Dad tapped his chin with his finger, his scowl deep. “Maybe we should have waited and come over in the morning instead. Maybe it’s not such a good idea for us to give our money to someone who isn’t of our sect.”
Steven didn’t think it would be any different than buying groceries from one of the big chains or a car from the dealer in Salina. Plus, in his opinion, it wasn’t right to make a reservation and then not honor it. Obviously the innkeeper was waiting for them—yellow porch lights glowed a warm welcome. But it was useless to argue with his father. So he waited in silence for Dad to decide what to do.
After several long minutes, Dad huffed a breath, got out, and headed for the house. Even though he hadn’t invited Steven to go with him, he followed anyway. The pathway was lined by glass balls that flickered first red, then blue, then green, reminding Steven of tiny fireworks. Color everywhere he looked. So unlike home. A thread of eagerness to see what else was different here sped his steps.
The front door opened and a smiling girl stepped onto the porch. She moved to its edge and waved. Although not attired like an Old Order Mennonite, her clothes were modest, her hairstyle simple, and she hadn’t slathered her face with makeup. After getting a look at her car and the way the house was painted, Steven had expected something different. Something more. He couldn’t decide whether he was disappointed or relieved by her humble appearance.
“Good evening,” the girl called. “Are you the Brungardts?”
Dad stopped at the bottom of the porch stairs. “That’s right.”
The girl’s smile widened. “It’s so nice to meet you. I’m Alexa Zimmerman. Welcome to Grace Notes.”
Steven wanted to climb the steps and go right inside, but Dad didn’t move.
“Is your grandmother here?”
Alexa Zimmerman didn’t seem put off by Dad’s brusqueness. Her smile remained in place and she gave a nod, linking her hands and laying them against her skirt front. “Yes, she is. She’s been watching for you. I think she’s eager to visit with someone from Sommerfeld since her nephews live there.”
His face set in an uncertain frown, Dad stared at the girl for a few seconds. Then he gave a nod and turned to Steven. “Go get our case.”
Steven swallowed a smile. He guessed they were staying.
Briley
Briley carried one of the ancient chairs—the one that appeared the sturdiest—from the table to the front stoop and settled his frame into it. Had it been up to him, pretty much every piece of furniture in the cottage would have been hauled to the dump a long time ago, but he could make do for three months. He had a lifetime’s worth of experience of making do.
He eased into the chair, cringing when its joints complained, and opened the cover on his electronic notebook. As he hit the On button, a movement to his right caught his attention. A dog with shaggy black-and-white fur trotted toward him. For a moment he tensed. Would the thing attack? But then he saw the dog’s tongue lolling from its open mouth and its flag-like tail wagging in a friendly swish.
“Well, hi there.” Briley stuck out his hand and let the dog sniff it over. “You live around here?” Of course, the creature didn’t reply, but it gave his hand a swipe with its warm, velvety tongue, then flopped down on the stoop next to Briley’s chair and rested its head on its paws. Briley laughed, pleased more than he could explain by the dog’s presence. He gave its soft ears a quick scratch. “Sorry, fella, but I have work to do. You can stick around, though, if you want to.”
The dog rhythmically thump-thumped its tail against the stoop as Briley propped the notebook on his knee. The evening air was cool but not overly so, sufficiently blocked by his leather bomber jacket. A single lantern mounted next to the door gave off enough light for him to see. He began typing, his process slow and deliberate as he chose the little squares representing letters.
First impression of A.Z.—a little stuffy; cautiously friendly; dresses like a grandma.
First impression of community—people curious and watchful; town small but neat …
He typed a lengthy description of the businesses and of what he’d glimpsed through the windows. Len would laugh about all those oil lamps. Then he turned his attention to the farm that would be his temporary home.
First impression of farmstead—quiet; neat; peaceful.
The third descriptor stilled his fingers. Peaceful wasn’t something he’d experienced much. Not as a child being shuffled from foster home to foster home, and not as an adult living in the middle of a big, bustling city.
He lifted his head and gave his current surroundings a slow examination. A long clothesline stretched from one end of the yard to the other, the wire shining in the moonlight. No trash blew across the ground or gathered along the house’s foundation. Lights burned behind windows in the farmhouse, several on the first floor and two on the second. The glow became a beacon as darkness crept across the landscape. The insistent chirp of a cricket—or maybe a herd of them—combined with the soft whistle of the wind. Scents he couldn’t recognize filled his nostrils. Earthy scents. Not unpleasant.
Using the hunt-and-peck method, he tapped out fresh-smelling, then glanced at his list and chuckled. So far everything he’d recorded about the locale was exactly what Len said everyone wanted to believe. “There’s gotta be dirt there, Briley,” Len had told him during his last morning in the office, his expression earnest as he slipped into what Briley called his reporter mode. “Find the dirt. Disprove all that peaceful, smiley, turn-the-other-cheek nonsense that makes people want to visit their communities and bow down in admiration. Let’s show the real truth of being trapped in the Plain lifestyle.”
Sitting there with his new furry pal, drinking in the pleasant quiet, Briley wondered if Len might be wrong. He hoped not, because if he couldn’t uncover dirt, he wouldn’t have a story. And he desperately wanted the story. His first major byline. The teachers who shook their heads in dismay at his struggle to read, the foster parents who declared he’d never amount to anything, the class bullies who called him “big dummy”—wouldn’t all of them be shocked to discover how wrong they’d been about him when Briley Forrester’s name appeared under a lead story? And the Real Scoop needed a story that would capture the public’s eye before it collapsed like so many other periodicals.
He’d keep his ears and eyes wide open. He’d peek beneath the surface of these people. He’d find dirt. One way or another, he’d find it and expose it for all the world to see.
No rooster announced the dawn, but Briley’s cell phone alarm blared out the theme from Star Wars and brought him fully awake at seven o’clock. He groaned as he rolled off the mattress of the strangest bed he’d ever seen. Before crawling into it last night, he’d given it a careful look-over. Home built of sturdy wood and with a jointed metal frame, it actually folded up against the wall when it wasn’t in use. If Alexa—he might have to call her Miss Zimmerman, but he wouldn’t think of her as anything but Alexa—hadn’t already had it down and made up for him, he might not have even found it. The contraption squeaked every time he moved, but he had to admit the mattress was of good quality. Once he’d put in earplugs—something he always used at home but hadn’t thought would be necessary in these peaceful surroundings—he slept fairly well.
He didn’t bother to remake the bed before hefting the mattress into the wooden frame. A click of the cabinet doors, and not only was the bed hidden from sight, but the space felt much larger. He whacked the dividing curtain aside and padded on bare feet to the bathroom. He dipped his knees to bring himself low enough to see his whisker-dotted reflection in the mirror while he brushed his teeth. The ceiling of the tacked-on room sloped toward the east and was better suited for munchkins than for full-grown men.
But if he decided to take a soak, the claw-foot tub was like the one in Aunt Myrt’s old-fashioned bathroom, so it would accommodate his length. For now, though, he wanted a shower. He twisted the knobs until the water temperature satisfied him—the hotter the better—then ste
pped into the center of a clear plastic circular curtain that protected the walls from spatters. He had to arch backward to fit beneath the rain-shower nozzle, but the water flowed hot the entire fifteen minutes of his shower and felt good.
He shaved, smirking at himself as he did so. Those Duck Dynasty guys had nothing on some of the Amish men he’d seen. Maybe he’d let his whiskers grow, too, while he was here so he’d fit in better. Nah. A beard wouldn’t be enough to make him fit. When he’d scraped his face as smooth as he could get it, considering his thick, dark whiskers, he splashed on spicy aftershave and then dug through his suitcase. He chose a deep plum shirt similar in color to the one the helpful boy had worn yesterday and a pair of denim jeans absolutely nothing like the boy’s homemade, suspendered britches. The shirt was pretty wrinkled from its journey, but he gave it several sharp snaps and managed to work out the worst of the creases.
As he dressed, he glanced at the bureau lurking in the corner of the sleeping area. He should probably put his clothes in it rather than leaving them in the suitcase. Maybe later today. Or tomorrow. Aunt Myrt’s voice tiptoed through his memory. “Procrastination is just a fancy word for lazy. Laziness isn’t a worthwhile trait. Don’t put off for tomorrow what you can do today.” With a sigh he yanked open the drawers and transferred his clothing, then plunked the suitcase in the corner.
He shook his head and said with a light chuckle, “There ya go, Aunt Myrt.” The sound of his voice startled him. He’d never spoken to an empty room before. Maybe the silence of the place was doing weird things to him. Rather than examining himself, he tugged socks and shoes over his feet and headed across the yard for the door Alexa had indicated would be open when he was ready for coffee. Caffeine ought to chase the weirdness out of him.
He moved with wide, eager strides across the dewy yard. A sloping concrete slab almost creamy in its newness led to the screened porch door, and inside the porch he located the door for the kitchen. It had to be the kitchen door based on the good smells seeping from behind it. His nose detected cinnamon, sausage, coffee … a tantalizing combination. His stomach growled and saliva pooled under his tongue in anticipation. Maybe he’d ask if he could be served up right away instead of waiting another fifteen minutes ’til it was eight o’clock.
He gave the square etched-glass window on the door a few taps with his knuckles before pushing it open. The kitchen was empty save for the wonderful aromas, but he heard voices from somewhere in the house. So, feeling a bit like an intruder, he moved past the warm kitchen through a short hallway lined with cupboards from floor to ceiling and stepped into a good-sized dining room, where a table big enough to seat at least a dozen people lurked in the middle of the hardwood floor.
Alexa sat at the head of the table. She glanced at him, her face flooded with pink, and she lurched to her feet. “Mr. Forrester … good morning.”
Two men—one older, one who looked a little younger than Briley—and a gray-haired woman sat on opposite sides at one end of the table. Based on their clothes, Briley surmised they were Mennonite. Alexa’s family, maybe? The men turned backward in their chairs to peek briefly at Briley. Each gave a nod of greeting, then focused again on the contents of their plates. He couldn’t blame them. Whatever they were eating smelled great. The older woman held her fork motionless and appraised him with a steady look. A slight smile curved her lips, but he sensed she was taking stock of him. He fought the urge to fidget.
He covered his unease by aiming a smile at Miss Zimmerman. “I know I’m a little early, but you said you’d have coffee ready, so …”
She tossed her napkin onto the table and gestured to the chair next to the older woman. Silverware rolled up in a green cloth napkin and a mug were already in place. “Please have a seat and I’ll get your plate and some juice. The coffeepot is there on the sideboard, along with cream and sugar. Just help yourself.” She scurried out of the room with her ponytail bouncing on her spine.
Briley sauntered around the table—it was a fairly long walk, given the length of the table and the size of the room—and hooked the mug with one finger. Making it spin like a pistol, he moved to the sideboard and then stilled the mug’s rotation with a clamp of his hand. He set the mug gently on the wood top. No sense in scratching things up if he could avoid it. Although he’d distinctly heard conversation when he came in, no one spoke now. The scrape of forks on plates seemed extremely loud in the otherwise quiet room. Were the trio at the table watching him? He chose not to look. He filled his mug to the brim and raised it for a sip. Strong and flavorful with a rich, almost nutty aftertaste. Perfect.
Smacking his lips in satisfaction, he turned toward the table. At the same time, Alexa bustled through the doorway with a glass of pulpy orange juice—fresh squeezed?—and a plate so filled with food he couldn’t even see the pattern around the edges. She followed him to his chair and set the plate in front of him, careful not to brush his arm as she leaned in.
“There you are. Would you like ketchup or some hot sauce for your casserole? I used spicy sausage, but one man’s ‘spicy’ is another man’s ‘mild.’ ”
Briley glanced across the table to the other men’s plates and noted they hadn’t added anything to theirs. He presumed that meant it would be flavorful enough. “No, thanks. This looks great. Thanks, Miss Zimmerman.”
With another quavery smile, she backed away and returned to her chair. She sat and placed her napkin in her lap, but she didn’t lift her fork. “Mr. Forrester, let me introduce you to my grandmother, Mrs. Zimmerman, and our other guests. Joe Brungardt and his son Steven are from Sommerfeld, Kansas.” She turned to the pair of men. “Mr. Forrester lives in Chicago. He’s a newspaper reporter.”
He was actually a tabloid reporter, but he wouldn’t correct her. He extended his hand across the table. “Hello. Very nice to meet you.”
The father rose from his chair to shake Briley’s hand, but the son only bobbed his head in greeting.
Briley shifted his attention to Alexa’s grandmother. Instead of a dining room chair, she sat in a wheelchair. The new-looking ramps in the front and back suddenly held great meaning, and an unexpected wave of sympathy struck him. He offered her his most charming smile—the one Aunt Myrt had bemoaned could melt butter. “It’s nice to meet you as well, Mrs. Zimmerman. You have a beautiful home.”
“Thank you.” Her words were polite, but her eyes held apprehension. “It would only be a plain-looking farmhouse were it not for Alexa. She gave the house a makeover for my birthday and then set to work fixing things up in here and turning what used to be the summer kitchen into a cottage. Now everything looks like new.”
Briley took a bite of the casserole. He chewed slowly, savoring the blend of flavors, then swallowed and wiped his mouth. “Obviously your granddaughter is a woman of many talents. A decorator, a gourmet cook, already operates her own business … What else do you excel in, Miss Zimmerman?”
Alexa’s cheeks blazed pink. She rose jerkily, blinking rapidly in the Brungardts’ direction. “Mr. Brungardt, I see your plate is empty. Would you like another serving? There’s plenty left.” The man nodded, and Alexa took his plate and disappeared into the kitchen.
Briley forked another bite of casserole to keep from chuckling. Her pretense of caring for the other guests hadn’t fooled him. He’d been around females enough to know when one found him attractive. Most young women preened or openly flirted. Alexa, either shy or unaccustomed to social interaction, did neither. Wouldn’t it be fun to break down her barriers? Now that he’d figured out the us indicated her and her grandmother—and of course he should have surmised she was single when she referred to herself as miss—she was fair game.
He’d have to be cautious, though. The grandmother’s legs might not work, but he suspected nothing was wrong with her vision. Or her senses. He could tell she’d already pegged him as untrustworthy, the same way a lot of older people did when they looked at his shadow of dark whiskers, spiked hair, and leather jacket. He might have some
trouble winning this one over. “You’ve got to fit in if you want them to open up to you.” Len’s warning rang through his mind. It wouldn’t be nearly as much fun, but he’d behave himself.
Alexa returned with a plate heaping with casserole and a face empty of the pretty blush. Breakfast continued with soft chatter among the two guests—from Summer’s Field, was it?—and the Zimmerman women. Briley didn’t intrude upon the conversation. Listening with a reporter’s ear, he searched for any tidbits that might find their way into his article. To his disappointment, nothing of merit arose.
When the older Brungardt had finished his second serving, he pushed his plate aside. “That was very good, Miss Zimmerman. If you wouldn’t mind writing down the recipe, I will take it home to share with my wife. I think it would be a good one to have at our fellowship breakfasts.”
Briley perked up. “Fellowship breakfasts?”
Mrs. Zimmerman answered. “Our church membership often gathers together for meals. We share food and our concerns and the things that give us reason to celebrate. We’re very much like a big family.” She paused and tipped her head, making one of the ribbons from her cap crunch against the flowered shoulder of her homemade dress. “Do you come from a big family, Mr. Forrester?”
Briley broke off a chunk from his baked apple. “No, ma’am.” He stuffed the apple into his mouth.
The elder Brungardt turned to his son. “Are you finished with your breakfast?”
“Yes.”
“Let’s get our things and head to the farmstead, then.”
“Yes, sir.”
Briley observed the younger man out of the corner of his eye. He was so polite. So serious. Maybe even a little resigned.
Mrs. Zimmerman said, “My son doesn’t plan to meet you at the property until after lunch. You can stay here and relax until then, if you like.”
When Grace Sings Page 4