and had reached the woman immediately. No answering machines or messages left with family members that could easily go astray had stood between Iris and the grief therapy counselor. Mrs. Daly had been delighted to hear from the Fishers, according to Aunt Iris. And she’d promptly volunteered to pick him up for the next session, which just happened to be today. Why couldn’t the meeting be the following week or sometime next month? Am I ready to spill my guts in front of strangers?
Nathan didn’t think so.
It wasn’t as though he doubted the usefulness of such sessions…for Englischers. Most of them and some Amish women liked to talk. They could blab about any subject all day long until the air in their lungs ran out. But he and Ruth had always been folks of few words. He remembered when they had been courting. He had driven her home after a singing for the fourth time that summer. He’d pulled down a farm lane off the county road so they could marvel at a night sky filled with stars. The moon shone so bright it nearly hurt their eyes. A breeze from the west carried a chill, heralding autumn.
Ruth had scooted closer on the bench for warmth, and he’d draped his mamm’s old quilt across her knees. She nodded but had kept her gaze on that moon. Beneath the patchwork he found her fingers, and with a thrill, he wrapped his hand around hers. She neither pulled her hand back nor admonished him for his boldness. When her tiny smile grew into a full-fledged grin, he knew. She was the one for him, and he for her.
Bravely, he turned to her and asked, “Well, then. What say you about a wintertime wedding?” While waiting for her answer, his heart had thudded against his ribcage loud enough to be heard.
She cocked her head to ponder the notion before replying. “I reckon I would like to marry you this winter, Nathan Fisher.” Then she had refocused on the moon until it scuttled behind a cloud. A little while later, they had headed for home.
Ruth and Nathan Fisher had been people of few words. That night might have been years ago, but he hadn’t changed in that regard. Yet he couldn’t disappoint his aunt, who so wanted him to heal. As a widow herself, surely she understood that losing a spouse was different from breaking your arm or cracking your skull. Some wounds festered for a lifetime.
“Slice of pie while you wait?” asked Iris, bustling back into the kitchen. “You didn’t eat that much of your supper.”
“No, danki. My appetite isn’t up to par today.” He slouched lower in the chair.
She filled the sink with soapy water to tackle the dishes. His son was nowhere in sight.
“And Abraham?” he asked. “Where is he?”
“Sleeping. I fed him his bottle a tad early so you wouldn’t be held up for your meeting.” She parted the curtains to peer down the driveway. “You did fine yesterday while I was in town. You put the diaper on the correct end, and fed him the proper number of bottles. The boy seems no worse for the wear.” She winked at him over her shoulder.
“I only had to refer to that hospital booklet five or six times. Not too bad, if I say so myself.” He returned the wink. “How is his heat rash since you bought that tube of ointment?”
“The skin is still red and blotchy, but his discomfort seems to have gone away. He’s not crying nearly as much today.”
Nathan realized he would prefer an evening filled with his son’s squalling to what Patricia Daly had in mind. “That’s gut to hear,” he said. After a moment, he asked, “Do I look acceptable?” He had donned his Sunday best, down to his lace-up shoes and black felt hat. Because he owned no in-between clothes, his only choices were this outfit or his tattered work clothes.
She glanced back at him. “You look fine. Stop fretting.”
He overheard a chuckle once she turned back to the dishes. “I’m not sure how fancy folks can sit around and yak the night away,” he said.
“Amish folk spend every Sunday afternoon talking up a storm. Just pretend you’re standing around somebody’s barn after a preaching service.”
He was about to debate the issue when he heard a car pull up the driveway. “Whew. Time to go. Don’t wait up, Aunt Iris. No telling how long these things last.” He tugged his hat down over his