by Marta Perry
He slid out, walking quickly back to the other car. He’d help her with her luggage, maybe try to smooth any ruffled feathers.
Marisa was already pulling a suitcase from the trunk. He reached over her shoulder to grab the handle, lifting it out.
“I’ll carry this. Do you want the duffel bag as well?” He paused, hand on the strap. No point in taking in anything she didn’t want. And given the size of the suitcase, she hadn’t planned to stay long when she left.
“I can manage.” Her voice was frosty.
“I’m sure you can, but you don’t need to.” He hefted the duffel bag. “Besides, when I get home, Mom will ask if I helped you in with your luggage. You don’t want to get me in trouble, do you?”
That earned him a faint smile, but then her gaze slid away from his as if she remembered that she was angry with him.
“Look, I shouldn’t have said what I did about bugging my mother, okay?” He slammed down the trunk lid. “It’s far more likely that she’ll be bugging you.”
“I take it both you and your brother think I should leave my mother’s disappearance to the professionals.” She marched toward the gate, and he followed.
“Seems like the sensible thing to do,” he said mildly. “If there’s anything to be found, they have the facilities. You don’t.”
“They didn’t do so well before—” She stopped on the porch, taking in the dark windows. “Should they be closed this early?”
“Springville rolls up the sidewalks at eight-thirty.” He put his finger on the bell, hearing it jangle beyond the frosted glass of the door. “You did say you had a reservation, didn’t you?”
She nodded, the movement barely visible in the dim light. “I saw the place listed on one of those tourist maps. The woman I spoke to said they had a room available.”
“By the looks of it, they have plenty.” He eyed the dark windows. “They wouldn’t be busy on a weekday in October.” He set the bags down. “Maybe we should—”
“Who is there?” The gruff voice came from the dark side lawn. An instant later Eli Miller stepped into the faint light of the pole lamp, the breeze ruffling his beard, his black pants and jacket disappearing into the darkness. “What do you want?”
Marisa took a step back, sucking in a startled breath. She was so close Link could feel the tremor that went through her at the sight of the Amish man.
“Eli, it’s me, Link Morgan. I brought Ms. Angelo. She has a reservation.”
“Ms. Angelo?” Eli lifted the flashlight he held, switching it on.
Marisa’s face was white in the harsh beam of light. She didn’t speak. What was wrong with the woman, anyway?
“She called to make a reservation,” he explained.
“Ach, ja. I am so sorry. My Rhoda isn’t so gut at talking on the telephone. She thought you were coming tomorrow. It’s a mix-up for sure.” Eli didn’t sound put out at the prospect of an unexpected guest. “I’ll chust go back to our side of the house for the key. I’ll be right with you.” He chuckled. “I’ll tease Rhoda about being so ferhoodled, that’s certain-sure.”
He switched off the light and strode back toward the semi-detached wing where the family lived, apparently more comfortable without it.
Marisa let out an audible breath. He turned, frowning at her.
“What’s going on? You’ve seen Amish people before, haven’t you?”
Her shoulders stiffened. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“When you saw Eli, you reacted as if he was some kind of monster.”
“I didn’t.” But her voice lacked conviction.
“You did. And you weren’t natural with Katie, either, back at the house.”
She might have told him to mind his own business, but she didn’t. “I…I just haven’t been around Amish people much, that’s all.”
“It never surprises me how prejudiced some people can be,” he said deliberately. “But your mother was Amish.”
“Yes. She was.” Marisa glared at him. “And all I ever heard about the Amish was how they wouldn’t leave her alone and how they lured my mother away from us. My grandmother said it was like a cult that wouldn’t let her go.”
“Cult?” He kept his voice low. Eli could be coming back at any moment. “That’s ridiculous. They’re as normal as anyone. More normal than most, in fact. If your father told you that—”
“Not my father. He never talked about my mother.” Some of the anger seemed to go out of her. “My grandmother. All right, maybe Gran was a bit judgmental about people who are different.”
“You see—”
“But I went out to Indiana a few years ago when I finally located my mother’s family. I thought…” Her voice trembled and fell silent.
But he could finish the sentence. She’d thought she might find her mother.
“They stonewalled me. They wouldn’t even talk to me about her. So I don’t exactly have any reason to like them.”
“I’m sorry.” He was. No matter how inconvenient her presence was for him, he couldn’t help feeling her grief.
A door closed next door, and he heard a jingling sound that might be a key ring. Eli was coming.
“Look, if you want, I’ll take you to a motel. I’ll make some excuse to Eli. But…” He was about to involve himself more deeply in Marisa’s problem, despite his determination to stay uninvolved. “But if you really want to find out what happened twenty-three years ago, you might need to have some allies among the local Amish. Eli and Rhoda Miller could be a good place to start.”
A little silence fell between them, and her reluctance was so strong he could almost feel it. Then she nodded.
“You’re right. I’ll stay.”
MARISA WOKE SOMETIME in the dark hours of the night, a cry clutching her throat. She sat upright, heart pounding. Had she cried out aloud? She didn’t think so, but she cringed at the thought of Eli Miller hearing, running to her room…
But he wouldn’t hear. First, because the cry had only been in her dreams. And second, because the Millers slept in their own separate section of the house next door. She was the only occupant of the Plain and Fancy.
She rubbed her forehead, willing herself to remember her dream. Something about herself as a child, waking in the night, calling out for her mother. Frightened when Mammi didn’t come. Crawling out of bed, drawn toward the window, her bare feet cold on the wide wooden boards of the floor.
She could almost see it, white net curtains billowing inward from the wind. Almost.
But even as she tried to focus, the dream began slithering away from her grasp in the manner of most dreams, vanishing faster the harder she tried to grasp it.
Forget it, she ordered. Go back to sleep. But she was awake now, too awake to slip under the covers. She fumbled for the clock on the bedside table. Three o’clock. And she hadn’t managed to drop off until sometime after midnight.
It was small wonder that she’d entangled herself in a bad dream, after all that had happened. That suitcase. The photo.
Her throat thickened at that. She had a copy of that picture, too, always kept carefully out of Daddy’s sight because she’d thought, with a child’s logic, that it would make him sad.
She swung her legs off the bed, her bare feet encountering a braided rug. She might as well get up. Try to distract herself from the endless questions that circled in her thoughts.
But that was easier said than done. She switched on the lamp on the bedside table, and the room sprang into view. The Miller family apparently did without electricity over on their side, but provided it for their business. The logic of that escaped her.
The second floor guest room was plain and simple, with good, solid-wood furniture pieces and a comfortable padded rocking chair. The handmade quilt that covered the bed was such a work of art that she had folded it carefully and placed it atop the blanket chest before she did anything else. The room had seemed somehow familiar, as if she’d slept here before, even though she knew she hadn’t.
But despite their welcome, she still couldn’t feel at ease in their presence. Her grandmother’s words seemed to rattle around in the back of her mind.
They wouldn’t leave her alone. They didn’t want to let her go.
If she’d taken Link up on his offer, she’d be pacing the floor in some anonymous motel room. But little though she liked to admit it, he’d been right. If she was going to find out what happened to her mother, part of the answer must lie with the Amish people her mother had known here.
Not if. She would find out. She had to. She’d spent years trying to forget, trying to live without answers the way Dad seemed able to do, and she couldn’t. Not when there was a hole the size of the Grand Canyon in her psyche echoing with the same whisper, over and over. Your mother didn’t want you.
She forced herself to stop pacing. Gran would call these middle-of-the-night fears, treating them with a hot drink, a little comforting and the assurance that things would look better in the morning.
Gran might, as Link had hinted, have been prejudiced against the Amish, but she had devoted her life to taking care of Marisa, and she’d been the most stable force in Marisa’s life. She’d been gone nearly two years now, and Marisa still missed her.
This line of thought wasn’t helping, either. She might as well get out her drawing pad and look through the tentative sketches she’d made. See what else she needed for the current project. Maybe, as she’d told Jessica, she’d be able to do some work while she was here.
She picked up the duffel bag Link had carried in, setting it atop the suitcase rack in front of the window, and unzipped it. The shriek of the zipper broke the silence.
The old house was quiet—too quiet. She wasn’t used to this utter silence. Her townhouse in Baltimore was on a pleasant residential street, but even so, there was always noise—the distant thump of someone’s boom box, the sound of cars going past, the shouts of kids playing in the park across the street. Not so here.
Pad and pencil in hand, she paused, glancing out the window. She couldn’t even see any other lights. Link had been right—they did roll up the sidewalks.
She’d think that would seem natural to him. After all, he lived here, didn’t he? He must… She leaned close, shutting out the reflection from the bedside lamp with her hand. As her eyes adjusted to the faint moonlight, she could see the dark shadow beneath the huge weeping willow in the side yard. Had something moved?
A man-size shadow, moving out of the denser shadow of the willow, detaching itself as it took a step toward the house, the head seeming oddly misshapen until she realized it wore a black hat, the brim hiding the face. But he looked up, toward her window—
She bolted back, flattening herself against the wall, heart pounding as if it would leap out of her chest. The figure—a man, black clothes, black hair, a beard. Amish. Staring up at her window.
Memory stirred, someplace, sometime, she had looked out a window, had seen… The memory slid away, as elusive as the dream had been.
She shook her head, trying to clear it. Had she really seen someone out on the lawn? Or was it a figment of her imagination, stirred up by the dream?
She wouldn’t be a coward about it. She went quickly to the bedside table and switched off the lamp. In the dark, she could see without being seen.
She sidled to the window, grasped the edge of the curtain and peered around it cautiously.
The moon had come out from behind the clouds. It lit the side yard—faintly, but enough so that she could see. The lawn lay empty and unmarked, and nothing stood under the willow tree.
BREAKFAST WOULD BE served in a room at the rear of the first floor, Mrs. Miller had said. Marisa descended the stairs slowly. She had to find the approach that might make these people open up to her, but she hadn’t managed to think of one.
Lack of sleep had to be part of the problem. She’d already been tired, and then hadn’t been able to settle after her sighting. Or her overactive imagination, whichever it was. She’d gotten up several times to peer cautiously out the window. Nothing.
But she still couldn’t quite accept that she’d produced that staring figure out of her imagination, which left her…where, exactly?
She reached the downstairs hall. There was a closed door with a sign marked “Private,” which must lead to the Miller family’s side of the house. The aroma of fresh baking led her in the right direction. A long, sunny room stretched across the width of the house in the back, with an open kitchen on her left, divided from a bright dining room on the right by a long counter. Rhoda Miller was pulling something from the oven while the daughter she’d met briefly last night poured juice into glasses.
“Good morning.”
The pan Rhoda was lifting clattered onto the stove, as if the greeting had startled her.
“I hope I’m not too early,” Marisa began, but Rhoda smiled, shaking her head.
“Ach, no, not at all. We try to have everything ready by eight and it’s just that now. But I’m happy to serve breakfast earlier if need be.”
“Eight o’clock is fine.” She stifled a yawn. Should she mention the person she’d seen, or not?
“You didn’t sleep well?” Rhoda gestured to a long wooden table flanked by spindle-back chairs. A pink geranium bloomed vibrantly in an earthenware pot in the center of the table, and African violets lined glass shelves in one of the windows.
“Not the fault of the room,” she said quickly. “It was very comfortable. And this is lovely. You certainly have a gift with plants.” She sat down, setting her bag on the floor and nodding when the daughter—Mary, she thought the name was—gestured with a coffeepot.
“Ach, it’s nothing. I enjoy growing things already. But I am worried that you didn’t sleep well. Was it…was there some noise to keep you awake?”
Rhoda looked more concerned than seemed warranted. Was it only the feeling of any hostess, or did she know something about the man in the yard last night, assuming he actually existed?
“More like the quiet,” she said. “I’m used to city noises.”
Was that relief on Rhoda’s face? “I could never get used to that, that’s certain-sure.” She took a tray from her daughter. “Here is fruit cup to start and fresh-squeezed juice. The berries are ones I put up this summer, so they’re near as gut as fresh.”
“Thank you. It looks lovely.” She lifted a spoonful of huge blueberries, bigger than any she’d seen in the store. “I did wonder…”
Rhoda, turning away, seemed to freeze. “Ja?”
“Was your husband out in the yard during the night?”
She swung back around, her face closed. “Why would you think that?”
“I thought I saw someone out in the side yard when I got up to get something. Out by the willow tree. Maybe your husband had occasion to check something there?”
“I did not.”
The masculine voice startled her. Eli stood in the doorway, obviously having heard her. He moved into the kitchen, setting a pail he carried in the sink. Then he turned to face her.
“There was no one there.”
She had to force herself to go on. “If you weren’t there, how do you know no one else was?” Too bad she didn’t have Eileen Davies, her agent, here. Eileen would have the man turned inside out in a matter of seconds.
“There was no one.” His face bore no expression at all.
“Ach, what am I thinking?” Rhoda hurried into the kitchen. “The egg casserole is done. Komm. Sit. It’s time to eat.”
For a moment Marisa thought the man would turn and walk out. Then he came slowly to the table and pulled out the chair at the end. Mary put a basket of rolls and bread on the table and slid into her seat. Rhoda, car
rying a steaming casserole dish with a towel, hurried to her place.
Marisa was reaching for a muffin when she realized that Eli had bowed his head, the others following suit. No words were spoken. After a moment he looked up, as did his wife and daughter.
How had they known he was finished with what she assumed was a silent blessing? Telepathy?
“You will have some breakfast casserole?” Rhoda asked, but before Marisa could respond she had put a giant, steaming serving on Marisa’s plate.
“Thank you. That’s plenty,” she added when Rhoda seemed about to give her more. “It smells wonderful.”
“Chust eggs and cheese and sausage,” Rhoda said.
Plates clattered as everyone was served. They began to eat, not talking. Apparently if there was going to be any conversation around the table, it would be up to her to start it. And maybe the only thing to do was to plunge right in.
“Do you know why I’m here in Springville?”
Rhoda glanced at her husband, and then she nodded. “Ja, we have heard about the suitcase Link Morgan found in his uncle’s house. Barbara’s, it was.”
She was taken aback for a moment. She’d expected some garbled story would be going around, but clearly they knew exactly what had happened. Someone in the police department must have been talking. Or someone in the Morgan family.
“Barbara Angelo is my mother.” Or was my mother. The not-knowing seized her in its grip, shaking her.
“Ja. We heard that, too.” Rhoda studied her for a moment, her round blue eyes curious. “You look more like your father, but there is something of Barbara in your face, too.”
Marisa found it difficult to tell the age of the Amish woman. With her brown hair pulled straight back from a center part and the lack of makeup, Rhoda might be as old as Marisa’s mother would be now or maybe younger.
“You knew her, then.”
Some silent communication passed between Rhoda and her husband, and she looked down at her plate.