An Unlikely Amish Match. Vannetta Chapman

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      The driver of the truck had put the vehicle into Park and jumped out. He had bright red hair sticking out from his ball cap, but other than that he could have been a twin to the first guy. As Susannah and Deborah watched, he walked up to his buddy, and they performed some complicated handshake.

      “Take care, man.”

      “You know it.” The first guy reached into the truck and snatched out a ball cap and a faded backpack.

      “Later.”

      “Much.”

      The driver hopped back into the truck and sped away. The sandy-haired guy winked at Susannah and Deborah, pulled a cell phone out of his pocket and proceeded to stare at it as he walked in the opposite direction.

      “Clueless,” Susannah said, rubbing at the brow over her right eye. “He’ll be lucky if he doesn’t fall off the sidewalk the way he’s staring down at that phone.”

      “Maybe.”

      “Are you kidding me?”

      “I’m only saying that just because he’s different doesn’t mean that he’s bad.”

      “I didn’t say he was bad.”

      “Uh-huh, but the look you gave the both of them would have frightened a small child.”

      “Really?”

      “Definitely. You’ve always been able to do that—stop someone in their tracks.” Deborah linked their arms together and turned them toward her buggy. “Are you sure you don’t want to be a teacher?”

      “I’m not sure of much, but I am sure of that.”

      “Which is just as well, because you’re a fabulous quilter.”

       “Danki.”

      “Off we go to the fabric store, then.”

      Which cheered up Susannah immensely. Even if she didn’t purchase anything, being around bolts of fabric had a way of encouraging her on the darkest of days. During the worst of her chemotherapy treatments, she’d often stopped into the local fabric store simply to enjoy the smell and touch of new fabric. When she was too sick to piece or quilt, she’d sometimes sit with a basketful of different-colored cotton swatches, dreaming of what she would sew as soon as she was better.

      There was something about brushing her fingertips over the cotton, envisioning the pattern she would use and the quilts she would make and picturing the smiles on tourists who purchased them. Quilting was her way of spreading joy, and wasn’t that what a person of faith was supposed to do?

      Deborah was describing her dat having to battle his way through a thicket of thorny brush to free a goat that had managed to become ensnared. The goat had taken one look at Deborah’s dat and scampered off in the opposite direction, leaving him wondering why he’d thought he needed to save the animal in the first place. “‘Goats are resourceful animals, Deborah. Never forget it,’” Deborah finished with a spot-on imitation of her dat. She always could tell a good story, and they were both laughing by the time they reached the fabric store.

      Susannah enjoyed the rest of the afternoon.

      She forgot all about the Englischer.

      And she arrived home humming a tune and feeling immeasurably better than she had when she had awakened that morning. Some days she still woke terrified that the cancer had returned, certain that she was about to be plunged back into the cycle of doctor’s visits and tests and treatments. Some days were still harder than others.

      But her day had improved, and her mood had lightened with it.

      “Mind fetching the mail for me?” Her mamm had been up since before sunrise—they both had. While Susannah did her best to help with household chores, her mamm often shooed her away, telling her to go rest or step outside for a while or spend an hour in her quilting room. At the moment, her mamm’s apron was a mess, her hair was escaping from her kapp and her hands were covered in bread dough. Two loaves were already baking in the oven and two she’d finished kneading sat on the counter.

      Sometimes Susannah wondered why they still made the bread from scratch, since loaves were certainly cheaper to purchase at the grocery store. She did love the smell of fresh-baked bread, though.

      “And please take your schweschdern. They’re full of energy today.”

      Sharon and Shiloh dropped the dolls they were playing with and ran toward the front door.

      “Sweaters first,” Susannah said. Though it was the last week of April, the afternoons cooled quickly. The twins reversed directions and ran for their cubbies. When the girls were born, her dat had placed cubbies in the mudroom with their names marked at a level they could now easily read.

      “They sound more like puppies on the loose than children,” Susannah said.

      She adored her little schweschdern. Her mamm had been twenty when Susannah was born and forty when the twins came along. They were the siblings she never thought she’d have, and she prayed every day that they hadn’t inherited the gene that had caused her ovarian cancer. She didn’t want anyone else to have to endure such a thing, especially not her schweschdern.

      “Like I said—full of energy. I wouldn’t mind if you stayed out with them a half hour or so, give them time to run some of it off.”

      Susannah thought her mother was one of the most hardworking women she knew, but twin five-year-olds could wear anyone down.

      “Finish that bread and then sit down with a cup of tea. I have a feeling you’ve earned it today.”

      The twins catapulted back into the kitchen.

      “I’m ready.” Shiloh reached for her hand.

      “Me, too. I wonder if we have a letter from Mammi.” Sharon dashed to the front door.

      “Don’t run too far ahead,” Susannah called out.

      The girls looked identical—white-blond hair, blue eyes and a thin build. The only physical difference that was easy to spot was that Sharon had freckles and Shiloh didn’t. Their personalities were quite opposite. Sharon was always running ahead—energetic, enthusiastic and fearless. Shiloh preferred to hang back and carefully watch. She also liked holding hands, while Sharon proclaimed that was for babies.

      By the time Susannah and Shiloh descended the front porch steps, Sharon was already waiting at the lane—hands on her hips, a scowl on her face and a whine in her voice. “Why are you so slow? Come on already.”

      The day was one of those glorious spring days that Susannah often daydreamed about in the winter. The leaves were a green so bright they caused you to blink, and the flowers planted earlier that month had burst into a rainbow of color. The sky was blue, the sun shone brightly and the weather was cool enough to require a sweater but without a cold north breeze.

      Perfect.

      They picked wildflowers as they rambled down the lane.

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