The Letters by Suzanne Woods Fisher Page B

Amish man who had been seated at a table against the window. Her heart caught for a moment. The man’s head was tilted down to look at the menu. It didn’t matter—she wouldn’t be recognized, not with her English outfit and hair pulled in a ponytail. And lots of makeup too. Ivy had treated her to a makeover a few weeks ago and given Bethany her old mascara, eyeliner, and blush. Lipstick too.
    Bethany turned to a fresh page on her pad and went to the table. “Do you know what you’d like to order for lunch?”
    When he didn’t answer, Bethany looked up from the pad. Her heart dropped. The Amish man was Jimmy Fisher, grinning at her like a cat that cornered a mouse.

    “That feisty girl was late bringing me supper again!” Vera said, sitting by the kitchen window.
    Rose knew whom she meant: Mim. Whether Vera truly forgot her grandchildren’s names or she was just being ornery, Rose didn’t know.
    “I told you that I’d help you with supper, Vera.”
    “Last time you tried to cut my food, I nearly choked to death.”
    “Now that’s not true, Vera. It was just broth.”
    “Because you think I’m fat.”
    Rose swallowed another sigh. Vera constantly raked conversations, looking for slights or insults. She had always been sharp tongued, never been a picnic to be around, but Dean’s passing brought out her mean nature on a full-time basis. It caused Rose endless distress. The children deserved a home filled with laughter and love, not sadness and strife.

    I’m not going to think like that. I’m not.
    She went outside to get a fresh breath of air. A breeze soon made the sheets on the clothesline lift and luff. Rose reached out to touch one. Cold but dry. She unclipped the pins and folded the sheet. The sun felt good on her face. Lord, Sir, I know I keep petitioning you for a string of miracles, but could you please give me patience to endure that woman? Not just patience, but sincere gratitude. She’s put a roof over our heads. Help me be truly grateful.
    She saw Bethany come hurrying toward the house with the boys trotting close behind, spilling with news about the bald eagle pair they had been watching for a few days.
    Vera knocked on the window and hollered to them to hush up. “Er is en re Saegmiehl gebore.” He was born in a sawmill. It was what she said to the boys whenever they were too loud, which was often, or didn’t close doors, which happened regularly.
    “Sorry, Mammi Vera,” Bethany called out, but there was fire in her eyes. Something must have happened at work, but Rose didn’t know what. There were times when Bethany seemed to get in a frame of mind that was prickly as a stinging nettle. Bethany went right into the kitchen. Rose saw her crouch beside her grandmother to talk to her. It was Vera’s only bright spot of the day—when Bethany came home from work.
    “Mom, we think them eagles is going to build a nest in the dead tree on the top of the hill. Near the creek,” Luke said.
    “ Those eagles are going to build a nest,” Rose corrected.
    “Exactly,” Sammy piped up. “Wouldn’t that be something?”
    Grammar was forgotten when the boys were excited. Rose couldn’t help smiling at the look of wonder on the boys’faces. “It would be something special to watch.” Before the boys could start in on more details about the eagles, Rose sent them to the barn to fill the wheelbarrow with hay to feed the goat and sheep. “Don’t forget to latch the gates, Luke and Sammy. That goat’s been getting out on a regular basis. We want to be good neighbors to Galen.”
    “We are good neighbors,” Luke said. “He just doesn’t like goats.”
    No one liked goats, Rose thought, but didn’t say. She had already soundly scolded Luke today for trouble at school. Sometimes, she thought that boy learned everything at school but his lessons. Mim said she was mortified to own up to having him for a brother. Today, it appeared Luke drew a very exaggerated picture of Sammy’s ears on his