An Unlikely Amish Match. Vannetta Chapman
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cheered up Susannah immensely. Even if she didn’t purchase anything, being around bolts of fabric had a way of encouraging her on the darkest of days. During the worst of her chemotherapy treatments, she’d often stopped into the local fabric store simply to enjoy the smell and touch of new fabric. When she was too sick to piece or quilt, she’d sometimes sit with a basketful of different-colored cotton swatches, dreaming of what she would sew as soon as she was better.
There was something about brushing her fingertips over the cotton, envisioning the pattern she would use and the quilts she would make and picturing the smiles on tourists who purchased them. Quilting was her way of spreading joy, and wasn’t that what a person of faith was supposed to do?
Deborah was describing her dat having to battle his way through a thicket of thorny brush to free a goat that had managed to become ensnared. The goat had taken one look at Deborah’s dat and scampered off in the opposite direction, leaving him wondering why he’d thought he needed to save the animal in the first place. “‘Goats are resourceful animals, Deborah. Never forget it,’” Deborah finished with a spot-on imitation of her dat. She always could tell a good story, and they were both laughing by the time they reached the fabric store.
Susannah enjoyed the rest of the afternoon.
She forgot all about the Englischer.
And she arrived home humming a tune and feeling immeasurably better than she had when she had awakened that morning. Some days she still woke terrified that the cancer had returned, certain that she was about to be plunged back into the cycle of doctor’s visits and tests and treatments. Some days were still harder than others.
But her day had improved, and her mood had lightened with it.
“Mind fetching the mail for me?” Her mamm had been up since before sunrise—they both had. While Susannah did her best to help with household chores, her mamm often shooed her away, telling her to go rest or step outside for a while or spend an hour in her quilting room. At the moment, her mamm’s apron was a mess, her hair was escaping from her kapp and her hands were covered in bread dough. Two loaves were already baking in the oven and two she’d finished kneading sat on the counter.
Sometimes Susannah wondered why they still made the bread from scratch, since loaves were certainly cheaper to purchase at the grocery store. She did love the smell of fresh-baked bread, though.
“And please take your schweschdern. They’re full of energy today.”
Sharon and Shiloh dropped the dolls they were playing with and ran toward the front door.
“Sweaters first,” Susannah said. Though it was the last week of April, the afternoons cooled quickly. The twins reversed directions and ran for their cubbies. When the girls were born, her dat had placed cubbies in the mudroom with their names marked at a level they could now easily read.
“They sound more like puppies on the loose than children,” Susannah said.
She adored her little schweschdern. Her mamm had been twenty when Susannah was born and forty when the twins came along. They were the siblings she never thought she’d have, and she prayed every day that they hadn’t inherited the gene that had caused her ovarian cancer. She didn’t want anyone else to have to endure such a thing, especially not her schweschdern.
“Like I said—full of energy. I wouldn’t mind if you stayed out with them a half hour or so, give them time to run some of it off.”
Susannah thought her mother was one of the most hardworking women she knew, but twin five-year-olds could wear anyone down.
“Finish that bread and then sit down with a cup of tea. I have a feeling you’ve earned it today.”
The twins catapulted back into the kitchen.
“I’m ready.” Shiloh reached for her hand.
“Me, too. I wonder if we have a letter from Mammi.” Sharon dashed to the front door.
“Don’t run too far ahead,” Susannah called out.
The girls looked identical—white-blond hair, blue eyes and a thin build. The only physical difference that was easy to spot was that Sharon had freckles and Shiloh didn’t. Their personalities were quite opposite. Sharon was always running ahead—energetic, enthusiastic and fearless. Shiloh preferred to hang back and carefully watch. She also liked holding hands, while Sharon proclaimed that was for babies.
By the time Susannah and Shiloh descended the front porch steps, Sharon was already waiting at the lane—hands on her hips, a scowl on her face and a whine in her voice. “Why are you so slow? Come on already.”
The day was one of those glorious spring days that Susannah often daydreamed about in the winter. The leaves were a green so bright they caused you to blink, and the flowers planted earlier that month had burst into a rainbow of color. The sky was blue, the sun shone brightly and the weather was cool enough to require a sweater but without a cold north breeze.
Perfect.
They picked wildflowers as they rambled down the lane.
Both girls stooped to watch ants carrying tiny pieces of grass.
And they fed carrots to Percy, their buggy horse, who was grazing in the field that ran alongside the lane.
Susannah’s mind called up all the things she had to be thankful for—her family, her health, a community that had supported her through a difficult time and now a perfect spring afternoon.
Ten minutes later, they reached the mailbox. Susannah had her hand inside, trying to reach to the back, where it seemed at least one piece of mail always managed to land, when Shiloh stepped closer and Sharon began to bounce from foot to foot.
“Someone’s coming,” Sharon said.
Susannah shielded her eyes against the afternoon sun, at first curious and then disbelieving and finally completely confused. What was he doing here?
Micah Fisher had taken his time finding his way out to the farm. He’d figured that as long as he was in town, he might as well check things out. Then he’d realized he was hungry again, so he’d stopped by the coffee shop where the two Amish ladies had been standing. He ate a leisurely lunch and used the time to charge his phone since he wouldn’t be able to do so at his grandparents’ farm.
The sun was low in the western sky by the time he hitched a ride to the edge of town. The driver let him out at a dirt road that led to several Amish farms. He’d never been to visit his grandparents before. They always came to Maine. But he had no trouble finding their place. His mamm’s instructions had been very clear.
As he drew close to the lane that led to the farmhouse, he noticed a young woman standing by the mailbox. A little girl was holding her hand and another was hopping from foot to foot. They were all three staring at him.
“Howdy,” he said.
The woman only nodded, but the two girls responded with “Hello”—one whispered and the other shouted.
“Can we help you?” the woman asked. “Are you...lost?”
“Nein. At least I don’t think I am.”
“You must be if you’re here. This is the end of the road.”
Micah pointed to the farm next door. “Abigail and John Fisher live there?”
“They do.”
“Then I’m not lost.” He snatched off his baseball cap, rubbed his hand over the top of his head and then yanked the cap back on and down to shield his eyes. “Say, don’t I know you?”
“Absolutely not.”
“But I’ve seen