normally shy away from the spotlight, don’t they?”
“We do not seek to draw attention to ourselves. We seek only to live plain, humble lives. But you know that already, don’t you? How is it that you are familiar with our language?”
“A long time ago I lived in a community that had Amish families.” His voice cracked on the last word.
Sympathy for him overrode her curiosity about his past. “You should rest your voice.”
“How long have you been blind?”
She was shocked by his abrupt personal question. Her reaction must have shown on her face because he immediately said, “I’m sorry. That was rude. It’s none of my business.”
She rarely spoke about the time before she’d lost her sight. It was as if that life, filled with happiness, colors and the faces of the people she loved, belonged to another woman. Remembering the way she lost her sight always left her feeling depressed. It went bit by bit over the course of three years, first details and then colors, beloved faces and finally even the light. God had given her this burden. She must bear it well.
Booker interrupted her moment of pity when he said, “I didn’t mean to pry. Please forgive me.”
He meant no harm. It was her pride and her inability to fully accept God’s will that made remembering painful. “You are forgiven. I learned I was going blind when I was twenty. My sight left me completely seven years ago.”
There was a long period of silence. What was he thinking? Did he feel sorry for her? Did he think she was helpless and useless? She rushed to dissuade him of such thoughts and repeated the words her bishop told her the day the last of her sight failed. “Do not think to pity me. My blindness has been a gift from God.”
A gift meant to show her the error of her ways and lead her to repent.
“How can you call it a gift?” His scratchy voice broke. Because of his illness, or for some other reason?
She smiled sadly. “It is a struggle sometimes, but I know all that God gives us, whether hardship or happiness, is in some way a gift. We learn more about ourselves, and about how much we need God, during times of sorrow than we do in times of joy. I accept my life for what it is.” At least, she tried.
“But this surgery, it can restore your sight?”
“If God wills it.”
“Don’t you mean if the surgeon is skilled enough?”
“God’s miracles come in many forms. If my sight is restored by the skill of an Englisch doctor or by a flash of lightning it is all the work of God.”
“Then I pray He will be merciful. I wish you the very best, Rebecca Beachy.”
She heard his chair scoot back, then the sound of his footsteps until they blended into the hum of activity and voices inside the tent. A sharp sense of loss filled her but she didn’t understand why.
A few moments later, her aunt returned and sat down. Rebecca’s hand found Vera’s sleeve. “Aenti, do you know the man that was just sitting here?”
“What man?”
“He was sitting in the row behind us. He’s Englisch.”
“There are many Englisch here. I didn’t pay attention.”
“I thought perhaps he was someone I should know, but I didn’t recognize his name. He called himself Booker.”
“I don’t know anyone by that name. The bidding is getting ready to start. I pray your quilt does well. It’s lovely.”
“You picked the material. I merely stitched it together.”
Her aunt’s hands were twisted and gnarled with arthritis, making sewing and many daily tasks impossible for her. It was one reason why Rebecca chose to live with her aunt when her vision began to fade. She knew she could always be useful in her aunt’s household.
Vera said, “I do wish you had put your Christmas Star quilt in the auction today. I’m sure it would fetch a fine price and we could use the money.”
“I don’t wish to sell that one, Aenti. It will be a gift when it is done.”
There was something special about the quilt she had been working on for the past several weeks. Something in the feel of the fabrics, the way the seams lay straight and true with so little effort. Her Christmas quilt would not be for sale. It would be a gift for a wedding or for someone’s birthday. She didn’t know who would receive it. God would show her in His own time.
Vera patted Rebecca’s hand. “Anyone that receives such a gift will be blessed. I pray it is God’s will to heal you, child. I pray that one day you may see with your own eyes the beauty you have crafted.”
Chapter Two
Rebecca was still the loveliest woman Gideon had ever laid eyes on, and she had lied to him.
Seeing her in person, it was as if a single day had passed—not ten years. Feelings he thought long dead and buried rushed to life, leaving him shaken. Coming here had been a bad idea.
He stood near the back of the tent where he could keep an eye on Rebecca and the auction proceedings as he pondered the stunning information she’d revealed. The noise of the crowd, the chanting voice of the auctioneer, the shouts of his helpers as they spotted raised hands in the audience, all faded into a rumbling background for Gideon’s whirling mind.
She obviously had no idea who he was, and he needed to keep it that way. His missing voice was a blessing in disguise. If she knew who he was, she wouldn’t have spoken to him at all.
Because he had been baptized prior to leaving the faith he had been placed under the Meidung, the ban, making contact with his Amish family and friends impossible unless he publicly repented and asked for the church’s forgiveness. Bidding for Rebecca’s quilt at this auction would be his roundabout way of giving aid she could accept.
By leaving the faith after making his vows he had cut himself off completely from everything he’d known. There were no visits from his family. No letters or phone calls telling him how they missed him. There had been many lonely nights during his first years in the non-Amish world when he’d almost gone back.
Only having the eighth-grade education the Amish allowed made it tough finding a job. It had been tougher still getting a driver’s license and a social security card, worldly things the Amish rejected. If it hadn’t been for his dream of learning to fly, he might have gone back.
If Rebecca had been waiting for him, he would have gone back.
He hadn’t planned to speak to her today. His only intention had been to come, buy her quilt to help her raise money for her surgery and then leave town. He had the best of intentions—right up to the moment she sat down in front of him.
So close he could have reached out and touched her. So close and yet so far.
His hands ached with the need to feel her fingers entwined with his, the way they used to be when they had walked barefoot down a shady summer lane after the youth singings or a softball game. Life had been so simple then. It was so much more complicated now.
Why, after all this time, did she still have such a profound effect on him? Even from this distance he felt the pull of her presence the same way he felt the pull of the earth when he was flying above it.
He closed his eyes and shook his head. This was ridiculous. He wasn’t some green farm boy enchanted by a pretty face. He was a sensible, grown man long past teenage infatuations. It had to be a combination of the flu and nostalgia brought on by being surrounded by people who shared the heritage he’d grown up with.
Everywhere he looked he saw Amish men with their beards and black felt hats. The women, wearing long dresses in muted solid colors with their white bonnets reminded him of his mother