A Simple Hope

by Rosalind Lauer

  His thoughts were interrupted when Shandell jumped up and pointed to a spider in the rafters. Calm and efficient, Rachel got the broom and managed to brush the critter and his web down. A minute later, the spider was scuttling out the door.

  “What’s the difference between a spider and a duck?” James asked.

  “Plenty of things.” Shandell sat back in the plastic chair and curled her legs up to her chin. “But you don’t want either of them bunking in with you.”

  “It’s a riddle,” Rachel said, her blue eyes glimmering as she smiled at him. “James used to be full of jokes. So tell us, what’s the difference?”

  “The spider has two feet of web, while the duck has two webbed feet.”

  Shandell rolled her eyes, but Rachel’s chuckle was music to his ears.

  “Tell us another,” Rachel said, taking a seat beside Shandell.

  “How do you fix a broken pizza?”

  “That I don’t know,” Rachel egged him on.

  “With tomato paste.”

  Now Shandell was giggling, too. “That’s so corny.”

  “No, it’s tomato-ee,” James corrected. “And what gets bigger when you take more away from it?” When both women shook their heads, he answered, “A hole.”

  With a peaceful smile, Rachel leaned back in the chair. “Oh, James! I’ve missed your jokes and riddles. A good laugh eases every worry.”

  That had been his intention. “But there are some matters that can’t be laughed away,” he said, turning his gaze to Shandell. “Like the matter of getting you home safely. Rachel and I, we’ve been talking about this as we rode in and out of town today. It sounds like a wise choice to avoid that man, Gary. But walking into Paradise is no way to fix things, either.” Now that he knew her, he hated the thought of Shandell traipsing around other towns and country roads. Bad things could happen to her, and that path would lead her even farther from home, where she needed to go. And Rachel had quickly come to the same conclusion.

  “Not to sound selfish, but I’m disappointed that I’m not going home tonight. You’ve been so generous, James, and you, too, Rachel. That casserole was delicious, but I just don’t belong here. I need to be home, and this is getting ridiculous.”

  “We want to help you get home, and we have an Englisher friend who would probably help you.” Rachel turned to James. “When does Dylan get back?”

  “I’m not sure.” James knew Dylan would help if he was here. “He said he was going to Chicago for a friend’s wedding.”

  “If I could just get through to my mother, I know she would wire me some money. At least enough to get a car service to Lancaster and take the bus home from there.”

  “You must keep trying to reach your mother,” Rachel said. “I’m sure she’s worried sick for you.”

  “How much is that bus from Lancaster?” James asked. “Maybe we can help.”

  When Shandell named a sum, he remembered that he had no cash on hand now. Like most Amish men in their twenties, James had received a small stipend from his parents—most of which he had saved for a house of his own. But after the accident, James had turned all his savings over to his parents to help cover expenses.

  “I wish I could help,” Rachel said. “But I don’t have money just now.” James had learned that Rachel had donated her savings, all the money earned from her paintings, to the fund for his medical expenses. What a pair they were! Two hardworking young people, and not a penny to their names.

  “I don’t want to take your money,” Shandell said. “And I don’t want to cause you any more trouble. My mom will come through. You’ll see.”

  “Until then, you can stay here,” James said. “You’ve been no trouble, really.” He gazed at Rachel through lazy, lowered eyelids. “Except for the surprise you gave this one this morning.”

  Shandell held her hands up to her face. “That was totally awkward. But I’m glad it was you, Rachel. I would have really freaked out if it had been a bunch of wild Amish guys, like on TV.”

  Although Shandell sometimes seemed to be speaking a strange language, James appreciated her honesty. “Who are these Amish men on the TV? Plain folk don’t abide by having their photos taken, on account of the Bible telling us not to have a graven image.”

  “You know, those shows. Wild Rumspringa and Amish Run Amok. I don’t watch them, but I’ve seen the commercials.”

  “Wild rumspringa?” Rachel’s eyebrows arched. “Sounds very spicy.”

  “And who wants to watch young folk when they’re noisy and wild?” James asked, rubbing his chin. “Surely not our parents. They try to look the other way.”

  For a while, they talked about Englisher television and cell phones and computers. James’s father had hoped to purchase a computer for his office, but the bishop wouldn’t allow it. Instead, he had hired an Englisher to do bookkeeping, and a few times a week Jimmy went into town to use the computer at this man’s office.

  Shandell asked about the orchard, suggesting that there might be some work she could do to earn her keep. James thought it was best that she stay out of sight, but then Rachel suggested that it might be smart for the three of them to work together to fertilize the trees near the back of the orchard. Otherwise, James’s brothers might wander back here to the sugar shack for a break if they were working nearby.

  “Saturday morning, before the treatment,” James said. “That would be a good time. I’ll send my brothers off to the far end of the orchard, and they’ll stay away if they think you’re working with me, Rachel.”

  As the sky began to grow dusky outside, Rachel gathered up the hamper, leaving a good portion of food and snacks behind for Shandell.

  “I can’t thank you guys enough,” Shandell said. “If I can use the shanty, I’ll try to call home again tomorrow. My mom will be off, so I might be able to reach her. If I can just get through to her, I’m sure she’ll either come for me or wire me the money to get home.”

  “You can use the phone in the shanty,” James said. “Just try to do it when no one is watching.” Hearing the words come from his own mouth, James felt a twinge of regret. Sneaking around … that part was not right. He should tell his parents now … tonight. Surely they wouldn’t turn this young Englisher out on the street.

  Well, Mamm could find compassion in her heart, but Dat? James wasn’t so sure. Whenever talk of Englishers came up, Jimmy quickly went to some dark place, the terrible memory of his childhood friend who had been injured by Englishers. A memory so unsettling that Dat refused to share the story … Nay, Dat wouldn’t be so quick to accept Shandell.

  For now, James had best keep the secret.

  PART THREE

  Echoes Through Eternity

  Withhold not good from them to whom it is due,

  When it is in the power of thine hand to do it.

  —PROVERBS 3:27

  “That’s a good boy. I’ll be back for you in a few hours.” With a pat of affection, Rachel left Patches tied up at the hitching post outside the Paradise clinic and headed down the street toward Art at Heart. After yesterday’s excitement, she was looking forward to losing herself in her painting for a few hours. Dealing with a runaway English girl brought a person a lot of ruckus and confusion.

  She smiled as she pictured Shandell in her Minnie Mouse pajamas and her blue hair. Unusual. That girl would stand out, even among Englishers. Walking quickly past the long stretch of parking lot in front of the Cackleberry Farm Antiques Mall, a shop similar to Elsie’s Country Store, but on a grander scale, Rachel wondered what would happen if Shandell was discovered living out in the sugar shack.

  Chances were that Rachel’s parents would have agreed that this Englisher girl had needed their help. But Jimmy? He would be quick to scold, quick to punish James in whatever way he saw fit. Even though James was a man himself, nearly twenty-one years old, there was no escaping the authority of an Amish dat.

  Thick traffic moved slowly through the center of Paradise, and Rachel took care as she crossed the str
eet in front of a line of vehicles. Here it was the end of April and the tourist season was already picking up. The town of Paradise was similar to Halfway, but bigger, with a huge Christmas store and a working farm on the outskirts that offered daily tours. She passed Leaman Furniture, Zook’s Fabric Store, and the Dollar General, where there were many good bargains indeed. Here, the sidewalks were crowded with customers, more Englishers than Amish. Plain folk, who usually greeted each other in passing, joked that if you said hello to every English and Amish person in a town like this, you wouldn’t have a moment to catch your breath.

  Driving the buggy for James would be a blessing in disguise. Spending most of her days in Paradise would give Rachel the town experience she’d been longing for. Instead of spending her days helping with laundry and sewing, milking and mucking, she would be here on Paradise’s Main Street, painting to her heart’s content.

  A bell jingled when Rachel opened the door to Art at Heart, and as she made her way to the corner of the shop where she’d set up her easel, she was surprised to see a group of customers there, gathered around Pepper, the shop’s owner.

  “Here she is now,” Pepper said, nodding at Rachel. Today Pepper wore a bulky man’s sweater over a full print skirt, so long it touched her ankles. Her silvery hair was nearly covered with a bright red kerchief that brought out the rosy color of her cheeks. “This is Rachel King, the artist I mentioned.”

  The Englishers turned to Rachel, their eyes wide with curiosity.

  Rachel nodded, feeling awkward. “Is there something wrong?”

  “Not at all. These folks were asking why this easel was set up here, and I told them we were going to have a real Amish artist painting in our store.”

  “That’s what I’m aiming to do,” Rachel said. Her face was suddenly warm, and she wondered if her cheeks were glowing pink. When she had asked Pepper about painting in the shop, Rachel hadn’t expected that anyone would actually pay attention to her while she was working. Why were these folks staring at her that way?

  “We were just saying that we’ve never met an Amish artist before,” said one woman with square black glasses and gold hair cut shorter than most boys’.

  “I didn’t even know Amish people were allowed to do art,” another woman said. “Well, aside from quilting and crafts like that.”

  “Our bishop allows it, as long as I don’t show Amish people in my paintings,” Rachel explained as she eased through the circle of customers and stood at her easel, which bore a blank canvas. It was the oddest thing, all these people staring at a pale white canvas.

  “What are you going to paint?” asked someone else.

  “A farm with a quilt hanging on the line.” She had already brought her paints, brushes, and palette from home, and yesterday she had prepped the canvas—without an audience—so that she could begin painting today.

  “Have you ever sold a painting?”

  As Rachel opened her paint box and found a pencil, she nodded. “I have sold a few.” She thought about telling them that a designer had asked for this painting, but she didn’t want to sound proud. “I’m very lucky that way.”

  “She’s so modest,” Pepper said. “And she’s one of my best customers. Rachel purchases all her paints and supplies here. Now let’s give her some space so she can do her thing.”

  Most of the group wandered off to the paint aisle, and Pepper headed over to the register to handle some purchases. Two ladies remained, but they turned toward each other to chat. Rachel was relieved not to have everyone watching her, their scrutiny like hot sunlight beating down on her back.

  Pencil in hand, Rachel bit her lower lip and thought about the scene she would paint. There would be a quilt hanging on the line, of course, but for this painting she wanted to capture the burst of life in springtime. She would part the clouds and show streams of sunlight showering the farmhouse. And a fresh purple crocus in the foreground, its hearty flower reaching to the sunlight—that would shout “springtime” to anyone who saw it.

  Sitting opposite her easel, she began to sketch on the canvas, blocking out the large crocus first, then the quilt and the farmhouse. Next she penciled in the outline of parting clouds and the streaming beams of sunlight. This part would be a mixture of white and gold and yellow and gray. She stood back with a critical eye. Ya, that was enough sketching. She didn’t want to overdo the details that would take shape once she had her paintbrush in hand.

  As she started mixing purple, white, and two shades of blue for the crocus flower, the events of the last day played out in her head. She had checked on Shandell this morning, dropping off a few slices of homemade bread, along with some sausage links left over from breakfast. The Englisher girl had been ever so grateful, reporting that she had walked to the shanty last night and tried to call her mother.

  “I can’t get through to her, and I’m beginning to worry,” Shandell had reported. “There’s probably a reasonable explanation. Maybe Phil isn’t telling her that I called. Maybe her cell phone died. But it’s really scary not being able to get through to her. I know she would come for me, if she could find me.”

  “I’m sure she would,” Rachel agreed. “But in the meantime, James and I are glad you didn’t go with this Gary fellow. You’re better off with a plan to get you home, safe and sound.”

  With no time to spare, Rachel had promised to come back later, and then walked back to the Lapp home to pick up James for his treatment. During their ride into town, their conversation had focused on Shandell.

  “How sad to have a mamm who is too busy to save you,” Rachel said. “Some folks have heavy burdens in life. Makes me grateful for my mamm and dat.” Betsy and Nate had been strict at times, but there was never any doubt about their love for each other and every child in the family.

  “We are blessed to have good families, but Shandell is eighteen. She’s a little thing, but not a child. Maybe her mother is teaching her a lesson.”

  “A girl without a loving family? It breaks my heart.”

  “That’s why we’re helping her.”

  At that moment, Rachel had seen what a kind, strong father James would be. How she loved him!

  And she wanted to tell him. Her plans to talk with him about their future had been dashed when she’d come upon Shandell at the sugar shack. Maybe she should have brought it up right then and there, as the horse’s hooves clip-clopped along Route 30, but she lost her nerve.

  Chickenhearted. Deep inside, she was afraid, scared to hear him turn her away the way he had on Easter Sunday. You and me, we don’t belong together, he’d said. It still made her sick inside when she remembered it.

  With a deep breath, she pushed the worry from her mind and focused on the petals of her first crocus. Six purple petals with yellow at the center. She decided to draw two purple crocuses with a yellow bud behind them.

  “Is that a flower?” someone asked. It was the woman with the short blond hair.

  “A crocus,” Rachel said as she pulled some white onto the side of her brush to do the highlights.

  “Very nice. It’s mesmerizing, standing here. I could watch all day.”

  Please don’t, Rachel wanted to say. Though she didn’t want to be rude to Pepper’s customers, she preferred to paint without people looking over her shoulder.

  A siren sounded outside on the street. Everyone turned to the shop front, where blue and red lights flashed on the rack atop a passing police car.

  “What’s going on?” someone asked.

  A few customers went to the window for a closer look. Someone mentioned that the police car had pulled up outside the gas station, and there was much speculation about the matter.

  Rachel tuned the conversations out and stepped into her quiet world of color and light, shadow and texture. Such a peaceful place to be.

  Sometime later, as Rachel was closing up her paints, she overheard a woman telling Pepper that someone had stolen gasoline from the Shell station. “It was a ‘pump and run,’ ” the woman said. “A fe
w witnesses saw him. A young man in a big American car with Maryland plates.”

  Maryland plates? That got Rachel thinking as she wiped a smudge of violet paint from her hands. Shandell was from Maryland. Was the thief Gary?

  Rachel waited outside the clinic in the buggy, eager to tell James the news of the thief. For some reason, she felt responsible for bringing this bad man to Lancaster County. Of course, she had not lured him here, but she wished there was a way to stop him.

  Once they were on their way, alone out in the open, she shared the story of the police at the gas station. She summed it up, adding: “Maybe we should go to the police and tell them about this man.”

  James rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “It’s not our place to get involved. The Almighty brings justice to those who break the laws of heaven.”

  Rachel knew that. “But shouldn’t a bad man be stopped?”

  “We cannot do anything about it. That’s the way it is.” After a moment, she felt a gentle pressure on her hand. Her mouth dropped open in surprise as he lifted her right hand away from the reins. “What’s this?” Tingles of pleasure shot up her arm as his fingertips brushed the smudge of purple paint. “Either you’ve got a bad bruise or you’ve been painting again.”

  She smiled, forcing herself to keep her eyes on the road. “I started on the painting that the designer wants to buy.”