The Amish Nurse's Suitor

“Jah, but I want to do something tangible, the way other people do for Mamm when she’s ill. Maybe I could make meals to put in his freezer for when he comes home.”

“He’d probably wilkom that,” Arden agreed. He forced himself to dismiss his niggling fear about Ivan’s health declining even further.

“I can clean the haus for him, too. Make sure he has fresh sheets and do the dusting and window washing. I’ll do it when Jaala comes over to visit Mamm tomorrow.”

“That’s a wunderbaar idea.” Arden figured even if Ivan didn’t get out of the hospital for a while, at least Ivan’s sister would appreciate arriving to a clean house.

On Thursday evening Rachel described to Meg how mortified she’d been when she walked in on Brianna and Toby kissing in the break room that day. She’d quickly grabbed her lunch from the fridge and eaten it in her car, which would have been enjoyable because the weather was so warm, but her allergies caused her eyes and nose to run. When she returned to the office, her coworkers assumed she’d been crying over Toby and Brianna’s break-room canoodling.

“Unbelievable,” Meg empathized. “But it might brighten your day to know you have mail on the hall table.”

Was it news from the university? Even though she knew it was immature, Rachel couldn’t wait until Toby found out she’d been accepted into the program. Countless times since he’d broken up with her she’d imagined his stunned expression when she oh-so-casually told her coworkers she was resigning to get her MSN… Unless she didn’t get into the program. At the possibility, Rachel’s stomach twisted into a knot. Then she remembered she would receive the decision via email, not regular post. When she retrieved the letter, she noticed the address was written in her brother’s familiar cursive.

“It’s from Ivan!” she announced, chagrined that she’d doubted he wanted to keep in touch. But when she scanned the letter, her knees wobbled and she dropped into a chair. “Oh neh.”

“What is it? What’s wrong?”

Rachel extended the paper to her roommate. “My bruder is sick.”

It only took a second for Meg to read the message. “This is upsetting, but I’m sure everything’s going to be okay,” she said, giving Rachel a hug. “C’mon, I’ll help you pack so you’ll be ready to go first thing in the morning.”

Following her, Rachel fretted, “Ivan’s so ill he couldn’t even write to me himself. I can’t believe my other brothers didn’t contact me sooner. What if he’s dying? What if I’m too late?”

Meg twirled around and placed her hands firmly on Rachel’s shoulders. “You won’t know how sick Ivan is until you get there. It’s not helpful to imagine the worst-case scenario.”

“That’s true,” Rachel hesitantly concurred.

Meg pulled a suitcase from the closet and opened it across the bed. “Do you think you’ll be calm enough to drive? If you need me to take you, I will.”

Meg was the closest person Rachel had to a sister and she loved her for her generosity and support, but Rachel knew she’d used the last of her PTO to go on vacation. “Thanks, but I’ll be fine. And you’re right—I can’t let my imagination get the best of me.”

But as she lay awake in bed an hour later, Rachel’s apprehension about Ivan’s health returned. Very ill, the note had said, but what did that mean? Ivan always described his business partner in glowing terms, but Arden must have been quite dense not to have provided more details. Or maybe he was deliberately terse; it was possible he only wrote the note because Ivan pressed him to write it since no one else would. Either way, Rachel hoped their paths wouldn’t cross too often while she was in Serenity Ridge. After Toby broke up with her, Rachel had made up her mind to stay as far away from thoughtless, insensitive men like him as she could.

Leaving early the next morning, Rachel prayed during most of the three-and-a-half-hour drive from Boston to Maine, but the closer she got to Serenity Ridge, the queasier she became. Not only was she anxious about Ivan’s health, but she was uneasy about the reception she’d get from her family. As she crested the long hill leading to her old home—the house Ivan, the youngest boy in their family, had inherited according to their Amish tradition—her hands were clammy on the steering wheel. Would she find her brothers in the yard? Maybe her sisters-in-law would be in the kitchen, making soup for Ivan.

On first glance she didn’t spot any buggies when she pulled up in the driveway, nor did she see anyone as she crossed the lawn and climbed the porch stairs. It seemed strange to knock on the door of the place she’d once called home, but Rachel rapped twice and waited, stealing a look around the front yard. When no one came, she knocked again, louder. No response. Like most of the Amish in Serenity Ridge, the Blanks didn’t lock their doors, so Rachel pushed it open.

“Ivan? Hello?” She timidly crossed the threshold. “Anyone home?”

She passed through the kitchen and stuck her head into the living room—no one was there, either. Then she went upstairs, announcing her presence. If her brother was sleeping, she didn’t want to startle him by bursting into his room. “Ivan, it’s me, Rachel.”

His room was empty, the bed made. This was where Ivan slept as a boy—now that he has his choice of rooms, he probably moved into the bigger one at the end of the hall. But he wasn’t there, either. As she darted to check the other two bedrooms, Rachel noticed the unmistakable scent of vinegar—someone had recently washed the windows. In fact, the entire house had been scrubbed clean. It was immaculate, as if no one had ever lived there. That could only mean one thing—the women from church had cleaned Ivan’s house, as was their practice when someone died. It was a way of caring for the family of the bereaved, who were expected to host the community after a funeral. Rachel collapsed onto the bed in her old room and sobbed, her worst fear realized: she was too late.

Arden stopped hammering. He thought he’d heard a vehicle pull up the lane, so he waited for the customer to enter the workshop. When no one did, he resumed pounding until a couple of moments later, when he realized maybe it was Ivan’s sister who had arrived. He set his hammer down and blew a curly lock of hair from his forehead. Meeting new people, especially Englischers, wasn’t something he relished or excelled at doing.

Outside he noticed the little green sedan had Massachusetts plates, so Arden ambled slowly toward the house and pushed open the door. Taking a deep breath, he mentally prepared to say hello, but Rachel wasn’t in the kitchen. Figuring she was in the bathroom, he waited for her to come out, but after a few minutes he concluded she wasn’t in there, either.

“Hello?” he called as he entered the living room. “Hello?”

There were footsteps on the staircase, and then a young, slender Englisch woman dressed in a long green skirt and black top appeared in the doorway of the living room. Her auburn hair hung to her shoulders in soft layers. She must have either had a cold or else she’d been crying, because she dabbed her red-rimmed nostrils with a tissue.

“Hello,” she murmured, glancing up at him. She had the same broad forehead and narrow jaw as her brother, although her almond-shaped eyes were hazel instead of brown, and now that he looked into them, Arden was convinced he had indeed caught her weeping. As if an introduction were necessary, she said, “I’m Ivan’s sister, Rachel Blank.”

“I’m Arden Esh, the one who wrote to you. I’m your brother’s business partner.”

Rachel nodded solemnly. “Ivan told me about you. He was very…” There was a catch in her voice. “He was very appreciative of your skills.”

“Denki,” Arden muttered. He wasn’t used to receiving compliments from a woman, nor was he accustomed to chatting with someone who was clearly fighting back tears. Generally speaking, the Amish were less demonstrative about their emotions than the Englisch.

Rachel broke eye contact and took a seat on the sofa. She smoothed her skirt as she spoke. “Denki for writing to me. When did Ivan…how did he…”

As her chin dropped to her chest, her hair made a curtain obscuring her face, but from the way her shoulders were quivering, Arden could tell she was crying. Whenever he’d interacted with medical professionals, they came across as calm and collected, no matter how severe an injury or bleak a diagnosis, so Rachel’s behavior caught him off guard.

“I’d, uh, I’d say it was about ten or twelve days ago when he came down with a bad case of bronchitis. But it turned out it wasn’t really bronchitis—or maybe it started out that way, but then it developed into—” Arden paused, afraid he’d stumble over the word pneumonia. It was easier to describe the symptoms instead. “Each day it became more and more difficult for him to breathe. But then yesterday his condition, uh, took a turn…”

Rachel lifted her head to look at him, and Arden knew his cheeks were flushed. “It’s okay. You don’t have to tell me anything else right now,” she said tearfully.

He thought learning that her brother was improving would have made her happier. “Do you want tea?” he suggested, hoping she didn’t so he could go. “Or to lie down upstairs?”

“No, thanks. I’d rather not. Too many memories. I’ll book myself into a hotel.”

Arden expressed his surprise. “Oh. I think Ivan hoped you’d stay here. You know, to care for the animals and keep an eye on the haus. But I can continue doing that if you’d rather not.”

She slowly shook her head. “No. If that’s what Ivan wanted, I’ll honor his request. It’s only for a few days. I imagine the livestock will go to Colin or Albert after the funeral, right?”

“The funeral? Whose funeral?”

Rachel’s mouth gnarled into a frown. “Whose do you think? Ivan’s funeral,” she sobbed.

The room tilted as it usually did when he panicked, and Arden couldn’t find the words fast enough to explain. He couldn’t find them at all, not with Rachel bawling into her hands like that, her shoulders convulsing, and Arden knowing he was somehow the cause of her distress.

“Your—your—your bruder isn’t ha-having a funeral,” he stuttered. Then he clarified bluntly, “Ivan’s not dead.”

Rachel’s shoulders lifted and dropped a few more times before she turned her head toward him, still bent forward, her arms crossed against her chest, her face red. “What did you say?”

“Ivan’s not dead. He’s in the hospital. He has pneu-pneu-pneum…” The word wouldn’t come out, but it didn’t matter anyway. Rachel shot from the room and within seconds Arden heard her retching in the bathroom. He pushed his hand through his hair and circled the braided rug, wondering whether he should check on her.

Before he could decide, she flew back into the room, her eyes blazing. “What is wrong with you?”

Humiliation scalded Arden’s face and reduced him to being a schoolchild at the chalkboard again, struggling to solve what should have been a simple word problem. What is wrong with me was a question he’d asked himself countless times since then, and he still didn’t know the answer.

“How could you send me a note like that? How could you stand there and tell me about my bruder fighting to breathe and his condition taking a turn, especially since I came here to find the house empty and immaculate? You had to have known I thought Ivan died!” She gasped and then pressed a hand against her lips and the other against her heart, as if to quiet them both.

She was right; the misunderstanding was his fault. He should have expressed himself better. He had no defense; all he could do was apologize. “I’m sorry. It was a miscom-commun-communication.”

“That’s putting it mildly,” Rachel uttered, but the fight had gone out of her voice, and her shoulders drooped, too. She wiped beneath her eyes and stated more than asked, “Ivan’s still alive?”

“Jah. He’s in the hospital, but he’s getting better.”

Rachel sniffed, nodding. Then she said, “I think I need a glass of water.”

“I’ll get it.” Arden was relieved to have an excuse to leave the room. When he returned, Rachel was perched in a straight-backed chair on the opposite side of the coffee table. He handed her the glass and reluctantly lowered himself onto the sofa. After apologizing again, he told her he’d be too busy filling orders to manage the administrative side of their business, which was why Ivan had requested Rachel come to Serenity Ridge.

“I’m surprised he didn’t ask Colin or Albert or their wives. Or someone else from the district.”

“Our community is still relatively small, and spring is planting season. Your brother Albert and his wife went to Ontario because her mother is sick. As for Colin, his roofing business picks up at this time of year, too. Ivan didn’t ask Hadassah because she’s, uh…”

“Too bossy?”

Arden suppressed a chuckle. Ivan had mentioned Hadassah’s habit of giving him unsolicited advice, but that wasn’t the only reason he hesitated to involve her in their business. “She’s, uh, with child. Twins, apparently. She tires easily.”

“Oh, so Ivan didn’t have any choice other than to ask me.”

“Neh, neh. That’s not why. I’m sure it’s because of how schmaert and competent you are.” His response brought a sliver of a smile to Rachel’s lips.

“I’m glad to help for as long as I’m needed,” she replied.

“Ivan will be relieved to hear that,” Arden said. But not half as relieved as I’ll be when it’s time for you to go.

Sitting across from Rachel with his large hands resting on his knees as he squeezed his legs into the space between the sofa and the coffee table, Arden appeared as tentative as a young boy who’d just been scolded and was afraid to move for fear of further punishment. Pale blue eyes and a mass of curly, dirty-blond hair contributed to his youthful appearance, but given his manly physique and the faint crinkle of skin at the corners of his eyes, Rachel figured he was about thirty-one or thirty-two years old. His thick, level brows emphasized the rectangular shape of his forehead, but it was his mouth that captured her attention—she wondered what it would take to put a smile on those broad lips.

I suppose it’s my fault he looks so grim. It’s possible I overreacted. Before Rachel could think of a way to lighten the mood, an approaching vehicle interrupted the silence.

Rising, Arden said, “That might be a delivery. I should get back to the workshop.”

Rachel stood, too, subconsciously estimating Arden’s height at six-one or six-two as she walked him to the door. She watched as he hurried down the stairs and across the driveway. She knew men in the Englisch world who spent hours at the gym trying to develop a similar physique: small waist, broad shoulders and biceps so muscular she could see their outline beneath his cobalt-blue cotton shirt. That must have been what Ivan meant when he jokingly wrote one of Arden’s strengths was his strength, which was a good thing, because one of Ivan’s weaknesses was his weakness.

My poor bruder is probably weaker than ever right now. Keenly aware that pneumonia severe enough to be hospitalized sometimes could be a touch-and-go condition, Rachel thanked the Lord that Ivan was still alive and after ten years, she was finally about to see him again.

Chapter Two

After bringing her suitcase in from the car, Rachel washed her face and took her cell phone out of her purse. The low-battery warning flashed, so she quickly texted Meg—Rachel had promised to let her know when she arrived—and made a mental note to pick up a phone charger she could use in her car, since there was no electricity in the house. She was about to get back in her car when she realized she hadn’t asked which hospital Ivan was in, nor had Arden volunteered the information. I wonder if there’s much information that he ever volunteers, she mused as she walked toward the backyard. He might not be as thoughtless as I suspected he was, but he’s definitely a man of few words.

Remembering how Ivan had written he’d converted the barn into a workshop and the smaller workshop into a stable, Rachel thought back to when her family moved to Maine from Ohio some twenty years ago. Her father had built a barn big enough for their milk cows, horses, buggy and equipment. He’d also constructed a small workshop for personal use. He and his cousin started a metal roofing supply and installation business, but because the cousin’s land was more centrally located to the Englisch community, their main workshop was housed on his property, which Colin now owned. Rachel’s brother Albert was a partner in the business, too.

Ivan was the only one who hadn’t taken up the family trade. He had a deeply rooted fear of heights, a fear Colin and Albert had reportedly accommodated by assigning Ivan administrative responsibilities in the shop. Although he was adept at accounting and customer service, Ivan soon grew restless. Rachel understood perfectly why building sheds was a better fit for his blend of carpentry skills and temperament, but Colin and Albert undoubtedly believed Ivan should have derived satisfaction from participating in the family business. Although he’d never written about any conflict directly, Rachel could imagine Ivan’s professional choice was met with nearly as much family opposition as Rachel’s decision to leave the Amish.

Entering the barn through a new side door labeled Customer Entrance, Rachel surveyed the workshop, impressed by how bright and tidy the spacious interior was. Four small buildings in various stages of construction were situated in separate quarters of the work area. Metal shelving held an assortment of equipment, tools and other supplies along the periphery of the room on one side. A substantial quantity of lumber was stacked in racks near the wall on the other two sides, and what appeared to be recently installed overhead doors ran the length of the fourth wall. Rachel paused and inhaled the piney scent.

Because Arden wasn’t in sight and the hum of the nearby generator was so loud, she shouted his name. Hunched over, he emerged from a little wooden structure that looked more like an oversize dollhouse than a shed. When he straightened to his full height beside it, he reminded her of an illustration of a giant in a children’s book, and she giggled.

“If that’s the size of the house, I can only imagine how tiny its shed is.”

Arden glowered. “It’s a playhouse for an Englischer’s eight-year-old dochder. It might seem frivolous to you, but it’s what the customer ordered and we need the business.”

Rachel instantly regretted her joke. She wasn’t mocking his work—with its scalloped eaves and miniature window boxes, the tiny house was beautifully designed. It took her by surprise to see him come out of it, that’s all. “I forgot to ask which hospital Ivan is at, the one in Waterville or in Pittsfield?”

“Neither. It’s the one in Belridge.”

“Belridge? That must be new since I lived here. Can you tell me how to get there?”

Arden squinted and rubbed his neck as if it was giving him a headache. “You take 202 through Unity.”

“And then?” she prompted.

“Don’t you have PSG?”

Finding it ironic an Amish person would suggest she use technology, Rachel chuckled. “You mean GPS?”

“Jah. You should use that. It’s more accurate, and I’m busy.”

“Oh, okay,” Rachel replied, but Arden had already ducked back into the playhouse. His abrupt departure made her feel foolish. It could have been he was stressed out about his workload, but she got the feeling he was annoyed with her for joking around.

At the end of the driveway, Rachel let the car’s engine run idle. If she turned right, the same way she came in, she’d head toward the highway. If she turned left, she’d travel directly past Colin’s property. Colin or Hadassah surely would be able to tell Rachel how to get to the hospital, assuming they were home and willing to talk to her. But if they give me the cold shoulder, I might end up blubbering again, and I need to stay as upbeat as I can before visiting Ivan. Without further hesitation, Rachel turned right. If her Amish family and Ivan’s coworker couldn’t be counted on to give her directions, she’d just have to stop at the nearest gas station, where she’d ask an Englisch stranger to help her find her way.

Arden waited until he was certain Rachel had driven away before coming out of the playhouse again. He felt like such a dummkopf in her presence. The rumors he’d heard were proving to be more accurate than not; Rachel was rather smug, giggling at the way he’d botched up that acronym. As for directions to the hospital, he saw the trip in his mind’s eye so clearly he could have led her there blindfolded, but telling her how to get there was another story. Arden might as well have tried to talk her through the Sahara Desert and back again.

What really irked him, though, was the way she’d looked down her nose at his work on the playhouse. It was one thing for her to be amused by his verbal inadequacies, but Arden took great care to produce high-quality products. Even if it seemed impractical by Amish standards, the playhouse was meaningful to the customer, Mrs. McGregor, and Arden was committed to surpassing her expectations for craftsmanship and service. Not to mention, he was dedicated to doing whatever he could, in good conscience, for the business to prosper.

And as Arden had just discovered, sometimes that meant completing customers’ orders sooner than originally promised. Mrs. McGregor had come to inquire if he could finish the project the following Friday, a week ahead of schedule. Since it was the end of April and several customers wanted their sheds ready before summer, Arden was juggling other projects simultaneously. But because painting the playhouse was virtually all he needed to do before the project was completed, Arden agreed. Mrs. McGregor subsequently produced two gallons of her daughter’s favorite shade of paint for Arden to use. Lovely Lavender, she’d called it. Or was it Lively Lilac? Either way, it looked purple to him.

I’ll have to ask Rachel to schedule the earlier delivery, he reminded himself. Sometimes Arden kept so many details in his head he was surprised his skull didn’t tilt to the side, but recording information in his brain was far easier for him than jotting it down on paper.

As he took a swig of water from his thermal cup, he heard another vehicle in the driveway—too loud to be Rachel’s—and went outside. Two men jumped down from the cab of a large flatbed truck and headed his way.

The stockier one, who had the name Bob emblazoned on his shirt pocket, said, “The shake shingles will arrive from our Montville site on Tuesday, but as you can see, we’ve brought your two-by-sixes.”

“That can’t all be mine,” Arden objected, surveying the load.

The taller, wiry guy snorted. “Funny.”

Arden wasn’t joking. “I didn’t order that much. Our customers have been choosing pine, so we only need half as much cedar as usual. That looks like twice the amount.”

“Hang on a sec.” Bob retrieved a clipboard from the cab and brought it to Arden. Tapping it with his knuckle he said, “Yup. Someone named Allen put in the order. Signature’s right here.”