An Amish Christmas Promise

Fifteen minutes later, Michael stood in the hall with his friends from Harmony Creek Hollow while Carolyn knelt nearby, tying Rose Anne’s bright red and yellow sneakers. He spoke in Deitsch. Benjamin and James, peppering him with questions about why Carolyn had reacted as she had and if the project was moving forward, used the same language. He didn’t want Carolyn to know they were talking about her, though he guessed she had some suspicion of that because she glanced in their direction a couple of times. He told his friends he wasn’t sure what had bothered her.

“We might never know,” he said.

“Women,” grumbled Benjamin. “One thing I learned from my sister is it’s impossible to guess what they’re thinking. I’ve figured out it’s better not to try.”

James nodded. “I guess that’s why we’re bachelors.”

Michael changed the subject to the next day when they’d start loading building materials onto a donated forklift and moving them to the construction site.

“It’ll take us at least a day to get the forms set up and ready for concrete,” Benjamin added.

“Do we have tarps to protect the supplies from rain and mud?”

“I saw some among the pallets of supplies.” James scratched behind his ear as he mused, “There are three houses being started at the same time. I wonder if we’ve got enough supplies.”

“Let’s not look for trouble before we find it,” Michael replied, clapping his friend on the shoulder.

“Thanks for coming today,” Carolyn said as she walked past them. “I’m sorry for the scene I caused. Let me make it up to you. I’ll have the keys for the forklift waiting for you at supper so you can get a good start in the morning. See you there.”

Michael stared after her. They’d been talking in Deitsch. Yet, Carolyn had spoken about the forklift as if she’d understood everything they’d said.

How was that possible?

Looking at his friends, he saw the same consternation on their faces.

“Deitsch isn’t so different from German,” James said. “If she’s fluent in German, she’d get the gist of our conversation.”

“Ja.” Michael didn’t add more.

But if his friend wasn’t right, it meant one thing: Carolyn Wiebe might not be what she appeared to be.

Chapter Four (#u40173b0d-8875-5eb1-8237-d71ebf8caa9b)

Michael quietly shut the door to the trailer he was sharing with his friends from Harmony Creek Hollow and stepped out into the cold morning. He didn’t want to wake Benjamin or James or anyone else who might be asleep in the other travel trailer parked behind the used car dealership. The two trailers had been donated for the workers rebuilding the homes. He hadn’t expected anything so comfortable when he’d volunteered.

Though describing the cramped trailer as comfortable wasn’t accurate. With three full-grown men trying to squeeze past each other as they got ready each morning and went to bed each night for the past three days, it was a tight squeeze. However, the narrow bed where he slept had a gut mattress.

He looked at his trousers. They were his next-to-last clean pair. The local laundromat had told volunteers that as soon as the business was open in a couple of weeks, they were welcome to come in anytime to wash their clothes for free. Something in the water had left a dirty line above the tops of his rubber boots. The scum might have been gasoline or fuel oil or some other chemical that had leaked into the brook after the flood swept cars and furnaces and everything else along it. He hadn’t seen the telltale rainbow sheen, but it might have dissipated enough so it was no longer visible.

The volunteers working in the flooded houses had been given white plastic coveralls as well as ventilating masks. Mold had begun growing as the water receded, so those workers had to be protected when they tore out drenched drywall and tossed the pieces into wheelbarrows that were then taken to big dumpsters sitting at a central spot in town. The plan, as he understood it, had been for the debris to be removed daily, but so far nobody had come to retrieve it. Stacks of reeking building materials and furniture and carpet were piled along the streets.

The rumble of generators came from the village. He walked past a collection of used cars marked with bright orange paint. When he’d asked why, he’d been told the cars would be destroyed. Water was as destructive to an internal combustion engine as it was to a wooden structure.

Michael counted more than two dozen buildings with visible damage before he stopped, knowing there were more with ruined interior walls and drenched contents. Grimacing, he guessed anything in those buildings wore the same dark sheen as whatever stained his trousers.

What a mess! Before he arrived he hadn’t imagined the breadth of the disaster.

There was one thought he hadn’t been able to shake out of his head as he stared at the brightly colored trees on the mountain beyond the village. If the storm had blasted its way up the other side of the Green Mountains, the settlement along Harmony Creek could have been washed away.

God, make use of my hands and my arms and whatever else You need to help these people regain their normal lives. Let my heart be as eager to help here as it would be to do the same for those at home.

He prayed something similar every morning when he went on a short walk before breakfast. He depended on the prayer to focus him on the work ahead of him. Talking to God also helped him clear his mind of thoughts that seemed to center around the enigma Carolyn was. She’d never explained why she’d reacted so vehemently when Glen spoke about an interview.

Shoving his hands into his pockets, Michael continued toward the village. How had Carolyn coped with this day after day for the past week? Nobody could have been prepared for what had occurred, but except for the single outburst at the school, she’d been calm. He was a bit envious because he wished he knew how she managed the drama surrounding her. Maybe if he could learn how she did it, he’d be able to do it himself.

Michael didn’t meet anyone else as he walked past the library. The large two-story building was solid on its foundation, or at least the stone walls made it appear that way. He couldn’t say the same for the seafood restaurant next door. The whole building listed to the right, revealing the foundation had been compromised. Several other structures along the street were also off-kilter, one two-story house so tilted the eaves on one side were low enough he could have touched them without rising to his toes. Yellow police tape surrounded the house, a warning that it might collapse.

The odor of mildew strengthened as he continued along the street. Raw earth scents rose from where trees had been ripped from the ground, leaving gaping holes and thick fingers of roots torn apart. Broken flowerpots lay shattered by front steps, but he guessed they’d once been much farther upstream.

The nearer he got to the brook the worse the damage was. He slowed to stare at the remnants of one house where the first floor had vanished. The upper story sat on the ground about ten feet from the foundation. Another house was tipped over, every window and door intact, as if a gigantic hand had reached down and lifted it off its foundation before setting it on the ground. Not far away, a clock perched over a shop’s door. Its hands marked the time the flood had struck the building.

6:47.

As Carolyn had said, if the waters had arrived a few hours later, people would have been in bed and might not have had time to escape.

Michael sent up a prayer of thanks for the lives saved through God’s providence. Many villagers had lost everything, but they had their most precious possessions—their lives and their families’ lives.

What stopped him in his tracks, however, was the sight of the covered bridge on the north side of the village. One half hung precariously over the water. The rest of it had vanished except for a pair of boards. The top of each arch was more than twelve feet off the ground, and he tried to imagine water reaching high enough to tear the bridge apart.

Destruction spread to the horizon on both sides of a brook he could have waded across in a half-dozen steps. Trees were lying on their sides, on the ground or propped on top of broken roofs. Water pooled everywhere. He’d been wandering through this disaster for three days and still hadn’t seen the full extent of the destruction.

“Can’t believe your eyes, can you?” asked James as he came to stand beside him. His stained pants were stuffed into the tops of his boots. He held out a cup of kaffi to Michael.

Taking the cup with a nod of gratitude, he answered, “I can’t get accustomed to the randomness of it all.” He pointed along the brook toward where a garden shed sat on an island, separated from its house by ten feet of water. “Both buildings look fine, but Washboard Brook now runs between them instead of behind the shed as I assume it used to.”

“I’ve heard there are plans to put the brook back into its original banks.”

“I’ve heard that, too, but I’m not sure if the state will go to the expense of reconnecting a house and its shed.”

“Then it may be left to the homeowner to reroute the water.”

Michael arched his brows, knowing such a task would require excavating equipment and permits. Maybe some rules would be relaxed for the rebuilding, but he guessed most would be kept in place to protect the village and its inhabitants from a repeat of the disaster.

For the first time he wondered how long it would take Evergreen Corners to return to normal.

Or if it ever would.

At breakfast, Michael had had a chance to greet Carolyn and receive one of her pretty smiles, but he didn’t have time to say anything more before he had to move on to let others get their food. It was long enough for him to notice the dark circles under her eyes, and he wondered what had kept her awake. The kinder? The house? Something else?

Pondering the questions kept him silent through breakfast. He was quiet as he walked with James and Benjamin and the other volunteers toward where they’d be clearing debris from the site of Carolyn’s house. At least, he told himself, they could reassure her the project was moving forward.

Jose shared apples from his orchard. The man was one of the hardest workers at the site, and Michael wasn’t surprised to learn Jose had volunteered at other disasters throughout New England. Each day, he came with a treat to share. Though Jose said the apples had been harvested a few weeks ago, they had a crispness that put any apple Michael had ever had in Pennsylvania to shame.

“Our weather in Vermont is perfect for apples,” Jose said. “Warm summer days with cooler nights. When we get plenty of rain—” He scowled as if he’d found a worm in the core of the apple he was eating. “I mean regular rain, not flooding rain like they had along these valleys. When we get lots of nice, steady rain, the apples are juicy. After drier summers like this one, the apples aren’t as juicy, but they’re sweeter. Either way, they’re great for eating, cooking and making cider.”

Trisha, who’d worked with him in the past, laughed. “You sound like an ad for the Vermont apple growers’ association.”

“Hey, a guy’s got to be proud of what he does.” He turned to the other men. “Right?”