Summer of Secrets by Charlotte Hubbard Page B

“Comes a time I can’t help with—”
    “ Nee! Ya better be out there supervisin’ me! Can’t have the neighbors cluckin’ over how I hung your underthings toward the road!”
    “Or on the side where Preacher Hostetler’ll see them when he milks in the mornin’,” Rachel joined in as she stacked their plates. “We cause enough talk, bein’ three hens without a rooster in charge.”
    Mamma laughed as she removed her shoes and stockings. “Guess you girls’ll just have to get hitched then. Don’t go tellin’ anybody, but I kinda like my life right now.”
    Rhoda smiled. It was nice, this chatter the three of them shared after a busy week at the Sweet Seasons ... yet Mamma was a far cry from being old or unattractive. Truth be told, some of the unattached fellows here in Willow Ridge came to the café as much to enjoy Miriam Lantz’s company as her cooking, she suspected. And once she and Rachel started families, who would their mother spend her evenings with? Or did she figure to become the mammi of the family—the grandma—with all of them living here ?
    “Those are deep thoughts goin’ through your mind, Rhoda,” Mamma mused from the swing. “You and Rachel were jawin’ about somethin’ when I came home, ain’t so?”
    Rhoda cranked the pulley, moving their dresses away from the porch so she could fill another section of clothesline. “When are we not? ” she hedged. Last thing she wanted was to bring up the subject of Tiffany again, what with Rachel just on the other side of the open window. “We were sayin’ how it’s gut tomorrow’s not a preachin’ Sunday, so’s we can go to the party—and eat goodies we didn’t bake ourselves! Sure ya don’t wanna come?”
    Mamma let out an exaggerated sigh as she stretched out on the swing, propping her bare feet on the armrest. “Peace and quiet ... maybe somethin’ as sinful as a nap. That’s what these tired feet need, more than all the gossip you girls’ll be hashin’ over. But denki for offerin’.”
    A nap ? When had her industrious mother ever slept during the day?
    Rhoda almost challenged her, yet when Rachel came out with the big Bible for their evening reading, she let it go. Mamma rose several hours before the sun every morning except for nonpreaching Sundays—made her daughters look like laggards, getting up by five to join her at the bakery. Truth be told, a little extra rest would probably do them all a favor.
    “Your turn to read tonight, Rhoda,” Rachel reminded her. “Looks like Mamma’s already in listenin’ position.”
    “ Jah . Pick me out somethin’, and I’ll be right there.”
    When her sister lit the lamp on the sturdy little table, its glow gave the summer night a peaceful feeling. Used to be Dat who chose the selections, when it came time for the actual reading, he always handed the Good Book to Mamma. In every other family she knew, the men read, and yet ... the Scriptures took on a warm, personal tone when a woman gave them voice.
    “Here—I did like Dat and just let it fall open to the place.” Rachel handed her the Bible, mischief twinkling in her smile. “Like God decidin’ what we need to hear, he used to say.”
    Rhoda sat down so the lamp’s light fell across the page, then closed her eyes and put her finger down on the spot where she would start. Silly, perhaps, yet these simple traditions felt comforting now that Dat was no longer alive—and after a week that had delivered a startling surprise to their doorstep. “I’ll be readin’ from First John, the fourth chapter, startin’ at verse eighteen,” she said reverently. “‘There is no fear in love; but perfect love casteth out fear ... because fear hath torment. He that feareth is not made perfect in love. We love Him, because He first loved us.’”
    She paused to ponder this, to let the meaning soak in.
    “ Jah ,” Mamma said quietly. “It’s like that sermon a few weeks ago, where Preacher Tom said that if you’re feelin’