The Haven

by Suzanne Woods Fisher

  Will had been to Windmill Farm once before, though no one would have recognized him. Last year, he had come to see for himself when he heard about the American pipit on the Rare Bird Alert. He couldn’t believe it when he saw it, but there it was. A small, brown, nondescript bird, half the size of a robin, sitting on a woodpile. It ate crickets out of an Amish teenage boy’s hand.

  Will’s interest was piqued. He wanted to know more about this farm and this family. Especially now. Windmill Farm might prove very useful to him, if he went through with this opportunity that had fallen, out of the blue, into his lap and promised him a way to get out of the mess he was in, without having to involve his father . . .

  Late in the afternoon, Twin Creeks Schoolhouse was bathed in warm, sleepy sunlight that fell in speckled patterns across the polished wood floor. The old walls and ceiling beams creaked and moaned, sounding every bit like an old man stretching as he rose from his favorite chair. Gideon Smucker had been hearing the sounds for a few months now, and found them oddly comforting.

  Gid closed the math book, took off his glasses, and rubbed his eyes. He was barely able to keep one day ahead of his brightest scholar, Mary Kate Lapp. He thought the complicated problems in this book would keep M.K.’s nimble mind busy, but he didn’t realize how many mental cobwebs he would need to brush off just to correct her work. He leaned back in his chair and clasped his hands behind his neck. He was glad the other scholars weren’t as precocious as Mary Kate. He’d be sunk.

  He still couldn’t believe he was here, teaching the twenty-one scholars of Twin Creeks School. He loved book learning but never imagined himself a schoolteacher. His sister, Alice, had been teaching at Twin Creeks for seven years. A week before school started up again after Christmas, Alice was injured in an unfortunate sledding accident. She broke both of her legs, requiring a long, slow rehabilitation. Desperate, the school board asked if he would fill in for Alice. How could he refuse the three members of the school board, or Alice? But even more startling was the discovery that Gid loved teaching. He felt he had been born to teach, in a way that he never felt behind a plow. His mind felt so challenged by teaching, so active and alive.

  Gid glanced at the clock on the wall: five o’clock. He needed to get home soon and help his dad with evening chores. He wanted to finish the letter to Sadie before he went home. He’d been writing steadily to her over the last few months and was hoping she’d be coming back from Ohio soon. If he mailed it tomorrow, she would receive it on Saturday. Too soon? Did he seem too eager? He didn’t want to come across like he was pining for her. He wasn’t. He most definitely wasn’t. Not much, anyway. Maybe he should hold off mailing it for another day or two.

  He went through this every week. He would send her a favorite book or two of his, scribbled with marginalia, along with a brief note at least once a week. He worried constantly that he was going to push Sadie away by being too obviously smitten by her.

  To him, Sadie was like a delicate hummingbird, easily frightened off. And why should a girl like her ever be sincerely interested in a fellow like him? He was clumsy, tongue-tied, awkward socially. He hoped that through the books they shared, she might see what was in him that he couldn’t seem to express in person. Why was it so much easier to write something to her than to say the same thing to her? If he could describe things with written words, couldn’t he do the same aloud? Maybe when Sadie came back, he would be able to say these things to her.

  He overheard someone describe him once as a young man without deep feelings. He did feel deeply, he knew he did. But what he felt was so confusing and required so much work to figure out, and then even more to get it to the surface and express it, that it was easier to keep quiet and concentrate on writing, something he could see. He imagined all kinds of sweet things he wanted to tell her: how there were times in church when a beam from the sun caught her hair and glinted and he thought she looked like an angel. How much he loved those pronounced dimples in her cheeks. And those freckles that covered her nose and cheeks. He knew she hated them and tried to get rid of them with lemon juice, but he wished she wouldn’t because he liked them. And her laugh . . . it was like the sound of wind chimes. He sorely missed Sadie, as much today as when she left for Ohio four months ago.

  Gid was in eighth grade when he first realized he was in love with Sadie Lapp. Not that he let anybody know he was besotted. Especially not Sadie.

  He had learned the hard way that just because you felt something didn’t mean you had to tell other people. His friends had a way of twisting things around, finding something in the most commonplace remarks to jab at a person and make fun.

  He had plenty of reasons to keep his mouth shut on any romantic topics. First off, nobody would believe he knew what love was at his age. Second, Sadie was even younger than he was. Third, Sadie had never given him the slightest indication that he was anything more than just another boy to ignore at school.

  But then, last December, Gid gathered enough courage to ask Sadie if he could take her home from a singing, and she nodded shyly. The night was clear and cold and their breath was frosty on the air as the horse pulled the buggy across the frozen ground. In the soft moonlight it was easier to talk, and both of them seemed reluctant to reach her farm and have the evening end. That one time led to another ride home from a singing, then an ice skating party, and a few other times when they didn’t need a gathering as an excuse to see each other. Then came the last time together, just after Christmas, the night before Sadie left for Ohio with her sister and brother-in-law. Gid didn’t know when he would see Sadie again.

  Gid had stopped the horse near the side of the barn, where M.K. couldn’t peek out the farmhouse window and spy on them like she did on a regular basis. He helped Sadie out of the buggy.

  Sadie glanced toward the house. “Perhaps we should say goodnight here,” she said.

  Gid moved in front of her to block the cold wind. He had never kissed a girl, but he’d given it a great deal of thought. Quite a great deal. He lifted her chin so she would look at him. For a moment they stood absolutely still. Then he dropped his head down to softly cover her lips with his. Her hand came up to touch his cheek, and when he lifted his lips from hers, they stood there with their warm breath intermingling for a moment. None of the books or poetry he had read had done kissing justice.

  It was the single finest moment in Gid’s nineteen years of life.

  2

  As the sun started to dip into the horizon, the excitement over the falcons slowly petered out. Cars and buggies left the farm. Will had just finished taping off the area near the falcons’ scape and was walking back to the farmhouse to let the game warden know he had finished. When he reached Mahlon, he quietly mentioned the concern he had about so many onlookers. The scape was situated in a place on the farm where there weren’t any fences. Folks could easily trample through the fields, he explained to the game warden, and climb up that ridge to get a closer look at the scape. It worried him, he said. The female might not lay eggs if she became stressed by the presence of onlookers.

  “I know all that,” Mahlon said, sounding annoyed that an intern for the game commission would try to tell him basic bird facts. Then his face relaxed. “Imagine if the clutch ended up with four or five viable eyases. Even two or three.”

  Will whistled. “It would be big.”

  “Might be the first successful breeding pair in this county.”

  Will scratched his neck. “We could do a drive-by each day on our way to work and back.” Since his internship had started last week, he had been boarding at Mahlon Miller’s house.

  “Oh, I’ve got a better plan to protect those falcons than Keep Out tape and a daily drive-by.”

  “What’s that?” Will asked.

  Mahlon gave him a smug smile. “You.”

  Will’s eyes went wide. “Uh, but . . .” This wasn’t exactly what he had in mind for his internship—not that this internship was his idea in the first place. It wasn’t. It was his fathe
r’s idea. A way to make Will pay for getting suspended from the university for the semester. That was why he was living with the game warden—it was part of the deal his father struck with Mahlon. A few years ago, Will’s father, a doctor, had performed a risky operation on Mahlon’s mother and saved her life. There wasn’t anything Mahlon Miller wouldn’t do for Will’s father.

  Will took off his cowboy hat and spun it in his hands. “Just seems like it’s asking too much to stay with an Amish family.”

  Mahlon dismissed that with a wave of his pudgy hand. “I’ve already thought that out. I’m going to see if you can stay in that empty cottage over there.” He pointed to a small, tidy-looking cottage underneath a stand of pines, not far from the falcons’ scape. “That way, you won’t interfere with the family at all. You’re going to babysit those falcons until the chicks are banded and ready to leave the scape.” Mahlon folded his arms across his chest. “I’m friends with Amos Lapp, the Amish farmer. I don’t think he would mind having you stay, especially after I offer your help around the farm. He could use the help and you could use the work. Kind of a barter arrangement.”

  Will felt a little stunned. He had always made it a point to dodge physical labor—academics were more to his liking. Plus . . . he was lazy. He knew that about himself and accepted it happily. And here he was, about to be offered up as a farmhand. He didn’t even know what farmers did all day. Watch their crops grow? Muck out horse stalls? Oh, this wasn’t good. Not good at all. He opened his mouth to object as Mahlon tossed his truck keys to him.

  “I’m going to go clear it with Amos,” Mahlon said. “You go pack up your belongings from the house and get back here. Pronto.” He spun on his heels to go find the farmer, a wide grin on his face which, Will thought, had something to do with the thought of having his intern move out of his house. Just last night, Mahlon’s wife seemed particularly touchy about the three-day-old forgotten meatloaf sandwich left in Will’s backpack that had attracted a mouse in his room. Maybe two. Maybe a family.

  Will walked down the driveway to the truck, reviewing this turn of events. As he backed the truck to turn it around, he pedaled down a new lane of thinking. Maybe this was a gift in disguise. A beacon in the gray fog that covered his future. He woke up this morning wrestling with his conscience about a recent opportunity that had been presented to him. With this last swift decision, made by Mahlon, Will was going to take it as a sign to stop overthinking the situation. The matter was decided.

  At the kitchen table, Mary Kate waited patiently for Sadie to pass the potatoes, but her sister seemed to be deep in thought. Sadie’s eyes kept misting over like she was trying to not bust out crying. Something was bothering her.

  M.K. wasn’t sure why Sadie was suddenly in such a mood, but for now, she was hungry, especially after spending the last hour carefully introducing the new brown bee queen to the hive. Bees were very fussy about newcomers, especially one that would now reign over them. She reached over Sadie and tried to help herself to a large cloud of mashed potatoes, but her sister moved the bowl out of her reach.

  Amos lifted his eyebrows. “Sadie, would you mind passing food around the table?”

  Sadie made a point to pass the bowl of mashed potatoes to Fern, bypassing M.K. She lifted her chin. “Mary Kate is oblivious to the kind of trouble she created today.”

  M.K.’s eyes went round as saucers. “What did I do that was so bad?”

  Sadie looked at her, astounded. “You told people that I brought a baby home from Ohio.”

  M.K. raised her palms in wonder. “But you did! That’s the truth!”

  “That’s NOT the way it happened!” Sadie glared at her. “I did not bring the baby from Ohio. The baby found me, in the bus station in Lancaster, while I was waiting for a bus to Stoney Ridge.” She passed the platter of roast beef to Uncle Hank, seated across from her. Then she picked up her fork and poked at the mashed potatoes on her plate. “Who all did you tell?”

  M.K. had her eye on Uncle Hank, who was spearing large slices of roast beef onto his plate. She hoped there would be some left. “Just a few people.”

  Sadie narrowed her eyes. “Who, exactly?”

  M.K. put up her hand and counted off her fingers. “Ruthie. Ethan. Solomon Riehl and his little boy, Danny.” Uncle Hank passed her the platter and she grabbed it eagerly.

  Relief covered Sadie’s face.

  M.K. lowered her head and quietly added, “And maybe Edith Fisher.”

  “Noooooooooo!” Sadie looked like she’d swallowed a firecracker. “Edith Fisher will spread the news through this entire town by morning.”

  M.K. took a large mouthful of roast beef and mumbled, “I still don’t understand why it’s so bad.”

  Sadie glowered at M.K. “Lower your voice or you’ll wake the baby up. I just got him to sleep.”

  M.K. looked at her father and raised her palms in exasperation. She mouthed the words, “But I’m not talking loud! Sadie is!”

  Fern, sitting to the right of M.K., placed her hand on her forearm. “Denk zehe mol, schwetz eemol.” Think ten times, talk once. “How many times have I told you that?”

  Too many to count, M.K. thought. Along with zillions of other bromides about talking too much, moving too fast, acting without thinking, accepting correction, being humble, on and on and on. Fern was famous for her sayings. M.K. thought she must study them so that she could whip one out at just the right moment.

  Sadie got up and checked on the baby, sleeping in the little basket in a corner. “M.K., you had no right to tell people anything about the baby. I was barely home for five minutes and you couldn’t keep quiet. You just don’t think. And now you’ve started all kinds of rumors about me.”

  Uncle Hank’s fist hit the table. “NO SIR! No one would dare say a mean word about our Sadie. I WON’T HAVE IT!” He clamped his jaw, but his emotions passed quickly, like a racing thundercloud. He picked up a few biscuits and generously lathered them with butter.

  “Don’t be so sure,” Fern said. “Folks think that a rumor is truth on the trail.”

  Uncle Hank took a bite and chewed it thoughtfully. “I did hear someone say something about Sadie’s absence being mighty suspicious. But, DAGNABIT!”—that was the only cuss word Fern would allow out of Uncle Hank, so he made plenty of use of it—“I set them straight. I said she was exiled to be with relatives for the winter.”

  “Exiled?” Sadie said, horrified. “You used the word ‘exiled’?”

  Uncle Hank stroked his chin. “Exiled? I said excited.”

  Sadie was mortified. “You said exiled!”

  Uncle Hank frowned. “I said excited and I meant excited! Your ears must be full of cotton. I said ‘Sadie was excited to be with relatives for the winter.’” But he didn’t look quite convinced.

  Sadie crumpled. “See? I told you! Folks are going to think I had this baby! And it’s all M.K.’s fault!” Looping her arms to rest on the table, she slid lower and let her forehead rest on her fists.

  M.K. was disgusted. It was a scandal how often the finger of blame pointed to her. She thought she was sharing happy news. What could be so bad about having a baby come to stay with them? Her friend Ruthie was thrilled!

  “Would you go over everything one more time, Sadie?” Amos said.

  Sadie lifted her head and sighed. “I arrived at the Lancaster bus depot and had to wait for the Stoney Ridge connection, so I started to read my book and must have nodded off. When I woke up, there was a basket by my feet.” She pointed to the basket. “And in the basket was that little baby.”

  “No note?” Fern said.

  Sadie shook her head. “Just a bottle and a can of powdered formula. And some diapers.”

  M.K. pinched her nose with her fingers. “Not enough of them.”

  “You didn’t remember seeing anyone?” Amos said.

  Sadie shook her head. “It was pretty busy when the bus arrived, but then, when I woke up, it had cleared out. I walked all around the station looking for someone, a
nd then I went to ask the stationmaster if he had seen anyone who was holding a basket.”

  “What did he say?” Fern asked.

  “I tried to explain myself a couple of times, but I don’t think I did a very good job of it. He finally pointed to the basket and asked if I was feeling okay, and maybe he should call the police or paramedics because they can help with confused people.” Sadie frowned. “I didn’t want the police or paramedics to take the baby away. Or me, either. And just then the Stoney Ridge bus arrived and I got on it. With the baby.” She set her elbows on the table and rested her chin in her palms. “Dad, what are we going to do?”

  Amos sat quietly for a long while. Too quiet for M.K.

  Finally, she couldn’t hold back any longer or she would pop. “We should keep him! Don’t you see? He was brought to Sadie by an angel! Ruthie said there are angels all around us. Ruthie knows about these things, now that her dad’s a minister.” As soon as the words flew out of her mouth, she regretted them. The entire family looked at her as if she had spoken Chinese.

  Then Sadie spoke. “Mary Kate might have finally said something today that was worth saying.” She looked at her father. “I think she’s right. That baby was meant for me. For all of us. I think that’s why I felt such a strong pull to get back here today, Dad. I was meant to be in that bus station, at just that moment. On this day, of all days. I’m just sure of it, and I think I felt sure of it in the bus station too. Today was no accident. That baby is meant for us.”

  Amos fingered a seam on the tabletop. “Sadie, I’m not sure that’s for you to decide.”

  Sadie’s eyes went wide. “Well, why ever not? The baby was given to me.”

  Fern picked up the basket of biscuits and passed it to Amos. “Bringing home a baby isn’t the same thing as bringing home a stray kitten or puppy.”

  As Amos broke a biscuit in half, a puff of white steam was released. His eyes were fixed on the biscuit as he quietly said, “We need to do what’s best for the baby. And what’s best for the baby is to find his family.”