Jacob put the ladder under his arm and glanced discreetly towards the house.
Friday – lunchtime.
The most exciting day of the week since he had started fixing Rachael’s family barn roof.
On Fridays, they ate scrapple, the traditional Quaker leftovers dish.
On Fridays, Rachael came to the barn at midday to pick it up.
Friday…
He strode out of the shed, tugging his hat low over his brow, silently praying Rachael was watching.
Rachael was – mid-contortion—neck stretched giraffe-like, shoulders drawn back –-stealing glances past the vast bulk of her sister Ruth blocking the window.
“Stop fidgeting, Rachael!” her mother scolded.
Rachael sat back, trembling.
Had Mother noticed Jacob walk past?
She must get ready – fast.
She set her spoon down, leaned under the table just long enough to hide her fiery cheeks, and gave one boot lace a quick tag to unfasten it.
Doing it with them on, felt so unromantic!
Then she continued eating her soup, barely breathing, pretending to scratch her leg, while working at the laces between spoonfuls.
Waiting…
“Where is the scrapple?” Deborah asked at last, her raspy voice sounding melodious for once to Rachael’s expectant ears.
“Cooling in the barn. Shall I bring it?” Rachael offered, heart thumping madly – hoping that Ruth wouldn’t jump in as usual.
…a few more gruelling seconds of suspense – lowered gaze, hands trembling …
Grampa Jonas nodded distractedly.
She walked out of the room very carefully, lest she stumbled on her laces.
The journey from the kitchen to the outside door was a half-limping, half-tumbling battle of tangled clothes, buttons, and laces – among pants, gasps, and smothered swear words.
She finally left the house, boots dangling triumphantly from one hand and just enough buttons of her blouse still fastened to offer the family, sitting at the table, a modest view through the window.
Once out of sight, Rachael ran as if her life depended on it.
There was not a moment to lose.
Nearly there.
With a final effort, she pushed the barn door with all her might.
CRASH!
All Jacob remembered, when he finally came to—alone, splayed on the barn floor—was the goddess-like vision sketched against the verdant fields, framed by the slits of the old barn door: floating in a cloud of petticoats, round, succulent breasts bouncing in the air – promise of a hearty meal – hair of gold loose in the wind…
… and what felt like a bull storming in and crushing him as he stretched out his hand to open the barn door.
She had always been so impulsive.