MEN OF LANCASTER COUNTY 01: The Amish Groom

by Mindy Starns Clark

  The words were out of my mouth before I could rein them in. I had known Lark Parrish for less than an hour, and I was already telling her my deepest, most secret ponderings.

  But she seemed to understand perfectly what was weighing on me. “I’d want to know that too.”

  We were quiet for a moment as we each ate a piece of our sushi. Then she asked more about my childhood, including how long I lived with my grandparents before my dad’s tour ended and he came back and got me. I explained how things progressed, one tour following another, until finally, by the time he was ready, he was remarried with a two-year-old child.

  “I had seen him twice in three years. I didn’t know Liz at all, and they seemed pretty complete with Brady. So I decided to stay where I was, and he didn’t force me to leave.”

  Lark was staring at me, wide eyed. “Wow. That’s crazy.”

  “Is it?”

  “Uh. Yeah.”

  “Why do you think it’s crazy?”

  “Because it totally is. Holy cow, no wonder.”

  She mumbled the last two words, almost as if she hadn’t meant to say them out loud.

  No wonder what? I thought but did not say. I had a feeling I already knew.

  No wonder you seem so lost.

  SEVENTEEN

  When I arrived at the house a little after ten, I found Brady in the family room watching TV with Frisco in his lap.

  He swung his head around when I stepped into the open kitchen behind him. “Where were you?” He sounded perturbed.

  “Lark needed a ride home, but she insisted on taking me out for sushi first.”

  Brady’s eyes widened. “You went on a date with her?”

  “It wasn’t a date.”

  “Sounds like a date.”

  “Not a date.”

  Brady turned back to his TV show. I grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge and joined him on the L-shaped couch. “Hey. Great game tonight.”

  “Thanks.”

  A few seconds of silence. My eyes were drawn to the TV screen. A parade of humanoid monsters were stalking a man whose only weapon was a baseball bat. I turned from what promised to be a gruesome spectacle.

  “Want to help me stain the wood for the container garden boxes in the morning?” I asked.

  Brady shifted on the couch. “Uh, not really. That’s your deal, Ty. I’m glad you’re doing it, and I think my mom’s really going to like them. But tomorrow morning I’m sleeping in. And I have plans in the afternoon.”

  A chorus of wails and screeches erupted from the TV, along with harried music and sounds I couldn’t even begin to describe. “Oh? What kind of plans?”

  “Mom already said I could go.”

  “You talked to your mother?”

  “She called me this morning to say hi and I asked her. She said I could go.”

  More crunching and wailings and screaming. I winced at the sound of it. “Go where?”

  Brady picked up the remote and clicked off the TV.

  “Wow. Um, you don’t have to turn it off because of me,” I said, but I was glad he did.

  “I can tell zombies aren’t your thing. It’s streaming. I can watch it on my computer in my room.” He stood and so did I. Frisco jumped to the floor.

  I had the distinct impression Brady was leaving the room because I was in it.

  “You don’t have to go. I can find something else to do.”

  “It’s cool. I’m tired anyway.” Brady tossed the remote onto the couch and started to walk away.

  “Would you tell me where you’re going tomorrow? I’m sure Dad and your mom expect me to know.”

  “Because you’re in charge?”

  “Because we’re brothers. And yes, they did leave me in charge.”

  He spun around to look at me. “Paintball. I’m going with some friends to play paintball.”

  Our eyes locked. So many unspoken words lay hidden behind Brady’s stare.

  “Need any money for it?” I asked.

  He kept his eyes on mine. “Nope. Dad left me some.”

  My brother walked past me, Frisco trailing.

  “Good night,” I called after him.

  “Yep.”

  “I meant what I said about the game tonight. You did great.”

  I heard him sigh quietly before he responded, as if hearing my praise annoyed him.

  “Thanks,” he said and then he was gone from view.

  If that was the way Brady responded to admiration regarding his football-playing, no wonder Dad assumed he wasn’t happy about being on the team. I tossed up another prayer for wisdom when it came to my brother and then headed into the study to see if my dad had emailed me back.

  He had, but there was no mention of my request to go down to the storage unit and hunt for the box of my mother’s photos. Instead his email just talked about the hot and humid weather, the dust storms, the food. He wanted to know how the game went, so I typed a quick update, electing not to tell him about Brady’s continued strange attitude. I was still hopeful that I could figure out why my little brother was mad at me before my dad returned.

  I said nothing more about the photos, though suddenly they were all I could think about. I had a feeling the omission in my father’s email was intentional, which really irritated me. As I closed down the first floor of the house and headed up the stairs to my room, I felt myself growing even more agitated until my heart began to pound with anger. Didn’t he understand how important this was? My request had not been made lightly. What right did he have simply to ignore it and pretend I’d never said a word? Truly, if I had a key to the unit and the knowledge of where it was located, I just might march over there and dig up those pictures myself.

  My bedtime prayers were brief and rote, and as I lay in bed afterwards, trying to calm my frustration, Lark’s comment about how I came to be raised Amish kept repeating itself in my head.

  Crazy.

  I knew she didn’t mean insane. She meant it didn’t make any sense.

  Thinking about that now, I realized her reaction hadn’t been all that different from Rachel’s when we were kids.

  “He’s your dad,” she had cried. “And he just gave you away.”

  Maybe they were right to be so appalled.

  Maybe a part of me still found it appalling as well, even though I had forgiven my father years ago.

  I tried to sleep in the next morning so that I could identify more closely with Brady’s desire to do so, but by eight o’clock I could stand it no longer. I got out of bed, dressed, and took Frisco outside.

  After my morning devotions, coffee, and two bowls of Cheerios, I headed for Dad’s study to go in search of the cameras Brady had told me were in there. My first lesson was later today, and I wanted to be prepared. Sure enough, after poking through several cabinets, I finally found what he’d been talking about. Three different cameras shared space with neatly labeled electronics cables and small computer components. I had no idea if they would even function, but I knew Lark could tell me, so I grabbed all three and set them on the counter in the kitchen.

  After that I headed out to the garage. I opened the doors to let in plenty of fresh air and then got to work on staining the wood for the container boxes. I had plenty to think about as I did, so the morning passed quickly.

  I was still confused about my time with Lark and the questions our conversation raised. I was also feeling guilty about the depth of my anger toward my father the night before. He obviously had his reasons for ignoring my request to retrieve my mother’s photos myself, and for now I had no choice but to respect that. Patience was an important virtue to the Amish, but in this situation, my own patience had been in short supply.

  At least there was nothing like a good ol’ hands-on, sweat-it-up project to help me sort things out. Before long my mood had improved considerably, especially when I saw so many other people outside enjoying their day, walking dogs or jogging or riding bikes, soaking up the California sunshine. Of course, it wasn’t as though an
y of them stopped and spoke. But for a while a least, they made me feel not quite so alone.

  They also made me realize how very much I missed my community.

  At noon I went inside for a sandwich. Brady had just arisen and was eating waffles he had heated in the toaster. He seemed in a better mood than he had been in last night, or maybe it was just that I hadn’t had the opportunity yet to say anything that irked him. I decided to make two peanut butter, banana, and honey sandwiches, a favorite since my childhood.

  “What time are your friends coming for you?” I asked, trying to sound merely curious, not parental.

  “Three. I won’t be here for dinner, by the way. One of the guy’s moms is making ribs.”

  “Sounds good. I hope you have a great time.”

  “Yeah. Thanks.”

  Brady reached for the syrup and squirted some onto his plate. “So does Lark think she’ll be able to find you a tutor?”

  I made a concerted effort not to congratulate him for asking me a question for a change.

  “Sort of. She decided to tutor me herself. We’re starting today.”

  He raised his eyebrows. “Oh?”

  “It’s not like that. I have a girlfriend back home, remember.”

  “Yeah, and I’m sure she’d be totally cool with you taking private lessons from a hottie like Lark Parrish, right?”

  This time, it was my turn to raise my eyebrows.

  He laughed, but mirthlessly. “Fine, whatever you say. It’s just about learning photography, nothing more.”

  “Nothing more.”

  Brady shoved the last piece of waffle in his mouth as he walked with his plate to the sink. “I still can’t figure out why you’re interested in learning about something you’re not allowed to do. That seems like a waste of time to me.”

  “I don’t think it’s ever a waste of time to learn something,” I said, not adding that he would probably come to realize this once he was older and out of school and learning was no longer mandatory for him.

  I finished making my sandwiches and he headed back to his room. After I ate, I went upstairs as well, showered and changed, and then left for Lark’s house.

  She lived just eight miles away, but with traffic and my cautionary driving it took me twenty minutes to get there, even with Liz’s GPS talking to me the whole way.

  The Parrishes lived in a subdivision not unlike the housing tract of Dad and Liz and Brady. The stucco-and-red-tile-roofed houses were similar to each other in what seemed to be a repeating pattern of fives.

  Lark was waiting for me on the front stoop, a polka-dotted camera bag slung over her shoulder. Today she was wearing red high top sneakers, tattered jeans, a black T-shirt, and enormous hoop earrings. Her hair was swept up on top of her head and held in place with an odd clip that looked painful to wear. She jumped up when I pulled to the curb. I stepped out of the Honda. As Lark walked toward me she pointed with her thumb to a turquoise, older-model VW Beetle in the driveway.

  “My sad car,” she said.

  I pulled open the passenger side door. “Sorry it’s not working. If it were a buggy I could fix it for you.”

  “No buggy, just a Bug.” She laughed at her own joke. “Hey. Can I drive?”

  “I don’t mind driving,” I said, as politely as I could.

  “I’m sure you don’t, but your driving makes me nervous.”

  I laughed. “My driving makes you nervous?”

  “It’s your inexperience out on the roads, Tyler. You’re killing me.”

  “Hey, I’m out on the roads at home all the time.”

  “Yeah, in a buggy.”

  “So?”

  She shook her head, the hoops dancing on her shoulders. “Totally not the same. This is Orange County—practically L.A. I’m sure you’ve heard our streets aren’t for wimps. Not that you’re a wimp. You’re just too…nice. Let me drive.”

  I huffed my reluctant agreement and folded myself into the passenger seat.

  “Awesome.” Lark flitted over to the driver’s side and got in, tossing her camera bag gently onto the backseat next to my backpack

  “Where are we going?” I asked, not that it truly mattered.

  “Balboa Island. You’re going to love it.”

  “Like I loved sushi?” I pulled the seat belt across my chest and clicked it into place.

  “Oh, be quiet,” Lark said, but with a smile. “It’s way cool, as expensive as Manhattan to live there, but so cute. Lots of photo ops.”

  “Ops?”

  “Opportunities. The water, the sailboats, the houses, people on the streets. Lots of things to take pictures of. And it’s only fifteen minutes away.”

  She pulled from the curb and took off down the street. “I googled you last night.”

  “You what?”

  “I googled you. I looked up the Amish on the Internet.”

  “Great.” I could only imagine what “facts” she might have discovered about the Amish there.

  “You guys aren’t some wacky cult or something. You’re Christians. Like, born again and all of that, huh?”

  Okay, so at least that one was true. I nodded.

  “Cool. Me too.”

  “Me too what?”

  “I’m a Christian.”

  “Oh.” I knew my voice sounded a little too surprised, but I couldn’t help it. God’s grace was extended to all, of course, but I didn’t think that those who responded to His call usually had nose rings and tattoos.

  “Is that so hard to believe?” she asked, seeming genuinely offended for the first time since we’d met.

  I thought for a moment and then decided to be honest. “Yes, actually, though that’s a reflection on me, not you. I guess my world does get a little small sometimes. I know plenty of non-Amish Christians, but they’re generally more…they generally don’t…” I floundered.

  “It’s okay, Ty. I know what you’re trying to say.”

  “You do?”

  “Yeah. Most Christians don’t eat sushi.”

  I inhaled, ready to respond, when I glanced her way and saw that her eyes were twinkling. She was teasing me.

  “Touché,” I replied with a grin, echoing one of my dad’s expressions as I turned to look out the window.

  Lark was silent for a moment as she drove us south toward the bridge that would take us to the island.

  “The world is a lot more than buggies and bonnets, Tyler. You can’t imagine the things that are out here to see and do and learn and discover. There’s just so much to know.”

  I nodded, glancing at her and then again turning away. Truly, my desire was not to know the world.

  I just wanted to know my place in it.

  EIGHTEEN

  When we finally crossed the bridge onto Balboa Island, Lark asked what kind of camera I had. “You have one, right? I can’t believe I didn’t think to ask you that before.”

  I smiled. “I don’t have one of my own, no, but I did bring along several I found at my dad’s house. I figured you could tell me which one I should be using.”

  “Sure. No prob. I’ll take a look before we get started.”

  As we searched for a parking place, Lark told me about Balboa Island, saying it was actually two man-made islands in Newport Harbor, a larger island and a smaller one separated by a canal and accessible by a bridge. We were on the smaller of the two, which boasted quaint buildings, restaurants, waterfront properties, and lots of tourists. Parking appeared to be scarce. We finally found a spot on a quiet residential street.

  I unzipped my backpack and was about to produce the cameras for her inspection when she hopped from the car.

  “Wait,” I said. “What about—”

  “Coffee, then cameras. That’s lesson one, to get the two C’s in the right order. Coffee first, always.”

  She grabbed her bag, closed the door, and took off walking down the street. After a moment, I managed to follow, though once again I found myself trotting to catch up with her. When I did, she tossed me the
keys with a smile.

  We found a little outdoor café on the next corner, and soon the two of us were about to be doing the one thing I had wanted to avoid, dining together in a restaurant. Still, it clearly wasn’t a date this time. I was paying her for the session, after all, and the moment she had a caramel macchiato in her hand and a seat in the shade at a little wrought iron table, she was all business.

  “Okay, Farmer John, let’s see what you got.”

  Setting aside my own cup of black coffee, I pulled the first camera from my bag and set it down in front of her.

  “Good grief, where did you get this?” she asked as she picked it up to inspect it. “The world’s worst yard sale?”

  “I told you. I found some cameras at my father’s house.”

  “Right. Well, if you can call this piece of junk a camera. Next?”

  She gave it back and kept her hand held out for another. I produced the second one from my bag, though it didn’t fare much better. At least she looked at it for a little longer, but in the end it was a reject as well.

  “It’s just a cheap little point-and-shoot,” she said, handing it back to me. “And it needs charging. I guess you could use it for practice when you’re on your own, but not for our lesson time, okay? I’d rather let you use my camera than bother with that thing.”

  Nodding, I returned it to the bag and pulled out the final choice, which was bigger and heavier—and much older and more banged up—than the first two. I thought it would get the biggest scorn of all, but instead, the moment I pulled it from its worn leather case, Lark nearly spit out her coffee.

  With a gasp, she put down her cup and grabbed the camera from my hand.

  “What the heck, Ty?” she practically screamed. “Where did you get this?”

  I sat back, startled. “A cabinet in my dad’s study. Why?”

  “Good grief, man, it’s a Leica. A classic Leica.”

  She spoke as if I would know what that meant. I waited for an explanation, but she grew silent after that, every speck of her attention focused on the instrument in her hand.

  Cradling it carefully, she examined the thing on every side, her fingers testing out each moving part, and then she held it to her eye and fiddled with it some more. Though I was eager to know what on earth she was so excited about, I was content to wait until she was ready to tell me. I just sipped my coffee and watched her put the device through its paces. When she was finally finished, the look she gave me was one of pure joy.