by Becki Willis
Knowing a blush crept across her face, Taryn felt like a schoolgirl. “We have become friends,” she acknowledged.
“Some men are like porch swings, you know,” her aunt told her. With a show of her hand, she elaborated, “Sometimes they need a little push.”
This time, Taryn’s laughter floated in the air.
If Taryn thought working in the garden was strenuous, it was nothing compared to working in Lillian’s kitchen. After a full week of cooking, baking, and prepping for the party yet to come, Taryn was exhausted. She understood why the Amish didn’t work on Sundays. Religious reasons aside, their bodies needed the day to recuperate from the week’s labors.
On this Lord’s Day, she treated the family to pizza for supper. She ordered it from the nearest pizzeria—still several miles away from the farm—and Bryce delivered it in hot bags. They ate while it was still marginally hot, another noisy, boisterous affair that never failed to lift Taryn’s spirits.
Taryn knew her family liked to spend their Sunday evenings in quiet reflection. They caught up on correspondence, settled in to read circle letters and the latest issue of The Diary (a grand-scale circle letter written and circulated each month among Amish communities nationwide), entertained themselves with puzzles or reading, and rested for the week to come.
“I don’t know if I’ll ever get used to that,” she admitted to Bryce, as Peter bade them good night and closed the door behind them.
“What? All the noise at the dinner table?”
“No, I love that! I mean the fact they’re getting ready for bed, and it’s still light outside.”
“It’s the best time of day, in my opinion,” Bryce agreed. “Shall we enjoy it in the gazebo?”
“Absolutely.”
He lightly touched her back, guiding her over the earthen walkway toward the pond. It was a gesture of politeness, though unnecessary. The path was flat and clear, trodden smooth by a thousand footsteps.
When her eyes fell upon the swing inside the gazebo, Taryn couldn’t help but smile, recalling her aunt’s recent words.
“You know,” she ventured to say, “everything is cleared up now with my accounts. If you’ll give me a final bill, I’ll write you a check.”
“I’ll tell my secretary to get on that, first thing in the morning.” A smile hovered around his mouth.
“Remind her about that expense account.”
“Of course. That’s the majority of the bill.” This time, the smile broke through. It struck Taryn, once again, what an attractive man Bryce Elliott was, particularly when he smiled.
They walked along in silence, until both spoke at the same time. Laughing, they broke their words off and waited for the other to speak.
“Ladies first,” he insisted.
“As you know, I no longer have a job in the city. And it looks like I’m not getting that new kitchen, either. With nothing tying me to Philadelphia, now seems like a good time to relocate, and I’ve grown rather fond of Lancaster County. The first thing I’ll need, of course, is a job. You’ve mentioned how over-worked your secretary is. I’m wondering… would you consider hiring me at Keystone Secure Investigations?”
When an uncomfortable silence stretched between them, Taryn chided herself for being so impetuous. Here she went again, spinning dreams. Plotting out an entire forest, when all she had so far was a single root. Would she ever learn? Whether she was four or almost forty, her hopes kept getting tangled up with ribbons and roots!
“Forget it,” she said, waving her hand in dismissal. “It was presumptuous of me to ask. Whether you hire someone is your business. I shouldn’t have—”
“Don’t apologize,” he interrupted. He allowed her to step into the gazebo first, giving her the much-needed time to compose her crushed dreams. As he took a seat beside her, the swing dipped beneath his weight. A cautious note carried in his voice as he elaborated, “It’s true. Business is so good I’m overwhelmed, just trying to keep up. I’ve considered hiring an actual assistant.”
Her voice was small. “But not me.”
His was low. “Not for the reasons you may assume.”
Her violet gaze lifted to his. “If you’re going to give me some song and dance about being over-qualified, I’m probably willing to work for a lot less than you think.”
“It’s not a matter of salary.”
She cocked her head a bit to the side. “I thought we worked well together. I thought—”
“We did. We do. You’re excellent at research, and very intuitive. You’d definitely be an asset to the firm, given your skills and experience.”
The first bubbles of happiness floated up from her heart. Maybe she still had a chance.
“But there’s something we need to address first. We need to clear the air.”
The bubbles wavered, now uncertain in her chest. “I’m listening.”
“You have to know, I’m a stickler for the rules. I’m a firm believer in policy and procedure. And one of my biggest policies is that I never get involved with a client. Personally.” His voice took on a new tone she had never heard before. For the first time since she had met him, Bryce sounded unsure of himself. “Romantically, that is.”
Pop! One by one, the bubbles deflated.
“I understand.” Her voice was tight, her eyes straight ahead on the pond. Could this be any more embarrassing? Why had she ever listened to her aunt’s foolish notions? He knew of the fanciful, foolish thoughts bouncing around in her head. In her newly acquired collection of Amish words, he knew how ferhoodled she was! Now that foolishness cost her not only her pride, but a potential job, as well.
“Do you? Because I’m not sure I do,” he admitted. He ran his hand over his closely clipped hair. “What I’m trying to say is…” He broke off mid-sentence. “Would you please look at me?” he blurted, slightly exasperated with her aloof demeanor.
Taryn reluctantly turned to face him, wanting to look anywhere but into his eyes. She finally ventured a glance and was stunned to see the expressions playing upon his face. Uncertainty. Vulnerability.
“I broke all my own rules with you,” he admitted. He sounded anything but pleased. “And if I hired you… I don’t know how that would work, Taryn. I’m not sure what the rules are. Or if I’ll be able to follow them.”
“I guess I don’t understand,” she said, clearly at a loss to where this led.
“You don’t make it easy on a guy,” he grumbled below his breath.
She looked more closely and saw something in his dark eyes that rejuvenated the bubbles. Interest.
The bubbles percolated again, burbling up to tickle the corners of her mouth.
Taking the smile as encouragement, Bryce reached out to push a honey-colored tendril from her cheek, tossed there randomly by the breeze. Time sputtered and came to a stop, in rhythm with her breath. It caught in her lungs.
A gentle breeze wasn’t the only thing that stirred between them.
“Starting a relationship with a client is bad enough,” he said, his tone bordering on a miserable note. The lines etching his face were tight. “But starting one with an employee… There are rules about that sort of thing.”
The corners of her mouth lifted. “Remember the analogy about the ice cream cone? You advised me to be proactive.”
“Your point?”
Just like Lillian’s porch swing, the man needed a gentle push. Taryn placed her hand atop his and gazed directly into his eyes. “Start the relationship before you hire me.”
The tightness fell away from his face, and from his heart. A smile moved across both. His arm slid along the back of the porch swing. “That’s actually not a bad idea,” Bryce murmured.
“I’ve been known to have one, a time or two,” she agreed. If not for the smile in her words, they might have sounded smug.
As he tugged her closer, Taryn documented this moment in her heart, lest she ever forget. The light of day was quickly fading, swirling soft patterns of shadow and light into the evening sk
y. Long streaks of clouds and color played on the horizon, blending hues of the sunset into a magnificent shade of violet. It made a wunnderbaar gut backdrop for the horses silhouetted in the distance.
To Taryn, the streaks in the sky looked just like roots.
Bryce’s kiss tasted much the same. Whisper soft, it was the promise of things yet to come.
Taryn savored them all. This kiss. This wonderful sunset. This Plain but loving family she had discovered. This feeling of contentment in her soul.
This belonging.
This, she knew, was the sweet promise of new and tender roots.
Acknowledgments
I’ve often called the Amish countryside of Lancaster County my ‘happy place,’ for it brings to mind a simpler, gentler time. I love seeing the horse-drawn implements in the field and hearing the clip-clop-jingle of a passing buggy. Even though I live in the country myself, theirs seems to be extra-special.
While I don’t pretend to understand all the customs and ways of the Plain community, I’ve tried to be as accurate as possible. With the help of local input, a few borrowed phrases quoted by Priscilla Stoltzfus in Positive Thinking, and bits and pieces of information I’ve gathered over the years, I hope I have portrayed the area and its People in a positive and realistic manner. I also relied upon Speaking Amish by Lillian Stoltzfus, the online Pennsylvania-Dutch Dictionary, and A Housewife’s Handy Reference by Salinda Lapp for reference.
Thank you so much for spending this time with me and reading my story. I hope you’ve enjoyed it and will encourage others to discover it for themselves.
Special Preview: Forgotten Boxes
If you enjoyed this book—and I so hope you did!—you will probably like another of my novels, Forgotten Boxes, set in the beautiful countryside of Vermont. It is also available as an Audiobook, narrated by Christa Lewis and published by Tantor Audio.
Forgotten Boxes
Dedication and Special Thanks
This book is dedicated to my parents, Billie and the late Benton Speer. Their love, support, and strong Christian guidance gave me the courage to believe in myself and follow my dreams.
I owe a special thank you to John Nugent for giving me a mini-lesson in the art and craft of maple syrup and sugaring. The story of ol’ Merle and the evaporating sap was a true tale, compliments of Mr. Nugent. Names were changed to protect the innocent.
CHAPTER ONE
The gate gave easily beneath her touch. A light brush of pressure was all it took for the old hinges to swing inward.
Any hint of resistance would have deterred her. That’s all it would have taken for her to turn around, crawl back in her car, and leave behind this foolish notion of claiming her inheritance. Yet, the gate had opened with invitation, beckoning her inside the sleepy yard, and now Charity Gannon was halfway up the pebbled walk.
It all looked innocent enough. Idyllic, even. A tiny little cottage set in the middle of an over-sized lot, nestled beneath the arms of mature crabapple, cherry, and sugar maple trees. Window boxes and flowerbeds, an inviting screened-in summer porch. Peeling white paint for instant shabby chic charm. Signs of a vegetable garden off to the left, a weathered old shed to the right. A porch swing suspended from the limb of a huge old oak, surrounded by rose bushes and flowering shrubs.
Under normal circumstances, the charming scene would delight her. It looked like a clipping from one of those travel magazines, one that touted the hidden treasures of rural Vermont. The right travel agent could lease the cottage as the perfect summer retreat, garnering a hefty price tag for its quiet location and its nod to yesteryear.
Under normal circumstances, Charity might be tempted to rent the cottage herself. But there was nothing normal about her visit today, and she could not rent what she already owned.
In spite of the homey appearance of the cottage, a sense of dread spilled out onto the walkway and muddled around Charity’s footsteps. Her pace slowed as she drew closer to the porch. Instead of cheerful window boxes, her eyes were drawn to the windows themselves, sad, empty panes that looked into a darkened house.
Charity tugged her sweater closer, gathering a handful of courage along with the fabric as she stepped onto the porch. The screen door protested with a loud screech, but it gave no more resistance than the foot gate out front. Maybe the front door would be less cooperative. Maybe the key would not fit. Maybe she could put this off until tomorrow.
But no, the old key was a perfect fit for the tarnished brass doorknob. The lock tumbled easily. As the door swung inward, Charity had no excuse not to step inside.
She stepped over the threshold and came to an abrupt halt. She was overwhelmed to see that the cottage was still fully furnished, filled with the remnants of someone else’s life.
Not just someone’s, she reminded herself. Aunt Nell’s.
It was a small front room, crowded by too much furniture. There wasn’t even enough room for a full-sized couch. An overstuffed loveseat snuggled next to an upholstered rocker. There was just enough room for a coffee table and a slender ladder back chair to complete the seating arrangement. Without the antique desk and overflowing bookcase, the room would have been cozy; with them, the space felt cramped.
Charity flipped a light switch, not expecting a reaction. She was surprised when golden light flooded from the glass globes of twin floor lamps.
She wandered into the adjacent dining room. Wide openings between the rooms gave the illusion of more space and offered a nice flow from one space to the next. The square oak table and china cabinet may or may not have qualified as antiques.
Like the living room, the space was crowded but neat. To the eye, there was nothing amiss; it was a small, modest home belonging to a widowed woman. Beneath the heavy cloak of stale air, Charity detected the clinging odors of onions, liniment, and old furniture polish.
But something else lingered in the air. Something not visible to the eye, something indiscernible by the nose. Whatever it was tickled the hairs on the back of Charity’s neck and crawled down her spine with whispered unease.
“You’re being silly.” Charity spoke the words aloud, needing to hear a human voice in the eerie silence of the house. The rooms were mute, save for the steady click of time ticked away by the old-school clock in the living room. An occasional squeaky board protested beneath her feet, but not even the refrigerator hummed.
Charity stepped into the kitchen. It was large enough, but poorly designed. “How on earth did she ever cook an entire meal in here?” She propped indignant hands upon her hips as she gave a pitied ‘tsk’. Her eyes roamed over the sad lack of laminate-topped counter space, ancient appliances, and a stove that stood all the way across the room, separate from other features of the kitchen.
“That door must go outside, and I guess this one,” she murmured as she stepped through the doorway on her left, “takes me to... a teeny, tiny hall. Okay, so there’s the bathroom. Love the old claw-foot tub, not so much the tiny mirror and medicine cabinet... Down the four-foot hall into… a shoebox. A shoebox with a bed and an old wardrobe. So no closet. Unless this door… nope, goes to the other bedroom.” As she left the tiny room she muttered, “A pass-through shoe-box, at that.”
She continued her monologue as she entered the front bedroom. “Old style house, no closets, no hall to speak of, just rooms opening into other rooms. Since this door opens back into the living room, it is one big loop. Tour is over, ladies and gentleman,” she murmured.
With puffed out cheeks, Charity turned back to survey the largest of the bedrooms; ‘largest’, however, being a relative term.
“So this was obviously the master.” Again, a large antique wardrobe served as a closet. A dresser and nightstands on either side of the quilt-covered bed provided more storage. A full bed, she noted, not even a queen, but plenty big for one person. That left hardly enough space to squeeze around the bed and reach the window, where a puffy cushion turned a long cedar chest into a window seat.
A collection of men’
s toiletries littered the bedside table farthest from the door. A man’s suit of clothing hung from the hall tree tucked in a corner.
“Auntie Nell, did you have a lover?” She spoke to an empty room, but her voice held a teasing lilt. The rest of the house had a decided feminine touch — plenty of frilly pale yellow throw pillows, rose-speckled chintz on the loveseat, frou-frou and lace doilies scattered here and there — but here in the bedroom there were definite traces of a man.
Charity took a step closer to examine the outfit. The tattered khaki work clothes appeared to be from a different era.
“How sad,” she murmured. “All these years, she kept her husband’s clothes.” The knowledge added to the heaviness in the stale air.
Charity knew very little about her uncle. His name was spoken in hushed tones; not the kind reserved for the well-loved, highly revered heroes who still inspired awe and respect, but the kind that were whispered in shame, or pity, or some sad mixture of the two. Charity wasn’t even born when Harold Tillman died. No one shared the details of his death with her, no one ever bothered to tell her the story. All she knew was that his death pushed her aunt ever closer to the edge of sanity, and further away from the comfort and support of her only sister. By the time Charity’s own mother died, the women barely spoke to one another. Aunt Nell came for Laura’s funeral but Charity remembered how she kept to herself, curled into a ball of self-pity and grief. She left immediately after the service.
In the sixteen years that passed since her mother’s death, Charity heard from her aunt exactly twice. The lack of response never kept Charity from sending Christmas cards and graduation announcements to her sole relative on her mother’s side, but the only time Nell ever replied was when she sent a crisp one hundred dollar bill for Charity’s eighteenth birthday, along with the scrawled words, ‘Your mother would have been so proud of you.’ The next and only other time Charity heard from her aunt was when the lawyer called, saying Nell had passed away and left her estate to her sole niece.