dinner at the Kraybills’, Rhoda relived how awkward, even embarrassed she’d felt. The oddity of spending time with an attentive man, let alone an outsider not a single person in her life would approve of—aside from his aunt and uncle, of course— unnerved her when she contemplated it. She was still bemused as to why her employer was so keen on getting them together. Or at least it had seemed that way at the time.
Ken had made reservations for that first date at a fine restaurant in Reading, a thirty-minute drive northwest of Honey Brook. The food was delicious and everything as perfect as she’d ever imagined, but it had just seemed so peculiar to be out in public with a beau. Far different than the Amish custom of dating under the covering of night, alone in a courting buggy with only a horse as a chaperone. But she’d quickly learned to delight in the difference, rejecting the memory of the Amish bumpkins who’d passed her by, and by the third or fourth date, she began to acclimate, accepting Ken’s fancy way of doing things.
Of course he knew Rhoda had been raised Plain, but she answered his questions about her background only in the vaguest of terms. She avoided talking about her family and the disappointment and discord that would certainly arise if she and Ken were to marry. She did wonder in which church they would raise their children, but the subject had never been broached. They could
work that out later. Keeping things simple—even streamlined—was the surest way to matrimony.
She left her muddy shoes inside the door and proceeded to tiptoe toward her room, one of two former spare rooms just off the sunroom. Holding her breath, she wanted to avoid disturbing the household. Her brother had opened his home to her nearly without question at the outset. He and Martha had been ever so kind, yet here she was defying James yet again.
Moving lightly down the hall, she darted to her room. With a great sigh, Rhoda closed the door and leaned back against it, her heart still pounding.
Good. She’d been as quiet as a field mole. She reminded herself to breathe as she removed her lightweight shawl. Such a wonderful time she’d had again with Ken, who was smart and made her laugh, besides being the most handsome fellow ever. To think he owned his own real estate company, too. She had the Kraybills to thank for meeting him in the first place, but she had herself to thank for attracting and keeping his attention all these weeks.
She hung her wrap on the back of the door, then removed her stockings. The feel of the hardwood floor beneath her bare feet brought to mind Ken’s carpeted house. He’d invited her to his lovely historic home on two separate occasions, both times cooking a delicious meal for them in the luxurious third-floor “suite,” where he lived. Imagine Dat or my brothers fiddling about in the kitchen!
On the first visit, Rhoda had inwardly fretted about not feeling comfortable enough to relax in the tantalizing privacy of the place—like she was doing something wrong and feeling guilty about it. But the second time, this very night, it was slightly less nerve-racking, and she sensed she was beginning to let go of her earlier notions and enjoy Ken’s fancy world.
And everything about it was wonderful-good—his choice of music, exotic foods, well-made clothes, and the subtle aroma of his cologne. Even the musky scent of Ken’s occasional cigar appealed to her.
Suddenly a single knock came at her bedroom door, and she jumped, startled. “Rhoda . . . are you still up?” It was James.
“Uh . . . jah.”
“You decent?”
She looked down at her bare toes and grinned. All but my feet, she thought . “Jah, I am.”
“Open the door, then.”
She did, and there stood her older brother in his pajamas and long blue bathrobe, his hair all schtrubbich . “Ach, it’s late,” she said quickly, hoping to ward off a confrontation.
“Late it is.” He leaned on the doorframe. “Why is it
Ken had made reservations for that first date at a fine restaurant in Reading, a thirty-minute drive northwest of Honey Brook. The food was delicious and everything as perfect as she’d ever imagined, but it had just seemed so peculiar to be out in public with a beau. Far different than the Amish custom of dating under the covering of night, alone in a courting buggy with only a horse as a chaperone. But she’d quickly learned to delight in the difference, rejecting the memory of the Amish bumpkins who’d passed her by, and by the third or fourth date, she began to acclimate, accepting Ken’s fancy way of doing things.
Of course he knew Rhoda had been raised Plain, but she answered his questions about her background only in the vaguest of terms. She avoided talking about her family and the disappointment and discord that would certainly arise if she and Ken were to marry. She did wonder in which church they would raise their children, but the subject had never been broached. They could
work that out later. Keeping things simple—even streamlined—was the surest way to matrimony.
She left her muddy shoes inside the door and proceeded to tiptoe toward her room, one of two former spare rooms just off the sunroom. Holding her breath, she wanted to avoid disturbing the household. Her brother had opened his home to her nearly without question at the outset. He and Martha had been ever so kind, yet here she was defying James yet again.
Moving lightly down the hall, she darted to her room. With a great sigh, Rhoda closed the door and leaned back against it, her heart still pounding.
Good. She’d been as quiet as a field mole. She reminded herself to breathe as she removed her lightweight shawl. Such a wonderful time she’d had again with Ken, who was smart and made her laugh, besides being the most handsome fellow ever. To think he owned his own real estate company, too. She had the Kraybills to thank for meeting him in the first place, but she had herself to thank for attracting and keeping his attention all these weeks.
She hung her wrap on the back of the door, then removed her stockings. The feel of the hardwood floor beneath her bare feet brought to mind Ken’s carpeted house. He’d invited her to his lovely historic home on two separate occasions, both times cooking a delicious meal for them in the luxurious third-floor “suite,” where he lived. Imagine Dat or my brothers fiddling about in the kitchen!
On the first visit, Rhoda had inwardly fretted about not feeling comfortable enough to relax in the tantalizing privacy of the place—like she was doing something wrong and feeling guilty about it. But the second time, this very night, it was slightly less nerve-racking, and she sensed she was beginning to let go of her earlier notions and enjoy Ken’s fancy world.
And everything about it was wonderful-good—his choice of music, exotic foods, well-made clothes, and the subtle aroma of his cologne. Even the musky scent of Ken’s occasional cigar appealed to her.
Suddenly a single knock came at her bedroom door, and she jumped, startled. “Rhoda . . . are you still up?” It was James.
“Uh . . . jah.”
“You decent?”
She looked down at her bare toes and grinned. All but my feet, she thought . “Jah, I am.”
“Open the door, then.”
She did, and there stood her older brother in his pajamas and long blue bathrobe, his hair all schtrubbich . “Ach, it’s late,” she said quickly, hoping to ward off a confrontation.
“Late it is.” He leaned on the doorframe. “Why is it
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