Plain Jayne

by Hillary Manton Lodge

  “It’s okay. Sara’s in Portland with me.”

  “Oh, I’m so glad. Oh, goodness. Why did you take her? Her baptism is in three days!”

  “I didn’t take her, Martha. She left. She climbed into my car when no one was looking. I didn’t discover her until I was home.”

  “She is in your apartment?”

  “Yes.”

  “She’s safe?”

  “Yes, she is.”

  “She doesn’t want to come back?”

  I didn’t know what to say. “Not…right now.”

  “Sara is stubborn. She’s a lot like her brother.”

  And we both knew how that turned out. Levi wasn’t about to go back, marry a nice Amish girl, and grow a moustache-less beard.

  “Will you…watch over her?”

  I nodded, not that she could see. “I will.”

  “Could you write to me about her?”

  “Of course.”

  “Don’t send it here—send it to my mother.”

  “Do you think Gideon will ever—”

  “No.”

  “I’ll take care of her,” I said.

  I could hear the tears in Martha’s voice. “Thank you.”

  I worked straight until lunch without thinking twice about it or taking a coffee break. If Brian’s wife hadn’t sent him to work with curry-smelling leftovers, I might not have noticed the time.

  I gathered my things in a rush and hurried down the hall to find Sara, half expecting her to be holding court with Kim and Gemma.

  Instead, I found her chatting with a heavyset, African-American man who looked an awful lot like my boss.

  “Jayne!” Sol said when he saw me. “I was just talking to your new roommate here. Young Amish woman leaves home to pursue an education and career—story there?”

  “Right now, she’s my roommate, not a source.”

  Sol scowled. “You know, Jayne, I’ve heard rumors about reporters who listen to their editors.”

  “I think it’s a good idea,” Sara piped up.

  I turned to her in surprise. “Are you sure?”

  She shrugged. “Maybe having an article about me would help my chances at design school.”

  Sol lifted a dark eyebrow. “Kid’s got a point.”

  “We’ll talk about it.”

  Sara crossed her arms. “I’m an adult. It’s my decision. Besides, you’ve already written stories about my family. Why would this be different?”

  “Uh, let’s see, I changed all the names? Hey, if we’re going to get lunch, we need to leave now.”

  “What about your friend Kim? And Gemma?”

  So much for keeping a low profile. “I’ll call them, we’ll eat, I’ll drop you back at the house.”

  Sol reached for Sara’s hand. “I’m sure we’ll talk later.”

  I rolled my eyes as we walked away. “Seriously. He may be an editor now, but the man’s a diehard reporter at heart.”

  At Gemma’s family’s restaurant, DiGrassi & Elle, Gemma’s father kept bringing us plate after plate of lunch specials until he came and found there was no room left on the table. Without room, he simply scraped the contents of the serving plate he was carrying onto our respective dishes. After that, Gemma waved a white flag—possibly her napkin—and the barrage of food ceased.

  Until dessert.

  To my surprise, Sara blended in with my friends seamlessly. Everyone asked her questions; she answered them openly. Gemma promised a shopping trip while Joely offered to teach her to drive. Kim volunteered to look into the area’s GED programs and college financial aid options.

  Sara moved differently away from her family, spoke differently. It was as if she was no longer looking over her shoulder, making sure no one guessed her secret.

  I wished Levi could see her. Maybe he’d stop worrying.

  The rest of the afternoon flew by. When I wasn’t thinking about Levi, I managed to get an impressive amount of work done. But when I was thinking about Levi? Forget it. I may as well have stuck a Post-it Note on my head that read “Out to Lunch.”

  Eventually, however, the day ended and it was time to go back to the apartment and greet whomever I found there.

  Because of my profound internal strength and fortitude, I did not step into the restroom for a hair check before getting in my car to drive home. I really wasn’t that girl, though I impersonated her from time to time.

  I saw Levi’s truck even before I parked outside my apartment complex. Bracing myself, I walked up the stairs and tried the door handle.

  Locked. I started with the bolt and then unlocked the door handle. But as I turned the key in the door handle, I heard the bolt scrape closed.

  Okay. I unlocked the bolt again and tried to push the door open.

  The knob was locked.

  I banged on the door. “Hello? Sara? I’d kind of like to come in, please.”

  Nothing.

  Fine. I unlocked the handle and turned it in my hand halfway; holding the knob, I unlocked the bolt. I felt the person on the other side try to lock the knob again, but it didn’t catch since the knob was still turned. Before the bolt could be turned again, I turned the knob, shoved the door open, and just about knocked Spencer over.

  “Spencer?” I put my purse down. “Pleasant to see you.”

  “Jayne?” Levi appeared down the hall. “Are you okay?”

  “Spencer locked me out.” I turned to the offender, who didn’t look the least bit sorry. “What are you, twelve?”

  “He locked you out?” Levi rolled his eyes. “Sorry. I brought him so he could help haul the bed up the stairs. He has his own car and should be going home anytime now. Right, Spence?”

  “Come take a look at the office.” Levi motioned for me to follow him down the hall. As I approached the doorway to the study, I could see what he’d done so far—the bed was flush against the far wall, but it wasn’t what I’d expected. Instead of bringing a standard twin bed, Levi had brought a lofted bed and managed to fit a desk and a narrow dresser underneath.

  My eyebrows lifted. “I’m impressed.”

  Levi put his hands on his hips. “Not bad, huh? With small spaces, the best thing to do is go up. I’m sure she’ll need some additional closet space, but this way, moving her in takes over less of your life.”

  I nodded, still admiring his handiwork.

  “I’m looking for an apartment in Portland,” he said.

  “Oh?” I turned to face him, surprised. “What about the shop?”

  “Grady is buying it. He and Spence will keep it going, along with one of the shop guys who’s got some brains. I’ll be selling my house too. I know the market’s not good, but I’m willing to sell it for less if it means getting out of it.” He gave a sad smile. “Time to move on.”

  Move on. Did I want to move on? My life had undergone some huge changes, but there was one piece I couldn’t let go of.

  As I thought about it, I felt myself move toward him. “I hope things work out for you.”

  He stepped closer. “Thanks. I appreciate that.”

  I leaned closer to him. “You deserve to be happy.”

  “I don’t know about that.” His eyes studied mine, flickered to my lips, and returned.

  I held my breath. His lips edged closer to mine until I could feel his breath against my face. He smelled like cinnamon. Our lips brushed together. I felt his hand glance over the ends of my hair.

  “You guys hungry? I’m starved.”

  We jumped apart. Spencer stood with his hands braced against the door-jamb, eyes innocent. “Mexican? Italian? Pizza? What sounds good?”

  In the end we chose sushi, partly because Spencer was against it. I thought about inviting Kim, Joely, and Gemma to dilute the amount of Spencer-ness in the dinner party, but decided against it. I wanted my friends to still be my friends afterward, and Spencer was in full loose cannon mode.

  That, and Joely would probably kill him. With her police-issued shoelaces.

  Levi and I didn’t look
at each other throughout dinner. At least, I didn’t look at Levi. I suppose if he had been looking at me, I wouldn’t have known.

  Chapter 36

  Levi and Spencer left after dinner. Sara sketched on the couch while I read a book in the chair. A movement caught my eye—Sara’s shoulders shook, almost imperceptibly.

  “Sara?” I put my book down. “What’s wrong?”

  Her shoulders stilled, but I could see her lips waver as she tried to regain control. I moved to sit beside her on the couch. “Talk to me.”

  She hugged a pillow cushion to herself. “I’m afraid I won’t go to heaven now when I die. I thought I could forget about it, but I can’t.”

  I frowned. “What are you talking about?”

  “I left. I won’t be baptized.” She shrugged. “I don’t have the hope of heaven anymore.”

  “What…what did your deacon teach about salvation?”

  She shrugged. “It’s boastful to think I can know I’ll go to heaven, I know that…”

  “Sara,” I took her hand. “It’s not boastful.” I took a deep breath. “I haven’t been a model Christian for a really, really long time.” Had I ever been? “Okay, never was,” I admitted. “I should probably ask someone like Gemma to have this conversation with you. I’ve been kinda rude to God for a while. Thing is, I decided to make Jesus my Savior when I was a kid, and Jesus has been after me ever since. I know that, and I know that I want an active relationship with Him now. Scripture tells me I’ll go to heaven, and I believe that.”

  Sara wiped at her eyes. “You think I can still go to heaven?”

  “I do.” I sighed. “Even if you’re not Plain anymore, Jesus still loves you. He still wants to have a relationship with you. Do you want a relationship with Him?”

  Sara nodded.

  We prayed together. The words felt awkward on my tongue. I’m sure it wasn’t the most eloquent, grammatically correct prayer of all time, or even this month, but it was a prayer, and it meant something.

  Sara and I attended church together that Sunday with Gemma.

  Throughout the week, Sara had taken in her new surroundings with wide eyes, from Elephant’s Deli to the Portland Art Museum, but nothing amazed her as much as the experience of a worship service. When the music started, she clapped her hands over her ears.

  “Are you all right?” I asked.

  She grinned and nodded.

  It occurred to me that she hadn’t likely heard much music, much less amplified by the sort of speakers this church had hanging from the ceiling.

  Looking at her broad smile, I stopped trying to monitor Sara’s every reaction and sang out, even if I didn’t know all the words.

  Sara sat with rapt attention throughout the sermon, which, appropriately enough, was about grace. She nodded when she agreed with the pastor, and tilted her head when she seemed to have trouble absorbing the words.

  And me? I felt ashamed of having lost so much time being angry with God and angry with my family. Had I transferred that anger to Levi? Was I the sort of person who wasn’t happy unless she was mad at someone? The thought troubled me.

  “I have a job!”

  “Really?” I steadied my phone headset to keep it from leaping out of my ear as I drove. “Sara, Levi has a job!”

  Sara beamed from the passenger seat. “Is he moving back to Portland?”

  I wondered that myself, but I asked the question that puzzled me most first. “They called you on a Sunday?”

  “The corporate world doesn’t take days off.”

  “Will they expect you to work seven days a week too?”

  “No, but the person hiring wasn’t an economist. He’s just the head of the department.”

  “Crazy. Where’s the position?”

  “Portland.”

  “Oh, wow,” I said, as my heart began to race. “So…you’ll be moving?”

  “As soon as I can. Job starts next week.”

  “Are you glad?”

  He sighed. “Very.”

  “Then I’m happy for you. Truly.” I shot a look at Sara. “What are you doing tonight?”

  “Not much, why?”

  “You could come up so we can celebrate. Knock back a few cups of coffee—I bought a machine. Besides, Sara would like to see you.”

  “I’d love to see her. I’ll leave in a few minutes.”

  I hung up and pulled off the cell phone earpiece. “He’s coming up. He found a job here. We’re going to party like it’s 1999.”

  “He’s moving to Portland?”

  “He is.” More cardiovascular palpitations at the thought. “The position starts next week. In the meantime, he’ll be here this afternoon.”

  Watching Sara’s smile, I felt myself grow glad on the inside.

  By the time we returned home from church, the sun was out. We opened all the blinds and pulled back all the curtains, filling the apartment with warm, sunshiny light. After making a lunch of deli sandwiches full of tomatoes and avocados, Sara settled on the couch with a book.

  Sunny day, and my wrist felt fine—I decided I was ready for a motorcycle ride.

  That was the downside of the roommate thing. I had to work a little harder to have a moment to myself, as opposed to living in total seclusion all the time.

  I supposed it was probably healthy for me.

  I suited up and headed out. My bike took a moment to start; it hadn’t been used in so long. But once I got it started, riding it felt incredible. The wind rushed through the vents in my jacket. The sun warmed the exposed spot on the back of my gloved hand.

  Levi was coming. He was coming because I’d asked him to. I thought back to how we’d met, at the woodshop. The way he’d taken me to the emergency room when I hurt my wrist. How we towed the buggy back to the farm together. Our date at Pastini. The weekend at the coast when everything fell apart.

  I lived a lot of my life expecting people to let me down, expect the worst of me, and shut me out. Had I expected that of Levi?

  The root of our breakup was that I couldn’t tell him I loved him. Sure, we hadn’t known each other long. I’d needed time. Well, time had passed. Did I feel differently?

  Or did the time not matter? Had I loved him all along but been afraid to admit it to myself?

  I never wanted to live a life of fear, but I realized that I had done that anyway despite my best efforts. I had hesitated pursuing a relationship with my mom and sister because I was afraid they would hate me. Because of my fear, I’d missed out on so much. I didn’t want to miss out on Levi, not if he loved me back.

  I’d hurt him. I knew I had. Should I apologize? Beg his forgiveness? Not say anything and just add it to my feminine mystique? I felt confused. When I returned home, I found my phone and dialed my mom’s number.

  She picked up, sounding groggy. “Did I wake you?”

  “It’s Sunday,” she answered, by way of explanation. “Is everything all right?”

  I explained my situation.

  “Well, dear, you fix it the way women have been fixing their man problems for hundreds of years.”

  “How’s that?” I asked, ready to be horrified if somehow my mom had reversed her position in the milk/cow arena. If she had, I was back to square one.

  “Easy, dear. You make him a pie.”

  Chapter 37

  Pie. Pie. Pie. What did I have to make a pie with? “Sara, I need you!” Sara got up from the couch and joined me in the kitchen. “What are you doing? What’s wrong?”

  “I need to make Levi a pie.”

  “Okay…what kind of pie?”

  “Any kind of pie. We don’t have time to go shopping.”

  “Oh.” She joined me in fervent cupboard-checking. Then she moved on to the freezer, digging past boxes of frozen ravioli and grilled chicken strips. “What about these?”

  “I’d forgotten about those.” In her hand she held a bag of frozen peaches. “I was going through a smoothie phase for a while.”

  “Smoothie?”

  �
��Blended fruit. Then I broke the blender. Sticking a fork in to loosen the fruit was a bad idea. I moved on to less dangerous cuisine.” I winced as I heard myself babble. Was I always like this under stress?

  “You’ve got peaches, apricots, and…” she held the last bag close for examination. “Organic Oregon marionberries.”

  “Think there’s enough for a pie?”

  Sara shrugged. “Sure. Do you have shortening for the crust?”

  “Levi bought it when you and your mom stayed here.”

  An expression of longing passed over Sara’s features. I knew she missed her mom. I knew she wouldn’t talk about it.

  At her suggestion, we placed the fruit in a colander and ran it under warm water, just long enough for the fruit to lose most of its ice. I mixed and rolled out the piecrust, enjoying working gently with my hands without the brace, while Sara mixed the fruit with flour, sugar, cinnamon, nutmeg, and a little lemon juice.

  Like an experienced team, we put the thing together—I put the bottom of the pie into the pie pan, Sara dumped the fruit inside, I put the top on, trimmed off the excess, and crimped the edges all nice and pretty. As a last thought, I carved LEVI into the top. We were congratulating him on the job, after all. Nothing says job congratulations like a pie.

  Sara insisted we not put the pie in the oven until it was fully preheated. So I stood, staring at the oven until the heating light blinked off. We placed strips of tinfoil around the edge before putting it in the oven.

  “How long?” I asked, my fingers hovering over the timer function on the microwave.

  “Forty minutes, remove the foil, and then another ten should do it.”

  I set the timer for forty minutes.

  And waited.

  By the time Levi knocked on the door, the apartment smelled almost as good as Martha’s kitchen.

  I opened the door. “Hi,” I said, aware my voice sounded flight attendant perky. “Glad you could come up.”