Tilly looked stunned. “But I was the one who turned my back—I thought she was safe with Ruthie and Josie.” Her voice cracked. “She must’ve toppled. It happened so fast!”
Solemnly, he nodded. “I shoulda known better.”
Tilly pushed her hand through the crook of his arm. “Oh, Melvin, and you’ve lived with this for so awful long. I’m so sorry . . . so very sorry.” She paused. “I, too, have carried guilt for her death. I’ve never told a soul, but Anna bickered with me that morning—and a few days earlier, as well.” Tilly began to share the things their little sister had said. “At the time, I tried to overlook it as mere childishness, but I was tired of her feisty attitude and insisted she obey me—demanded it. She did not seem very receptive to what I’d said . . . not right away.”
“Well, to your credit, she could be a handful. Susannah had to reprimand her for bein’ lippy nearly every time we baby-sat her.”
Tilly looked shocked. “And here I thought it was just me she got sassy with.”
“She was just a little tyke, still learnin’ to obey an’ all.” Melvin shook his head. “Wasn’t her fault she fell in, though.”
“No . . . not at all.” Tilly sounded like she was crying. “Nor was it yours, dear brother.”
Arm in arm, they stood watching the river flow past them. Melvin said he hadn’t been able to return there after that summer. “I’m glad I could come here with you today, close as ya always were to her. I hope ya know how Anna looked up to you. She loved ya so.”
“And I loved her. If I could go back and live that day over, I would never have let her out of my sight. Never,” Tilly said, gripping his arm, her hand trembling. “Anna would be fourteen if she’d lived . . . ever think of that?”
“Jah, I do. And often. Daed would soon have his work cut out for him, fending off would-be beaus. Doubt any of ’em would have met his expectations.” Melvin gave a chuckle. “Ya know, when I contacted you and Ruthie to come for the anniversary party, I never dreamed I’d be standing here spillin’ my guts like this.”
“Maybe it was time.” Tilly smiled at him. “For both of us.”
Melvin heard Ruthie calling to them from up a ways. She waved at them dramatically as she sat on an enormous tree limb, high over the river. “You’re givin’ me the heebie-jeebies up there,” he called to her. “Be careful, won’t ya?”
Tilly groaned. “I think she must be feeling her oats.”
“Freedom does that, I ’spect.”
Tilly turned to face him, frowning. “What do you mean?”
“I just think she’s better off in Massachusetts near you and your family.”
“You honestly believe that?”
“In Ruthie’s case, I do.” He wasn’t going to say what he knew about Will Kauffman’s inability to follow through with much of anything, not to mention the lad’s clumsiness with road horses. Will had good intentions, but he still needed to grow up, and then some.
“Denki, Bruder . . . means a lot.”
Melvin led her back to the car, away from the river. He heard Ruthie running up behind them, calling to them, sounding like a young girl again. “I’m glad you both came to Eden Valley to see us,” he said as they all got back into Tilly’s car to head to his place.
“We are, too,” Ruthie piped up from the backseat. “Aren’t we, sister?”
Tilly started the car and smiled at him. “I wouldn’t have missed it for anything, Melvin. Not for the world.” She laughed at what she’d said. “Well, you know.”
They exchanged glances, and he was laughing now, too.
“Will you keep us posted on Daed’s health?” Tilly asked before they arrived back at his farm.
“I intend to, jah.”
“You have my address,” Tilly said.
“And you . . . why don’t ya send Susannah and me a note from time to time, if ya don’t mind.”
Tilly leaned over and squeezed his hand. “So good to hear your side of things today. At long last. You have no idea how much it meant to me.”
“Almost said the same.” He cleared his throat as tears threatened. “Next time, don’t wait so long to visit.”
Ruthie got out of the car when he did and wrapped her arms around his neck, warming his heart down to his toes. “I never, ever expected to return to Eden Valley,” she said, eyes blinking up at him. “But I’m so happy I did.”
He stood there, watching them go, back to the outside world. And now that he’d spent some time with Tilly and Ruth, he wouldn’t say that it was a terrible thing they lived fancy. No, he couldn’t say that at all.
When he no longer could see Tilly’s red dot of a car, Melvin turned and headed for the barn, then changed his mind and walked toward the house instead. He went in and kissed Susannah soundly, catching her off guard, sniffing to see if her delicious rolls were ready to sample.
“Well, ain’t you somethin’,” his wife said, surprising him with a kiss right on his lips.
“When’s dinner?”
“When do ya think?” she joked. “Same time as always.”
He chuckled, cheered by the sameness of his life, a regularity he embraced, and thankful for his daily routine around the farm, the fertile soil entrusted to him as a gift from the Lord God above. Mighty glad, too, for things like a creaking windmill, his holey work boots, and the warm knit sweater Susannah had recently made for him. I’m just plain grateful for life.
Sunset was not far off, and the evening sun shone in a spectacular way on the Rockport harbor this time of year, making for golden views. Tilly wondered if Kris’s mother might have supper waiting.
“Are you all right?” she asked her sister, who’d joined her up front for the long drive home.
“How’s it possible to experience heartbreak and relief at the same time?”
Tilly nodded. “I’m sorry you had to relive that old pain.”
“It’s okay, really.” Ruth explained how she’d privately worried if she could even cut it as an Amishwoman anymore. “Especially being as submissive as expected . . . and the whole mindset in the Plain community. And oh, the hard work! Many things would’ve been difficult for me, as you can imagine.” She talked about how she’d struggled with the idea of joining church there, after enjoying such a different type of worship in Rockport. “I guess, if things had worked out between Will and me, I might’ve been able to compromise somehow . . . if he had been willing. Somehow I doubt he would have.” She shrugged. “Who knows now.”
Tilly listened, aware that Ruth sounded much more composed today. More sure of herself.
“But, to tell you the truth, I’m not sure I wasn’t looking for an excuse.”
The thought had crossed Tilly’s mind, too. “I think you made a good choice,” she encouraged her. “No looking back.”
“Sometimes, I guess you just have to get the past out of your system. Maybe I was trying to live out what might’ve been.”
“Hmm . . .” She nodded.
They pulled into a gas station at the top of a hill, overlooking their postcard-worthy little town, and Tilly asked if Ruth wanted to join her and the family for supper.
“That would be nice. And I’d like to see the twins . . . seems like eons.”
Tilly laughed. “You’re not sounding very Amish anymore.”
“Eden Valley almost feels like a dream to me now. Were we really there?”
Tilly realized she, too, felt nearly the same.
“Hey . . . we forgot to stop by the cemetery before we left,” Ruthie said, getting out of the car to stretch her legs while Tilly pumped gas.
“I thought of it after we dropped off Melvin but decided I’d had enough gloom for one day,” Tilly said.
“You didn’t look miserable, though, walking along the river with our brother.”
“It was a blessing, really.” She wouldn’t go into the things Melvin had shared, and regarding precious Anna, there was really nothing more to say. Their little sister had been taken early—their heavenly Fathe
r’s supreme will, whether Tilly or Melvin thought they had been responsible or not. Tilly had to let herself step out in faith, wholly trusting in the sovereignty of God, knowing that the sufferings of life didn’t have to crush her but could instead draw her closer to the Savior.
Tilly realized, while overlooking the radiant harbor, that sometime in the past week, she had also forgiven herself. Somewhere on Amish soil, where heaven touched earth in Eden Valley.
Epilogue
Kris’s kitchen chair scraped back against the floor when Ruthie and I walked into the kitchen that first evening home. The twins came running from the family room—oh, did they ever! So much love, and I was wrapped in it times three as my husband and Jenya and Tavani squeezed me into their happy circle. “Mommy’s home!” There’d even been a few hugs to spare for Ruthie, as well.
Weeks later, close to Thanksgiving, when things had settled down for Ruthie, she confided in me that her young man from church wanted to court her—the English way, of course. I was delighted to see the quiet joy in my sister’s eyes, to know she was valued by someone who truly seemed to know the path God had set before him. Ruthie feels sure a marriage proposal is in her near future, and this time, she’ll have no hesitations!
Since our trip, letters have been coming from both Mamm and Melvin, and one from Josie, too—she’s expecting another baby, come next summer. It’s really wonderful, knowing the love of family continues to blossom there in our first home.
While at Ruthie’s recently, a letter arrived from Daed addressed to her—unheard of. As we sat, rather shocked, in her comfortable living room with its contemporary trappings, I told my sister I doubted he’d ever written a letter in his life.
“My dear Ruthie,” it began. And then, quite unexpectedly, she handed the letter to me to read.
“Are you sure?” I glanced at the scrawled handwriting. She said she was, and I saw why—her eyes were already filling with tears. “Aw, sister . . .”
“I’m nervous—no telling what he’s written.”
Words can hurt. I knew this.
She motioned for me to read it silently. “Please, Tilly,” she pleaded, and I knew then she must be worried it related somehow to Will Kauffman.
I’m feeling some better, and I wanted you and Tilly to know. I’ve even started a woodworking project—making rocking horses for our Kinner—starting with Sammy and Johanna next door. How about that?
Something else, I’ve agreed to have pacemaker surgery in a few weeks, and I’m asking for your prayers. Jah, I’m uneasy, even though the doctor says it’s routine and he’s done hundreds of these implants.
Your brother Melvin paid me a visit here lately. I was mighty surprised to hear that Deacon Kauffman’s grandson is planning to move out to Ohio—Mount Hope, to be exact. I’m glad he’ll be on his way. You were a wise young woman to cut things off right quick, Ruthie—both times. I’m proud of you for having such good sense.
By the way, Josie’s holding her breath for another reunion, this one at Christmas. Will you and Tilly think about coming? And if ya do, bring Tilly’s Kris and my grand-twins with the interesting names. It would do this old heart mighty good.
Well, it’s been a long time coming, but I honestly believe you and Tilly are better off living out there amongst the Englischers—together, like sisters should be.
I hope you’ll write back. Either way, you’ll be hearing from me. I need to practice my penmanship, for one thing!
Oh, and give my first daughter a greeting, will ya? Tilly’s one very special young woman, for sure.
Your Daed,
Lester Lantz
“What is it?” Ruthie asked, seeing me brush back tears.
“Who would have thought he could write like this?” I handed the letter to her. “There’s nothing to fret about, and every reason to smile.”
“Truly?”
“Read it and rejoice.” I got up and walked to her kitchen, where the teapot was simmering, and I went to stand below the beautiful wall hanging Ruthie had made years before. I stared at it and thought of Daed—yes, my father. So very grateful for Ruthie’s urging us home.
Tilly’s one very special young woman, Daed had written. Something I’d never expected to hear from his lips, nor see in print.
“Thank you, Lord,” I whispered. “Thanks for the trials that make me stronger.”
On Thanksgiving Day afternoon, once Kris’s parents said their loving good-byes, Kris, the girls, and I began making plans to go to Lancaster County for Christmas.
“Can we milk the cows?” Tavani asked, big-eyed.
“I don’t want to do that . . . I want to swing on the rope in the hayloft!” Jenya declared.
Kris chuckled at his girls’ cheer. “Since we’re naming off our wishes, I’ll admit that I’m looking forward to having my first taste of mincemeat pie.” He was grinning.
“You don’t have to leave home for that, hon,” I said, promising to make the delicious dessert soon.
Tavani babbled about learning to talk Pennsylvania Dutch “chust maybe.” The twins giggled and decided which stuffed animals to take along.
“Are you sure about this?” I asked, studying Kris.
“Isn’t it about time we blended with your Plain family?” He winked. “But I might need a pair of suspenders before we go—and I could sprout a beard, too. I’d like to fit in.”
I tossed the dish towel at him . . . then, laughing, found my way into his loving embrace.
Author’s Note
The Conestoga River captured my attention one October afternoon two years ago—it seemed to call to my heart. I was preparing for the final shoot of the long day, the last segment of my documentary, “Glimpses of Lancaster County with Beverly Lewis” (available via my website, www.beverlylewis.com, or on YouTube). We were set up right near the historic Hunsecker’s Mill Bridge, and I had walked down the grassy slope to review what I’d planned to say, inching my way toward the wide river. There, as I stared at the rushing water, Tilly’s story presented itself to me, as did little Anna’s drowning. In that moment, I knew I had to write The River, with all of its heartrending yet redemptive threads.
I will long remember the surge of emotions, the power of the story. And the way the river seemed to demand top billing in my lineup of Eden Valley characters.
There were many wonderful people who assisted me during the development of this novel, including my own dear father, who, as he always did, prayed daily for its themes to touch readers’ hearts. Then, in the wee hours of January 9, 2014, he slipped peacefully away to join the Church Triumphant. Even though it may not be theologically correct, I like to think of Dad, my great encourager, looking over my shoulder as I wrote The River.
I also wish to offer my enduring gratitude to David Horton and Rochelle Glöege, for their expert editorial work and friendship; Dave Lewis, for reading the first manuscript, for making dinner when I was on deadline, and for fully understanding the challenging life of a writer; Martha Nelson, for listening to the story lines with cheerful support; Barbara Birch and Julie Garcia, for early chapter readings; Jenya and Tavani, for lending their beautiful names; Roswell and Sandra Flower, Alice Henderson, Donna DeFor, Jim and Ann Parrish, Dave and Janet Buchwalter, Aleta Hirschberg, Iris Jones, Judy Verhage; Dale, Barbara, and Elizabeth Birch, and many other prayer partners, including Facebook friends, for answering the call of intercession; Hank and Ruth Hershberger, for accurate translation and spelling of Deitsch; Barbara Birch, for final proofreading; Don Kraybill, for his proficient exploration into Old Order Amish culture; and last but never least, my anonymous Amish and Mennonite research assistants, for their joyful willingness to be “on call.”
And finally, a couple of notes in closing: Abner Mast’s jovial personality is modeled after my own cheerful uncle Fred Jones, though the beard is all Abner’s! Lastly, the Strasburg Creamery was not in existence in the early 1970s, when Ruth was being courted by Will Kauffman; however, because I am so very fond of this quaint littl
e country store, I’ve chosen to take a slight liberty for this story and include it.
Soli Deo Gloria!
Beverly Lewis, born in the heart of Pennsylvania Dutch country, is the New York Times bestselling author of more than ninety books. Her stories have been published in eleven languages worldwide. A keen interest in her mother’s Plain heritage has inspired Beverly to write many Amish-related novels, beginning with The Shunning, which has sold more than one million copies and was made into an Original Hallmark Channel movie. In 2007 The Brethren was honored with a Christy Award.
Beverly has been interviewed by both national and international media, including Time magazine, the Associated Press, and the BBC. She lives with her husband, David, in Colorado.
Visit her website at www.beverlylewis.com or www.facebook.com/officialbeverlylewis for more information.
Other Books by Beverly Lewis
* * *
The River
HOME TO HICKORY HOLLOW
The Fiddler
The Bridesmaid
The Guardian
The Secret Keeper
The Last Bride
THE ROSE TRILOGY
The Thorn • The Judgment • The Mercy
ABRAM’S DAUGHTERS
The Covenant • The Betrayal • The Sacrifice
The Prodigal • The Revelation
THE HERITAGE OF LANCASTER COUNTY
The Shunning • The Confession • The Reckoning
ANNIE’S PEOPLE
The Preacher’s Daughter • The Englisher • The Brethren
THE COURTSHIP OF NELLIE FISHER
The Parting • The Forbidden • The Longing
SEASONS OF GRACE
The Secret • The Missing • The Telling
The Postcard • The Crossroad
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