Family Blessings

Hilda nodded and headed for the door. She appeared to have forgotten all about the business that had brought her and the children here in the first place.

“I’ll need a helper,” Jeremiah said as he hurried to open the door for her. “Perhaps you know of a young boy who …”

“My older boys all work in the celery fields,” she said, making the assumption that her sons would be at the top of Jeremiah’s list. She glanced toward the kitchen. “Perhaps Rolf—he’s too small for field work.”

“Another excellent suggestion. Thank you,” Jeremiah said as he ushered her out and closed the door behind her.

It had been a stroke of genius or more likely God’s divine guidance that had made him ask her advice on a helper. The one thing he understood was that Hilda Yoder took great pride in seeing herself as invaluable to others when it came to handling their affairs. He did not consider what he might do if she were to suggest that he hire one of her seven children. But as things turned out that should have been the least of his concerns. He had been totally unprepared for Pleasant Obermeier to reject his offer. He had seen the dead and baked fields behind her house. Surely she could use the money the boy could bring home.

He stood for a moment looking down the road at the large white-washed house with its tin roof and wraparound porch where she had lived with her late husband and where she now lived with his four children. He glanced back at the bakery where, according to his great-aunt Mildred, she had spent a good portion of her life helping her father run the business even after she had married Merle Obermeier.

Jeremiah had lived most of his life in a house where dreams were frowned upon and only hard work was respected. And until he had gone to work for Peter Osgood, he had followed that regimen, burying his dreams in order to try and please his uncle. Now he could not help but wonder what dreams Pleasant had put aside in order to care for first her widowed father and then her half sisters and finally the widower and his four motherless children.

He remembered how, after his father had died, his own mother had abdicated the raising of the children to her brother-in-law. That was to be expected for Jeremiah’s father—a kind but timid man—had always bowed to his older brother’s wishes as well. How many times had Jeremiah wished that his mother would stand with him when he tried to challenge his uncle’s rigidity?

Oh, Pleasant, he thought, do not make the mistake my mother made.

But it was hardly his concern, he reminded himself. He had a job to attend to as well as a business to get up and running. His fascination with the baker and her children was nothing more than that—idle curiosity, and as his uncle had reminded him more than once and emphasized with the back of his hand, idle thoughts were the devil’s workshop.

Chapter Four

Pleasant had underestimated the amount of time she would have to devote to creating the ice cream cone recipe. In spite of the fact that the bakery’s business had dwindled to the basics—breads, rolls and the occasional pie or dozen cookies—she was still busy from dawn to well after dusk. Merle’s house was a large one and required constant cleaning to keep it presentable. With four growing children there was a great deal of washing and ironing to be done on top of the cooking she did at home and the upkeep of the kitchen garden she relied upon for fresh produce to feed herself and the children.

Then there was the celery farm itself. Over the years, Merle had acquired a great deal of land—land that needed to be plowed and planted and harvested. Land that this past spring had barely produced a saleable crop and that now in the fall was nowhere near ready to be planted. After her husband’s death, Pleasant had turned the management of the farm over to her brother-in-law. Hilda’s husband, Moses, was a shy, quiet man—nothing like Hilda. But he had a head for business and managed the farm as well as his dry goods store with an expertise that set Pleasant’s mind at ease. Still, he would not make a decision without first consulting with her and Rolf. For as she explained to Jeremiah, the farm was Rolf’s future, in spite of his father’s doubts that he would ever amount to anything as a farmer or businessman. She worried about Rolf. Merle’s constant badgering of the boy had taken its toll, and of all the children, he had been the hardest to bring closer. Whenever she tried to show her appreciation for some chore he had done without being asked or commented on his high marks in school, his dark eyes flickered with doubt and distrust.

It had been a week since Jeremiah Troyer had stopped at the bakery and asked to interview the boy for a job in his ice cream shop and Pleasant had been unable to forget the look that had crossed Rolf’s face when she’d turned down the offer. Just before he’d lowered his eyes to study his bare feet, she had seen a look of such disappointment come over his features and there had been a flicker of something else. For one instant he had looked so much like his father.

Memories of the rage that had sometimes hardened Merle’s gaze came to mind now as Pleasant rolled out dough and plaited it into braids for the egg bread she was making. She paused, her flour-covered hands frozen for an instant as the thought hit her. What if Jeremiah had been right? What if Rolf turned out to be as bitter and resentful as his father had been? Could such things be passed from father to son like the color of eyes or hair? Or was it possible that circumstances might guide the boy in that direction? Certainly Merle’s resentment had begun early in life and in spite of his success in business and the love he had shared with his first wife, he had remained until the day of his death a man who looked at the world with hostility and ill will.

“Well, not Rolf,” Pleasant huffed as she returned to her task. “Not my son.”

But how to set the boy on a different path?

She wiped her forehead with the back of one hand and blew out a breath of weariness and frustration. How, indeed, heavenly Father?

She walked to the open back door of the bakery, hoping to catch a breeze before she had to face the hot ovens again. Next door she saw Jeremiah Troyer replacing a wooden column that supported the extended roof of his shop. She thought about the Sunday when he had easily lifted two of the heavy wooden benches used for church services—one under each arm. She continued to observe him as he fitted the column in place and anchored it, drawing one long nail after another from between his lips and pounding them in until the column was locked in place.

Who would teach Rolf such things? Her father? Perhaps. But he was getting on in years. He tended to leave the heavy chores to the carpenter, Josef Bontrager, who was always willing to help because it gave him an excuse to see Greta. She thought about the way Jeremiah’s ready smile and easy laughter were so different from Merle’s personality. Might it be enough to simply expose Rolf to this different breed of man? To let him see that not all men were like his father had been? That there were other ways he might decide to go?

Without realizing that she had done so, Pleasant opened the screen door and stepped outside. Jeremiah gave the porch post a final test for steadiness and turned when he heard the squeak of the screen door. The hammer he’d used in one hand, he raised the other hand to his hat and tipped his head in her direction. “Pleasant.” He acknowledged her with a quizzical smile as he squinted against the morning sun. “Was there something I could do for you?”

Flustered to find herself outside and engaged in this exchange with him, Pleasant reverted to her usual defense. She thinned her lips and frowned. “Not at all,” she replied. “The ovens give off such heat. I just needed a breath of fresh air.”

Jeremiah nodded and turned back to his work. He set down the hammer and picked up a broom. Meticulously, he rounded up the wood shavings and sawdust left from shaping the porch column to match its mate.

“You know if you’d like, Rolf could paint that column for you when he comes home from school later,” she called.

Jeremiah stacked his hands on the tip of the broom handle and leaned his chin on them as he studied her. “That would be appreciated,” he said.

Pleasant nodded and turned to go back inside the bakery’s kitchen. It’s a start, she thought.

“I could still use an assistant,” Jeremiah called and her step faltered. “Maybe we could see how painting the porch post works out and then …”

“My offer is simply that of a neighbor wishing to help another neighbor,” Pleasant said stiffly.

“Got that part,” Jeremiah said, moving closer, twirling the broom handle through his fingers and grinning. “But you’ll soon learn that I don’t give up easily, Pleasant.”

It was the second time he had used her given name that morning. It was as if he were testing her. She smiled sweetly, the way she had seen her half sister Greta smile when she was determined to have her way. “And in time you will learn, Herr Troyer, that I do not make decisions lightly and I will always do what I think is best for my children.”

She turned to leave but realized that he was propping the broom against the wall and intended to follow her inside.

“How’s the cone recipe coming?” he asked as he held the door for her and then followed her into the kitchen.

“I expect to have some samples for you to try by the end of the week,” she said. “They would best be tested with ice cream since the flavors will have to mingle.”

He nodded and took a seat on one of the stools that Gunther kept in the kitchen.

Make yourself at home, she thought, exasperated by his assumption that his presence was welcome.

“How about this? You let me know as soon as you have something that you think might work and I’ll make up three different flavors so we can try the various combinations. We can have a tasting party.”

She opened her mouth to refuse, but then thought, Why not? It would be a special treat for the children. “All right,” she replied, placing the braided egg loaves on pans.

His silence was unusual so she glanced up and saw him studying her, a half frown on his forehead and a half smile on his lips. “You do surprise me, Pleasant,” he said and then the smile won and blossomed into a full-fledged grin. “End of the week then.”

And the man actually winked at her as he pushed himself to his feet and left her standing there, a pan of unbaked egg bread half in and half out of the oven.

Jeremiah sat at his desk and watched the Obermeier boy painting the porch column. He was meticulous in the work, going back over a section that did not meet his standards for perfection. Jeremiah remembered his own painstaking attention to detail in the years he’d spent living with his father’s brother. For him it had come from knowing that if he failed to do a job to the exacting standards his uncle had set for him, he would have to do it again or worse, he would be punished.

Had Rolf’s father been a man like Jeremiah’s uncle? Did that explain the boy’s reticence?

“Maybe the kid’s just shy,” Jeremiah muttered as he pushed his chair away from the desk. He had to stop seeing his uncle in every adult and himself in every quiet child. He took down his hat from the wooden peg near the door and went outside. “Good job,” he said.

Rolf stepped away for a moment and surveyed his work. “Missed a spot,” he muttered and bent to cover it before turning his attention to the next side of the square column.

“How’s school?” Jeremiah sat on the edge of the porch.

“Gut.” Rolf lapsed naturally into the Pennsylvania Dutch that Jeremiah assumed was most often spoken at home.

“What are you studying?”

Sticking with his native tongue, Rolf listed the subjects. “Arithmetic, history, geography.”

“Your classes are conducted in English?” Jeremiah assumed this might be the case since it was a common way to prepare young people for dealing with those outside the Amish community.

“Ja.”

“Does your mother use English at home?”