An Unexpected Amish Harvest
Author
Carrie Lighte
Reads
15.6K
Chapters
13
HarlequinChapter One
“You’re so thin!” Susannah Peachy’s stepgrandmother, Lydia, exclaimed as they embraced each other. “I hardly recognize you.”
It had been nine months since twenty-three-year-old Susannah had visited the small but growing Amish district in New Hope, Maine. At that time, she’d weighed about forty or forty-five pounds more than she did now, so her figure had been much rounder. Her face had been fuller, too. But she still had the same caramel-brown eyes, long, straight nose and thick brunette hair that was so curly that not even pulling it back into a bun could tame it. By the day’s end, it always seemed to fluff up from her scalp, lifting her prayer kapp and making her appear slightly taller than she had in the morning. So it was a bit of an exaggeration for Lydia to say she hardly recognized Susannah, although she supposed it was a surprise for the older woman to see her so much thinner.
“I might look a bit different but I’m still the same person I was before,” Susannah assured her. “Being thinner doesn’t make me any different on the inside. Kind of like wearing that cast on your arm doesn’t make you any different.”
“I wouldn’t be too sure of that. Having this cast on my arm makes me a lot grumpier,” Lydia confessed. “Not because I’m in pain, but because I want to accomplish more than I’m able to, which frustrates me. I feel so restless. When I get into that kind of mood, I have to stop and remind myself how blessed I am that I only fractured my wrist when I fell. I could have broken a hip! So I have nothing to complain about—especially since you’ve kumme to help me.”
Susannah suspected there were a number of young women in New Hope who could have assisted her maternal grandfather’s wife, but clearly Lydia preferred Susannah’s company. Her grandfather, Marshall Sommer, had always doted on his only granddaughter, too. And, of course, Susannah loved them both very much, as well. But if she’d had her way she wouldn’t have come to visit her grandparents in Maine. Instead, they would have returned to Dover, Delaware, to visit Susannah and her father, along with her brother and his family.
However, when Lydia broke her wrist and asked Susannah to come and keep house and cook for the farm crew during harvest season, she couldn’t say no. It would have been unthinkable to refuse to help a family member in need, especially since her grandparents were getting up there in age. Only the Lord knew how many more opportunities Susannah would have to spend time with them.
Besides, it wasn’t as if she was going to be overwhelmed with work. The crew consisted of only four men; two were local and the other two were Lydia’s fourteen-year-old twin great-nephews, Conrad and Jacob, who were coming from Ohio. Which meant Susannah would actually be cooking and keeping house for fewer people here than she usually helped her sister-in-law cook for back in Delaware. So in a way, coming to her grandparents’ farm might feel like a holiday visit by comparison. Especially since Susannah shared her grandparents’ fondness for Maine.
Yet she was already counting the days until she could go home. Today was Friday and the crew was scheduled to begin harvesting on Monday. They’d spend three or four weeks picking potatoes, depending on how often it rained during that time. That meant at a minimum, she’d see her former suitor, Peter Lambright, at least two or three times in church, which met every other week. But as far as she was concerned, that was two or three times too many.
“You must be hungerich after being on the road since the wee hours of the morning,” Lydia said, interrupting her thoughts. “I made a peanut-butter pie. I had to hide it in the fridge behind the lettuce so your groossdaadi wouldn’t see it and ask me for a piece before you arrived. Let’s have a slice with tea before supper. You can fill me in on all the news from Dover.”
Susannah hesitated. “Denki, but I’m not hungerich. I’ll wait until supper to eat, but I’ll have tea with you.”
Lydia lowered her silver, wire-framed glasses and peered at Susannah. “But I thought peanut-butter pie was your favorite? That’s why I made it. It might be a little lumpy because I had to mix it using my left hand, but I think you’ll still enjoy it.”
Susannah didn’t want to explain that she’d gotten into the habit of only eating dessert once a week. Usually she ate it following a light meal, not in the late afternoon before she’d even had her supper. But she appreciated how much time and effort it must have taken for Lydia to make the pie with one arm in a cast. She figured this one time she could indulge in a taste...especially since she was serving it, so she could cut herself a little piece. “Your pie is always appenditlich and it was thoughtful of you to make it for me. I guess a smidgen wouldn’t spoil my supper,” she said. “If you go sit in the living room, I’ll be right in with it.”
After putting the kettle on the gas stove, Susannah removed the pie from behind the lettuce on the bottom shelf of the diesel-powered refrigerator. As soon as she saw the white creamy custard topped with a crumbly peanut-butter-and-powdered-sugar mixture, her mouth watered.
She set it on the countertop, remembering when she’d spent the summer in New Hope a year ago, Lydia would make a peanut-butter pie at least once a week because she knew it was Susannah’s favorite. Lydia didn’t like the pie nearly as much as Susannah and Marshall did, so the two of them would more or less split it over the course of a couple of days. The only other person who could make such a delicious peanut-butter pie was Susannah’s mother, who had died four years ago.
Mamm didn’t take very gut care of her health, she thought sadly. Neither had her father. That’s why last winter Susannah had changed their diet. Her father was overweight, too, and he’d briefly been hospitalized for complications from his diabetes. The Englisch doctor indicated if he didn’t get his blood sugar under control, he could suffer kidney, nerve or eye damage, or cardiovascular problems.
At first, Susannah’s efforts to help improve his health were met with resistance. Surprisingly, the pushback didn’t come from her father; it came from her sister-in-law, Charity, who had remarked, “How can bread be unhealthy when I make it myself? It’s not as if it’s store-bought and full of preservatives. And the Lord made corn and potatoes, so they must be gut for us.”
Susannah had shared what she’d learned about eating whole grains, nonstarchy vegetables and protein, as well as “good” fats and dairy. And all of it in moderation. But Charity continued to turn up her nose at the dishes Susannah prepared until she saw how the pounds seemed to slide right off her and her father’s blood-sugar readings stabilized. Then Charity helped Susannah peruse cookbooks from the library for healthier meal ideas and recipes, too.
“I’m hallich to be losing weight because now I have more energy,” Susannah had told her. “But I’m especially hallich that the dokder said if Daed keeps these habits up, he might be able to stop taking his medication.”
Still, there were a few members of her church district who were worried about Susannah’s weight loss. She’d been mildly overweight for most of her life, so some people initially assumed she was ill. Others expressed concern that she was focusing too much on external appearances, or was becoming hochmut. High-minded. Proud. Not merely about how slender she had become, but also about the knowledge she had gained, even though she never flaunted her weight loss or offered nutritional advice unless someone asked her for it. However, after the novelty wore off, they became accustomed to how she looked and what she ate or didn’t eat for lunch after church or during other community events. And eventually they stopped making comments, much to Susannah’s relief.
But it seemed she’d have to get used to hearing similar comments all over again, because as they were enjoying their sweet treat, Lydia remarked, “Wait until Dorcas sees you. She’s going to be astonished at how gut you look.”
Susannah pushed a big forkful of pie into her mouth so she wouldn’t respond brusquely. Ideally, Amish people didn’t place an undue importance on superficial appearances, which was the very reason some had been critical of her when she first started slimming down. Yet she frequently noticed that even though she was discouraged from focusing on her weight, other people had no qualms about drawing attention to it. Regardless of whether their comments were positive or negative, the fact that they made more than just a passing remark about it seemed hypocritical to her.
She attempted to redirect the conversation, as she’d become adept at doing. “I’m really looking forward to catching up with Dorcas in person again. Although we probably won’t spend too much time together, since she’ll be working at Millers’ restaurant.”
When Susannah stayed in New Hope last summer, she had quickly formed a close friendship with Dorcas Troyer. The two young, single women had enjoyed each other’s company again when Susannah returned to New Hope for a week at Christmastime, and they’d written to each other frequently throughout the last year.
In fact, Dorcas was the only person that Susannah had confided in when Peter asked to be her suitor the previous summer...and the only person Susannah had told about their breakup last January. She still remembered teardrops splashing onto the stationery as she wrote,
Peter wouldn’t give me any reason for ending our courtship, other than to say he doesn’t think we’re compatible, after all. But I know it’s because I’ve gained so much weight since last summer.
Her friend had written back,
I’ve known Peter for years and I can’t believe your weight is such an issue for him. Are you sure that’s why he broke up with you? Could it be that he just finds it too difficult to carry on a long-distance courtship?
Susannah highly doubted that. After she’d left New Hope the first time, Peter’s biweekly letters had been filled with proclamations of his affection for her. The couple had called each other at their respective phone shanties at three o’clock every other Sunday. Even after two hours of talking, they’d never run out of things to share and laugh about. And although they had only been able to sneak off for an hour with each other when Susannah came to New Hope last Christmas, they’d agreed their time alone together was the best part of the holiday.
That’s why it was so confusing that four days after she got home, Peter called and said he had decided to end their courtship. The change in his attitude was so abrupt it made Susannah feel as if he was an utter stranger. As if someone else had been pretending to be him on the phone and in his letters. Had been pretending to fall in love with her the way she’d been falling in love with him.
“Why?” she had cried, as bewildered as she was devastated. “I don’t understand.”
“We’re just not a gut match.”
“But why aren’t we a gut match? What has changed all of a sudden?”
“I’m sorry to hurt your feelings like this, Susannah, but I don’t want to discuss it further. Please accept my decision.”
Afterward, she went over it and over it in her mind, trying to figure out what could have possibly changed to make Peter end their relationship. The only thing she could come up with was that once he’d seen her again, he was no longer drawn to her because of how much heavier she’d gotten. Maybe that was why he’d held his tongue about his reason; he hadn’t wanted to hurt her feelings by telling her the truth. But whether he said it aloud or not, she’d been crushed to discover that Peter valued how she looked more than who she was. That he was rejecting her because of her weight gain.
Likewise, in the following months she was disappointed when certain other men accepted her because of her appearance. During the past spring and summer, she’d had no fewer than four bachelors in Dover ask to court her. Susannah would have felt honored, if it hadn’t been for the fact that they’d all known her for at least ten years and they’d never expressed an interest in her until she was slender. So it insulted her and reflected poorly on their priorities when they’d asked to walk out with her once she was thin.
Nor did she consider it a compliment just now when Lydia suggested, “Hopefully you and Dorcas will have a chance to go to a singing together. You look so pretty that I wouldn’t be surprised if half a dozen young men ask to be your long-distance suitor before you return to Delaware.”
If they did, I’d say no, Susannah thought. If there was one thing she had learned about men this past year, it was that their feelings for her fluctuated along with the needle on the bathroom scale. And she’d rather be single than be loved for her appearance.
Just thinking and talking about suitors and courtships made Susannah anxious and she again avoided responding to Lydia’s comment. “Denki for making the pie for me. It was appenditlich,” she said.
“You’re welcome, dear. But you hardly had a sliver. Are you sure you don’t want another slice?”
Susannah glanced down at her empty plate and suddenly she felt rather empty inside, too. “I suppose a little more wouldn’t hurt. Just this once.”
After Peter Lambright helped his brother, Hannes, load the picnic table into the Englischer’s truck, Hannes closed the tailgate.
“Wait a second—we haven’t loaded the benches,” Peter reminded him.
Hannes chuckled and reopened the gate. “I’m so used to making A-frame tables, I forgot the benches weren’t attached to this one.”
Peter waited until they’d put the benches in the truck and the customer drove away, then said, “You’ve got to pay closer attention to what you’re doing, Hannes. If you can’t be trusted to remember something as basic as giving the customer the furniture he paid for—”
He clapped his hand against his cheek. “Oh, neh—I forgot to collect payment from him.”
“Hannes! You’ve got to be kidding me.”
“Jah.” He grinned. “Collecting payment is the first thing I do.”
Peter wasn’t in the mood for his brother’s shenanigans. “Quit horsing around. I need to know I can count on you this next month.”
Hannes’s grin melted and he replied solemnly, “Of course you can count on me.”
“Gut. Then get back to work. I’m going over to the haus to check on Mamm and then I’m going to pick up Eva from schul.”
Peter began walking toward the house, which was located a couple of acres east of the workshop. Twelve years ago, when the Lambrights had moved from Illinois to New Hope, his father had deliberately built the workshop as far from the house as possible. He was starting up a business—making picnic tables, porch swings and other wooden lawn furniture—and he didn’t want customers driving too close to his children.
Their father had always been overly cautious around Englisch vehicles. That’s why it still baffled Peter that one fall evening five years ago, his father apparently had forgotten to light the required lantern that hung from the side of the carriage. Or else the flame had gone out. Either way, the man driving a lumber truck behind him hadn’t seen the buggy until it was too late to stop and he collided with the carriage, killing Peter’s father.
His family had been devastated, of course, especially Peter’s mother, Dorothy. But she faithfully relied on the Lord for comfort and strength. With His help and the help of her community, she was able to shepherd her children through their bereavement. Eventually, joy returned to the Lambright household...until late last autumn.
That was when Dorothy first experienced a significantly low energy level and an even lower mood. When it got to the point that she was staying in bed until noon, she finally consulted a doctor. He didn’t find any physical cause for the change in her emotions and activity level, and diagnosed her with moderate depression, which she found both embarrassing and confusing.
“But I don’t feel depressed about anything, except that I don’t have more energy,” she’d said afterward, instructing her children not to tell anyone about her diagnosis. Instead of accepting the prescription the doctor offered, she experimented with natural supplements and herbal remedies, to little avail. Hoping fresh air might help, she made it her goal to stroll with Eva, then twelve, to school each morning. But that only exhausted and overwhelmed her all the more.
It wasn’t long before her friends noticed that Dorothy was less active in the community, her house was unkempt and she was often either weepy or irritable. Concerned, they suggested she visit a doctor, which she didn’t want to do again. Some people in their district implied she was unwell because of unconfessed sin in her life. No doubt they meant to be helpful, but they did her more harm than good.
“I keep asking Gott to examine my heart and show me my sinful ways, and I keep trying to change,” Dorothy had cried to Peter one Sunday after the church leaders had visited their house. “But I just can’t seem to pull myself out of this. I’m so ashamed. And so, so tired.”
I can’t believe she’s felt like this for almost an entire year, Peter thought as he walked up the porch steps and into the plain two-story home. He found his mother sitting in the rocking chair in the living room, a shawl wrapped around her shoulders and an unopened Bible resting on her lap. She rubbed her eyes as if she’d been sleeping. Or crying.
When he greeted her, she replied, “What are you doing home? Is it suppertime already?”
It wasn’t—not that it would have mattered; his mother rarely made supper anymore. She rarely ate supper anymore, either. But it was hard to say whether that was because she had no appetite or because the meals thirteen-year-old Eva made from a box or a can were unappetizing.
“Neh. I just came to see if you need anything from the store. I’m going to go stop at the Sommers’ haus on my way to pick Eva up from schul,” he said. The school was close enough that his sister usually walked home, but he thought he’d surprise her by giving her a ride. “I need to ask Marshall if he needs me tomorrow or if we’ll wait until Muundaag.”
“Needs you for what, suh?”
“I’m helping him with the harvest, remember?” Peter had told his mother several times that he was going to help Marshall Sommer harvest his potato crop this autumn. But when her cheeks reddened and her eyes brimmed with tears, Peter realized he must have sounded impatient. When she was especially tired, Dorothy couldn’t concentrate and she was sensitive about her forgetfulness.
“Oh, that’s right. But I still don’t understand why you wouldn’t send your bruder instead. Picking potatoes is something a kin could do.”
She had a point—children much younger than Hannes did the potato picking on the weekends on New Hope’s other potato farm, owned by the Wittmer family. And in the Englisch communities up north, students had a three-to-four-week break every autumn, so the high schoolers could help with the local harvest. Not just picking, either—he’d heard of sixteen-year-olds driving trucks with upward of 50,000 pounds of potatoes on them. But here in New Hope, potato farms were an anomaly. The Amish children didn’t get a break from school to bring in the crop, although sometimes they helped out on the weekends. So there would be another man, someone from the nearby Serenity Ridge district, who also would be joining the crew.
“I’m going to do more than pick—I’ll be transporting potatoes to the potato haus, too. There’s a lot of heavy lifting involved, so I’m better suited for it than Hannes is.” While it was true that his brother had a slighter frame, that wasn’t actually why Peter was the one who was helping Marshall on the farm. But Peter couldn’t tell his mother the real reason, since he and Marshall had agreed they wouldn’t discuss the matter with anyone else.
She smiled wanly. “Well, it’s very kind of you to give him a hand, especially without pay. You’re like your daed was—a gut provider to your familye and a gut helper to your neighbor. You’ll make a wunderbaar husband and daed one day, just as soon as you meet the right weibsmensch.”
Helping Marshall has nothing to do with kindness, Peter thought as he guided his horse down the road a few minutes later. And I’m not nearly the mann my daed was. As for meeting the right woman, Peter had already met her: Susannah Peachy, Marshall’s granddaughter...
A horn sounded behind him, startling Peter from his thoughts. Then the car accelerated and passed him on the narrow, curvy country road, a risky maneuver. He shuddered as he recollected his brother’s behavior in an Englisch vehicle last New Year’s Eve, when the seventeen-year-old had driven an SUV off the side of an icy hill, flipping it twice and landing it in a ravine.
Blessedly, Hannes had emerged from the wreckage with nothing more than a few bruises and a sore shoulder, but the vehicle had been rendered undrivable. Because the accident had happened on their private property, the owners—parents of an Englisch acquaintance Hannes hung out with during his rumspringa—had agreed not to involve the police. In exchange, they required immediate reimbursement for the cost of the expensive vehicle.
Peter had to withdraw all of their shop’s savings from the bank. But he’d still come up a few thousand dollars short of paying for the SUV. And there hadn’t been a dime left over for immediate household and business needs. Ordinarily, Peter would have sought advice and possibly financial help from the church leaders, but there hadn’t been enough time, since many of them were still out of town, visiting their families for the holidays.
Besides, he knew they would have insisted on discussing the matter with his mother and that was shortly after she’d been diagnosed with depression. Peter had been concerned that she’d sink even lower if she found out about Hannes’s accident, especially considering how her husband had died.
Desperate, Peter had known he was going to have to ask someone for money. The Amish in their district virtually never borrowed from Englisch banks or creditors, except when making a big land purchase. Instead, they sought loans from other community members, who generally considered it a personal obligation and a demonstration of their faith to help district members who came to them in need. These loans were handled with the utmost discretion and they were always interest-free.
Peter had turned to the one person he knew was in town and who could afford to help him: Marshall Sommer. It was humbling to ask a nonfamily member for money, but Peter had been in a long-distance courtship with his granddaughter, Susannah, and he hoped to marry her one day. So he felt a kind of kinship with the older man.
Understandably, when Peter made his request Marshall asked why he needed a loan. “My—my familye has r-run into some unexpected expenses that need to be addressed immediately. Expenses our b-business profits won’t cover,” he’d stuttered nervously. While vague, his answer was also truthful.
Marshall must have assumed he meant their business was in the red, because he’d lectured, “I’m surprised you haven’t saved enough to take care of your familye’s basic needs when sales are down.”
Peter had felt humiliated, but there was nothing he could say in his own defense without disclosing his brother’s situation. And he was afraid if Marshall knew that part of the money was going to be used to recompense Englischers for the damage his brother did, he would have suggested Hannes suffer the consequences. As Marshall had continued to chastise him for not being a good steward of the resources the Lord had provided, Peter’s face grew hot. If it hadn’t been a violation of the Ordnung, he would have rescinded his request and borrowed from a bank, instead.
“Jah, I’ll give you the money you need,” Marshall had finally agreed when he was done delivering his discourse. “But instead of repaying me in cash, there are two things I expect from you. First, I need you to help me harvest next fall, since Lydia’s two seh can’t kumme next year.”
His proposal seemed a fair exchange of money for labor. Since the fall was a slow sales period for lawn furniture, Peter figured Hannes could mind the shop by himself. “Jah. I’ll help with the potato harvest. What’s the second condition?”
“I want you to break off your courtship with my kinskind.”
Peter had been so stunned that just thinking about it now made his stomach cramp. He’d had no idea that Marshall knew about their courtship and even less of an idea why he’d want to interfere in it. His response was a single word. “Why?”
“Because a man who isn’t responsible enough to manage a gut income like yours isn’t a man I’d want my granddaughter to consider for a husband,” Marshall had bluntly replied. When Peter didn’t—when he couldn’t—respond, the older man reiterated, “I don’t want you to court Susannah. If I can’t convince you to end the relationship, I’ll do my best to convince her you’re not right for each other. Given what I know now, I believe she’ll agree with me.”
He’d understood. Even if Peter refused the loan, Marshall was still going to tell Susannah how irresponsible he thought Peter was and then she’d end the relationship. So, Peter had thought he might as well take the money and end their courtship himself. Once again, he’d been speechless.
“Do you need a few days to think about it?” Marshall had asked.
I didn’t have a few days. I barely had one day. And there was no one else I could turn to, Peter rationalized to himself for at least the hundredth time since the day he’d accepted the old man’s offer. Marshall had been determined to break up Susannah and me. So what gut would have kumme from jeopardizing my bruder’s future and my mamm’s health by refusing the loan?
At least by accepting it, Peter had kept Hannes out of trouble with the police. And while Dorothy’s health hadn’t improved, it hadn’t worsened, either.
Yet try as he might to justify it, Peter still felt guilty. Only in retrospect did he fully realize that asking for a loan didn’t make him a poor match for Susannah; it was breaking her heart in exchange for money that made him unworthy of her love. Unworthy of any woman’s love.
As he journeyed the final mile toward the farm, Peter thought, Within a month, harvest season will be over. He had no hope of putting his mistake out of his mind completely. But maybe, just maybe, once he’d fulfilled his obligation to Marshall, Peter would be able to stop thinking about the pained, bewildered tone in Susannah’s voice the day he’d called her and ended their courtship without so much as a word of explanation.
Susannah felt so drowsy after the long trip—and her second slice of pie—that she was tempted to take an afternoon nap while Lydia was resting. But she knew what she really needed was a walk in the brisk autumn air. She had just retrieved a sweater from her suitcase when she heard a buggy coming up the lane. Groossdaadi! she thought.
She raced outside and hopped down the porch steps, running up behind the buggy that had stopped just shy of the barn behind the house. Since her grandfather apparently hadn’t seen her, she decided to sneak up on him, the way she used to do as a young girl. She knew now that she’d never really scared him, but she loved it that he always pretended to jump back in surprise, first throwing his arms in the air and then wrapping them tightly around her.
“Boo!” she exclaimed, springing forward once he’d climbed out of the carriage.
But as soon as the man turned, she immediately realized her error; although he was tall and broad-shouldered, he looked nothing like her grandfather. This man had wavy brown hair beneath his straw hat, his eyes were gray-blue and there was a small bump on the bridge of his nose. This man was Peter Lambright, her ex-suitor. She nearly stumbled backward in surprise.
“Hello. I’m Peter Lambright. You must be Lydia’s niece,” he said, smiling. She used to love that smile; it could keep her warm for hours, but now it turned her insides to ice.
Clearly, because of her weight loss, he genuinely didn’t recognize her; it wasn’t just an expression, like Lydia had used. You didn’t see me for who I really was when I was heavy, so I guess I can’t expect you to see me for who I am when I’m thin, Susannah thought bitterly.
“Neh. I’m Marshall’s kinskind, Susannah,” she retorted sarcastically, as if they’d never met. She crossed her arms and lifted her chin in the air, waiting for the realization to sink in. His mouth dropped open and he appeared dumbfounded, so she asked, “What are you doing here?”
“I—I... I’m helping Marshall harvest this year. I came to ask whether he needs me tomorrow or if we’re going to begin on Muundaag.”
Susannah felt a surge of dizziness. She couldn’t believe her ears. “You’re helping with the harvest?”
“Jah. He—he asked me last winter if I’d help out since Lydia’s seh couldn’t kumme here this year.” Red-faced, Peter fiddled with the reins, since he hadn’t hitched the horse yet. “How long are you visiting?”
Susannah didn’t want to chat; she wanted to flee, but it was as if her shoes were pegged to the ground. “Until Lydia’s wrist heals.”
Peter wrinkled his forehead. “Her wrist?”
“She had a fall and she broke it. I’ll be cooking meals and keeping haus.”
“I’m very sorry to hear that,” he said grimly.
“Pah!” Susannah sputtered. She suspected he meant he was sorry to hear Lydia had broken her wrist, but it came out as if he was sorry to hear that Susannah was going to be staying throughout the harvest season to do the cooking and housekeeping. And no one was sorrier about that than she was. “My groossdaadi isn’t home, but Lydia did mention that harvesting is still scheduled to begin on Muundaag, unless it rains.”
“Okay. I’ll kumme back then,” he replied, yet instead of leaving, he lingered a moment longer, as if he wanted to say something else. Or maybe he wanted her to say something else. But she had absolutely nothing more to say. She tapped her foot against the ground impatiently and he swiftly scrambled back into his buggy.
As his horse trotted away, Susannah felt like weeping. I didn’t know how I was going to see him every other Sunndaag in kurrich without getting upset, she thought. How am I going to handle knowing he’s right here on the farm six days of the week?
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