Four o’clock. He’s still at work. . . .
He really didn’t need to know the hard facts about her leaving, except that she was on a self-imposed getaway. She’d made it clear she would keep in touch and had decided at the last minute to take her phone along. She couldn’t imagine living without Twitter or instant messaging or email.
She had been quick to delete a former draft of an email she’d written to Devon last week, telling him she would be tied up for a while—going to hang out in an exotic community for the summer. Now that he’d dropped his bombshell, her only love would never know of her plans—or of her disease.
Suddenly she noticed a real live horse pulling a quaint gray buggy in front of her car. She let out a gasp and remembered how remarkable this old-fashioned sight had been the very first time she’d visited here with her family, as a girl. Seeing the Amish mode of transportation so very close brought it all back . . . the reason they’d kept returning here.
Gone now were Heather’s health concerns . . . gone her perplexity over Devon’s choosing someone else over her. At this moment she was zeroed in on the incredible sight before her eyes. She never got past the awe no matter how many times she’d come here. This was, after all, the twenty-first century, even though she felt like she’d fallen through a time warp somewhere between Virginia and here.
Heather stared at the red triangle on the back of the buggy and noticed the thin, wobbling carriage wheels on either side. No chance of surviving against a speeding car. Cringing, she crept along at less than ten miles per hour behind the boxlike carriage, traveling that way all the way to Bird-in-Hand. Nervous for the family inside, she could see several towheaded children peeking out from the back. She checked her rearview mirror, aware of the lineup of cars behind her.
They’re content to go at a snail’s pace, she thought.
The GPS indicated how many feet she had to travel before turning. She marveled at this cool technology while her car followed the horse and buggy. “Okay, now for the turnoff.”
Almost there . . .
Once more a small face turned to look at her through the rear buggy opening. She got a glimpse of corn-silk hair and wide eyes, and a sudden knife of pain sliced at her heart. Dr. O’Connor had said she might never have a child of her own now.
A wall of fear rose up and towered over her. Had she done the right thing in refusing conventional medical treatment?
But no, she wanted to at least try to conquer the disease her way. She wouldn’t second-guess her decision. She mustn’t.
This trip was all about her . . . and about the path her mom wished she’d chosen. Heather could nearly pinpoint the moment when she’d turned so inward, or whatever it was referred to by more charitable people. After all, someone had to look out for her now. If Heather didn’t, then who would?
Again she considered Devon’s blunt email. If she didn’t view prayer as an overall waste of time, she would send one up for his new girlfriend, asking God to protect her from Devon the Terrible, who broke female hearts at will.
It wasn’t as if she didn’t know firsthand about faith. Her greatest hope had been dashed when God ignored her pleas to spare Mom’s life. He must’ve been too caught up in other more important things, too busy to heal Mom through the treatments the doctors had claimed were essential.
In the end, the treatments had been stronger than her mother. Yeah, they worked all right. Like killing a fly on the wall with a shotgun.
Making the turn north onto Beechdale Road, she felt conflicted. Sure, she had run away, but she hoped to recapture some semblance of peace here. She hoped, too, that the naturopath—Dr. Marshall—might be optimistic about her chances for recovery.
She spotted the old stone farmhouse, described to a tee by Marian. Vines clung to the exterior all across the expanse of the front porch, with its white railing. Heather noted several smaller houses adjoined the main one, something she’d seen before in this area. A long clothesline stretched across the side yard, much like her grandparents’ place years ago.
A plump chicken crossed the driveway and two chubby girls with pigtails wrapped around their heads went chasing after it.
This could be fun. She opened the car door and breathed in the fresh smells of the farm, replete with cow manure. And she laughed.
Ever so glad for the referral for a driver, Lettie was headed to Fredericksburg, just south of Kidron, the location of the Gordons’ inn. She was on her way at last.
She felt a pang of guilt for leaving Judah on such shaky ground.
Will he ever forgive me?
Recalling the strain between them, she regretted their final disappointing conversation. How much better would it have been if she’d simply kept quiet? Absolutely nothing had been accomplished this past month by her repeated attempts to talk to her husband.
And what of Grace and Mandy? She’d thought so many times of the cooking duties and other chores thrust suddenly upon her girls, and Grace having to squeeze in her hours at Eli’s, too.
My family must think little of me now. . . .
Willing herself to breathe more slowly, Lettie double-checked the numbers on the mailbox in front of the bungalow-style house—Samuel’s house, supposedly. The front door stood open, the screen door dimming her view inside as she walked up the porch steps.
Two clay pots filled with red Dragon Wing Begonias bloomed profusely on either side of the doorway. Samuel always loved bright colors, she recalled, a wind chime dinging softly on its hook in the corner of the porch.
She straightened to her full height, inhaled deeply, and reached for the doorbell—then hesitated. She could not bear to hear a loud ring today. Gently she rapped instead on the unlatched screen door, which bounced a bit. She heard a woman’s voice calling, “Just a minute . . . my hands are full.”
Samuel’s twin—Sarah? She couldn’t be sure, and the woman was not visible.
Patiently waiting, Lettie wondered if the woman might’ve mistakenly gone around to the back door.
“Hello there,” a blond English woman said as she rushed to the door. “Sorry to keep you . . . just here watering plants.”
“Oh, not to worry.” Lettie stepped back as the young woman opened the door. “Is this Samuel Graber’s house?” Her voice was a mere breath.
The woman smiled. “He’s out of town—left just yesterday. Helping redo a friend’s roof.”
Lettie nodded, disappointment washing through her. She’d come all this way. . . .
“Is there something I can do for you?”
“Do you happen to know when he’ll return?”
“Sometime this weekend. Would you like to leave a message?”
“No . . . no,” Lettie said, putting on a smile. “I’ll return another time. Denki—er, thank you.”
The day suddenly seemed very long. She trudged back down the newly painted porch steps, wanting to glance back and take in the full effect of the pretty sitting area on Samuel’s porch.
Will we sit together there when we talk . . . at long last?
Lettie had rehearsed such a private meeting dozens of times in her mind. But now she was forced to wait longer to tell him what she yearned to say—if she did not lose heart by then.
chapter
twenty-five
Come in . . . come in. Willkumm to our home, Heather.” The lady of the house, Marian Riehl, was well into middle age, Heather guessed, yet she insisted on carrying in two pieces of luggage at once. Heather protested repeatedly, but Marian appeared determined to roll out the carpet of hospitality.
Heather paused to take in the vast reach of sky and land—lush green fields and majestic silver silos marked the iconic landscape. The setting was something out of a movie—a windmill, woodshed, milk house, and even a hand pump to the well, not far from the back door. “Beyond amazing,” she told Marian as she followed her into the house. If the place had been advertised online, she’d never have gotten a room—the Riehls would be booked up for years.
“W
ould ya care for some warm chocolate chip cookies and fresh lemonade?” Marian asked, showing Heather into the spacious kitchen.
“I really shouldn’t, but . . . well, okay!” She laughed and accepted a glass of lemonade, as well as a cookie from the plate of homemade treats. The table, adorned with a red- and white-checked oilcloth, stretched for yards in the center of the large room, and a gas lamp dangled over its middle.
“Just make yourself at home,” Marian said. “For as long as you’re here, our home is your home, too.”
Heather realized again how completely removed from the real world she felt. Modern society as she’d known it had vanished, replaced by old-time surroundings and a pleasing level of hospitality. As many visits as she’d made to Lancaster County through the years, she had never actually stayed with an Amish family.
“Have you ever heard of a Dr. Marshall?” she asked as she appraised Marian’s attire—her bare feet poked out from beneath the long green dress and full apron.
“We certainly have. Miss Marshall’s treating our minister’s wife.” Marian’s eyes brightened as she found a tablet and pencil in a drawer. She began to sketch a map without Heather’s asking, finishing quickly. “You shouldn’t have a speck of trouble findin’ her office—smack-dab in downtown Lancaster.”
Heather smiled her thanks, hoping she hadn’t grinned too broadly. With Marian’s quaint speech, twinkling blue eyes, and the rosiest cheeks on record, the woman was as delightful as a storybook character.
“I’ll take you to your room,” Marian said after greeting two other guests that came into the kitchen, her face alight. “If you’re ready.”
Heather followed, making note of the lack of wall pictures and not a single electric light fixture. A tall corner cupboard stood in a smaller room off the kitchen, and she wondered if this was the dining room, minus the table, or simply a place to display more teacups and saucers than she’d ever seen. Decorative plates stood on edge on a wooden ledge that ran all across the wall.
Strange as it seemed, Heather already felt completely at home here, in this place she’d never before stepped foot in.
Maybe this wasn’t such a crazy idea, after all!
Adah loved everything about the way sticky buns smelled—and oh, the texture, too. She removed a large baking pan from the gas-fired oven, smiling at the remarkable convenience of it all as the yeasty-sweet fragrance permeated the room. She had half a mind to call Jakob and give him a taste, but he’d already exceeded his daily sugar limit, what with his penchant for dunking a pastry into his coffee first thing of a morning.
But Marian Riehl . . . now there was a woman who could use a few extra pounds, wiry as she was. Besides, Adah was itching to get outdoors, such a pretty day it was. So once the buns had cooled slightly, she would go and surprise their neighbor, who was expecting their new guest sometime this afternoon.
Imagine always havin’ strangers for company. . . .
Adah went to the front room window, which faced east, and looked down toward the Riehls’ treed lane. Sure enough, a navy blue car was parked there.
Not wanting to admit that it was more out of curiosity than benevolence, Adah gathered up enough sticky buns to feed all of Marian’s big family, as well as their several overnight patrons.
When she arrived at the Riehls’ back door, she called to Marian, who came rushing to open it. “Hullo. Wie geht’s, Adah . . . come in and sit awhile.”
“How’ve you been?” She set the basket of warm breakfast rolls on the table.
“Just fine,” Marian said, eyeing the delicious goodies and grinning. “You shouldn’t have, ya know . . . but smells mighty gut.”
Adah nodded and uncovered the basket, and Marian bent low to breathe in the delicious aroma. “You won’t have to bake so much for tomorrow, jah?”
Marian replaced the basket lid. “Ach, I don’t mind bakin’. But this here’s ever so nice of you.” She motioned for Adah to sit down. “I’ll pour ya some tea, how ’bout?”
“Sounds fine.”
“I’d like you to meet our newest guest. The one I mentioned last week . . . remember?”
Adah didn’t admit to being eager to meet the young woman with the shiny blue car. She merely nodded.
“Well, round the time you and I are finished havin’ our tea—you watch—she’ll be back downstairs.” Marian’s eyes glinted with delight. “I can tell she likes it here already, and she’s only just come.”
“Why, sure she does. Just as all of your guests enjoy your warm hospitality.” Smiling, Adah smoothed her dress, daintily crossing her bare feet beneath the table.
They talked all around Lettie—in circles, really—and Adah found it silly. Marian asked about Judah, Adam, Grace, and the rest . . . even Jakob, but never a peep about the missing one.
Adah was stirring sugar and several droplets of cream into her hot tea when in came the tallest young woman she’d ever seen. Why, the girl had to be nearly six feet in height, with golden-brown hair and a smile that undoubtedly would stop a young man in his tracks.
Quickly Marian introduced her. “This is Heather Nelson, from Virginia.”
“Very nice to meet you, Heather,” said Adah, enjoying this.
“And, Heather, I’d like you to meet my longtime friend, who also happens to be my neighbor . . . Adah Esh.” Marian motioned for Heather to join them. “Care for some tea?”
“Thanks.” The young woman nodded and smiled. Adah and Marian were both wearing dark green cape dresses with an apron to match, and Heather appeared to be taking it all in. “Your kitchen smells fabulous,” Heather said, sitting at the table.
“Guess we should offer Heather some of your delicious pastries,” Marian said, opening the basket. “After all, they won’t be this warm tomorrow . . . or near as fresh.”
Heather laughed softly—like she was singing—before reaching in to pull out a great big bun, oozing sugar.
“Nobody can eat just one,” Adah said right quick, glancing at Marian.
Heather bit into the bun and her eyes grew as wide as quarters. She nodded her head again and again, apparently unable to speak. When she was finally able, she said, “Wow. A person could get addicted to this rich stuff.”
“Ain’t that the truth,” said Adah.
“None of us should eat so much fat . . . or sugar,” Marian added.
“What we should do and what we do are often very different,” Adah put in. Goodness, but she’d surprised herself by saying right out what was in the depths of her heart. Oh, Lettie . . . She realized anew how empty Judah’s big house must seem to him and the children.
How very empty. And for a moment, she felt nearly afraid.
Heather found herself completely taken in by the back-woodsy talk at Marian Riehl’s table. She loved the comical topsy-turvy idioms of the Amish. Things like, “throw the horse over the stall some hay,” or “those naughty boys oughta get more birchings—switchings!” and “outen the light.” To think she was going to spend her summer in the middle of all this charm!
Although Marian was a real sweetie, Adah Esh’s spunk and folksy wit appealed more to her. The way the older woman paused before speaking, her lips parted, seemingly thinking how best to express herself, caught her attention. She could just imagine Adah’s thoughts swirling . . . and what striking gray eyes!
“Your last name’s Nelson?” Adah asked her during a lull.
“That’s right.”
Marian raised her cup to her lips. “We don’t hear that name much round here.”
“You know, I heard a man named Nelson bought a small piece of land up a ways.” Adah tilted her head. “Could it be someone you know?”
The grandmotherly woman put things together faster than an e-book could download. “Might be my dad.”
The Amishwomen looked at each other.
“Unless there’s other land for sale nearby.”
Marian shook her head. “Land’s at a premium anymore— you just can’t get your hands on it. I’d say y
our dad’s mighty fortunate, if true.”
“What’s your father’s name?” asked Adah.
“Roan Nelson,” replied Heather. “He’s talked of building an Amish-style farmhouse on the four acres.”
“Oh?” Marian’s eyes brightened. “Will the house have electric?”
Heather laughed. “I sure hope so!”
“Will you raise a few head of cattle or have a dairy cow or two, then, also?” Adah asked.
“Neither one, I’d guess.”
This brought a trill of laughter, and Heather could see they were equally as interested in her as she was in them—if not more so.
Grace’s younger brother, Joe, came in for a drink of water, and she leaned against the counter, listening to him talk about the Riehls’ latest boarder. “Mammi Adah says she brought all kinds of stuff with her,” Joe said, talking up a storm.
“What sorts of things?”
“Armloads of books, mainly, Mammi said.” He scratched his head. “You must’ve heard ’bout this Virginia girl already, jah?”
“Mammi told me she was coming.”
Joe gulped down a tall glass of water and went to the sink for more. “Mammi says she’s come to stay put for a while. Has something called a thesis to write.”
Grace hadn’t heard this. “Must be highly schooled, then.”
“It’ll be interesting having another Englischer in the neighborhood, jah?”
Grace thought suddenly of Martin Puckett, certainly considered English, too. “Listen, Joe, I want you to help me stamp out the rumors ’bout Mamma and Martin Puckett. Okay?”
He nodded. “I was thinkin’ the same thing at Preachin’. He’s such a nice man . . . always so helpful to us.”
“Gut, then. Tell everyone you know that Martin’s at home and not off with Mamma. He never was, either.” Just saying it made her feel queasy.
Joe frowned, rubbing his chin. “Well, that might quiet the tittle-tattle where Martin’s concerned, but Mamma’s still gone. That much ain’t a rumor!”
Secret, The Page 19