Free The Keeper by Suzanne Woods Fisher Page A

closed the roadside stand for the evening. She walked up to the kitchen, carrying the vegetables and early cherries that hadn’t sold, plus the honor jar, in a woven basket. Rome was coming in from the orchards and met her halfway along the drive. He took the basket out of her hands. “Looks like you didn’t have too many customers.”
    She shrugged. “It’s early in the season.” She picked up her pace.
    Rome kept her pace. “What would you think if I sold some honey at the stand while I’m here? I’ve started making beeswax candles too.”
    She didn’t respond.
    “I was thinking, maybe I’d give you ten percent. You know, for the trouble of selling them.”
    If anyone else had offered her this, she would have readily agreed, just to be kind. But there was something about Rome’s manner that made her act as stiff as Fern. As starchy and prickly as a boiled shirt. “60/40,” she said curtly.
    He stared at her for a long moment, then opened his mouth to speak. Shut it. Opened it again. She watched the muscles in his throat work as he swallowed. He was obviously surprised. She could almost read his thoughts: He thought she would be grateful to receive a ten percent cut. He thought he was doing her a favor. “Once folks hear you’re selling my sweet honey, they’ll come from miles around. Why, they’ll be lined up, all the way to town!”
    “Excellent point.” She started up the hill. “50/50. That’s my final offer.” Why, she was even sounding like Stern Fern.
    “Highway robbery,” he muttered. “Fine.” Rome hurried to catch up. “Julia, I am sorry. About Paul. Maybe I could talk to him. Get him to change his mind.”
    She stopped abruptly. “Roman, you give startlingly bad advice. Why would I ever want you to try and convince Paul to keep our wedding date?”
    He seemed a little puzzled. “Maybe I could talk to Edith Fisher. You know, sweet-talk her a little. So she isn’t quite as standoffish toward you.”
    Julia looked at him as if a cat had spoken. “No. I do not want you to talk to anyone about me.” She spoke in a tone as if she were addressing a very young, very dense child.
    M.K. came flying down the drive with Menno right behind her. She ran behind Julia as Menno tried to grab her. “M.K., what did you do to Menno?” Julia asked.
    “I didn’t do anything!” M.K. said.
    Menno pointed at her. “She threw a water balloon at me!” His shirt was soaked.
    “No, I didn’t!” M.K. peered into the basket in Rome’s arms. “Dibs on the leftover cherries.”
    “You can’t just call dibs, Mary Kate,” Menno scolded. He looked woefully at Rome. “She puts dibs on everything.”
    Something at the house caught Rome’s eye. “Look up there, Menno. There’s your water balloon culprit.”
    Their gaze turned to the Grossdaadi Haus, an apartment-style house above the buggy shop. Uncle Hank was leaning over the windowsill with a red water balloon in his hand, the size of a softball, aiming directly for Fern as she hung some dish towels on the clothesline.
    “Uncle Hank! No!” Julia shouted. “Don’t do it!”
    Too late. The small red water balloon hurled through the air, splattering on the lawn after barely missing Fern’s head. She didn’t miss a beat. She finished clipping the wet dish towel to the line and crossed the line to head to the house.
    “Well, well,” Rome said. “Good to see Hank is still the same.”
    Julia sighed. “He’s the biggest child in the neighborhood.”
    And then, because Uncle Hank wouldn’t be satisfied with just one balloon, he wound up his arm to toss another at Fern. Again, it missed and splattered at her feet. She stopped, looked at his window, and calmly said, “You, Hank Lapp, have terrible aim.” She walked up the porch stairs to the kitchen, cucumber calm.
    Julia thought Uncle Hank seemed a little disappointed that he didn’t get a more flustered reaction out of Fern.
    Menno cupped his hands around his mouth. “Uncle Hank, you