Tapestry of love, p.1
Tapestry of Love, page 1
The characters and events in this book are the creation of the author, and any resemblance to actual persons or events is coincidental.
TAPESTRY OF LOVE
Copyright © 2023 by Linda Byler
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any manner without the express written consent of the publisher, except in the case of brief excerpts in critical reviews or articles. All inquiries should be addressed to Good Books, 307 West 36th Street, 11th Floor, New York, NY 10018.
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Byler, Linda, author.
Title: Tapestry of love / Linda Byler.
Description: New York, New York : Good Books, 2023. | Series: New
directions ; book two | Summary: “The second book in the New Directions
series, this Amish romance will keep you guessing until the end!”--
Provided by publisher.
Identifiers: LCCN 2023017369 (print) | LCCN 2023017370 (ebook) | ISBN
9781680998627 (paperback) | ISBN 9781680998818 (ebook)
Subjects: LCSH: Amish--Fiction | LCGFT: Romance fiction. | Christian
fiction. | Novels.
Classification: LCC PS3602.Y53 T36 2023 (print) | LCC PS3602.Y53 (ebook)
| DDC 813/.6--dc23/eng/20230417
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2023017369
LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2023017370
ISBN: 978-1-68099-862-7
eBook ISBN: 978-1-68099-881-8
Cover design by Create Design Publish LLC
Printed in the United States of America
CONTENTS
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
CHAPTER 1
HE MET HER AT THE TRAIN STATION IN HARRISBURG, A ROILING mass of humanity, monstrous, clanging trains, acres of cement, steel poles, and carts trundled from who knows where. She spotted him through the crowd, his face wearing a look of anticipation, his eyes darting anxiously.
She lifted a hand, called out, but her voice was swallowed up in the hum and bustle of the crowd. She pushed back a stray lock of hair, straightened her bib apron, and shoved her way through, excusing herself, apologies to her left, then her right.
“Here, here I am, Levi,” she called out.
The glad cry, the smile of recognition, and she was by his side, her hand clasped firmly in his, the only proper way of greeting in public among their people. His eyes spoke of his love, his pleasure in seeing her face.
“Susan!”
“Levi. Oh, it’s so good to be home. Thank you for meeting me here today.”
“I offered. I wanted to be the first one to welcome you back. How are you? Was the ride tedious?”
She laughed, told him of time creeping slowly, impatience a constant companion, the need to see her family overwhelming. They could barely gather their senses long enough to claim her luggage, to find their way from the station to the parked SUV, talk to the driver, and finally drive through the city and onto Route 283.
She sat in the second seat, her eyes taking in the beloved green fields of alfalfa, white dairy barns, black and white Holsteins on a lush pasture. Chicken and turkey houses hundreds of feet long. Blue Harvestore silos. As they neared Lancaster and passed places of business, heavy traffic, exits leading to ramps that led to the city, she knew her exit was close.
She had forgotten how green everything was. How brilliantly, electrifyingly green. The leaves on the trees, the lawns like carpeting, azaleas and rhododendrons in shocking hues of pink and red. She stifled a yelp of exhilaration at the sight of a horse-drawn gray carriage, clopping along the wide shoulder of the road to allow vehicles to pass unhindered. She stared happily as they passed the first produce stand, the shelves filled with spring onions, radishes, fresh brown eggs, shoofly pie, and chocolate whoopie pies.
Her heart sang of home, home, home. She was truly here, this lovely place with its abundant growth, its fertile soil, the hustle and bustle of commerce, businesses thriving on the tourist trade. Everything was structured, planned, in order, and running like clockwork. She felt the adrenaline pumping through her veins, wanting to open her own market stand, start a cleaning business, make quilts and sell them. She had never realized how much she belonged here in this humming center of trade, of talent and skill and hard, honest labor. How satisfying to earn a good wage, to live in a beautiful home, to care for a property with precise attention to detail, an art handed down by German ancestors.
And then she was home, the screen door flung open, and her mother running clumsily, the heaviness of her embrace, followed by her father, Mark, and Elmer.
Yes, her trip home had been long, seemingly weeks instead of days. No, she had not slept well, or eaten well, but here she was, safe and sound, back in the fold. She could smell her mother’s chicken lasagna in the oven, and there’d be fresh asparagus from the garden and, best of all, a French rhubarb pie, the crumbs heavy with butter and brown sugar.
Levi would not stay for dinner, but he took her aside and asked to come on Saturday night. “Yes, oh yes,” she said, smiling into his eyes, which shone so intensely into hers.
That first wonderful homecoming meal, complete with Liz and Rose, husbands and children in tow, charging through the door with arms flung wide, enveloping her in a showy emotional display of love and tears.
“You look dried out,” Rose observed, holding her at arm’s length, looking deeply into her green eyes. “As if desert winds have been attacking your skin.”
Liz hooked an arm across her shoulders, said, “Pooh, there’s no desert in Wyoming, that’s Arizona. Duh.” Which brought a withering look from Rose, and Susan laughed with abandon. She hugged them both and said she was truly and absolutely at home. Nieces and nephews clamored for attention and there was hearty handshaking from Amos and Dave.
It was too chilly for coffee on the back patio, so after dishes they all settled in the living room to hear Susan’s account of life in Wyoming as a schoolteacher. She found herself choking up as she spoke of Titus, her eyes wet with unshed tears.
“He didn’t take my leaving very well, I’m afraid,” she said, in a low voice, rough with emotion.
“Don’t feel guilty now,” Liz cut in.
“I don’t. Isaac is writing to a young widow, so he’ll have a mother soon enough. Sharon is much more stable, lives in a world of dolls and make believe. And horses. Isaac is good with the children. It’s just that Titus is . . . well, everyone says he hasn’t been quite right since his mother died, and Isaac just lets him roam around with that dog.”
“I thought you said he was good with the children,” Rose objected.
“All except that. I just don’t agree with Titus being allowed to follow his nose wherever he wants.”
“Absolutely not.”
“No.”
Righteous nods, all around.
“So, describe this place where you lived,” her father said.
In glowing terms, she gave a verbal picture of the breathtaking view of the expertly built home, the dark brown melding with the landscape so beautifully, the large barn, riding arena, the flagstone patio and furniture. But, she added, the place sorely felt the neglect and sadness of the deceased mother.
Always quick to pick up on possibilities, Rose asked about Isaac. Why couldn’t she marry him and be the mother Titus and Sharon need? The forthright question took Susan off guard, but she righted herself quickly, and said in a level voice that she could never marry Isaac.
He was a giant, with titanium plates in his face, always filthy, smelling of diesel fuel and sawdust. He had zero patience for anything, talked way too loudly, laughed too loudly, or else pouted around the house like a spoiled child. He didn’t brush his teeth enough, he never shaved properly, and he was missing half the time, leaving those children to fend for themselves.
No.
“Well, then, what about Levi? You can’t leave him dangling the way you do.”
“I won’t.”
“Mother, I hear wedding bells,” her father broke in.
“Davey, now don’t say that. It makes my knees weak.”
They all laughed, then moved to the kitchen for more coffee and rhubarb pie and dishes of vanilla ice cream with chocolate syrup for the children. The subject turned to Mark and Beth’s engagement and wedding in the fall, with Rose and Liz shrieking about how glad they were Mark was their brother. It would be lovely to go to a wedding as the sisters of the groom, treated like royalty and not having to do one single little thing all day except eat and talk. Oh, and sing. Yes, that, too.
Susan eyed her sister’s new choice of dress fabric, the gray pebbly material stretched tightly around her arms, the skirt much too tight around her advancing hips, and thought, Well, eat, yes. But she wisely kept this observation to herself.
She was really and truly home, in the best way possible, surrounded by family, the ties that bind, the love surrounding them like strong ropes. Nothing could ever take her away from this as long as she lived. The realization of this truth was written in stone. As sure as an arrow from an expert marksman, her heart had found its home, with family and Levi.
SHE AWOKE TO the sound of traffic, the low hum of vehicles, trucks shifting gears, an occasional clopping of hooves, the rattle of steel wheels on macadam. The luxury of lying in her own bed between clean sheets, the beauty of her furniture and tasteful decor was almost too much joy. It was simply so good to be home.
The uncomfortable thought of Titus and Sharon waking up to their new maud (maid) pushed its way into her consciousness.
She’d met Tina, the twenty-eight-year-old housekeeper from Geauga County, Ohio. Where or how Isaac had found her that spring still wasn’t clear, but there she was one bright morning, the week before Susan’s departure. Dark-haired, dark-eyed, a tall, willowy figure and an arresting face, and enough confidence to fill the state of Wyoming, she was a delight as Susan showed her around. Her dry sense of humor was an unexpected asset, and Susan felt sure she would easily win Isaac’s heart. The widow he was thinking about marrying probably would not work out after Tina’s presence filled the house.
If Titus and Susan were okay, and Isaac became enamored of this Tina, she could comfortably move on with her life, store the Wyoming memories in her chest of bygone days, dust her hands of the year. It had only been ten months, actually, and yet it seemed much longer.
She’d seize this day, make the most of a Saturday at home, look forward to her evening with Levi. The whole future seemed bedazzled with stardust. No more treacherous horse riding or wobbly bike rides, either. No more unruly students and endless dust and sticky mud.
She was in Lancaster County again, the home of perfect lawns and macadam driveways, spotless barns and groomed pastures.
Her mother’s breakfast casserole was so good, with ham and freshly steamed asparagus in eggs, milk, and cheese, a thick fragrant sausage gravy to ladle over it. She drank a cold glass of home-canned grape juice, patted her stomach, and grimaced.
“Mom, I’ll get fat, being here again.”
“Oh, you won’t,” her mother chuckled. “And if you do, you’ll resemble Rose.”
They shared a meaningful look, and they laughed good naturedly.
“I love Rose just the way she is,” Susan said.
“Of course.”
“Have you heard from Kate?” Susan asked.
“Not since January.”
Her mother’s face lost the glow of good humor and fell into a deep sadness. Her eyes darkened as her mouth softened, trembling slightly by the emotion overtaking her. Kate was her little girl, the bright one, the sunshine of the house taken out of the family circle by the unstable Dan, who was now convicted of many odd and numerous things, living in North Dakota in the oil fields. This bit of information had been shared by Dan’s sister Barb, a sharp-tongued woman who kept no secret honestly.
“It’s why she hasn’t written. I’m sure she doesn’t want us to know.”
“Mam. Don’t. She’s just trying to protect you from heartache as much as possible. She’s so selfless. You know that.”
Her mother nodded, dabbed at her tears.
“I just wish I could understand what we’ve done wrong, Dat and I. Why can’t Kate be here, Amish, in her place with the rest of us?”
Susan shook her head, told her not to take blame. God knew what He was doing, and there was a reason for this, even if they would never understand.
They washed dishes, cleaned the kitchen, then Susan sewed a new dress for her date with Levi, a pale pink, the color of summer roses.
Her heart sang in time with the whir of the sewing machine, the joy of allowing herself to love freely, to actually be able to say she was ready and willing to become Mrs. Levi Yoder. She reveled in the abandoning of old fears, brought about by the words of Isaac in Wyoming.
Finally, finally, her time had come.
She greeted her horse, stroking the silky neck beneath the mane, fed him an apple, and frowned at the amount of manure buildup in his stall.
Dat had never been meticulous about these things, and now where was he on a Saturday morning? Likely down at the Bird-in-Hand restaurant drinking coffee and chatting with the locals.
She looked out to see her mother emerge from the garden shed with a hoe, headed for the bean rows.
“Mam?”
She stopped, turned.
“You want to ride along to Leacock Shoes?”
“Why? I don’t need anything. Besides, your horse hasn’t been driven enough, he’ll be too frisky.”
“I can handle him.”
But her mother shook her head and continued on her way to the bean patch, leaving Susan to harness Chaos and hitch him up herself, which she accomplished with no small amount of effort. He sidestepped, refused to back between the shafts, then pranced and shook his head up and down once the neck rein was attached. She found herself unable to get into the buggy, walking along beside it as she hung back on the reins, repeating a steady “Whoa, whoa there. Stop it now.” Finally, she made a running leap. The horse sensed the loosening of the reins and made a flying lunge as she struggled to apply the brakes and haul back on the reins as hard as she could before they came to the well-traveled Route 340.
“Crazy horse,” she muttered.
He balked when he had to stand still at the end of the driveway, waiting till traffic thinned, so she waited till he was done throwing a fit, then moved off smoothly, joining the flow of traffic. She fought a moment of unexpected anxiety, all these purring, gleaming vehicles surging past like colorful monsters, impatient locals and gawking tourists putting her under the proverbial microscope. She barely missed side-scraping a black SUV that took a quick exit and parked, the driver standing behind his vehicle with a cell phone held high, taking pictures or videos of the fast-moving horse.
Susan felt her throat tightening, her breath coming in bunches. She took a deep breath to calm herself, reaching for the turn signal switch as she approached Leacock Road. She watched the mirror, allowing a stream of vehicles to pass from the front before turning left.
She had forgotten the amount of vehicles moving steadily on the road past their house. She’d have to get used to it again. She certainly didn’t miss the dirt, the dust and the mud, the potholes and unregulated rules of travel in Wyoming.
She was so happy to enter the store with the familiar scent of new leather and hand-sewn clothes manufactured on humming sewing machines by enterprising young seamstresses who made a significant difference in family finances with their talents. Children’s clothes, broadfall trousers, coats and black bonnets, white head coverings, and especially those pinafore-style aprons for little girls, so complicated to achieve a good fit.
Mam said time changed things so much. There was a time when everyone made their own clothes, every mother responsible for the sewing, producing her own trousers, capes, and aprons, no matter how complicated.
You learned, acquired the skill, and passed it on to your girls, which was still the case for the most part. But what young housewife wouldn’t pass up the frustration of repeatedly trying to make a schwottz shottzly (black apron) for her two-year-old, only to have that elusive neckline fit weirdly time after time? To go to any Amish dry goods store, select the fabric of your choice, and get a perfect pinafore-style apron for ten or fifteen dollars was, indeed, a blessed opportunity.
And so a trade was born, all in the name of progress.
Around the time the new covering material was introduced, no one missed the Monday morning ritual of soaking organdy coverings in laundry detergent, rinsing them thoroughly, heating water on the stove with shavings of Gulf wax, that old-fashioned paraffin, to stiffen the limp white fabric, ironing them with a sizzling hot sadiron, using a paring knife to put in the row of pleats rising above the front part of the covering. The new fabric meant a quick spray of Clorox Cleanup, a five-minute wait, a rinse under running water, and then they could be hung up to dry—no ironing, no stiffening. The best thing to happen to Amish housewives in a long time.
