Second Chance Proposal. Anna Schmidt

he muttered as he headed for the hardware store.

      On the other hand, why should he be the one trying to win her favor? Wasn’t she the one who had said she would wait and then shunned him as had everyone else? He’d written to assure her that he had every intention of returning once he’d made enough money to set up a business of his own. She had always understood his aversion to farming. She had even been the one to encourage him to start some sort of shop and they would live above it and she would help out on Saturdays and after school. But when he’d explained to her that it would take money to start a business and his father would never accept the idea that John would not one day take over the family farm, she’d insisted that God would provide.

      He knew what she meant. In her mind if owning his own business were God’s plan for his life then the opportunity would simply present itself. “You just have to be patient—and vigilant for God’s signs,” she had instructed.

      But patience had never been one of John’s attributes. When he reached the age of eighteen with no sign from God, he decided to seek out other possibilities. After all, hadn’t Bishop Troyer taught them that God helps those who help themselves?

      “And where did that get you?” he grumbled as he put on the denim apron his aunt had left for him and began sweeping the loading dock behind the hardware store. He brushed the accumulated debris into a dustpan and dumped it in the bin next to the loading dock. Then he set the broom and dustpan inside the door and rubbed his hands together as he moved to a place where he could better listen in on his uncle and Luke Starns as they sat outside Luke’s shop. With no one allowed to converse with him, this was his only recourse for gathering information.

      “Warmer today,” Roger said. “After the last spell of frosty mornings I thought we might be in for a stretch of cold weather.”

      “Good for the crops that it’s passed,” replied the blacksmith, who was sipping a cup of coffee. He was a quiet man, as John had observed earlier that morning when the blacksmith handed Gertrude a box of kitchen items that Greta had gathered from her own supply to place in the rooms above his business. The idea of this silent giant of a man married to the vibrant and petite Greta made John smile.

      A few minutes passed while the men discussed weather and crops and business. Then Bishop Troyer crossed the street from the dry-goods store and joined them.

      “Bishop Troyer,” Roger said as he stood and offered the head of their congregation his chair. “Did you speak yet with John Amman?”

      “Yah. We have spoken already twice. I am convinced that he has learned the error of his ways and come home to make amends,” the bishop replied. “Everything seems to be in order for tomorrow’s service.”

      “Then I can have him working the counter come Monday.” This was not a question but something John realized his uncle had been dreading.

      “Should bring you a bunch of business,” Luke said with a chuckle. “Folks will want to get a look at him after all this time. They’ll be curious about where he’s been and all.”

      “They can look all they want at services. On Monday I need him to be working, although I’m not sure how we’re going to have enough business to support the three of us.”

      “I seem to recall that this entire matter had its beginning in John wanting to start a business of his own,” Bishop Troyer said.

      Roger let out a mirthless laugh. “With what? He has nothing. Gert had to buy him the clothes he’s wearing now and he owes a debt of gratitude to Luke here that he has a place to stay.”

      “Still, he must have a skill if the plan was to open his own shop.”

      “He’s a tolerable woodworker,” Roger allowed. “Clocks and furniture mostly. He built that cabinet where Gert keeps her quilting fabrics. And the clock we have in the store—that’s his work.”

      John saw the bishop exchange a look with Luke. “I reckon Josef Bontrager took up that business in John’s absence,” Luke observed.

      Roger stared out at the street. “You’ve got a point there. Not much call for handmade furniture these days.”

      Was it John’s imagination or had his uncle raised his voice as if to make sure John heard this last bit of information? It hardly mattered. He was in no position to take up his trade. Over the past several months he had sold off his tools one by one or bartered them for a meal or a night’s lodging.

      “Well, until something comes along he’s got work with you. The Lord has surely blessed him in having you and Gertrude still here,” the bishop said.

      “Speaking of work I’d best get back to it,” Luke said as he drained the last of his coffee.

      As the bishop took his leave and Roger walked slowly back to the hardware store, John stepped from the shadows of the storeroom into the sunlight that bathed the loading dock. There was work to be done—a pile of newly delivered lumber that his uncle had instructed him to sort and stack by size and type in the pole shed outside the store. But when he stepped into the yard he heard feminine laughter coming from the rooms above the livery.

      He took a moment to enjoy the sight of the women moving in and out of the apartment, up and down the outside stairs carrying various items they seemed to think he might need. Then Lydia came out onto the tiny landing at the top of the stairs to shake out a rag rug.

      She was laughing at something one of the other women had said, her head thrown back the way he remembered from when they’d been teenagers. And in that laughter he heard more clearly than any words could have expressed exactly why he had decided to return to Celery Fields. He had come back to find answers to the questions that had plagued him. He had come back to the only place where he knew there was a path to forgiveness and from there a safe haven to rest in while he found his way. He had come back because even eight long years had not erased the memory of this girl turned woman whose laughter had always had the power to stir his heart.

      Chapter Three

      When Lydia glanced up and saw John watching her from the loading dock, the laughter she’d been sharing with the other women died on her lips. How could she possibly have gotten so caught up in the pleasure of the work and companionship with the others that she had been able to forget that he was back in her life, whether she wanted it or not? That the place the women were scouring and setting to order was where John would live—was already living? How had she forgotten who would be eating off those mismatched dishes that she had washed and dried and stacked so precisely on the open shelf above the stove?

      She had helped scrub the walls and floors and even made up the narrow bed that occupied one corner while engaged in the normal chatter. At events like this, women enjoyed catching up on news from families that had moved back north when the hard times hit, or the decision of the newest member of their cleaning party and her husband to move to Florida and start fresh after a tornado had destroyed the family’s farm in Iowa. And so the morning had passed without a single thought about John Amman. His presence in town was far too recent and their encounters had been rare enough that it was easy to lose herself in the work and the conversation. It was truly amazing how easily she had been able to simply dismiss the man from her mind.

      But now seeing him standing in the back doorway of the hardware store, filling the space with his tall, lanky frame, she could not seem to stop the images of him living in that small apartment from coming. He would rinse the dishes she had washed for him at the sink as he looked out the small square window with its view of her house. He would hang his clothes on the pegs that she had wiped free of dust above the bed. He would sleep in that bed under a quilt that Greta had brought to add an extra layer to the one already there. It was a quilt that Lydia and Greta’s grandmother had made. A quilt that had once covered the bed Lydia and Greta shared when they were children.

      She felt the heat rise to her cheeks as these images assailed her and John stepped closer to the edge of the dock, his bold gaze fixed directly on her. The other women went about their work, glancing shyly in his direction as their laughter and discussion