Secret, The

by Beverly Lewis

  Grace considered the blunt words and wondered about her grandparents’ courtship. “Dawdi must’ve loved you an awful lot.”

  “Why, sure. But love’s altogether different when you first meet and court and all. It changes and deepens into something that can withstand the storms, ya know—something worth fighting for as you grow older.” She paused to look up from her tatting. “Or it doesn’t grow at all.”

  She understands, for sure and for certain.

  Mammi continued. “Course, some folk might begin to appreciate each other again, but it takes time.” She kept tatting, more slowly now. “But some marriages are merely tolerated,” Mammi Adah ended in a whisper.

  Grace stared at the afghan lying on the ottoman, the one Mammi had made specifically to keep Dawdi’s unsteady legs warm. “Did you know for sure . . . I mean, when Dawdi asked you to marry him, did you know . . . ?”

  “That he was the right one?”

  “Jah.” Grace blinked away her tears.

  “Honestly, Jakob couldn’t keep his eyes off me—wanted to come and tell me things first before anyone else. And we always enjoyed each other’s company. There were lots of strong signs such as that.”

  “Tell me things first . . .”

  Henry was not the first person Grace longed to share with, she suddenly realized. In fact, she scarcely ever thought to confide in him. And since he rarely spoke his mind to her, evidently she was not his first choice, either.

  Like Mamma and Dat, she thought sadly.

  Grace ran her fingers over the hem of her apron, deep in thought. “I’m glad you left your gas lamp on, Mammi.”

  “Well, bless your heart . . . so am I.” With that, her grandmother rose, smiling. “I’ll leave ya be for now.”

  “See you in the mornin’.” Grace remained seated.

  “Jah . . . and sleep well, dear.”

  If I can. She glanced at the Bible, still curious about what lay tucked between its pages.

  chapter

  twenty-three

  On washday morning, Grace took time to shake each wet garment carefully before pressing the shoulder seam or waistline to the clothesline. She secured each item with wooden clothespins, using only two of the several lines today. Mamma’s clothes were distinctly missing.

  When she’d finished, Grace hurried down the road to the shanty phone and dialed the number she’d memorized. Martin Puckett answered on the second ring.

  “Hullo. It’s Grace Byler.”

  “Why, yes.” He sounded exceptionally pleased. “How can I help you?”

  “I need a ride to Orchard Road.”

  “What time would you like to be picked up and where?”

  “Out at the end of the driveway is just fine,” she told him. “And as soon as possible.”

  “Is twenty minutes from now soon enough?”

  “That’ll be gut. Denki.”

  “All right, I’ll be there.”

  She said good-bye and hung up, hoping she wouldn’t soon become the topic of a new wave of gossip by being seen alone with her mother’s early morning driver.

  Frowning at her own cynicism, she scurried back to the house to give Mandy instructions for dinner at noon, in case Grace wasn’t able to return in time. But when she arrived, Mandy was nowhere to be found. She wrote her a note instead, then dashed out to the barn, where it turned out Mandy was helping with a difficult delivery—triplet lambs.

  Reassured that all was in order, Grace stepped inside to the main hall to get her shawl and once again left the house. Walking along the roadside, she discovered she’d picked up her mother’s wrap by mistake, but she kept going, not wanting to keep Martin Puckett waiting. “If only wearing it could help me understand what Mamma’s been thinkin’,” she whispered.

  She dug into her shoulder purse, glad she’d remembered to bring the payment for the driver. It wasn’t a long ride over to Uncle Ike’s place, and he would probably be surprised to see her. She could only hope she’d find him home, so as not to waste her hard-earned money. It wasn’t like her to make a trip with a single stop.

  When she spied Martin’s van, she felt sure this had not been the vehicle she’d seen when Mamma left. If he had indeed driven her mother, why had he chosen to take a car?

  “Good morning.” She waited for him to slide open the passenger door.

  “Such a nice day.” He stepped aside as she got in.

  She nodded, wanting so badly to ask if he’d taken Mamma to the train station, as the rumors had it. But she spared him the embarrassment of facing up to the gossip. No matter the usual poison of the grapevine, it was beyond her how all this had gotten started.

  “Where would you like to go today?” asked Martin. She gave him the address. “Ah, to your mother’s kin.” He nodded. “I recall the place.”

  “If you can return for me, I’d be grateful,” she added quickly. “I’ll be there only about an hour or so.”

  He glanced in the rearview mirror, his eyes kind. “Very well.”

  She tried to ignore her unasked question by taking in the sights of fertile fields and babbling creeks as she rode. Spotting a robin landing on a neighbor’s birdbath and shaking its wings, she thought again of Mamma.

  They rode for a ways without more conversation, until Grace could hold it in no longer. She simply had to know. “Ach, Martin, I hate bringin’ this up, but there’s word you drove my mother to the train station last Thursday,” she said. “Do you happen to know where she might’ve been headed so early in the mornin’?”

  Their eyes met in the rearview mirror again. “Your mother was quite upset.” He looked back at the road. “I tried to talk her into staying, but she was insistent about going. I’ve no idea where she was headed.”

  He turned slightly to look over his shoulder, as if uncomfortable about divulging more. “She asked me not to say anything.” He paused. “So then, she hasn’t returned?”

  “Not yet . . . and none of us have heard from her, either.” Grace sighed, feeling too tenderhearted to mention the rumors flying about Martin and Mamma. No need, she thought. It was quite clear from what he’d said that Martin hadn’t gone anywhere with her mother, though Grace didn’t understand why she’d wanted him to conceal her trip.

  “I hope she’s all right.” His voice was thick with concern. “Frankly, I worried about her traveling alone like that.”

  “Well, I pray the Lord’s watchin’ over her.” Looking out her window again, she tried to appreciate all the beauty around her—the morning skies were clear, promising sunshine. Yet the world seemed cold and bleak.

  Thinking now of Uncle Ike, she hoped that he might know something to lead her to Mamma. “I mean to find my mother and bring her home,” she stated suddenly.

  Martin’s head bobbed. “For your sake and your family’s, I hope you will.”

  Ike Peachy’s farmhouse was coming into view, and even before Martin got out of the van, he promised to return as she’d requested. Grace waited for him to come around and push open the heavy door before she stepped out. “Denki, ever so much,” she said.

  Ain’t a speck wrong with Martin Puckett, she decided.

  Martin backed up and turned around before pulling onto the road, relieved that Grace Byler had been so sympathetic toward him. Lettie’s disappearance had evidently caused her daughter great confusion and grief—her bloodshot eyes gave that away. He wished he might somehow alleviate the family’s pain.

  I should’ve tried harder to keep Lettie from going. . . .

  He drove to Ronks, south of Route 340, to pick up several Amish ladies who wanted to go to Belmont Fabrics in Paradise. Grace’s request for him to come back for her in an hour or so made for perfect timing. He was definitely using plenty of gas by juggling customers, but he was glad to be busy today after a weekend without any calls—at least none that had reached his voice mail. And since Grace had phoned him and spoken directly about last Thursday, Martin began to feel less concerned that the weekend’s quiet had anything to do
with Lettie Byler.

  Judah could bear it no longer. Dejected, he left the birthing stall. He pushed open the barn door and walked across the yard, toward the road. He and Adam had done everything in their power to save the third lamb. Triplets . . . ach, think of it. But the more he pondered whatever had gone wrong, the more miserable he felt.

  Not caring where he walked, he muttered to himself, “If Lettie had been here, things might’ve turned out better.” From the early days of their marriage, she’d always been so gentle and caring with the ewes. She’d spent hours with him in the barn, or checked on the newborns herself to spell him.

  What happened in March that changed her so much? He shook his head, not wanting to entertain irritating thoughts about his wife, the beautiful bride of his youth. Lettie had not always been a worry to him. No, there had been many pleasant days.

  How long had she been gone? Seemed awful long already. He felt as helpless now as he had watching the smallest lamb struggle for air, the will to live so strong in the poor, tiny thing.

  “Mornin’, Judah!”

  He looked up to see Andy Riehl and two of his older sons out planting corn. Judah waved and spotted Andy’s nephews in the field to the east of their house, spreading manure. Looking toward the Riehls’ house, he realized he’d turned left on the road and come this way in the midst of his daze. Marian and Becky were hanging out the last few trousers on the clothesline.

  Washday, he thought. Where’s Grace?

  The sun felt warm on his aching neck and shoulders as he walked past the Riehls’. If anything, the pain was increasing, rather than diminishing as he’d hoped. He ought to return to the barn and help Adam dispose of the dead lamb, yet he was not up to taking on that chore just now. His children needed at least one confident parent around these days. Perhaps he would return stronger for the walking.

  Suddenly he understood something of Lettie’s need to walk at night: It was so she could manage to keep her chin up all day long. Helped her hide whatever was troubling her.

  He began to run, swinging his arms, work boots pounding against the road . . . his breath coming faster. All the way to Preacher Smucker’s house he went—a good half mile or so. Buggies clattered up and down the road, some folk waving and calling to him, some rattling past.

  Let them think what they will.

  Judah wasn’t sure if the moistness in his eyes was perspiration or tears, but he kept up his pace, unable to stop.

  Grace could hear voices inside Uncle Ike’s house, so she didn’t bother to knock but rather made her way in through the summer porch, where she noticed thick cobwebs in one corner. Aunt Naomi would never have allowed that. She turned toward the kitchen, and there she found Uncle Ike having a breakfast of fried scrapple, eggs, and toast. Two of Grace’s elderly great-aunts sat at the table with him.

  Lest she startle them, she coughed softly. All three turned to look her way. “Well, lookee there . . . it’s Judah’s Gracie.” Ike half rose out of his chair, then just as quickly sat down. “Come . . . come and eat with us.”

  The older women smiled and nodded before returning their attention to breakfast. “What brings ya?” asked the older one, her fork midway between her plate and mouth.

  “Just wanted to talk with Uncle Ike a bit.” She sat where Aunt Naomi had always sat, the seat still vacant after her passing. “Would ya mind?” she asked.

  “Not if you don’t sit and stare at me all through my breakfast.” His eyes twinkled mischievously, and he reached for his coffee. “What would ya like to eat?”

  Since she’d already eaten, she wasn’t much hungry. But she supposed if she was to get any information, she was going to have to politely settle in with a plate of food and visit first. Unless . . . “My driver’s comin’ back for me in an hour,” Grace said, hoping that might hurry things along.

  Ike glanced at the window. “Wasn’t that Martin Puckett I saw bringin’ you?”

  She straightened. “Was indeed.”

  “Well, why would ya want to—”

  “Ain’t a thing wrong with Mamma callin’ on Martin to take her to catch a train, is there?”

  “Well, it was wrong of her to leave town, ain’t so?” Ike said, wiping his plate clean with a crust of toast. He took a final swallow of his coffee and stiffly rose out of his chair, motioning Grace into the front room to sit down.

  Grace quickly changed the subject. “I know you’re busy, but I thought you might be able to fill in some pieces of a very big puzzle for me,” she told him.

  “Which puzzle’s that?” Like so many farmers, his cheeks were ruddy from many years of working in the sun. His puffy lids nearly covered his eyes; his age showed since Naomi’s death.

  “Well, the puzzle of Mamma’s earlier years.” Grace explained that she felt sure her mother had cherished the poetry books Aunt Naomi had once kept. “Did Aunt Naomi ever tell you where the books came from?”

  The whites of his eyes glistened suddenly. “I wish I could help ya, Grace, but I’m afraid I have nothing to tell. Naomi never did say why she had those books, and I never thought to ask.” He paused, his eyes searching hers. “Do you really think some old poetry books are important?”

  Grace hesitated to tell her uncle her suspicions, fearing it might open her mother up to further criticism. “I just can’t see why Mamma would have bothered to bring them home if they didn’t have some special meaning for her.”

  Uncle Ike sighed. “I’m sorry ya had to come over here for nothin’. S’pose you found it hard to get away with so much to keep you busy these days.”

  Grace gave a small nod, her thoughts still on Mamma as her uncle began to speak of spring planting and whatnot.

  Set back from the road and nestled in its private grove, the boardinghouse looked surprisingly the same as it had years ago. Even the paint on the outside was exactly the same color, Lettie recalled, although the front porch had been extended.

  Nowadays a much younger couple, Carl and Tracie Gordon, ran the quaint inn. Lettie was thankful for that, as well as for having gotten an upstairs room, so she wouldn’t have to hear latecomers tramping overhead.

  Four days since the train left Lancaster, she thought, both dread and anticipation filling her. It had taken this long to discover Samuel’s exact home address from a handful of leads, beginning with someone her cousin Hallie had recently mentioned in a letter. Aside from the innkeeper’s phone number and the driver they’d recommended, the list of telephone numbers she’d brought along had proved little help. Although the innkeeper’s wife had gently suggested that if Lettie had attempted to access a computer, she might have found Samuel’s address more quickly.

  In such a small town, she’d expected her search to be far easier. But Samuel hadn’t belonged to an Amish group for years—not since his family had left Bird-in-Hand so long ago.

  She was astonished at how many listings for Samuel Grab-ers there were in the area. By the time she’d worked her way down the directory, calling one number after another using the Gordons’ telephone, she was discouraged.

  To think I had such high hopes of walking right up to his door and ringing the bell!

  But today she had a new lead and new hope that she might finally see her former beau, a recent widower after twenty years of marriage.

  The bishop’s long-ago words to her rang in her ears: “Do you accept this man as your husband, and do you promise not to leave him until death separates you?”

  Lettie pushed away the remembrance and straightened the bed. She was glad for a bright corner room. Not so different from the one she’d stayed in before in this historic inn. She and her mother had come at the recommendation of dear friends, Mamma had explained to her that bitter winter’s day. And they’d stayed only a short time, if her memory served her now.

  She looked about. The pale green-striped wallpaper was attractive, although some of it was peeling off near the wide doorframe. Surely she would have recognized the color if this were the same room.

  She
went to the door and glanced back at the small dresser, where she’d stowed away her personal things—plenty of space for the time being.

  “What God hath joined together, let not man put asunder. . . .”

  Sighing, Lettie sat next to the window, there in her private haven. She reached for her beloved poetry book and leisurely read the last few pages. Then, clutching the slip of paper, she stared longingly at the address. “My last hope.”

  chapter

  twenty-four

  Heather brushed away tears as she backed out of the curved driveway, casting a pensive look at her family’s red-brick colonial house.

  I’m doing this for you, too, Dad. She stared up at her window over the garage—that sweet and cozy spot she and her father had created just for her.

  She’d hardly taken any time at all to pack, piling a bunch of clothes and personal stuff into the trunk of the car and the backseat before heading off in search of a stress-free summer. As she saw it, serenity was the first ingredient necessary to health. Lancaster County, the Garden Spot of the World, would perfectly fill the bill. For her, gardens equaled tranquillity . . . and tranquillity, wholeness. Not that she was going to start espousing that Mother Earth mumbo jumbo, but nature was natural, after all.

  Glad for the GPS mapping system on her iPhone, she’d have no trouble navigating her way to Pennsylvania. The map routed her up to Interstate 95 through Baltimore and then she would take Interstate 83 into Pennsylvania.

  Listening to one song after another, Heather already felt herself relaxing. She was eager to meet Marian Riehl, who had been so accommodating by phone, even to the point of suggesting Heather pay by the week. “We’ll give you a nice discount as a long-term guest . . . and remember, we don’t charge on the Lord’s Day.”

  She’d never heard anyone refer to Sundays like that and found it charming, even intriguing.

  Hours later, as she took the exit off of Highway 30 and turned onto 340, Heather wondered if her dad had spotted her note by now. Glancing at the digital clock, she realized he wouldn’t have seen it propped up on his desk as of yet.