The Devoted

by Suzanne Woods Fisher

Those were the thoughts that were humming messily around her head as she quietly made her way down the gravel driveway, until she saw a bobbing flashlight come toward her. “Luke?”

  “Hello there, Ruthie.”

  She jumped at the voice. “Patrick!” She exhaled, heart thudding, yet also pinging a little at the sight of him as he approached her. “I didn’t expect to see you.” She popped him in the upper arm like she used to do to her brother Jesse, but the gesture felt far more intimate with Patrick. “What are you doing out so late?” She had made an elaborate effort to sneak out of the house, even to quietly tiptoe past Jesse’s room—where she assumed Patrick was sleeping—and carefully step over the telltale squeaky floorboard. Down the hall, her father could hear that squeaky floorboard like it was a fire alarm.

  “Just stargazing.” He turned the flashlight off and looked up at the black velvet sky. “Where I’m from, there’s an ambient light from the city that kind of erases most of the stars. It’s easy to forget they’re there.” He lifted his head. “It’s hard to sleep when there’s so much beauty to absorb.”

  Ruthie looked up at the sky. Yes, a clear night of bright stars was nice, but it had never kept her from sleeping.

  “What exactly are you looking at?”

  Patrick pointed toward the blanket of night sky in the gap. “Polaris,” he said quietly, and she tried to follow the trajectory of his finger. “Also known as Polestar and Lodestar, but better known as the North Star. It holds nearly still while the entire northern sky turns.”

  “Like the hub of a wheel.”

  “Yes.” Patrick smiled. “Just like that. The sky turns like a wheel and Polaris is its hub, always marking true north.”

  True north. She liked the sound of that. “Which one is it?”

  “First, find the Big Dipper.” He traced it with his finger, and she tried to follow along.

  “I don’t see it.”

  His hand moved, his arm brushing her shoulder. “Pretend the Big Dipper is the palm of your hand. Wait. Hold on.” He unwrapped her fingers. “Cup your hand, but don’t make a fist. Just pretend you’re holding a mug or a bowl.” He lifted her cupped hand in the sky. “At the top of your fingers, you’ll find the Little Dipper. That can be a little harder to find. See it?”

  “Oh, okay. Yes, I see it.”

  “Now track down to where your fingers meet the palm of your hand. It’s the end of the Little Dipper’s handle. That bright star is Polaris.”

  She saw it then. The North Star. Polaris. True north.

  “It always sits over the North Pole. The closer you get to the North Pole, the higher it will be in the sky.”

  “So if you’re down by the equator, it would sit low on the horizon.”

  “Yes!” Patrick laughed. “Exactly right, Ruthie. You’re a quick study. Its position is constant. It never moves. A navigational marker. People could use it to sail the seas or cross the deserts without getting lost. When slavery existed in the United States, slaves used the North Star to light their way to freedom.”

  She eyed Patrick curiously, storing this information away. Then she turned back to the night sky, black and blank but for the stars and a sliver of a new moon.

  It seemed to occur to him that he was holding her hand because he suddenly dropped it and stuffed his hands in his pants pockets. “It’s really not so hard to find, once someone shows you where to look.”

  Their gazes caught, and a hot flush started along the top of Ruthie’s ears. She was glad for the darkness. “No, you’re right. Once you know where to look, it’s not hard to find.” True north. Was that her it? The thing she was waiting for?

  She stared until her neck ached. “The night sky . . . it’s so vast. It makes me feel incredibly insignificant.”

  “Really? I have the opposite reaction. To think that this third planet from the sun, nestled in the Milky Way Galaxy, one galaxy among billions, is the object of God’s attention. Why? Why us? He could have given us one star to admire, but he’s given us billions. And planets too. Did you know that one of the rings of Saturn is braided? No one knows why. Perhaps just to show us God’s infinite creativity. It’s mind-boggling. It makes me feel very, very significant.”

  “It makes me feel very, very, very small.”

  “I see.”

  But how could Patrick see? She doubted he was ever confused. He seemed so sure about everything, so certain, so clear.

  “Where are you going?” he asked.

  “Where am I going?”

  “It’s late. Nearly midnight. You look like you’re on your way somewhere.”

  A familiar sound of a horse’s clip-clop mixed with the clackety sound of iron-clad wheels crunching on the road announced the arrival of a buggy to the bottom of the driveway. Earlier today, against her better judgment, Luke had talked her into going with him to meet some friends. “It’ll help you get your mind off of that stranger in the inn,” he had told her, and that was just the encouragement she needed. She glanced at Patrick. “I’m going to a . . . youth gathering.”

  Patrick’s eyes met hers with the faintest lift of his eyebrows, as if she were a puzzle he was trying to piece together. The effect was unsettling. “Well, don’t let me stop you.”

  “Do you want to come?”

  He shook his head. “Not tonight. I’m a little tired. Maybe next time, though.” He did look tired. Pale, with dark circles under his eyes. Hot, too, for it was a muggy night. His hair fell in tangled strands over his forehead, curling slightly at the ends as he gazed upward. She fought an impulse to brush the hair back out of his eyes, to touch him with the same gentle touch that he would give to his bird. “Thanks for not insisting we talk in Penn Dutch.”

  Her eyes went wide. “I forgot!”

  He laughed, before stepping around her to walk up the driveway. “Next time, I’ll go with you. I’d like to meet your friends.”

  She watched him for a while. He was a strange one, that Patrick Kelly. Unflappable was the word that came to mind. She wished she were unflappable. Unable—or unwilling?—to be flapped. She heard Luke’s horse whinny and hurried down the hill to meet the buggy.

  “Your chariot awaits, my lovely damsel,” Luke said, slurring the words.

  She stopped abruptly. “You’re drunk.”

  “Nonsense.”

  She looked at the shine of booze bright in his eyes. Booze-shine. She knew that look well on Luke. “You’re gutter-drunk and I’m not going.”

  “Nonsense. That’s ridiculous. I’m church-sober.”

  She snorted. His version of church-sober meant mildly intoxicated.

  He stared down at her a moment longer, then heaved a deep sigh. He wrapped the reins around the brake handle and swung out of the buggy. “Don’t get on your high horse. I just got the party started a little early, that’s all.” He tapped her nose with his finger and tried to wiggle his brows at her. “Who were you talking to?”

  “None of your business.”

  In his other hand was a bottle. He held it out to her. “Do you want a drink?”

  Ruthie shook her head. “Your drinking has dimmed my enthusiasm for alcohol.”

  “Aw, come on, Ruthie. Don’t be like that.” He reached out for her, but she backed up and he nearly fell over.

  “I told you. I’m not going with you. You’re mistaken to think I would want to go anywhere with you when you’re like this.”

  He gave her a smile. “Look at it this way. I’ve made all the mistakes, so you don’t have to.” He drained his bottle and tossed it in the road, causing it to shatter.

  She was already irritated with Luke for showing up drunk. No, that was inaccurate. She wasn’t irritated, she wasn’t annoyed, she wasn’t “out of sorts.” She was flat-out, full-steam, blow-your-top angry. “What is wrong with you? I have three little sisters who walk barefoot everywhere. You’re going to clean up every last shard. Or I will get—”

  A strange look came over Luke. He folded up as if someone had let the air out of him an
d bolted for the side of the road, one hand holding onto the mailbox post, as he threw up the vodka that had soured the contents of his belly.

  Ruthie took a few steps, then looked up at the house. Lampshine spilled from Patrick’s open bedroom window in a soft yellow pool. She wondered if he could hear the terrible gagging, choking sounds that came from the road. Grateful he hadn’t accepted her invitation to come tonight, she did wonder what he would have done, or said, if he were witnessing Luke’s . . . disgusting humiliation.

  Nothing could be further from what Patrick thought it meant to be Amish. But what did he think it meant? What drew Patrick to them?

  The peace in their hearts, she supposed. But what was so peaceful about watching Luke Schrock throw up? Nothing. Nothing at all.

  After Luke’s stomach emptied, he slowly straightened, wiped his mouth with his shirtsleeve, ran a hand through his mussed hair. She picked up his hat and handed it to him. “I’m going inside.”

  “Ruthie, wait.” She could see the throb of the pulse in his throat. “I’m sorry.”

  She sighed. “I know. You’re always sorry, Luke.” She started up the hill and he fell into step beside her, his stride long-legged and only a little wavery now.

  “Wait.” He pulled on her arm, a little too sharply, and she pulled it away. “Wait. I really am sorry. I won’t do it again.” He crossed his heart to emphasize his sincerity.

  “Okay,” she said, not believing him. She glanced over at the mailbox, splattered with the contents of his stomach. And the broken bottle glass that littered the road. “You’d better get a bucket of water and clean that up. And a broom too.”

  “Absolutely.” He gave her a dazzling smile. He was feeling better. “Wouldn’t want to shock Molly when she runs to get the mail.” He walked to the horse.

  “Now, Luke. Now. Before you meet up with your friends and drink more and forget everything.”

  “My, my, aren’t you getting a bit sharp-tongued in your wise old age.”

  “I’m not old and I’m not wise. I’m just tired of this.” She pointed to the mailbox. “Use soap and hot water on that.”

  Luke swept his hat off his head and bent over at the waist in an exaggerated bow. “Consider it done.”

  In the morning, Ruthie woke early and hurried down to the mailbox with a bucket of hot soapy water and a scrub brush to clean up Luke’s mess before anyone else found it first.

  She had forgotten about the broken bottle, shattered shards of pieces on the road. Luke! No doubt, he was sleeping off his binge, happily unaware of the effect his foolishness had on others.

  “Here, let me help.”

  She hadn’t heard Patrick come up behind her and jumped at the sound of his voice. In his hands were a brush and a dustpan. “Don’t want you cutting yourself with the glass.” He bent down and started sweeping the broken vodka bottle into a neat pile.

  And that was the moment when Ruthie’s great fondness for Patrick Kelly began.

  8

  Matt asked to meet David and Dok at the Bent N’ Dent late in the day. Official business, he told them. He handed Dok the coroner’s report. As she rifled through it, Matt told David that the stranger at Eagle Hill, known for now as a John Doe, had died of a heart attack.

  “But what about the blow to the head?” David asked.

  Matt shrugged. “The coroner wasn’t sure what caused it, but he ruled it out as the cause of death.”

  “What about his identity?” Dok said. “Have you gotten any closer to that? Someone must have reported a missing person by now. It’s been days.”

  “Working on it.”

  “In other words . . . no leads?”

  “Nothing yet. We’re still working on it. On my way back to town, I’ll stop at the Inn at Eagle Hill and let them know they can open up for business.”

  Which meant, David realized, that Patrick Kelly would no longer need to stay in Jesse’s bedroom and could move across the road, as originally planned. He felt a tinge of disappointment. He had liked having Patrick around. He might be young, only twenty, but he was quite mature and extremely well read. Twice now, they had stayed up late having a theological discussion about the effects of the Reformation. Raised as an orthodox Catholic, Patrick had been exposed to very different views about the Reformation than most Protestants. Some parts of being Amish were quite close to Catholicism—the emphasis on confession, for example. And some parts were radically different—adult baptism versus infant baptism, the worship of the Madonna, praying to saints. Patrick was full of questions, brimming with curiosity. David relished their talks.

  Matt leaned against the counter. “So, Dok, how goes private practice?”

  “Slow.”

  That was an understatement, David knew. He’d been her only patient, all week long.

  “Give it time.”

  “Time is something I happen to have an abundance of right now.”

  A streak of red started up Matt’s cheeks. “Maybe, then, we could get lunch sometime.” He cleared his throat. “Or dinner.”

  She handed him back the coroner’s report. “Matt, it’s never a good idea to mix business and personal life.” She went to the door and lifted her hand in a casual goodbye.

  “But . . . we’re not in the same business,” Matt said. “Not at all.”

  She either didn’t hear Matt or pretended she hadn’t. After the door closed behind her, Matt looked back at David. “Why won’t she go out with me?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Any advice?”

  Advice? On how to date his sister? He laughed. “Only this—if you give up too easily, you’re clearly not The One.”

  Ruthie arranged a dozen long-stemmed red roses in a vase. Luke Schrock had sent them to her as an apology for his behavior the other night. “It will never happen again,” he wrote in the card. “Just say you’ll forgive me.”

  She forgave him. She always did.

  There was something about Luke that made it impossible to stay mad at him for long. He was fascinating but reckless—and not in a good way. He had sworn his undying love to Ruthie since they were in seventh grade, but something always made her hold back from fully returning his feelings. It wasn’t because she didn’t have feelings for him. She did. Strong ones. She cared about Luke, at times she even thought she might love him, especially those times when he was sweet and thoughtful and attentive. He was an amazing, lavish gift giver. He remembered romantic details: her birthday, the color of her dress on the day he first saw her, her favorite flower—a red rose.

  Her feelings about Luke were a mess. She was a mess. She was a jumble of messy feelings. Alles fashmiaht. Everything is messy.

  But not when she was around Patrick. There was a stillness about him that made her feel calm too. He was sort of enigmatically happy, with a tranquility that drew her to him like an ant to a picnic. He was refreshing, like a summer rain shower that cleared away the oppressive and muggy air.

  She’d never spent time around a boy before who didn’t seem to care at all what she thought of him. Most boys, including Luke—especially Luke—sought some kind of reaction from her. Patrick was the same before she showed up and exactly the same after she left him.

  For the first time in her life, she found herself making minor adjustments to attract a boy’s attention. She wore a green dress during yesterday’s tutoring session because Patrick had casually mentioned that green was his favorite color. Tonight she stayed up much too late, reading in the living room, waiting until he returned home from stargazing. How ridiculous! He walked in the house, said hello and goodnight to her, and went straight to his room.

  She’d tried hard to interest him, only to find that nothing seemed to affect Patrick Kelly. He was friendly and polite to her, but kept a slight air of distance and and detachment. Dare she think it?—he clearly did not feel any attraction to her. None in the least.

  Really, she knew almost nothing about him. He took an interest in everything, asking question after question,
but he didn’t volunteer much about himself. Her mind reeled back to their tutoring session earlier today. He had diligently mastered the lengthy list of vocabulary words she’d given him. She handed him a new list, this time with one hundred words—he told her to be a tough taskmaster!—and said, “You fit in as though you’d been around here for years. And we’re not always an easy bunch to get along with.”

  “Thank you,” he said, with that straightforward look of his that made her stomach feel fluttery. “Time is short. I don’t want to waste a moment.”

  “Oh?” Ruthie was immediately interested. Here was the perfect opening to discover more about him. But just then her father arrived home to announce that the cottage at the Inn of Eagle Hill was deemed ready to be back in business, and Patrick vaulted upstairs. He hurriedly packed up his backpack, thanked David for extending hospitality, grabbed Nyna the Mynah’s cage—which got her squawking in indignation—and moved across the road. He didn’t seem one bit bothered to leave the Stoltzfus home. Grateful for the time with them, but almost eager to be on his own.

  What would happen to their Penn Dutch tutoring sessions? Patrick didn’t mention a word about them. Were they over?

  She felt a zing of disappointment.

  David went out to the garden to find Birdy picking tomatoes in the tomato patch. He’d never thought he’d see this patch of soil looking the way it did. Neat, tidy rows; green, healthy plants. It was Birdy, all Birdy. He watched her for a few moments before he interrupted her. She looked like a young girl, with the blue scarf wrapped around her head and tied under her chin. He began to think, not for the first time, of how extraordinarily blessed he was to find this late-flowering love.

  She lifted her head when she heard him call her name and responded with a bright smile, such a beautiful smile. It lit her from head to toe.

  “Matt Lehman said the stranger who died at the inn had a heart attack. Natural causes. The cottage was given the all clear, so Patrick packed up and moved over.”

  Birdy’s face fell in disappointment. “I suppose that means he’s taking Nyna the Mynah with him.”