The weaving of life, p.1
The Weaving of Life, 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.
THE WEAVING OF LIFE
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.
Good Books books may be purchased in bulk at special discounts for sales promotion, corporate gifts, fund-raising, or educational purposes. Special editions can also be created to specifications. For details, contact the Special Sales Department, Good Books, 307 West 36th Street, 11th Floor, New York, NY 10018 or info@skyhorsepublishing.com.
Good Books is an imprint of Skyhorse Publishing, Inc.®, a Delaware corporation.
Visit our website at www.goodbooks.com.
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Byler, Linda, author.
Title: The weaving of life : an Amish romance / Linda Byler.
Description: New York : Good Books, 2023. | Series: New Directions ; book 1 | Summary: “The first in a captivating series about an independent Amish woman and her struggles in career and romance”-- Provided by publisher.
Identifiers: LCCN 2023000816 (print) | LCCN 2023000817 (ebook) | ISBN 9781680998603 (paperback) | ISBN 9781680998757 (epub)
Subjects: LCSH: Amish--Fiction. | LCGFT: Romance fiction. | Christian fiction. | Novels.
Classification: LCC PS3602.Y53 W47 2023 (print) | LCC PS3602.Y53 (ebook) | DDC 813/.6--dc23/eng/20230109
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2023000816
LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2023000817
Print ISBN: 978-1-68099-860-3
eBook ISBN: 978-1-68099-875-7
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
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
CHAPTER 1
THE DAY WAS SIZZLING HOT, THE MERCURY IN THE THERMOMETER outside the kitchen window showing almost ninety-five degrees. The white impatiens in the moss basket appeared wilted and despondent in the filtered sunlight from the leaves of the oak tree. The neighbors’ black-and-white house cat prowled the flower bed, watching for stray birds from the feeder.
Susan sighed, turning off the faucet to stop the flow of water before lifting the plastic bucket of hot water out of the kitchen sink, grateful for the cool air blowing from the vents. Central air conditioning was a wonder, as was the central vacuum cleaner she plied from room to room as she cleaned the entire house: five bedrooms, four bathrooms, large family room, huge kitchen, and living room.
She was the maid. The house cleaner. The help. Call it whatever you wanted, she was a servant to the Klausers, a well-to-do couple in their sixties who spent most of their time at work or on vacation in various locations throughout the country. She’d cleaned this house to perfection for seven years, starting when she was fifteen years old, so she knew the whims of her employer, Carol. She knew when the bathroom vanity needed to be wiped underneath, knew to check the toaster oven to see if it had an accumulation of burnt cream cheese frosting on the racks.
Eight hours of hard work. She took a fifteen-minute break to eat a granola bar for lunch and drink a cold Pepsi if she had time. Working alone, her thoughts had free rein as she snapped clean sheets on king-sized beds, smoothed luxurious bedspreads and duvets, dusted, swept, wiped, and polished.
The money was nice, the roll of cash in her pocket book a testament to her hard work. She’d slump in the front seat of the black Infiniti, glad to relax and listen to Carol’s monologue, which was usually about the absolute stupidity of her yard man, plumber, builder, or husband, and not always in that order.
Carol was smart, informed, well read. She was a lawyer in Lancaster and viewed the world with cynical contempt. She had seen too much of a world seething with divorce, bitterly contested wills, human beings scrabbling and fighting for ownership, for power and greed. But there was a soft side to her, a side Susan saw when Carol told her about certain cases like the one she won on behalf of two orphan children, her eyes filling with tears of compassion. And when Susan tired of the hard work of housekeeping, there was always the loyalty she felt for Bill and Carol, her employers. What would they do without her?
And so she was picked up and driven to the house every week to clean and polish the inside of the microwave, the Italian coffee maker, the endless round of showers and commodes. She had been taught to work and to give her parents her paycheck until she turned twenty-one, which had been last year. She had been allowed to keep about a third of the money for herself.
This was Susan’s life, the life of an Amish girl at twenty-two years of age, unmarried and unattached, now with a balanced checkbook of her own and a significant amount of money in her savings account. Most of the time she liked her life. A slacker husband and a passel of runny-nosed kids were not for her.
She bent over the new Kohler commode, wiped the seat, the lid, and the outside of the bowl with Clorox water, then brushed the inside of the bowl. Then she got down on her hands and knees to do the ceramic tile floor. Her sister Kate had married at nineteen, small and dark-haired and radiant the day of her wedding. Dan, her husband-to-be, was just as short and as dark-haired and radiant. The perfect couple.
Except Dan turned out to be a very troubled person. His emotional turmoil had been hidden well. He was a favorite in the family, on all accounts seeming to be the kind of man who would make a good Christian father and husband.
It was when yet another baby was born and her mother noticed that there were hardly any groceries in the house, the refrigerator and pantry alarming, that suspicions were aroused. Kate’s mother began asking questions. Kate cried, admitted the sadness of her existence, the self-blame, the hopelessness for a better life. She told how often Dan missed work, how their finances were in disarray, bills unable to be paid.
Their mother took charge, insisting no one outside the immediate family needed to know. Dan was a good man. If Kate tried hard enough, she could change him. Books were bought and distributed, showing Kate how to be the perfect helpmeet, one who would win him over in Christian love. And Kate had rallied. She put her all into accomplishing the impossible. Susan watched the deterioration of her happy, glowing sister into one who was like a waxen doll, one who neither laughed nor cried, who cared for her babies mechanically. When she came for sisters’ day, a day to bake together and catch up on all the family news, she went home crushed. Their mother always told Kate to brace up, to try harder to be a better wife and mother, which left her feeling even heavier, like the whole mess was her own fault.
And there was her sister Rose. She had married into a large, close-knit family considered far superior to hers and who had no qualms about correcting her way of doing almost everything. Her mother-in-law blamed her for things gone even slightly awry, but of course her husband could do no wrong. And so Rose had turned into a snorting, disenchanted wife who couldn’t stand her in-laws.
If that wasn’t enough reason to avoid any relationship with a man, then Susan didn’t know what was. She figured marriage was just a trap—the men put on airs to impress the girls, but after they were legally and spiritually in their clutches, look out.
Nope, no boyfriend for her. Absolutely not.
She opened the sliding glass door and threw the Clorox water over the railing of the back patio, watching it drip off the shrubs. She had been told to take it down the steps to the mulch beneath the patio, but no one was home—they’d never know the difference. A bit of Clorox would not hurt those shrubs, and she was tired. Her feet hurt.
Liz, the sister closest to Susan in age, had done alright, she guessed. Married at twenty-one to Dave. He was a decent fellow, if you could put up with that big stomach and the trousers pulled up over it, the suspenders frightfully short. He was a good provider, a talkative, jolly soul who loved Liz and the children the way a father should. Liz had a pretty good life with Dave. But then, Dave’s father had Alzheimer’s now, and since his mother had passed away from kidney failure, it was up to the children to care for him. He made his rounds among the children; eight of them had to take their turn, caring for this poor, babbling soul who had no idea where he was and was prone to bursts of anger. Liz dreaded her two weeks, but inevitably he’d arrive and be shepherded into the house, inadvertently terrorizing the children and setting Liz’s teeth on edge.
So there you were.
Susan stepped up on the ledge of the large stone fireplace in the family room, lifting the glass vases and a battery-operated candle and dusting the mantel.
Then there was this whole thing about having babies. It was just one big misery . She watched her sisters become fat and grouchy, unable to bend down to wipe their toddlers’ noses. And then they’d be delivered of a squalling red-faced infant who refused to nurse, and tears would roll down the young mother’s face while the good husband stood there with a stupid grin. Babies were not all they were cracked up to be. There was a whole lot of suffering involved, the way she saw it.
Susan had always been there for her sisters when they had new babies. She did the laundry, cleaned, tried to keep order with confused two-year-olds who were throwing fits or getting into trouble. Susan had her own opinions about how the children should be disciplined, but it wasn’t her place to make those decisions. So she usually managed to restore some semblance of order by cajoling them with a storybook or a handful of Lucky Charms on the highchair tray. She didn’t always agree with her sisters’ choices, but she admired their patience, their perseverance in the face of so much against them. They always seemed to manage a smile despite their lack of sleep as their husbands came in smelling like manure, dumping their lunch boxes on the counter and leaving a trail of dried, caked mud on the floor.
Good for them.
Marriage and motherhood were overrated. Why put yourself through all that if you didn’t have to? Susan planned to remain free and independent with money in the bank from jobs she enjoyed.
She pulled the sweeper hose out from the opening in the wall, inserted it into the one in the dining room, and began vacuuming the brown, blue, and burnt orange patterned carpet. She loved the feel of the dense plush on her bare feet. It was difficult to imagine having such luxury in her own house. She wiped down leather chairs, dusted end tables, removed an array of pottery bowls and dusted underneath, then grabbed the Windex and paper towels to do the French doors.
Carol often told Susan, with a good-natured laugh, that windows were not her thing, she always left streaks. Susan blamed it on the Windex. She should be using the new fenschta loompa (window cloths), the single best invention ever. One to wash and one to wipe dry. Zero streaks. But there was no persuading Carol, who insisted Windex was best. Every TV commercial told you that.
She thought of Kate’s children’s threadbare sleepwear. The yard sale hand-me-downs, the too-small shoes Nathan had worn to church. She thought of her own growing savings account and felt raw guilt. But then, the last time she’d tried pressing two twenty-dollar bills into Kate’s hand, she’d refused, flouncing away with a sort of belligerence and leaving Susan ashamed of trying.
Susan had no idea how Kate managed to feed her children, make the house payment on the small ranch house, and keep up with the other bills. She had three children already, and one due in September. Micah was not yet two. A sizzling rebellion against all of it caused Susan to wipe ferociously at the small panes. How had the rosy dreams of girlhood turned into such a dismal reality?
Liz and Rose saw things differently. They told Susan she was like an old car rusting away in the weeds, being eaten away by her own negativity. No marriage is perfect, they said, but you take the good with the bad and the love you have for your man carries you through.
The door to the garage opened and Carol breezed in, her car keys jangling as she threw them on the table.
“Did you get some lunch?” she called out.
“I had a granola bar.”
“Good.”
As if there was anything else to eat, Susan thought wryly. They had a huge Sub-Zero refrigerator filled with salad greens, lemon water, wine, and orange juice. Not much else. They both cooked but were committed to an all-organic, plant-based diet, so the refrigerator held no real food, not the kind Susan was used to. She was always ravenous when she arrived home, her mother’s good supper foremost on her mind.
“I’m back here on the computer. Yell when you’re done.”
“I will.”
She wiped down the hardwood floor with Murphy’s Oil Soap, emptied the bucket (down the steps this time since Carol was home), and hung up the vacuum hose. She cleaned the stainless steel sink with Bar Keeper’s Friend, put the rag with the other used ones in the dishpan by the washer, and she was ready to go.
As Carol backed the car expertly into the L-shaped drive, she told Susan she wouldn’t need her next week since they were spending a few days in the Outer Banks. Good, Susan thought. I’ll help Kate a few days. This time of year she’d be busy in her garden, canning and freezing things for winter use.
“Oh, I’ll tell you. I get so sick of Lowe’s. Whoever heard of charging twelve ninety-nine for perennials? They’re all half dead. I’m going to have to go south if I want anything decent. All I wanted was one rugosa. You think they’d have one healthy rugosa? No, of course not. It just burns me up the way these megastores operate.”
Susan agreed at appropriate times but wasn’t really listening to the usual battering of people or places. Tomorrow was Thursday, the first market day, the day she would be preparing salads and sandwiches at the deli. She looked forward to working with the usual crew, among them her best friend Beth.
As they pulled up to Susan’s house Carol handed over the usual roll of bills, thanked her, and turned to her phone, as if to speed up Susan’s exit.
“Thank you, Carol. I’ll see you in a couple weeks then.”
There was barely an acknowledgment, Carol’s attention on her phone, so Susan shut the door and was thrown into the suffocating heat from the macadam drive.
Her mother greeted her from the kitchen stove, her face red from the heat and the cooking. The table was set for five: Susan, her two brothers, and her parents. The clock chimed five, first the one in the kitchen followed by the strains of “Amazing Grace” from the battery-operated one in the living room.
“How was your day?”
“The usual. Glad for central air.”
“I bet.”
“What’s for supper? Any mail?”
“Fried chicken, rice, and BLT salad. Too hot to go to a lot of trouble.”
“That sounds like work to me.”
Susan found the mail, riffled through it, found her check from the market, then took it upstairs to her room. Even the shade of the maple tree did nothing to cool the house; her room was stifling, the curtains hanging straight without a breeze. She looked around, appreciating the cool white of her bedspread, the white walls, the grayish-white hue of her furniture. The tall fig tree in the corner and the floral prints on the wall came together to create a room that was her own personal space, her haven.
Her home was a vinyl-sided two-story along busy Philadelphia Pike, the 340, the main road through the heart of Lancaster County. It had a macadam drive, a barn-shop combination in the back, a large garden, a pasture, and a line of pine trees along the side of their property. Her father, David Lapp, worked at a furniture shop. He managed fifteen employees and loved it. Her parents were always low key, in unison, merry and talkative, keeping the atmosphere of the home alive with the oxygen of love and moderation.
Sometimes, when her two single brothers became a bit boisterous or had too many late nights, her father would become stern, the air around him thick with disapproval, and the boys would know they had overstepped their boundaries. Her mother would agree to the words of rebuke, doubling the effect of his words, helping curtail the reach for a more liberal lifestyle.
Tonight the kitchen was too hot to enjoy their supper, so the boys persuaded their proper mother to carry everything to the shaded back patio. She complained, said they never ate their supper on a porch when she was a girl at home, but Mark told her times change, and they might as well go along for the ride.
The leaves on the maple tree hung still and dusty, no breeze to riffle them at all. The dull sound of traffic along the front of the property was not bothersome, everyone so accustomed to hearing the usual sounds of motors, an occasional rumble of steel wheels, and the clopping of horse’s hooves.
The fried chicken was crispy, the meat falling off the bones, just the way Susan liked it. The salad was fresh, with tomatoes from the garden, the rice fluffy and flavored with chicken base and butter. Her mother was an outstanding cook, her pies and cakes renowned through the neighborhood, which she said had everything to do with her father’s liberal praise of her cooking. They drank a gallon of meadow tea, that delicious minty concoction made of freshly cut spearmint, peppermint, apple tea, sugar, water, and ice cubes.
