Revealing, The (The Inn at Eagle Hill Book #3): A Novel

by Fisher, Suzanne Woods

  “What’s need?” He put his arms on her shoulders and looked into her eyes.

  “Haven’t we enough?” she asked, trying to rephrase the same question.

  “It’ll be a gold mine. It’s made for us.” He looked so eager. He said he would love the challenge.

  He convinced her that he was right, that the opportunity was made for him and the time was now. But she couldn’t ignore the feeling that he was taking on that kind of a career risk just to be a significant man. Just for show. To show some anonymous people who didn’t even care.

  When Schrock Investments started to flounder, Rose wasn’t at all surprised. In fact, she was expecting it. In that way, she had to admit, she wasn’t much of a partner to Dean either.

  Maybe she was too independent for her own good. Dean had often said so. Maybe she was better off alone.

  Certainly, Galen needed someone who could give him babies, not grandbabies. Earlier today, her heart missed a beat when Paisley called her a grandmother-to-be. It hadn’t occurred to her that this baby could be her grandchild. Why, she was barely thirty-seven years old!

  Rose couldn’t get past the disquieting notion that she was missing something important about Paisley. It dangled in front of her, a ripe apple on a tree that she couldn’t quite reach.

  So many unanswered questions.

  She didn’t know what to do. She just had no idea what to do.

  “Rose, doesn’t something seem odd about that Paisley girl?”

  Rose looked up from watering the garden to find Bethany, standing with hands on her hips in that defiant way she had. Rose smiled. She didn’t know where to begin with all the red flags that had been waving at her since she had met Paisley, but she didn’t want to share those worries with Bethany. “What do you mean?”

  “She’s supposed to be head over heels in love with Tobe, but anytime she’s anywhere near Jimmy Fisher, she finds a way to be right next to him, like she’s a cat and he’s a scratching post.”

  Rose bit on her lip to hold back a laugh. She turned off the hose. “Tobe will be able to shed light on this topic. Until then, your grandmother is right. We need to be hospitable.”

  Later that night, as Rose got ready for bed, she took off her apron and stored the pins in the apron belt. She untied the stiff strings of her prayer cap and twisted her head from side to side, stretching the ache of a long day out of her neck. She put the cap on the top of her dresser and her eye caught Allen Turner’s SEC business card that she had tucked into the mirror frame. Should she ask him to contact Tobe and find out who Paisley was? But she couldn’t even imagine how to frame the request: A girlfriend from Tobe’s past has shown up, out of the blue, about to deliver his baby. Would you ask him if he remembers her? She could just imagine the long pause as solemn Allen Turner took in that news, wondering how he got so involved with an Amish family and their trivial woes.

  She changed into her nightgown and climbed into bed, its springs squeaking softly as she slipped under the covers. She reached over and opened her Bible, silently reading the words of Psalm 139, lips moving to each word. She needed to be reminded to dwell in the knowledge that God knew all there was to know. Everything.

  “O Lord, Thou hast searched me and known me. Thou dost know when I sit down and when I rise up; Thou dost understand my thought from afar . . .”

  She read it through twice before turning off the flashlight.

  “Dear Lord,” she prayed, “please give me answers. Soon. Now. Amen.”

  Slowly, slowly, she let herself relax into the darkness, closing her eyes, letting the words of Scripture move through her.

  The barn was redolent with the familiar musty smell of hay and horses. Mim set her stool at Molly’s flank and the pail beneath her speckled udder. Her mother had warned everyone to stay clear of the new cow, to let Galen do the first few milkings. There must be a reason she was named Fireball, she warned Mim. As she started to milk Molly, the plink of the milk in the pail drummed a steady beat. Outside, strutting along the roof of the hen house, Harold the rooster was crowing. She heard horses nickering to each other in the pastures as her brother wheeled hay out to them in the old blue wheelbarrow. How could it be an ordinary day?

  Mim pressed her forehead against Molly’s warm belly. She wondered idly if cows were ever scared—really scared. She had seen Molly jitter away from Micky the dog, but that was different. A yapping pup at your heels was an immediate threat, but the difference between her and Molly was that when there was no dog in sight, Molly was perfectly content, rhythmically chewing her cud. She wasn’t wondering and worrying, while anxiety ate holes through all her stomachs.

  Mim closed her eyes and her hands stilled as she wondered how this week had gone so terribly awry. The insufferable Jesse Stoltzfus had stolen her envelope full of Mrs. Miracle letters, and for some reason and without saying so much as a word to her, he had delivered them to the newspaper. They were in yesterday’s edition.

  Molly shifted her big back hip and Mim snapped to attention. Maybe everything would turn out all right. Maybe Jesse had the decency to deliver them to the Stoney Ridge Times newspaper office without opening the envelope. The address was on the front of the envelope and it was sealed. Mim made sure of that because she didn’t want Bethany poking through them. Yes. It was entirely possible that she was worrying for naught.

  Her father used to say that the perfect state of mind was halfway between Luke and Mim; Luke never saw worries or responsibilities even if he was surrounded by them. But Mim, he would add, always faced a thousand worries long before one appeared on the horizon.

  She smiled at her silly fears, at the woolgathering she’d been doing, and lifted her forehead from Molly’s warm hide to set to work, making the milk pail ring.

  Brooke Snyder hurried to the Sweet Tooth Bakery and was disappointed to see that the store was crowded and that Jon Hoeffner wasn’t sitting at their usual table. In fact, he wasn’t even in the bakery. Brooke asked the woman who sat at their special table if she was going to be there very long. The woman glanced at the wall clock. “Maybe just a few more minutes and then it’s all yours.” She motioned to Brooke to go ahead and sit down. “I’m Penny Williams. I work as the receptionist over at the Stoney Ridge Times.”

  “Nice to meet you. I’m Brooke Snyder.”

  Penny Williams wore pointy glasses and her hair in a tight doughnut bun on the top of her head. “I haven’t seen you around. Are you new to Stoney Ridge?”

  “I’m staying out at Eagle Hill for an extended vacation. I’m . . . in between jobs.” Brooke took a sip of coffee. “I’ve been reading your newspaper.” She leaned across the table. “I would love to have an introduction to Mrs. Miracle.”

  Penny smiled. “Join the crowd. So would everyone. The features editor, especially. He’s been wanting to talk to her for weeks now. But no one knows her true identity.”

  Intriguing!

  Penny lowered her voice. “Just between you and me—that column is the reason most people buy this paper. About six months ago, it was on its last legs—it was only getting published a few times a week. But Mrs. Miracle has changed all that. It’s back to being a daily newspaper. The editor said he’s got an offer to syndicate. That’s why he’s trying to track her down.” She rubbed the tips of her fingers together. “Syndication means big bucks.”

  Brooke leaned back in her seat. “You’re telling me that the paper’s livelihood is dependent on someone no one has ever met?”

  Offended, Penny stiffened. “I said no such thing. Any paper’s livelihood is dependent on advertisers. What I did say was that Mrs. Miracle’s column has boosted circulation. Considerably. And that makes advertisers very happy. Which makes the publisher and editors happy too.”

  “What makes Mrs. Miracle’s column so unique?” Brooke added cream to her coffee and stirred. “There are plenty of advice columns.”

  “Mrs. Miracle sees things in a different way. And she has a knack for pointing people back to the most import
ant things in life. The column used to be once a week, now it’s twice a week, and the editor wants it to go to three times a week.”

  “What do you know about Mrs. Miracle?”

  Penny shrugged. “Nothing, really. An Amish girl drops off the column and picks up her paycheck and she won’t reveal the identity of Mrs. Miracle. I’ve tried.”

  Brooke’s mouth dropped open. “Are you telling me that Mrs. Miracle is an Amish girl?”

  “I said no such thing.” Penny’s feathers ruffled again. “Absolutely not. Not a chance. Around here, a lot of Amish girls work for the non-Amish—doing errands and housecleaning, that sort of thing. My guess is Mrs. Miracle is a well-to-do woman in her sixties. She’s seen it all.” She looked at the clock. “I’d better get back to the office. Nice to meet you, Brittany.”

  “Brooke. Brooke Snyder.” But Penny was already out the door and hurrying down the street.

  All afternoon, as Brooke strolled through the little Main Street shops, hoping to bump into Jon, she pondered the secret identity of Mrs. Miracle. Could she be Amish? These Plain people kept surprising her. She stopped and picked up a copy of today’s newspaper and sat on a sidewalk bench in the sun to read it. Automatically, she turned to the Mrs. Miracle column. As she started to read, she sat up. There was her letter to Mrs. Miracle!

  So what advice would Mrs. Miracle have for her predicament?

  Dear Borrower,

  Rather than try to change yourself or copy others, why not try to accept the person you’re intended to be? The thing about looking for a new identity is that, when all is said and done, you’re still you. Wherever you go, there you’ll be.

  Sincerely,

  Mrs. Miracle

  Wait. What? Brooke had heard that same thing before, but where? Where, where, where? Slowly, awareness dawned on her. Could it be? Could it possibly be?

  Fourteen-year-old Mim Schrock was Mrs. Miracle.

  12

  Later that afternoon, Rose was down in the barn. She clipped a lead line to the mare and led her out to the pasture, her little foal trotting behind. Her mother-in-law Vera met her out in the yard as she closed the gate. “Rose, what did you say to Paisley to get her all . . . jittery?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “She’s in there pacing around the house like a caged tiger.”

  Rose rolled her eyes. “An apt description. She seems a little like a tiger.”

  “You shouldn’t be aggravating her so.”

  Rose stopped in her tracks. “Do you honestly believe her story? You think she’s Tobe’s girlfriend? Tobe might have sowed some wild oats, but does she seem like the kind of girl he would be interested in?”

  “Tobe has been under a great deal of stress. People aren’t themselves when they’re stressed.” Vera bristled. “And he would do the right thing by her.”

  “Vera, a girl like Paisley could never become Amish. You must see that, don’t you? She would only keep him from the church.”

  “If you would just show a little kindness, she might be interested in joining our people. You’re not even giving her a chance.”

  Rose was astounded. Vera found fault with nearly everyone—all but Dean, her son, and Tobe and Bethany, her favorite grandchildren. And now Paisley was added to the brief list. Paisley, of all people? “That girl came here out of the blue. What do we know about her?”

  “She says she’s carrying Tobe’s baby. What else do we need to know?”

  “I won’t believe that until I hear it from Tobe.”

  “You have to be in control of everybody and everything, don’t you?”

  Rose flinched. Just as she was about to open her mouth to say something she was sure she would regret, Luke and Sammy burst out of the house and ran to meet Rose in the yard. “Paisley said to come quick! She’s having her baby! Right now! Right on the kitchen floor!”

  Six hours later, a baby girl was born to Paisley at the Lancaster County Hospital. Rose stayed by Paisley’s side as she labored. She wiped her forehead with a cool cloth and fed her ice chips, all the while realizing that Paisley was completely, thoroughly unprepared for bringing a newborn into the world. When the contractions rolled over her, overwhelming her, she screamed out in pain and insisted she didn’t want to be a mother.

  Paisley took in a breath and blew it out slowly. “I’m not qualified.”

  “Every new mother feels that way. I certainly did.”

  “Please,” Paisley pleaded, clinging to Rose’s hand. “Get it out. Whatever you have to do, just get it out.”

  “You’re doing it,” Rose said, with a calm she didn’t feel. “There’s only one way to get through this. You’re the only one who can get this baby out . . . and you’re doing it.”

  A long, moaning wail emerged out of Paisley. Her body was finally surrendering; she stopped fighting, and the baby began to move, slowly, down the birth canal and into the doctor’s waiting arms.

  The room went still. A time that was usually so joyful, buzzing with activity, but no one spoke. The obstetrician and nurses had serious looks on their faces as the pediatrician examined the baby. There was a flurry of whispering, then the baby was briefly shown to Paisley before getting whisked away.

  Paisley grabbed Rose’s arm. “Something’s wrong with it.”

  Rose looked to the nurse to answer.

  The nurse was checking Paisley’s blood pressure and kept her eyes fixed on the blood pressure monitor. “The baby’s being looked after right now. The doctor will talk to you soon.” She unwrapped the blood pressure cuff from Paisley’s arms. Then, more kindly, she said, “You must be exhausted. After we get you cleaned up, you should try to sleep.” She nodded in Rose’s direction. “You too.”

  As soon as Paisley drifted to sleep, Rose went back to Eagle Hill to get a few hours’ sleep, then returned around noon.

  Paisley was curled up in the hospital bed, facing the window, away from the baby in the bassinet next to her.

  “How are you feeling?” Rose asked her, before bending to kiss the sleeping baby’s forehead.

  Paisley didn’t want to talk. She wasn’t interested in seeing the baby, holding it, nursing it. Rose was appalled; she kept encouraging her to look at the baby, but the nurse assured her that wasn’t entirely unusual, under the circumstances.

  The nurse motioned to Rose to meet her in the hallway. “The doctor wants to talk to you.” She pointed to the pediatrician standing in scrubs by the nurses’ station, filling out paperwork.

  The doctor sat down with Rose and told her what she already knew after seeing the epicanthic folds around the baby’s eyes last night before she was whisked away. She had seen it before. She had known it the moment she saw the baby. This was a special child. One with Down syndrome.

  “We ran a number of tests last night and the baby seems to be very healthy,” the doctor explained. “Sometimes, these babies have heart defects.”

  Rose let out a deep sigh. “I assume you’ve already told this to Paisley?”

  He nodded. “She’s still in shock. She had no idea the baby would have an issue. Nowadays, an anatomical ultrasound would pick up markers that give indication of chromosomal defects. She said she never had one. I don’t see this kind of case very often, where a mother doesn’t realize she’s going to have a baby with Down’s.”

  “I don’t think she had any prenatal care.”

  He put the pen back in his shirt pocket. “In this day and age, there’s a lot of counseling available to help. Most T-21 kids grow up to be loving, caring individuals. As the baby develops, everything will take longer, each new skill will be a huge hurdle, but your granddaughter should have a full and happy life. She’ll just need extra time for everything.” He patted Rose’s arm. “I can’t deny it gives me peace of mind to think this child will be raised in an Amish home. I know your people perceive handicapped children differently than the non-Amish.”

  “Special children,” Rose said in a distracted way.

  “Pardon?”

>   “That’s what we call them. Not handicapped.”

  Pleased, he bobbed his head. “That’s just what I meant. Exactly that.”

  His pager went off and he excused himself, so Rose went to sit by Paisley’s bed. “Did you notice the baby’s ten little fingers and ten toes, Paisley? Perfect.”

  “She’s not perfect.”

  Rose reached out and patted Paisley’s bent knee. “Everything will be all right. You’ll see.” She tried hard to stop her voice from sounding like Paisley’s mother or her schoolteacher.

  “I’ve heard that line before.” Paisley yanked her knee away and turned her head. “Nothing ever works out the way it should for me.”

  Rose tried several times to get Paisley interested in the baby, but with no success. Paisley didn’t want anything to do with the baby; she just wanted to leave the hospital. The baby had weak muscle tone for sucking, which might make nursing difficult, so the nurse provided a bottle with a specially designed nipple that the baby accepted. Once the baby started to take the bottle consistently, the doctor agreed to let them go home, as long as the baby was brought back for a follow-up physical in two days.

  “I think Paisley might adjust to the baby a little better at home than here,” he said to Rose as he signed the release papers.

  Rose hoped he was right, but knew otherwise.

  The last thing Paisley needed to do before she could be released from the hospital was to fill out the birth certificate. She said she didn’t care what Rose called the baby so she chose the name Sarah, after a favorite cousin who had Down’s. All Paisley cared about was that Tobias Schrock was named as the baby’s father on the birth certificate.

  “The name you put on that birth certificate has to be legal. Tobe will have to sign the birth certificate to admit to being the father of your child.”

  Paisley blinked, then scribbled Tobe’s name on the line. “And why would he not?”

  Well, for one, Rose thought, he might not be the baby’s father. She didn’t say it aloud, though, because she actually felt a little sorry for Paisley. She couldn’t imagine how she would feel if she were in Paisley’s shoes right now and so she didn’t even try. She thought it would be best to try to support her as she stepped into motherhood. Was it possible for a woman to simply not have a capacity to mother her own child?