4. A Community in Bloom #2
The afternoon sun was warm despite the autumn chill, and the men looked up gratefully as she approached. They’d been working hard—their shirts were damp with sweat, their faces flushed.
“Denki,” Amos said, reaching for a cup.
“Jah, much appreciated,” Noah added, wiping his brow.
Brian took a cup and smiled at her. “You’re a lifesaver, Elizabeth. I was about to drink from the horse trough.”
A few of the men chuckled. Elizabeth smiled back, pouring water for the others.
And then there was only John left.
He stood slightly apart from the group, near the corner of the barn, holding a coil of rope. He was looking at the ground, not at her.
Elizabeth’s heart hammered as she walked toward him.
“Water?” she offered, her voice coming out smaller than she intended.
He looked up, and their eyes met for just a second before he looked away again. “Jah. Denki.”
She poured, and as she handed him the cup, their fingers brushed. It was brief—barely a touch—but Elizabeth felt it like a spark.
John took the cup carefully, as though it might break. “It’s... gut work you’re all doing. For the wedding.”
“The benches look gut,” Elizabeth managed. “You’ve done a lot.”
“Jah.” He took a sip of water, still not quite meeting her eyes. “It’ll be a nice wedding. Hannah and Brian... they’re gut together.”
“They are.”
Silence stretched between them. The other men had already returned to work, their voices fading toward the barn. But John and Elizabeth stood frozen, neither quite able to move or speak.
From the sling against Elizabeth’s chest, Naomi made a small sound—a coo, soft and sweet.
John’s face changed. Softened. He looked at the baby, and something in his expression made Elizabeth’s chest ache.
“She’s getting big,” he said quietly.
“She is.” Elizabeth adjusted the sling slightly so he could see Naomi better. “She rolled over yesterday. All the way from her back to her belly.”
“Did she?” A smile tugged at the corner of John’s mouth—small, but real. “That’s... that’s gut. She’s strong.”
“Jah.”
Naomi cooed again, louder this time. Her small fist waved in the air, and then—deliberately, unmistakably—she stretched it toward John.
Reaching.
John went very still.
“Onkel,” Naomi babbled. The word was more sound than meaning, but it was unmistakable.
For a heartbeat, no one moved. Then John set the water cup carefully on a fence post and held out his hands.
“May I?” His voice was rough.
Elizabeth couldn’t speak past the lump in her throat. She nodded, lifting Naomi from the sling and passing her over.
The transfer was practiced now. Easy. Naomi went into John’s arms like she’d been doing it her whole short life, her hand fisting immediately in the front of his shirt. She made a contented sound, half-sigh, half-coo, and pressed her cheek against his collarbone.
John held her like she was made of spun glass. His thumb stroked along her small back, and his face—Elizabeth had never seen his face like this. Open. Undefended. Soft.
“Wie geht’s, kleine?” he murmured. How’s it going, little one?
Naomi smacked her hand against his chin in answer.
A laugh broke out of John—surprised, soft, the first laugh Elizabeth could remember hearing from him in months. He caught Naomi’s small hand and pressed his lips briefly to her knuckles.
It was such a small, ordinary thing.
It undid Elizabeth completely.
From across the yard, Elizabeth caught a movement and looked up.
Mrs. Yoder was standing by the porch with an empty platter, watching them.
Her expression was unreadable, but not unkind.
She tilted her head slightly—the way an older woman does when she’s filing something away to mention later—and turned back toward the kitchen.
Elizabeth’s cheeks warmed.
Sarah was leaning against the fence too, arms crossed, watching with that same exasperated-but-fond expression.
Other women had paused in their work to glance over. Mrs. Lapp. Mrs. Stoltzfus. Sadie, who’d come out for a basket of greens, stood very still on the porch step with her hand pressed to her mouth.
The whole community could see it. What Elizabeth herself had been refusing to see for months.
The way Naomi reached for John.
The way he held her.
The way he was already, in every way that mattered, her dat.
Naomi cooed again, her small fist patting John’s beard-less cheek. John bent his head and whispered something to her that Elizabeth couldn’t hear. Whatever it was, Naomi laughed—that bright, gummy baby-laugh that always made Sadie tear up.
But then someone called John’s name from the barn—Levi, asking about which wagon should be loaded first—and the moment shattered.
John’s whole body changed. Tightened. The open face closed over again, the careful walls rising back into place.
He passed Naomi back to Elizabeth quickly, almost too quickly, his hands careful not to brush hers this time. Naomi protested, small fists grabbing for him.
“I have to—” John started, then stopped. Cleared his throat. “Levi needs me.”
“Jah,” Elizabeth managed.
He turned and walked back toward the barn, his shoulders stiff, his stride purposeful. Naomi cried briefly against Elizabeth’s shoulder, reaching back toward him.
“Shh, lieva.” Elizabeth pressed her face into Naomi’s soft hair to hide whatever was on it. “Shh.”
Elizabeth stood there, the empty pitcher in her hand, watching John’s broad back disappear into the barn. Sarah was still leaning against the fence, arms crossed, watching her with an expression that was equal parts sympathy and exasperation.
Sarah didn’t say anything. Didn’t need to.
Elizabeth understood the look perfectly: You’re both being ridiculous.
Maybe they were.
But knowing that didn’t make it any easier to fix.
By evening, the work had slowed. The women had prepared as much as they could for one day, and the men had moved all the benches and most of the tables. People began to drift home—families with small children leaving first, then the older folks, then the others in twos and threes.
Elizabeth rode back to the Miller farm in the wagon with Sadie and John. Naomi slept against her chest, warm and heavy. The sun was setting, painting the sky in shades of orange and pink.
Sadie talked about the wedding, about how much food they’d managed to prepare, about how lovely Hannah looked when she smiled. John drove the wagon, his hands steady on the reins, his eyes on the road.
He didn’t look at Elizabeth once.
When they arrived at the Miller farm, he helped Sadie down from the wagon first, then turned to offer Elizabeth his hand. She took it—she had to, with Naomi in her arms—and let him steady her as she climbed down.
“Denki,” she murmured.
He nodded once, then immediately turned to unhitch the horse.
Elizabeth carried Naomi inside, her heart heavy with everything unspoken.
Supper was quiet. Levi talked about the wedding preparations, pleased with how smoothly everything was going. Sadie mentioned how helpful Brian had been, how willing to work.
Levi nodded. “He’s a gut worker. Willing to learn.”
There was something in the way he said it—a subtle emphasis on willing to learn—that suggested Brian was still being evaluated. Still proving himself.
Even now. Even after his baptism. Even three days before his wedding.
John ate quickly and excused himself, muttering something about checking the horses before bed.
Elizabeth fed Naomi at the table, listening to the conversation without really hearing it.
When Naomi was full and drowsy, Elizabeth took her upstairs. The evening routine was familiar now—change the diaper, sing a soft lullaby, rock until the baby’s eyes closed.
But tonight, as Elizabeth laid Naomi in the cradle and stood at the window looking out over the darkening farm, her mind wouldn’t settle.
She thought about Hannah, so content in her choice despite the subtle exclusion Brian would always face.
She thought about Brian, choosing this life with full knowledge of what it would cost him.
She thought about John, unable to look at her without pain in his eyes.
And she thought about herself—caught between what she wanted and what she was afraid to reach for.
Three more days until the wedding.
And then what?
Back to the same rhythm. The same careful distance. The same unspoken tension hanging over everything.
Unless something changed.
Unless someone was brave enough to speak.
Elizabeth pressed her hand against the cool glass of the window and whispered into the darkness. “Three more days. And then... then I don’t know what happens.”
Below, a light appeared in the barn—John, checking the horses just as he’d said.
Elizabeth watched the glow for a long moment, then finally turned away.
She climbed into bed, pulled the quilt up to her chin, and closed her eyes.
But sleep was a long time coming.
She’d just begun to drift when Naomi’s cry pulled her back.
Not the usual hungry whimper. This was sharper, more urgent—the kind of cry that meant something was wrong.
Elizabeth sat up fast, the room spinning slightly as she fumbled for the lamp. When the flame caught, she saw Naomi already kicking against the quilt, her small face red, her cheeks flushed in a way that had nothing to do with crying.
Elizabeth’s hand pressed against Naomi’s forehead and her stomach dropped.
Hot. Too hot.
“Ach, mei lieva.” She lifted Naomi from the cradle, and the baby’s body felt like a small furnace against her chest. “Es ist gut. Mamm is here.”
But Naomi only cried harder, her breath coming in those quick, panicked little gasps that babies made when they didn’t understand what was hurting them.
Elizabeth tried to think. Cool cloths. A bath, maybe. She’d seen Sadie tend a feverish bobbli once at a community gathering, the older woman calm and certain while Elizabeth had only watched.
Now Sadie was asleep down the hall, and Naomi was burning, and Elizabeth’s hands were shaking.
She carried Naomi to the door, pulled it open?—
And nearly walked into John.