The Sowing Season Page 22

  “Sure.” Hannie had no trouble finishing her salmon. “Maybe we can swing by there tomorrow after church.”

  “Did you make this?” Noah gestured at the centerpiece, burgeoning with geraniums, daisies, and sprigs of some kind of dark-blue berry. “It’s amazing.”

  Hannie smiled. “It was your father’s idea.”

  Gerrit had failed to manage a bouquet for his wife, but at least the centerpiece had worked out.

  Silence fell. He forced a bite into his mouth. He shouldn’t have added so much lemon to the sauce. And what had he been thinking making lemon bars for tonight? Lemon overload. Chef Kellan would call it an amateur mistake. Not that he’d watched Kellan’s Kitchen every night for two weeks in preparation for this weekend.

  “Evi, do you think Travis is going to make it on Monday?” The brightness of Hannie’s voice sounded forced.

  Evi shrugged. “We’re going to see how it goes.”

  Gerrit scowled at his plate. What was that supposed to mean? Well, it wouldn’t bother him any if Travis didn’t show up.

  Hannie gave Gerrit a look he hoped was meant to be encouraging. “Your father invited one of his new friends, too.”

  He was not encouraged.

  Noah leaned close to Evi and spoke in a low, incredulous whisper. “Dad has a friend?”

  Hannie was unfazed. “Morgan is a student your father met at this tutoring program he volunteers for.”

  “Dad tutors?”

  Evi raised one eyebrow. “His friend is a little kid?”

  Why did they keep talking to Hannie as though he weren’t even there? He cleared his throat.

  “He’s sixteen.” Gerrit’s voice sounded gruff in his ears. “I think.”

  Evi looked at him then, really looked at him for the first time since her arrival. He saw questions in her eyes but didn’t know what they were. Maybe she didn’t, either. He wanted to give her answers, give her anything she asked for, but he didn’t know if he could. Just like when she’d been sixteen and stood before him with those same eyes, asking if he was going to make it to her solo performance at the state music festival.

  “No,” he’d said. He remembered it clearly. Remembered the dismissal in his voice. “The cows aren’t going to milk themselves.”

  Her eyes remained on him as she stood and picked up her plate. “I’m going for a walk. Thanks for dinner, Mom.”

  He watched her shove her dishes into the dishwasher and tromp to the mudroom for her shoes. But you just got here, he wanted to say. It’ll be dark soon. But no one said anything.

  Evi slammed the door on her way out. She knew very well he was the one who’d made dinner.

  CHAPTER

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  Rae almost walked into a tree as she looked at her phone. Another text from David. They’d been texting every night. A smile bloomed on her face as she read the words of his most recent message. He was so funny.

  She skirted the tree and slid her phone in her back pocket, fighting back a tiny flicker of guilt. Mom had no idea how much time she’d been spending on her phone. How much she’d been talking with David. But as long as she and David remained nothing more than friends, she didn’t need to feel bad, did she? Mom and Dad were pleased about her job at Schultz and Hardy, and David had said nothing more about their going out on a date after school let out.

  Part of her hoped he would forget. Part of her hoped he wouldn’t. Another part of her wanted to run around screaming in the woods like a crazy person.

  She’d never felt like this before.

  The only thing that kept her feet on the ground was the thought of Kylee and how Rae had hurt her. The last couple of days at school had been unbearable, with Kylee staying as far away from her as possible. She wouldn’t even respond to Rae’s texts. But Rae would find a way to apologize. She had to.

  When she reached Gerrit’s house, she stopped short. Mr. Whiskers meowed from her left shoulder, where he was draped like a towel.

  “Would you look at that.” But of course he couldn’t look, facing backward and all. “They came.”

  The two extra cars in the driveway were proof enough that Gerrit’s kids had shown up for the highly anticipated weekend. Gerrit had been a wreck all week. He hadn’t actually said so, but she’d gotten the impression he wasn’t sure if they’d come.

  It was strange seeing so many lights on in the house. Even the back deck was lit up, though the sun was just setting. She slipped into the barn without a sound, wishing she could attend the party on Monday. Boy, would she love to see that. Nothing could take your mind off your own family drama like witnessing someone else’s.

  The barn was peaceful and still, as always, and yet something different hummed in the air.

  “Do you feel that, Mister?” She sat in the deck chair Gerrit had set up for her and put the fat cat on her lap. “There’s life around here for once.”

  She ran her hand over the cat’s soft back. Gerrit had never told her why his kids didn’t come around. Why he was so nervous about seeing them again. Or why things were so strained between him and Hannie, for that matter. But it made her happy that his family was all together.

  She shifted in the plastic chair, the words Mark had said the other day at Community Hope ringing in her mind. She’d never forget the look on his face when she’d asked if what they were doing was going to make a difference in anyone’s life.

  He’d been so sure. Like he knew exactly what he meant when he answered yes. She used to have that kind of confidence about everything in her life. Now, though, she found herself second-guessing things she never thought she’d question. Like her parents. “Let us not become weary in doing good, for at the proper time we will reap a harvest if we do not give up.”

  Give up on what? And when was the proper time?

  She remembered the words clearly because she’d looked them up on her phone after talking to Mark and reread the verse a bunch of times. She was pretty sure she understood the first part: keep doing good things even if you get tired of it. But the second part? She wasn’t a farmer. She had no fields. No harvest.

  Gerrit was a farmer, though. Or at least he used to be. Maybe he would understand it. Maybe she could ask him.

  The cardboard box nearest her chair caught her eye. It was small, not much bigger than a shoebox. The word Pictures was scrawled across the side.

  She stood and set Mr. Whiskers on the chair. “You ever wonder what Gerrit was like when he was younger?”

  If he did, the cat gave no indication.

  A single piece of tape had secured the top of the box once upon a time, but it had long ago lost its stickiness. The flaps gave easily when she pulled on them. She hesitated. He’d asked her not to move the boxes around anymore. He never said anything about looking inside them.

  A messy pile of photos lay in the box like they’d been dumped there unceremoniously. Some in frames, some loose. She picked one off the top and shifted so the light would shine on it.

  It was a black-and-white picture. Two young boys, maybe five and six years old, in cute little suits with bow ties. Hair slicked down. The taller one had his arm around the shorter one’s shoulders and peered at the camera with a serious expression, as if he’d already seen more of the world than she had. The younger boy . . . was that Gerrit?

  She flipped the photo over. On the back, an unsteady hand had written a note in tiny disheveled letters. Easter, 1961. She set the picture down and was reaching for another one when the sound of the house door opening and closing made her look up. Someone was coming outside. She stepped away from the box and took her place back in the deck chair, sliding Mr. Whiskers onto her lap.

  Footsteps approached the barn. Gerrit appeared in the doorway.

  “You’re here.” His voice was guarded.

  She nodded, trying to imagine him as the little boy she’d seen in the picture. “So are your kids.”

  He glanced at the driveway over his shoulder. “Yeah.”

  “Are you having fun? C
an I meet them?”

  She couldn’t begin to imagine what they were like. Stoic and awkward, like Gerrit? Gentle and kind, like Hannie? Something else entirely?

  Gerrit rubbed the back of his neck. “Do you have Morgan’s phone number?”

  She blinked. What on earth? “No.”

  “Hannie thinks we should push the party back to four on Monday. Instead of three.”

  “Oh.” She raised one shoulder. “I know where he lives, but . . .”

  He looked over his shoulder again. “Could you give him the message?”

  He was acting weird.

  She sighed. “I can try. So, anyway, I wanted to ask you about—”

  “I think you better go.”

  Her question fell to the ground like a fly swatted out of the air. He gave her a hard look, and she cringed.

  “Oh.” She stood. “Okay.”

  A bony finger poked at her heart. She wanted to hear all about his kids. Wanted to ask him what he thought of that verse about a harvest. But he remained in the doorway, tense and distracted, as she set Mr. Whiskers back on her shoulder and turned off the light. He stood aside so she could pass. Dusk had fallen.

  Outside, she wrinkled her brow at a dark figure passing by the mailbox.

  “I’m sorry, I thought—”

  Gerrit waved her away. “Go on now.”

  She turned away, stunned. Sheesh. What a jerk. From the beginning, she’d believed he wasn’t the grizzly bear he appeared to be on the outside. She’d believed he was misunderstood. But maybe she was the one who had misunderstood.

  “Let us not become weary in doing good, for at the proper time we will reap a harvest if we do not give up.”

  From the tree line, she glanced back at the barn. It didn’t look like a refuge anymore.

  CHAPTER

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  Gerrit tugged at the collar of his button-up shirt. He hadn’t been this uncomfortable in a long time. And it wasn’t the clothes.

  The man onstage raised his hands with a smile that made Gerrit want to punch him in his big old horse teeth. “Please stand and greet the people around you while the worship team comes up.”

  Gerrit could not think of a worse experience than trying to greet the people around him at Greenville Community Church. Would he have to talk to everyone? Did he have to tell them his name? He considered remaining seated in protest, but Hannie tugged on his arm. Fine. He would do it for her. He was only here for her and the kids’ sake, anyway.

  He stood. People milled about the sanctuary, buzzing like insects. Some of them smiled in his direction with overeager faces as if they knew this was his first time. As if they knew they had him trapped.

  “Gerrit?” A bearded young man approached from the aisle, hand outstretched. “Is that you?”

  Gerrit shook his hand once, noting the man’s pants were even tighter than usual. “Mark.”

  Mark waved an arm in Evi and Noah’s direction. “Is this your family?”

  Gerrit nodded.

  Mark turned to Hannie and jerked a thumb at Gerrit. “I didn’t know this old codger belonged to you. I never put it together.”

  Gerrit gaped, and Hannie laughed at the stupefied look on his face.

  “We’ve known each other for years,” Mark explained. “Hannie’s one of my favorite people.”

  Hannie smiled and waved a hand. “Oh, stop.” She turned to the kids. “This is my—our—son, Noah, and our daughter, Evi.”

  Gerrit’s eyes narrowed as Mark held on to Evi’s hand a little too long.

  Evi smiled. “Nice to meet you.”

  Oh, sure. She was happy to talk to and smile at some guy she’d just met, but would she give her own father the time of day?

  The lights dimmed, and everyone shuffled back to their seats. Gerrit sank into his chair with a huff. So many people. Staring at him. Talking.

  He wouldn’t have come, but Hannie had given him the look. The “You wanted your kids here so you could spend time with them—now get off your butt and get dressed” look. And she was right. By tomorrow night they’d be gone again, and he had no idea when they’d be back. He could suffer through an hour and a half of church.

  He sat on the end of the row, his long legs spilling into the aisle, knees sticking out like torpedoes. Hannie was beside him, then Noah, then Evi, as far away from him as she could get.

  When she’d returned from her walk last night, he was standing in the middle of the driveway on the verge of hopping into his truck to go look for her. She’d stopped next to him on her way back to the house and stared into the dark woods. “Another friend of yours?” she’d said. And he’d seen the barn through Evi’s eyes.

  It was meant to be hers.

  He was a fool. He’d blown it with Evi. And he’d blown it with Rae.

  Two guys playing guitars, and a lady wearing a giant scarf that looked like it might swallow her up, sang a few songs. Gerrit stood when the congregation was asked to stand. Sat when told to sit. And kept glancing down the row at his family. Hannie often glanced back and smiled, even patting his knee once. Noah listened intently, his eyes always on the stage, his lips moving, head bobbing. Evi was hard to read.

  Gerrit shifted in his seat. The preacher took the stage. He was younger than Gerrit and unassuming. He wore a sweater vest and glasses.

  “Good morning.” He looked out over the congregation. “Please turn your Bibles to the book of Luke. Chapter five.”

  Gerrit’s heart squeezed. His vision blurred. A plain pine casket draped with yellow roses appeared where the preacher had stood. A framed photo of Luke and Luisa on their wedding day stood on a black easel behind the wooden box. Stifled sobs echoed through the sanctuary.

  “We are here today to celebrate the life of our dear friend and brother, Luke,” Pastor Randall had said, the man who’d been leading the church they all attended back then. “And though we who are left behind are in mourning, Luke has no sorrow today, folks. No. He is in heaven with our Lord.”

  Gerrit had not been able to cry. Not been able to move. Definitely not been able to “celebrate.” His big brother, his only friend, was gone. And it was all his fault.

  Hannie nudged him, and he shook his head.

  The casket disappeared.

  The pain did not.

  The man with glasses pointed to the Bible on the stand in front of him. “Then verse twenty-seven says, ‘After this, Jesus went out and saw a tax collector by the name of Levi sitting at his tax booth. “Follow me,” Jesus said to him.’”

  Gerrit pulled his eyes from the preacher and stared at the back of the seat in front of him. Follow me. That was what Luke used to say. “Let’s rake the north side first. Follow me.” Or “No, the supply store has better prices. Follow me.” Gerrit had loved his older brother. Admired him. But sometimes he’d gotten sick of doing things Luke’s way, and it had cost him. Both of them.

  “‘It is not the healthy who need a doctor, but the sick,’” the preacher continued. “‘I have not come to call the righteous, but sinners to repentance.’”

  Ha. Repentance. Sackcloth and ashes, right? That was all well and good. But he could repent of his mistakes till the cows came home, and it wouldn’t do any good. Luke would still be gone.

  An icy hand with a steel grip squeezed his heart. He could never repent enough to be free.

  But maybe . . .

  He’d been bound to the farm, shackled to his duty and his father’s expectations since the day he entered the world. But if his family could forgive him—even though Luke never could—maybe that would be enough.

  Forgiveness. The thought of it made the chains on his heart feel a little lighter, as if someone were lifting them off.

  The preacher said, “You are dismissed,” and Gerrit stood and stretched, feeling the past ninety minutes in every muscle in his back. He stepped into the aisle, eager to escape.

  Something caught his eye, near the doors. A tall man in a blue windbreaker ducked out, head down. Gait unsteady.
It couldn’t be. But it was.

  Jakob.

  The chains fell back with a thud and crushed Gerrit with their oppressive weight. He grunted under the burden, staggering and then bracing himself. There would be no freedom for him. The price was too high. He might someday, if he was lucky, earn forgiveness from his wife and kids. He might be able to make it right with Rae after the way he’d acted toward her. But he could never forgive Jakob.

  GERRIT PATTED HIS full stomach. Dinner had gone over well. Both vegetarian and nonvegetarian fajitas with homemade guacamole. He, Hannie, and the kids relaxed on the deck, watching the sun sink. If the backyard were a beach, it would almost be like they were on the California vacation he used to promise they would take but never did.

  Noah rose from his chair and leaned on the rail, peering down the hill. “It’s weird seeing the farm now.”

  Gerrit’s senses heightened, the mere mention of the farm setting him on edge.

  “Good riddance,” Evi said.

  Hannie reached over and covered Evi’s hand with hers. “You used to love going down there.”

  “Maybe when I was five.”

  “Even after that.” Hannie pushed herself up and joined Noah at the rail. “Remember the Easter egg hunts we used to have in the old barn?”

  Noah nodded. “There’s probably still eggs buried in there. We weren’t very good hunters.”

  Evi stood now, too. “Speak for yourself. I was an excellent hunter.”

  “Only because you couldn’t stand leaving a single piece of candy behind.” Noah smiled. “And you always hid the wrappers in the sawdust pile so no one would know how much you ate.”

  Evi smacked his arm. “Did not.”

  “Did too.”

  A comfortable silence fell between Hannie, Evi, and Noah. The only one left in a chair, Gerrit looked around self-consciously. The rest of his family stood shoulder to shoulder, a united wall. Content without him. He might as well be back on the farm. Might as well be dead. He had erased himself from their lives.

  Then Hannie looked back at him, an olive branch in her eyes. “Join us?”