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Love is patient. That was all the slim note card said that was neatly tucked into the bouquet of white roses that were delivered mysteriously to her store today. Sylvania found herself flipping the card over and over in her fingers as her mind raced through the list of suspects. Who would have sent me these gorgeous crème colored roses so delicately tinted the faintest shade of mint green at the edges of the petals? The card was plain and of good quality stock, the ink bold and black printed most likely on a computer printer. No clues there. Her mind drew a blank at the suspects as well.
Sylvania, or Sylvia, as she preferred to be called, was twenty eight years old and although still a white hot beauty to the local men she rather felt that her dating years were long past. No one asked her out on a date, they eyed her like hungry wolves though but were too afraid to come forward with even a hello. It made her feel uneasy but she quipped that she was product of her own making. Sylvia Sims was notorious in her small town for her quick temper and razor blade sharp sarcasm. She could at one moment enchant you and the next drop you dead at her feet with so much as a look from her smoke blue eyes! She found that in the year since her move to the tiny town on the East Coast she had no friends, no family other than her beloved Papa but a lot of oil to put on the gossip mill wheel! The town ladies were true Southern Belles and loved to salaciously discuss why she chose to live on her family’s small farm outside of town, isolated and rarely seen other than to open her store. Oh they loved to do business with her at the store but it only added fuel to their fire because she offered them little to talk about and mostly sent them on wild goose chases with the juicy bits she did offer up to them on such fine silver platters.
The phone vibrated next to her and jarred her rudely out of her thoughts. With a quick flip of her slim wrist she opened the glossy red flip phone and saw C J’s number and hit the silence button. She was annoyed by C’s phone calls as he always wanted to know when she would move back to Texas and be with him on his family’s sprawling ranch. He constantly whined to her how much he missed her, how he would be leaving soon for Iraq and didn’t know when he would be back in the states. C was young, he was drop dead gorgeous in his cowboy way, he was an elite Delta Force fighter in Uncle Sam’s military, his family owned almost as much land as the King Ranch so they bragged and he drove Sylvia insane with his phone calls. She stared again at the card and decided to answer his call since it was his third attempt at trying her in a matter of minutes.
“Hello?” she said.
“What have you been doing?” C replied
“Busy with the store and trying to pay the bills. ” Sylvia calmly replied.
“When are you going to come see me?” came the usual next question in their conversation and Sylvia wondered how much more of him she could take.
“My truck needs new tires, the store is barely making a profit, I have no insurance on my truck right now and the bills are stacked. You want to know when I will drive 21 hours cross country to see you?” Sylvia could feel her temper starting to boil. Soon she knew how the conversation would end, with a quick flip shut of her phone.
“Well, yeah. I mean I am leaving soon for boot and training and I want to see you before I go. You know I love you!” C pleaded.
“Did you send me roses?” Sylvia retorted hoping she could change the subject.
“No. Why would I?” came his confused reply.
“No reason, anyway I got some book work to do so I better go.”
“Aww cmon and talk to me, please…!!” C whined into the phone.
“I’m busy” and with a quick flip of the phone the conversation was over.
It wasn’t that Sylvia didn’t care for C. She loved him very much and had since the day they met. It was just that he was eight years younger than her and still full of youth. She on the other hand was sourer than pickle juice! Cynical is what she would tell you. She wondered aloud if she was too old for love, if arranged marriage was the way. With a giggle she threw the thoughts out of her mind and dropped the card into her desk drawer just in time to hear her father come in the door.
“Meathead!” his deep voice bellowed out across the two thousand square foot home they shared.
“In the office.” she called back smoothly as she heard his footsteps shuffle across the floor. She could hear the dog’s claws click and clack not far behind him. Since her father’s stroke six months ago the two dogs, Boreaguard and Sassy, were his constant companions. She hated when he would leave for work and she had to tolerate their whining and clinginess to her. She understood though and usually took time out of her busy morning to soothe their anxiety away, assuring them that Daddy would be home by five or six that evening.
“We got any coffee?” her dad asked as he stoked the wood stove to a roaring blaze.
“Yeah on the stove in the kitchen, Papa” she wanted to add that eighty degrees in the house was warm enough but she knew how he loved to build a fire so she chose to say nothing.
“You let the fire go out again. I have to teach you so much don’t I?” She smiled to herself as she heard him utter those words. She knew she could keep the fire going during the day but she choose to let the house cool down while it was sunny out and she knew how it made her Papa feel like he was needed when he came home and had to build a fire. She knew from listening to him since she was a child that a man had to have a use, a purpose in life or else he would get depressed and that was worse than a man being hungry. Her father was a slim man but made of solid muscle. He wasn’t as quick with his temper as Sylvia but when his temper ignited it unleashed a white hot heat that knew no cooling! Papa was a genius with machinery and Sylvia knew that everyone loved him for his way of “talking” to the machines. They called him a lawn mower or a chain saw whisperer and in his younger days in the military he would astound the admirals with his skill. He was the only Machinist Mate that never saluted a Fleet Admiral and got a Letter of Accommodation for it! That had something to do with how he managed to get the fork trucks they desperately needed before they left port with only twenty pounds of coffee to use for barter. Coffee was gold in the military, ask any serviceman, and her father was the king of a deal. He could repair any machine in Uncle Sam’s Navy without even looking at a manual and it was said he could walk by a running machine and tell you if it was right or not! Sylvia shook her head at the memories of her Daddy and wondered when his time came how would she live without him.
“I’m going out to dig up stumps in the yard if you need me, Meathead” he called out as he walked away from the living room and into the formal dining room. He could have talked to Grandpa and borrowed a tractor to pull the stumps up in their backyard but instead he liked the manual labor. He said it made him feel closer to the Earth and the old ways he loved so much. Sylvia worried about how it might be aggravating his condition but she did like the doctors requested and let him carry on under her watchful eye.
“Okay, got your coffee with ya? Oh and did you take your medicine today?” Sylvia knew how forgetful he could be since the stroke and he had to take his Verapamil three times a day to keep his brain from swelling again.
“Um. Wait did I take it at the chicken farm today? Let me see..” he replied as he fumbled in his pocket for the trusty bottle of medicine. She felt the usual worry creep into her mind again. Maybe she should go to lunch with him daily to ensure he took that medicine but before she tore herself up any further he replied that he had indeed taken the medicine and not let her down. With a sigh of relief she went back to her book keeping that she had neglected for far too long. The note card and the roses though were not far from her mind.
Chap 2
Those who knew Sylvia Sims best knew too things. She was a woman of principal first and secondly she was creature of habit. Her routine was the same day in and day out. She had someone to open the store in the mornings for her as she choose to work late and sleep in the morning. She opened Eden’s on Main about a year ago when she moved to this sleepy town to fill a need. Eden’s was an organic store where she not only sold organic groceries, locally milled soaps and candles, Fair Trade dishes and other items but she educated people as well. She had a friend who owned an organic store in the neighboring town and Sylvia learned quickly from her how to cater to a clientele who’s idea of healthy eating was fatback and greens! Her friend had made a comfortable living with her store and when she closed down to move to Florida with her husband, Sylvia jumped at the chance to fill the demand. Business was good and Sylvia prided herself on having little overhead mixed with excellent repeat business. Her store was a warm sanctuary because she knew to paint the walls in an earthy tone of the Southwest she loved so much. Ansel Adams black and white photos transported customers to the majestic mountains or the rugged Southwest in their sleek black metal frames that hugged the warm yellow walls of the main area and the sounds of the waterfall that was in the corner soothed the senses. Sylvia knew two things like the back of her hand, one was psychology and the other was interior design. She would feed the senses, ply the pocket book yet sell a product she believed in! She was a woman of principle. Customers loved to peruse the warm cedar shelves that lined the walls of her store for their favorite item and they knew that if she did not have it in stock she would gladly order it in for them. They respected Sylvia and whether they admitted it or not, they loved her for the service she provided.
On this particular day Sylvia casually strolled into the store around noon as usual and relieved her morning help. With her iced mocha in hand, a salad on her desk and her usual attire of worn cowboy boots, wrangler jeans and a three quarter sleeve black cashmere sweater she was every bit the serene, understated woman she presented herself to be. After a quick greeting to a customer that was leaving the store she asked the morning employee about the day. Charlotte was a sweet girl, young and energetic but at times a little scattered. Her idea of fashion was very much British as she chose to wear simple solid colored sweater dresses paired with bold geometric print hosiery and those stiletto styled black oxfords that made Sylvia’s feet hurt just to look at them! Sylvia found herself steering Charlotte back to the subject more times than she could count but rather than being mad or irritated she found it enduring. She loved Charlotte like a sister and together they would laugh when Daddy told Charlotte she was scattered because she was a blonde. Business had been good that day and the store was now empty because noon in the old South meant one thing, lunch! These people lived for a meal! With her own thoughts drifting, Sylvia almost didn’t notice what Charlotte had said until it was literally in front of her.
“These came for you today.” Charlotte said with a grin on her face as she set a dozen crème roses in front of Sylvia on the desk. They almost landed in Sylvia’s salad which at this point would not have fired her temper in the least! Her mind was not on food, it was on the mysterious delivery of twelve long stem crème roses this time tinged with the faintest shade of blue on the edges and in a gorgeous cut glass vase. The simple white envelope holding a note was carefully placed this time in the center of the bouquet but was of the same sturdy cardstock as the last. Her hands trembled slightly as she pulled the note card from inside the envelope.
“Somebody has a secret admirer!” Charlotte teased and Sylvia could feel the blood rushing to her face.
“Instant sunburn on your face?” Charlotte jokingly asked Sylvia as she noticed the blush and for the first time in many years Sylvia could not answer. Not one retort came to mind, not one witty little thing to say. All that she could focus on was the note. Love is kind. That was all it said, again typed and printed on a computer in bold black ink. Love is patient, love is kind. Two notes both taken from the Bible in the book of II Corinthians. What did it mean or what was whomever trying to say? Her mind whirling she barely heard the familiar ring of the bell as someone walked in the door.
“Well I declare, someone got flowers today!” Sara O’Reily called out in her sweet southern voice.
“Morning Miss Sara” Charlotte replied as Sylvia composed herself.
“Yes Ladybug, I got flowers today. What a lovely surprise on a beautiful day, don’t you agree?” Sylvia replied to Sara’s questioning eyes. Sylvia and Sara were friends. Sara owned the store down the street selling antiques and her husband owned several other businesses in town including two of the four gas stations. Sylvia loved them like family. Sara had bought the huge two story Victorian home across the street from her antique store and as her story went she took pictures of her home and had copies made like coloring book sheets. When she got the copies home she colored in the house trying a variety of different painted ladies styles until she came up with the gorgeous yellow and green color scheme accented perfectly with white on the trim of the windows. The home was a show stopper in their small town! In Sara’s younger days she was an actress and Sylvia liked to fancy that Sara was better than Tallulah Bankhead, Marlene Dietrich or even Betty Davis! She sure was a lot prettier then them even at her age which no one really knew because Sara avoided that question like a plague! That secret was more safe guarded than the secrets of the Vatican!
“So who are your flowers from honey?” Sara asked bringing Sylvia sharply back to the conversation.
“Um well, this sounds strange but I really don’t know.”
“What do you mean you don’t know?” Sara asked quickly. “A girl as pretty as yourself surely has a list of men!”
Laughing Sylvia only shook her head and silently thanked God when the door opened offering the excuse she needed to evade further interrogation. She knew though in the back of her mind though that the cat was out of the bag in town for sure now!
Miss Lil was an older Mennonite lady that Sylvia simply adored. She was intelligent, a good conversation and very knowledgeable about plants especially herbs. She grew everything organic and Wednesday was her delivery day to Eden’s of herbs and homemade ice cream. Sylvia would indulge in her delicious butter pecan flavor that melted in your mouth. Today seemed like a peaches and crème day though.
“How you today Miss Sylvia?” Lil asked obviously noting that something was amiss with her.
“Oh the usual, just a little tired, I guess.” “You know how it is out there at the farm with the animals and Daddy.”
“Oh yes, by the way I have something for your Daddy! He told me he loves black walnut ice crème and I made him a pint just for him! Oh and he also gets these whole wheat molasses cookies as well.” said Lil.
Sylvia smiled warmly back at Lil and noted to herself how much her Daddy was loved by those in the town. She wondered if she too was equally loved and with one look at the roses taunting her from the corner of her desk, she was reminded that possibly one person did indeed love her.
The day passed quickly and with each ring of the bell Sylvia would find herself jumping, wondering if their would be another bouquet of flowers coming through the door at the most inopportune of times. She quickly locked the store at five o clock sharp so she could retreat back to the farm, her sanctuary.
Driving through town with the flowers in their vase beside her, Sylvia kept running the list of suspects through her mind. Coming to no conclusion she chided herself for even believing they were meant for her. Maybe the florist made a mistake, maybe they were not even meant for me! Laughing she pulled quickly into the library for one last stop of the day.
The town library was actually the historic old depot that the town moved to its current site. Sylvia loved the old Victorian architecture with its shaker shingles siding and the lovely turret with its bay of windows. She loved the huge wrap around deck on the front and the cozy atmosphere that lay inside. The only drawback to the old building she felt was the location. It simply sat in a huge blob of buildings crowding around. One was the community center, another was the city hall and then there was a pre school behind. A gazebo sat in the middle somewhere of the buildings and a huge inoperable fountain sat in the front. It just made for a busy view as people drove by. She made a note in her mind though to speak with the town administrator about getting flowers in the fountain again and also getting the pump running again so visitors could enjoy the warm spray during the summer like they have in the years past. As a blustery wind blew past her she quickly made her way up the steps and inside the door where Ms. Lynn, the librarian, was waiting to question her.
“Well look who’s here! If it isn’t our local organic grocer with a secret admirer! Heard you got a bouquet of flowers today?” said Lynn.
“Yes but come to find out the florist made a mistake and sent them to me instead of the rightful recipient.” Sylvia said coyly. “Before I forget, do you have a book on the Mennonites written by a Mennonite possibly?”
“Hmm. That is a good one as they don’t normally speak out like that. Let me see though.” With a quick stroke of the mouse and some fingers deftly skimming over the keyboard Lynn produced one book that lay buried on a back shelf.
“This one is written by a Mennonite woman who left her religion and family to study journalism and become quite the successful author. C14 is the number and it lays on that shelf in the far right corner area.” Lynn smiled at Sylvia and for the first time Sylvia noticed that although Lynn was a rather plain middle aged woman she had an inner beauty that made Helen of Troy seem hideous.
“Thanks, think I will try to find it over here in the catawampus corner.” Sylvia jokingly replied and Lynn replied with a genuine laugh. As Sylvia walked away Lynn hit her with a question that felt like a slap to the back of her head.
“What is your interest in the Amish and the Mennonites anyway?”
Quickly Sylvia turned around and even though she wanted to force a smile she found that instead tears tugged at her eyes as she recalled that horrible evening so many years ago. Determined though she pushed past them and replied wanly, “Nothing really, passing fancy for the people I deal with daily.” Surprisingly Lynn bought it and soon busied herself with other things besides Sylvia. The book was located quickly and after checking herself out she exited the library quietly. Driving home without the radio on Sylvia found herself not noticing the plain peeling white paint on the houses she passed in town. She didn’t notice the people standing around in Brewer, the rough end of town. She didn’t notice turning into her drive at the farm rather it was as if she was on auto pilot.
She drew a steamy bath in the old claw foot tub, lit some candles and settled into a long soak. Her mind drifted through the haze to that day so long ago when a picture perfect summer afternoon turned to tragedy. Sylvia was eleven and living back home in Southern Illinois where she grew up. She was a carefree happy child, always up for adventure so when her school wanted to go on a field trip to Northern Illinois to take a tour of the Amish and a village they established to educate the outside world she pleaded to go. Finally, at the last minute her Grandmother agreed but instead of riding the bus Sylvia must ride with a teacher. Disappointed that she would not be able to ride with friends Sylvia agreed because she knew this was a chance of her life. She loved the Amish, was intrigued by their beliefs and found they left an insatiable thirst in her to know more. Her teacher, Mr. Matthews, was a beloved mentor and they chatted excitedly the whole way to village. The afternoon passed quickly in the warm May sun and all too soon it was time to go home. Driving home Sylvia looked out the passenger window of Mr. Matthews small sedan watching the black Amish buggies pass by on their way home. She noted in her mind the warmth that emanated from their homes and their farms. In her heart she longed to be Amish.
The sound of Mr. Matthews voice brought her quickly back to reality and when she turned to see what he said she realized that a truck driver had crossed the center line heading straight for them. Fear paralyzed Sylvia and the world went into slow motion that seemed to move to the sound of screeching brakes, horns, screams and the smell of scorched rubber. Mr. Matthews tried to steer away and avoid the oncoming eighteen wheeler but to no avail. The semi smashed head long into them sending the small sedan into a spin that slammed the passenger side into a tree. Glass flew into Sylvia’s face and try as she might she could not control her movements. The seatbelt she was wearing suddenly tightened up, pinning her to the seat. She was not in control, she was on a ride from hell and said a prayer that death be swift. The world suddenly went black and Sylvia found herself fighting to maintain consciousness. She heard a voice, then two, maybe more but she felt like her head was swimming. Was that a neigh? Did she hear horses or was she hallucinating? She reached over for her beloved mentor but found her arm unable to move. It dangled gruesomely from her left side, warm blood spilling a stream slowly down its length. She tried to move her legs but they were pinned, blood and glass was everywhere. Smoke stung at her nostrils and her hair was matted around her. Pain was beginning to set in and with a wince she realized that her right hand was pinned somehow somewhere.
“He’s dead.” Someone called out from the late afternoon sun.
“Does he have someone with him?” Called another voice.
Sylvia struggled for her voice and felt like it was lost in a deep fog. Her head bobbed slightly or was she imagining that sensation? Up suddenly seemed like down. Nothing was right anymore. Finally in what seemed like hours she was able to whisper out “Here”.
A strong voice suddenly began to speak to her from the tree.
“My name is Jonas. Hold on we have help coming.”
Help? The Amish could get help? Her mind was swimming and she found herself whispering Jonas’s name. Her mother, he must call her Grandmother. The world turned black…
Sylvia awoke to find herself in a hospital. Her Grandmother was notified and immediately rushed to her side. Through her Sylvia learned her beloved mentor was dead, the accident caused by a semi driver who fell asleep at the wheel. Senseless was all that Sylvia could think, her mind was numb, her body broken and bruised. Stitches laced up and down her arms and legs, pins suddenly held together what was her knees and pain ricocheted through her frail body. She had been in a coma for a week. Her face was now scarred, the bruises would heal but she would need therapy. She blotted their words out, refusing to think about anything right now. She wanted to rest.
Sometime later in the following weeks she felt strong enough to ask about the mystery man, Jonas. Her family promised to find out who he was and after a little investigating her father discovered he was eleven year old Jonas Yoder. It was the oak tree on their farm that the sedan had smashed into. He saw the accident and stayed with Sylvia through the whole ordeal until her family came to relieve him at the hospital. She wanted to thank him, thank his family for helping her. Her father agreed as soon as she was strong enough they would return to the place where it all happened. Could she do it? She questioned herself but knew in her heart for Mr. Matthews she had to do it. He always told her to treat others as she would have wanted to be treated and she knew that if she were in Jonas Yoder’s shoes she would have wanted to be thanked.
The sound of Sassy barking and Boreguard whining reminded her to put the memories up get ready. Her father was home from work and she would need to finish supper for him and have the coffee ready. She heard him come in the door, talking the whole time to his babies as he called the dogs. She slipped from the warm water and towel dried off slipping into her worn cotton robe. She listened as her Dad started his shower on the other end of the house and while she smoothed on lotion and dressed she tried to put that accident out of her mind. Returning the bathroom she faced herself in the mirror and as she smoothed her hair into place stared at the scars that zig zagged her face. Makeup hid them from the rest of the world but they were always there. The physical scar would fade but the mental ones never did. The roses on the dresser would take her mind from the memories and supper needed tended to. No time to waste and with that Sylvia put her mind to other things.
Chap 3
February rolled uneventfully into March. They say when February comes in like a lamb it will go out like a lion. Sylvia was anticipating March and April as they were busy months for her. She would start to see her sales pick up, she would be busy stocking the store getting ready for the summer slam of tourists that always came into town to tour the plantations and learn the history of the old South. The buses would roll in, the cars would pack the streets, families with fussy little children would do the usual window shopping and always they came into two stores. One was Sara O’Reilys and the other was Sylvia Sim’s store. This year though Sylvia would ensure that she got even more business as she was now adding a restaurant and a patio to her store. Eden’s would soon be offering a full deli that could prepare sandwiches, offer soups, and also salads. They had a full beverage bar and even simple kids offerings. Everything would be organic, take out, and reasonably priced. The patio outside was paved with antique brick work and featured two wall fountains to help cool the area. A pergola roof was built to break the sun and wisteria wound lazily around the posts and braces. The air was perfumed and fragrant.
The above is a random extract from Associated Content, visit Associated Content for the actual writer of this article.