Secret, The

by Beverly Lewis

  “Gone, jah.” Though hopefully I can change that.

  chapter

  twenty-six

  The uncommon stillness awakened Heather the morning after her arrival. She lay in bed, pressing her fingers gently into her armpits to find the same tiny nodules—still no pain. She moved her hand along her rib cage, relieved there were no changes there, either. Her getting away might prove to be truly therapeutic. That, and being free from a deceitful toad of a fiancé!

  She lay there relaxing, stretching, and pleasantly aware of the comfortable surroundings. She sighed, realizing she’d never again be held in Devon’s strong arms.

  Where did I go wrong with Devon?

  But she couldn’t let herself think of him anymore. He was out of her life through his own actions. Wasn’t it better this way than finding out later, closer to the wedding . . . or worse yet, even after?

  She rolled over, fighting back a jumble of emotions—anger and sadness and bewilderment—and reached for her phone.

  Sitting up, she checked for any missed calls during the night, never having been one to sleep with her phone on—and without electricity here, she needed to conserve her battery. She was glad to have brought along several replacement batteries for her laptop, but the phone had little power left, thanks to using the GPS so much yesterday. She’d have to go out and charge it up at a coffee shop somewhere, maybe look into getting a charger to use in her car, too.

  When I’m back in real time, she thought ironically, surprised at her own reluctance to venture away from the Riehls’ insulated setting.

  At that moment, her dad’s cell number showed up and she listened to her voice mail. “Why such a cryptic note, Heather?Where’d you go? Please call.”

  Hearing his voice made her unexpectedly homesick. He was all she had now. But if he was true to form, he had a zillion office projects to see to—he wouldn’t have been home much even if she’d stayed. And who knows? If she kept feeling this great, she’d keep her word and help him come up with a plan for his new house. Right down the road . . .

  Perhaps one of the Riehls might direct her to Dad’s land. Or better yet, take her there in a buggy.

  Heather switched off her phone to preserve the power. Who could go for long disconnected from cyberspace? Could she live without all the bells and whistles of her modern life for several months?

  Getting out of bed, she staggered to the window and immersed herself in the refreshing view. Yet in some inexplicable way, the loveliness of the landscape heightened the lingering hurt she felt at receiving Devon’s jolting email.

  She turned away from the window and from the splendor of farmland, sky, and trees. Returning to bed, she fell back onto the pillow. “I’m in the most peaceful place on the planet, and I really just need a shrink.”

  So is it God who lets this stuff happen? Losing Mom and then Devon? Not to mention some doctor says I’m going to die if I don’t get treatment. Yet if I do get it, I could end up like Mom . . . sicker because of the things that are supposed to help me. And all this is okay with God?

  Burying her face in the pillow, Heather managed to pull herself together. By the time she’d showered—in record time, since she had to share a bathroom with three other guests—she was pretty sure her eyes were no longer lobster red.

  When she called her dad, she hoped her voice sounded less froggy, too. Her call went directly to his voice mail, so she left a quick message.

  “Hey, Dad . . . I’ve escaped to another era.” She laughed softly. “I needed a break after the last semester, like I said in my note. Maybe I can get out in a horse and buggy to search for the land you purchased. Well, my batteries are dying and electricity is forbidden here, so we’ll have to catch up later. Bye!”

  Downstairs, at breakfast, she was surprised at the spread of food—like the ultimate bed-and-breakfast experience, only better. A fluffy omelet with fresh steamed asparagus and topped with cream cheese, a platter heaped with sausages, three kinds of sweet breads, every imaginable jam and spread, and the same decadent sticky buns that Adah Esh had invited her to preview yesterday.

  The other guests seemed equally astonished at the offerings as they talked and chewed and passed food. One guest—an attractive man in his thirties—singled her out with his gorgeous hazel eyes, even winking at one point when he thanked her for passing the cream for his coffee.

  Real men don’t use cream!

  She enjoyed observing Becky and her mom . . . and the lineup of Becky’s six siblings. Who had this many children in a single lifetime? She remembered reading the average Amish family had eight children, with some having fifteen and more.

  Becky Riehl was as delightful as her mother. After getting settled yesterday in her small, cozy room under the eaves—given the small amount of bureau space and zero closet space, that proved a challenge—Heather had accepted a buggy ride with Becky. They’d driven past the general store and the Bird-inHand farmers’ market, as well as another place Becky thought might interest her, Eli’s Natural Foods. “You’ll find plenty of health foods and supplements at Eli’s,” Becky had said with a Dutchy accent.

  Now, taking her first bite of the delectable omelet, Heather was doubly glad her dad wanted to build a house nearby. Maybe Becky could teach her how to cook like this!

  She cut into her sausage patty and thought how foolish she was to assume that Becky Riehl might view her as a good choice for a friend.

  Not if she really knew me . . .

  Dat began shearing the sheep right after breakfast. Grace and Mandy rushed out to help once the dishes were cleaned, dried, and put away. Grace had gotten up early to weed and hoe the vegetable garden, knowing the rest of the day would be taken up with helping to trim the sheep’s hooves—Mandy’s and Joe’s and her chore today. Dat, Adam, and Uncle Ike were the brawny ones who could steady the sheep for the yearly shearing. It was important to shear in the springtime, once the weather was warm enough for the animals to do without their fleece, yet before the hot summer sun had a chance to burn the sheep’s skin.

  “Ten minutes per sheep,” Mandy told her. “That’s what Dat wants to try and get the time down to.”

  “Even so, it’ll be a long day.” Grace recalled how in previous years Mamma was always one of the first ones outdoors on such a day, murmuring softly to the young ewes while she worked.

  “What do you think Mamma’s doin’ right now?” asked Mandy, as if sensing Grace’s thoughts.

  Grace kept her eyes on the sheep’s feet. “Depends on where she is.”

  “Well, where do you think she went?”

  “Far enough away to take a train,” Grace answered.

  That was all they said about it. Mandy worked her mouth, as if trying not to cry. Dwelling on the negative aspects of their lives was no help to either of them. And Grace needed to work fast today so she had time tomorrow to go to the town of Bart. Maybe there she would have more success than she’d had with Uncle Ike, who had shed no light on the significance of the poetry books or anything else related to Grace’s search for Mamma.

  Surely it’s worth a try. . . .

  Grace was relieved to see her grandmother come outside to stuff stray clumps of wool into bags. Many hands make lighter work, Mamma had always said. And Mammi Adah—and for a very short time, Dawdi Jakob, as well—helped in this way while the assembly line of sheep, clippers, and shearers streamed along.

  Around half past eleven, Aunt Lavina brought over two large pans of Busy Day casserole, with cubed ham and diced vegetables, topped with biscuit dough and grated cheese. The work came to a swift halt as all of them headed indoors to wash up. Grace and Mandy set the table right quick, then put out two kinds of dinner rolls, along with butter, strawberry jam, and apple butter. There was also a large crock of coleslaw and some chowchow, too—a fine feast of a meal, thanks to Mamma’s days of canning last summer . . . and her sister’s thoughtfulness in bringing the main dish.

  Later, when the men had resumed the shearing, and Lav-ina, Man
dy, and Grace were cleaning up in the quiet of the kitchen, their aunt asked about Mamma. “Have you heard anything?”

  “Not yet, if you must know.” Mandy had never been so pointed with their aunt, nor had she looked so pale.

  “Oh, sister,” said Grace, chagrined.

  “Es dutt mir leed—I’m sorry.” Mandy looked first at Aunt Lavina, then at Grace. She sighed. “Guess I’m feelin’ under the weather.”

  “Of course you are, dear.” Aunt Lavina reached for a tea towel and began to dry the plates. “I shouldn’t have asked.”

  “No . . . no, it’s only natural you’d wonder,” said Grace, putting her hands back in the dishwater.

  “She’s your family, too,” Mandy added.

  “If . . . or when we hear something, I’ll tell you right away.” Grace carefully placed each glass in the hot rinse water on the right side of the double sink.

  Lavina’s oval face broke into an encouraged smile. “I’ll be holdin’ my breath, then.”

  Nodding, Grace said she hoped they’d hear something soon. Anything to end the not knowing.

  chapter

  twenty-seven

  Later that afternoon, Heather headed out to her car to explore the back roads. She glanced toward the little chicken house, her digital camera case slung over her shoulder. One of these days, she hoped to feed the hens with Becky.

  The sights and smells of farm life captivated her as she looked toward the south, taking in the fields of newly planted corn. Birds twittered and called back and forth in the trees and beyond. This would be a great day to locate a coffee shop. After that, she wanted to drive the byways she and her parents had explored together in the past.

  She was just getting into the car when Becky came running out, feet bare, skirts flying. “Wait . . . Heather!”

  “Yes?”

  “I . . . well, I just wondered if you’d like to go on another ride, maybe.” Becky’s eyes sparkled with excitement. “I’d be ever so happy to take ya.”

  Heather hadn’t expected this; she could always drive to Lancaster later. “Sure. That’d be super.”

  “Come, I’ll show you how to hitch the horse up to the buggy.” Becky laughed. “If you want to watch, that is.”

  “I never pass up a guided tour.” She closed the car door, not bothering to lock it. She’d heard Marian tell the flirtatious man at breakfast this morning that nobody locked anything here. “Not even your house?” one of the other two women guests had asked. Marian had seemed nearly offended at the question, which got the two women talking at once. The room had seemed as chaotic as a group of CNN pundits hashing out the current political landscape.

  Didn’t outsiders pose a single threat? The idea was nearly as startling as the earthy smell rising from the nearby manure pit. But even the strange smells added to her carefree feeling—she felt alive, in spite of everything that was so completely wrong with her life.

  “Come, Heather!” Becky was calling for her.

  “Jah, comin’,” she whispered, smiling to herself.

  Judah was happy to see his neighbor Andy Riehl walking across the pasture to help with the shearing. Having rushed back and forth between the newborn lambs, the pregnant ewes, and the shearing, he was nearly ready for another fine dinner—and a good long nap, too. Yet here it was only three o’clock, and three agitated ewes were complicating things by showing signs of early labor. They’d isolated themselves from the herd, refusing feed, Adam reported when checking on their latest arrivals.

  A while later, when he and Andy were hand pumping well water for a drink, Andy himself brought up what had become the consensus among the community. Judah’s ire rose quickly. “Listen here, Andy: I don’t want ya speakin’ so about my wife and Martin. Both of them are good folk. You must continue to call Martin for transportation.” He shook his head. “It just ain’t right not to.”

  Andy removed his straw hat. “But—”

  “No buts to it. I know my wife . . . and I know Martin. Just shut the People up ’bout this, ya hear?” Judah strode away, down toward the springhouse. “What’s come over me?” he muttered.

  He’d never spouted off to Andy like that . . . nor to anyone else.

  Is this how I am without Lettie?

  Heather was surprised at how quickly Becky Riehl located Dad’s plot of land.

  She reined the horse over to the side of the road so Heather could get a better view. “I wonder where we’ll build.” Heather surveyed the sweep of grassy field.

  “Well, I see several choices, really.” Becky pointed out the various locations. “It would be nice, though, to have the house shifted off to one side of the property—maybe over there by the trees. A gut windbreak, I daresay. And if you do plant anything, you should rotate crops so as not to wear out the soil.”

  Heather laughed and explained that her dad would need plenty of advice about such things. “You know . . . my mom would have liked this idea of his.”

  “Your mother’s not living?”

  Heather shook her head.

  “Ach, so sorry.”

  “I am, too.” Every single day . . .

  “Was it recent?” Becky’s face was somber.

  “Still feels like it.” Heather nodded. “She passed away eighteen months ago.”

  Becky appeared to take that in. “Grief’s harder for some than others,” she said thoughtfully. Then she asked if Heather had seen enough of her father’s new place. “If you like, we can circle around Bird-in-Hand.”

  “Sure, I’d like that. And if it wouldn’t be too much trouble, I need to find a spot to recharge my phone.” She smiled a little, saying this to a conventional Amish girl.

  “I know just the place.” Becky picked up the reins and urged the horse into a trot.

  Looking over her shoulder at the piece of land, Heather could hardly believe Dad was embarking on this extraordinary adventure. She stared until her neck got a kink, then turned to face the road. “I feel like I’ve been missing out on something my whole life,” she blurted, her emotions dictating her words. “Ever feel like that?”

  Becky shrugged. “Around here, we just take things in stride.” She glanced at Heather. “Maybe that’s not what you meant.”

  “I’m the only child in my family. Maybe that’s why.”

  A sympathetic look spread over Becky’s face. “Aw . . . no wonder, then.” She paused. “Maybe you know that Plain folk are surrounded by lots of siblings and family, grandparents included. And we look after each other.”

  Heather asked, “Is everything really family focused, then?”

  “Pretty much.” Becky smiled. “And I’d say we’re more about the whole community, though families are mighty important. The ministerial brethren oversee each church district, and their word comes down to the family through the heads of each household. It’s the menfolk who rule . . . some more kindly than others.”

  So much for freethinking women. Heather could not believe how similar this system was to the one she was addressing in her master’s thesis, on the patriarchy of colonial days. For a moment, she wished there was time to change the topic to the role of the Amish patriarch, since she was here, living the research.

  “The oldest men in the church district have the biggest say—‘the most clout,’ Mamma likes to say, always with a twinkle in her eye.” Becky covered her mouth, stifling her laugh. “But ’tis ever so true.”

  “What about women—do they have any choice on personal preferences?”

  This brought more laughter from Becky. “Such as what?”

  “You know, things like fabric colors for dresses or quilts, or who to name their babies after.”

  Becky’s eyes lit up. “To tell you the truth, Mamma’s well known round here as good at namin’ babies.” She explained how her mother had once given some suggestions to their neighbor when her first daughter was born—“my gut friend, who lives in the first house to the west of us. Her name’s Grace. She was the first of many children Mamma helped to name.”
>
  Heather had no idea what Becky meant. “So . . . do the People have some sort of old-time naming ritual?”

  “Well, let me tell ya . . . Mamma holds the baby up and turns around three times. Then she closes her eyes real tight, says the alphabet backward and—” Becky’s face burst into a grin. “No, I’m just pullin’ your leg, Heather. All she does is look at a new infant to see if a particular name fits. That’s all.”

  “But who would let someone else name their baby?” Heather asked, hoping she wasn’t corrupting Becky with her modern mind.

  “Oh, no one. People do ask her for ideas, though. Let-tie Byler would never have come up with Grace on her own. Ain’t such a common name amongst us.” Becky glanced at her. “Sorry . . . we joke a lot round here.”

  They continued to ride through the farmland, abounding with willow trees and laced with a wide, flowing creek. They saw dozens and dozens of grazing cows as, at Heather’s insistence, they kept discussing community versus the individual. She wished she had her laptop along to take notes when Becky made an interesting comment: “God put in the heart of His creation—in all of us—the need to belong. Husbands to wives, families to one another, and all of us to our heavenly Father.” Becky said this with such wide-eyed conviction, Heather scarcely knew what to think.

  Soon, they arrived at a small house set near the road, with a sign out front: Emma’s Cupboard. “My mother’s cousin has electric here,” Becky said. “Emma’s Mennonite. She’ll be happy to let you charge up your phone or whatnot all.”

  Heather was glad for this chance, but if asked she would have admitted to not missing her phone at all today. Quite satisfied with her decision to come to Amish country, she followed Becky into the adorable white clapboard shop with black shutters.

  That evening Heather sat at the long kitchen table with Becky, who was drawing with colored pencils. Three hummingbirds in flight, each subsequently larger than the other.

  Heather had decided to chronicle her trip longhand, with the plan to transcribe it to her journal file on her laptop later in her room. She continued writing about her day and the collision of emotions she’d experienced while sorting through her feelings about her illness and Devon in this almost magical setting.