by Emma Miller
She went down the hall to the gift shop, where Mary Aaron was rearranging a display of hand-sewn baby dresses and infant caps. “Have the girls all gone?” she asked, referring to the young Amish women who cleaned for her.
Mary Aaron nodded. “Ada told them they could go.”
“That’s fine. I just . . . I think I’ll call upstairs and check on Mrs. Morris. I haven’t seen her since yesterday morning. I hope she’s not ill.”
“I’m sure she’s fine. You probably just missed her.”
Rachel returned to the office and used the office phone to call upstairs. There was no way she wanted to give Mrs. Morris or any other guest access to her personal cell number. Certainly not with the amount of squirrels on the property.
Mrs. Morris answered on the third ring, her tone low and subdued.
Rachel pictured the tall, elegantly dressed woman with the steel-gray hair, pale gray eyes, and carefully applied, thick makeup. She was all angles and sharp elbows, a woman that it was impossible to imagine ever being a rosy-cheeked child.
“This is Rachel, your host. I was just checking on you. I didn’t see you this morning. I wanted to be sure you were okay.”
“A little under the weather, is all.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. Did you have lunch?” When the reply was negative, Rachel offered to bring her up a tray. “I have some lovely chicken vegetable soup.”
“Thank you. That would be kind of you. And would it be too much to ask for a cup of Earl Gray and some saltine crackers?”
“Certainly,” Rachel responded, genuinely concerned. “Just give me a minute to heat everything. Would you like a sandwich? I have egg salad or ham.”
“Don’t make a fuss. It’s enough that you’re providing room service. Either is fine.”
A short time later, Rachel had Mrs. Morris seated at the table in her guest room with a fresh table runner and the promised lunch. “Do you mind if I stay and visit a while?” Rachel asked.
“Please.” The older woman indicated the chair opposite her at the table.
Rachel took the seat. A copy of the King James Bible lay on the nightstand, but otherwise, the room was immaculate. Not a lamp or pillow was out of place, though the blinds were all drawn. Despite the white plaster walls, deep windowsills, braided rug, and the colorful painting of a farm meadow in springtime, there was an atmosphere of sadness.
Rachel wondered how Mrs. Morris could see the offensive squirrels outside with the room shuttered and semidark. “I’m sorry you couldn’t join us at church last night,” Rachel said when the woman didn’t ask her to leave. “The music was beautiful.”
“I didn’t feel up to it.” She picked at her egg salad sandwich. “I’ve not been my best this last year.” She looked up and her gaze locked with Rachel’s. “I feel I need to apologize. My physician has ordered a rather strong medication, and I sometimes get disturbing thoughts.” She faltered and then went on. “I sometimes say foolish things.” She rubbed her hands together, and Rachel noticed how thin she was. “It sounds silly for me to admit it, but I . . . I’m afraid of squirrels. My brother had one as a pet when I was five and it bit me rather badly.”
“That would frighten anyone,” Rachel replied.
“My parents were out of town, and my nanny took me to the hospital to be stitched up.” Mrs. Morris held out a trembling hand, showing a thick white scar that twisted one pale finger. “It bled, of course, and it was painful. But I think, most of all, it was the hospital and nurses who frightened me. I was a shy child, and I wanted my mother.”
Mrs. Morris gripped her fingers and gave a half-smile. “It sounds silly, I know, but to this day, I have nightmares about squirrels, very large ones.”
Rachel made a soothing reply. “Maybe you’d prefer a room at the back of the house. One without oak trees outside the window? There’s a beautiful view of the Amish farm country.”
“No. This is the room I always stay in. I feel comfortable here. I like things to stay the same.” She sighed. “But they never do, do they?”
Rachel nodded sympathetically. As the woman rambled on, Rachel wondered if she was in poor health. Clearly, she was lonely and needed someone to listen to her, but Mrs. Morris was a long way from the grouch that she and Mary Aaron sometimes secretly poked fun at. Rachel couldn’t help feeling a little ashamed of herself. As an innkeeper, it was her duty to see to the welfare of her guests. Why hadn’t she noticed Mrs. Morris’s frailty before?
“I come here for the peace and quiet. I have a lovely apartment in a nice complex in Philadelphia.” She took a spoonful of the vegetable soup. “Delicious.”
“Do you have family?” Rachel asked when silence stretched between them.
“A niece in Seattle, and one son. But we’re . . . estranged.” Mrs. Morris glanced up again, and Rachel sensed that it took a great deal of effort to hold back tears. “We . . . we haven’t spoken in years—my son and I. My niece is pleasant enough, but we aren’t really close. Cards at Christmas, that sort of polite but distant relationship. A sweet girl, really, but quite involved in her own life, as she should be.”
“I’m so sorry,” Rachel murmured. “It must be awful for you being . . . separated from your son. Is he your only child?”
Mrs. Morris nodded. “Do you have children?”
Rachel shook her head. “My fiancé and I are going to be married in a couple of weeks.”
“I hope you are happy together. And if you do have children, cherish them. And don’t try to mold them into someone you think they should be.”
Rachel sat quietly. Sometimes it was better not to speak but to let someone else do so. Usually, people felt the need to fill the silence, and it seemed that was true with Mrs. Morris because soon she began to talk again.
“My husband worked long hours. He was never home weekends or holidays; his law firm always came first. It was important to him to bring in a substantial income, but the price was that I raised my Bruce practically alone. Chicken pox, strep throat, broken arm, always I was the one who sat up all night with our son. We lost my husband when Bruce was fourteen, but I saw that he went to the best schools, received an Ivy League education.”
“You must have been proud of him.”
“I was. Am. Bruce was always at the top of his class. But as soon as he finished his residency, he left for India to work with the poorest of the poor.” She closed her eyes and winced, then pressed her stomach.
“Are you in pain?” Rachel asked, getting to her feet.
“It will pass,” she said. “I took my pills just before you came up.” Mrs. Morris inhaled slowly. “Please, I must be keeping you from something important. I’m sure you have more to do than to listen to the rantings of an old woman.”
Rachel sat down again, wondering what illness Mrs. Morris was suffering from. “Nothing more important than being here and sharing tea with you. But you don’t look well. We have a good doctor here in Stone Mill. I could call—”
“No, thank you, but I have quite enough physicians already.” Her chin firmed. “I’m dying, my dear. Rather sooner than I’d hoped.”
Rachel was taken by surprise by the announcement. “Are . . . are you certain that there isn’t something more that can be done? Specialists? Second opinion?”
“Long past that. Now drink your tea.” She offered that half-smile again. “I’ve been to Sloan Kettering. I’ve done treatments, and we’ve exhausted all avenues. Don’t look so stricken. Death comes to all of us. It’s just my time.”
“Oh, Mrs. Morris, I’m so sorry,” Rachel said. She could feel her throat constrict. In a moment, she’d be crying. “If there’s anything I can do—”
“You are doing something. You’re listening to me. No one wants to listen, especially when it concerns death. That’s a taboo subject in America.” She winced again and bit her lower lip. “I don’t know why I’m pouring out my personal troubles to a perfect stranger, but it seems I am.” She took another mouthful of the soup. “This is very good
. It’s difficult to find things that tempt my appetite. You can see that my clothes are falling off me. Nothing fits properly. The doctor wants me to drink protein shakes for athletes and formula for old people.” She chuckled and took a little more soup.
“You were telling me about your son, Bruce,” Rachel said gently.
Mrs. Morris nodded. “Yes, I was, wasn’t I? Such foolishness that we argued. I thought he was rebelling against his upbringing, my decisions, me. I accused him of holding money in disdain because he’d never had to work for it. We argued bitterly. I told him that he’d been given everything.” She shook her head again. “I was so certain that I was right, that I knew more of what he should do with his life than he did. I even told him that he owed me, his widowed mother, and that he was being selfish.” She glanced away. “But he insisted God called him to devote his life to the needy.”
“Some are called to serve,” Rachel ventured. “I think if my child made such a sacrifice, I would miss him terribly, but I would be proud.” And I’d make the effort to go wherever he was to see him, she thought, but wouldn’t say out loud.
Mrs. Morris sniffed and tears began to run down her cheeks. “I don’t know why I’m telling you this, except that maybe . . . tomorrow is my birthday. That’s why I came to Stone Mill. I couldn’t face being alone there in that apartment thinking of how my own selfishness ruined my life and kept me from the one person I loved more than anyone in the world.”
Rachel couldn’t imagine a woman her age being alone. Among the traditional Amish, families were huge and they were always together on the Sabbath, birthdays, and holidays. No one would leave an elderly relative to live without support and care, especially at the end of life.
Rachel rose and put her arms around her guest.
For a few moments, Mrs. Morris’s body quivered with sobs and she wept against Rachel’s shoulder, and then finally she regained control. “What you must think of me,” she said. “But I’m terrified. I’ve made such a mess of my life and now I have to go home and make . . . arrangements for my own funeral.” Her chin quivered and tears welled up in her eyes again. “I’m tired and I’m sick and I want to see my son. And . . . I know it’s too late to make up for all those lost years.”
Rachel patted her shoulder. “It’s never too late to ask for forgiveness and to be forgiven.” She glanced at the Bible on the nightstand. “Have you prayed about it?”
“I’ve tried, but . . .” She drew in a deep breath. “Why would God help me when I caused this grief myself? I returned my son’s letters unopened; I refused to attend his wedding when he married a foreign woman of another religion, and I’ve never seen my two grandchildren. All these years, all these hurt feelings and bitter words, it’s too late to make things right.”
“With God, all things are possible. And I know that your son and daughter-in-law would love to hear from you.”
“You sound like my minister.” Mrs. Morris sniffed. “You may be right. I will pray on it.” She stiffened. “But now, if you don’t mind, I’d like the opportunity to regain my dignity and sample that pie you brought up with my sandwich.”
Rachel handed her a tissue and the woman blew her nose. “Would you like me to stay for a while?” Rachel asked.
“Don’t you have something worthwhile to do? This place can’t run itself.”
Rachel smiled. “If you want me here, there’s nothing I’d rather do than stay with you.”
“No, you’ve done enough. And I’ve cried enough.” She made a shooing motion with her hand. “Go along and leave a silly old woman to finish her pie in peace.”
Chapter 9
The following day, Rachel turned onto the gravel road that led to Charles Baker’s property. A mixture of sleet and rain peppered off her windshield. She’d already been to the Hertzler farm, hoping to talk with Rosh. She wanted to know how he found out about Daniel and whether or not he decided to tell Mary Rose or if someone sent him to tell. Mary Aaron had been checking around and no one knew anyone other than Moses, Lemuel, and Joe who had been hunting on that side of Blue Mountain. But word had passed quickly through the woods when Daniel was found, and several Amish men had gathered around his body before someone called the police.
Rachel was still wondering about the discrepancy concerning the day Moses was arrested and how Rosh knew the police were at the farm. She knew it was probably a pointless detail, but it was still nagging her. Her questions went unanswered, though, because no one came to the door at the Hertzler farm, and there was no sign of a family buggy.
Rachel had also wanted to speak with Alma and Mary Rose to tell them that she had received the news that Irene Glidden had agreed to represent Moses and he would at least allow her to be present for his hearing. There was no one at home there, either. She hoped that her attempt to find Charles Baker would be a little more fruitful. Otherwise, she would have wasted an entire morning.
As concerned as she was about Moses and the ordeal he faced, Rachel couldn’t get Mrs. Morris off her mind. As an innkeeper, she had to draw a line between caring and interfering, but she wished there were some way she could contact the woman’s son. Surely, if he knew the truth about his mother’s health, he would let go of the years of contention and call her before it was too late. Rachel had prayed about Mrs. Morris last night, and she’d even spoken with Evan about her by phone.
He’d suggested she try to convince Mrs. Morris to talk with Reverend Hawkins, the new minister at their church. She might not be a Methodist, but the young cleric had a gift of providing comfort to those at the end of their lives. Although she’d only known Reverend Hawkins a few months, he was going to officiate at her wedding. As sorry as she was to see their old minister leave, Rachel had liked Reverend Hawkins from the day of his first sermon. Not only was he a compassionate and intelligent person, he was an excellent listener. She was sure that Leroy, as he’d asked his community to call him, had a true calling for the church, and best of all, he did it with a gentle handshake and warm laughter.
That morning, Mrs. Morris had come down for breakfast and said she was feeling a little better. There had been no reference to the conversation she and Rachel had shared in her room. Other guests had been present, so Rachel hadn’t brought up the possibility of her talking with Reverend Hawkins at breakfast. However, she’d checked in on Mrs. Morris later and offered to set up a meeting with the minister. Since Leroy’s wife taught preschool, he often had their six-month-old baby daughter with him, and little Sophie Marie’s sweet face and adorable antics were wonderful for making friends out of strangers. Mrs. Morris said she would think on the meeting.
Rachel was pulling into Baker’s dirt lane when her cell phone vibrated in her pocket. She braked to a stop and checked the caller ID before answering. “Hey.”
“Hey. Where are you?” Mary Aaron asked.
“Almost to Charles Baker’s.”
“Why didn’t you wait for me? I don’t like you going out there by yourself. What if he’s dangerous? I’ve been asking around. Most of the Amish think he’s crazy, or at least crazier than most of the English.”
“You had to pick up that new pottery consignment to list on the website, and I wanted to get this interview over with. I really need to do what I told Alma I would do . . . and Evan,” she added. “Which is look into this mess and then be done with it. I’m getting married in a little more than two weeks, Mary Aaron.”
“I know you are. And it’s good of you to do this for Alma. For the whole community.”
Rachel sighed, hoping she hadn’t been too short with her cousin. “I also wanted to speak with the Studers and Rosh Hertzler, but no one was at either farm, so I thought while I was in this neck of the woods, I’d take care of talking to Baker. I spoke with Evan about him. I’ll be fine.”
“You told Evan you were going to Baker’s place to talk to him?”
“Of course not,” Rachel answered, her brow furrowing. “He’d tell me not to go and then I’d either have to go against the wish
es of the man I’m about to marry or I couldn’t go. Then I’d be breaking my promise to Alma. Anyway, Evan said that despite the complaints of his neighbors, Baker hasn’t hurt anyone. He doesn’t even have a criminal record.”
Evan had also told her that Charles Baker had been a soldier who’d served in Afghanistan, possessed an arsenal of weapons, and should be approached with caution. But none of those facts were likely to put her cousin at ease, so Rachel didn’t tell her.
“Maybe he hasn’t hurt anyone yet,” Mary Aaron replied. “But I don’t trust him. It isn’t natural, living all alone and boarded up like that. Don’t take any chances.”
“I won’t. When have you ever known me not to—”
“Be safe? All the time,” Mary Aaron interrupted. “Remember New Orleans?”
Rachel grimaced. “If I remember correctly, it wasn’t just me. You were there. Who jumped out of the car and took off down Bourbon Street in the middle of the night? You could have been seriously hurt.”
“Or you could have. That’s why I’m telling you to be careful. Better yet, wait there until I can drive out and go with you. I’m sure I can borrow Hulda’s car.”
“I’m already here. I’ll be fine. Take care of the gift shop and the guests,” Rachel replied. “I should be back within the hour.”
“If you’re not, I’m coming after you. And I might be bringing the police with me,” Mary Aaron said. “Or at least two of your brothers. And leave your phone on. At least then we’ll be able to use it to find your body.”
Rachel chuckled, amused as much by Mary Aaron’s tech savvy as she was by the joke. “Don’t worry,” she said. “I’ll be fine. And I’ll make certain that Charles Baker knows that if he makes me uneasy in any way, my cop fiancé will be there in a matter of minutes.”