Rachel's Garden by Marta Perry

the final go-ahead. At first he’d thought she just couldn’t figure out what she wanted. Now he was beginning to wonder if she still thought she’d find a way to get out of it entirely.
    He didn’t have all summer to get this job finished, not without having it affect the other projects he’d committed to. After the months of recuperation that he’d begun to think would never end, his shattered leg was finally healing. He might not be ready to climb on any scaffolding yet, but a small job like the greenhouse was the perfect place to start.
    His hands tightened in the frustration that was becoming too familiar a companion. Orders for the windmills that were his specialty were stacking up. If he didn’t start filling them soon, he risked losing the business to someone else.
    Folks had been willing to wait for him so far, some because they were Amish and so were brethren, others because they wanted the skill he provided.
    But they wouldn’t wait forever. The doctors kept saying he had to be patient, that he’d regain much of his mobility in time. Unfortunately, patience was not something he’d ever had in great supply. Maybe that was why God had sent him this particular trial—so that he could practice developing it.
    Truth was, he’d almost welcomed the pain of his injuries. The guilt he carried every day demanded some penalty. “Survivor guilt,” the doctor had called it. Having a name didn’t help him cope with it.
    He stopped at the hitching rail, making an effort not to favor his left leg as he climbed down. Acting as if he were whole must be a step to getting there, he’d think.
    Rachel had obviously seen him coming. She stood waiting for him by the herb garden near the back porch, with little Mary digging in the bed next to her. Motionless, she looked oddly forlorn in the slanting rays of the early spring sunshine.
    Maybe she saw that he was watching her, because she squared her shoulders and smiled. He thought it took an effort. Her hands weren’t gathered into fists, so apparently her encounter with Isaac hadn’t made her angry, but it had had some sort of effect on her.
    “I hope I’m not coming too late, Rachel. Mary, how are you?” He smiled down at the little girl. So like her mother, she was, her blue eyes fixed on him in an unwavering stare.
    “No, it’s fine. We’re finished here.” Rachel glanced at her daughter. “Mary, what are you doing?”
    Mary had come over to him. She tugged on his pants leg, and then she linked her fingers together in a rocking motion.
    “It’s all right.” He grinned at the child. “She remembers that I made her a cradle from my handkerchief once. That’s been over a year ago. Think of her still remembering that.”
    Mary tugged at his pants leg again.
    “Persistent, aren’t you?” Chuckling a little, he pulled out his handkerchief. He folded it into a triangle and then did the double roll and twist that transformed a handkerchief into a cradle with a baby in it, if you had the imagination of a child. He rocked it once between his fingers and then handed it to Mary.
    She laughed and swung it back and forth. “Schloofe, boppli. Schloofe.”
    Rachel was staring at him, and he couldn’t read her expression. “You’re very talented,” she said.
    He shrugged. “I have nieces and nephews who sometimes need distracting.”
    “When did you do this for Mary?” Her voice seemed to have cooled.
    He didn’t care much for the disapproval he sensed in her. She’d never really liked the time Ezra had spent with him, it seemed. Had it been jealousy of their close friendship? Or resentment that he took Ezra away from family sometimes? She certainly couldn’t imagine he was leading Ezra into mischief. During their rumspringa, it had been Ezra who always came up with that.
    “When she went with Ezra and me to an auction, I think.” He held up the plans he’d tucked under his arm. “Are you ready to take a look at these?”
    She blinked at the abrupt change