The Keeper by Suzanne Woods Fisher

the long drive. He peered out the kitchen window and the tightness in his chest alleviated a bit. The Bee Man was here. Amos was so happy that he wanted to shout to everyone, Wake up! The Bee Man is here! On the dawn of this spring morning. Instead, he remained quiet. It wasn’t good to get too excited, the doctor had said. He closed his eyes and recited Psalm 23. It was amazing the way the words came to him. After the episode with his heart, Amos had found solace in memorizing Scripture. The ancient words were like a balm, a salve. They eased Amos’s weary soul.
    The Bee Man looked exactly the same as he led his mule and wagon slowly up the drive and came to rest at the top of the hill. Amos would know him anywhere: that bushy head of salt and pepper hair on a young, smiling face. In the wagon were beehives, carefully protected inside of solid wooden boxes. The hum of the bees sang in the wind through the open kitchen window. Amos set the coffee down and went out to greet the young man.
    “So,” Amos said, pleased. “So, Roman Troyer, you and your bees, you’re back. A sure sign that spring is here.” He pumped the Bee Man’s hand. “Good thing too. Overnight, the cherry trees blossomed out.”
    “Good morning to you, Amos Lapp,” Rome said. “We’re a little behind schedule this spring. Everyone wants my bees in their bloomin’ orchards, all at once. We’re plumb wrung out.”
    An amused look came into Amos’s eyes. “I suspect the bees are a little more overworked than you might be.”
    “I think they would agree,” Rome said, not at all offended. Rome was impossible to offend. Not that Amos would even try. He was fond of Rome, mystery man that he was. Everyone loved Roman Troyer and nobody really knew him. He was vague about where he had been, even more vague about where he was going. He and his bees traveled the country farm roads, somehow appearing right when the farmers needed him, on the dawn of a new day. He traveled at night when the bees were quiet. And he carted his bees away when the job of pollination was done. Rome wasn’t typical for the Amish, who were connected to each other through intricate byways of cousinage that linked just about everyone with everyone else. But Amish Roman Troyer was, through and through.
    “I happened to see Menno a few days ago. He’s gotten tall. If I’m not mistaken, he’s got some whiskers on his upper lip. Have you noticed?”
    “I’ve been ignoring it.” Amos clasped his hands behind his back. “So, my friend, how have your travels been this winter? Seen many changes?”
    “Too many. Villages have become towns. Towns have become cities. The roads are squirming with traffic.” Rome grinned. “Not easy to navigate a mule and wagon loaded with bees.” He leaned against the wagon. “And you, Amos? How was your winter?”
    “It was fine,” Amos said. A pale, unenthusiastic answer, but it was all he could muster.
    “Looks like your spring planting is a little behind.”
    Amos stiffened. “Got a late start.”
    Rome tilted his head in genuine concern. “I might have heard a thing or two about your ol’ ticker giving you some trouble.”
    Amos waved his worries away. “You know the saying, ‘Treat a rumor like a check. Never endorse it until you’re sure it’s genuine.’ Don’t listen to idle gossip. I’m just fine.”
    Amos saw Rome’s eyes flicker over his clothing. He was in his pajamas. And if that weren’t humiliating enough, Fern stepped out on the back porch and lifted an arm in the air. “Who left this on my clean counter?” In her hand was a coffee mug. She spied Amos and stared him down.
    “Blast!” Amos muttered. “If my heart doesn’t kill me . . . that woman surely will.” He blew out a stream of air. “She’s our new housekeeper.”
    Rome laughed. “Just point me toward the orchard where you want these bees, Amos.”
    Amos put a hand to his forehead. “The thing is, Rome, money is a little tight this