Her Secret Amish Child Page 13

  He lifted his head, gave her a lopsided smile. “Grossdaddi said he knows a man with puppies in his barn. Can we go see them tonight, after we eat?”

  “Nee, but I’ll make sure your grossdaddi takes you to see them soon.” She relaxed, smiled again. “Now shut that door behind me so we can be on our way. We can’t have the familye thinking we’re not coming to dinner.” She snatched up the roasting pan and led the way.

  He bounced down the steps and then grabbed the handle of his wagon as she placed the cooling food amongst the toys cluttering the bottom of the wagon bed.

  “Is Fredrik a schreiner?” His question came out of nowhere.

  “Ya, he’s a carpenter. Why do you ask?”

  Sunlight shone in Benuel’s blue eyes. “I want to be a schreiner when I grow up.”

  “That’s nice.” Lizbeth made no additional comment. She was too stunned. “Let’s get to your grossmammi’s house before dark falls.

  An hour later she left Benuel with a plate of warm cookies Ulla had just pulled from the oven and walked out to the old farmhouse door, heading toward the chicken pens.

  She opened the first gate into the large, noisy chicken coop and called out, “Daed!”

  Others complained about the ammonia smell and noise of the farm, but they had never been a problem to Lizbeth. She had wonderful memories of cuddling down-covered chicks and laughing as she chased after her grossmammi’s pet hens who ran wild in the yard.

  She’d been told her grossdaddi had started the farm back in the fifties, some years after Pinecraft’s conception. Her daed had taken over the running of the farm when the leathered old man passed on to be with the Lord. What stayed with her now was the look of Grossdaadi’s weathered face and his winning smile that reappeared in her daed’s aged appearance.

  Both old men were stubborn when it came to their dedication to this farm, but they had vibrant affection for their families that couldn’t be faulted.

  The muscles in Lizbeth’s chest restricted. Her father wouldn’t live forever, just like her grossdaddi hadn’t. “Daed?”

  Short and squat, but full of energy and a love of life, Chicken John dumped the overflowing basket of leafy kitchen greens and breakfast scraps and turned toward her. “Ya, I’m here.”

  She’d been indoors most of the day supervising Benuel as he helped Fredrik lay the tiles, but knew the day had started out warm and then an unexpected morning shower had left the afternoon miserably humid. Her father’s face looked flushed, his lip beaded with sweat.

  He was getting too old for such vigorous work, but no one could tell him anything, not even the local doctor, who’d declared him arthritic and insisted he slow down. He’d probably never retire from his beloved chicken farm, unless Ulla could convince the headstrong old man he needed to turn the farm over to Lizbeth’s bruder, Saul.

  Her father took a colorful handkerchief from his pant pocket and rubbed his brow and face and then stuck the damp cloth back in his pocket with little regard.

  “I need to talk with you, if you have time to spare,” Lizbeth said.

  His head bobbed. “Ya, sure.” He motioned her back through the gate and latched it behind them.

  “Let me wash up first and then we’ll sit under your mamm’s apple trees for a spell.”

  Under the spindly branches of the adult trees, Lizbeth settled herself on the wooden bench her grossdaddi had made before she was born and tried to organize her thoughts.

  She watched as the outdoor faucet sloshed water on her daed’s boots and then half smiled as he hollered when he splashed his face and neck with cold water.

  Not sure what all needed saying, she didn’t have a clue how to start this conversation, or exactly how much to reveal.

  Moments later, his face still damp and shining, her father shuffled over and lowered himself to the bench with a familiar groan. He observed her for a moment and then spoke. “Was ist letz? You have important words to speak to me, dochder?”

  Did he look older or was it the dread filling her that made him look too fragile to handle her news?

  She spoke in a rush for fear she’d snatch the words back before she could get them out. “Fredrik Lapp is Benuel’s natural father.” She looked up, saw his pale eyes widen and then glisten with unshed tears.

  His jaw tightened. “I had no idea he was the one. You never said.” He raked his fingers through his damp hair and then scrutinized her face. “Why are you telling me now, liebling?”

  She took in the sight of her father’s set mouth, the way his jaw ticked with fury. Benuel’s conception was her fault, not Fredrik’s. “Fredrik never knew he was the father of my child.”

  His pupils dilated. “Nee, it is not possible. He would remember.”

  “Not if he had been too drunk to stand up, he wouldn’t.”

  John rose, towering over her. “He took advantage of you?”

  Lizbeth’s lashes fluttered, heavy with tears. “Nee, I was the one who took advantage.”

  “You?” He kneeled in front of her, taking her hands in his. “How is it possible, Lizbeth? You were little more than a child.”

  Her lower lip quivered. “I was at the singing frolic. Fredrik and Saul were on rumspringa and still sowing their wild oats. I knew Fredrik was drunk when he offered to walk me home. He had a flask of something that smelled strong of spirits.” Her voice shook as she continued. “In the moonlight he kissed me.” Her voice broke as she continued. “I led him into the barn.” She lowered her head, her shame turning her voice into little more than a whisper. A tear escaped her eye. “The next day he didn’t remember any of it. Nothing! I was still just Saul’s little schweschder, someone to be tolerated.”

  “But—”

  “Nee, let me finish.” She squeezed her father’s hand, saw the strain of her words on his craggy face and felt heartache like never before. “Fredrik left for his training before he and Saul were baptized. He was completely unaware he’d been with me, that we’d made a child together.” She clutched her father’s rough hands. “How can I tell him, Daed? He will hate me.”

  “Oh, mein kinner.”

  She wept openly, her voice cracking. “He remembers nothing, but shows an interest in Benuel’s welfare now.” She pushed back a wisp of hair from her face. “Once he finds out Benuel is his soh, that it’s my fault he’s missed out on the boy’s life, he’ll hate me, take Benuel away. Yet I feel Gott leading me to tell him. What am I to do?”

  “There is nothing more to be done. You must follow Gott’s plan. Fredrik has a right to know. It must be you who tells him.” Her father’s face blanched. The look he gave her touched her breaking heart.

  “I will tell him, but in my time.” She would tell him. If she could find the courage.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Fredrik had eaten many meals at Chicken John and Ulla Schwarts’s house, but he’d never felt more uncomfortable than he did this time. His affection for Lizbeth was growing and he knew she wanted no part of a new marriage. Not while she was still grieving the loss of her husband. He lumbered into the large dining room, shuffled his way around Ulla’s feisty, diminutive sister, Hilda, and then stuffed his freshly washed hands deep in his trouser pockets.

  As expected, Lizbeth smiled at him over the bowl she was carrying and hurried away.

  He rubbed his chin as he watched her scurry between Ulla and Hilda. He couldn’t blame her for not wanting him always hanging around. Had he been too obvious with his affection?

  He’d told Chicken John he had things to do after spending his morning at Lizbeth’s laying tile and then working on the chicken coops in the afternoon, but the old church deacon was stubborn and wasn’t having any of it. His habit had always been to feed those who worked on his chicken farm, and they had both labored in the hot sun that afternoon.

  He smiled as Ulla
passed him. The sunburn on his face made his skin feel tight and painful. He’d meant to put sunscreen on this afternoon, but a call from his bruder had broken his routine and left him scorched at the end of the long day.

  Chicken John came bustling in, took his seat at the head of the big wooden table laden with plates, platters and bowls of food, and pointed to a chair on his right. “Sit yourself there, Fredrik. Across from Lizbeth and Hilda.”

  Lizbeth grabbed the back of the chair farther down the table. “I’ll sit here, Daed. Close to Benuel.”

  Benuel scrambled out of the chair he’d climbed into, crawled under the table to a chair next to Fredrik. “I want to sit near Fredrik,” he declared to no one in particular. “He’s my friend.”

  Lizbeth nodded her approval.

  John’s bushy brows lifted as he glanced at the child and then over to his daughter. “Lizbeth. Your chair is there, where you’ve sat all your life. There’s been enough musical chairs tonight. Two men are hungry at this table. We’ve both had a long day of work. Sit.”

  She nodded, her face an empty canvas. “But first I have to help finish putting the meal on the table,” she said and took a step back, promptly bumping into Ulla, who carried a steaming bowl of mashed potatoes in her hand. “I’m sorry. Excuse me,” she muttered and hurried off into the kitchen, her hands adjusting her kapp, pulling at her ribbon.

  A smile tugged at Ulla’s mouth. “Leave her alone, John. She’s a grown woman with a child. Let the girl sit where she likes.”

  “Ya, sure. I’m certain-sure you’re right.” John leaned toward Fredrik and laughed. “Whatever it takes to get a meal in my belly.” He rubbed the rotund stomach straining at his shirt.

  “Ya,” Fredrik said and glanced toward the kitchen. Lizbeth entered the room, with Hilda following close behind her. He redirected his gaze.

  In the past he would have wiggled his eyebrows at Lizbeth and teased her about obeying her daed’s rules, but those days were gone.

  The silent prayer, proceeded by Chicken John’s clearing of his throat, came and went. Forks tinkling against plates covered Benuel’s muffled comments about the evil of all things green.

  Fredrik poked a slice of roast beef into his mouth. He winced as he rolled his sore shoulders. He’d need a hot shower when he got home. Laying the tiles in Lizbeth’s bathroom had pulled at a few muscles and stretching chicken wire an hour ago hadn’t helped any. He had the grouting to do early the next morning and then he’d be working the late shift at the furniture barn. He’d be busy all day again.

  He dipped his fork into perfectly mashed potatoes and rich, creamy dark gravy and swirled a chunk of beef in it. It was time to speak to Lizbeth about marriage. Time was slipping past. Mose kept reminding him he wasn’t getting any younger. He shoved a forkful of green beans in his mouth and tasted bacon. He’d grown tired of hamburgers and chili fries. He craved home cooking, clean sheets and someone to share his long, lonely evenings. Someone like Lizbeth.

  “This beef is wonderful-gut,” he remarked to Ulla across the table.

  She hooked her thumb in Lizbeth’s direction. “Give the praise to Lizbeth. She cooked the brisket.”

  “It’s certain-sure tender,” he told Lizbeth and quickly looked away.

  He’d caught her staring at him, her countenance almost dreamy, a silly smile playing on her face, the same look she’d given him when she’d turned fifteen and tried to kiss him on the small bridge connecting his parents’ property and hers. Confused, he glanced back at her. She had turned a brilliant shade of cranberry red and was frowning now. What had changed?

  He saw Ulla nudge Hilda with her elbow. The tiny woman redirected her attention from her plate to Lizbeth.

  “You thought any more about me finding you a suitable husband?”

  Lizbeth swallowed the water she’d been sipping. Her eyes glistened with tears from almost choking. She didn’t turn her head, but replied with a firm shake of her head. “Nee. My life is complicated enough.”

  Hilda plucked a green bean off her plate and stuck it in her mouth. She chewed and then spoke. “Ya, but a husband would bring you stability and take over some of the burdens of raising a kinner alone.”

  “Pinecraft is a small tourist town. Even if I had an interest in a mann and wanted to get married,” she said with a glint to her eye, “who would I choose at the end of summer months?” She smirked. “Elder King?” She tucked a stray hair behind her ear. “He’s old enough to be my daed.”

  “Your grossdaddi,” Chicken John corrected with a smile, then went back to eating as if an argument wasn’t going on around him.

  “You see? He’s old and there’s no one else who’s single.” She dabbed at her mouth with her napkin and placed it back on her lap, seemingly satisfied she’d won the battle.

  All eyes turned to Fredrik, with the exception of Benuel, who was making a mess with his red sauce and potatoes.

  Fredrik looked up, saw everyone’s heads turned in his direction and sputtered, “Oh...wait now. It’s true. I am looking for a fraa, and stepping out with a few ladies of the community from time to time, but placing Lizbeth and I on a marriage list won’t work.” His forehead puckered. “Nee, you see. Lizbeth is still in mourning...” His voice trailed off to a whisper.

  “Oh, ya? You think so?” Hilda’s eyebrows rose. She licked her lips and took her notebook out of her apron pocket, ready to scribble. “Tell me. When did this romance begin? Perhaps we can find a way to work through any problems and settle on a wedding date.”

  Lizbeth set her glass down too hard, her eyes beseeching her father to say something, end this fiasco. “I don’t think this is the time or the place to be—”

  Chicken John rose to his full height and dropped his napkin in his plate. “Enough talk about marriage and such at my dinner table. This conversation will continue another day,” he boomed and then directed his gaze at Ulla. “I want my pineapple upside-down cake in the living room. I’m sitting in my favorite chair for a spell.”

  Fredrik put down his fork and shoved back in his chair. He cast Lizbeth a veiled glance, but her chair was empty. She’d left the dining room without him knowing it and taken Benuel with her.

  * * *

  Lizbeth hadn’t slept well the night before, after Hilda’s outburst about marriage to Fredrik. “Stand still, Benuel. You’ll be late for your first day of school.” Lizbeth caught the boy’s wiggling foot, and then brushed at the tip of his scuffed black boot.

  “I don’t want to go to school!” He balled up his fists, his anger growing.

  “There will be lots of kinner to play with and Beatrice will eat lunch with you.” She’d prayed he’d be excited about his first day at school, not cross and uncooperative.

  His eyes woefully sad, he sniffed. “You might forget to come pick me up when school is over.”

  “I would never do that. You know I’ll be outside, waiting.” She smiled. “Perhaps Beatrice can walk with us to school. Would you like to drop by and pick her up?” She scrutinized him, saw his anger building.

  He dropped his head and scuffed his boot against the hardwood floor. “Nee, she’s mean-spirited. If she says I’m a crybaby again, I’m going to hit her.” His lips pursed.

  Lizbeth’s heart skipped a beat. He’d witnessed too much. “It’s wrong to hit, Benuel.”

  “My daed used to hit you.”

  “Ya, but he was wrong for doing it.”

  His thin arms went around her legs and he hugged her close in a loving embrace. “I didn’t like it when he hit you,” he murmured into the folds of her skirt.

  “I didn’t like it, either. We must promise each other to never hit, never cause others pain. Ya?” An ache that never left tore at her heart.

  “I want to stay here with you. Fredrik might come and he’ll need my help.”

  “He’
s busy today. Don’t you remember he said he’d be back in a day or so to grout the tiles?”

  “But he might come and need my help.” He scrubbed at his eye, making it red.

  “Nee, not this time,” she said, smiling down at him and running her fingers through his uncombed hair. He had Fredrik’s hair. The color and texture was exactly the same. “We’ve got to hurry. Eat your breakfast and then comb your hair.” She held him by his arms and looked down at him. “Will you promise to be good and do your best?”

  He pursed his lips and then they spread into a big grin. “Okay, mamm.”

  As he hurried off, she felt dread building. Would his best be good enough for his teacher? The young woman in charge of the youngest children seemed too young and innocent to understand his difficulties. Had she even heard of ADHD, or learned what behavior the condition brought about?

  She had to say something to the teacher about Benuel’s anger, to give him a fair chance in school. “Hurry, Benuel,” she called out, holding her hand to her roiling stomach. “Time’s flying past.”

  * * *

  Late-summer orders had slowed down to a trickle, leaving Fredrik with a half day’s work at the furniture barn. He’d gotten off at noon, eaten a meal and headed to the apartment behind Lizbeth’s house. He had plenty of time to apply a fresh coat of paint to the bedroom’s walls and finish up the last of the small jobs that needed doing.

  He revved the motor of his little scooter and pulled into the driveway, watching out for the mama cat who often slept in a pile of leaves shaded from the sunshine by the eaves of the house.

  Movement drew his attention toward the kitchen’s side door. Lizbeth’s actions were quick as she locked the side door and moved down the steps, her hair coming loose from her bun and flying around her face. “Is everything all right?” he shouted, his legs still straddling the bike.

  She glanced his way, paused, and for a moment Fredrik thought she’d burst out crying.