The Search (Lancaster County Secrets 3)

by Suzanne Woods Fisher

  As soon as the broken glass was picked up and the tea wiped clean, they sat down to dinner. The chicken was delicious, but Lainey had little appetite for it. Too nervous. She needed to have a talk with Bertha. How could she bring up anything private with Bess and Billy here? Bess, Lainey noticed, never gave up another word once Billy arrived. Lainey caught her studying Billy, aware of his every word and movement. Lainey fought back a smile. She was glad she wasn’t fifteen anymore. Billy and Bertha seemed to be completely unaware of Lainey’s anxiety or Bess’s discomfort. They ate everything but the pattern on the plate.

  Billy concentrated on his food until the subject of grafting roses was brought up, then he didn’t stop talking. “Some rose varieties put on a lot of top growth and few roots, which makes them liable to be weak-wooded and short-lived,” he said to Lainey with professorial patience, as if she had asked. “But we can graft that rose onto a better taproot so that it puts down a good deal of roots. Doing that makes a rose plant liable to be long-lived, grow better and bigger blooms, and be more resistant to stresses and strains, like a hard freeze.”

  “Where’d you learn how to graft roses, Billy?” Lainey asked when he finally stopped talking long enough to fill his mouth with roast chicken.

  He shrugged and looked over at Bertha. “She told me if I could figure out how to graft, I could have a job. So I went to the library and read up on it and gave it a whirl.” He spooned the rest of the pickled peaches onto his plate and looked around the table to see if there was anything left to polish off.

  “Gave it a whirl?” Lainey asked in disbelief. “Why, I’ve heard people go to college to learn how to graft plants!”

  “His mother was a Zook,” Bertha said, as if that explained everything.

  Billy looked embarrassed but pleased. “Roses aren’t difficult to graft because they’re compatible with nearly all other roses.”

  When Bertha served the gooseberry pie, silence fell over the table. Lainey started to worry that something was wrong until Billy looked up and said, “This is the best pie I’ve ever had. Better even than yours, Bertha, if you’ll pardon me for saying so.”

  “Pardon accepted,” Bertha said, helping herself to a second slice. “You’re right. This pie is unparalyzed.”

  Bess’s spoon froze, midair. She looked at Bertha, confused. Lainey swallowed a smile. Only Billy took it in stride, as if accustomed to Bertha’s way of twisting English words around.

  “I taught Lainey how to make a flaky pastry shell when she could barely reach over the counter,” Bertha said.

  Now it was Billy’s turn to be surprised. He looked at Lainey, curious.

  “It’s true,” Lainey said. “I used to live nearby. Bertha would let me come visit and help her in the kitchen. She taught me how to bake. Once she could get that black iron range fired up, she could do some serious cooking.”

  “Still can,” Bertha said between bites.

  They wolfed down the pie so quickly that Lainey knew it was good. Just as Billy had his eye on another helping, a horse nickered from the barn. Lainey looked out the window. A horse and buggy had turned into the drive, and Bertha’s horse knew company was coming. Lainey had forgotten how horses always seemed to know things that people didn’t.

  Billy jumped up from the table. “That’ll be my cousin, Maggie. She was coming by to get me for a youth gathering at the Smuckers’ this afternoon.”

  “Good,” Bertha said. “It will give Bess a chance to meet some other young folk.”

  Billy froze. A look of mild panic lit his eyes. He spoke hesitantly. “She seems awful young for a gathering—”

  “I’m nearly sixteen!” Bess said indignantly.

  Billy looked unconvinced.

  Bertha waved that concern away. “Die Yunge kenne aa alt waerre.” The young may grow old too.

  That only confused Billy.

  “Besides, your Maggie Zook is only twelve or thirteen and she’s welcome,” Bertha said.

  “But . . . it’s Maggie! You know Maggie. She’s thirteen going on thirty. Besides, she’s the bishop’s daughter. Who’s going to tell her she can’t go?”

  As Bess saw Billy’s hesitation, her face clouded over. Bravely, she lifted her chin. “Actually, I had plans of my own this afternoon.”

  “Like what?” Bertha asked.

  Bess looked around the kitchen until her eyes rested on a jar of homemade jam. “You were going to show me how to make rose petal jam.”

  “Can’t,” Bertha said. “It’s Sunday.”

  Billy still looked uncomfortable. He scratched the top of his head. “She really shouldn’t . . .”

  “Sure she should,” Bertha said, clamping her granite jaw. “Besides, Lainey and I got us some visiting to do.” She shot him a deeply dangerous look.

  Defeated, Billy slumped to the wall, plucked his hat from the peg, and held the door open for Bess. She grabbed her bonnet and brushed past him, head held high.

  Lainey went to the window to watch them drive off in Maggie’s buggy. When they were out of sight, she turned to Bertha, who was still seated at the table, halfway through a third slab of pie.

  Lainey sat back down at the table. “There’s something I’d like to tell you.”

  Bertha picked up the blue speckled pitcher and refilled their glasses. Then she added three teaspoons of sugar into her glass and stirred. “What’s that?”

  “I’ve never thanked you for helping me like you did, years ago. You always made me feel welcome in your home, and you took an interest in me and helped me and my mother out. It’s thanks to you that I’m a Christian today.”

  Bertha picked a loose thread from her apron front.

  Lainey could have been talking about the weather. She tried again. “Bess is a lovely companion for you.”

  “She’s a nervous little thing. Jumpy as a dog with fleas. But time will fix that.”

  Then quiet fell again. How could Lainey shift this conversation in the right direction without making Bertha suspicious? A stray thought fluttered through her mind, something she hadn’t noticed before. She cocked her head. “When Bess left just now, she called you Mammi.”

  “So she did.” Bertha took a sip from her glass.

  “Isn’t that the Deitsch word for grandmother? I . . . thought she was your hired girl.”

  Bertha snorted. “Not hired. Doubt I’d hire her—she oozes away like a barn cat when there are chores to be done.” She looked straight at Lainey. “But she is my girl. My only grandchild.”

  Lainey was confused. “I thought Jonah and Rebecca and their daughter were in Ohio.”

  Bertha smoothed her skirt and pulled in her lips. “Rebecca died in that buggy accident, long ago.”

  “Oh no,” Lainey said. That news was a shock to her. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t . . . I thought she had survived it.” She stood and went to the window, then turned to Bertha, confused. “So Jonah remarried?”

  Bertha shook her head. “Not yet. Far as I know.”

  “Are you . . . ?” Lainey’s voice cracked and she had to start over. “You can’t mean that Bess is Jonah’s daughter? That girl with the blond hair?”

  Bertha nodded. “Bald as an egg until she was two years old.”

  Understanding flooded through Lainey and she felt her face grow warm as blood rushed to her head. She sat down in the chair to steady herself. “I never knew her name,” she said in a faraway voice. “I knew Rebecca had her baby, but I never knew the baby’s name. It was the same week my mother died . . .” The words got stuck in her throat and she couldn’t continue.

  Bertha leaned back in her chair and crossed her arms over her chest. “Jonah and Rebecca’s baby was named Bess, so that’s what he called this little girl.” She took a deep breath. “That’s what he called the little baby girl you switched on us, Lainey. Fifteen years ago.”

  Lainey felt as if her heart was pounding so loudly that Bertha must be able to hear it. She looked down at her lap and saw that her hands were trembling. It was such a ho
t day, but she was suddenly cold. For a brief second, the room started to spin and she thought she might faint. “How long . . . ?” Her voice drizzled off.

  “How long have I known?” Bertha leaned forward, cool as custard, to take a sip of iced tea. “From the moment I arrived at the hospital, after the accident.” She smoothed out the oilcloth on the table. “Think I wouldn’t know my own grandbaby? And Mrs. Hertz told me—told the whole town—about your baby sister’s passing and you getting shipped off to a foster home. Wasn’t beyond my apprehension to put two and two together.”

  Lainey chanced a look at Bertha. “Samuel knew too?”

  For the first time, Bertha seemed mildly distressed. She slipped off her spectacles and polished them. Then she blew her nose, loud. “That rain we had last night was hard on my sciences.”

  Lainey frowned. “Your what?”

  “My sciences.” She gave her nose a honk.

  “I think you mean your sinuses.”

  Bertha huffed a small laugh. “That’s what I said.” She stuffed her handkerchief in her apron pocket.

  Lainey tried again. “Did Samuel know?”

  Bertha took her time answering. “No. The very week Rebecca had her baby, Samuel’s brother in Somerset was laid up in the hospital for a bleeding ulcer. Samuel went to go help finish up spring planting on his brother’s farm. He hadn’t laid eyes on his own granddaughter yet. But he came back as soon as I sent word about the accident.”

  Lainey felt the words lock in her throat. “Why . . . why didn’t you ever tell?”

  “When Jonah found out that Rebecca had died, it was like the light had gone out of him. His back was broke to smithereens.”

  Lainey’s eyes went round as quarters. “He’s paralyzed?”

  “No. His spiney cord wasn’t hurt, but his lower back was broke. He had to learn to walk all over again. Knowing Bess needed him was all that kept him going.”

  Lainey stared at Bertha for a long time. She rubbed her forehead. “Are you saying that Jonah doesn’t know?”

  Bertha shook her head and looked away. “You know how fast babies change and grow. By the time Jonah was able to see her and hold her, she was already holding her head up and rolling over.” She sighed. “But Jonah never knew. I planned to tell him. I meant to. But there never seemed to be a good time. And then weeks and months turned into years.”

  Lainey closed her eyes and squeezed her fists tight. She should have realized! She should have known! The color of Bess’s hair—white blond—and those turquoise eyes. Simon’s hair color. Simon’s eyes. She looked at Bertha. “So . . . Bess . . . is my half sister?”

  As Bertha nodded, a single tear fell on Lainey’s cheek, followed by another and another, until she couldn’t hold them back anymore. She covered her face with her hands and wept.

  When Bertha Riehl invited Billy for Sunday lunch, even then, he felt a pang of unease. He should have known that she would have something up her sleeve. She had a reputation for doing the unexpected. He had been working for her for over two years now, and she had never once invited him for Sunday dinner . . . until today. Normally, he got a kick out of Bertha’s unpredictable methods of getting what she wanted. But he had never been the object of her finagling. He liked working for her. She paid him well, and he knew she needed his help around Rose Hill Farm. But now he was stuck babysitting her granddaughter for the rest of the afternoon—a girl who acted as nervous as a cottontail and had a hard time stringing more than two words together that made any sense. He found younger girls to be tiresome: they giggled a lot and refused to take anything seriously.

  A horrible thought darted through his mind. He hoped Bertha wasn’t trying her hand at matchmaking. He was real fond of Bertha, even if she was crafty, and he didn’t want to lose this job. It was more than a job to him. It was his future. This was what he wanted to do with his life. He could never work up much enthusiasm pushing a plow behind a team of mules, but this—experimenting to create a better plant—this felt like something he was born to do. He studied books about roses, he wrote away to experts and asked their opinions, and he kept precise records—something Bertha had no interest in. It was a sin to be prideful and he was careful not to indulge in it, but it did please him when folks said they drove long distances to buy rose stock from Rose Hill Farm. Last week, an English lady came all the way from Pittsburgh because someone at Penn State told her this was the only place to buy a rose that smelled like one grown a hundred years ago. “The hybrids might be the rage,” the lady told Billy, “but they have no fragrance. But these roses”—she scanned the fields—“you can tell they’re grown with passion.”

  How his father and older brothers would laugh at that comment. They thought his ideas were nonsense, so he stopped doing experiments and bringing his horticulture books home from the library. But his mother had understood. She and Bertha had been good friends and neighbors. His mother must have told Bertha the kinds of things Billy liked to learn about, because at his mother’s funeral, she asked him to come work at Rose Hill Farm.

  But as much as he liked and admired Bertha Riehl, as much passion as he felt for the roses, he knew he would never be passionate about this skinny girl sitting on the buggy seat next to his cousin Maggie. He guessed Bess could hardly weigh ninety-nine pounds soaking wet. She had an unnaturally scrubbed look, like she’d been dipped in a bottle of bleach and came out with ultra blond hair and white eyelashes. And that anxious-to-please expression on her face made him nervous.

  He was glad his cousin was with them. Maggie could talk to a brick wall and never notice it wasn’t answering back. At least he was off the hook from trying to come up with any more painful attempts at conversation, like he had to do—just out of politeness—when Bess was out helping him pick roses.

  Still, the least he could do was to be nice, for Bertha’s sake, so he took the long way to the Smuckers to show Bess his favorite spot on earth, Blue Lake Pond. A little jewel of a pond with pine trees that lined the shores. It was deserted, just as he expected. That was another thing he loved about this lake. He stopped the horse, hopped down, and tied its reins to a tree branch. He took a few steps and then stopped to wave to the girls. “Well, come on.”

  “Not me. I’m going to stay here,” Maggie said, pushing her glasses up on the bridge of her nose. “I don’t want to get my shoes dirty.”

  “Suit yourself,” he said. “What about you, Bess? Every visitor to Stoney Ridge needs to get acquainted with Blue Lake Pond.”

  Thrown that small morsel of encouragement, Bess leaped off the buggy and trotted behind Billy.

  Down by the shoreline, he put his hands on his hips and inhaled deeply. “This is the best lake in the county. In all of Pennsylvania. I spend every free hour on these shores—swimming in the summer, skating in the winter. Fishing in between.” He picked up a rock and skimmed it across the pond. He gave Bess a sideways glance. “Me and my friend Andy go skinny-dipping here every summer.” He paused for her reaction.

  Bess’s eyes went wide and her cheeks flamed scarlet.

  Billy grinned.

  Clearly mortified, Bess turned away from him and walked along the shore. Billy kept skimming rocks. After a while, she stopped to look up in the treetops. “It’s the quietest place in the world.”

  “Sure is. Quiet and peaceful.”

  “I didn’t mean it that way. I meant it in a strange way.”

  He tilted his head. “What’s so strange about a quiet lake?”

  “There are no birds singing.”

  He searched the skies and the trees. “Huh. You’re right.” He shrugged. “Maybe it’s the time of day.”

  She walked further along the shoreline. “You’d think there’d be some sign of wildlife. A loon or a duck or a goose. Even a crow or scrub jay.” She looked all around. “Nothing.”

  Maggie hollered to them she wanted to get to the Smuckers’ before the gathering was over, if they wouldn’t mind, so they turned around to walk back to the buggy. Before Billy lef
t the shoreline, though, he shielded his eyes from the sun and scanned the lake. He saw plenty of dragonflies skating over the surface of the pond, but he was looking for some sign or sound of a bird in the trees or skies. Not one.

  Billy disappeared to join his friends the minute they hitched the horse at the Smuckers’, but Maggie stuck to Bess like glue. She reminded Bess of a pixie, small and dark, with eyes darting here and there, forever watchful. She could talk a person to death. Bess didn’t mind at all; she’d grown accustomed to half listening after being around Sallie Stutzman so much. As they walked around the yard and watched some boys pegging out a game of horseshoes, Maggie pointed out names and gave Bess the full rundown on each person. Bess nodded, vaguely interested, but she kept one eye on Billy the entire time.

  Someone tapped Bess on the shoulder. “Who are you staring at?”

  Bess whirled around to face a tall, shapely girl with sandy-blond hair and dark brown eyes. If it weren’t for the fact that she was glowering at Bess, she could even be called attractive.

  Maggie intervened. She hooked her arm through Bess’s and pulled her along. “I should have warned you about Esther Swartzentruber. She set her sights on Billy awhile back and hasn’t let go. Well, most every girl has her sights on Billy, but Esther is the only one bold enough to tell everyone. She watches him like a hawk.” She looked back at Esther who was scowling at both of them. “With you here, Bess, I think it’s going to be a real fun summer. Esther thinks she’s got all the boys pining for her, but look at how they’re sizing you up like a hog at auction.”

  Bess was absolutely sure no boy was looking at her, but such a loyal remark earned Maggie a spot in her heart.

  Right at that moment, a buggy wheeled into the driveway and pulled to a stop. Out poured four girls. It was the fourth girl who caught Bess’s eye. Actually, it was Billy’s reaction to Girl #4 that she noticed. He stopped playing horseshoes and walked over to greet Girl #4, lingering over her. But who wouldn’t? She was that pretty.