Really, when she got to the old schoolhouse–turned–apartment building, she was too tired to be afraid crossing the short, well-lit distance to the back door, or when waiting for the elevator in the deserted foyer, and, finally, letting herself into her own apartment. She heard tinny voices from a TV next door, and the knowledge that another person was nearby kept her calm as she peeked in each room and closet and under her bed. She didn’t go out at night often, for a good reason.
Teeth brushed, she lay between cool sheets and thought, I’ve changed. She wasn’t as fearful—she had, after all, set out alone. But it was more than that. Some of it was daily routines. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d turned on her new television, or even her stereo. She quilted, and read newspapers and books. She was cooking more from scratch, too, and liked the results even though she’d never be the cook Luke’s mother was. Her own food was good enough, though, that she was pretty sure she’d gained weight. Not a lot yet, but . . . she didn’t know how she felt about it.
Sunday . . . she’d liked wearing a pretty color and feeling the airy fabric swirl around her legs when she walked.
She hadn’t let Nick cow her, either. No, their conversation hadn’t been face-to-face, but she made him accept that joining the Amish in worship was something she wanted to do.
She’d become more confident even as her life seemed . . . simpler.
And Sunday, she’d liked knowing that, whenever she looked around, Luke Bowman was watching her.
Chapter Twenty
TUESDAY MORNING, LUKE arrived to find he was the first. Daad was to be a little late—he’d gruffly conceded that he needed to pull out whatever rocking chairs he had stored in his barn workshop.
He frowned. “I suppose there might be a few quilt racks, too.”
Luke knew his father hated making those. Luke didn’t like wasting his time on them, either, even though they brought in a steady source of revenue. They felt too much like assembly-line work to him.
Julia came in the back door not five minutes later, her big handbag over her shoulder, a pie cradled in her hands.
“Apple,” she told him. “I figured I’d share so I didn’t eat the whole thing myself.”
“Your brother wouldn’t help you?”
Her expression dimmed slightly, but she smiled. “I made two.”
“Ah. I’ll look forward to sharing your pie when we stop for lunch.” He told her why his daad had been delayed, and she nodded and took a few steps past him.
Then she stopped and turned back. “I wanted to say how fabulous it was to hear the price your bedroom set brought at the auction.”
“But only a small part of the whole,” he pointed out.
“I know that, but—” Julia laughed. “I really didn’t mean that in a ‘you brought in more money than anyone else’ way, you know. Just . . . it was exciting. And it got me thinking.”
He waited.
“Well, you should consider raising some of the prices here in the store and online. Especially now that more orders are coming from other parts of the country. We don’t have to depend on what people locally can afford.”
“But what if the people here can’t afford to buy anything then?”
“I know you’re right, it’s just that I’ve done some looking online—” She broke off. “Never mind. I’m being competitive, aren’t I?”
Her chagrin stirred his sense of humor. “That might be.”
She blew out a puff of air. “Forget I said it.”
He let her take a step before he spoke to her back. “You heard what Amos said to me, didn’t you?”
Julia stopped but didn’t turn around for a minute. When she did, she looked troubled. “I couldn’t help it, but it’s none of my business.”
He hesitated. “Will you set down the pie so we can talk?”
“I’ll never say anything.”
“I know you won’t.” He took the pie from her and placed it on the butcher-block countertop that ran one length of the room. “I saw your face. You think I shouldn’t have claimed to be her father, don’t you?” Was he too mealy-mouthed to say lied?
It would seem so.
Her nose was red enough that he thought it might peel. In helping with the auction, she must have spent too much time outside. He wanted to touch that sore place gently—and perhaps trail his fingers down her creamy cheek and jaw. This new tension stretched tight even as he couldn’t let go of his original worry, especially since her hesitation made him think she would hold back.
The color of her eyes seemed to deepen, perhaps because of what she saw on his face, but then she took a deep breath. “Since you asked,” she said with obvious resolution, “I think it’s going to eat at you. People will always look for Abby’s resemblance to you and your family, you know. And . . . what if she gets hurt and she needs a transfusion?”
“My blood is O positive, which is the most common. Hers might be, too. If not . . . I can say it must be the same as her mother’s.”
She didn’t say a word.
No, she let him rerun what he’d just said. He closed his eyes. “I’ve been plotting future lies to support the big one I already told. I didn’t know I was doing that.”
“Admitting the truth will get harder the longer you put it off.”
He groaned. “But . . . what about Abby? When she finds out I’m not her daad . . .”
The compassion in Julia’s beautiful brown eyes weakened his knees. “She doesn’t have to know now. You can tell her when the time is right, just as people do who have adopted a child. She’s old enough that she might remember living with her mother and . . .”
“The men who came and went,” he said grimly, finishing what Julia didn’t.
“Yes. Why would she resent the fact that you took her in? By then, she’ll feel so loved, not being your biological daughter shouldn’t matter so much.”
“What I fear most,” he admitted, “is that Bishop Amos will believe we should look for Beth’s family, give them a chance to know their granddaughter.”
Her forehead crinkled. “How would he be able to do that?”
“Our bishops write to each other often. They spread news and discuss ideas before they take action on them. The chances are good that Beth was raised here in Missouri or in a neighboring state. If Amos wrote to others, asking about a family whose daughter had run away from home and never come back, who was old enough to have had a child . . .”
“You believe he’d do that even though you oppose it?”
Luke could tell she didn’t understand that. She’d gotten to know many of the Amish on the surface, including him, but, like most outsiders, would struggle with the most basic tenet of their faith.
“Obedience is our way,” he explained. This was part of what he had run away from himself. The part he sometimes still found hard. “I shouldn’t be raising myself so high as to think my judgment is greater than his.”
“But Abby’s mother wanted you to raise her.”
“He may agree she had the right to make that decision, but he might not, too. We don’t know why Beth left the Leit. Maybe she left because of a scandal of her own doing.”
“You don’t believe that, do you?”
“No. She didn’t act as if she cared what happened to her.”
“If she lived or died.”
“Ja.” Remembering still pained him. She remained Amish enough to refuse even to consider suicide, but there were other ways. “For Abby, she might have tried. I don’t know.”
“If she was a drug addict . . .”
“They don’t make good choices,” he agreed, unable entirely to articulate what his gut had said about her. That’s what worried him—that he wouldn’t be able to find the right words for Bishop Amos, either.
“Luke.” Julia astonished him by taking his hand and squeezing it. She would
have taken hers back, but he held on, feeling the connection between them that defied practicality. Cheeks flushed, she said, “What I think doesn’t matter. I meant it when I said I’ll never tell anybody. I only worry that the lie separates you from your family and people. And God. Does He understand?”
This time, when she wriggled her fingers, he had to release her slim, cool hand. He wondered if he’d managed to keep everything he felt from his face. Or were all his doubts, all his emotions, laid bare? He thought they might be. A painful lurch in his chest felt like he’d been kicked by a horse. He wanted to step forward and gather her in his arms, lay his cheek against her head, close his eyes and do nothing but breathe her in, warm himself and soak in her strength.
Of course, he could do nothing of the kind.
“Thank you,” he said hoarsely. “You’ve asked good questions. I’m lucky that, of all the people who might know the truth, it’s you who does.”
Watching her retreat, cheeks crimson now, he was shocked to find how much he meant that. Julia was a good friend to him right now, even though he wished that she could be more. What she thought of him mattered, as much as the respect of his bishop and his family did.
The difference was that none of them would understand why he hadn’t told the truth from the beginning, while she did. Part of that was because she was an outsider who’d seen beggars in bus shelters and prostitutes on corners and addicts slumped in doorways. Daad and Amos, doing business with the Englisch as they did, were more worldly than many of the Amish, but they didn’t see the kind of Englisch he’d gotten to know as he scraped out a marginal existence in a major city while he worked hard to get enough education to move to a decent place. If they had, they might understand better why Beth had to have been desperate to choose that existence over whatever she’d left.
Standing alone among the tools of his trade and half-built furniture, Luke felt a warm mantle of comfort, as if Julia’s arms had closed around him in fact. If he chose to perpetuate his lie . . . she would understand that, too, he believed. Know he had valid reasons—and that he’d made the decision he had for the good of the little girl he already loved as his own—not selfish ones.
No, he didn’t have to worry about Julia’s judgment because she was on his side.
Hearing a neigh out back, he guessed his father had arrived. He’d have to go out and help Daad unload.
But first . . . Luke bowed his head and spoke from his heart.
I need Your guidance, Lord. You know I’ve gone astray before. Help me see the right way now. Help me know what You would ask of me.
* * *
* * *
LUKE WAS EXCEPTIONALLY quiet when he and his father came up front midday to have slices of her apple pie. Eli watched him with worry in his eyes, but they both exclaimed over the pie.
“Deborah would say this is as good as hers,” Eli insisted.
Julia wrinkled her nose at him. “Deborah would say that because she’s a modest woman who would never claim to be the best cook in Tompkin’s Mill. I’m happy as long as you’re enjoying it.”
“If only we had a few scoops of ice cream,” Luke said, although since he was currently scraping his plate clean with his fork, she couldn’t see that he’d missed it so much.
Both he and his father had second slices, although she couldn’t see how they’d put that much away on top of the lunch Deborah had undoubtedly sent with them. She hoped they weren’t forcing it down to please her . . . but the pie was good, if she did say so herself. The apples were just tart enough, she’d used the right amount of sugar and cinnamon, and baked it exactly long enough.
“Nick will probably eat his pie in two sittings,” she said ruefully.
“We could take care of this pie in only one sitting,” Eli suggested, a twinkle in his eyes. “Divide that last piece, we could.”
“That’s mine for dessert tonight,” Julia said firmly, covering the pie and moving it to the desk.
They laughed, Eli admitting that he wasn’t sure he could have taken even one more bite.
Luke thanked her, his eyes darkened to navy, his expression unreadable, and accompanied his father in back.
She twiddled her thumbs and finally pulled out a book to read, since traffic in the store was next to nonexistent today and she hadn’t sold so much as a quilt rack. The only useful thing she did all day was carry two racks down the block to A Stitch in Time to restock their inventory, and promise that Luke would bring them another rocking chair when he came to a good stopping point.
If he did, she didn’t see him, but probably he’d gone out the back and down the alley—especially if he wanted to avoid her. And why wouldn’t he? Julia winced at the memory of how . . . how self-righteous she’d undoubtedly sounded. Who was she to talk? She’d never in her life faced a dilemma like his. Humble himself utterly, bow to God’s will as his bishop interpreted it . . . or protect the vulnerable little girl he loved? In fact, when she thought about it that way, she wasn’t sure he hadn’t done the right thing in the first place.
Maybe she should tell him so—but she knew better.
What had that last look he’d given her meant?
A too-familiar ache reminded her that she’d never know, because he and she could never really even be friends. Remember that chasm separating them?
Midafternoon, Miriam burst in. “I’m so bored! Nobody is shopping today! I thought we could have a language lesson.”
“Nobody is coming in here today, either, not since this morning when people just wanted to talk about the auction.”
“Us, too. So . . . how do you say, ‘There’s nobody here.’”
“We’re here,” Julia objected, before reciting, “Sis niemand do.”
“Why are you so stubborn?”
Julia laughed. “Ferwas bischt allfatt so schtarrkeppich?”
“Put it on the bill.”
“Duh’s uff die rechning.”
On and on. Some of the sentences Miriam drilled in her seemed a little silly. When would she say, I planted an acre of potatoes? But she might say planted or potatoes, she decided, and the verb tense applied elsewhere, too.
Ruth had told Miriam not to bother coming back, so they continued until closing. They all walked out together, Miriam having driven with Eli that morning. As usual, they went their way, Julia hers, with a mood dip now common at the end of her working days.
* * *
* * *
LUKE WRESTLED WITH himself for two entire days. It took him longer than it might have, because when he was working with wood, he couldn’t afford to let his attention wander, and much of the rest of the time he needed to stay in the here and now for Abby’s sake.
She took more attention these days as she gained confidence. He couldn’t count on her staying put where he left her, that was for sure. She wanted to go out and feed Charlie, or scrape the wallpaper, or play hide-and-go-seek both indoors and out. She was fast reaching the point when she needed friends her age, not just his relatives. Sunday, he would look around and think which of those children lived near his house, or his daad’s. Most Amish children didn’t start school until they were six, but it was important she had regular playtime with other children.
He wouldn’t think about any possibility that had her living elsewhere, not going to school here at all.
From the minute he saw that Abby had fallen asleep, that was when he agonized. What if the bishop said this? Did that? What if he felt Luke must be chastised by a period of shunning?
Worst of all, what if Amos insisted on trying to find Abby’s family?
Not until Thursday evening did Luke understand that trust was his real issue. He must trust in the wisdom of his bishop and, yes, in God’s will. Thinking Abby could depend only on him was taking too much on himself.
Friday morning, he told both his parents that he had to stop after work to speak
to Bishop Amos before coming to pick up Abby.
“I need to talk to both of you, too,” he told them, not liking the worry he was causing, but unwilling to explain yet.
Their faces appeared drawn, but all his mother said was, “Then you’ll stay for dinner?”
“That would be good. Thank you.”
Crouching in front of Abby, he hugged her goodbye with more than usual fervor. When he released her, she pulled back to gaze into his eyes as if in search of secrets. “Ich liebe dich,” he said, and she rose on tiptoe to kiss his cheek before darting away.
Walking out of his parents’ house, he felt both love for his daughter and a sense of peace.
* * *
* * *
“WHY DON’T WE talk outside?” Amos suggested. “I wouldn’t mind walking instead of more sitting.”
Hearing the women’s voices from the kitchen, Luke said, “I’d be glad to do that.”
Not until they were strolling across well-tended lawn sloping gradually upward from the house to an extensive grove of walnut trees did Amos ask, “What troubles you?”
“Does nobody who isn’t troubled come to talk to you?”
“Not often,” the older man said drily.
Luke was ready to have this over with. “I told you and everyone else a lie,” he said flatly. “I thought I had good reason, but I was wrong.”
Amos stopped and faced him, his gaze penetrating. “Does this have to do with Abigail?”
“What else?”
“I have sometimes wondered—” He shook his head. “No matter. What is the lie?”
“Abby is not my biological daughter.” Something loosened in him once the words were said.
“I think you need to explain.”
They resumed walking, skirting a double line of raspberry vines, pruned and tied up. A lanky brown dog joined them, tail swinging, but demanded no attention. Cicadas were in full throat.
“Her mother put my name on the birth certificate,” Luke said. “She told people she wanted Abby to come to me after she died. She and I had known each other, but not that way. I felt sorry for her.” He told the bishop about the sad, frantic girl desperate to find someone to love her. “I tried to help her, but I’d see her often for a few weeks and then she’d disappear when she met another man. I suspected she was using drugs, but didn’t know for sure. When the social worker found me and told me about Beth’s later years, I knew I’d been right.”
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