A Widow's Hope

“I took you in my buggy.”

“Which hadn’t been properly cleaned, and your horse was lame.”

“I should have checked the horse more carefully.”

“We never even made it to dinner.”

“I’m surprised you remember.”

“And I had to walk home.”

“I offered to walk with you.”

Hannah rolled her eyes, shook her head and headed back into the house.

“She hasn’t changed much,” Jacob said in a lower voice.

“Oh, but she has.” Alton opened the door wider so that Jacob would come in. “I’m sorry I didn’t recognize you.”

“It has been ten years.”

They passed through a living room that appeared to be sparsely but comfortably furnished. Jacob could smell bacon and biscuits. His stomach grumbled and he instantly regretted that he hadn’t taken the time to eat a proper breakfast.

“So your dating Hannah must have been when we were at the other place, on the east side of the district.”

“Indeed.”

“Obviously we’ve moved since then.” Alton stopped before entering the kitchen, seemed about to say something and then rubbed at the back of his neck and ushered Jacob into the room.

“Claire, maybe you remember Jacob Schrock. Apparently he took our Hannah on a buggy ride once.”

Jacob heard them, but his attention was on the young boy sitting at the table. He was young—probably not school-age yet. Brown hair flopped into his eyes and he had the same smattering of freckles as his mother. He sat in a regular kitchen chair, which was slightly higher than the wheelchair parked behind him. No doubt moving back and forth was cumbersome. If he had a small ramp, the chair could be rolled up and locked into place. He should talk to Alton about that. It would be easy enough to create from scrap lumber.

Hannah was helping the child with his breakfast, or perhaps she was merely avoiding Jacob’s gaze.

The boy, though, had no problem with staring. He cocked his head to the side, as if trying to puzzle through what he saw of Jacob. Then a smile won out over any questions, and he said, “Gudemariye.”

“And to you,” Jacob replied.

Hannah’s mother, Claire, motioned him toward a seat. “Of course I remember you, Jacob. Though you’ve grown since then.”

“Ya, I was a bit of a skinny lad.” This was the awkward part. He never knew if he should share the cause of his scars or wait for someone to ask. With the child in the room, perhaps it would be better to wait.

Hannah continued to ignore him, but now the boy was watching him closely, curiously.

“You’re taller too, if I remember right. You were definitely not as tall as Alton when you were a youngie. Now you’re a good six feet, I’d guess.”

“Six feet and two inches. My mamm used to say I had growth spurts up until I turned twenty.” Jacob accepted a mug of coffee and sat down across the table from the boy.

“Who are you?” he asked.

“I’m Jacob. What’s your name?”

“Matthew. This is Mamm, and that’s Mammi and Daddi. We’re a family now.” Matthew grinned as if he’d said the most clever thing.

Hannah met Jacob’s gaze and blushed, but this time she didn’t look away.

“It’s really nice to meet you, Matthew. I’m going to be working here for a few days.”

“Working on what?”

Jacob glanced at Alton, who nodded once. “I’m going to build you a playhouse.”

* * *

Hannah heard the conversation going on around her, but she felt as if she’d fallen into the creek and her ears were clogged with water. She heard it all from a distance. Then Matthew smiled that smile that changed the shape of his eyes. It caused his cheeks to dimple. It was a simple thing that never failed to reach all the way into her heart.

And suddenly Hannah’s hearing worked just fine.

“A playhouse? For me?”

“For sure and certain.”

“How come?”

Jacob shrugged and waited for Alton to answer the child.

“Some nice people want you to have one.”

“Oh. Cool.”

“Dat, we can’t...”

“We most certainly can, Hannah. The charity foundation contacted me last week to make sure it was all right, and I said yes. I think it would be a fine thing for Matthew to have.”

“Will I be able to move around in a playhouse? Like, with my wheelchair?”

“You most certainly will,” Jacob assured him.

“You’re sure?”

“I’m positive.”

“Because it don’t always fit good. Not in cars or on merry-go-rounds. Sometimes not even in buggies and we have to tie it on the back.”

“Your chair will fit in your playhouse. I can promise you that.”

Matthew laughed and stabbed his biscuit with his fork, dipped it in a puddle of syrup he’d poured on his plate and stuffed the gooey mess into his mouth.