The Postcard

by Beverly Lewis

  Philip glanced at the young woman sitting next to him. How shy she had seemed when he first met her, yet she was becoming more comfortable with him, he thought. “I have a feeling the postcard would have changed everything, for both Adele and Gabe.”

  She nodded, remaining quiet for a bit. Then—“Why do you s’pose Gabe’s message never found its way to Adele?”

  He’d pondered that question himself during Lily’s recounting of the story. “Well, I really don’t know, but it’s possible Adele’s father, angered by yet another message from the Amishman, impulsively shoved it deep into the old desk that was to be hauled away. But that’s only speculation—my spin on it. Who’s to know, except that the postcard had been jammed into one of the narrow desk drawers.”

  Her jaw dropped momentarily. “Caught in a drawer, you say?”

  “Yes, and remember Adele had sat to write her one and only letter to Gabe on a dilapidated old rolltop desk? Must be the same one.”

  “Sounds to me like you missed your calling, Detective Bradley.”

  He chuckled a little. “It’s what I do—gather all the facts for a story. So I guess you could say I am a detective of sorts. As for Adele’s mother’s desk—according to Emma at the antique store in Bird-in-Hand, it did come from Reading. She was able to trace it back to a Baptist minister’s old shed.”

  “So you did some right-gut checkin’ up on the desk, then.” Her face broke into a genuine smile, and she let out a little chortle, then caught herself, covering her mouth quickly.

  Philip said, “I feel satisfied now, knowing what I know about Adele’s and Gabe’s love.”

  “It’s ever so surprising that the desk came full circle, so to speak, ending up in my father’s house—right under your nose.”

  Rachel’s comment was insightful, and he agreed with her, glad that she’d come along to hear her great-uncle’s story on this mild September day.

  The sun was creeping ever higher as he made the turn past the white stone wall and into the old cemetery. Towering trees like giant watchmen with wide arms were strewn out randomly across the grassy hillside. “I hope you don’t mind, Rachel, but I thought we could make a quick stop . . . to visit Gabe’s final resting place.”

  “I don’t mind.”

  “I was here once before, but I’m afraid I got sidetracked. Now that we’ve heard the full story, it might be nice to see Gabe’s headstone for ourselves.” He meant the epitaph, though he had no idea if the Amishwoman would even have thought to inscribe Gabe’s marker except for the name, date of birth, and date of death. Yet he wanted to see for himself, and he sensed Rachel was just as curious.

  He hurried around the car and helped her out, gently taking Rachel’s hand and wrapping it through his arm, while she used her cane with the other. Then, guiding her as carefully as if she were a fragile doll, they walked together over the paved pathway. Getting his bearings, he spied the general location of Gabe’s marker, where the groundskeeper had directed him four days earlier. His heart quickened as they made the turn and strolled over a slightly sloping path of grass, under a shining sun.

  Gabe’s marker was unadorned, devoid of crosses and angels, as were others near it. Only slightly weathered, it was rounded at the top, a plain tombstone befitting an Amishman. “What’s it say?” Rachel asked, her arm still linked through his.

  Slowly, his eyes scanned the inscription as he read the words, silently at first:

  GABRIEL ESH

  Born January 7, 1935

  Died May 30, 1962

  Shunned by men, Blessed by God

  Loved by Adele Lillian Herr

  Philip was deeply moved as he read the words on the headstone aloud to Rachel. She was especially still, her eyes open in the dazzling light of the sun. A breeze skipped across the grass, rippling her skirt and apron, and for a moment it seemed as if she could actually see.

  “Will you say Adele’s full name again,” Rachel said softly.

  Philip looked down at the marker once again. “Adele Lillian Herr.”

  She breathed in quickly, gripping his arm.

  “Are you all right?” He placed his hand over hers, consoling her.

  “Jah, I’m fine, really. But I think maybe you missed somethin’ important—it’s there for all to see.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Lily . . . short for Lillian, ain’t so?”

  He was stunned by this beautiful blind woman’s insight. Of course—Lily was Adele Herr!

  Twenty-Four

  It seemed as if they stood there for hours, motionless, lost in thought, absorbing their discovery of Lily’s true identity. When they finally turned from the gravesite to walk away, both were contemplative, seized by the poignancy of the moment. Philip wondered why Lily had wanted to keep her identity hidden. Why hadn’t she wanted them to know?

  Continuing to make their way down the gentle slope, he took great care to point out the uneven places beneath their feet, for Rachel’s sake, then fell silent again, considering the events of the day as they approached the car.

  It was Rachel who spoke first, breaking the near-reverent stillness—and when she did, it was as if she were reading his thoughts. “Lily didn’t want to be known as Adele, ’least not to us.” She sighed audibly. “She must’ve suffered terribly— losin’ Gabe thataway—must’ve felt she had to mark time, keep standin’ still, not movin’ forward at all in life, choosin’ her middle name instead. It was a way to hide—go into herself— protect herself from the awful pain.”

  Philip was struck by Rachel’s profound evaluation. She seems to speak from experience, he thought.

  She stopped, turning to face him, though her eyes were downcast. “I know all too well what Lily . . . Adele, has gone through her whole life long. She simply couldn’t move forward with livin’. That’s the reason for her secrecy.”

  As Philip helped her into the car, he wondered what secrets Rachel may have pushed down into her own soul, hidden from the light.

  The sun slipped behind a cloud just as he started the car and headed back in the direction of Lancaster, making it easy to concentrate on the road and on the lovely, perceptive young woman by his side.

  “Adele did get Gabe’s message of love before she died,” he heard Rachel saying. “She got it just in the nick of time.”

  Soon they fell into a rhythmic and pleasant ebb and flow of conversation such as he had not recalled ever engaging in so fully with a woman. They talked and laughed about each other’s childhood and religious training, their parents and siblings, their hopes and dreams. . . .

  And Rachel shared with him her dedication to Jesus Christ and how she loved to listen to Bible tapes and occasionally the taped sermons sent her by Esther, her Ohio cousin. “Walkin’ with Jesus makes all the difference in the world.”

  Philip found himself lost in conversation with the intuitive and bright woman, and by trip’s end, he had nearly forgotten that she was both blind and Plain.

  Stephen Flory and his wife seemed pleased to be treated to supper that evening. Philip touched on the high points of his and Rachel Yoder’s visit with Lily, “who quite amazingly turned out to be Adele herself.”

  “No wonder I couldn’t find her obituary,” Stephen joked.

  Philip nodded. “No wonder . . .” He told them he would be heading back to New York tomorrow. “I’ll catch the first train out,” he said.

  “So your work here is done?” Stephen wore a boyish grin.

  “I believe I have the makings of a terrific human interest piece.” He was thoughtful. “I don’t know exactly what I’ll do with Gabe’s and Adele’s story, but I’m sure it’ll come to me . . . in time.”

  “Maybe after it simmers awhile,” Deborah said.

  “Maybe . . .”

  Rachel was ladling out the chicken corn soup for supper when her thoughts drifted back to Philip Bradley. She supposed she oughta be caught up in the astonishing story she’d heard over the past two days—one on tape, the other in person. B
ut she didn’t feel it was so wrong to focus mental energy on someone as kind and appealing to her as was the writer from New York. Mighty interesting, he was, especially for an Englischer.

  She found herself wondering about his human interest story on Gabe and Adele, but she had little hope of ever bein’ able to read it. Not unless Susanna would agree to read to her, and if not, maybe when Annie got a little older. Still, she felt awful sorry for him havin’ to return to such a busy place as New York. She’d allowed herself to enjoy the strength in his arm as he led her through the cemetery where Gabe lay buried and the smell of his subtle cologne, something she’d never smelled on Jacob—never. Which wasn’t to say she didn’t like it a lot.

  Something about Philip Bradley made her feel alive again, like she didn’t want so much to mark time anymore.

  Like she could begin to think about movin’ ahead a bit. One tiny step at a time. Jah, and she felt ever so confident with him by her side.

  Yes, now that she thought of it, Rachel was mighty glad he’d picked their Orchard Guest House B&B in the first place. . . .

  Twenty-Five

  While waiting at Lancaster’s Amtrak station for his train to arrive, Philip toyed with the idea of calling Rachel. He hadn’t stopped thinking of her once since he’d dropped her off last evening. And he didn’t think it was so much a romantic thing he felt; he just wanted to hear her voice one more time. So he took the risk of getting Susanna Zook on the other end and called anyway.

  “Orchard Guest House” came the soft, sweet voice.

  “Rachel?”

  “Yes?”

  “It’s Philip Bradley, the man who—”

  “I know who you are,” she interrupted, surprising him.

  “Just wanted to say good-bye before my train leaves. And it was very nice to meet you—to get to know you.”

  “That’s gut of you to say, Philip. I pray you’ll have a safe trip home. May the Lord bless you always.”

  He smiled at her quaint expression. “And you, too,” he said without even thinking. “Oh, and please tell Annie good-bye, too. I hope her wasp sting is healing nicely.”

  “Jah, it is.”

  He heard some commotion in the background—voices, as if someone wanted to use the phone. “Is something wrong?”

  She fell silent.

  “Rachel?”

  “No, it’s not Rachel, and you’re not to bother our daughter again, you hear?”

  He felt his eyebrows jump up. “I’m sorry, but I was having a conversation with—”

  “Not anymore you ain’t” came the terse reply. “And for your information, Rachel’s not blind . . . not really. She suffers from a mental disorder, some sort of hysteria. So it ain’t in your best interest, I wouldn’t think, to search out a . . . a woman such as Rachel.”

  Philip was dumbfounded. “I understood she was blinded in the accident.”

  “Well, you’re quite wrong!” the woman said emphatically. “She’s mentally impaired . . . doctor says so.”

  Mentally impaired?

  Rachel was far from it, and Philip knew it without a doubt. Susanna was obviously disgusted with him and rightly so. He’d taken her helpless, widowed daughter out of the city, exposed her to the heartwarming story of their wayward ancestor, brought her safely home, and was only interested in saying an innocent farewell. “I’m terribly sorry to have bothered you, Mrs. Zook.”

  “Jah, and so am I.” And with that, she hung up the phone.

  Once his bags were safely secured in the baggage compartment above his head, Philip browsed through a magazine he’d purchased, though not seeing either the ads or the articles presented.

  He could not shake the words Susanna Zook had fired into his ear. Rachel not really blind? How could that be?

  What kind of woman would make up such things about her own daughter? He dismissed the strange statements, assuming they were the product of a desperate woman’s defense—to keep her widowed daughter safely secluded from the outside world. Surely that was all Susanna was attempting to do.

  Instead, he chose to concentrate on Rachel’s spiritual declaration, some of her final words to him on the phone.

  May the Lord bless you always. . . .

  Rachel’s voice echoed in his thoughts as the train pulled away from the station, past warehouses and industrial buildings. Within minutes, the landscape became gloriously different. Visions of nature’s beauty and simplicity framed the picturesque farmland and gentle, rolling hills, all of it representative of his Lancaster County experience.

  Leaning back, he realized anew the wonder of God in his life—the grace and goodness he’d let fall by the wayside of his hectic existence, smothered and choked out by his own personal goals and ambitions. He thought of a young boy, kneeling at the altar of repentance, his heart innocent and true.

  Lord, forgive me, Philip prayed silently. Thank you for waiting for me to come to my senses.

  Lulled by the swaying of the train, he closed his eyes and thought of the delicate woman with an occasional curl in her honey brown hair. What a delightfully old-fashioned young lady. Her innocent approach to life was refreshing, and Rachel’s adorable little daughter—well, they were quite a pair.

  Please, Lord, watch over Rachel and Annie. . . .

  Philip caught a cab to Times Square, checking in with his editor before heading to his cubicle. “Wild and wacky stuff,” Bob said, chewing on a pencil. “Do people really live like that?”

  “You’d have to see it to believe it, but yes, they do, and quite cheerfully, I might add.”

  He purposely did not mention the human interest piece. He liked Deborah Flory’s suggestion about letting it simmer for a while. Trudging back to his small enclosure, he felt as though he could use some simmering, too. Not this week and not the next, but when the leaves started to change in Vermont.

  He picked up the phone and dialed Janice. “I’m back,” he said. “Is Kari around?”

  “She’s standing right here, dying to talk to you.”

  “Well, put her on.”

  “Uncle Phil, hi! It seems like forever since we talked.”

  “Forever—yeah, I know.” He stared at a wide bank of windows just beyond the next row of cubicles, spying the sides and tops of buildings, one column of them after another, as far as the eye could see. “Do you and your mom want to watch the leaves change with me?”

  “In London?”

  “In Vermont . . . at Grandpap’s cabin in the woods.”

  “But you promised London,” she insisted.

  “London can wait.”

  “Okay, if Mom can get away.”

  “She’ll say yes, trust me,” he said. “It’s been a long time since I sat still and watched green turn to red. Maybe too long . . .”

  Philip was packing for the trip to Vermont when the doorman rang his apartment. “You have a registered letter downstairs, Mr. Bradley. Would you like the mail carrier to bring it up?”

  “I’ll come down. Thanks.”

  When he had signed for the letter, he noticed that the return address was Fairview Nursing Home in Reading, Pennsylvania.

  “Lily?” he said aloud, waiting for the elevator.

  Quickly, he opened the long business-style envelope and discovered a typewritten letter addressed to him.

  Dear Philip,

  I was quite relieved that Shari, our receptionist, had saved your business card. I never could have found you, otherwise, to properly thank you for Gabe’s postcard . . . and for your visits.

  Perhaps by now you know that I am Adele Herr. I didn’t intend to deceive you, but years of great sorrow and denial on my part had taken their toll, and I grew to trust few people. I must confess that I have lived an embittered, hopeless life, and by your coming, I know how wrong I was.

  The postcard is a reminder of God’s faithfulness to me, that He had His hand on me from the beginning, though I allowed great disappointment to rob me of my faith. I have given myself to my Lord and Savior once again
.

  So thank you, Philip. The message from Gabe, though quite belated, has altered my life and given me a reason to live.

  I wish you well, my friend.

  Sincerely,

  Adele Herr

  Philip refolded the letter, his heart filled with gladness, and he thought again of the Scripture reference Gabe had so aptly placed next to his signature, some forty years ago.

  He who began a good work in you will carry it on to completion until the day of Christ Jesus. . . .

  Epilogue

  Things seem a bit unsettled ’round here since our New York guest left for home. Mam’s on edge more than ever, ’cept she still does insist on having frequent prayer times as a family, where Dat reads one pointed Scripture passage or another, directed toward me.

  There’s plenty of apple-cider makin’ and apple-butter churnin’ in the area, and I have to say that I hope we’ll be making some candied apples, too. ’Least for Annie’s sake.

  We’re hosting ever so many more guests, now that it’s peak foliage, and I’m right grateful to be keeping busy. Still, it’s mighty hard to tidy up the southeast guest bedroom or take a walk with Annie over the footbridge without thinking of the young man from New York. Seems the longer time goes, the harder it is to believe everything that happened while Philip Bradley was here.

  Most surprising is the story behind it all—how a humble young fella, born sensitive and timid as anybody, mustered the courage to stand up to Bishop Seth Fisher and all the preachers, too! In the end, the obvious heir to the powwow “gift” chose to follow the call of the Cross, becoming a joint heir with Jesus.

  It’s a pity that Gabe died so awful young, missin’ out on his sweetheart for a lifetime. I ’spect sometime here real soon, they’ll be meeting again over yonder for all eternity. Gabe was surely right, after all, ’bout what he wrote: Soon we’ll be together, my love.