Now it’s my turn to smile. “I knew Jonas Bowman.”
He sticks out his hand and gives mine a firm shake. “Just don’t go running for sheriff around here next election.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” I tell him, and I drive away.
CHAPTER 33
I’m not very good at goodbyes. I avoid them when possible. I prefer the see-you-next-time kind of farewell even when both of us know we’ll likely never see each other again. I considered skipping this one, but I didn’t want to leave things unfinished a second time. As I make the turn into the driveway of the Bowman house for the final time, I’m glad I came, even though I know it’s going to hurt. Such is the nature of life.
I park between the house and workshop. As usual, the shop door stands open. I exit the Explorer to the wail of a saw, the hiss of air through the lines, and the rumble of the diesel generator at the side of the building.
I enter to find Jonas and Reuben standing at a huge lathe, turning a wood spindle that will likely become the leg of a kitchen table. Junior sits cross-legged on the floor adjacent to six cabinet doors that are lined up against the wall. He’s staining the doors a two-tone maple and merlot. One down, five to go. Effie stands at the rear of the workshop, broom in one hand and dustpan in the other, looking a lot more interested in the machinery around her than sweeping up sawdust. Good girl, I think.
“Katie!”
I turn to see Junior trotting toward me. He’s grinning. A dribble of wood stain on his forehead. Sweat on his cheeks.
I motion toward the cabinets he’d been working on. “I like the two-tone.”
“Datt didn’t think the merlot would go with the maple,” the boy tells me, “but Effie put both colors on a piece of scrap wood and Datt liked it just fine.”
“So we decided to do the whole dining room set with those two colors.”
At the sound of her voice, I glance over to see Effie approach. She’s left the broom and dustpan behind and runs her fingertips over one of the naked cabinet doors.
“You have a good eye for color,” I tell her.
“Datt says I can pick out the hardware, too,” she tells me.
“Katie.”
I glance over my shoulder to see Jonas and Reuben approach. It’s only been a couple of days since I saw the boy, but he looks taller. I’m struck all over again by how much he resembles his father at that age.
“You’re going home,” says Jonas.
“I couldn’t leave without saying goodbye.” I discern the excessive cheer in my voice. It’s silly, but I’m having a difficult time meeting his gaze, so I focus on the children, taking in their faces, wanting to remember them just like this.
“Datt, what about the…” Junior drops his voice to a whisper. “You know.”
I look at the boy and raise my brows. “That sounds suspiciously like there might be a surprise in store for someone.”
“You!” cries Effie, and slaps her hand over her mouth, giggling.
Finally, I look at Jonas. Feel the weight of his stare. The rise of emotion in my chest. Something inside me shifts and free-falls, and I know this is one of those moments. One that’s fleeting, but will forever be remembered.
I smile. “They get their subtlety from their datt.”
Jonas rolls his eyes. “Reuben, go get them.”
I watch the young man walk to a beat-up workbench and pick up three large wooden candleholders. He handles them with reverence as he brings them to us and hands one to me.
“For you,” he says. “From all of us.”
“I turned them.” Effie looks as if she’s holding her breath. “My first.”
“I s-stained them,” Junior tells me.
“They’re beautiful.” I turn the candleholder over, admiring the workmanship. “I love them.”
“We wanted to thank you,” Jonas says. “For everything you did for us while you were here.”
“It was Mamm’s idea,” Effie points out.
“I’ll cherish them always,” I say, hoping no one notices the frog in my throat or that I’m blinking a little too quickly.
I look at Jonas, hating it that I don’t quite trust my voice to speak. He stares back at me and in that moment we’re teenagers again. The world has no weight, our dreams know no bounds, and our hearts are free.
I extend my hand to him for a shake. “Thank you.”
He looks down at my hand as if he’s not sure he should take it. But he does and his touch is electric. I feel calluses against my palm. The strength of his grip. The warmth of his skin against mine. A thousand memories passing between us.
“Katie!”
I glance toward the door to see Dorothy rush through, a brown paper bag in her hand. “I thought I heard the saws go quiet.” She grins at her husband, then crosses to me and passes me the bag. “I made you some date-nut bread for the trip.”
The aromas of cinnamon and maple waft from the bag as I take it. “You can bet I’ll put it to good use.”
I shake the hand of each of the children. I hug Dorothy and thank her for the bread. I take a final look at Jonas. “I know it’s a tall order, but if it’s not too difficult, stay out of trouble,” I tell him.
“Same goes,” he says.
And I walk away.
CHAPTER 34
The Amish have a lot of sayings about a lot of things. One that has stayed with me over the years has to do with family and goes something like: Home is anywhere you are with the ones you love. I hadn’t thought of that adage in years, but as I pass by the sign welcoming me to Painters Mill, the words play in the periphery of my thoughts, and I feel the solace of this place fall over my shoulders with the warmth and comfort of an old coat.
I spent most of the drive thinking about Jonas Bowman, the past we shared, and how those formative years shaped our lives. Had the circumstances played out differently, I might’ve married him. We might’ve had children and a farm somewhere right here in Painters Mill. Of course, it would have been the wrong path for me. Him, too, probably. But that scant piece of time we shared as teenagers was precious nonetheless. Looking back, the ache is truly both bitter and sweet.
As I idle down Main Street, I consider stopping in at the station to let Lois know I’m back in town, but I don’t pull in. More than anything, it’s Tomasetti I want. He is my family. My love. My life. The need to see him, touch him, hear the sound of his voice has a desperate edge that has me cranking the speedometer over the limit.
I fly through Millersburg and head north on Ohio 83. South of Wooster, I nearly blow the stop sign at the township road. I wind it down just in time to avoid skidding on gravel as I make the turn into our lane. Dust billows in my rearview mirror. My heart patters against my ribs when our old farmhouse looms into view. Fresh paint from a marathon weekend of painting last summer. The grass is freshly cut, phlox blooming wildly in the side yard. Next year, I think, a garden. Maybe a maple tree in the front to replace the spruce we lost last winter.
Tomasetti’s Tahoe is parked in its usual spot. I glance left toward the bank barn to see an old pickup truck I don’t recognize. It’s hitched to a rusty stock trailer. The rear door is open, the ramp pulled out. No livestock inside. The barn’s big sliding door stands open. I see light inside, telling me he’s there.