A Secret Identity (The Amish Farm Trilogy 2)

by Gayle Roper

  His shoulders relaxed and he opened his mouth to speak. I beat him to it.

  “But—and it’s a big but, at least to me—I have to make my own judgments. You have to give me that freedom. You want me to trust your instincts. Well, you have to trust mine too. You can’t decide unilaterally what’s good for me. Ever. If there is to be anything significant between us, you must be able to live with that truth.”

  Todd stared at our clasped hands and was silent for a few minutes. Then he nodded slowly. “Fair enough.”

  I smiled brilliantly at him. He was such a good guy.

  He didn’t smile back. “This trusting the other guy to make sound decisions isn’t easy for a pair of controllers like us, is it?”

  I looked up at the soaring hemlocks again. Little seeds. Little trusts. “No, but it’s necessary. That is,” and I swallowed hard, “if we want our friendship to go any further.”

  He looked me straight in the eye. “I want. I want very much.”

  My bones turned to liquid. “Me too,” I whispered. “Me too. But I’m not a controller. I’m the one Bentley who isn’t.”

  “Right,” he said on a laugh.

  I was about to protest, but his hug was warm and enveloping and I forgot. It was also over too soon. Slowly we walked hand-in-hand back toward the dinner tables and the other guests. As we moved toward the bar for another Perrier, Judge Wallace Marley Brubaker grabbed Todd’s arm.

  “Son,” the little man said, “I’ve been looking for you. I’ve got to tell you how impressed I was with your work on MacKenzie vs. MacKenzie Inc. Your brief was a masterful presentation of your arguments, very cogent and well-written.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Todd said. Pleasure oozed from his every pore. “Coming from you, that’s a great compliment.”

  The men began talking shop, and I stood patiently, hoping dinner would be served soon. Late dinners might be elegant, but the sound of my growling stomach indicated how long ago lunch had been. It also shattered any illusion I might hold that I was as genteel as the setting.

  “I’m afraid those two will be at it for some time, my dear. We might as well make the best of it.”

  I turned and found Mrs. Brubaker, pouter pigeon body corsetted and stuffed into a gown of the most lovely blue I’d seen in quite a while. Her blonde hair was fluffy and her gown too ruffled and frou-frou, but her eyes were intelligent and aware.

  “I’m Hannelore and he’s Wally,” she said, indicating the judge.

  I smiled, delighted that Hannelore was rescuing me. Now I wouldn’t have to look like Todd’s not-too-bright appendage for the duration of his conversation. “I’m Cara Bentley.”

  “And what do you do, Cara? I assume you have a profession? All the young women do these days.”

  “I’m a writer.”

  “Of what?”

  “Romances.”

  “Romances? I love romances.” She got a faraway look in her eyes, not uncommon with romance readers. Suddenly her eyes widened. “Cara Bentley?”

  I nodded.

  “Oh, my dear!” She giggled. “This is so exciting. Stay right here,” she ordered. “Don’t move. I’ll be right back.”

  When she returned, she had two women with her.

  “Judy, Pat, this is Cara Bentley.” She said it like I was a recently discovered, strange life form.

  Judy and Pat immediately grabbed my hand in succession and shook it vigorously.

  “It’s a pleasure,” Pat said.

  “A real pleasure,” Judy concurred.

  “We belong to a book club,” Hannelore explained.

  Pat nodded. “There are five others of us, but they’re not here.”

  “They’re not in the legal professions.” Judy obviously pitied them this lapse.

  “We meet every month,” Hannelore said. “And last month guess what book we discussed?”

  “As the Deer,” all three women said in unison.

  “And we loved it,” Judy said.

  “All except Mindy.” Pat made a face. “But Mindy never likes anything unless it’s so dark and obscure that you can’t understand it.”

  “I just finished So My Soul last week,” Hannelore said.

  “Me too,” Pat said. She was a handsome woman in her forties wearing a black number like Audrey Hepburn wore in Breakfast at Tiffany’s. “I want to know where you found the hero.”

  “You liked Scott?” I said. “Me too.”

  “But does he exist?” Pat asked. “Is there a Scott out there? I sure haven’t found him if there is.”

  “Pat’s single,” Hannelore said as if I couldn’t figure that out. “She’s a lawyer—a marvelous lawyer—and she scares most of the men away. Too strong.”

  “But I wouldn’t scare Scott,” Pat said, accepting Hannelore’s assessment of her without batting an eye. “That’s why I want to know if he even exists.”

  It was Hannelore who answered the question. “He exists,” she said emphatically. “But he’s already taken.”

  “Aren’t they always,” Judy said. Her hair was so black it was almost blue and she had the most vivid and unusual blue eyes I’d ever seen. She looked somewhat like a husky minus the tan markings. Her dress matched her eyes.

  “Judy’s a judge,” Pat said. “She’s been on the bench for five years now. She was married, but the jerk couldn’t stand her success and left her for a beautician.”

  “A beautician twenty years younger than me,” Judy added.

  “So you see why we want to know if Scott exists in real life,” Pat said.

  I never knew how to answer that question, especially when asked by mature, successful, professional women who should know better. Heroes were larger than life, magnifications of all the qualities we wanted or dreamed of in our men. They were stronger, more resilient, more understanding, and more sensitive. They were braver, wiser, more loving. They never got killed because, obviously, if they did, they couldn’t be the hero. And when the chips were down, they always came through for their women. In romances especially, heroes were way beyond mortal. They had to be for the happily ever after to be satisfying. Who would read a romance where the heroine, strong woman that she was, married a weak man?

  “I don’t know if Scott exists or not,” I said. At that moment Todd’s arm brushed my back as he gestured about something to Judge Brubaker. I smiled. “Real men tend to be human with flaws that require trust and understanding on the part of their women. But I guess we never live up to the heroines in romance novels either.”

  “I disagree,” Hannelore said.

  We all looked at her with her fifty-something body and her fluffy blonde curls.

  “You think we live up to the heroines?” Pat asked.

  “She says that because she’s never seen me when I wake up in the morning.” Judy made a face. “Bed head, bleary eyes, non compis mentis.”

  We all laughed.

  “I’m not talking about the heroines,” Hannelore said. “I’m talking about Scott. He exists. I know he does.” She swept her hand wide in her enthusiasm. “And there he is!”

  We turned en masse to follow her pointing finger, and there stood portly Judge Brubaker.

  “My Wally,” Hannelore said. “Scott in the flesh.”

  Judge Brubaker flushed though he had no idea why we were all staring at him. Hannelore went to him and kissed his cheek. Again he flushed, but he looked quite pleased with his wife as he slid his arm about her ample middle. They made me think of Mom and Pop, and I had to swallow the lump in my throat.

  “Beauty is certainly in the eye of the beholder,” Pat whispered in my ear. “But I’m still jealous that she even thinks he’s Scott.”

  “Of course there’s Todd.” Judy eyed him speculatively.

  “That there is.” I smiled at him. “And he comes pretty close.”

  “But he’s too young for us,” Pat said with a exaggerated sigh, grabbing Judy and pulling her away. Judy gave a small wave and the two women disappeared into the crowd.

&n
bsp; When it was finally time to sit down for dinner, Todd and I found our table. We had a pleasant, but uneventful meal making small talk with our table mates. The only time things got really interesting was when one of the wives confessed to liking romances, and she and I had a pleasant conversation that clearly bored or appalled everyone else.

  The candles on the tables, the fairy lights gleaming about the property, the women in formal dresses, and the men in tuxes gave the illusion of a more gracious, genteel era when one dressed for dinner each evening, ate multiple course meals served by retainers, and lingered over clever conversation instead of rushing away to the mall. I loved the glamour of it all and planned a scene in my next book where my heroine attended just such a gala.

  The waiter removed my dinner plate with the remains of chicken topped with crab imperial, green beans seasoned with bacon and a sweet/sour sauce, julienne potatoes, and grilled tomatoes. Unfortunately he stepped back at precisely the same time as the waiter at the table behind us. Their collision sent what was left of my dinner onto my lap.

  “Ack!” I stared at the stain spreading over my beautiful sunrise dress and thought I should have worn the old cream number I’d bought for last year’s Romance Writers of America convention. Its loss would have been no big deal.

  “I’m fine,” I hastened to assure everyone, especially the young man who had deposited the food on me. He looked stricken. “It’s okay. Really.”

  I mopped at the mess while Todd picked up my dish from the ground where it had bounced and swept the dinner debris off my lap back onto the plate. My romance-reading friend dunked her napkin in her water glass and handed it across the table to me. I dabbed a bit at the ugly blotch, but in the dimness I couldn’t see clearly.

  I stood. “I’ll just go up to the house and see if I can get something to put on this to keep the stain from setting.”

  “Soda water,” a lady suggested.

  Everyone nodded agreement at this positive recommendation, and I started across the lawn, making a detour to the bar for the soda water.

  We were seated at one of the tables furthest from the house. As I made my way through the company, I realized Todd was walking with me. He took my elbow and smiled at the people we passed, just like it was normal for his date to have big stains running down the front of her dress. I noticed Amos and Jessica spot us and felt warmed by their look of consternation at my ill fortune.

  “Will it come out?” Todd asked.

  I looked down and made a sad face. “I doubt it.”

  “But it’s such a beautiful dress.” He was genuinely distressed for me.

  “You just like it because it’s not beige,” I said.

  “No,” he said. “I like it because you’re in it.” And he tucked my arm tightly against his side.

  We went inside where I asked the first person we saw the way to the bathroom.

  “I think it’s down there,” the girl said vaguely. “But I’ve never been here before. I’m part of the caterer’s staff.”

  “I’ll find it,” I said with more confidence than I felt.

  “I’ll wait right here,” Todd said, sitting on a deacon’s bench in the front hall.

  After a couple of turns I found the powder room and went to work on my dress, not an easy task when the skirt was too slim to hold over the sink. By the time I was finished, I had a wet streak from waist to hem, sort of like a skunk’s stripe, only down my front instead of my back, deep orange instead of white, and made of water instead of fur. I wasn’t sure that the greasy blob from dinner wasn’t preferable, especially since it was probably still there, buried under all the wet.

  Shaking my head, I left the powder room and trekked down the dimly lit hall back to the front of the house.

  “Hey, Morgan! What are you doing? We’re waiting!”

  The voice was that of a young man, and the tone indicated that he was not very happy with Morgan.

  “Yo, Morgan! I’m talking to you, girl!”

  I couldn’t resist the impulse to glance over my shoulder and see who was yelling and whom he was yelling at.

  A very large but considerably younger version of Amos Yost was stalking down the hall toward me. Obviously he was the yeller. The problem was that I saw no yellee. Unless he was yelling at me? It certainly seemed so, the way he was glaring at me.

  “What are you planning to do, crash the party?” His voice got nastier.

  I looked up and down the hall again, but there was no one in sight but him and me.

  “Are you talking to me?” I asked hesitantly.

  He sneered at me. “Oh, that’s cute. Just who else would I be talking to? Do you see anyone else?” He grabbed for my arm.

  I jerked away and frowned at him. “Hands off, buddy!” I said in my best Bentley hauteur.

  When he stepped toward me, I stepped back and felt the wall behind me. I tried to slide along it, ready to call for Todd—scream for Todd if need be.

  The kid reached for me again, and as his hand closed over my arm, he froze. His eyes narrowed and he stared at me, looking me over from head to toe. I slid a step along the wall, uncomfortable under his scrutiny.

  “I don’t believe it,” he muttered. He looked flabbergasted.

  “What?” I asked in spite of myself.

  “Hey, Pip,” he yelled suddenly. “Come here! You gotta see this!”

  If he could call for reinforcements, so could I.

  “Hey, Todd,” I yelled. “Come here! Quick!”

  Another young man, presumably Pip, appeared behind my captor. He didn’t have the bulk or look of the one staring at me with unfriendly eyes. He had, in fact, a strong resemblance to Jessica Yost.

  “What do you want, Mick?” asked the newcomer. “Oh, you found her. It’s about time.”

  “Who’s he?” I asked the bigger kid. “Your brother?”

  I got no answer.

  “Come on, Morgan, you’re holding us up! And what are you wearing that ridiculous dress for?”

  “It’s not ridiculous,” I said, stung. “And I’m not Morgan.”

  I looked pointedly at my arm where Mick had it in a death grip. My skin around the edges of his hand was white from the pressure, and I thought that tomorrow I might well have a hand-shaped bruise. “Don’t you think it would be a good idea to let go of me?”

  “Oh. Right.” Mick released me just as Todd came into the hallway. He looked wonderful, my hero, though by now I didn’t think I needed rescuing. I’d figured out who I was talking to, thanks to the memorized family tree. Mick was undoubtedly Michael Yost and Pip was Phillip. Morgan was their sister.

  “Who’s he?” Mick demanded, looking at Todd. “What’s he doing here? And who in the world are you?”

  “Mick,” Pip said, “just leave Morgan there. If she doesn’t want to come with us, there’s no rule that says she has to. I’d rather go without her anyway.” He looked at me like he expected me to complain about being abandoned. And I guess if I were Morgan, I might have. As it was, I looked from him to Mick and answered Mick’s questions.

  “He’s Todd Reasoner. We’re here for your father’s dinner party. And I’m Cara.”

  “Anything wrong?” Todd rested a hand protectively on my shoulder.

  “I don’t think so,” I said. “I think it’s a case of mistaken identity.”

  By now Pip was staring at me over Mick’s shoulder like he couldn’t believe his eyes. “It’s not Morgan…but it is.” His voice was full of awe.

  “Who’s Morgan?” Todd asked.

  Mick glanced at him and then looked back at me. “Our sister.”

  “And I must look like her. Right?” My heart was tripping at a fantastic rate, and I brought a hand up to keep it from pounding out of my chest. I looked at Todd to see if he understood the possible ramifications of a resemblance here. He looked at me with a crooked eyebrow that said I understand but don’t jump to conclusions. He gave my shoulder a squeeze.

  Suddenly a girl with long brown hair and long slim legs came
barreling around the corner and down the hall behind Mick and Pip.

  “What’s keeping you two?” she demanded. “I’ve been waiting out in the car. It’s getting later by the moment, and I don’t want to miss the beginning of the movie because you two are too dense to tell time.”

  Then she saw me. It was as if someone had punched her in the stomach. Her mouth made a small “O” and a little oof sound emerged. I suspected that I looked exactly the same.

  In fact, I did look exactly the same. Certainly there were slight differences. The shape of our eyes wasn’t quite the same, and my hair appeared to be a little lighter than hers, though she had just washed hers and it hung long and dark with moisture down her back and almost to her waist. And she was younger.

  But looking at Morgan Yost was like looking in a mirror. And it gave me goosebumps.

  The five of us were clustered in the hall, staring, when suddenly Amos and Jessica were there, Amos swearing under his breath as they came up behind Todd and me.

  “Who are you?” Morgan asked when she could finally talk.

  I swallowed, trying to get enough moisture in my mouth to speak. “I think I might be your long-lost cousin.”

  “Really?” Morgan looked surprised.

  “Neat!” Pip looked impressed.

  “Rubbish!” Mick looked furious.

  “Oh, dear.” Jessica looked worried.

  Amos snorted. “We will talk in my study.” And he stalked off down the hall and around the corner, obviously expecting everyone to follow.

  We all did. It was that family charisma.

  The three kids sat on the navy-and-white checkered sofa in descending order by size—Mick, Pip, Morgan. Jessica sat in a navy wing chair while I sat in an overstuffed white chair piped in navy. Todd sat on the arm of my chair, a very comforting support. Amos sat behind his desk in an executive’s chair covered in blue leather. The navy rug was deep and plush and had sweeper marks across its surface. A watercolor of a sleek Nittany lion hung over the sofa, and various service and award plaques hung in clusters on the walls. However, the pride of the place was a photo of Amos shaking hands with football coaching great Joe Paterno. It was a Penn State alumnus’s dream office.