Secret, The

by Beverly Lewis

  Unexpectedly, Yonnie turned and looked at Grace just then. A smile spread across his face, and his eyes caught hers if but for a moment. Then, still smiling, he gave a nod and turned to make his way toward the lane. On foot, like always, she thought, still surprised he was alone.

  Quickly, Grace dismissed his gaze and too-broad smile, and she wandered toward Henry’s open buggy, more than ready to have the evening behind her.

  Heather clicked the safety latch on her mother’s bracelet, then slid it up her arm. Eyes woozy from hours of thesis work, she went out the door, pleased at having written five new pages. A break was well deserved. She was beginning to feel confined and was curious about a funky little coffee shop she’d spotted the other day, so she decided to venture there. Hopefully it’s still open. . . .

  Her dad had left another voice mail, saying he wanted to see her. “To get your input on several ideas swimming in my head about that farmhouse we’re going to build,” he’d said, laughing. “I’m coming your way in a few weeks, once I wrap up this project. Okay with you?”

  His coming might not be such a bad idea. That way she could ask him to bring some of her more casual dresses and skirts, since not a single pair of jeans fit right anymore. Of course, with summer coming, she could just invest in a few shorts and tops at the outlet malls, which were as plentiful around here as eggs in the Riehls’ hen house.

  And, too, these past few days observing Andy and Marian Riehl interact with their large family made Heather wonder if maybe she shouldn’t try to gently level with her dad—tell him the real reason why she’d run away.

  Grace drew in a small breath when at last she saw Henry coming out through the barn door, glancing from side to side. Looking for me, she thought, suddenly sad.

  She would not enjoy another Singing for a long time, she was quite sure. Why would she care to attend the cheery gatherings when, in all truth, she would feel anything but cheerful?

  “Henry?” she called softly from where she stood near his buggy. “I’m here.”

  To think she was about to inflict on him a pain similar to that Mamma had inflicted on Dat. Cringing, she knew it was not wise to ride with Henry tonight—even for one last time. No, she must speak to him now and let him go home alone.

  “Henry . . . I’d like to talk to you,” she said, her throat husky as she moved toward him.

  He nodded and motioned for her to get into his open carriage.

  “No, I mean here,” she said, her body tense. “Do you mind?”

  He shrugged.

  “Can we walk that way . . . toward the cornfield?” she asked, feeling strangely forward as he fell into step with her. “Over yonder.”

  She wondered if he might ask what was on her mind, but as was typical, he left it to her to take the lead. Yet now instead of experiencing her former melancholy, she was nearly encompassed with anger.

  “It’s not right,” she said suddenly.

  He turned, studying her in the dim light of the quarter moon. “What ain’t?”

  She paused to consider her words. “Our engagement.” She took a few more steps before she stopped and faced him. “Maybe we moved too quickly,” she said more quietly.

  “You’re not makin’ sense, Grace.”

  Unsure of herself now, she did not want to sound ungrateful . . . or even unkind. “I shouldn’t have said yes to your proposal, Henry.” She looked at the sky. “Ach, but this is ever so hard.”

  “Wait—you’re sorry you said you’d marry me?” His voice was tinged with resentment.

  She nodded slowly and looked beyond his shoulders.

  His face fell, and she felt horrid. Henry was a good, dependable man. She hoped her rejection would not lead to bitterness. She knew too well how the emotion could fester and eventually overtake a person.

  She recalled their first dates, the slow-paced buggy rides long into the night—how he was content to be silent for as long as an hour at a time. Once she’d turned to him and asked, “What’re you thinking ’bout?” and he’d said simply, “You, Grace.”

  She’d thought it an endearing, even a tender thing to say. But his inability to express anything more made her certain, without a doubt, that Henry Stahl did not possess what she longed for in a husband.

  “I honestly believe we made a mistake,” she said. “And I’m so sorry to say it.”

  He didn’t attempt to change her mind, nor did he offer a good-bye kiss on her cheek. He merely bowed his head for a moment, then took a slow, deep breath. “All right, then,” he said, turning away. “If this is what you want.” And without another word, he headed back, climbed into his buggy, and drove away. Grace followed with her eyes until the horse and carriage were two black silhouettes on the road.

  “Good-bye, Henry,” she whispered, half wishing he had put up a fight for her.

  Walking home by the shimmer of moonlight on Deacon Amos’s silo, Grace felt a strange kinship with the night’s stillness. Contentment came so quickly it surprised her, reassuring her that she had done the right thing for both Henry and for herself.

  chapter

  thirty-four

  The next morning, once the washing was hung out across the clotheslines, Grace asked her brother if he’d mind returning the gift Henry had given her. “Please, will ya, Adam?” she pleaded when immediate opposition registered on his face. “You don’t have to say one word to Henry ’bout the clock—I’m not askin’ for that.”

  While she had no regrets, she truly felt weary. The bold action would surely lock the door on any hope of future reconciliation.

  Adam’s face scrunched into a tight frown. “Ain’t becoming of you, Gracie.”

  “Well, it’s the hardest thing, I know that.”

  “So think about what you’re doin’, then.”

  She sighed. “I have, Adam. And . . . I expect Henry will be waitin’ for the clock.”

  “Then you must’ve had words last night.”

  “Only mine.”

  Adam shook his head. “I hope you at least apologized. It wasn’t fair to say yes if ya weren’t certain.”

  “Jah, you’re right. And I was as kind as anyone could be.”

  He grimaced. “Then so be it.” Her brother followed her upstairs and took from her room the most beautiful chiming clock she’d ever seen, carrying it down to his open buggy. Lifting it high, he placed it gently inside, then looked back at her. “I can’t change your mind?” he said. “No parting words to give Henry some hope, just maybe?”

  “This ain’t some snap decision, Adam,” she said. “I’ve been a-ponderin’ it for quite some time.”

  “Well, then, if you’re mighty sure.” He gave her a tender smile, pushed his straw hat forward slightly on his head, and made one leap up into the buggy.

  Grateful for her brother’s support, grudging as it was, she said, “Denki for makin’ the delivery.” She was relieved Adam did not despise either her or what she’d done.

  “Consider it done.” Adam waved, then picked up the reins and clucked his tongue. And old Willow, bless her heart, moved forward, pulling the carriage down the driveway to the road.

  Heather politely refused Becky’s invitation to run an errand midmorning, again using her thesis as an excuse to stay in her room. She glanced out the window, waiting until Becky had hitched up the horse and buggy and left before she ventured from the house to her car, hoping to slip away unnoticed.

  She wanted to drive over to her father’s land and poke around there. How glad she was that her dad was pulling out of his initial grief. Or so it seemed. A breeze shuffled the leaves in the nearby maples, and she noticed a fragrant aroma coming from Mill Creek, to the south. She’d walked along the wide stream at dusk several times, musing on her decision to abandon her summer plans to escape her grim diagnosis.

  Now, as she drove the short distance, she noticed a van parked in a narrow lane, an Amishwoman and her young children filing in while an older man in jeans and a striped shirt stood near. Was he the driver? She�
�d heard from Marian Riehl of Mennonites and others making a living driving the Amish. She found it fascinating that a people who were prohibited to own or drive cars were permitted to pay others to drive them places. Another riddle of this Plain culture.

  When Dad’s land came into view, she pulled onto the shoulder and parked. Getting out, she walked to the passenger side of the car, leaned against it, and stared in awe. This was the perfect place for her dad to recover from his great loss.

  And mine. She realized how very lonely she had been since her mother’s death. Yet she felt powerless to stop pushing would-be friends away—a lifelong pattern.

  “At least I’ll have an idyllic spot to return home to, when I want to visit Dad,” she muttered, making her way across the fertile green field.

  Imagine Dad growing potatoes . . . She walked the perimeter of the acreage, thinking again of her mother. Forever missing the only person she’d ever opened up to fully.

  Enjoying the breeze on her face—the sky was such a profound blue—Heather realized her mother would be happy if she could see her now. “She’d be ecstatic that I’ve come here,” she said aloud, thinking ahead to her appointment with the alternative doctor.

  And, looking across the field to the farmhouses dotting the land, Heather felt as if they were all inviting her inside . . . as if she were being made welcome in this rural, back-roads place. Here, where dairy cows roamed free from constraint, munching leisurely in deep pasture grass, and where field crickets sang a familiar refrain each evening. Once she’d nearly lost her breath to the beauty of the moment as she watched a giant red sun drop gradually over faraway hills.

  A subtle yet potent anticipation stirred within. And for the first time since arriving here, she wondered if there was something to Becky’s talk of Providence. Had she been led here by an unseen hand?

  Heather smiled at the thought, surprised by a sense of hope for the future.

  Whatever it may bring.

  While refilling Jakob’s coffee cup, Adah glanced out the kitchen window. After a full morning of doing laundry, Grace was presently down near the springhouse, weeding her herb garden. Working her heart out.

  How she loved the little plot, and she could just imagine the lively flavors in their salads, come June.

  It seemed like just yesterday when she’d helped young Grace make the first plantings of chives and thyme and other herbs. Lettie had been there, too, looking on and encouraging them in the process. Grace had marveled at their herb garden springing to life year after year, with many varieties reseeding themselves.

  Presently, Grace stopped hoeing to look at the sky, and Adah realized anew the incredible strain on her granddaughter of late. All the energy it took to attempt to hold the family together—she was doing a fine job of it, too.

  Grace wants to find her mother and bring her home. . . .

  Adah had awakened with a bad dream in the night, wondering if it was an omen of sorts. She hadn’t wanted to go into much detail with Jakob, but sitting here at the table now, she felt she should ask her husband if she was making a mistake by keeping the Ohio letter hidden.

  Grace saw Mammi Adah coming out the door, waving to her. Briefly, she considered confiding in Mammi about Henry; then she thought better of it. If Mamma were here and knew of her decision, she would surely agree that letting Henry go was the right thing.

  “You’re out here early,” her grandmother said, bringing her own hoe.

  “Wanted to get a head start on the day.”

  “Ach, you sound like your mother—she says the same thing. . . . I mean—”

  “It’s all right. I understand what you meant.” A knowing look passed between them, and Grace stood tall and stretched her back. “I spoke with Dat privately this morning, out in the barn. He’s agreed, though reluctantly, that I can leave to look for Mamma once lambing’s over—that is, if the market lambs are fast gainers.”

  “Well, someone ought to look for her, I s’pose.” Mammi nodded slowly.

  “Dat also says I mustn’t go alone in my search, though.”

  “Sensible enough.” Her grandmother leaned on her hoe, her expression thoughtful. “So . . . who do ya think might go with you?”

  “I really haven’t gotten that far yet,” Grace admitted. “There’s a little time to think on that, what with the lambs still comin’.”

  Mammi reached into the folds of her dress to remove a slip of paper. She held it out to Grace, her eyes bright with tears. “Sounds like you might be needing this.”

  Grace accepted the paper and opened it, startled to see the address for an inn in Kidron, Ohio. “Is this . . . ?”

  “Jah . . . the address where your mother and I stayed in Ohio all those years ago. I talked to your Dawdi ’bout it, and he agreed you should have it.” Mammi paused a moment, then added, “We both hope it leads you to her.”

  She was surprised by the sudden change in her Mammi’s attitude. “So you don’t mind anymore?”

  Mammi gave her hand a quick squeeze, her eyes still brimming with tears. “If you’re successful, perhaps your mother will be home in plenty of time for wedding season. Or sooner . . . hopefully.” She stooped again to return to weeding around the chives.

  Grace felt sure that was possible. How hard could it be to find someone in Ohio Amish country anyway?

  Judah cradled his newest lamb as he squatted in the hay. He kept his distance from the ewe for a time as she rested from the birth. New life had been springing forth almost daily now, and he was mighty grateful for so many healthy lambs.

  He’d gone for another walk earlier today—pushing away the underbrush with his arms to make his way through a less-traveled path in a wooded area near Mill Creek. This time, he did not flail and lash out but rather offered a simple prayer that Lettie might know, somehow, that he loved her.

  Stroking the lamb in his arms, he considered Grace’s eagerness to begin her search. And he could kick himself for relenting. Where will she look? He had no idea himself. The rigid stipulations he’d put on the whole thing were his saving grace, because not a soul would be willing or able to leave family and farm chores behind to accompany Grace next month.

  Yet what if she does find Lettie? The possibility nagged at him. Not that he didn’t want his wife to return—with everything in him, he did. But he longed for Lettie to come home on her own, not due to pleading. Nor because of Grace’s attempt. Judah wanted the bride of his youth to decide to come back because she loved them . . . loved him.

  In his mind’s eye he pictured Lettie walking up their driveway, the worn brown leather suitcase in hand. She might simply slip into the house unnoticed, before any of them began to stir, just as she had gone away in that dreadful darkness while they’d slumbered so soundly.

  And wandering down to the kitchen, ready to greet a new day, Judah would see her there, back where she belonged, and the words locked away for much too long would tumble at last from his lips.

  Epilogue

  Tonight the rain was a mere drizzle as I went out front to sit on the porch swing. Soon, though, it started making down harder, splashing on the railing . . . and at times, onto me. Still, I stayed put in Mamma’s spot, curling up there, pulling my bare feet beneath my long dress. Creating a shelter, of sorts. And, ach, how I needed it!

  I couldn’t help thinking of Becky’s short visit here earlier today, when she shared how befuddled she was over their Virginia guest, Heather. The young woman has suddenly become distant and even looked to be crying one afternoon, according to Becky, who wonders if she is heartbroken or maybe ill. Now I knew that must have been the woman I saw crying and running down the road that day. Honestly, as Becky described the way she isolates herself most of the time, I couldn’t help feeling sad for the girl called Heather.

  But knowing Becky and her family, surely they’ll draw her out in due time.

  I told Becky about my own growing eagerness to go looking for Mamma. I asked her what she’d do, but it’s awful hard for a person to know
something like that. Becky looked all thunderstruck and said, “Oh, Grace . . . your family needs you here now more than ever.” Of course, it wouldn’t do for both Mamma and me to be away—least not till after lambing season, like Dat suggested. I’m glad he’s agreeable, but I heard all too clearly the hesitancy in his words. If only he hadn’t made it near impossible for me. ’Twill be nothing short of a miracle to find someone to accompany me.

  Yet find someone I must, for all our sakes—Dat’s especially. Who would’ve thought Mamma’s leaving would get the best of him, putting him flat on his back?

  Something must’ve happened while he slept away the days. There are times now when he’ll utter more than five words in a row, as if he regrets being so quiet with Mamma. And so it seems good can rise out of turmoil and disappointment. So many feelings we’ve all experienced since Mamma’s leaving. All’s forgiven on my part, but I know I’ll be offering up a prayer for a forgiving heart yet again tomorrow . . . and the next day. I only hope Mamma doesn’t turn silent on us again, after her one and only phone call.

  Mammi Adah’s reaction to the whole thing continues to bewilder me. For sure and for certain, I’m thankful to her for giving me the address of the Ohio inn. But why should I suspect Mamma might have gone there? And why doesn’t Mammi Adah seem surprised by my mother’s need for a secretive journey?

  The way Mammi Adah stares at me sometimes—it’s unnerving, to say the least. I can’t help thinking she might know why my mother would wish so hard for something she didn’t have here in Bird-in-Hand. What would compel a forty-year-old wife and mother to rush out into the world like that?

  Mammi says it’s human nature to wish for more than we have. The thought convicts me, if only briefly, when I think of Henry’s and my brief betrothal . . . and my failure to go ahead with the wedding. Was I wrong to hope for something more? Truly I don’t think so. These past few days since we’ve parted, my heart is at peace with what I did. If I am to live out my life as a Maidel, then so be it.