Chapter 1 #3
Phoebe sat back in the kitchen chair and stared at the unfinished letter.
She put her hand to her chest and felt the pounding beneath her palm.
When Jalon told her to think about him during her lonely times, her heart melted.
Now knowing he wanted to see her, she could barely breathe.
He had no idea how badly she wanted to meet him in person.
She’d tried to keep her true feelings from him, making sure her letters sounded casual and friendly.
Still, she’d thought—okay, she’d hoped—there was something between them.
Was this confirmation? She wasn’t sure, but that didn’t dim her excitement.
Yet his asking to see her also tied her stomach in knots.
They couldn’t meet in person, not yet. She had to find a valid reason to put him off, and the unpredictable weather seemed logical enough.
Except now that she reread her response, she realized that excuse sounded thin.
It wasn’t as if it would snow every day.
In fact, there would be plenty of clear days when Jalon could easily get to her aunt’s house from Birch Creek.
She already knew where Canton was, and from what he’d told her, Birch Creek was only a couple of hours away, one taxi ride away—although up until now she hadn’t dared to entertain the idea of him coming to visit.
Up until now, she’d refused to think about the reason he couldn’t.
The wind-up timer rang and she stood, folding the letter and putting it into the pocket of her apron to finish later.
Her pulse still thrummed with thoughts of Jalon as she pulled two loaves of freshly baked bread from the woodstove and set them on top of the burners.
She’d never met anyone like Jalon. Over the past couple of months they’d been writing to each other, she had fallen for him.
How could she not? He was nice, something she’d known the moment she saw he had written her back, which he didn’t have to do.
He had a sense of humor, something she appreciated, and from the way he confessed his fear of making mistakes, she knew he was honest. Far more honest than I am.
She looked at the golden tops of the bread loaves, tempted to sprinkle some sesame seeds on the top, or at least a few shakes of dried parsley.
But Aunt Bertha liked plain white bread.
One small pat of butter, no jelly, and definitely no honey.
Phoebe sniffed. At least the loaves smelled good, yeasty and fresh.
She set the oven mitts on the counter and glanced at the empty wood box.
She’d have to replenish the stove’s wood supply so she could finish making supper.
She peeked around the edge of the kitchen doorway and saw her aunt sitting at her sewing machine in the living room, working on the mending she took in from both the Amish in her district and a few local English.
With her broad shoulders, stiff posture, steel-gray hair, harsh middle part, and flinty blue eyes, there was nothing soft about Aunt Bertha.
Even her mouth was little more than a slash above her chin.
And if the woman ever smiled, Phoebe hadn’t seen it.
“Maybe you can soften her up a little while you’re visiting,” Mamm said when Phoebe announced her intention to stay with her great-aunt for a while. “Smooth out her edges, so to speak.”
“Has she always been that way?” Phoebe had asked.
She’d only met Aunt Bertha once before, when she and her mother visited her grandparents in Dover.
Both grandparents were gone now, and Mamm didn’t have any brothers or sisters.
Bertha was the last attachment to her mother’s family, except for a few distant cousins.
“As long as I can remember.” Mamm smiled, but her smile quickly faded.
The boys were outside, the older ones working with Daed and the younger ones playing in the backyard, which left her and her mother with a rare moment alone in the kitchen as her newest brother slept in his crib.
“I wish you weren’t going so far away.” Her smile reappeared, a little weaker this time.
“But I know it’s crowded here. Of course, that’s nothing new.
I guess I understand that you need some time away from all the chaos. ”
At one time Phoebe would have agreed. Being part of a large family meant a lot of sacrifices, something she’d resented in the past. But the size of her family wasn’t the reason she had to leave home—at least not the main one, and she couldn’t tell her mother what that reason was.
So she let Mamm think she wanted to escape the pandemonium of her large family. It was easier than admitting the truth.
“You’ll be back soon, ya ?” Mamm ’s eyes had filled with hope.
“As soon as I can.” That was all she could say, and it wasn’t enough. Her mother’s hopeful look faded, which piled on Phoebe’s guilt. But there was nothing she could do about it.
Now she was stuck here with a woman whose edges were impossibly sharp.
Phoebe would know—she’d been cut by them more than once since she arrived.
There was no softening Aunt Bertha. If anything, the woman was more spiteful than she’d been when Phoebe got there.
Phoebe had to keep reminding herself that, despite her aunt’s attitude, the woman was providing a place for Phoebe to stay.
Phoebe owed it to her to follow the rules—even the ones she didn’t agree with.
“I’m heading out to get some more wood,” Phoebe said, forcing a cheerful tone. One requirement of her staying here was letting Aunt Bertha know her every move. Which didn’t make much sense to Phoebe, since under her aunt’s restrictions there weren’t too many places she could go.
Aunt Bertha pushed on the pedals of her manual sewing machine and continued her task as if Phoebe hadn’t spoken.
After waiting in vain for a response, Phoebe sighed, put on her coat and boots, hurried out the mudroom’s back door, and went down the porch steps.
Puffs of cold air blew out of her mouth as she turned and looked up at one of the bedroom windows on the top floor of the house.
What was Malachi doing in his room right now?
Aunt Bertha had sent him there an hour ago, after she found him peeling the white paint off one of the slats of wood siding.
That had earned him two hours of confinement.
Phoebe shook her head. She couldn’t deny that he deserved it.
He should have known better than to damage her aunt’s house like that.
But she didn’t blame him either. He was four years old, and a precocious four-year-old at that.
He was curious. And lively. And trouble, according to Aunt Bertha.
Phoebe’s temples throbbed as she turned away, the snow crunching under her boots as she headed toward the woodpile.
Her aunt wasn’t wrong about Malachi needing more discipline.
But Phoebe didn’t think the constant groundings were doing him any good.
There had to be a middle ground. For the life of her, she couldn’t find it.
She gathered up several large pieces of cold wood and stacked them in her arms, then headed back to the house.
Once she put up the wood, she’d check on Malachi, despite her aunt’s dictate that he be left alone.
That was one dictate she was willing to circumvent.
She’d have to be careful not to get caught, though. Her aunt seemed to discover everything.
Except for one thing. So far Aunt Bertha hadn’t found out about Jalon.
Phoebe thought about the letter in her pocket.
A postal error had ended up being a lifeline for her.
When Jalon’s first letter arrived by mistake, she never imagined returning the letter would start their pen pal relationship.
She’d been at Aunt Bertha’s for less than two weeks, and she had felt the judgment and oppression shortly after her arrival.
When Jalon sent his short thank-you note in return, she’d replied on impulse.
She hadn’t seriously expected him to write her again, but when he did, she’d been thrilled.
Having something to look forward to had kept her from being so homesick and lonely.
His letters were the bright spot of her life right now.
Naturally, she had built up a mental picture of him, imagining the kindness in his eyes, the gentleness in his voice, and the way her hand would fit perfectly in his—if they ever actually met face-to-face.
Seeing him in person was something she’d only dared to dream about.
And now that her daydreams about him were on the cusp of coming true, she didn’t know what to do.
Her heart was ready to meet him, but her mind knew better.
Aunt Bertha would have a conniption for sure.
And how was she supposed to explain about Malachi?
She hadn’t mentioned him at all in any of her letters.
With each new one she wrote, she thought about telling Jalon about him.
How smart he was, how cute he could be when he was trying to get out of trouble, how much she loved him.
But she couldn’t bring herself to do it, because if she told him about Malachi, she’d have to tell him about her past. She couldn’t risk ruining what they had between them. Their relationship, as distant as it was, meant everything to her.