The Confession

by Beverly Lewis

  Dan had decided long before today that he would not interfere with his former girlfriend’s life. He must protect his own emotions, as well, and by simply not inquiring, he could accomplish both. If he hadn’t gone back to his sister’s to say good-bye, though, he would’ve missed hearing about Katie.

  Annie dropped the bombshell almost as soon as he arrived, after he began telling her that he needed to leave for New Jersey soon.

  “Aw, must ya go?” Tears glinted in the corner of his sister’s eyes. “Can’t ya stay, Daniel?”

  He reached for her hands. “It won’t be long now before the People will be shunning me. We won’t have many opportunities like this to spend together.”

  “Might not even be allowed to talk to each other, neither.” She frowned and shook her head as if in pain. “Same way we treated … Katie,” she whispered the name.

  “Katie Lapp? My Katie?” His eyes searched hers, longing for answers.

  “Ach, she’s had the harshest Meinding put on her I’ve ever lived to see.”

  “What happened? How’d she get shunned?”

  “It’s not an easy story, really, but it all got started with a baby dress made of satin that Rebecca kept hidden in a trunk up in their attic.”

  Shocking as the story was, he listened to his sister’s account of how his sweetheart girl had run away from her wedding, gotten herself shunned, and left Hickory Hollow to search for the natural mother she’d never known.

  When Annie was finished, he found himself weeping in her arms—not due to Katie’s painful shunning. No, the tears he shed were joyful … selfish tears.

  Ella Mae Zook was on the back stoop, shaking out her kitchen rug, when a right fancy English car pulled into her side of the lane. It slowed down, and she squinted, shielding her eyes from the afternoon sun.

  When a young Amishman got out of the car, she had a closer look at him—strikingly handsome, he was. But she near lost her false teeth after spying the blueberry eyes.

  “Well, whatdaya know?” she said to the January sky, to God, and anybody else who might be listening. Then the Wise Woman laughed right out loud.

  Mary wasn’t seeing things; not hearing them, neither. Sunday morning, after the Ausbund hymns were sung, she watched Bishop John and listened to him, trying to decide whether or not his mellow voice—the one she’d heard on Christmas Day—was one of his Preachin’ voices.

  Then it happened. Right smack in the middle of a sermon on pride and how “one should run from it at all costs,” he looked her way, resting his eyes on her longer than necessary. She wouldn’t dismiss it as wishful thinking, but when his gaze strayed mostly for the rest of Preachin’, she wondered how she might speak to him afterward, during the common meal.

  If she did get a word with him, she might say that since he’d been put on this earth to save the souls of men, wouldn’t he just consider thinkin’ about saving Rebecca Lapp, too? From going insane, that is?

  Oh, she’d tell it to him awful gentle, sweet as can be, and if the bishop was the kind of man she figured he was, deep down inside his soul somewheres—if he truly was God’s choice for the People, a man who could change his voice at will—well, he just might consider her request. Just might think twice about lifting Katie’s harsh shunning. At least so they could talk to the disobedient woman. Use the voices God gave them, all different ranges and tones, for sure, to witness the love of the Lord God heavenly Father himself and maybe even bring her back to the fold.

  It was just a thought. Maybe not the right thing to do at all. But what with the bishop sending unspoken messages with his eyes during Preachin’ and all, in light of that, she could surely hope.

  By the time she’d climbed two long flights of stairs, the breath in her was gone. Katherine was reminded of Laura’s labored breathing at the end—completely ready when the call from heaven came.

  Finding the journal her mother had mentioned as she lay dying had proven to be a challenging task. Yet each day Katherine had searched the estate—even several attics—with help from Theodore and Garrett. All to no avail.

  Not to be outdone, she decided to meet with the entire domestic staff. Assuming her new role of mistress of the manor had not come easy, perhaps because she was more than eager to share the size and the warmth of the upstairs rooms. Because of this, because she wanted to allocate the space to her friends—Laura’s loyal servants, and now hers—she encouraged them to scatter out. They were to choose various guest suites, even Dylan Bennett’s former office area—now vacant— for their own private quarters.

  So it happened that while Fulton and Rosie, Theodore, and the others were resituating themselves, Justin Wirth came to call, several days after Laura’s funeral. “I thought you might consider accompanying me to the unveiling of Mrs. Bennett’s commissioned work.” His smile was genuinely warm.

  She realized, to her amazement, that she’d forgotten all about the oil painting. Someone—Rosie, maybe—had mentioned that the artist had probably salvaged the portrait, since none of them were interested in hanging it anywhere in the mansion. Not with the impostor’s face beside that of their dear deceased Laura.

  “How about it, then? Would you like to keep me company this Friday evening at the Fine Arts Center downtown?”

  Katherine didn’t know what to make of this request. It had been a good long time since a young man had asked to socialize with her publicly. She recalled one of the last Singings; she’d gone with her Beloved. But that was years ago.

  It seemed rather apparent by the expectant smile on Justin Wirth’s handsome face that she might have difficulty saying no. Still, she couldn’t help thinking of Dan. Would she feel she was being disloyal to his memory? To their love?

  Standing tall and confident, Mr. Wirth grinned down at her as the two of them stood silent in the foyer. When their eyes met, as they had in the dining room on Christmas Day—after she’d lit candles on a birthday cake for the Christ child—she felt something like butterflies flitting around in her stomach. A strange yet lovely sensation. One she’d quite forgotten.

  She nodded, returning Mr. Wirth’s smile, curious to see how he might have altered the portrait to display her birth mother more prominently. “I’d like to go, Mr. Wirth, I really would,” she replied at last. Then realizing she’d almost slipped into her Hickory Hollow speech, she paused and modulated her voice, in a tone more befitting the mistress of the manor. “It would be a pleasure.”

  She felt mighty pleased with herself, learning to speak the fluid phrases of high society. She’d picked up ever so much from Laura, too, and figured that after only a few more days spent with either Theodore or Rosie, right fine British folk, she’d be speaking and pronouncing the king’s English with grace, probably.

  Shouldn’t take long for her to pick up on doing or saying something right fancy, not when she set her mind to it. And she would, too—for the sake of her natural mother—she would follow through with being Katherine Mayfield. For sure and for certain.

  The attractive man nodded. “Please, Miss Mayfield, call me Justin.”

  “Thank you, I will.” Then noticing the genuine warmth in his blue, blue eyes, she thought of Daniel unexpectedly. Thought of him and hoped he wouldn’t mind if she got all dressed up and went out on the town with this nice young artist. That is, if Dan just happened to be looking down on her from Paradise.

  Chapter Thirty

  What a beautiful satin gown, Miss Katherine!”

  Katherine stood in front of the full-length mirror, making the long dress swish for Rosie. “You don’t know this, but once when I snuck away to a little boutique back in Lancaster, I promised myself that someday I would wear a dress like this … out in public.” She smiled at her reflection. “And just look, here I am!”

  Rosie put the finishing touches on the sash at Katherine’s waist. “I’d say you look absolutely smashing, love.”

  “Oh, thank you, Rosie.” Then turning, she spun like a top, around and around as she had in her Amish mamma�
��s attic months ago, the day she’d found the little satin baby dress.

  Remembering, she went over to the dresser, feeling a bit dizzy but giggling near like a schoolgirl. “I wonder if Justin could paint me a picture of this.” She held up the tiny infant gown. The garment that had caused so much heartache yet brought so much joy.

  “Might be, though I rather think he prefers to work with live models for his inspiration.” Rosie looked her over, grinning broadly. “And inspiring you certainly are tonight, Miss Katherine. Now, we’d better get you settled in the drawing room.”

  “Is it time already?”

  Glancing at her watch, Rosie nodded. “The evening awaits you … Miss Marshfield.” And they laughed together over the fancy made-up name.

  But when Justin, looking right fine in his tuxedo, arrived to fetch her, there was more than admiration shining in his eyes. No, at least for the space of a heartbeat, Katherine thought she could see something more, something beautiful for them both. To her surprise, she felt the coldness in her spirit begin to dissolve—that powerful-strong numbness that had never quite left her since the shunning.

  Arriving at the Fine Arts Center in Justin’s rented limousine, Katherine was breathless with excitement. Assisted by a uniformed doorman, she stepped through a canopied entryway into a foyer, enchanted with her elegant surroundings. Under her feet, the plush pile of carpeting the color of ripe plums. Fine paintings, cleverly lit up by overhead lamps, lining the walls on either side of a long hallway. Lush green foliage and arrangements of forced blossoms—tulips, jonquils, and narcissus—their heady perfume a sure promise of spring.

  Her hand tucked into the crook of Justin’s arm, Katherine floated beside him toward the main gallery where the unveiling was to take place. Such a gathering it was, too. Important-looking people with important-sounding titles.

  “Good evening, Mayor Bledsoe,” Justin was saying in his deep, velvety voice. “May I present Miss Katherine Mayfield.”

  Following Justin’s polished lead, she smiled and murmured, “How do you do?”

  His Honor was a portly man with silvery hair and a walrus-style moustache. But he seemed pleasant enough as he shook her hand, then inclined his head toward the stunning blonde in his company. “My wife, Mrs. Bledsoe.”

  The woman, her silky hair swinging about her face, seemed young enough to be his daughter, Katherine couldn’t help thinking. And when a cool gaze swept her from head to toe, then settled on her left cheek, she was flustered to the point of distraction. What if I’ve put on too much blush! she fretted. But surely Rosie would’ve told me,wouldn’t she?

  There was no time for further speculation, however, for Justin was introducing her to yet another couple, and Katherine found herself parroting a few well-rehearsed phrases in her new English voice. Still, with Justin never leaving her side, his hand cradling her elbow protectively, she was soon feeling much more at ease, meeting his friends—some, elected officials; others, artists-in-residence who made Canandaigua their home.

  Honestly, she couldn’t say she wasn’t relieved when they finally made their way past the many well-wishers to the main exhibit hall for the unveiling. Immensely pleased, too, with the wonderful-good seat Justin had arranged for her in a row of plump cushioned chairs up at the very front.

  As she took her seat, she noticed right away the heavily draped object resting on an easel before her. A pair of spotlights beamed down on the folds of ebony velvet.

  For a moment, there was a wave of apprehension as Katherine pondered. How would she feel when the gold-tasseled cords were pulled, and the curtains parted to reveal the portrait? How would she react to the sight of her mother’s face depicted on canvas? Would it bring tears to her eyes? The unveiling so soon after the funeral and burial services?

  She bolstered herself by remembering that the dear lady was in Glory … no pain there, she was most assured. And she hadn’t known Laura for all her life as most daughters know their mothers, so maybe the grieving wouldn’t be as painful, she hoped. Still, Justin was known for “bringing people to life” on canvas.…

  Just as the string ensemble ended their number, he stepped forward. Katherine held her breath, bracing herself for whatever feelings might be stirred up by the revelation of his artistic rendering.

  But she was not braced. Not really. Nothing could have prepared her for the startling yet splendid oil painting. For there on the large canvas were depicted two women. Two auburn-haired women. Laura Mayfield-Bennett and Katherine, her real, true daughter.

  She found herself breathing again, wanting to laugh and shout for joy. But she did the ladylike thing. She sat there, applauding the work, wondering how on earth the artist knew to put her—not the impostor—alongside her mother. Not Miss Alyson Cairns—New York actress turned Katie Lapp!

  Later, while they mingled with others around the buffet table, she asked Justin about it. “Was it physical similarities between my mother and me that you noticed first?”

  He chuckled at that. “Not many people have the privilege of wearing the rich colors of autumn all year long.”

  She knew he was referring to her hair, delighted that he hadn’t called it “red.”

  As for her chin line and nose, “There are more important qualities than looks when it comes to relationships,” he told her. “Even if I hadn’t known, I would’ve painted you next to Laura.”

  “Oh? Why is that?”

  His eyes shone with understanding. “Because, Katherine, you and Laura Mayfield-Bennett shared each other’s hearts.”

  On the drive home, the present mistress of the newly named Mayfield Manor and her friend, the award-winning artist of Canandaigua, shared with each other their childhood backgrounds and interests. During the course of the ride, they discovered a variety of things they had in common, so much so that it was difficult to bring the evening to an end.

  “Would you like to stop somewhere for coffee?” Justin asked.

  Katherine consented to the after-hours coffee bar, delighted. She never would’ve guessed the two of them would find themselves so attracted to each other. Or that the evening would hold so many surprises, especially the portrait of herself and her natural mother.

  It was much later, when the limo driver stopped at a red light, that she noticed a tall man crossing the street just ahead of them. Briefly, he glanced at their fancy car, and it was then she saw his face. She stared, intrigued.

  This man—had she seen him before? In Lancaster … at market, maybe?

  The more she thought of it, the more she assumed the untrimmed beard was the reason for her curiosity, probably. Maybe he was a member of one of the Old Order Mennonite groups, certainly not Amish, for he wore a handsome fur-trimmed overcoat and leather gloves.

  When the light changed, she glanced back and watched the young man walk to the streetlight and pull something out of his coat pocket. It almost looked like a map, the way he unfolded it, and she remembered when she, too, had felt overwhelmingly lost … not in the midst of a new location, but among her own People.

  She couldn’t be sure, really, and it didn’t matter anyway. She and Justin were on their way to have coffee and talk away the hours. Her future as Katherine Mayfield was brighter than any star that shone that night. Brighter than either the buzzing white ceiling lights in Cousin Lydia’s kitchen or the crystal chandeliers in Katherine’s own elegant dining room.

  A verse from Ecclesiastes came to mind just then, for she’d heard the Wise Woman quote it many times. Truly the light is sweet, she thought.

  And Katherine felt she understood. For the very first time.

  Epilogue

  It was long past midnight when I found myself sitting at my birth mother’s dressing table with only the moonlight to keep me company. I couldn’t help thinking about the mighty exciting evening I’d just had. Such a refined gentleman my new friend was, and, ach, so terribly English. Yet a sensitive sort for sure.

  “Must be my artist’s temperament,” he’d joked as we h
ad sipped black coffee in a cozy corner of the restaurant.

  Well, whatever an “artist’s temperament” was, I didn’t rightly know, but there was one thing I did know. I liked Justin Wirth, and even though we’d spent only one evening together, I had a wonderful-good feeling that he liked me, too.

  His face was before me now as I sat staring at the frosty windowpane, snowy reflections mingling with my memory of his facial features. Quite unexpectedly, I began comparing the artist to my deceased Amish boyfriend, and, next thing I knew, the two handsome faces took shape in my mind’s eye, clear as day.

  Justin seemed to smile back at me, and I hugged myself, thinking, Oh, glory, such a night! Then his image began to fade and Dan’s grew ever so much stronger, blocking out Justin’s cheerful expression.

  To my dismay, I saw the light go out of the blueberry eyes. So awful sad Dan seemed, looking down at me now, and my heart went out to my long-expired loved one. In that moment I wondered if dear ones who’d passed on could see what things we do down here on earth.

  Surely he would understand; surely he knew that I’d loved him, and he alone, for all these years. That I’d been ever so loyal—yes, and lonely and heartsick.

  “Oh, Dan,” I whispered, almost like a prayer, “please … can ya forgive me? Can you forgive your Katie girl?”

  I surprised myself by uttering my former name—first time I’d spoken it since leaving Hickory Hollow—and I brushed back the tears. “Please, my darling, won’tcha put away your sadness and … and see my heart? See my joy?”

  Silent then, I dismissed the mental picture by out-and-out willpower, hoping for a good night’s sleep. And in that moment, I thought of my Amish mamma and wondered if Rebecca’s beautiful eyes—those heavenly hazel eyes—might also behold me with sorrow if she knew of my English life now.