He walks into the kitchen. I watch as he removes a plain mug from the cupboard, lifts an old-fashioned percolator from the stove, and pours. I lower myself into the chair, lean back with my hands in my lap, and try to settle my nerves.

“Sometimes I make it too strong.” He returns with a mug in each hand and passes one to me. “When you’re a widower, you learn to do all the things your wife would normally do.” He smiles. “And usually not as well.”

“How long have you been a widower?” I drink some of the coffee. He’s right; it’s strong, but good.

“A long time.”

“I’m sorry.”

He offers a kindly look. “God had another plan. Perhaps it was His way of bringing me here to Roaring Springs where I could dedicate myself to serving as Vellicherdiener.”

I expected him to go to his chair and sit, but he sets the coffee on the mantel above the hearth and remains standing. “You’ll be joining the church on Sunday?”

“Yes.”

He studies me for a moment. “What about you? How long have you been a widow?”

“John has been gone for nine months now.” I say the name with reverence. “He was a good husband. A good man.”

“You never had children?”

“We weren’t blessed with children.”

“Children are important.” His eyes bore into mine. I look for disappointment, but he gives me nothing. “But we are blessed with only what God gives us.”

I look away, take another drink of coffee. “Yes.”

“There’s still time if it’s the Lord’s wish.”

It’s an overly personal statement, so I don’t respond. I try to get a handle on the source of my discomfort, identify it, stave it off, but I can’t. I don’t know why I’m here or where he’s going with this line of conversation. I’m not sure what to say next, so I pick up the cup and drink.

“It must be difficult,” he says.

“What’s that?”

He walks to the hearth, lifts a log from the rack, and places it on the fire. “Being alone at such a young age. No children. No husband.”

“I have my faith,” I tell him. “It fills up my life. It’s enough for now.”

He straightens and crosses to me, looks down at me, studying me intently. I’m no stranger to odd individuals or awkward situations, but my unease is making itself known. My palms are damp. My heart beats a little too fast. I’m sweating beneath my coat, but I don’t want to take it off.

“A young woman has needs,” he says softly. “Without a husband…” He shrugs. “Even an Amisch woman.”