As May settles into family life, she has so much to be grateful for. Yes, there are plenty of challenges as she continues to heal from the demons of her past, but her loving husband and sweet children are the greatest earthly gift she could ask for. And having Oba in their home is almost more precious than she could have imagined . . . at least, if it weren't for his ongoing anger and hardness of heart.
May's children are steadily growing older, and eventually they begin to face relationship struggles of their own. Can May help them navigate the turbulent waters of young love? And will Oba's heart ever soften enough to find love, or will he always face loneliness and despair?
This is the final volume in a unique Amish romance that tackles heavy issues of abuse, racism, and the damage done when a community puts reputation over faith. But ultimately there is also hope, love, and the unflinching faithfulness of a good God.
About the Author
Read an Excerpt
The strawberry plants grew to a deep green color and pushed their buds in response to the warmth of the spring sun, developing lovely white flowers with a yellow button center. Oba helped May spread straw between the rows, his tanned face open, a smile lurking behind his eyes.
Yes, the blooms were there, perfectly formed, a sign from his heritage. He wondered how many nervous young men had asked their girlfriends to be their wives in times past. He wasn’t exactly worried about her response, not after that day at the pond, but he did not expect an easy answer. The one thing that did make him nervous was the big question of whether he should kiss her. He had no idea if she’d ever had a boyfriend before. He certainly did not want to shock her, or be repulsive in any way, but wasn’t that how it was done? Certainly, in this age, the practice of “bundling,” or cuddling beneath warm quilts in the winter when the house was cold, was an accepted practice among the Amish. This was, after all, a modern age, a time of newer, sleeker automobiles, electric wiring and appliances, telephones ringing, washing machines whirring. So if the practice of bundling went on, it was tolerated, but never discussed, each couple left to their own conscience, their own secrets never divulged.
He dressed carefully in a soft, white, short-sleeved shirt, a clean pair of black Sunday trousers, a narrow-brimmed straw hat. He took one look in the mirror above the small sink in the washhouse and let himself out the door when the driver arrived on time. He still did not trust himself to harness and hitch up a horse by himself, with the awkward motion of getting into the buggy, at a disadvantage from the time he put the harness on the horse’s back.
He felt nothing but a bright elation as he chatted with old Tom who drove far too slowly and talked far too much, rolling down the window on his side at regular intervals to send a stream of brown tobacco juice down the side of his dusty blue coupe.
He took Clara by surprise, bent over in the garden, her bare feet covered in dust and streaks of mud where the water from the galvanized watering can had spilled onto her legs. (Clara wore her dresses shorter than most women.)
She straightened, a hand going to her frowzy hair, then to the dirt on her skirt. She bent to pick up her hoe, having dropped it at sight of him.
“Hello, Clara. I hope it’s okay . . . a good time to visit?”
“Well, I guess so. I mean, I wouldn’t know why not. It’s just that I’m all messy from working in the garden.”
“You want me to help finish?”
She shook her head, a question in her eyes.
“Go ahead. Wash up and change your dress. I’ll wait on the porch.
“But . . .”
“I asked you if it’s alright if I visit, and you didn’t say no.”
“But . . .”
“Is it alright?”
“Well, yes . . . I suppose you’re already here so I can’t really say no.”
She found herself trembling, her breath coming in ragged gasps, had a clear sense of letting go, falling headlong.