A Groom For Ruby. Emma Miller
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had more on his mind than eating.
“Joseph, you’ve barely put a thing in your mouth.” His mother’s delicate forehead wrinkled with concern. “I knew you should have stayed in bed this morning. Does your head hurt? Are you dizzy?” She fluttered her hands helplessly over her plate. For a small woman, Joseph was always amazed at how much his mother could eat and never gain an extra pound.
He forced a smile and took a sip of the glass of buttermilk next to his plate. Normally, he loved buttermilk, but today, it tasted flat on his tongue. “Now, don’t fuss. A few stitches. Nothing for you to worry yourself over.”
His mother rose, came around the table and pressed a cool palm to his forehead. “You feel a little warm to me. You might be running a fever.”
“Ne, no fever,” he protested. “It’s a hot day. Near ninety, I’d guess. And you’ve made enough food for two families.” It was stifling there in the kitchen. All the windows were open, but no breeze stirred the plain white curtains. It made a man think longingly of cool autumn mornings.
His mother, Magdalena, nibbled at her lower lip. “It wouldn’t hurt for you to go back to the doctor.”
Joseph raised a hand in protest. “Mother, ne, really. There’s no need for you to be concerned. I slipped in the mud and knocked my head. It’s nothing. I’ve had far worse. Remember when I fell out of the hayloft?”
“And landed in the pile of manure your father had just forked out of the cow stall,” she finished for him with a chuckle. “At least you had no stitches then.”
“No stitches, but I broke my arm in two places.”
“We felt so awful.” She shook her head ruefully. “My only kinder, my precious seven-year-old son in so much pain. We rushed you to the hospital and there you were all covered in muck and stinking like an outhouse with all them Englishers staring at us. Such a bad mother, they must have thought, to have no care for her child.”
They traded smiles at the shared memory. He’d long ago forgotten the hurt of the broken arm. What he remembered was that he’d gone all that summer unable to swim in the pond with his friends, and that his father and mother had churned ice cream for him every Saturday. He wiped his eyes with the napkin, rubbing away the tears of laughter and maybe something more. That summer and the taste of that sweet ice cream on his tongue were some of the last memories he had of his father. His dat had been killed in a farming accident that September.
His mother was still hovering, something she had a tendency to do. “Maybe you could manage a slice of pie?” she coaxed. “Peach. Your favorite. I made it especially for you.”
Which was what she said of most meals... “Save it all for supper tonight,” Joseph answered. “I’ve got an errand to run this afternoon, and I’ll be sure to be hungry later. We’ll have everything cold, and you won’t even have to heat up the kitchen by turning on the stove.” His mother pursed her lips and began clearing away the dishes. Her silence and the pained expression on her face was an obvious sign of her disapproval.
“Can I help you clean up?” he offered.
She shook her head. “This is my job, Joseph. It’s the least I can do, being a widow and dependent on your charity.”
Joseph bit back the retort that this house was hers as long as she lived and he loved her and would never consider her a burden. He’d said that many times before. Instead, he rose to put the milk and chicken into the refrigerator.
Theirs was a small kitchen for an Amish house, but it provided everything his mother needed to cook and preserve food from her garden. He’d worked hard since he was fifteen to provide for the two of them, and his mam had done her share by keeping their home as shiny as a new penny. The Bible said to honor your mother and father, and he tried to always remember that when she was being difficult.
There’d never been any doubt in Joseph’s mind that she loved him and wanted what was best for him. Twice she could have remarried, but both times she’d refused, even though both prospective husbands could have given her a more spacious home and an easier life. “A stepfather might be harsh on you,” she’d said. “And your needs might be lost in a large family of stepbrothers and stepsisters. We’re better on our own.”
Joseph smiled at her as he crossed the room to take his hat from the peg near the door. It fit a little snug because the emergency room doctor had shaved the back of his head and covered the six stitches with a thick bandage. But he could hardly show up at the matchmaker’s without his head covered. It wouldn’t be proper.
“Where are you going?” His mother removed the plate of chicken from the refrigerator where he’d just put it and covered it with a clean length of cheesecloth before placing it back in the refrigerator. “I think you’d best put your errand off for a few days,” she said. “No need for you to go out in this afternoon heat.”
“I’ll be fine,” Joseph assured her. “I won’t be long.”
“Where did you say you were going?” She dropped her hands to her hips and tilted her head in that way she always did that reminded him of a curious little wren. Her bright blue eyes narrowed. “Joseph?”
“I didn’t say.” He opened the back door. “I’ll be back in plenty of time to milk the cow before supper.”
“But Joseph—”
He closed the door behind him and kept walking. He loved his mother dearly, but if he let her have her way, she’d treat him as though he was twelve years old and not in his late twenties. He was blessed to have a mother who loved him so much, but she had a strong will, and it was sometimes a struggle as to who was the head of their house. She was sensitive, and if he was too firm with her, she’d dissolve in tears. He couldn’t stand the idea of making his mother cry and he felt relieved that she hadn’t wept when he hadn’t done what she’d wanted and stayed home.
Turning to a matchmaker to find him a wife had been his mother’s idea, and after hearing her talk about it for nearly two years, he’d weakened and agreed to let Sara Yoder see if she would have more success than he had on his own. He’d been reluctant and more than a little nervous because he’d always been tongue-tied around young women. He’d never imagined that he’d meet anyone like Ruby so quickly or in such an unusual way.
Whistling, Joseph descended the porch steps. Glancing back over his shoulder, he caught a glimpse of white curtain moving at a window. As he’d suspected, his mother was watching him. He strode around the house to his mother’s flowerbed, out of her sight, and quickly picked a bouquet of colorful blooms. A girl like Ruby probably had lots of fellows saying sweet stuff to her, but girls liked flowers. Maybe they could speak for him.
Everyone talked about his mother’s skill at growing flowers. She had beds of them that brightened the front yard and clustered around the house. She rarely cut them for the house, but from early spring to late autumn she had beautiful bouquets to sell at Spence’s Auction. He didn’t claim to know much about them other than to turn over the soil when she asked him or to fertilize and weed the beds, but he’d seen her create enough bouquets to know what flowers went with each other. For Ruby, he chose a rainbow of cosmos, sweet peas, zinnias and asters. He cradled the stems in peat moss and wrapped them in green florist’s paper just as he’d seen his mother do for her stand at Spence’s Market. He still had the headache, but he was whistling as he hitched up his driving horse to the cart.
All the way to Sara’s house, Joseph tried to think of something sensible to say to Ruby when he gave her the flowers. He even practiced saying the words aloud. It wasn’t difficult to be clever when there was no one to hear him but the horse. Should he speak to her in Deitsch or English? She’d told him that she was from Pennsylvania. Those Amish up there were less conservative. Maybe she’d think he was old-fashioned if he spoke Deitsch. So English. But what did he say?
“A little something to welcome you to Seven Poplars.” That was good, but should it be “welcome you” or “welcome you”? What word should he emphasize? Or maybe that would sound