gauged her sister’s mood. She seemed indifferent to the conversation, focusing instead on the precise alignment of each songbook. Every now and then she would reach across the long table and straighten a book that Greta had set in place before moving on.
“Still, he’s quite handsome. I mean in a dark, brooding sort of way. Do you think perhaps that’s the way men are in Ontario?”
“Ontario?” Lydia blinked at her as if she’d heard that single word and nothing else.
“Where he’s from,” Greta reminded her. “Canada?”
“I know where Ontario is,” Lydia replied. “And I know what you are trying to do, Greta.”
Greta bit her lip. “I’m just...”
“...trying to take the attention of others away from your current troubles. And that is understandable. Furthermore I am quite willing to help you in that, but do not for one minute think that I am the least bit interested in Luke Starns—at least romantically speaking.”
“You don’t even know the man,” Greta protested. “For all you know he might be...”
“I am sure that he is a good and kind man. From what I have heard from others, he is honest and fair in his business dealings and he seems quite determined to make a life for himself here in Celery Fields. The question I have is why?”
“Why does anyone come here? The weather for one thing. I mean, Ontario?” Greta shivered in spite of the oppression of the heat.
“But alone—no family ties here? At least when Jeremiah Troyer arrived he had connections—his great-uncle and aunt were here and he had visited them in the past.”
Greta sighed happily. “Yes, and then Jeremiah set his sights on Pleasant and it was so romantic.”
“You’re missing the point, Greta. Luke Starns simply...” She seemed lost for the right word. “He simply appeared one day. No one knew him or anything about him for that matter.” They had finished their task and as Lydia surveyed their work she added, “And once again you are losing sight of the point of our conversation.”
“Which is?”
“Which is, dear sister, that I am going to attend the singing tonight and allow Luke to see us home because it will indeed give people something to talk about other than you and Josef. However, get one thing straight.” She pointed her forefinger at Greta the way she often pointed it at students in her classroom. “After tonight you will need to face the fact that there will be gossip and speculation regarding you and Josef and your best path is to ignore it and move forward.”
Greta blinked back tears. “With what?”
“Pardon?”
“Move forward with what, Lydia?” Greta snapped peevishly. “You have your teaching. Even before she met Jeremiah, Pleasant had the bakery and the children. What exactly do I have to move forward with?”
And just like that, the misery returned, the misery she had felt once she realized that Josef was not going to come running back to her, not going to beg for her forgiveness, not going to—marry her. “I gave that man all my time—every waking hour was spent thinking about him, what would most please him and now...”
“Do not exaggerate, sister. You have our house to oversee—the cleaning and cooking, the laundry, the upkeep,” Lydia scolded. “You and Josef spent a great deal of time together. That’s true. Often, I might add, to the neglect of your responsibilities. Our house has not had a good cleaning in months. I think you will find that, if you keep yourself busy and away from the shops, in time you will find your way.”
So she was to be a castaway, banished to the house until the talk died away? Greta whirled around to face her sister. “I keep up with the housework just fine. Papa used to say that it was the best-kept house in all of Celery Fields and that Josef was fortunate to have won the heart of one who...”
Lydia was fighting to hide a smile—and failing. “Feeling a little better?” she asked.
It was an old pattern the sisters had established early in their motherless lives—whenever Greta felt sorry for herself, Lydia would turn the tables on her. She would find some fault with Greta, knowing that the criticism would not go unchallenged.
“Yah,” Greta admitted. “Aber...”
Lydia shushed her. “It’s the Sabbath, Greta. Time for us to gather our thoughts and ruminate on the week past and the week to come.” As was her habit on Sunday afternoons, Lydia retrieved the Bible she carried with her and walked outside where she sat on a bench under the shade of a tree and began to read.
Greta knew that her sister would spend hours reading scripture and praying before the cold supper they would share with Pleasant and her family. Ever since their father’s death a year earlier, Lydia had isolated herself this way on Sunday afternoons. At first Greta had been hurt by what she saw as her sister’s abandonment and had roamed the rooms of the house until it was time for Josef to come by so they could go out walking or for a ride in his buggy. But then Lydia had explained that it was Greta’s restlessness that had driven her to seek the refuge of her reading.
“You are in constant motion and I need the quiet,” she had said. “We each have our way.”
It was true. Greta did her best thinking—and praying—on her feet. Sometimes—like today—she would go for a walk. Fallow fields that had once provided enough to support the farmers stretched out as far as she could see. Here and there, those neglected fields were interrupted by a span of freshly plowed and planted fields—land that would yield crops to support the families remaining in the community. She turned her gaze to the distant silo that stood next to the large barn on Josef’s farm, marking the otherwise undisturbed horizon. On other Sundays she had waited for him to join her. But not this Sunday...or next...or the ones beyond that.... She turned away from anything that might remind her of Josef. How could he have been so cruel?
A motion outside the barn caught her eye. Luke Starns was taking something from the back of his wagon. Greta frowned. The man ought to have a proper buggy for courting her sister. She glanced to where Lydia sat reading and trying to catch whatever breeze there might be. She doubted that Lydia would care one way or the other about a buggy, but Greta cared for her. Maybe they did things differently in Canada. Greta folded her arms in her apron and continued watching the blacksmith—who seemed totally oblivious to her presence.
He took off the jacket he’d worn during services and placed it on the wagon seat. Then he pushed back the sleeves of his shirt and led one of his team of horses into Jeremiah’s barn before returning for the other. As he went about these tasks she could see his suspenders stretch over the muscles of his broad back. She couldn’t help thinking that in spite of the years farming and building furniture for the Yoders to sell in their store, Josef was given to the pudginess that had plagued him as a boy.
“Too fond of Pleasant’s pies,” he had often teased, patting his oversize stomach. And certainly he was a regular customer at the bakery. Since most of his family had moved north again, he lived alone and at least twice a week he was at the bakery buying a couple dozen of the large glazed doughnuts that were Pleasant’s specialty and always a pie—sometimes two.
Greta felt her cheeks flush at the realization that she was actually comparing Josef’s physical appearance to Luke’s. What was the matter with her? She forced herself to turn away. She needed to concentrate on how best to get Lydia to allow the blacksmith to court her. Her sister could be so stubborn sometimes.
* * *
After he’d finished helping Jeremiah and the other men set up the benches for the evening singing, Luke had intended to head to town. But the truth was that once there he’d have little more than an hour before he’d just have to turn around and come back again. And in this heat even if he washed himself and groomed the horses in town, he and his team were bound to be sweat-soaked and dust-covered by the time he returned. No, best to stay here.
Jeremiah