Love Rekindled

by Serena B. Miller

“I’ll be right there.”

  The scene, as she let herself into the Hochstetler home, was about what she expected.

  There was Gertie, red-faced and furious. Sally, the social worker, looking worn out and frazzled. Agnes, sitting in the rocking chair, holding Rosie. And Ivan, Keturah, and Noah seated on the couch all in a row. The older children were not visible, nor was baby Holly.

  “You won’t get away with this,” Gertie was saying.

  “What’s going on?” Rachel asked, as she let herself into the Hochstetler’s unlocked house.

  “I’m glad you’re here, Rachel,” Sally said. “Gertie has a court order saying that she is the legal guardian of her new granddaughter. She’s come to get her, but the Hochstetlers won’t tell us where the baby is.”

  “Let me see the court order,” Rachel said.

  Gertie dug into a large, green, tote bag, brought it out and stuck it in her face. “Here! See?”

  Rachel’s eyes scanned it. Sure enough, the woman had somehow managed to get a court order saying that she was the legal guardian of her son’s child.

  Apparently, the Hochstetlers had decided to dig in their heels and defy it. She couldn’t much blame them, but she wondered if they realized the legal ramifications if they did.

  Keturah, Agnes, Ivan, and Noah were looking at her like she held the keys of life and death for the baby, and perhaps she did. She wanted Gertie to take Holly home with her even less than they did—if that was possible. She knew first-hand the kind of things that happened to helpless infants in homes where addicts lived.

  “Where is the baby?” she asked Keturah.

  “She is with a relative.”

  “Is this relative Amish?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is the baby getting good care?”

  “Wonderful good care.”

  “Is the baby dressed Amish?”

  “Yes,” Keturah said. “And it has been a busy season for babies.”

  “Gertie has a court order, Ivan.” Sally said. “I know she isn’t the most ideal guardian for an infant but, if you don’t give her Tony’s baby, you and your whole family will be in contempt of court.”

  “That is not a term I am familiar with,” Ivan said. “We are a simple people. We know little about your court system.”

  “Is she here?” Gertie demanded. “Have you hidden her in this house? I bet she’s upstairs.”

  Noah, who had been silently watching things play out, quickly moved in front of the staircase, his arms crossed, his muscular body effectively blocking her from going to the upstairs bedrooms.

  “I don’t know what you and your family have done with the baby,” Sally said. “But Gertie has the law on her side. Tell them, Rachel. You know the law. Tell the Hochstetlers that they have no choice. They have to give the baby up or they could be charged with kidnapping.”

  “I do know the law,” Rachel said. “And one thing I know for certain is that Gertie does not have the right to search this house. I will arrest her for trespassing if she tries.”

  “Can I talk to you outside, Rachel?” Sally asked.

  “Sure.” Rachel went out the door and Sally followed. “Make it quick. I don’t want to leave that woman in there with the Hochstetlers alone.”

  “Gertie won’t quit until she gets her hands on that baby,” Sally said, once they were outside and the door was closed. “I know she’s a mess, but somehow she’s managed to retain a hair-trigger lawyer who’ll slap a lawsuit on Ivan and Keturah so fast it’ll make your head spin. She’s talking of suing our agency as well, and we work on a shoestring budget. Her lawyer has won cases for her before. Several, in fact. Slip and fall. Whiplash. You name it. It’s what she lives on. He’s good.”

  “I’m curious,” Rachel said. “She doesn’t seem to have any particular feelings for the baby. Why is she doing this?”

  “I haven’t figured that one out yet, either,” Sally said. “I’ve been to her house though. There are worse homes than Gertie’s. I don’t like her either, but I think the baby will probably be okay there.”

  “You think the baby will be okay?” Rachel said. “That’s not good enough, Sally. We are both better than that. I think you and Gertie need to leave.”

  “What are you going to do?” Sally said.

  “Keep going through missing persons reports to see if I can find out who Lily was, and then investigate to see if there isn’t someone with more nurturing capability on her side of the family than Tony’s. That’s all I got.”

  Chapter 47

  As far as Michael could tell, he was past the worst of the equine influenza scare. He still had not gotten through to Cassie. Even though a trip to Columbus might be a waste of time, he decided to head there anyway. If she wasn’t at the apartment, he still had a key, and he could let himself in. He might even find a clue as to what had happened and where she was. If she was fine, and merely ignoring his calls, he’d gather up some fishing equipment he’d left behind and come home. When spring came he did intend to do some fishing, and it was as good of an excuse as any to go see her.

  All the way there he tried to figure out what to say to Cassie if she was home. They were in such an odd stalemate with their marriage that nothing he could think of seemed appropriate.

  Each apartment had an open parking garage; a sort of shelter to keep the snow and ice off the resident’s vehicles. There was room for two cars for each apartment. He slid in beside of Cassie’s Lexus, pleased to see that she was home. It might be painful but at least the trip would not be wasted.

  Even though he still had a key, he did not let himself in once he stepped off the elevator. Instead, he stood at the door and politely knocked. No one came. He waited a decent amount of time and then he knocked again, louder.

  For safety’s sake, at the beginning of their marriage, he and Cassie had developed a special knock so that she would know it was him standing outside the door before she opened it. He did not use this knock this time. He was afraid that she would not answer if she knew it was him.

  Again he knocked, and pushed the buzzer.

  There was no sound of anyone stirring within. Perhaps she was taking a shower or a nap. Except it was an odd time for Cassie to be taking a shower, and she never took naps. Not even if she was ill, or worn out. He waited a couple more minutes and then he inserted his key into the lock.

  He opened the door slowly. “Cassie?”

  She did have a handgun and he didn’t want to startle her or make her think that he was an intruder.

  “Cassie?” He took a step into the room and closed the door behind him “It’s me, Michael. I’ve come to pick up my fishing gear.”

  Silence.

  He moved further into the room and what he saw disturbed him. The room was far from being a shambles but in Cassie’s carefully-ordered universe it was close to being so.

  She owned a quilt of her grandmother’s that normally laid across the foot of their bed, and was rarely used. Now, it was lying crumpled on the couch. A pillow from their bed was also on the couch. A pair of slippers lay on the floor beside it. Several prescription bottles littered the side table, along with a box of tissues. There was also a stack of magazines on the coffee table and the TV remote.

  He walked over to the side table, then picked up and glanced at each prescription bottle. Because of his medical training as a veterinarian, he knew that these were used for cancer treatment and pain management. Each one had Cassie’s name on it.

  A trashcan lined with plastic liner had been positioned close to the couch. One of the prescription bottles was for nausea.

  Heartsick at what he’d found, he walked back toward their bedroom. “Cassie, honey? It’s Michael.”

  The bedroom, so familiar to him from the years that he slept there beside of her, was darkened. This also was unusual. Cassie normally preferred light and sunshine. Living on the eighth floor, she nearly always kept the blinds open to the sky. Now the curtains were pulled and the room was pitched in twilight. A sma
ll figure lay alone in the king-sized bed.

  “Michael.” Cassie said, in a soft voice and held her hand out to him. “What are you doing here?”

  Cassie’s body seemed so small and alone in that giant expanse. She looked like she had lost weight, and she had not had any spare weight to lose. Her hair was cut shockingly close to her scalp. He had never known her without long hair. For the first time, he realized that Cassie, because of her bigger-than-life personality, had always seemed larger to him than she actually was. He sat down on the edge of the bed, and gazed into the saddest eyes he had ever seen.

  “I was worried. What’s going on with you?”

  “Breast cancer.”

  Deep regret washed over him, followed by the most intense love he had ever felt, even as his heart shattered over the realization of what she had been trying to go through without him.

  “Oh honey,” he said. “Why didn’t you tell me? Why didn’t you call me? Why didn’t you even answer your phone?”

  “I didn’t want you to know.”

  “You’ve been alone all this time?” He took her hand in his. It was so cold. He chaffed it, trying to warm it. “You tried to get through this all by yourself? Why?”

  “I thought I was strong enough.” Her cheeks began to glisten with tears. “I was wrong. It is good to see you, Michael.”

  “Oh sweetheart.” He started to pull her close, but she grimaced and cried out.

  “What did I do wrong?” he said.

  “They had to do a double mastectomy,” she said. “I’m a little… sore.”

  The thought of her going through all that just about did him in. “I would have come, Cassie. You know I would have come.”

  “I know, Michael. That’s why I didn’t call.”

  He could not bear another second in this darkened bedroom. He was a strong man, used to doing heavy work. It was no effort at all to gently gather his wife in his arms and carry her into the living room, into the light. He sat down on the couch with her in his lap and gingerly pulled the quilt up around her, careful not to touch any incisions. Then he asked a question to which he dreaded the answer.

  “What do the doctors say?”

  “They think they got it all.” Her face was pressed against his shoulder. Her tears dampened his shirt. “But I still have to go through the treatments. It’s going to be rough for a while.”

  “But you don’t have to face it alone now,” he said. “I’ll take care of you.”

  “How can you?” She shook her head. “You just started your new practice in Sugarcreek. I cannot ask you to give that up. I never should have. I’m so sorry for the way I acted, Michael.”

  “Shhhh. Let’s not talk about that now. All I want is for you to get well.”

  Tears continued to quietly leak down her face. With a corner of the quilt he dried her tears and kissed her cheek. Then, suddenly, his stomach gave a loud growl. Even he was startled by it.

  “You’re hungry,” she said. “There’s plenty of food in the kitchen, but I’m afraid you will have to fix it.”

  “I’ll make something for both of us. What would you like?”

  “Right before you came,” she said. “I was lying there, wishing I had the energy to make a box of chicken-noodle soup mix. My mom always fixed that for me when I was a kid and not feeling good. I’ve been craving it.”

  “That’s easy enough.” He slid out from under her and tucked the quilt in around her. “You want to watch TV while I make lunch?”

  “No. I’ve had more than enough TV. It’ll be nice just to lie here and listen to you banging around in the kitchen.”

  “I’ll try not to bang too hard. I don’t want to break anything.”

  “Doesn’t matter.” Tears began to seep from the corners of her eyes again. “Break anything you want. Break all of it. Nothing in that kitchen matters to me anymore.”

  Of all the things she’d said so far, this one shook him the most. She rarely cooked, but she had always been ultra-fussy about her kitchen, buying only the best, keeping it immaculate. He’d always felt clumsy and fearful of damaging something whenever he tried to cook in it.

  He caressed her face with his hand. “I’ll be careful, anyway.”

  As he filled a small cooking pot with water, she called in from the living room. “I just can’t get over the fact that you’re here, and that you didn’t run away the minute you saw me. That’s what my mom’s boyfriend did when she was battling cancer.”

  “Your mom’s boyfriend? Wait a minute.” Michael turned off the water, and stepped back into the living room to see her. “I thought your mom and dad were killed in a car wreck. Both at the same time.”

  “That was a lie, Michael. Pretty much everything I told you about my past was a lie.” Cassie closed her eyes in weariness. “There is so much we need to talk about, but not now. I just don’t have the strength to go into it right now.”

  Michael was no cook, but he could boil water and dump a Lipton soup mix into it. While the water came to a boil he sliced cheese and found some fancy crackers. There were some nice-looking grapes in the refrigerator. He rinsed them off in the sink and let them drain on a clean towel he placed on the counter.

  “Are you strong enough to sit at the table?” he asked, as he set out their simple lunch. “I could bring you a tray if you’d rather.”

  “I think it would feel good to sit at the table. It will feel like maybe things are starting to get back to normal. Healthy people don’t appreciate normal enough, you know.”

  “No doubt. Let me help you to the table.”

  “No—I can do this.” She pushed the quilt away, stood slowly, and wandered over. “I’m weak, and I won’t be running races anytime soon, but I can walk. This looks really good, Michael. You look really good.”

  “And here I was hoping you wouldn’t shoot me when I came through the door.”

  “Never.” She put a napkin on her lap. “Thank you, Michael. Thank you for coming here.”

  Chapter 48

  Rachel dropped in to the Sugar Haus Inn to check on her aunts after her upsetting visit to the Hochstetlers. As usual, ever since the newspaper article came out about her Joe’s Home Plate, Lydia was in the process of turning out pies.

  “What kind are you making today?” Rachel asked.

  “Chocolate Meringue,” Lydia answered. “They sell really well.”

  “If I remember right, you make the chocolate filling from scratch?” Rachel said.

  “Of course.” Lydia nodded toward Bertha who was stirring something in a huge pot. “But it has to be stirred constantly or it will scorch. Be careful, Bertha. I don’t have enough ingredients to make another batch.”

  “I am being careful,” Bertha grumbled.

  “How are you feeling?” Rachel asked. “Is your arthritis acting up?”

  “My arthritis is always acting up,” Lydia said, peevishly.

  Although the kitchen looked and smelled the same as always, the atmosphere had changed. Instead of being joyful as she bustled about the kitchen, Lydia was acting as though making pies was drudgery. Instead of being wise and interested in what was going on in everyone’s life, Bertha was turning into a grumpy old woman. Instead of being joyful and happy to see her, Anna was sitting in one corner counting her seashells over and over; something she did whenever she was upset.

  “I can stop this, Lydia,” Rachel said. “Any time you want. Joe’s restaurant won’t fail if he orders his pies from a different bakery instead of from you.”

  “She won’t listen to reason,” Bertha said, from her place at the stove. “So you may as well save your breath. I think it’s ready, Lydia. Come look at it.”

  Lydia went to the stove, took the large wooden spoon from Bertha, dipped it into the chocolate pie mixture, stirred it a couple times and declared the consistency to be adequate.

  Rachel helped ladle the pie mixture into the already-baked pie crusts that Lydia had lined up on the long kitchen table. The smell of chocolate and fresh p
ie crust was intoxicating.

  “Want me to scrape that pot out for you?” Rachel asked, hopefully. “I’d be happy to eat that leftover pie filling.”

  “Go ahead.” Lydia handed her the bowl and a spatula. “I’ll let the pies cool while I beat up the meringue. Darren will be here soon to pick them up.”

  Lydia’s voice was flat.

  Lydia’s voice was never flat.

  This was disturbing.

  “I need to rest my bad leg,” Bertha said. “Come into the front room with me, Rachel, and keep me company while Lydia finishes.”

  Rachel obediently followed her aunt into the front room, carrying the spatula and the pot with her.

  Considering all that had been going on—dead bodies, drug houses, at-risk babies—getting to simply lick the chocolate pudding off the spatula like she had done when she was a kid sounded like a wonderful idea.

  Bertha sat in the Amish-made, wooden glider, and rested her foot on the matching brown footstool.

  “Lydia is wearing out,” Bertha said. “I think making all these pies is going to kill her. Helping her with them is starting to kill me.”

  Rachel looked up from scooping up a spatula of chocolate heaven. Bertha was serious. She sat the pot on the floor and gave her aunt her full attention.

  “Then why does she continue to do it?” Rachel asked. “I’ve offered repeatedly to get Joe to purchase pies from one of the other bakers in town.”

  “It’s the money,” Bertha said. “Joe and Darren pay her on a per pie basis. She carefully divides it up. Cash for more baking supplies goes into an unused cookie jar in the kitchen; all profit left over is stashed in a box underneath her bed. Once a month, she goes to the bank, deposits it, and sends a check to the Mennonite Haitian orphanage we help support.

  “To Lydia, each pie she makes represents several meals that will fill hungry children’s bellies. For a while, that gave her great joy. Now that Joe’s Home Plate is able to sell every pie she makes, she’s afraid that, if she stops or cuts back, she’s allowing a child to go hungry. You know how strongly Lydia feels about no one ever going hungry.”