Her Secret Amish Child Page 4

  Chapter Four

  Later that afternoon, Lizbeth hoisted the heavy green garbage bag out of the industrial-size plastic container and hastily placed it on the church’s tiled kitchen floor. It was heavier than she’d anticipated, and made bulky by several plastic milk jugs she’d added to the jumble after making chocolate pudding. She tied the bag off, and with a grunt of determination, gathered her strength, lifted the burden and wrestled it to the back door.

  Twisting, she turned the knob and hip bumped the sticking door open. Sunlight and a cool breeze poured into the sweltering kitchen.

  Five narrow steps and a four-foot drop greeted her. Great! Just what I need. More obstacles in my path.

  She glanced around and found a row of enormous black trash cans lined along the church. They were at least six feet away.

  Six feet or six inches, she was going to get the trash into one of those cans if it took her the rest of the afternoon. Stubbornness fed her resolve. I can do this.

  Positioned on the second step, her back to the yard, she heaved the plastic bag up and then dropped it on the top stair.

  “You need help with that?” a masculine voice asked from somewhere behind her. She recognized it was Fredrik.

  “Nee, but danki.” She shot a glance over her shoulder. Fredrik was bareheaded and wiping sweat from his brow with a colorful bandana.

  “You sure?”

  Doubt rang in his words and spurred her on. As a girl she’d had no defenses against his teasing, but infatuation didn’t rob her of her voice now. “Ya, I’m sure. Go about your business, Fredrik. I can manage.” Somewhere in her mind she knew she probably should accept the man’s offer of help, but she shut out the voice of reason. She’d been controlled too many years, her choices taken away from her. This was her project. She had something to prove to herself. She’d get the bag of trash into one of the cans if it was the last thing she did.

  With another grunt, she stepped down, lifted the oversize green bag and repositioned it on the second step. She heard Fredrik’s muffled snicker and tensed. Her shoulders came back and her backbone went rigid. With trembling fingers, she straightened her work scarf, took a deep breath and prepared for the next step. She might not be as strong as the muscular man standing behind her, but she had determination that would carry her through to the end.

  She grabbed hold of the bag, stepped down, her foot finding the edge of the narrow step.

  Her stomach tightened into a knot as she swayed, fought to regain her balance and repositioned her foot. With another grunt, she jerked the bag up. It caught on the edge of the step and puckered. She tugged carefully. The slit formed and then grew. The bottom of the bag gave way with a rush.

  There was no time to jerk her feet away. Trash covered her legs and the toes of her black shoes with a goopy mixture of tomato sauce and coffee grinds. Potato peels and an assortment of empty plastic containers fell through the stairs onto the dirt.

  Lizbeth glared down between the stair’s wooden slats to the growing heap of trash. Her mamm’s gentle words of reprimand echoed through her mind. Pride is a sin, child. It will only bring you misery.

  “Here, let me help you with that.” Fredrik came into view.

  She noticed the ends of his ginger hair curled attractively around his light blue shirt collar. He was covered in sawdust and small wood chips. A smudge of roof tar told her he’d been working with the roofing crew she and the other ladies cooked for.

  He reached for the bag, his hand covering the gash at the bottom as he eased it away from her.

  She released her hold, not wanting his touch, and watched the muscles in his forearm bulge as he raised her burden as if it were weightless. She slipped him the fresh bag she had tucked in her apron pocket and watched as he lifted the trash can lid and chucked the bag in, wiping his hands down the front legs of his pants as he gave her a satisfied grin.

  She stamped her feet against the wooden step, dislodging most of the coffee grounds from her shoe, but red sauce splotched her legs.

  Heat suffused her face as she looked up and noticed the last of the kitchen staff standing in the open doorway, all smiles and giggles, watching her exchange with Fredrik with great interest.

  Lizbeth cringed. Every time she turned around she was causing herself some kind of embarrassment, and somehow Fredrik always managed to be involved. “Danki. I appreciate your help, but I can clean the rest myself,” she assured him.

  One of the ladies tossed him a new trash bag. He squatted and began to work on the pile of trash under the steps. “This is my fault,” he said, glancing up and grinning at her in the goofy way he had when he was a boy. The memory made her heart skip a beat.

  “But I made the mess.” She picked up a half-eaten apple off the step and tossed it into the bag.

  Fredrik’s grin spread into a full-blown smile. “Ya, but I was supposed to fix that raised nail this morning before it could cause someone trouble.”

  The past fell away and she was a girl of seventeen again, looking into the sparkling blue eyes of the young Fredrik Lapp. He continued to hold her gaze. She pulled her eyes away. The man was having too much fun at her expense. She didn’t have a clue what to do about it or the ripple of emotions churning in her stomach. But she knew she couldn’t let herself grow too close to him. Not this time. Too much was at stake.

  * * *

  An hour later Fredrik and six other men sat at the square table in the corner of the kitchen. Lizbeth refilled each man’s glass with cold milk, accepted their thanks and then busied herself with the last of the pots and pans.

  She listened to the deep hum of their conversation, not to eavesdrop, but to enjoy the sound of men talking in a friendly manner. She’d spent too much time alone on the farm in Ohio. And the only conversations she’d heard when her husband and his family were around had been harsh and ugly. She’d used the time to gather her thoughts and make life-changing decisions. Jonah’s sudden death allowed her to act on her choices.

  Memories of Jonah filled her mind. Lean, with plain, unremarkable features, he had been the only man she’d stepped out with after Fredrik had left Pinecraft without a word of goodbye. Always kind and gentle, Jonah’s love for her had been evident in the way he’d talked to her and showed her respect at the start. And he’d been one of the few who knew the truth, knew of her sin. She’d thought he’d be willing to treat Benuel as his own son. But she’d been wrong. About everything.

  In Ohio, where his family farmed, she’d found herself embedded in a hostile community of rigid Old Order Amish rules. The people lived bitter lives. The painful memories of Benuel’s birth followed quickly by news of her mother’s sudden death had put a fresh sting of unshed tears in her eyes.

  After his birth, Benuel was taken from her and given to Jonah’s mother, who’d just lost her youngest boy in a farming accident. Jonah had longed for sons of his own, children who would work the family farm with him in his later years.

  And when Lizbeth got pregnant again, she’d thought he’d get his wish. But the babies died a few moments after their birth, born too early to survive. Jonah grew impatient with her as the years passed. She could still feel the sting of his words after their deaths. Where are my sohs? You carry them in your stomach, but they die, gasping for air. What have I done to earn this punishment? You have brought sin into my home. Their deaths are your fault.

  Deep inside, she knew Jonah was at fault for the loss of her twin sons. When he drank, his physical abuse had cost her much too much.

  Lizbeth shoved a chocolate chip cookie loaded with walnuts into her mouth, eating out of taut nerves and not pleasure. She had to remind herself Jonah would never hurt her or Benuel again.

  She submerged an oversize saucepan into the hot dishwater and began to scrub. Once again she relived the sound of the accident that took her husband’s life. The terrible
screech of tires, the scream of their horse.

  Visions of the overturned buggy, the Englischers’ car mangled and burning next to it. Her breath grew ragged. The terrible sights and sounds of that night were seared deeply into her memory. Jonah had been badly burned, his chest crushed by the weight of their dead horse. She could still see the sterile white hospital room where he later died, his suffering finally over. She’d disappointed him in every way imaginable.

  The police later confirmed her suspicions. Her husband had been driving drunk the night of the accident, and their old mare, Rosie, was out of control and running wild when the Englischers’ car hit the buggy.

  She’d been too ashamed to admit she knew he had taken to drink to dull the pain of his lost sons. Jonah had lashed out at her earlier that dreadful night at the supper table. He’d screamed at her, told her she was useless. But she knew it had been the drink talking and she had forgiven him everything he’d said. Who could blame a man whose fraa could not give him more sons? Benuel had been a witness to the wreck, to her moments of insanity.

  She glanced down at her trembling hands, at her little finger, once broken and now permanently twisted out of shape. A reminder of Jonah’s fits of rage when her tiny boys were laid to rest in the cold ground. Dark memories surrounded her like a heavy shawl. She pushed the memories away and went back to work, her thoughts on Benuel. He mattered now. No one else.

  The final pan scrubbed and rinsed, she placed it on a dish towel and leaned against the stainless steel sink, her eyes closed, pushing away all the misery, the memories of her past life with Jonah.

  Her son had paid the highest price of all. He had no daed to follow around, no man to emulate, to show him how to grow strong. And it was her fault. She knew she had to do something. He needed a father, but she didn’t want another husband, someone she would disappoint. No Amish man in his right mind would want a traumatized woman with the built-in ability to fail. Gott’s will be done in Benuel’s life.

  The scrape of a chair behind her caused her to turn. Fredrik moved toward the commercial-size refrigerator, his empty glass in hand. The other server had left the room moments before, leaving her alone with the last shift of workers. She jerked a square of paper towel from the roll and dried her hands. “Can I get you something?”

  He stopped, turned toward her with a warm smile. “You’re busy. I can pour my own milk.”

  “Would you like some ice in it?”

  He quietly observed her. “Little Lizzy, I can’t believe you remember I like ice in my milk.”

  “I’m the one who introduced you to it.” She narrowed her eyes at him. “And I’m not so little anymore. Neither one of us is, Freddie.”

  “I still see your bruder as often as I can. I’m sure he still thinks of you as little.”

  Lizbeth found herself smiling at the mention of her older brother. “Ya. His two boys look just like him, ain’t so?”

  Fredrik nodded. “Remember those childish fights we used to get into? You were always such a pesky kid, hanging around, bothering us. Back then, Saul and I were convinced you were only born to annoy us.”

  He laughed again and Lizbeth felt her face and neck flush pink with warmth. When she was little, both boys had made it clear they didn’t want her tagging along. Her young life had been full of merciless teasing. “Mamm made Saul take me along. I didn’t want to go.” Her mother’s image impressed itself on her mind. The beloved woman had been tall and always too lean. She’d worn simple dresses of cotton made by her own hands. Lizbeth could almost hear her mamm’s words floating in the air around her. Ya, Saul. You will take Lizbeth with you, or you won’t go yourself.

  She gently edged her memories of her mother away, along with the pain of her loss. “Mamm always wanted me out from under her feet so she could clean or quilt with the ladies.” She wiped at the side of the big fridge and opened the door, her thoughts back to her youth as she wiped down the rack where milk had been spilled. Her childhood feelings for the man standing next to her flushed her face warm again. She felt eleven years old again, longing for Fredrik to take notice of her. Embarrassment had her chatting again. “You boys teased me terrible when you took me fishing. You threatened to use me as bait.”

  “Ya, because you didn’t know how to shut up.” He softened his words with a lopsided grin. “You were so skinny back then. I was always afraid you’d fall in the river and we’d have to fish you out.”

  She stood tall, almost eye to eye with him. With a mind of its own, her finger poked at his broad chest. “Ya, well. I never fell in and you didn’t have to save me once.” She snickered. This was one of the few times her above-average height served her well.

  “Nee.” He stepped back and removed his hand from her arm. “I never did have to save you, but you ran off lots of fish.”

  She took the glass from his hand, splashed in frothy milk from a cold metal pitcher and then dropped two ice cubes into the milky swirl. “Two enough?” she asked, looking up at him.

  He had a strange expression on his face and was smiling like someone who had just been given a special Christmas gift. “Ya. Sure. Two is perfect,” he said and turned away with the glass of milk in hand, but not before winking at her with one bright blue eye lined with rusty brown lashes.

  She turned on her heel and left the room, but not before turning back and giving the man one last look. He sat down at the kitchen table circled with men and went back to eating like nothing had happened.

  She hurried away from the kitchen, leaving the men to fend for themselves. She’d left Benuel alone with the other children a long time. It was best she checked up on him and made sure he was behaving himself. Left to his own devices, there was no telling what he’d get up to.

  She forced her thoughts to Benuel and off Fredrik. What foolishness. The man had never been drawn to her.

  Chapter Five

  Lizbeth leaned her borrowed bike next to her father’s big-seated tricycle and followed him up the steps of the porch. She was encouraged the two of them had finally found spare time to look at the empty house together.

  The street was quiet, the homes well kept. The front lawn was neatly cut and edged. Made of white clapboard, with a brown tiled roof, Ulla’s house looked exactly like every other home in the small Amish community. Plain and nondescript as it had been described to her. The dwelling had a big wraparound porch, graced by two oversize cushioned rockers. They made the home more inviting, an added bonus she hadn’t expected but was thrilled to see.

  Her foot on the last step, she glanced back at the neighborhood, trying to take it all in at once. She turned back to the white house and admired the tidy beds of fragrant pink rosebushes nestled along each side of the porch. The wood fence surrounding the backyard had a pleasant gray patina and looked strong enough to hold her son behind its sturdy walls.

  She smiled as she went up the steps, picturing Benuel climbing trees and running around in the privacy of his own yard, where he’d be safe from the dangers of the road. This house would suit them to perfection if the inside was as nice as the outside.

  Her daed turned the key and stepped back so Lizbeth could precede him. “Ya, well. Like I told you. There’s a few repairs to be done. The roof needs a shingle or two, but all that will be fixed before you move in.”

  The entry hall was clean and spacious, the hardwood floors shining from a fresh coat of beeswax. He led the way to the great room filled with comfortable-looking furniture. Solid navy drapes were pulled back at each side of the big windows. “You’ll get the morning sun in here.”

  “Gut,” Lizbeth said, hoping to find a brick fireplace and then realizing she wouldn’t need one in Florida. There’d be no more snow or icy roads to contend with. No more shivering in buggies, carting wood and milking cows. She smiled and continued to follow her father.

  Across the entry hall he led her into
a big square kitchen. The walls were lined with wooden cabinets painted a glossy white. A large Englischer stove and refrigerator sat across from each other. The sunny kitchen window, framed with pale blue checkered curtains, crowned the deep country sink in front of her.

  “Ulla kept a small table and chairs placed by the door, but her daughter wanted them since her daed had made them. I’m sure you can get a set for a fair price at one of the auctions coming up.”

  Lizbeth imagined a round table with four chairs in the empty floor space and grinned. “Perhaps I can get Mose Fischer to make me one.”

  “Ya, he could make it fit perfectly in here. He’s known for the quality of his work.” Her father ran his hand down the length of the kitchen’s work-top counter and smiled. “I’m sure Ulla and her daughters had many good times here, baking and making memories.”

  “Perhaps renting the house to me isn’t a good idea. It could be difficult for her.”

  “Ya, well, not that hard. She said she took her memories with her when we married. She seemed happy to move in to my home. This phase of her life is over. Her new life has begun, just like yours will when you marry again. Now, let’s go look at the bedrooms at the back and see if you think Benuel would be happy in one of them.”

  “Will she be leaving all the furniture?” Lizbeth ignored her father’s comment about her getting married again and ambled toward a beautiful hall table made of oak wood and polished to a high shine. A real beauty. She held her breath as she waited for an answer.

  “That’s up to the renter.” Her daed chuckled. “Houses are hard to come by in Pinecraft and most renters want their homes to be furnished, especially if they’re snowbirds from up north and only staying a short while each year.”

  “If I decide to rent the house, I’d want the furniture to remain,” Lizbeth assured him and then hurried into the first bedroom off the hall, her excitement building as she examined the good-size room with a double bed and wooden dresser that matched. “I left the farmhouse in Ohio as is and walked away with nothing but our clothes.” She could have said more, but didn’t. She hadn’t told anyone about her life in Ohio. Why share the misery? Speaking out would change nothing in her past and erase none of the damage done to her soul. Her one regret was walking away from the graveyard that held the bodies of her babies.