by Adina Senft
What should she do? She wasn’t supposed to be seen—she was the Maud. Ginny was the public face of the Rose Arbor Inn. If Dat found out she was putting herself on public view, he’d be upset, since he had pretty strong feelings about a woman’s place.
The doorbell rang again.
She couldn’t very well leave them standing on the step with their luggage, now, could she? What kind of a welcome would that be at a bed-and-breakfast with a reputation for hospitality?
Priscilla touched the three straight pins in her Kapp, smoothed down her apron, and opened the door. “Hello,” she said. “Welcome to the Rose Arbor Inn.”
The man in the business suit smiled and his wife dragged her gaze off the riot of climbing roses over her head. “There really is a rose arbor,” she said, following her husband in.
“It’d be false advertising if there wasn’t, Mom.”
Priscilla turned at the sound of a younger voice and looked straight into the greenest, liveliest eyes she’d ever seen.
“Hey,” the young man said. “Wow, are you for real?”
She couldn’t have replied if her life depended on it. She’d never seen anyone so handsome—better looking than Simon, even, and that was saying something. His hair was the color of dark chocolate, and was shaggy, like it hadn’t seen scissors in a few months. It hung in those eyes and emphasized the clean angle of his jaw.
“Don’t be rude, Justin,” his mother told him, then said to Priscilla, “We’re the Parkers from Connecticut. I booked the Peace and the Sonya Rooms for two weeks. No cell phones, no computers, no video games. We’re going to have an unplugged family vacation—right, boys?”
Silence greeted what Priscilla thought was a perfectly reasonable plan.
“J-Just let me make sure,” she finally whispered, when it was clear no one was going to speak, and slipped past Justin to look at the reservation. Sure enough, there they were, booked almost to the end of June. “Ja—I mean, yes, it’s right. Let me show you upstairs.”
She’d heard Ginny say this often enough. But she still felt awkward as she preceded them up the steep staircase, as though at any second, someone—like Justin—would discover she had no business taking over and would demand to speak to the real innkeeper. “Mind your heads,” she said as they passed under the lintel to the second floor. “It’s low here because people were shorter in 1813.”
“Fascinating,” Mrs. Parker said. “I’ve been looking forward to this for weeks. Where’s the nearest farm that sells quilts, miss?”
“My name is Priscilla,” she said shyly. “And I believe Ginny—that is, Mrs. Hochstetler—has a booklet on the table downstairs that shows all the places in the district where you can buy quilts. We get a lot of quilters here.”
“Do you make them, too?”
Priscilla opened the door of the Peace Room and showed her in. “I worked on that one.” She nodded at the bed and the woman made a beeline for it. “But our bishop’s wife, Evie, she pieced it.”
“Kentucky Storm?”
“Ja.” Priscilla smiled at her. “You know the pattern?”
“I sure do. And I know how complex it is, especially when—”
“Whoa, Isabel, easy does it,” her husband said, coming through the door sideways with both rolling suitcases. “Let us get our bags in the room, at least, before you head off down the road like a racehorse, okay?”
Priscilla hovered in the doorway, unsure how extensive a tour of the room should be—or if she should even give one.
“Don’t forget about us.”
She whirled to see Justin lounging against the banister. “Oh, I’m sorry, I haven’t—”
“Let’s go to our room.” He raised an eyebrow and grinned at her.
“Justin, stop teasing,” his mother called from inside the en suite bathroom. “You’re in the Sonya. Where’s Eric?”
“Here.” A younger boy wearing a hoodie and a sulky expression stepped out of the shadows behind his brother. Priscilla wondered how she’d managed to miss him when the registration book had plainly said there were four people in the Parker party.
Justin caught her eye. “Well?”
Blushing, and annoyed at herself for doing it, Priscilla pushed open the door to the Sonya Room. It held a pair of twin beds on either side of a three-light window that had a nice view of the old covered bridge. “This is yours.”
“Nice. Too bad it’s pink.”
There was nothing pink about it. Wedgewood blue walls with cream drapes and pillows and—oh, the quilts. “That isn’t pink. It’s peach, like the Sonya rose. There’s not very much of it, but it matches that picture, and it’s why she calls this room the—”
“Sonya. I get it. What did you say your name was?”
“Priscilla.”
“Is there a Priscilla rose?”
She mustn’t look at him. She could count on one hand the number of Englisch boys she’d ever spoken to, and none of them strung as many lines as this one. She definitely preferred the younger boy, who simply wheeled in his suitcase and occupied one of the beds without saying a word. “If there is, I’ve never seen one. Enjoy your stay.”
“Will I see you around?”
What did he mean? Why would he care? “Maybe. I work here.”
There was that wicked grin again. “So I will, then.”
“The guests don’t usually see us. They’re here to see the sights.”
“You’re a sight. I’d like to see more of you.”
His brother sighed. “Justin, give it a rest.”
She had to get out of here. What did the Englisch say? “Have a nice day.”
And before any more outrageous things came out of his mouth, she fled down the stairs. Fortunately, Ginny had an open-door policy, and never minded guests coming and going or even being on their own in the house. Priscilla grabbed her handbag out of the hall closet, left the house, and emerged from under the rose-covered arch to the parking lot to see Ginny getting out of her car.
“Hi, Priscilla,” she said. “Is this the Parkers’ car?”
“Ja, they just arrived. I got them settled in the Peace and the Sonya, like it said in the book.”
“Did you offer them tea?”
Priscilla clapped a hand to her mouth. “I forgot.”
“Never mind, not your job. Thanks for stepping in for me.” She came around the front of the car, her picnic basket in one hand. “I kidnapped Henry Byler and made him take an hour for lunch…and it turned into two.” She checked her watch. “Oops. Almost three.”
Aha. So that was the reason for the bright outfit. “Did you have fun?”
Ginny’s warm eyes seemed to darken. “I did. But I don’t know if that man knows how to have fun. At least he can hold up his end of a conversation, so that’s a plus. Do you know him very well?”
Pris shook her head. “He seems nice.” If Ginny didn’t know about the hoedown fire, she wasn’t about to tell her. The fewer adults besides Henry and the sheriff and her father who knew about that, the better.
Ginny gazed at the roses, nodding in the warm June breeze. “I don’t know what it is about him,” she said, almost to herself. “Maybe I have a rescue complex.” Then, as Priscilla stared at her, wondering what on earth she was talking about, she gave herself a little shake. “Never mind. Are you off? Want a ride home?”
“No, thanks. Mrs. Parker probably needs that cup of tea more. Besides, it’s not far to walk.”
“See you next time, then. It’ll be busy this weekend—we have a full house, thank the good Lord.”
The shortest way home was by the path along Willow Creek, a path worn into the bank by the feet of many Youngie who didn’t have access to their own buggies, hikers, and the occasional fisherman looking to pull a brook trout out of the riffles for his supper. The creek cut across lots, avoiding the busy corner where the highway intersected with the county road, which Priscilla would just as soon not have to negotiate, especially as tourist season was beginning to swell the traffic
into a flood.
She’d barely gone fifty feet when someone behind her called her name.
A male someone. She turned to see Justin Parker coming along the path, and when he saw he had her attention, he lifted a negligent hand in a wave.
Oh, good grief. Just what she didn’t need any more of.
Priscilla whirled and headed off down the uneven path at a healthy clip. If she could get around the first bend, she could dodge through the hanging branches of the big weeping willow and climb up to the road without him seeing where she’d gone. She’d take the traffic on the highway any day over more of his jokes and insinuations that she only half understood.
But she underestimated both his surefootedness on the creek bank, and what was clearly his determination to escape day one of the “unplugged” family holiday his mother had planned.
“Priscilla! Wait up!”
She wasn’t going to make it, so with a sigh, she turned to see what he wanted.
“What’s the hurry?” He wasn’t even breathing hard. He jammed his hands in the pockets of his jeans and grinned, as if he’d caught her hanging around on purpose hoping to catch a glimpse of him. “Aren’t you done for the day?”
“No.” She began to walk again. Maybe if she kept her replies short and her pace fast, he’d get the hint.
Unfortunately, his stride was longer than hers, and even though the path narrowed and widened depending on rocks and bends in the creek’s course, he still kept up. “Do you have another job to go to?”
“Ja.”
“Where’s that?”
“At home.”
“Your family have some kind of business there?”
Were all Englisch boys this nosy? “I have business there. I have chores to do.”
“What kind of chores?”
What a question! “The same kind your mother has, I suppose.”
“Oh, like picking up the dry cleaning and ordering takeout and telling the cleaner which rooms to do?”
That put a hitch in her thinking, but only for a second. “No, like sewing and mending and washing the clothes, and cooking the dinner, and cleaning the rooms myself.”
“Yourself? You do all that by yourself?”
“No, my two sisters help. And Mamm. She does the most of all of us.”
They passed under the willow, and bars of sunlight flickered over his face. He stopped and looked up, into the golden heart of the tree, and for a moment, thank goodness, stopped asking questions. The chuckling and endless whisper of the creek flooded in to fill the silence, and over in one of the Byler boys’ fields, a three-note call sounded.
“What was that?”
“What, the bird? That was a bobwhite. He’s probably calling for a mate.”
“Smart guy. So no takeout or dry cleaning, huh?”
She was finally goaded to look him in the eye. “How much do you know about our ways? Are you really asking me this because you want to learn, or are you just trying to get a rise out of me?”
He blinked at her for a moment before the smiling veneer flowed over his face again. That shield of “I’ve got this under control” that he seemed to wear as comfortably as he wore his gray T-shirt and black jeans. But just for a moment, she’d made it crack with her honesty. Maybe he wasn’t used to being called out on all the silly things he said.
“Oh, I want to learn,” he replied. He touched the sleeve of her work dress, pleated, not gathered, into the arm hole, as the Ordnung said. “Especially about you.”
“There is nothing to learn.” She took off again. At this rate, she’d be home in ten minutes. She had to get rid of him before anyone saw them. Dat would have a fit if he got wind of it. “I’m not special.”
“I bet you are.”
“I hope not.” She didn’t slow her pace, or waste breath trying to think of ways to soften her words. “If I thought I was, that would be prideful, and pride is a sin.”
“There’s no such thing as sin.”
She choked on her own breath for a second, before she got it back enough to set him straight. “You’re wrong. How do you explain all the bad things in the world?”
But he only shrugged. “People do bad things.”
“And that’s called sin.”
“Semantics. So what do you do for fun around here?”
She’d better look up what semantics were in the dictionary when she got home. There was nothing more irritating than for a know-it-all to actually know something.
“You could go to the water park. Or the mini-golf. There’s a quilt museum in town your mother would probably like. And—”
“I meant you, Priscilla Rose. What do you do for fun? Do you have a boyfriend?”
Well, this was the limit! She had made a mistake even to talk to this boy. They were nearly to the bridge on County Road 26. She had to lose him, and quick.
“That’s none of your business.”
“So you don’t.”
“I do, too!”
“Where is he? Is he going to take a buggy whip to me for talking to his girl?”
“He would not do that. We do not believe in violence.”
“So he won’t mind me talking to you?”
Here they were at the bridge, and she had reached the end of her patience. “I mind you talking to me. I’m sure your parents are wondering where you are.”
“I’m sure they’re not.”
“Go away and stop bothering me,” she said in rapid Deitsch, and scrambled up the bank like a rabbit. When she crossed the bridge, she did not look down, but she had the distinct feeling he was watching her.
Chapter 4
Sarah practically floated over to Jacob and Corinne’s on Friday night. A letter had come from Simon—only his second since he’d been in Colorado. But what made her happy was not so much the news it contained, which was much like Joe’s to Priscilla, but the simple fact that he was safe and well and able to do prosaic things like write letters. A letter meant a measure of normalcy in his life—paper, a pen, a quiet place. She could be grateful for that, even if the rest of his days were taken up with horses and chores and dealing with people he was never likely to meet here on the farm in Willow Creek. For one thing, around here, horses were meant to work—pulling buggies or plows or harrows—not to ride.
“When he gets back, he’ll be itching to ride Dulcie,” Caleb said as they climbed the steps to his grandparents’ kitchen door. “I wonder if they learn rope tricks out there?”
“The only thing he’ll be roping around here will be you.” Sarah grinned at her youngest, who was always in motion and often had to be roped in, and pushed open the door so that he could precede her.
He carried the big deep bowl of fresh-picked garden salad, with cucumbers, lettuce, raw peas, shredded carrot, sliced strawberries, and for a little surprise, even a few Johnny-jump-ups she’d found in the rockery. But what delighted her most was the cheerful, unexpected orange of the nasturtiums and calendula petals.
“You did it.” Amanda hung over the bowl for a moment, as if she could smell the flowers, before she took it from Caleb and set it in the middle of the dining table, which was set for sixteen.
“Ask and ye shall receive,” Sarah said with a smile. She knew all but one of the women in the kitchen from family gatherings, and the busy time before dishing up went quickly with introductions, catching up on family news, and hearing about the trip down, for which they’d hired a big van and a driver.
When Corinne began to mash the potatoes, she glanced around the room until she caught Sarah’s eye. “Liewi, would you go call the men in? It’ll take them longer to wash up than it will to get all this food on the table.”
Belatedly, Sarah realized that Caleb had handed over the salad and vanished in the direction of the barn, so they didn’t have him to send. “I’ll be right back.”
Her father-in-law was a prosperous and careful steward of the land—so much so that Joshua and Miriam had been able to build a home on the property, and Sarah’s l
ate husband, Michael, had been given five acres of his own when he had returned to the district after the death of his first wife and had courted and married Sarah. Since Michael hadn’t intended to farm, he was quite happy for his father and older brother to continue doing so for a third and fourth generation, and left his machine shop to pitch in and help during planting and harvest. That is, until the cancer had sent him home to God.
In the dark hours of the night, sometimes Sarah had to light a lamp, open her Bible, and remember that his spirit had been delivered to a better place, where there was no pain and no tears. The garden reminded her daily of God’s mercy, but during the first years, the Bible had been the authority she’d turned to, and found comfort there.
Sarah passed her mother-in-law’s enormous garden, which was becoming more Miriam and Amanda’s as Corinne got older. The barns and sheds were neatly painted white, the trim a decorous black, as were most of the homes and buildings in this district.
Just where the drive widened out so the buggies could turn around, and before the paddock where the horses grazed and the gate opened into the orchard, the men had drawn up chairs in a circle to visit and joke and make plans for their fields. Jacob waved as he saw her coming along the gravel drive.
She waved back, and called, “Dinner is ready—time to wash up.”
Jacob slapped his knees and got up, tossing a joke over his shoulder to the other men as they folded up the old wooden chairs that were too rickety to use in church, and took them into the barn. They straggled up to the house—her father-in-law, his oldest son Joshua and Joshua’s two boys, Caleb, Corinne’s cousin Ezekiel King, and a man she didn’t know. Was this the relative she’d mentioned before? The husband of one of the women in the kitchen?
But no, he had no beard. She looked away as Ezekiel caught up to her. “Sarah, it’s good to see you. Caleb tells me Simon is working in Colorado. How is he?”
She shook his hand. Zeke, according to Corinne, was the family jokester, so you never knew what he was up to. Every time Michael had talked about him, it had been with a reminiscent smile. “He’s well, Zeke. I just had a letter from him today, in fact—all about a trail ride with some Japanese businessmen.”