The Thorn Part 5

Well, how about some pork chops or a nice juicy steak? She smiled at herself, knowing she'd never talk up to him that way.

A quick trip to the pantry, and Rose found both brown and white rice on the shelves, along with several kinds of nuts, boxed cereals, and oatmeal. "Have you ever eaten homemade granola bars?" she asked, making small talk as she emerged. "I have a delicious recipe."

"What's in it?" he asked.

"Well, let's see - oats, Rice Krispies, marshmallows, and nuts, too. Oh, and sunflower seeds and coconut."

"Any peanut b.u.t.ter?" He suddenly looked chipper.

She smiled over her shoulder. "Yes, peanut b.u.t.ter and some honey, too."

"Sounds tasty."

"All right, then. I'll make up a nice batch for ya. You can nibble on them all week." First, though, she set to work making a large chicken ca.s.serole with brown rice to make it more filling to eat for several days. Next she mixed up the ingredients for the no-bake granola bars before readying his weekly dish of scalloped potatoes.

Once the side dish was in the oven, she cleaned the counters and the double sink. Then she swept and washed the kitchen floor, as well as the hallway that led to the first-floor bathroom.

After she had also scrubbed the bathroom, she returned to the kitchen to wash her hands. Looking over at Mr. Browning, she offered to dust and sweep in the small sitting room adjacent to the kitchen. It was the room behind the doorway where he always sat, like a guard. "Wouldn't you like more of the house cleaned today?" she asked, holding the broom and dustpan. "I'd be happy to."

"No, no ... and besides, the sitting room rarely gets used." He gave an uncomfortable chuckle.

Rose wasn't one to argue with a man, yet it was apparent the dust stood thick on the lamp table not but a few feet from Mr. Browning's chair. "Looks like the tables could use a good dusting, at least."

He stared back at her. "There's plenty to keep you busy in the kitchen," he said, a gruff edge to his words.

Backing away, she didn't understand why he expected her to clean only the kitchen and one small bath. "What about your bedding and linens? Don't you want them washed?" At home, every Monday morning without fail, she and her grandmother stripped the beds to wash up all the sheets and towels, and every st.i.tch of clothing from the week, then hung them out to dry on the clothesline. She had no idea when Mr. Browning had last done his laundry.

"I do my own was.h.i.+ng," he replied, a hint of pain in his eyes.

She guessed he must be telling the truth, since he smelled fresh enough. Even so, she suspected the upstairs had to be languis.h.i.+ng, not getting a thorough cleaning. "Just want to help out," she said, going back to sit at the kitchen table to write the next week's grocery list.

"Well, if you want to do something more, you can bake me a chocolate cake," he suggested, his tone more friendly. "Would you mind?"

"I know the best German chocolate cake recipe."

"I should've asked when you first came in." He seemed embarra.s.sed.

"That's all right." She brightened and went to the pantry again, closing the narrow door after her in order to get to the shelving behind it, where the flour and sugar were kept.

She was startled by a rustling sound overhead as she reached for the flour. Looking up, she eyed the ceiling. "Hmm," she whispered, "maybe Mr. Browning has mice instead of frogs."

She carried the dry ingredients to the counter and set them down. Reaching for a clean measuring cup from the cupboard directly above her head, she couldn't remember having seen a single mousetrap anywhere along the kitchen floorboards. Didn't Mr. Browning know it was important to have several set in a drafty old farmhouse? Especially one situated on the very edge of a cornfield.

Glimpsing the man, she saw that his rounded chin had come to rest on his chest, and for a fleeting moment she pictured how his face might appear with a full beard like her father's.

She couldn't very well ask him about mousetraps at the moment. Sighing, she wrote on the grocery list for next week: 3 mousetraps. He could read it when he woke up.

Quickly, Rose mixed together the ingredients for the cake, wondering if today was the lonely man's birthday. Or, if not that, then a "special memory day," as Hen's best friend, Arie Miller, now Zook, used to say, back before she and Hen parted ways.

Whatever the cake represented to him, she hoped Mr. Browning wouldn't have to celebrate alone. For the life of her, she wished he'd wake up before she left the house in another hour or so, since now she had to stay to bake and frost the cake.

Once she'd put the cake in the oven, she set the timer and made the frosting. Then she wandered to the window and pinched off the dead heads on the African violets she'd brought over, and tested the soil for dampness.

She walked down the hallway on the south side of the sitting room that led to the back door and looked out past the woodshed, wondering if she'd have time to stop in and see Donna today, after all.

Standing in the doorway, she noticed the latch was locked. She took in the sweep of the large backyard, where a single rope swing hung from a gnarled old tree. Why had Mr. Browning chosen to rent such a large house? Was he accustomed to this much s.p.a.ce in Illinois, when his wife was still living?

The rich chocolate aroma began to fill the house, beckoning Rose to return to the kitchen. She pulled out a chair and sat at the table, leaning her elbows there. Looking around, she was aware of not a single picture of Mrs. Browning anywhere - not even in the sitting room, which, truth be told, she'd peered into twice since working there. It wasn't that she was looking for anything in particular, but she had noticed the lack of photographs, especially of such a well-loved deceased spouse. The English folk she knew - her sister, Hen, included - had oodles of framed photographs sitting on tables and desks, and mounted on walls, too.

There was an interesting framed jigsaw puzzle on Gilbert Browning's wall, however. A majestic snowcapped mountain named Longs Peak near Denver, Colorado - a "fourteener" Gilbert and his late wife had climbed once. "We loved a good physical challenge, the wife and I," he'd said proudly on Rose's first day of work. "Wasn't the only mountain over fourteen thousand feet we conquered together. But it was our very first."

He'd explained that, all in all, they'd hiked fifteen mountains in the "fourteener" category before his fortieth birthday. "We were young then," he'd said. "We called ourselves 'weekend warriors.' We would have hiked a mountain every weekend, if the Good Lord had allowed it."

She'd gotten the distinct feeling that something had altered their pa.s.sion for hiking mountains around the time Gilbert Browning had turned forty, though he hadn't said just what.

Later, after the cake had cooled enough to frost it, Rose bid Mr. Browning good-bye and let herself out, feeling rather sad the man would be alone with his memories for yet another week.

The sun was high overhead when Rose hurried down the steps and made her way across the side yard to the waiting horse. The mail carrier was coming up the road, stopping at the house two doors away.

Going to Alfalfa, she gently tapped her fingers on the mare's muzzle, caressing her. "I'll get you some water over yonder," she whispered, leaning closer again. She'd seen a well on the side of Donna Becker's house and a.s.sumed the friendly woman wouldn't mind if Rose gave her horse a drink.

She was looking forward to seeing Donna again, as she'd been invited before to her charming home, which was as snug and well kept as Gilbert's was drafty and untidy. She'd learned recently that Donna was a distant cousin of Arie Miller Zook through marriage. What a small world! The first time Rose had taken tea with Donna, Rose had been surprised to learn of the connection to Hen's former close friend. Hen's best friend, thought Rose as she watered Alfalfa and gave her a sugar cube.

Later, when they were having cookies with some raspberry tea with honey, near the kitchen window, Donna again brought up the relations.h.i.+p she shared with Arie, Rachel Glick's cousin. "Rachel has a job opening at her little fabric shop. She's been interviewing potential employees all week."

"Oh?" Right away, Rose thought of Hen. She hoped Donna might fill in the blanks, since Hen hadn't given her much to go on other than that she'd applied for the job.

"Can you keep a secret?" Donna said, eyes twinkling.

"I'm ever so gut at that." Rose smiled.

"Well, my cousin told me she's very excited about your sister, Hen. What a cute nickname!"

Rose nodded her head, explaining how her older sister had gone from Hannah to Hen as a youngster. "It's remarkable that any of us keep our given names, especially if we have younger siblings, ya know," she said, then sipped her tea.

Donna laughed. "Whatever her name, Hen made a very good impression on Rachel and the other clerk."

"I can certainly vouch for Hen's ability as a seamstress. And she knows what fabrics and colors Amish find acceptable."

Donna smiled. "Sounds like a good fit."

Rose laughed at the pun. She was curious how Donna's family had come to have an Amish cousin, but before she could ask, here came Farley, barking for a treat. Donna rose quickly and went to the counter, taking a treat from a cookie jar. "This one's spoiled ... and not just a little."

"Hen really wants a puppy." Rose didn't know why she brought it up.

"I'll bet it's for her daughter, right?" Donna said. "Every child longs for a pet."

"I wouldn't be surprised." Rose thought Donna must know more about her sister than she was letting on. She steered the conversation to the reclusive neighbor. "How's Mr. Browning's health, do ya know?"

"Mental or otherwise?" Donna glanced out the window toward the older house. "I don't know what to do to help him. He sits and broods most of the time, at least when I've gone over with a pie or cookies. He must miss his wife, but it can't be good for him to hole up in that house."

Rose nodded her agreement.

"My husband invited him to go small-game hunting, but Gilbert declined."

"Maybe he's not a hunter," Rose suggested.

Donna reached for her tea. "Maybe not."

"Well, I baked a cake for him today ... at his request." She paused, looking across the yard at Mr. Browning's house. "Might today be his birthday?"

"Who would possibly know? He has no friends that Roy and I've ever seen. He hardly says a word to us."

"Too bad, ain't?" Rose felt sad. "No close family, prob'ly."

"Not that I know of," Donna said. "Makes you count your blessings for a close-knit family ... and good friends, too."

They continued sipping their tea, and then suddenly Donna put down her cup. "Come to think of it, there's an Amish fellow wandering about over there now and then."

This surprised Rose. "Doin' odd jobs, maybe?"

Donna nodded. "Mowing and raking and other light ch.o.r.es."

"Nice to know he has that sort of help." Rose looked at the stove clock and wiped her mouth with the dainty cloth napkin. "Well, thank you for the delicious tea," she said. "It was nice of you to invite me over." She went to look out at Alfalfa. "Goodness, you might not have to mow your side yard anytime soon!"

Donna clapped her hands and laughed when she got up to see. "You'll have to stop by with that horse more often."

Rose had to laugh, too. "Well, thanks again!"

On the way to the horse and buggy, she realized she'd forgotten to collect her pay from Mr. Browning and decided to run over to his house. Inside, the man's favorite chair was vacant, but her money was lying on the kitchen table. Not knowing if she ought to take it without letting him know, she went into the sitting room and stood at the bottom of the stairs.

Looking up, she opened her mouth to call to him, but heard his footsteps overhead, then water running. Rose couldn't help noticing again how badly the room needed dusting and, for a fleeting moment, she thought of cleaning it up right quick, while she had the chance.

Instead, she headed back to the kitchen to write a quick note, stating she'd returned for her day's pay. I'll come again next Wednesday morning. I hope you enjoy the chocolate cake. If it's your birthday, have a real happy one! - Rose Ann K.

With that, she left the house and picked up her long skirt as she ran back to Alfalfa and the waiting carriage.

"I see you've been playing dress-up again."

Hen wished Brandon would keep his voice down. She moved to close their bedroom door.

"I don't want my wife looking Amish. Not ever." Brandon stared at her. "You're stunning with makeup, so what's with the washed-out look today?"

She held her breath, suddenly feeling faint. Did he truly dislike the person she was - the girl he'd met and married?

"Where are those cute sweaters I bought you?" He motioned toward the closet. "And the hundreds of dollars of s.e.xy jeans?"

Too tight fitting, she thought. Aloud she said, "The sweaters seem so, well - "

"Revealing?" he said with a sneer.

She'd felt comfortable wearing them for only a couple of years after they were married. "I really can't wear those anymore."

"Can't ... or won't?" He eyed her.

"Honestly, Brandon ..." She couldn't finish. Truth was, she felt sinful parading around in those clothes. Maybe it was being a mother. Or maybe her upbringing had taken root at long last.

Train up a child in the way that is right....

"So, are you comfortable in those long skirts you wear all the time?" he asked, shaking his head in disgust.

She couldn't refute it. "Yes, I am."

"C'mon, Hen. This is ridiculous." He moved swiftly toward the door, opened it, and headed into the hallway.

She felt discouraged, and after showering, she dressed for bed. Hen lay quietly under the covers, feeling the soft sheet beneath her fingers and reached slowly, inching across the king-size bed, missing the warmth of her husband. Much later, in her sleepy haze, she stretched farther, hoping he'd returned as she rolled closer to his side.

Not finding him in bed, she raised herself slightly to look at the clock on Brandon's lamp table - 2:25 A.M.

Glancing again at the clock, she placed her hand on his pillow to see if it was warm. Perhaps he'd merely gone to the bathroom and would return soon. But his pillow was cool to the touch, and Hen wondered if it was possible he hadn't come to bed at all. She groaned softly, realizing he must have chosen to stay up working. Or to stay away from me.

When she finally fell back to sleep, Hen dreamed she was a little Amish girl again, playing with a favorite barn kitty. But in the end it was her daughter's wide eyes looking back at her, her wispy blond hair parted down the middle. She wore a pretty white prayer cap atop her head and held the old Kauffman family Bible in her small hands.

Hen heard Brandon's reprimand in the background of her dream. "You left that life -for me."

When Hen awakened to daylight streaming across the dresser and the wall beyond, she looked again for her husband's long frame but saw only his pillow and the smooth covers where he had not slept.

She felt apprehensive; there was a horrid kink in her neck as she pushed the blankets back and pulled herself out of bed. Fumbling for her slippers, she reached for her blue bathrobe at the foot of the bed and hurried to splash cold water on her face. When she reached for the hand towel and dabbed it against her cheeks, she looked into the wide mirror and wondered how to explain to Brandon what she was feeling. No, it was more than a feeling - she was experiencing something, a gnawing at her very soul.

Hen replaced the crimson-colored towel and stumbled across the floor to the small scale out of sheer habit. She hadn't gained a single pound since having Mattie Sue.

She wandered down the hall and out to the living area and kitchen, hoping she wouldn't find Brandon asleep at the breakfast table, his arms cus.h.i.+oning his head. She sighed as she looked for his usual spot for posting a note to her. Nothing.

She glanced in the living room, where the rumpled afghan on the sofa indicated he'd slept there, though she saw no sign of him now.

He's gone to work early, she told herself before looking in on Mattie.

Lining the hall on both sides were favorite photographs from her life with Brandon. Farther down the hall, baby Mattie Sue's sweet little face appeared in several lovely frames, and then the three of them together, the picture-perfect family. As much as Brandon had seemed to love their beautiful baby, he'd once told her he wanted only one ... and no more than two. Hen, of course, had been eager to start a family. She'd even hoped she might be pregnant again recently but was sadly disappointed.

Staring at the picture of the three of them last spring, near their backyard forsythia bush, she wondered if some men, more than others, possessed a natural way with little ones. Her father came to mind. He had always been loving and warm, not as austere and rigid as some Amish fathers she'd known, including a couple of her own married brothers.

She remembered the first time Brandon had seen newborn Mattie Sue. He'd kissed her tiny peach of a cheek, tears sparkling in the corner of his eyes. "She's beautiful, honey. Our baby looks just like you." He'd kissed Hen, too, his tears wet on her cheek.

She smiled, the sweet memory lingering as she stepped into Mattie's colorful, cozy room. Soft pink and yellow floral designs adorned two of the walls, while the others were painted the palest shade of yellow Hen could find. Mattie was still sleeping, but a sunbeam peeked under one window blind and was spilling over her favorite dolls. Like a blessing, thought Hen, smiling sleepily as she sat on the edge of the small bed.

There were days, not so long ago, when she and Brandon had crept happily into this very room and stood holding hands, watching their darling girl in her slumber. Hen breathed slowly, recalling the times she'd asked to take Mattie to visit her Amish grandparents, only to have Brandon recoil as if he'd been slapped. "What for?" he'd asked when they were out of their daughter's earshot. "Aren't you finished with that life, Hen?"

He'd had every right to think that, given the joy she had exhibited on their wedding day ... minus any Plain relatives. Hen had lived to regret not having her parents or Rose there to witness their marriage vows. What had possessed her to shut them out, breaking their hearts? Months later, Rose had traveled by horse and buggy to try and find Hen's new residence and gotten tearfully lost in the process. "Didn't you want Dat's and Mamm's approval?" her sister had asked, astonished. But to Hen none of that had mattered then.