The Thorn (The Rose Trilogy)

by Beverly Lewis

  "Da Herr sei mit du - the Lord be with you," Solomon said as the bishop headed for the door.

  "And with you," Aaron replied.

  Solomon watched silently as his neighbor - and good friend - left.

  Rose waved at the bishop, who was trudging across the field toward his house as she went to check the mailbox. While strolling down the driveway, she heard two buggies already turning into the bishop's long lane. Oh, she could hardly wait to go over and enjoy the merriment, as well as the scary stories the children liked to tell.

  The sun was falling behind the eastern hills as she walked back toward the house with the mail. She noticed a letter addressed to her, but the handwriting was unfamiliar. Once inside, she placed the rest of the mail on the kitchen table next to Mamm, who was having dessert with her mother, as well as some peppermint tea to ease her congestion.

  Without saying a word to either of them, Rose dashed upstairs to the stillness of her room and sat on the bed. She opened the letter and glanced at the bottom of the page. There was Silas Good's name.

  Dear Rose Ann,

  It's been months since I've seen you at Singings or other youth gatherings. Your grandfather seems to be getting better here lately, coming again to Preaching and all. My family and I pray for him - and your mother, too - each day.

  I know it's been a long while since we've talked. But would you consider meeting me this Saturday at dusk, up Salem Road - remember the spot near the thicket of oak trees?

  If it's possible, let me know. Otherwise, if you're not there by about eight o'clock, I'll just assume you're not coming. But I hope you will. I'd sure like to see you again, Rose Ann.

  Your friend, Silas Good

  Rose was amazed - and elated, considering this strange turn of events. Hadn't she hoped, even prayed that Silas still cared for her?

  Recalling his warm glances before and after Preaching the past year, her heart beat faster. "He hasn't forgotten me after all," she whispered, clasping the letter to her.

  She spun around and smiled into her dresser mirror, still holding the letter. To think he'd written to her when so many pretty girls might've caught his eye by now. Oh, she hoped Mamm's cold would be better enough by then that she might be free to meet him. She didn't dare to just slip away. It was one thing to go on a spur-of-the-moment ride with Nick and quite another to plan an evening out with a potential beau like Silas. And she didn't want to let Silas down.

  Placing the letter in her hankie drawer, she turned to look out the window and saw the bishop's grandchildren playing on the front lawn next door. Over several decades, the soaring maple trees - silver, black, and sugar - and well-established pin oaks and sycamores had steadily suffused the Petersheims' front and side lawns, creating a shadowy world beneath. She hurried down the stairs and saw Mamm nicely settled yet with Mammi Sylvia, the two of them nibbling sugar cookies. A new pot of coffee - Mammi Sylvia's weakness - had been put on to boil. No doubt she'd added a few eggshells to take out the bitterness as she liked to do.

  Rose slipped out the back door, carrying an empty jar. She headed across the grazing land that bordered the bishop's property. Right away she saw several of the school-age boys bunched up near one ancient tree out back, while the younger boys whittled near the woodshed. The girls played more quietly, staying close to the screened-in porch. Some of them had their little cloth dolls and handmade blankets.

  She enjoyed the mingled sound of their play. And as she strolled along, dusk began to fall. Just that quick, the children were drawn to each other, like a flock of birds toward the sky. When they saw her, they shouted, "Come on, Rose!" encouraging her to chase and catch fireflies with them, their laughter clear and true.

  After a time, they began to settle onto the back steps to take turns telling stories, each one trying to outdo the other with farfetched or frightening tales. This evening was no exception. Most every story included some superstition about the dark, rocky ravine that ran below Bridle Path Lane over yonder ... of disappearances and mysterious sounds in the night. So many superstitions had sprung up after Mamm's near-fatal accident. Despite all of that, Rose shivered with delight at the telling.

  She heard the crack of a twig and glimpsed Nick's shadow near the side of the house - she knew what he was fixing to do.

  Nick reached the farthest end of the porch, pausing there, still as a tree trunk. Then he jumped out and shouted, "Boo!"

  The children's terrified yet merry screams rose straight to the sky. Nick clapped his hands, his laughter ringing across the paddock as he swung one child, then another, around and around. He'd pulled pranks like this before, and the children were always gleefully surprised.

  He stayed around, squatting on the top step and listening as the stories took a more ominous turn. The story being told now was of a recent flood that had washed out and destroyed the historic Jackson's Sawmill Covered Bridge not far from there. "Weeks afterward, live frogs and dead fish were found in Gilbert Browning's house, right there near Octoraro Creek," the tallest boy said.

  Rose stifled a laugh. While it was common knowledge that last year's flood had washed the old bridge off its moorings and flooded several houses, too, she couldn't envision how this child knew anything about the interior of Gilbert Browning's abode. The eccentric man rarely let in any outsiders except Lucy Petersheim, who'd quit working there several weeks ago. That was how Rose came to be hired in her place, to cook a variety of meals for the week, as well as clean the kitchen and wash up a small mountain of dishes. Since he was a widower, there was surprisingly little to keep tidy. As meagerly furnished as the main floor was, Mr. Browning's house could've easily passed for Amish.

  She was thankful to her father, as well as to the bishop, for agreeing to let her work for Mr. Browning on a trial basis. She had no idea why Lucy had stopped working so suddenly, unless she was planning to marry come fall.

  Rose's mind drifted back to the voice of the young storyteller. "It's awful dark in the holler." He went on to describe the very location where Mamm's buggy had flipped over, adding, "There's a hobgoblin who lives deep in the ravine by the crick. If you ain't careful, he'll grab ya!"

  Now the children were squirming with fright. Rose had never been one to fret at such tales or grimace at the thought of the sun going down. Truth be known, she relished the nighttime hours - enjoyed stepping out of the house after dusk to sit on the back porch before family worship. She liked to simply breathe in the savory freshness, especially during the autumn months. The resonance of a thousand crickets in the vast underbrush along the horse fence ... nothing quite compared.

  Hen, on the other hand, was petrified of the dark. In fact, at supper tonight, Hen lamented the shorter days now that it was late September. Rose, however, secretly thrilled to the longer evenings. For one thing, Mamm went to bed earlier in the fall, giving Rose more time to read her library books. And ride with Nick.

  And back when she was going to Singings in the fall of last year, Silas Good would arrive at dusk - pulling up Salem Road a ways and parking his open buggy beneath the turning trees to wait for her. It had been nearly one full year since he'd first taken her home in his new courting buggy ... last September twenty-eighth. But in that year they'd only gone together a handful of times.

  It had been Hen who'd urged Rose to attend Sunday Singings again. Love can't find you if you're hiding at home, her sister had said last week. Yet Rose had been almost reluctant to go again - until Silas's letter had come today.

  Starlight slanted in the sky as Rose sat there listening to the last of the stories. Looking at the top of Nick's head as he leaned in toward one of the children, she wondered how it might be if Silas asked to court her. How would it change her life?

  A dream come true, she decided, cherishing the delicious warmth brought by this new excitement as she said her good-byes to the little ones and to Nick, then headed toward home.

  But as Rose walked through the white moonlit pasture, the vision of Nick attentively sitting with the
children lingered.

  Back home now, Hen opened the front door to the modern twostory house she and her husband had purchased four years ago. She remembered the first time she'd spotted the For Sale sign standing like a beacon in the front yard. Her heart had skipped a beat as she pulled the car off the road to jot down the real estate agent's phone number.

  She still caught herself hesitating slightly before entering by way of the front door, even after living this long in the wonderful house. Everything was different from her growing-up years, when the entrance to her father's farmhouse was through the back door.

  I should be used to it by now....

  As they went inside together, Hen leaned down to kiss Mattie's forehead, lifting her daughter's thick blond hair over her shoulders, beneath the little black candlesnuffer bonnet Hen had gotten for her just today at a quaint general store on the back roads. Other than her daughter's bangs, not once had she actually cut Mattie's long hair, only trimming the dead ends every few months. Brandon's negative reaction to Mattie Sue's long locks had caused conflict between them. That, and the fact she'd pulled Mattie's hair back into a thick knot a couple times recently. She'd occasionally pinned up her own hair, as well, though not in the traditional Amish bun.

  Going into the living room, she saw Brandon sitting in the breakfast nook across the house, his gaze focused on notebook pages spread out all over the table. Mattie Sue removed the bonnet and dashed to her daddy, throwing her arms around his neck. Brandon kissed Mattie on the cheek, making over her as he always did when they returned home from shopping or running errands.

  Mattie leaned on his arm for a moment, gazing up at him. "Look what Mommy bought me." She held up the black outer bonnet. "See, Daddy - it's just like Aunt Rosie's."

  "I see that." Brandon raised his eyebrows at Hen.

  Hen cringed inwardly. "It's almost bedtime, Mattie."

  Mattie Sue looked back at her, then turned again to Brandon.

  "Do you like it, Daddy? It's for dress-up - make-believe."

  "Why don't you get ready for your bath," Hen suggested quickly.

  Brandon groaned, then frowned as Mattie scampered back to her and she patted Mattie's head. "I'll come in and draw the water soon," she said.

  "Okay, Mommy." Her little girl's bright eyes held hers momentarily before she darted down the hallway to her room, swinging the bonnet behind her as she went.

  Hen stiffened as she walked toward the kitchen to pack Brandon's lunch for tomorrow. She opened the refrigerator and found the lunch meat and the mouthwatering dill pickles she'd put up last summer. She felt her husband's eyes on her.

  "So ... you've been out." He sounded tense.

  She nodded, not wanting to tell him about their relaxing time this evening, enjoying her grandmother's wonderful dinner and all the pleasant chatter around the table. True, her father had seemed a bit quizzical about their making yet another unannounced visit, but her mother had appeared content just having Hen eating with them once again. She didn't say a word, either, about going through piles of Mom's piecework with Rose Ann, choosing enough squares to make a quilted wall hanging for Mattie Sue's bedroom. And she certainly would not mention Mattie's delight at getting more than a peek inside the Amish general store.

  Brandon looked up suddenly. "No need to make my lunch, by the way. I have a noon appointment tomorrow."

  "All right," she said quietly. She forced a smile, wishing she could return to the lovely time at her parents' house. If Hen tried hard enough, she could actually picture Brandon sitting next to her at the table back home - but years ago, when she'd finally gotten the nerve to introduce him as her boyfriend. Well, by then Brandon had been her fiance.

  So much water under the bridge, she thought as she returned the lunch meat to the refrigerator. She opened the lid on the dill pickles and halved a long spear down the middle. For as long as she could remember, she'd loved eating dill pickles just plain.

  Plain, she thought, like I used to be.

  "Anything else I can get for you?" she asked Brandon, holding the sliced pickle in midair.

  "No, thanks."

  "Okay, then ... as you wish."

  He sighed loudly. "That's an interesting concept."

  She hoped he wasn't picking a fight.

  "What do I wish for, Hen?" He shook his head and looked away. "Do you even know anymore?"

  She noticed how spotless the kitchen was. "Nice of you to redd up," she said, attempting to change the subject.

  "Must you always talk that pig Latin?"

  "What?"

  "You know what I'm talking about."

  "It's Deitsch," she insisted.

  "You aren't Amish anymore."

  She shrugged absently, already weary of the undertow between them. "Anyway, thanks for straightening up after supper."

  "I actually didn't - I went out" was his taut reply. "Remember, my wife didn't bother to cook tonight."

  First time in months.

  "There were plenty of leftovers," she replied gently. "You could've heated up something."

  He rose from his chair and stood there, scratching his head. "Look, Hen, I don't get it. I really don't."

  She was slow to speak. "What do you mean?"

  "You're never here anymore." He stared at her, no pain in his eyes. It was more of an accusation.

  "Never? I'm almost always home."

  "Before these past few weeks, sure. But now?" He ran both hands through his crop of hair. "And what's with the Amish bonnet for Mattie?"

  "It's just the one worn outdoors, not the sacred Kapp."

  "Hen, c'mon ... what exactly is sacred about any of that backward nonsense?"

  She opened her mouth to speak but didn't. They were getting nowhere. And she needed more time to let her thoughts simmer deep in her heart, where she would know how to answer him eventually.

  "Really, hon," he said. "You left that life behind, remember?" Looking tired, Brandon wandered to the refrigerator, pulled out a can of soda, and popped open the lid. He took a long swig before giving her a sideways glance. "So ... where have you been all day? Is something bothering you?" Surprisingly, his tone was softer.

  "I'm fine," she muttered. Truth was, the only time she felt this crazy pressure in her chest was when Brandon fired questions at her.

  "So you're not going to say."

  She ignored him and put the pickles back in the fridge, relieved when he returned to the breakfast nook - deep into the abyss of his work, which was rarely finished. Always, more time was required to finish this project or start the next. She was surprised he'd even noticed her absence.

  At least he's home with his work and not at the office all hours. Her friend Diane Perlis's husband was hardly even home. Behind his back, Diane referred to him as a workaholic. Thankfully, Brandon's unfinished tasks could be taken up after hours in the comfort of home, so Mattie Sue could see her daddy. See him but not interact much with him, especially not during the week.

  Hen heard the patter of feet in the hallway. "Ready for my bath, Mommy."

  Moving away from her modern kitchen, Hen didn't look over her shoulder at the confident land developer she'd hopelessly fallen for at age twenty-one. What a charmer he'd been! She had never known what being swept off your feet could possibly mean until she met Brandon. And she'd savored every minute of it.

  Where did we go wrong?

  She scooted her daughter along the hallway, toward the main bathroom. "Let's get you into the tub, munchkin." She was getting better at putting on a playful tone ... becoming more accustomed to shielding Mattie Sue from the truth. It was in her blood to keep grown-up issues behind closed doors, to force her voice into submission and be as sweet as Brandon had always said she was. Until now.

  She closed the door to the attractive bathroom, complete with a corner shower and a separate soaking tub, and let a sigh escape.

  "Can you pour in lots and lots of bubbles?" Mattie asked.

  Hen nodded and leaned down for the pink plastic bottl
e beneath the sink, her smile still plastered on her face. No need to spoil Mattie's bath time.

  "Does Auntie Rose put bubbles in her bath, too?" Mattie Sue's wide blue eyes blinked up at Hen.

  "What'd you say, honey?"

  "Auntie Rose ... does she like bubbles, too?"

  The phone rang loudly. "Just a minute, sweetie." Hen opened the door and looked back at her unclothed daughter, who was cautiously pointing her little pink foot into the water. "Don't let it get too high, all right?"

  Mattie nodded her head slowly, transfixed by the mound of billowy bubbles.

  "I'll be right back," she said. Brandon despised the phone ringing when he was working. Rushing to the receiver, she answered, "Hello, Orringers."

  "May I speak to Brandon?" came a stiff-sounding male voice.

  "Who's calling, please?" She knew better than to bother her husband at this hour for a phone solicitor. She had to know for sure who was on the line. "Is he expecting your call?"

  "He is, in fact. I'm returning his."

  "Just a moment." Hen hurried to the breakfast nook and covered the receiver with her hand. "A man ... for you."

  You sure it's not a solicitor? he mouthed silently, and she assured him the caller had some business with him.

  Brandon reached to take the phone from her. Moving away from the room, she heard his opening response and realized the caller was someone connected to his brother's law firm in Lancaster.

  Some legal hassle, she guessed.

  Hen made her way to their bedroom, distantly aware of the sound of running water. Suddenly fatigued, she sat on the neatly made bed and leaned her face into her hands. She stared at the carpeted floor and relived the first time she'd met Brandon - his irresistible eyes and winning smile. Her memories pulled her back to the past.

  That February had brought with it a biting cold. Winter had hung like an icy curtain around her father's barren farmland as Hen hitched up the driving horse and headed to visit her dearest friend, Arie Miller. Arie was heartsick over her beau's sudden interest in another girl, and Hen wanted to cheer her up.

  Several hours after Hen's arrival at the Millers' house, a steady snow began to fall, coming in large flakes. In a short time, the storm turned to blinding swirls and a harsh wind roared down over the dark hills near the Millers' stone farmhouse. By the time Hen was ready to start out for home - down the gently curving road leading through the old covered bridge, near Jackson's Sawmill - the snow had become an old-fashioned blizzard. The two buggies that passed her on the road were mere dots of gray in the vicious current of white.