by Sarah Price
Instead, she was left with Wilma, who continued her diatribe about not knowing anyone and how could her husband’s niece be so insensitive and self-serving?
“Let’s bike to town,” Catherine suggested at last. She hoped that she could redirect Wilma’s attention because she knew, without a doubt, that she could not tolerate two days of listening to these lamentations. “It’s a beautiful day and the breeze will make it feel even more refreshing. Perhaps you might let me treat you to some ice cream at the store that the driver pointed out?”
And so, fifteen minutes later, Catherine pedaled a bicycle up the dirt lane and toward the paved road that ran past Vern and Susie’s farm. The farther they rode from the lake, the more the woodlands opened into pockets of small farms, each one about forty or fifty acres and mostly used for dairy cows to graze. But each farm also had a large field for growing hay. In between the farms were more pockets of woods so that the area was not completely open and just farms. It was an interesting topography, and Catherine enjoyed seeing the small white houses, set back from the roads, along with their pretty red barns and gray silos.
The other thing that Catherine could not help noticing, merely by its absence, was the lack of traffic on the road. While her own hometown of Fullerton was still very rural and away from the commercialism and tourism that thrived because of the nearby Indiana community of Shipshewana, it was shared with Mennonites and Englischers, and traffic, while not substantial, was moderate but constant. Moreland Lake was just the opposite. Tucked into the gentle hills and woodlands, the lake presented a hidden cove for the local Amish farmers to enjoy during their down time, when crops had been planted but were not yet ready to harvest. And the Troyers’ property, a massive two-hundred-plus-acre farm, abutted the lake.
Once in town, Wilma and Catherine set their bicycles against a large tree near the first store. The street was narrow and there were few signs of automobiles. There were also very few buggies, which Catherine thought was interesting. It appeared that most of the people who lived in the area used their bicycles and scooters for transportation.
Nearby, at an old picnic table, a group of young women sat and talked. The ease of their communication certainly indicated a close friendship, and Catherine watched them with a touch of envy. Wilma touched her arm and nodded toward them. “Mayhaps you should go talk to them?”
Horrified at the idea, Catherine shook her head. “I’d feel rather … uncomfortable,” she admitted.
Wilma nodded and the two of them walked on, approaching the closest store to see what it offered.
It was a natural food market with bulk items for sale. The vegetables and fruit looked wonderful, an aroma of freshness filling the air. Even in Fullerton the stores did not carry such an abundance of produce.
“Oh, my!” Wilma looked around as Catherine retrieved a cart from the entrance. “Have you ever seen such a collection of goods?”
Catherine laughed. “I can’t say that I have! Why, I don’t even know what some of these items are!” She was staring at a small bag of green fruit, and out of curiosity, she picked it up and lifted it to her nose. Wilma began to wander farther down the aisle, and Catherine quickly set down the fruit and followed after her.
Several other Amish women gathered at the back of the aisle, standing together and talking. They glanced up as Wilma and Catherine approached, but not one of them greeted the newcomers. Instead, they watched the two strangers with guarded curiosity, which made Catherine feel even more uncomfortable. She averted her eyes, hurrying past them. To her surprise, the other aisles were equally as crowded with even more women and a few men. She began to realize that the food store was more than just a place to shop; it was also a place for socialization.
The crowded aisles were hard to navigate, and she frowned when Wilma started putting items into the cart. Up ahead, Catherine could see how long the line was for the single cash register near the last aisle. Two young women stood there, staring in her direction. She saw one of them say something to the other and then both laughed. For some reason, Catherine had the suspicion that they were making fun of her. Perhaps it was her stiff prayer kapp that was shaped a little different than theirs, or maybe it was the dull color of her dress which contrasted sharply with the bright red dresses that they wore. Either way, Catherine hurried to catch up to Wilma, feeling more comfortable in the older woman’s presence.
“There are so many people here,” Catherine whispered to Wilma.
“I just wish I knew someone,” Wilma replied. “If only Susie hadn’t gone away to visit her sister-in-law and the new boppli!” The irritation in Wilma’s voice was more than apparent, and Catherine had to agree that Susie was rather unthoughtful for leaving them alone during their first days at the lake, even if a new baby trumped all.
By the time they finished shopping and waited their turn at the checkout line, Catherine was beginning to think she had made a mistake in wanting to come to the lake with the Andersons. What she had thought would be an adventure, perhaps even filled with some romantic elements like the ones those authors wrote about in her beloved novels, was turning into a trying ordeal filled with uneasiness. But she also knew that the best novels often started out that way, so she held out hope that a grand experience could still await her.
Outside of the store, Catherine carried the box of food toward the bicycles.
“Oh, Catherine! Look! There’s a fabric store. I might just pop in there to get some floss for my cross stitching,” Wilma said.
For a split second, Catherine considered going into the store with Wilma. Perhaps she could use some of her father’s money to buy brightly colored fabric to make herself a new dress. But as exciting as that thought was, Catherine knew better than to waste her father’s hard-earned money when her own dresses were as good as any other, even if they were plain and dull colored. So, instead of joining Wilma, Catherine glanced toward the empty picnic table. “I’ll just sit here a spell, if you don’t mind.”
Alone at last, she sat at the picnic table and sighed as she looked around the small town. She noticed a young man standing near a carriage as if waiting for someone to leave a store. When she caught his eye, he leered at her and Catherine quickly looked away. But she could feel that he was still watching her. She felt uncomfortable under his constant and steady gaze so she dug into her cloth bag to retrieve her book and flipped to the page that she had dog-eared the previous evening. Quickly, she escaped from the lake and returned to Lancaster County, where Emma was talking with her father’s friend, Gideon. Catherine could almost envision the way that Emma flitted around the kitchen, preparing coffee while chatting with Gideon, completely unaware that, deep down, Gideon favored her.
“Well, that must be one interesting book,” a voice said from beside her.
Startled, Catherine shut the book as she quickly turned in the direction of the voice.
He was a handsome young man, a bit willowy in the frame, which made her presume that he was not a farmer. His dark hair poked out from beneath his straw hat, and his dark eyes stared at her from behind narrow glasses. And a smile lit up his face as he studied her in return.
“I would hate to think of anyone wasting time reading a book that wasn’t interesting,” Catherine said lightly.
“Ah, good point.” He glanced at the cover. “Little Amish Women? Is that a romance?”
She blushed.
“And an Amish romance at that!” He reached out his hand, a silent inquiry to examine the book closer. Reluctantly, she handed it to him. She watched as he flipped the book over and quickly read the back of the book. “Ah, an adaptation of Louisa May Alcott’s classic!” He looked up at her, his eyes sparkling from behind those lenses. “Have you read Louisa May Alcott herself?”
The way he asked the question insinuated that she should have read it. Embarrassed, she shook her head that she had not.
“She’s a wonderful author. From the 1800s. Her writing style is classic, for sure and certain!” He handed the
book back to her. “I’d be curious as to how this book compares.”
Catherine tucked the book under her apron. “Are you a reader then …?” She hesitated, realizing that he had not yet introduced himself and she didn’t know how to address him.
“Henry,” he offered, extending his hand for her to shake. “Henry Tilman. My family is vacationing here for a few weeks.”
“Catherine Miller,” she said. “Tilman isn’t an Amish name, is it?”
He shook his head. “Nee, it’s not Amish.”
She tilted her head. “So …?”
“My great-great grandfather was Mennonite. But, like the hero of all good Amish romances,” he said, gesturing toward her book, “he fell in love with an Amish woman. Lucky for me that he did, ja?” When he smiled, his whole face lit up.
For a moment, Catherine tried to imagine an Englische man falling in love with an Amish woman. How hard it would have been for him to convert to not just the Amish religion but the Amish way of life! She could envision the emotional turmoil as Henry Tilman’s great-great-grandfather had made the decision to leave his family and join with an Amish community. The pain, the indecision, and ultimately, the determination that his love for the Amish woman was worth any and all sacrifice.
“He must’ve loved her very much,” she said with a dreamy sigh. “I bet it was just like those romance novels.”
Henry gave a soft, but not offensive, laugh. “It was very much like those romance novels, Catherine Miller, of that I’m sure and certain.”
Oh, she could imagine everything: the courtship, the hand-holding, the long walks on quiet roads under starry nights.
“So, Catherine Miller, are you here to help with the frolics?”
“The frolics?” Her thoughts broken, she had to shake her head a little to realize what he was actually asking. “Oh, ja, I am. I came with friends of my family, Duane and Wilma Anderson. They’re related to the Troyers.” She paused before she added, “We’re staying at a small lake house on the south side of town.”
“Let me guess. Near the lake?”
For a second, Catherine looked at him, a blank expression on her face. Then, when she realized that he was teasing her—for of course the lake house was south of Banthe!—she blushed. There was a moment of silence after she spoke, so, feeling uncomfortable, she asked him the same question. “And you? Do you live here or are you visiting to help, too?”
He hesitated before he responded. “I live at Newbury Acres.” He paused as if waiting for her to respond. However, she did not know that place, and when she did not indicate any familiarity, he quickly added, “That’s my father’s farm and woodworking shop.”
“So, you are visiting then?” she asked. “For the frolic?”
“Many hands do make light the work,” was all that he responded, leaving her question unanswered, which she thought rather odd. After a pause, he said, “You asked earlier if I read. Yes, I do. I believe that reading is a wonderful pastime. I confess I do not read Amish romances, though.” Unlike some other people, he did not sound dismissive, however, of the idea.
For a moment neither spoke, and Catherine began to feel that uncomfortable feeling once again.
As if sensing this, Henry placed his foot on the picnic table’s bench and leaned forward. “I have been rather remiss. I should have asked how long you’ve been at the lake, whether you have attended the beach volleyball games, and whether or not you have participated in fishing at all. If you have a spare moment, I will correct that immediately!”
“Oh, that is not necessary …,” she started to say, but Henry placed his hand upon his chest in mock horror.
“Nee, Catherine. There is a sense of propriety that must be followed,” he said with an over-exaggerated air of correctness. “Now have you attended any of the volleyball games?”
“I have not,” she said, trying to hide her smile.
“I see. Well, I suggest you put that on your list. What about the fishing?”
“Nee.”
He raised his eyebrows. “When did you arrive at Moreland Lake, then?”
“Just this morning,” she responded, quick to add: “Had you asked that question first, you would have spared yourself the trouble of the other two.”
He laughed. “Well, now that we have had proper introductions and proper conversation as good etiquette demands, we can abandon the need for practicality!” he exclaimed, to which Catherine bit her lower lip, trying to suppress a smile. “Ah, I see what you are thinking!”
“You’ve only just met me. How could you possibly know what I’m thinking?” she laughed.
“Let’s see now.” He studied her intently. “You are thinking that I’m an odd man.”
“I do not think that at all.” But, in truth, she had been thinking that he was unlike any man she had met before. And that was not necessarily a bad thing. She found Henry Tilman to be a breath of fresh air, light in conversation and a bit witty. There was nothing threatening about him, however, and she felt an immediate yearning to know him better, a fact that made her feel warm and tingly.
Henry pressed his lips together and raised an eyebrow as if in disbelief. “I imagine I will make a fun description but poor addition to your journal entry for the evening.”
“My journal!” Catherine couldn’t help but laugh again. “What if I have no journal?”
This time, Henry shook his head. “Impossible to fathom! A young woman on a trip to the lake? Someone as fond of reading romantic novels as you are? Of course, you would have a journal to document all of the new and exciting experiences that, undoubtedly, lie ahead of you.”
“We’re only staying here but two weeks.”
Henry smiled at her. “And that is plenty of time for adventures, don’t you think?”
Catherine didn’t have time to respond. If she had, she would have told him that she hoped for nothing less than a wonderful adventure. Life in Fullerton was so predictable and, at times, downright dull, especially when she compared her daily life with the exciting tales that she read in the evenings. But just then Wilma came out of the store with a bag clutched in her hand, a smile lighting up her face when she saw Henry speaking to Catherine.
“Oh, my,” she said as she joined them. “You are already making friends, Catherine! How delightful.”
Catherine blushed, understanding the underlying hint in Wilma’s voice.
Henry introduced himself and Wilma seemed even more delighted by his manners.
“Did you find your floss?” Catherine asked.
“I did, although I’m not so certain that it is of similar quality to what I am used to using,” she asked, opening the bag and withdrawing a few of the different colors of thread.
Henry peered at it, a serious expression on his face. “I dare say you are correct.”
Wilma’s eyebrows knit together as she stared at him. “And you speak from experience?”
He laughed. “My sister, she loves to embroider and cross-stitch. But she brings her own floss from home at Newbury Acres because she is not a fan of the floss sold here. I believe she mentioned that it bleeds when washed, so you might want to wash it before you use it.”
Catherine found his knowledge of thread intriguing. It was something of little to no importance to men. However, she suspected that it spoke highly of his relationship with his sister. And suddenly, she decided that she quite liked this Henry Tilman.
Long after they parted from Henry, with smiles and “it’s been a pleasure” on both sides, Catherine and Wilma commented on how the little town of Moreland Lake was delightful and that their two weeks would be most engaging if more of the people proved to be as friendly and polite as the young man they had just met.
Chapter 4
The following day started early with the Andersons and Catherine walking up the long lane and past the Troyers’ farm. Church was being held at another farm, and with no horse and buggy to use, the threesome was forced to walk. But the cool morning air felt refreshing and the
backdrop of birds singing kept them interested during the forty-five-minute trek.
“I believe I just heard a Baltimore oriole!” Wilma declared with great enthusiasm. “Did you hear it, Catherine?”
“I’m sure I wouldn’t know.” Catherine wouldn’t know the song of a Baltimore oriole unless the bird sat in front of her and sang to its heart’s content.
Wilma redirected her attention to her husband. “Did you, Duane?”
“I did not.” He seemed even less interested than Catherine.
“Just listen to those birds singing! God has blessed them with the gift of song, wouldn’t you agree?”
Catherine smiled at that comment. “God has blessed all of us with special gifts, indeed.”
In her mind, as they continued walking in silence, Catherine wondered what her own special gift was. While she loved to garden and to cross-stitch, she didn’t consider either one of them to be her special gift. If she could, she would have loved to write books. Perhaps that was her gift, but it was untapped. Nevertheless, she could imagine the stories that she would write, if permitted and able. They would be romances, much like the ones that she enjoyed reading so much. But the only experience she had with romance and love was from the pages of the novels, not from real life.
Her mind wandered to Henry, and she wondered if she might see him today at church. His humor and wit had stayed with her long after she had parted company with him. The previous evening, Wilma had commented more than once about how kind Henry was. Duane, however, seemed about as interested in the mysterious Henry Tilman as he was in the Baltimore oriole.
When they arrived at the farmhouse where church was being hosted that week, Catherine looked around, hoping to catch sight of Henry. But he was nowhere to be seen. She did, however, meet several young women. As was the custom at her own church district, all of the women greeted each other with a handshake before they exchanged a holy kiss. When Catherine and Wilma reached the end of the line, they stood there in order to greet other women as they made their way through the line. That was when one woman approached Wilma and introduced Catherine to her two daughters, neither of whom appeared overly excited to meet her. But at least she now knew two young people to sit with. Reluctantly, she followed them to a bench quickly filling with other young women.