Secret Sister

by Sarah Price

  But Grace didn’t share all of that with Mary. Instead, she merely replied, “He died in an accident.” She paused, holding up the handkerchief. “The strange thing is that, when no one was looking, I tucked the handkerchief into the casket before they closed it. I wanted the special gift he gave me to stay with him forever.”

  Mary gave a small gasp.

  “I never told anyone about that,” Grace went on. “Mayhaps I confided in Menno when we were courting. But no one else knew, and even if someone saw me put it in the casket, that was how many years ago? No one would remember something so insignificant.”

  “Such an odd coincidence.”

  Grace sighed and forced a smile.

  She missed Benny and his antics. The gift made her wonder what he would be doing now, were he still alive. Surely he’d have inherited the farm, maybe even worked alongside Emanuel, who eventually married and lived there instead. Many families had one or two brothers take over the farm. Emanuel could have used the help, that was for sure and certain. Having five daughters and only one son left Emanuel with long workdays just to pay the bills. “Ja, vell, I’m sure that’s all it is. A coincidence. After all, the whole g’may knows how much I love my purple irises. It’s just a lovely gift from a very thoughtful person.”

  “Indeed it is,” Mary said. “And on that nice thought, I’d best get going before Stephen wonders where I am.”

  Grace fetched Mary’s cloak and thanked her once again for stopping to drop off the gift. As she shut the door behind her unexpected guest, Grace stood there clutching the embroidered handkerchief in her hands. Her thoughts returned back to her parents’ farm and the happy memories she had of living there. In her mind, she could still smell the fresh-baked bread her mother had made every morning. She could hear the clamor of the cows meandering back to the barn when it was time for their afternoon feeding and milking. She could feel the love that permeated the entire house because her family always focused on honoring God.

  Whoever had sent her that handkerchief had done so much more than give her a small gift, she thought when she finally turned around and walked back to her sitting room. They had given her something she had long ago forgotten: the happy memories of her youth.

  And for that, Grace said a silent prayer of gratitude to the unknown person, her secret sister.

  CHAPTER THREE

  October 9, 2015

  THE LARGE, WOODEN quilting frame occupied most of the great room in Mary Esh’s house. A variety of plastic and metal folding chairs surrounded the perimeter where the ladies sat, their shoulders hunched over, as they expertly poked a needle and thread through the light-colored pattern on the fabric pulled taut on the frame. Most of the women were the same age as Grace, late sixties and early seventies. Over the years, they had attended many quilting bees and were very familiar with how the event unfolded. After their own morning chores were finished and a dinner prepared for their husbands, they would meet at the house of the hostess. Usually they would quilt from mid-morning until noon, when the younger women would serve them a meal. The break was perfectly timed so that the older women could stretch their shoulders and give their eyes a break. Stitching the perfect stitch, tiny and evenly placed, strained their aging vision.

  After the meal, the women would return to the frame while the younger girls cleaned up the dishes. By that time, several of the elderly women would begin to excuse themselves and bid everyone farewell. It was time for them to retire home to attend to their chores, as well as a perfect opportunity for the younger girls to take over the quilting under the watchful eyes of the remaining, more experienced women.

  Quilting was an important tradition that was passed down from generation to generation—a social event of sorts.

  “Such a shame,” Mary commented with sadness in her voice. “I heard that your son’s bride, Beth Ann, wants a store-bought comforter for her bed and not a quilt.” She turned to look at Esther Wagler. “Is that true, then?”

  Esther pursed her lips in assenting displeasure. “She’s a fine girl. But all these young women now want those store comforters, it appears. They just don’t seem to have the appreciation of the love passed on to them when we make them a quilt. In our day, there were no Walmart stores selling ready-made bedding sets.”

  Mary sighed. “Things were much simpler then.”

  Esther gave a soft grunt. “Simpler or not, good taste and quality quilting never go out of style, if you ask me!”

  “But you said she’s a fine girl,” Grace said, quick to point out the positive in order to avoid any gossip-like talk. She had been on the receiving end of that too often in her life. Menno always avoided speaking poorly about anyone, and Grace had long ago learned the wisdom in taking such a stance. “I reckon that’s much more important than the type of blanket that covers her bed.”

  “Ja, vell, it sure is a shame to have so many young women not learning how to quilt,” Lizzie added. She gestured toward the quilt they were working on. “At least Melvin’s Rose has enough sense to want a proper quilt and a traditional pattern at that!”

  Two women tittered at the comment. Even Grace had to smile. Mary Esh’s nephew, Melvin Miller, lived in their church district and had always been known to be a bit on the slow side. When word had initially spread that he was to marry Rose King, everyone fought the urge to comment on such an unlikely pairing. After all, Rose King was a high-energy young woman who worked multiple jobs, including going to market in Maryland three times a week. She was known to be outspoken and quite the go-getter. If Grace had been asked to pick the one person who might want a store-bought comforter, she would have chosen Rose King.

  Yet Rose had insisted on a handmade quilt and even sat with some of the older women in the g’may to ask for their assistance in selecting the pattern and colors. As a result, her reputation as a fine Amish woman had spread throughout the community almost as quickly as the news of her upcoming wedding to Melvin Miller.

  Mary sighed, a wistful smile on her lips. “I remember my wedding quilt. The diamond log cabin pattern in blues and creams. It was breathtaking! And the quilting bee? Why, so many women were at the quilting bee, I was overwhelmed!”

  Grace had heard Mary speak of her wedding quilt often. She had seen it, and it was indeed beautiful, quilted with the love of many women in the community. If anyone deserved such an outpouring of support, Mary did, since her mother had died when Mary was ten and her father had not remarried.

  “That was quite a day.” Hannah sighed at the memory, a happy look on her face. “I was ever so happy to be getting such a wunderbarr sister-in-law!”

  One of the older women sitting a few seats away leaned forward and peered in Grace’s direction. “Did you have a quilting bee, Grace? I’ve never heard you speak of one.”

  The color rose to Grace’s cheeks. “Oh, my,” she said, quickly brushing off the subject as she returned her attention to the quilt, not wanting to draw more attention to herself. “That was so long ago, I scarce remember it!” As she pushed the threaded needle down into the quilt, she said a silent prayer that God would forgive her because, despite her words, the truth was that she did remember. But it was a memory she did not want to share with anyone else.

  1965

  The air in the barn felt still and heavy, the humidity of summer oppressive even though it was after seven o’clock. A few kerosene lanterns hung from black metal hooks screwed into the rafters. The flame gave a soft glow that began to fill the barn with light as the sun retreated behind the tree line. Small groups of young people stood about, chatting and waiting for the singing to begin. Her friend Hannah had yet to arrive, and as the sun continued to sink in the sky, Grace began to wonder if she was coming at all. There was an odd mixture of people at the singing tonight; several were from different church districts. Grace suspected they were cousins of families who lived in her g’may. Summer was a time for visiting, after all. They seemed content talking with each other, and for that she was grateful. She wasn’t in a
socializing mood. Not tonight anyway.

  Grace stood alone by the barn door, hoping for a breeze to cool down her damp skin. She loved summertime with the growing crops and the pretty blue skies. However, once the end of July rolled around, the humidity seemed to drain her energy level. Though the days became shorter and shorter, a few minutes each day, the air still remained brutally hot and humid.

  At night, she had recently begun to sleep downstairs where it was cooler, dragging her mattress down two flights of stairs and into the basement, Benny and Anna Mae often following her lead. In the dark, cool basement, the three of them whispered into the night until, one by one, they drifted off to sleep.

  With Emanuel already married, the three remaining children had grown especially close. Even Benny—who was well into his rumschpringe and loving every minute of it—enjoyed spending time with his two sisters.

  Tonight, however, he had driven Grace to the youth singing in his courting buggy. But to her dismay, he drove away rather than staying with the other young people. Grace had merely sighed and shaken her head as she walked into the barn. She knew where he was going: racing. The Amish grapevine had picked up on that recent round of gossip a while ago. Unfortunately, because the boys involved were over sixteen and not yet baptized members of the church, there wasn’t much their parents, or the church leadership, could do except pray that they would outgrow this dangerous desire to race each other.

  “You look like you could use some lemonade there, Grace Mast!”

  Startled, she looked up from where she was standing by the barn entrance and was surprised to see Menno Beiler standing a few feet away, two cups of lemonade in his hands. With his straw hat tipped back on his head and his hair clipped just above his eyebrows, she could see his eyes sparkling as he handed one of the cups to her and grinned.

  “Danke, Menno,” she managed to say as she accepted the cup from his hand. She didn’t know why but she suddenly felt nervous. Wishing she could still the rapid beating of her heart, Grace tried to project an image of nonchalance, but it was hard with those big green eyes staring at her.

  The truth was that she had learned quite a bit about Menno Beiler over the past two years. Initially, when she started attending the youth singings, she never saw him there. She might have forgotten him if it weren’t for that handkerchief. If she ever heard his name, she immediately paid attention to learn more about the man with the sparkling green eyes who had stared at her during the horse auction she attended with her daed and her bruder. She learned that Emanuel had been correct: Menno had quite the reputation among the youths in their g’may.

  It seemed that Menno liked fast horses and travel. She had heard tell of bus trips all across America, sometimes for weeks at a time. And his love of racing his horse was also well known. Too many boys took to racing their horses during their rumschpringe. At worship service, the bishop spread the word to the parents to control their sons.

  There was even a rumor that Menno had dated an Englische girl for a few months. Such relationships always made people raise an eyebrow. Although more and more cars were traveling the back roads that wound through the Amish communities, Grace didn’t have much opportunity to interact with Englische girls. But she knew that they kept their long hair down and wore dresses made of bright colors with too-short hemlines. Some of them even smoked cigarettes, put on makeup, and danced to music.

  Grace certainly couldn’t imagine what Menno would want with that type of girl.

  Unfortunately, the stories had lived far longer than his temporary desire for exploring a previously forbidden world. He had taken his kneeling vow the previous year, and despite those eyes that whispered of a desire for mischief, he now lived life in full humility and commitment to the Ordnung, the unwritten rules of the Amish community.

  In many ways the stories that were told of his initial years of rumschpringe sounded far too familiar to Grace. Now that Benny was sixteen, he seemed to be following a similar journey, hanging with some young men from a different church district that was less mindful of rules and reputations.

  Grace thought Menno rather handsome too. His curly brown hair framed his face in a way that accentuated his strong features. He was tall, with broad shoulders and a tan that clearly pointed to a man who enjoyed working in the fields. His black trousers were clean and freshly pressed, by his mother, no doubt. But unlike many of the other young men at the gathering, he had avoided getting hay dust or mud on them. She respected that, for it meant less laundry for his mother. She thought him a conscientious young man for considering his mother’s workload.

  He reached up and tipped his straw hat back, just enough so he could stare directly into her eyes without the brim of his hat blocking his view. “You eighteen yet, Grace Mast?”

  His question made her laugh. “What an odd question!” The truth was that she had turned eighteen, and not that long ago. How did he know that? she wondered.

  With a confidence she had never seen before, he leaned against the door frame of the barn and whispered, “Been waiting for you to turn eighteen, you know. Gonna start courting you if you are.”

  She couldn’t help herself from laughing again. She had never heard such brazen talk! Had he simply asked to drive her home, she would have been flattered and said yes. Now, with the confidence of a lion, Menno seemed definitely out of line with the traditional ways of Amish courtship. Yet try as she might, she had never heard even a whisper of his courting another Amish girl. Just that one Englischer.

  “What makes you think I’d agree to start courting you, Menno?” she heard herself reply, surprised by her own brazen response.

  He winked at her as he thrust his hands into his trouser pockets and started to back away slowly. “The color just rose to your cheeks, Grace Mast. I’m a-thinking you won’t say no when I fetch you to ride home in my buggy tonight.”

  And just like that, he was gone.

  Stunned, Grace stared after him, long after he disappeared into the midst of other youths who stood in small groups talking.

  That had been the beginning of their courtship.

  After every youth singing, Menno Beiler was there to bring her home in his open-top courting buggy. He always made sure to take the long way home—something that Grace was completely aware of but never commented upon—driving carefully down the winding back roads. One of the many things Grace liked about him was how talkative and interesting he was. She often heard from her girlfriends that the boys who brought them home after singings barely spoke at all. No one had ever asked Grace home from a singing before. Not really. Not by way of attempting to court her. Sure, Jake and Abe had offered her a ride once or twice, but they were headed in the direction of her family’s farm anyway. Plus they always had their sisters with them. Instead, she usually rode with Emanuel until he himself began courting. Then she simply walked home or rode along with one of her friends.

  Suddenly, everything changed. Seeing Menno became the highlight of her week. Whether they were at a youth singing or a gathering, he made it abundantly clear that his intention was to take Grace home afterward. He would always bring her something to drink, stand close to her, and lean down to talk with her during breaks from the singing. Other young men tended to use more discretion, asking their intended in private or when no one was paying attention. Not Menno.

  “Been a long week, ja?” Menno said as he sat next to Grace on the bench that was set up in the Hostetlers’ gathering room. As usual, he handed her a cup, this time filled with meadow tea. He watched as she took a sip, glancing at him over the rim of the cup.

  “Danke, Menno,” she said softly. “Meadow tea is my favorite. Did you try some?” Hesitantly, knowing it could be construed as a public gesture of intimacy, she handed her cup toward him, indicating that he might share the drink.

  But he waved off her offer. “I did try some, and it’s not quite to my liking,” he offered by way of an explanation. He lowered his voice as he leaned closer to her, adding, “Betsy Hostetler does
n’t make meadow tea the way I like it. I reckon she boils the leaves way too long.”

  The serious expression on his face made Grace laugh. She covered her mouth with her hand as she tried to silence herself too aware that people standing nearby glanced in their direction. “Oh, Menno,” she finally said, still smiling at his comment. “Now what would you know about making meadow tea?”

  Both of his eyebrows shot up and he looked surprised. “Do you think I don’t know a thing or two about the kitchen, then?” he asked with a look of mock indignation. Not waiting for her answer, he began to recite his version of the perfect meadow tea recipe. “Rinse the mint leaves under cold water while waiting for a pot of water to boil. One handful for every six cups of water in the pot.”

  Grace laughed again.

  “Once it boils, immerse the leaves and let them soak for seven minutes, not eight like everyone usually does. Remove the leaves and add one cup of sugar, stirring to dissolve before pouring the tea into a cooled container.” He paused and tilted his head as if to make certain she was listening to him. How could she not? His recitation was so amusing that now a few other young women were listening and smiling as well. “The cooled container is very important. You see, it helps to bring the temperature down faster while preserving the fresh taste.”

  “And that’s the perfect recipe for meadow tea?” Grace asked.

  “Absolutely.”

  “I shall have to try it, then,” she said.

  “And I shall have to sample it!” He gave her a quick wink. “Name the day and time, Grace. I’ll be there.”

  She knew she should have been a little less flirtatious with him. The problem was that Menno made it too hard not to be jovial and laugh a lot. He had such a natural demeanor, so easygoing and carefree, that Grace couldn’t help but fall into casual conversation with him, conversation that often became teasing and bordered on a cozy familiarity.