Second Chance Proposal. Anna Schmidt
only pray that this was the case. It was unimaginable to even consider living in the same town with John after all this time, after everything that had happened between them.
“Impossible,” she muttered as she climbed the porch steps to her house. She was eager to have a quiet supper and settle in for the evening to correct work she had collected from the students. That would surely calm her nerves. She would retire early and pray that John Amman would not haunt her dreams.
But as she reached for the doorknob, the door swung open and there stood her sister Greta, her baby daughter riding her hip while her two boisterous sons—only a year apart—raced from the kitchen to greet Lydia. “Tante Liddy,” they squealed in unison as they threw themselves against her.
She set the large basket that she used to carry books and papers to and from school on the table inside the front hallway and bent to give the boys a hug. “This is a surprise,” she said, glancing up at Greta.
“I have news,” Greta said in a conspiratorial whisper. “Boys, go finish your milk,” she instructed as she led the way into the front room. “You should sit,” she instructed as she shifted the baby in her arms.
This could be anything, Lydia warned herself. Greta was given to melodrama, and even the simplest news could seem monumental to her. Lydia sat in her rocking chair and reached for her niece. Greta handed her the child, clearly relieved to sit down herself. She was nearly eight months along in her latest pregnancy, and she sank heavily into the nearest chair.
“John Amman has returned,” Greta announced. “Gert Hadwell told Hilda Yoder that he just walked into the hardware store this morning as if he’d last been there yesterday.” She waited, her eyebrows raised expectantly. “Well?”
Lydia would not sugarcoat the facts, especially with Greta.
“I know. He was at the school when I arrived this morning. He had started the stove to warm the building.”
“Well, what happened? What did you say? What did he say? Where’s he been all this time and why didn’t he ever write to you and why come back now? Is he staying?” All of the questions Lydia had refused to voice came tumbling from her sister’s lips. Greta covered her mouth with her fist. “But, of course, you couldn’t say anything. He’s still under the bann.”
“Of course. How could I have any information about whether or not he plans to stay?” But he had said as much as he walked away from the school.
“Oh, he’s staying. He’s taken the rooms above Luke’s shop. Gert sent Roger to arrange everything with Luke earlier today.”
So close? The distance between Lydia’s house and Luke’s building was less than fifty yards. “Well, there’s your answer,” Lydia murmured, and wondered at the way her heart lurched at the news that he had found a place to live already. That they were to be neighbors.
“If you ask me, there’s more to this than it seems,” Greta pressed.
“What do you mean?”
“What if he’s come back for you?”
Lydia stood and bounced the child as she walked to the window that looked directly down to where the blacksmith shop sat and where even now John might be standing at the kitchen window of the upstairs apartment looking at her house, watching for any sign of her. “Don’t be silly,” she said briskly. “It’s been years. If John has come back to Celery Fields, it’s because he needs a place to work and live.”
“Then why not go north to his family’s farm?”
Because he was never a farmer.
With a sigh she turned to face her sister. “You’ll have to ask him that question, Greta.”
“Well, I just might,” Greta replied. “Of course, I’ll wait until he’s seen the bishop and makes his plea for forgiveness on Sunday. But if he has any idea that he can just come back here after all this time, after no word to you for years, and...”
“Let the past go, Greta,” Lydia warned. “Be happy for the Hadwells. I’m sure Gertrude is beside herself with joy. John was always her favorite nephew.”
“I am happy for them,” Greta said petulantly. “It’s just that...” She frowned.
“It was kind of Luke to offer him the apartment,” Lydia said, hoping the shift in the conversation would take Greta’s mind off worrying about her.
Her sister sighed. “We took most of the furnishings out of there when we moved to the house, so he’s going to need some things if he intends to stay. Luke also says we should invite him to supper on Sunday evening. I don’t know what that man is thinking sometimes.”
“Luke doesn’t know John from the past,” Lydia reminded her. “And do I need to remind you that Luke himself was under a similar bann when he moved here from Canada?”
Greta blushed. “I guess you’ve got a point. Luke’s more understanding of this whole matter.”
“And a kind man always doing what he can for others,” Lydia reminded her sister.
“Hmm. Still, Sunday is Samuel’s birthday,” Greta said with a nod toward the kitchen, where the boys could be heard whispering and giggling. Suddenly her eyes widened. “Even if John comes you’ll still be there, won’t you? Samuel would be so disappointed if...”
“Of course I’m coming,” Lydia assured her.
“I mean I could just tell Luke not to...”
“Greta, if John Amman has indeed come home to stay then we will need to adjust to that—all of us.”
“If you’re sure...”
“I’m sure. Now shouldn’t you be getting home? Luke will be wanting his supper.”
Greta smiled as she heaved herself out of the chair and waited a minute to catch her breath. Then she took her daughter from Lydia, called for the boys and herded them onto the porch. “I left you something for your supper,” she said as she and the children headed back toward town.
Greta had been the homemaker for Lydia and their father from the time she’d been old enough to reach the stove and counters in the kitchen. Even with her own house and brood to care for she still felt the need to make sure that Lydia was eating.
“I do know how to cook,” Lydia reminded her.
“Not well,” Greta shot back, and both sisters laughed.
Lydia stood on the porch watching Greta waddle down the path toward her own house at the end of town. As she turned to go back inside, a movement on the landing above the livery caught her eye.
John Amman was standing in the open doorway of the apartment Greta’s husband had once occupied. He was watching her and, as Lydia stared back, he raised his hand, palm out flat in the signal they had shared as teenagers.
He remembered.
* * *
By week’s end everyone in Celery Fields and the surrounding area made up of small produce farms owned by Amish families knew the story of John Amman. And as far as Lydia could see, John did not need a forgiving father on the scene to kill the fatted calf in celebration of his return. He had his aunt. Gertrude Hadwell took John in as if he were her beloved son.
Only a day after his return he was working in the hardware store as if he’d never left. Oh, to be sure, at Roger Hadwell’s insistence, John’s chores were confined to the loading area in back. That way no customers would be placed in the awkward position of having to openly shun him. But Gert made it clear that by Monday he would take his place behind the counter.
In the meantime his aunt had organized a frolic, the name given to occasions when Amish women gathered for some large work project such as cleaning someone’s home or completing a quilt top. To Lydia it seemed exactly the right word for such events. No matter how difficult the work, the women always enjoyed