Second Chance Proposal

By week’s end everyone in Celery Fields and the surrounding area made up of small produce farms owned by Amish families knew the story of John Amman. And as far as Lydia could see, John did not need a forgiving father on the scene to kill the fatted calf in celebration of his return. He had his aunt. Gertrude Hadwell took John in as if he were her beloved son.

Only a day after his return he was working in the hardware store as if he’d never left. Oh, to be sure, at Roger Hadwell’s insistence, John’s chores were confined to the loading area in back. That way no customers would be placed in the awkward position of having to openly shun him. But Gert made it clear that by Monday he would take his place behind the counter.

In the meantime his aunt had organized a frolic, the name given to occasions when Amish women gathered for some large work project such as cleaning someone’s home or completing a quilt top. To Lydia it seemed exactly the right word for such events. No matter how difficult the work, the women always enjoyed themselves—sharing news and rumors and laughter. This time, the cause for gathering on Saturday morning was to properly clean and furnish the rooms above the livery for John. Of course, everyone in town knew how Gert Hadwell had grieved the fact that she had never had children of her own. It was understandable that people would put their happiness for her above their concern about John’s past. Besides, John would not be on-site for the cleaning.

So on Saturday morning Liddy sat on a stool in the barn behind her house squeezing warm milk from the cow as she tried to decide her next course of action. Much as she dreaded it, Lydia could hardly refuse to join the other women. If she failed to attend the frolic the day’s chatter would no doubt focus on her at some point. She could not bear the thought of the others gossiping and recalling how she and John had once been sweethearts. The newcomers would have to be filled in on the romance that had ended when John left town. Lydia had no doubt that she would be forced to endure curious glances and abject pity when she attended services on Sunday.

No, better to do whatever seemed prudent to get through the first rush of excitement over John’s homecoming. Not much happened in Celery Fields and John’s return was, indeed, cause for excitement. It had certainly taken everyone’s mind off her own stunning break from tradition a few weeks earlier, when Lydia had decided to forego the black prayer kapp of a single woman and the habit of sitting on one of the two front benches with her nieces and the other unmarried girls. Rather, she had taken a seat in the rear of the section reserved for the married women and widows. To punctuate her action she had replaced the black kapp that she had worn since joining the church with one of white.

As she had hoped, during the service the other women had not wanted to create a stir and so had simply focused their attention on the words of the hymn and sermon. One or two had gently nudged those girls in the first two rows, who had turned to stare. Of course, once the service ended and the women gathered in the kitchen to prepare the after-services meal, there had been whispers and knowing nods until Lydia had realized she would have to say something.

“It seems plain that there is little likelihood that I shall ever marry,” she announced, drawing the immediate and rapt attention of the others. “As I grow older—having nearly reached my thirtieth year now—and having served the community and the congregation for several years since my baptism, is it too much to ask that I be allowed to sit with the women of my age?”

She had taken her time then meeting the eyes of each woman in turn. Some had looked away. Others had registered sympathy, even pity, for her plight. Hilda Yoder, wife of the owner of the dry-goods store, had chewed her lower lip for what seemed an eternity and then given Lydia’s decision her blessing.

“Makes perfect sense,” she said with the crisp efficiency with which she pronounced most of her edicts. “Now, shall we attend to the business at hand and get this food set out?”

And that had been the end of any public discussion on the matter. So at least John’s return had taken people’s attention away from that. Of course, if she didn’t go to the frolic...

Lydia would go to the frolic—and to supper at Greta’s after services on Sunday. By that time John would have contritely sought the forgiveness of the congregation and been officially welcomed home. If she could just get through the next few days, surely by the end of the coming week everything and everyone would settle back into the normal routine of life in Celery Fields. Oh, no doubt, she and John would cross paths in town or at some gathering, but in time...

“Hello, Liddy.”

Lydia had been so lost in thought that she’d been unaware of anyone coming into the barn—much less John Amman. He was dressed “plain” in clothes that were obviously new and store-bought. The pants were half an inch too short and the shirt stretched a little too tightly over his shoulders. He was clean shaven and his face was shaded by the stiff wide brim of his straw hat. His blond hair had been recently washed and trimmed in the style of other Amish men, although it was more wavy and unruly than most.

She turned her attention to the cow, determined not to allow John or any thought of him to further disrupt her plans for the day.

“Why do you wear the prayer covering of a married woman, Liddy?” He leaned against the door frame, one ankle crossed over the other. “My aunt tells me you have never married—and in her view you have little thought of ever doing so.”

Lydia bit her lip to keep from speaking. He was to be shunned at least until the congregation could hear from the bishop and take a vote to reinstate him. She squeezed the last of the milk from the cow’s udder and stood up.

John reached for the bucket of warm milk and his boldness unnerved her. Someone could be watching—people were always passing by on their way to and from town and it was Saturday, the busiest day for such traffic. If she were seen standing right next to John Amman tongues would surely wag, no matter whether she shunned him or not.

She wrestled the bucket from him and quickened her pace as she headed out into the sunlight. Surely, he would not follow her where everyone could see him.

But he did. He had not changed at all. John Amman had always been one for testing boundaries. “We will talk about this, Liddy,” he said. “I think I deserve an explanation.”

She almost broke her silence at that. He deserved an explanation? This man who had promised to write, had promised to come back to her? This man from whom she had heard nothing for eight long years? This man whose memory had so dogged her through the years that he had made it impossible for her even to consider accepting the attention of any other man in his stead?

She kept her eyes on the sandy lane before her and concentrated on covering the ground between the barn and the house as quickly as possible without spilling the milk. But the path was narrow and he was walking far too closely. Their arms were in real danger of brushing if she wasn’t careful. She had to do something before they came into Hilda Yoder’s view. Surely at this hour the wife of the dry-goods store owner would be at her usual post by the shop window watching the goings-on in town.

John said nothing more as he continued to keep pace with her. In truth he seemed to be unaware of the awkward situation. Not knowing what else to do, she broke into a run, not caring whether the milk sloshed over the sides of her pail. To her relief he made no attempt to follow her. He just stood where she’d left him on the path watching her go. “See you tomorrow at services, then,” he called after her. “And after I’ve been forgiven and reinstated you’ll be free to speak with me. I expect to have your explanation, Liddy.”

Her explanation? She ran up the steps to her back door and hurried inside.

Safe in her kitchen with the door tightly closed, she scanned the lane that led to town and the parts of Celery Fields’ main street that she could see from her window. She cringed at the idea that anyone might have heard him call out to her. Her breathing was coming in gasps as if she’d run a good distance instead of a mere few feet, and she found it necessary to sit down for a moment.

It was not exertion that caused her breath to suddenly be in short supply. It was John—being close to him like that, remembering all the times they had walked together, and facing the reality that he was back in Celery Fields and gave every appearance of intending to stay.

She moaned as she buried her face in her hands.

After a moment she sat up straight and forced her breathing to calm. She would do what she always did when faced with a challenge. She would set boundaries for herself, and for John Amman, as well. They were no longer children. He would simply have to accept that she had certain duties as a member of the community—

duties that did not include answering to him.

With her confidence restored, she stood, smoothed the skirt of her dress and put the milk in a glass pitcher before storing it in the icebox. Then she took a deep breath as if preparing to dive into the sea and set forth once again, this time to do her part to clean and refurbish the place next door where John Amman had taken up residence as her neighbor.

* * *

John knew he should not have called out after Lydia ran from him. Even as a girl she had hated anything that drew attention to her. For that matter the entire encounter could have caused her grave discomfort if anyone had seen or heard. “Not exactly the best way to worm your way back into her good graces,” he muttered as he headed for the hardware store.

On the other hand, why should he be the one trying to win her favor? Wasn’t she the one who had said she would wait and then shunned him as had everyone else? He’d written to assure her that he had every intention of returning once he’d made enough money to set up a business of his own. She had always understood his aversion to farming. She had even been the one to encourage him to start some sort of shop and they would live above it and she would help out on Saturdays and after school. But when he’d explained to her that it would take money to start a business and his father would never accept the idea that John would not one day take over the family farm, she’d insisted that God would provide.

He knew what she meant. In her mind if owning his own business were God’s plan for his life then the opportunity would simply present itself. “You just have to be patient—and vigilant for God’s signs,” she had instructed.

But patience had never been one of John’s attributes. When he reached the age of eighteen with no sign from God, he decided to seek out other possibilities. After all, hadn’t Bishop Troyer taught them that God helps those who help themselves?

“And where did that get you?” he grumbled as he put on the denim apron his aunt had left for him and began sweeping the loading dock behind the hardware store. He brushed the accumulated debris into a dustpan and dumped it in the bin next to the loading dock. Then he set the broom and dustpan inside the door and rubbed his hands together as he moved to a place where he could better listen in on his uncle and Luke Starns as they sat outside Luke’s shop. With no one allowed to converse with him, this was his only recourse for gathering information.

“Warmer today,” Roger said. “After the last spell of frosty mornings I thought we might be in for a stretch of cold weather.”

“Good for the crops that it’s passed,” replied the blacksmith, who was sipping a cup of coffee. He was a quiet man, as John had observed earlier that morning when the blacksmith handed Gertrude a box of kitchen items that Greta had gathered from her own supply to place in the rooms above his business. The idea of this silent giant of a man married to the vibrant and petite Greta made John smile.

A few minutes passed while the men discussed weather and crops and business. Then Bishop Troyer crossed the street from the dry-goods store and joined them.

“Bishop Troyer,” Roger said as he stood and offered the head of their congregation his chair. “Did you speak yet with John Amman?”

“Yah. We have spoken already twice. I am convinced that he has learned the error of his ways and come home to make amends,” the bishop replied. “Everything seems to be in order for tomorrow’s service.”

“Then I can have him working the counter come Monday.” This was not a question but something John realized his uncle had been dreading.

“Should bring you a bunch of business,” Luke said with a chuckle. “Folks will want to get a look at him after all this time. They’ll be curious about where he’s been and all.”

“They can look all they want at services. On Monday I need him to be working, although I’m not sure how we’re going to have enough business to support the three of us.”

“I seem to recall that this entire matter had its beginning in John wanting to start a business of his own,” Bishop Troyer said.

Roger let out a mirthless laugh. “With what? He has nothing. Gert had to buy him the clothes he’s wearing now and he owes a debt of gratitude to Luke here that he has a place to stay.”

“Still, he must have a skill if the plan was to open his own shop.”

“He’s a tolerable woodworker,” Roger allowed. “Clocks and furniture mostly. He built that cabinet where Gert keeps her quilting fabrics. And the clock we have in the store—that’s his work.”

John saw the bishop exchange a look with Luke. “I reckon Josef Bontrager took up that business in John’s absence,” Luke observed.

Roger stared out at the street. “You’ve got a point there. Not much call for handmade furniture these days.”

Was it John’s imagination or had his uncle raised his voice as if to make sure John heard this last bit of information? It hardly mattered. He was in no position to take up his trade. Over the past several months he had sold off his tools one by one or bartered them for a meal or a night’s lodging.