Hannah nodded. "She's like the wind."
The horse looked bigger than he expected, but Hannah quickly harnessed her and led her outside.
Chris glanced up as he heard the wheels of an approaching buggy. Jenny waved to them as they passed.
When he returned his attention to Hannah, Chris whistled when he saw that she had finished attaching the buggy to the horse.
"That was fast."
"I've been doing it a long time." She climbed into the buggy and waited for him to take a seat.
The buggy felt like a flimsy contraption compared to an automobile, but Chris supposed that if it were made of the things that cars were made of, it would take many more horses to pull it. The inside looked spare, with simple, cloth-covered seats.
Hannah called to the horse and they were off, almost racing past farms and open pasture. Chris absorbed the clip-clop vibration of the horse's hooves against the road, the gentle sway of the buggy, and the presence of the woman who sat beside him in her demure dress. A woman who glanced at him from beneath dark lashes, a smile playing around her lips.
"So where is your list, Englischman?" she asked.
It took Chris a minute to focus on what she'd said. "List?"
"You said you were here to look around, to learn about the Plain people. Tourists come here with expectations, with a list of things they'd like to do and see. So where is yours, Chris?"
He shrugged. "I don't have a list."
"I see."
"I'm not here to steal Jenny away," he said, reminding her of her accusation the night before.
"Nee?"
"Huh?"
"No?"
"No. I just thought I'd play it by ear. Before I got your services as a tour guide, I mean." He met her gaze. "So I'll leave it up to you."
"Allrecht. I'll take you to the places I think you'd expect to see then."
"Great," he said.
They traveled a little farther without speaking. Then something made him glance over at her. He blinked. Was it his imagination that she looked like she was trying to hide a smile?
She must have felt him looking at her for when she turned her head and found him regarding her curiously, she carefully schooled her expression.
She took him to a bakery filled with tourists eagerly buying traditional baked goods, and they chatted with a friend who worked there.
Chris looked at the vast array and couldn't decide what to get. He'd never seen so many different varieties of cookies, cakes, and pies. A lot of people were buying something called shoofly pie. Chris took a sample, but it tasted overly sweet to him.
The door opened and half a dozen people swarmed in.Where had all these people come from? There were tourists everywhere.
And Hannah was right. There were groups of people— families and senior citizens—but no single men like himself.
"What do the children like?" he asked Hannah while he waited to be served.
She laughed. "Everything. I don't think I've ever found a sweet they didn't like."
"But what's their favorite? They must have one."
"Whoopie pies."
"How about you?"
"I don't want anything, thanks."
"What about Matthew?"
"My brother's a big kid. He'll eat a whoopie pie with the kinner if you bring him one."
He bought a dozen pies so there'd be enough for the children and anyone else who wanted them. Then they joined the throng of tourists who moved toward a store that advertised local crafts.
Hannah led him from shop to shop that specialized in Amish crafts, leather goods, and foodstuffs. He couldn't ever remember shopping so much in his life.
"I thought I might buy a quilt like the one on my bed, but I haven't seen any I like as well as that one."
"Don't rush. There are shops we haven't visited yet."
He groaned. "I thought we'd gone in every store in town."
"Such a faulenzer," she said, shaking her head.
"I have a feeling that's not a good name to be called."
She laughed and shook her head. "Lazy person."
When they finally returned to the buggy Hannah had hitched near the first shops, Chris sank onto the seat with relief. One of the bags in his hand slipped and landed with a plop on the floor, spilling out the handmade Amish doll he'd bought. He bent to pick it up and stuff it back in the bag when he saw the tag on its back.
"Made in China," he read.
Hannah tried to stifle her giggle. Chris lifted his eyes to stare into Hannah's and found them filled with laughter.
"You knew."
She covered her mouth with her hand and then dropped it and laughed out loud. "That particular shop is what some people call a tourist trap. I figured it would be the kind of place you expected."
He stared at her and nodded slowly. "Yeah, I guess I did."
"Sometimes people only see the . . ." she seemed to search for the word. "Stereotypes."
"Like people sometimes do when they find out I served in the military," he said quietly.
Her smile faded. "Ya, I guess so." She was silent for a long moment. "I'm sorry. I guess I don't know what to think about you, Chris."
Leaning back in the seat, he glanced around, then met her gaze. "Why don't you show me what you love about your area?"
Hannah smiled at him. "Schur."
She drove him by several farms and talked about the crops that were raised here during the different seasons. She stopped the buggy and gestured at the fields in front of them.
"We have alfalfa and corn and soybeans and lots of different kinds of vegetables. Even dandelions."
"Dandelions?"
She nodded. "Lots of people love them in salads."
"They're weeds. I'm not eating weeds. Or flowers."
She laughed. "They're delicious in salads. And you should try dandelion gravy."
"Weed and flower gravy. I don't think so."
"If it was the right season for it, I'd make you some and change your mind."
Sighing, she called to Daisy and got the buggy moving again. "It's hard work farming, but the people who do it don't want to do anything else."
"Like Matthew."
"Yes, he's truly a man who loves the land." She fell silent for a moment and then she glanced at him. "And what about you?"
"I missed it—working the farm—while I was away."
"Are you going back?"
He dragged his attention from the passing landscape. "To the farm or the service?"
"Either."
"I'm not reenlisting in the Army."
A tense silence fell between them. He felt like a cloud swept over then, shutting out the sunlight.
5
Hannah wondered if she should suggest they return home, but after a few minutes, it seemed his mood lifted.
"The farms look so prosperous here."
"Most of them do well. But land has become expensive here, so some Amish families have moved to other states."
She pulled the buggy over and they watched men working in the field. Hannah slanted him a look, wondering if she should ask him again if he intended on returning to his childhood home.
"And what about you?"
"What about me?"
She rolled her eyes. "Getting you to talk about yourself is like pulling teeth."
"I always thought that was a weird expression."
Hannah muttered under her breath.
Chris laughed and tried to stretch his legs. "Not much leg room in these things, is there? Anyway, no, I don't like talking about myself."
"Sorry, I'm just trying to be social."
"Are other Amish like you?"
"You mean other Amish people or other Amish women?"
"Women."
She held up her chin. "I just have a natural curiosity.Besides, we do love a good conversation. We love to visit with our friends and family."
"Since there's no television or computers."
"Because we don't want there to be," she to
ld him with a touch of curtness, then realized she sounded prim and fussy.
He glanced at her. "Sorry."
"No, I'm sorry. I know I sounded defensive."
She paused and then looked at him. "I've seen television a few times, in a store in town or at an Englisch friend's home.I found some of the programs to be . . . interesting. I can see why our church leaders are worried about it coming into our homes. It was hard to walk away."
They traveled for a few more miles, both of them silent.
"Listen, I'm hungry," Chris said. "How about you?"
"Yes. I can fix us something back at the house."
Chris shook his head. "No." He glanced around. "Everyone's done enough—especially you. I'm sure you had a lot to do this morning, but you gave it up to take me sightseeing."
"Geyan schona," she said simply.
When he raised his eyebrows in question, she raised her shoulders and let them fall. "So willingly done. There are many places to get something to eat. It's one of the reasons people come here—to eat the food that the Amish make. That and to buy some craft item like a quilt—"
"Or a doll from China," Chris finished for her. He shot her a grin to show he could laugh about it himself.
"But really, there's no need to go to a restaurant. I could—"
"No, I don't want to put you to any trouble."
"It's no trouble to prepare a meal for a guest. We're known for our hospitality."
"I insist," he said firmly. "It's my treat."
Hannah had noticed that, like her brother, Chris liked good food and a lot of it. Soon, she pulled the buggy up to a restaurant that advertised Amish cooking and efficiently hitched Daisy to a post. While the restaurant didn't appear as large as some they'd passed, she knew of no better food locally.
"More Amish eat here than tourists," she told him.
"I'm game. I figure any place where the locals eat has good food or it would be out of business in no time."
They walked up to the door and Chris opened it before she could.
A feast of delicious scents greeted Chris as they entered the restaurant.
He'd always been a good eater—after all, most guys were and he worked hard—but eating MREs on the battlefield wasn't his idea of a gourmet meal. And the hospital food tasted like cardboard.Not that the hospital cafeteria could be blamed. The pain of his surgeries had taken the edge off of his appetite.
Now, he found his mouth watering as he smelled the rich aromas and glimpsed the food being served at nearby tables.His appetite increased.
When the hostess led them back to an empty table, Chris quickly pulled out a chair and seated Hannah. It wasn't just a gesture of courtesy. Combat had taught him never to sit with his back to other people or to the entrance of a building.
The counselor at the veteran's hospital called it a common reaction for soldiers returning from war. Then in what Chris supposed was the counselor's attempt to lighten the session, he had joked that a friend of his who taught high school in a small town used the same caution when dining out. The teacher claimed he always felt just a little paranoid that some of his alternative education kids—the ones who had behavior problems—would sneak up behind him.
A woman in Plain clothing walked over to take their orders.Chris had spied an open-faced roast beef sandwich, with a huge mound of mashed potatoes and gravy atop it, carried by a waitress on a tray. He'd debated about ordering it or the pile of crispy fried chicken that he saw served to a teen at the next table. He spent several minutes deliberating on his choices and decided on the roast beef. That and a big hunk of pie and the trip would be worth it.
By the time he worked through most of the sandwich, though, he realized he felt pleasantly full. When he glanced at a nearby table, the teen who looked like a football player had set down a piece of fried chicken and taken a break from eating.
"How can people eat like this—Plain people, I mean—and not have a weight problem?"
"Hard work," Hannah said simply.
He noticed that she hadn't chosen a salad and picked at it the way some women did. Yet the modest dress she wore didn't hide extra weight. It had been obvious when he'd lifted her up to the loft that day that she didn't weigh much.
Hannah had been suspicious that he'd come here to steal her sister-in-law, Jenny, but the more time he spent with her, the more attractive Hannah seemed to him.
If only she would stop trying to draw him out. He'd grown used to keeping his own counsel for years. After all, talking wasn't encouraged on the battlefield, and it was difficult to establish any kind of relationship in a hospital where patients came and went quickly.
Well, many of them did. Those who were forced to stay long-term sometimes found it difficult to hang out together.It became hard to keep their spirits up and not sound like Pollyanna—harder still not to drag others down into depression when it covered him like a black cloud.
The place between his shoulders itched. Chris had felt it before on the battlefield but never in civilian life. Never in a restaurant. Had it happened because he'd been thinking about his counselor's teacher friend who didn't want to turn his back on his students?
Glancing around, Chris saw that several tourists stared in their direction. No, not in their direction, he corrected himself.They watched Hannah as though she were an exhibit in a zoo.
"It's all right," she said quietly.
He dragged his glance back to her. "What?"
"We're used to being stared at. Don't let it concern you."
"But it's not right that—"
"People are people," she told him and shrugged. "They're curious about the way we live. And you know, sometimes I'm curious about them. Besides, they're being respectful and not taking pictures."
She smiled as the waitress came to take her empty plates."So, Fannie Mae, how is your mother doing?"
The two women chatted about their families while Chris resumed eating his meal.
But the itch wouldn't go away.
A surreptitious glance showed people sitting at tables around them, eating and talking with their friends and family.One man, who looked to be in his fifties or sixties, sat alone at a table eating and not looking up. Everything seemed very benign.
Chris told himself that what they called "situational awareness" might be in overdrive for some reason. Out on the battlefield you had to pay attention to your intuition, to play your hunches. Some of his buddies at the hospital told him the feeling of being watched became hard to shake stateside, maybe because at a hospital the staff watched you for symptoms— physical and mental.
But he was here on vacation. He needed to relax and enjoy himself.
Gradually, he became aware that Hannah and her friend had stopped talking and were watching him. "Sorry, what did you say?"
"Fannie Mae's mother made her famous peanut butter pie.Would you like a slice?"
"Can't. Peanut allergy. I saw some peach pie go past that looked really good. I'll take a piece of that."
"Warm, with ice cream?" Fannie Mae asked him.
He grinned. "Now you're talking."
The waitress left and Hannah frowned. "Maybe I shouldn't have ordered that pie."
"Too full?"
She shook her head. "I wouldn't want it to cause you a problem."
It took him a few moments to get her meaning. "We'll only have a problem if you kiss me."
Color flamed in her cheeks. "I assure you I won't be doing that."
Chris tried to school his features but failed miserably. He laughed, and her eyes shot daggers at him.
"Sorry, I couldn't resist," he said.
He stared at her mouth and his grin faded. Silence stretched between them, a charged moment in time where the people around them, the noise they created, faded.
"Here you go," announced Fannie Mae, as she placed their pie before them. "One peanut butter and one peach with ice cream."
"So what will you do after today?" she asked him. "How long will you stay in the area?"
The pie tasted amazing: the fruit sweet and luscious, the ice cream rich and flavored with vanilla. He could die happy after eating his dessert.
A chill ran across his skin.
"You okay?"
She must have seen him shudder. "Yeah, I just got a brain freeze from the ice cream."
They ate in silence for a few minutes. Several more of her friends stopped to say hello and be introduced to Chris. He sensed their curiosity, but when they left the restaurant the itch between his shoulder blades stayed. Shrugging, he finished his pie and enjoyed his coffee.
Fannie Mae stopped back to refill their coffee cups and leave the check. To Chris's consternation, Hannah tried to reach for it. He snatched it first.
"This is my treat."
"But you're our guest. Matthew gave me the money."
"Give it back to him. It was nice of you all to put me up last night. Too bad he had to work today or he could have joined us."
"He'll be busy harvesting for the next couple of weeks."
"I missed it—working the farm—overseas," he admitted and saw her look at him in surprise. He guessed he deserved it after he hadn't wanted to talk much about himself.
They walked toward the cashier to pay the bill, and as they did, Chris swept the interior and noted the dwindling number of occupants. Just tourists. He wasn't a soldier any more, and he needed to remember that.
No one watched him. He'd left that worry behind him.
Phoebe looked up and laid aside the quilt she'd been stitching as Hannah walked into the house.
"Pretty," Hannah said, admiring the baby quilt.
"So how was your day?"
"Interesting," Hannah said after a moment. "Chris isn't like any man I've ever met. Plain or Englisch."
She sat down on the sofa and picked up her own quilting project.
"He has old eyes," Phoebe said. "Jenny had them when she first came to live here after she'd been hurt overseas."
"Old eyes?"
Phoebe nodded. "He's seen too much for someone so young."
"But he said he joined the military. No one made him go."She paused and thought about that.
A Time to Heal Page 5