—more vulnerable—than when she’d first joined him. And he loved her for it.

  “Me too,” he whispered as he took her hand.

  Chapter Nine

  Annabelle inhaled deeply as she pulled two pans of date-raisin spice bars from the oven. The entire lodge smelled like cinnamon and ground cloves—and she didn’t even mind that the other ladies weren’t around to taste the bars when they’d cooled. The Kuhns and Gloria had gone to Forest Grove with Irene and Phoebe when they delivered their pies, so Annabelle was savoring some quiet time in the kitchen. She’d put a pork roast into the oven and would soon add some potatoes and carrots, so supper would be ready when her friends got home.

  Phineas was helping the men shingle the roof of Allen and Phoebe’s house, so he wasn’t demanding anything of her, either. She hadn’t known such contentment since she’d spent time cooking in her own kitchen back home, before he’d abandoned her—and complicated her life beyond imagining.

  As Annabelle spread a layer of powdered sugar frosting on the warm bars, she considered what to bake next—maybe biscuits or corn bread muffins, or a coffee cake. Tomorrow was Saturday, and the women would be preparing food to serve at the common meal after church on Sunday. It would be a favor to Beulah and Ruby if they didn’t have to fuss with everyone’s breakfast, as well.

  As she ran hot water into the sink, a sound in the mudroom made her turn. Annabelle’s heart stilled warily. Bishop Clayton was stepping through the back door—and the way he held Annabelle’s gaze told her it was no coincidence that he’d chosen this particular time to visit. She wished Daisy had barked a warning, but the dog was probably in the Kurtzes’ pasture with Harley’s sheep.

  “Hello there, Bishop,” Annabelle called out, hoping she sounded more confident than she felt. “If you’re looking for lunch—or the Kuhns who cooked it—you’re late.”

  “Denki, but the neighbors are keeping Lester’s place stocked for us,” he replied as he entered the kitchen. “I feasted on lasagna this noon, so food’s the least of my concerns. It’s you I’ve been worried about, Annabelle. You, and the tenuous situation you’re in, no thanks to your truculent husband.”

  Annabelle had always resented folks who used fancy words, but she wasn’t about to ask what tenuous and truculent meant—especially when he was referring to Phineas. Clayton King could talk in word circles, but he’d eventually come to his point. So she would wait him out.

  “Worried?” she asked, turning back to her dishwater. “Doesn’t the Bible tell us not to worry, because—as He does for the lilies of the field and the birds of the air—our Lord will provide for all our needs?”

  Clayton glanced at the pans of frosted bars, his lips twitching with a smile. “You’re a wise woman, Mrs. Beachey,” he replied. “Which makes it all the more troublesome that Phineas has committed the unforgivable sin, putting you in limbo—because you can’t leave him, and he can’t be readmitted to the Old Order. He knowingly strayed from the path to salvation by forsaking his vow to the church, and now you’re paying the price for his mistake, as well. I’m sorry, dear Annabelle,” he added in a whisper.

  Her heart thudded faster. Bishop Clayton was allowing no possibility at all for Phineas to reconcile with her or the church—to him, it was a black and white situation. Although most bishops would see her situation this way, Annabelle was grateful that Bishop Monroe had allowed for some gray area, some wiggle room, when he’d talked with her and Phineas these past few days.

  This wasn’t the time to challenge Bishop Clayton or to pit his opinion against Monroe’s, however. He’d called her dear Annabelle, implying affection for her . . . perhaps in direct response to the way Phineas had clasped her hand a few days ago. It wasn’t a game she wanted to play, but she saw no way out of it.

  Annabelle was searching for a way to steer the conversation in a different direction when Clayton came to stand beside her. Once again she realized how tall and fit he was, how his suspenders skimmed a firm torso, and how his dark eyes burned with an inner fire. He held her gaze as he rolled the sleeves of his crisp white shirt to his elbows . . . which gave her the odd sensation that he was baring himself in a most intimate way, even though he remained fully clothed.

  She blinked. He was taking the tea towel from the stove handle, as though he intended to dry the dishes—so she began to wash them. What else was she to do? The bishop seemed quite aware that they were alone in the lodge, and he wasn’t giving her a chance to avoid the difficult topic he’d introduced.

  “You don’t have to help, you know,” she said.

  Clayton dried the hand-cranked beater and the bowl she’d washed. “Won’t hurt me to engage in some kitchen duty while we talk,” he remarked lightly. “I imagine you’ve missed your kids—especially your daughters and their help—since you left your home in Ohio.”

  Annabelle blinked. Had Phineas only told him they’d lived in Ohio, rather than down the road from him in Lancaster County? Had her husband also told Clayton they had daughters? She wasn’t good at lying on the spur of the moment—
>
  Something told her Clayton was fishing, and that she’d better play it straight so she didn’t get caught. For one thing, she didn’t like having to explain or apologize for her childless life. “God didn’t bless Phineas and me with children,” she murmured. “I’ve accepted His will about that matter and made the most of the life He’s given me.”

  “It’s a shame your husband didn’t see fit to do the same,” the bishop said without missing a beat. Then he smiled gently at her. “I didn’t intend to ruffle your feathers, Annabelle. I just wanted you to know that you can confide in me. I’m sure you’ve been . . . unsettled by your husband’s reappearance. And your quandary.”

  She focused on the pan she was scrubbing, wishing for a way to end this uncomfortable conversation.

  “If you need to relocate,” Clayton continued, “I’d be happy to help you establish yourself in a community that would welcome you and support you. Phineas must finally come to realize that he can’t remain with you and that you won’t live English with him. You don’t intend to jump the fence, do you?”

  “Of course not!” Annabelle blurted. She gripped the rim of the sink, hoping to maintain her hold on reality as Clayton made such an alarming offer. Somehow she found the strength to look him in the eye, aware that he was standing much too close to her. “I intend to stay right here at Promise Lodge, where I’ve already reestablished myself,” she stated.

  Her mind went blank. Annabelle reached into the dishwater for the silverware on the bottom of the sink, desperate for a safe topic of conversation. “What’s your line of work, Bishop Clayton?” she asked. “I’m surprised you can be away from your shop so long—”