Her Secret Amish Child Read online

  Lizbeth faked a smile. The last thing she needed was to fall for Fredrik Lapp again, or let Benuel get too attached to him, and have him chose another woman for his fraa.

  John strode into the dining room with Fredrik trailing close behind. Her father grinned over at Ulla and then dipped his head in a friendly manner at Lizbeth as he removed his sweaty hat. His gray hair was trimmed shorter than usual, exposing the generous ears Gott had blessed him with. He hitched up his overlong trouser legs by pulling on his drooping black suspenders and headed for his usual chair at the big wooden table.

  “I see Ulla finally caught you unawares with scissors in hand,” Lizbeth teased, causing her father to laugh in a robust manner.

  “She did, indeed,” he admitted and impatiently beckoned for the younger man to sit next to him. “Sit there, Fredrik. Next to Lizbeth and me.”

  Hat in hand, Fredrik pulled out a chair and lowered himself, his gaze shifting to Lizbeth, who stood across the table from him.

  She smiled his way and felt her stomach tighten.

  He smiled back, his eyes sparkling.

  She tried not to show how thrilled she was. Her affection toward the man was getting out of hand. She’d have to control her emotions.

  “I’m sure you ladies have prepared enough food,” Fredrik said. He licked his lips, flashed a nervous smile.

  Ulla threw her head back and chuckled. “Have you ever known me to cook small meals, Fredrik? Every night I cook enough food for five hearty men.” She grabbed the back of the chair closest to John, pulled it out and lowered herself with a groan.

  “I’ll...ah...just go get Benuel and daed’s hound,” Lizbeth stammered. “He and that dog should be tired of feeding those chickens by now.” She found her hand nervously patting her loose bun, her fingers toying with the hairs curling around her neck as she marched to the back door. Did she look a mess? It seemed the man always caught her in her worst moments.

  As soon as she realized what she was doing she mentally scolded herself, her face flaming as she stepped onto the back porch. What foolishness. So what if her hair was flying around her face in a haphazard way. She secured her wayward curls with pins and shoved her kapp down on the back of her head.

  “Supper time. Come get your hands washed,” she called out. She saw the boy and dog rush to the barn to put away the bag of cracked corn he was dragging along the ground behind him.

  “Ya, I’m coming,” he called out with a wave.

  This was Benuel’s special day. It wasn’t every day a boy turned five. “Quick. Come,” she said in old Deitch and beckoned him up the steps.

  * * *

  Fredrik cut into the tender pot roast and stifled a groan of delight as he chewed the delicious morsel. John and Ulla had always made him feel welcome at their table, but it was Lizbeth’s smile that warmed him—and made him a bit uncomfortable.

  Benuel’s short legs kicked back and forth as he played with his food, less than a mouthful eaten the whole time he’d been sitting in his chair. “Can I have cake now?” he asked, his words directed to his mother across from him.

  “Once you finish your food,” she said and speared a wedge of carrot off her plate.

  “But I don’t like—”

  Fredrik interrupted, “When I was your age I ate all my vegetables and my bruder’s, too. My mamm said they built big muscles.” He flexed his arm and showed off a well-rounded biceps to the boy. “See.”

  Benuel’s eyes grew round with wonder. “Is so?” he asked his mamm, his look skeptical.

  “Ya, is so.” She bobbed her head. She had seemed impressed with the flex of his muscles, too.

  Hesitant, Benuel broke off the tiniest sliver of potato and thrust it in his mouth. “I don’t like how they taste,” he said, and laid down his fork.

  “Never mind,” Fredrik muttered and shoveled in a mound of potatoes slathered in melted butter. “I’ll eat your share. I need to keep up my strength for the shuffleboard game tomorrow.”

  “I’ve never played shuffleboard,” Benuel informed him. “My mamm says I’m too little.”

  Fredrik smacked the bottom of the ketchup bottle and drowned his perfectly cooked beef in a sea of red sauce. “It makes me to wonder if you’re too little because you leave your vegetables on your plate and not in your stomach.”

  Benuel pressed his lips together and kicked at the chair leg under him. “Ya, well. I don’t want to play shuffleboard anyway. The game looks dumb.” He impatiently brushed away a curl falling down on his forehead, his gaze on the offending vegetables.

  “Don’t kick your chair at the table,” Lizbeth reminded the boy as she laid down her fork and knife next to her plate. She cocked her head and smiled. “Why don’t you eat the last of your dinner? I’m sure everyone’s wanting to have some chocolate birthday cake.” Her tone was light and affectionate.

  Ulla smiled her encouragement to Benuel and took a bite of her own vegetables.

  John ate the last bite of the thick slab of beef that had been on his plate and rubbed his protruding stomach in satisfaction. “Some say that sauce makes anything green taste better.” He gestured toward the ketchup bottle and relocated it close to Benuel.

  The young boy looked at his grandfather and nibbled on his bottom lip, contemplating the advice while he looked at the bottle.

  John shoved his empty plate forward. “It matters not to me whether you get cake. I’m having mine with ice cream and sprinkles.”

  Benuel gave a shrug of defeat and grabbed the bottle of sauce. Three insignificant drops fell on the single slice of carrot on his plate. He shoved his hair away from his face again and then drove his fork into the glazed wedge.

  Fredrik found himself holding his breath. Silence filled the room, all eyes on the child who had disrupted the entire meal with his complaints.

  The boy gingerly put the bite in his mouth and chewed. He lifted his chin and eyed his grandfather with new respect. “Ya, it is gut,” he said and covered his potatoes in a circle of red.

  Fredrik watched as the tension drained from Lizbeth’s face. She brightened, her eyes sparkling from the overhead light.

  “I’ll go get the cake now.” She slid a guarded look at Benuel and then hurried away.

  Fredrik cleared his throat, surprised at the level of emotion he felt for the young boy. It had to be hard losing his father and moving to a new place, seeing all new faces around him. “John, why don’t you come to the shuffleboard game with us tomorrow? I hear there’s going to be a competition between the boys and the men. You could bring Benuel with you.” He put his hands on the table and turned to Benuel. “You’re sure to win eating all those vegetables,” he told the boy with a grin.

  “Ya, that sounds gut,” John said and they both looked toward the doorway.

  Lizbeth stood in the door’s arch, listening to their chatter, the simple cake in her hands. A silly grin played on her lips.

  * * *

  Lizbeth sat the cake on the middle of the table. “Who wants a slice?” she asked. Her breath was ragged from rushing, but she rose to the occasion and began to sing the birthday song to her son in their native tongue. She cut thick wedges for everyone but herself.

  Benuel received his cake first and then her father, who nodded his approval. Ulla was next. When she handed Fredrik his plate, she made sure her fingers were well away from his reach, and then cut the thinnest sliver for herself and sat. She watched as Benuel dug into the rich chocolate cake and poked a huge bite into his mouth. He smiled her way, his top lip circled in the thick chocolate icing she’d made this morning.

  “It’s certain-sure gut,” he said, licking his lips with his tongue.

  Lizbeth continued to watch the child, the love she felt for him brightening her mood. He was growing up too fast. He would be her only child. She was determined to enjoy his youn
ger years while she could.

  A fleeting moment of remorse cut through her. If by some twist of fate, she and Fredrik did marry, would she be able to give him a half-dozen sons? The doctor had never said for sure she could carry another boppli to term. She frowned, her disappointment weighing her down. She couldn’t continue to encourage the man. He deserved more children than just Benuel. She thrust away her regrets and enjoyed the smile on Benuel’s face. Today she’d concentrate on him. Tomorrow she’d figure out a way to keep Fredrik out of her life, even if the thought broke her heart.

  Chapter Ten

  Fredrik skidded to a stop and fell to the ground, his legs imprisoned by a laughing Mennonite boy of ten or twelve. Minor pain in his left elbow told him he wasn’t completely over the fall he’d taken when he’d almost run over Lizbeth and Benuel.

  He kept his smile pasted to his face, but the memory of almost killing them was still too fresh in his mind. He snatched his straw hat off the ground and pushed his hair out of his eyes before placing it back on his head. He knew Gott had forgiven him, but he hung on to his remorse as a humbling lesson. One day he’d forgive himself, but not today.

  Mennonite and Amish men and their sons wandered across the field and started another free-for-all football game. He wished young Benuel had been allowed to come to the park with his grandfather. The boy would have enjoyed the opportunity to run wild and not be watched so closely by his mamm. The child was hyperactive, prone to getting into mischief, just as he’d been as a boy. He understood the need for speed and the urge to talk too much.

  Fredrik accepted the hand that reached out to help him up and scrambled to his feet. A chuckle escaped him. He, and everyone around him, found his clumsiness amusing. Head down, he dusted the dirt off his shirtsleeve, and then congratulated the boy who’d brought him down. “You’ve got great tackling skills,” he said, with a firm pat on the back. “Gut job.” He watched the boy run across the field to join his friends. “I think I’m getting too old for this game,” he remarked.

  “Ya, could be,” Mose Fischer commented from behind him and laughed when Fredrik turned and made a face.

  “I noticed you took a few spills yourself this afternoon, elder Fischer,” Fredrik shot back and snickered at his boss’s counterfeit wounded expression.

  “That I did,” Mose admitted and pointed to a tear in his pants. “Sarah will be grievously offended by my abuse to the new trousers she stitched this week.”

  Someone snatched up the football and kicked it high in the air. The game was on again, but Fredrik and Mose lagged behind, letting the younger boys keep the games going. “I’m ready for some cold lemonade.”

  “Ya, me too.” Fredrik nodded, and then paused just long enough to brush grass off his green-stained trouser leg. “Are Sarah and the kinner with you today?”

  “Nee. She and Ulla took the kinner to see how Lizbeth is faring at the house. I hear she’s got her hands full with that young boy of hers. Beatrice tells me he’s a real stinker.”

  Fredrik’s mouth twitched in a lopsided grin. “That he is.”

  Mose glanced his way. “Lizbeth’s about your age. Were you scholars together?”

  “We were. I used to run around with her bruder as a boy and her mamm would send Lizbeth along for good measure.” He chortled. “She used to drive us crazy.” He tugged at his straw hat, his memories of a younger, skinnier version of Lizbeth causing him to smile broadly. “She talked too much and was always into mischief.”

  “Like Benuel?” Mose asked, wiping sweat from his glistening forehead.

  “Nee, not like him. Lizbeth got into innocent mischief, but Benuel’s behavior is different.” He laughed at his own ridiculous thought. “He’s more like I was as a boy. Easily distracted. Always into trouble or getting paddled for doing something stupid.”

  “If he’s hyper like you, then I’d say poor kid and poor Lizbeth.” Mose laughed. “I was older than you, but I remember you tearing around the playground full tilt, knocking down girls and making them cry.”

  Fredrik dropped his head and faked remorse. “Ya. My mamm used to say she held her breath until I went to bed each night.”

  “Beatrice took a liking to Benuel right off,” Mose said, “but then swore he hit her. She’s not so enamored with the boy now.”

  They both laughed at the thought of Mose’s outspoken eldest daughter, Beatrice, and Benuel in the same room together. “I’m sure she’ll change her mind about him when they get a bit older,” Fredrik said, and couldn’t resist adding, “One day you might find her married to Chicken John’s grandson.”

  Mose stopped, squeezed his eyes shut for a second and then looked up into the sky. “Don’t wish that on me. Can you imagine what my grandchildren would be like?”

  Fredrik thought about an older Mose holding grandchildren in his arms. He could see it, but couldn’t see himself with children yet, much less grandchildren. If he didn’t start stepping out soon he wouldn’t have a wife to share grandchildren with. Lizbeth’s face came to his mind, her butter-blond hair blowing around it. The widow interested him deeply, but was she ready for marriage? Would she consider him good husband material? She knew him too well, so probably not.

  * * *

  The next day Lizbeth couldn’t believe her eyes. Hands high on her hips, she bellowed, “Benuel James Mullet! Put down that nasty frog and come into the house right now. Wash your hands. Do you want to get warts?”

  She gasped as she watched Benuel kiss the slimy frog on the head again. With all the tenderness of a mother, he placed the speckled critter back on the ground and encouraged it along with the wave of his small hands.

  “I’ll come find you later and we’ll play,” he said loud enough for his mother to hear. He shot her an accusing glance as the frog seemed to understand his words and worked its way under the root of an old moss-covered tree.

  “You will not find him later. You’ll leave that nasty frog alone and any other wild critters you find in this backyard.” She wiped her hands on her clean work apron as if she felt the slime on them, and laughed. She knew what frogs felt like thanks to her brother’s and Fredrik Lapp’s practical jokes back in school. At least once a week she would find one in her lunch bag or stuck down in one of her shoes. She fought the urge to cringe. She knew boys loved their lizards and toads, but she was determined not to find one in her soh’s trouser pockets come wash day.

  Benuel stomped past her, his lips pouted. “He was my only friend and now he’s gone.” His head dropped as he rounded the corner of the house and made a hasty retreat for the kitchen door.

  Maybe she’d been too harsh on the child. She was repulsed by frogs, but he wasn’t. She had to let him be himself. Like what he liked. He was growing up, would want to discover the wonders of the world for himself.

  A glance at his retreating back told her his clothes were getting too small, the hems of his trousers exposing his bony ankles. She’d have to get out her mamm’s old sewing machine and stitch up two pairs of trousers and a new shirt for church. Sewing men’s clothes had never been one of her strong suits, but Sarah Fischer had offered to give her a refresher class with a few other women from the community.

  The back door banged shut. She hurried along. There was lunch to prepare, laundry to wash and she needed to buy a bag of food for the cat out in the shed. This morning she’d found evidence the cat’s midnight hunts were paying off. The little mother-to-be was earning her keep. She’d had to throw a long, skinny rat tail away before Benuel found it and kept it as a souvenir.

  Lizbeth heard the water splashing in the front bathroom. A moment later, Benuel came into the kitchen, his hands dripping water all over her freshly mopped kitchen floor. “Did you dry your hands?”

  He looked down at his still-moist hands and nodded. “I think so.”

  She tossed him a kitchen towel and suggested, �
��Perhaps not as well as you could have.”

  His casual shrug told her how worried he was to have damp hands. He pulled out a chair and plopped himself down, his legs still going at a fast clip. Back and forth. Back and forth.

  Lizbeth took in a deep breath and turned back to the beef patties she was forming. How did it feel, this ADHD? It couldn’t be easy dealing with the constant urge to be in motion, your mind racing before you could complete a thought. “Would you like cheese on your burger?”

  “No. Just ketchup,” he said, his fingers tapping out a tune only he heard.

  Two extra bottles of red sauce waited in the kitchen closet. Since her father had suggested vegetables tasted better with sauce on them, the boy ate everything with a good dousing. There was no way hot oatmeal could taste better with butter, maple syrup and ketchup, but Benuel had gobbled it down this morning. She wasn’t going to complain. No fussing over food was fine with her.

  “Why is that man in our back garden?”

  Lizbeth pulled back the curtain and peered out the kitchen window. “What man?”

  He wrote his name in the salt he’d sprinkled on the table.

  “Don’t waste the salt and make a mess.” She watched a dark form become the shape of a man and realized it was Fredrik working on the back apartment. Banging began. “That’s Fredrik, our landlord. How long has he been out there?” The sun was shining, and it was warm out, but Fredrik had no hat covering his ginger hair.

  “I don’t know. He was there when I went out.”

  The hammering stopped. Fredrik moved out of sight. Lizbeth, who was tall for a woman, stretched to see where he had gone. Her sight was encumbered by a row of leafy trees lining the back fence. “Was he friendly?”