A Simple Winter: A Seasons of Lancaster Novel

by Rosalind Lauer

  SEVEN

  t was Sunday night, and Remy couldn’t sleep. She flipped over and faced the numbers that glowed blue on the nightstand beside her bed: 1:37.

  Monday morning, actually.

  She was tired, having stayed up late last night talking with Dakota about anything and everything, and yet sleep eluded her.

  She threw back the covers, grabbed her laptop, and burrowed into the corner of the sofa. No stranger to insomnia, she knew that it was better to get up and do something than to beat yourself up in bed. She logged on to the Internet, skimmed the headlines, then closed her eyes with a groan.

  She was in no mood to be sucked into the Internet vortex, the array of articles built on varying degrees of truth and writing skill. The nasty comments from readers, the meaningless postings from friends she barely knew—it was a cold, impersonal lifeline after her weekend with Dakota, chock-full of shopping and cooking and animated conversation. Not to mention running into Adam King at the Saturday market.

  What a pleasure it had been to see him, looking healthy and whole less than a year after his family tragedy. In his dark Amish attire, he had been attractive in that American Gothic way. With his long dark hair and old-fashioned clothes, Adam reminded her of Heathcliff in Wuthering Heights, although unlike the hero of the Brontë classic, Adam’s deep brown eyes held compassion and insight. She’d been touched that he remembered small details about her. Yes, Adam King was a man with backbone, someone who cared about people.

  With a small burst of interest, she did a search for King Family Dairy and found that the only reference was to their booth at the Reading Terminal Market. Hmm.

  Next she tried to find information about how his family was doing—especially the little boy, Simon, who had witnessed his parents’ murders. There had been plenty of coverage in the weeks after the tragic event, but the story had been dropped eight months ago, with a brief report from a Lancaster TV affiliate saying that the murders were still unsolved.

  How had the King family recovered over the last year? Remy tried to imagine a line of Amish boys and girls who resembled Adam as she set her laptop on the table and walked purposefully to the window. Despite the cultural differences, grief and sorrow were a universal response to losing someone you loved, and it must have rocked their world to lose both parents. Did they know who had committed the heinous crime? What if someone in the community had murdered Mr. and Mrs. King? What if it was someone Adam knew?

  Outside, wind stirred the bare branches of the trees that lined the street. These were the dreary days of winter, the merry twinkle of Christmas lights stripped away to reveal skeletons of trees and walkways riddled with ice hazards. Looking down toward Logan Square, she saw a slice of the lit fountain, and only two cars moving slowly through the traffic circle. Street lamps cast pools of light along the pavements, pin dots of loneliness. It was small comfort to live in a majestic, sophisticated place when you had no one to share it with.

  In that, she envied Adam King, with his ten siblings. His life was probably crazy-hectic at times, but with so much family around, loneliness was an impossibility.

  She pressed her forehead to the cool glass, stretching to look west, toward the river. Somewhere, fifty or so miles beyond Philadelphia’s buildings and lights, Adam’s family was at home in Lancaster County. Probably asleep. Probably bundled under blankets in this cold.

  If only she knew more about them. And she wasn’t the only person who was curious; she suspected a lot of people would like to know how the King family was doing.

  The idea glimmered in her mind like a twinkling gem.

  A follow-up on the King family would make a good story … a great story for the Post. A look at how the family was faring a year after the eleven siblings had lost their parents. Considering the thorough coverage the paper had done on the tragic incident, Remy suspected that the editors would love her idea. She opened a file on her computer and started copying in scattered information about last winter’s murders.

  She glanced at the time on the computer screen. The weekly editorial meeting was just hours away. If she pulled together some quick facts now, she could pitch the story today.

  It was hard to sit still and listen while the other editors discussed the status of their current articles. Remy wiggled her toes inside her boots, eager to share her pitch, impatient with Ed Green, who seemed to be rambling on about the unscrupulous heating contractor he’d been trying to expose.

  “A timely story, with these freezing temperatures,” Arlene said, arching a dark brow. “Do we have enough to run it this week?”

  When Ed shrugged, Miles Wister jumped in. “We have to run with it now, Ed, not in the spring. And we need to wrap up this meeting, as we all have places to be,” Miles said without looking up from his notepad. As managing editor, Miles’s job was to keep things moving, and Remy appreciated his taut but judicious demeanor.

  “I have a few more leads,” Ed said.

  “Great. Do it,” Arlene said brusquely. The paper’s editor in chief did not waste words. Rumor had it her early colleagues had dubbed her “Ms. Brevity.”

  “Next item …” Miles glanced up at the editors. “New stories.”

  Yasmina nudged her, and Remy’s hand slid across her folder. Yasmina, the only other junior assistant in the office, had “adored” Remy’s idea when they’d discussed it this morning, and though Remy was determined to make her pitch, she didn’t want to go first.

  “There’s been a sighting of Evan Canby, the boy who went missing six months ago,” Carla Willis suggested. “He was spotted at Disney World with a woman who resembled his birth mother.”

  Arlene folded her arms over the sizable bulk of her midriff. “See what you can find out.”

  “Preferably without a trip to Orlando,” added Miles.

  Remy’s palm flattened on the folder as she waited a moment, then sprang to the attack.

  “How about a look at the aftermath of the Amish murders? Esther and Levi King, the Lancaster County couple killed while riding in their buggy.” Remy worked to keep her voice steady. She didn’t want to sound like a novice, and yet she felt the power in her words. This was a solid story pitch. “I’d like to follow up on the family—the eleven children left behind—and check on the progress of the homicide investigation.”

  “The Amish murders …” Arlene’s dark brows pulled together. “Tell me more.”

  As if in unison, the other reporters bowed their heads to consult their BlackBerrys. This was a good sign.

  Remy pushed her typed pitch across the table to Arlene, who lifted the bejeweled reading glasses that hung around her neck.

  “Was that case ever solved?” Miles asked.

  “No. They never found the killer. The Post followed the story for a few months, until the investigation fizzled without any strong leads.”

  “I covered that story.” Alfonzo Nunez stroked the soul patch on his chin as he squinted at the small screen in his palm. “There was some talk of a bear attack. Also rumors that the little boy in the buggy went berserk. And the Amish don’t make the best witnesses. Apparently they don’t believe in the justice system.”

  “Hmm.” Arlene tugged on one earlobe. “I like that one, too. See what you can find on it,” she told Remy. “And make sure your sources are solid. It would be nice to include an interview with the family.”

  Everyone in the room knew that in Arlene-speak, “nice” meant “necessary” and “Don’t come back until you’ve at least tried it.” But that didn’t frighten Remy. She had an “in” with the family. And now, she had a professional reason to see Adam King again. The logic may have been as twisted as a pretzel, and yet she had a good feeling about this story. Finally, she had something to work toward, something to look forward to.

  “I’ll start working on it today,” Remy said. She pretended to jot a note in her folder, but the tactic was really a diversion to keep herself from jumping up and bursting into a happy dance.

  As the meeting brok
e up, Yasmina grabbed Remy’s wrist and shook it. “Look at you, pitching a first-rate story. This is going to be amazing, girl!”

  “I hope so,” Remy said, shooting a glance over to be sure that Arlene and Miles had left the conference room. “I think so. It has the making of a good article, right?”

  “A great article. Pulitzer material.”

  “Well, let’s not go too crazy,” Remy said as they moved into the newsroom together. The room, dubbed the “ice cube tray” because of the configurations of work spaces, eight cubicles in two rows, thrummed with chatter and ringing phones.

  Back in her cubicle, she immediately spotted a pink phone message slip placed squarely atop the proofs on her desk.

  “Your father wants to see you … before noon.” The message was inked in his secretary Viola’s reliable penmanship.

  Remy crumbled the note into one hand, wishing she could find a job that didn’t put her under her father’s thumb. Although everyone at the paper knew she was Herb’s daughter, she tried to be discreet about it and stayed away from his office during business hours. But today, the big boss had summoned her. She turned down the hallway containing the executive offices. Here the carpeting was plusher, the air colder. The brass nameplates on the doors were polished to a shine.

  Viola looked up from her desk. “What took you so long? I thought he was going to have a cow.”

  “I was in a meeting.”

  “Oh, don’t tell him that.” Viola rolled her eyes. “You can’t top your father.”

  No one knew that as well as Remy.

  “He’s on with Mr. Gefeller in sales, but you can go in.”

  Remy felt that strange mixture of intimidation and longing as she entered the office. A male retreat designed to resemble a cross between a cigar bar and a paneled library, Herb’s office sat empty much of the time, as the demands of his work required him to be elsewhere.

  Phone pressed to his ear, Herb shot her a look, then nodded for her to sit.

  Remy sank onto the leather sofa as he rolled an unlit cigar between his fingers and argued about numbers with the man on the phone. Was it any wonder that she felt as if he didn’t have time for her in his life?

  Glancing down at the design of the sculpted carpet, she recalled a time when she had rolled on the rug of her father’s office, and once or twice Herb had gotten down on the rug beside her. In the months just after her mother died, Herb had indulged her, letting her miss school to be with him. The huge, dark area under his keyhole desk was her playhouse, a place to curl up and read a book, nap, or create stories about what the families of paper clips did together after the lights went out in the office each night.

  How precious that time was.

  No one had seemed in a hurry for her to grow up. Grades were never mentioned, and for that interlude she had been the only family her father needed.

  As Herb prattled on, she imagined herself under his desk, holed up with a doll or favorite stuffed animal—Bunny. The white rabbit was actually a hand puppet, so its body was slim and very huggable. She had slept with her every night, and though her fake fur had worn thin and the ribbon around her neck faded from blue to a pale gray, Remy had loved Bunny unconditionally.

  Every night, before falling asleep, she and Bunny recited the prayer her mother had taught her. “Now I lay me down to sleep, I pray the Lord my soul to keep …”

  She grabbed at the lapels of her blazer, equally pleased and disarmed by the memory.

  “Herb, what happened to Bunny?” she asked the minute he was off the phone.

  “Bunny.” He frowned, his lips thinning as he tucked the cigar between them. “Who in the world is that? I can’t keep track of all your friends.”

  “Don’t you remember? Bunny was my favorite stuffed animal, the one I slept with every night.”

  “A stuffed animal? How could I forget that?” His voice was thick with his usual sarcasm. “Would you look at the time?” He rose from his chair and went to the closet behind the door.

  But Remy wasn’t backing down. “Seriously, what do you think happened to Bunny?”

  He slid his suit jacket from its hanger. “I don’t know. Maybe the housekeeper got rid of it. Or was it Sonja? She was such a clean freak. I know she put it through the wash at least once.”

  Herb’s second wife Sonja had purged their lives of so many things, though Remy liked to think the woman had pushed forward with good intentions.

  “Anyway, I have a new business associate I’d like you to meet: Max Menkowitz. He’s putting up some money for a new enterprise of mine, bringing his son to Philadelphia to handle the whole thing, and the son is about your age.”

  Remy fell back on the sofa. “Herb, tell me you’re not setting me up on a blind date.”

  “Who said anything about a date? Max and Stuart are going to be partners with McCallister Inc., and I’d like you to be on their radar. You weren’t planning to fritter your time away on the newspaper forever, were you?”

  “I figured I’d stay until I mastered it, and there’s still a lot to learn in editorial,” Remy said. “I haven’t even gotten a byline yet.”

  Herb’s laugh came out as half roar, half bark. “Don’t worry about that. You know you’ll be well taken care of.”

  “I know you’ve got the money thing covered, Herb,” she said. If only her father could be half as attentive in other areas. When she tried to picture his heart, she imagined a small, shriveled organ. The heart of a Grinch.

  “So we’ll go to dinner one night next week,” he said, smoothing the lapels of his well-tailored jacket. “Just the four of us.”

  “Sure. It’ll be like one of those ‘date with Daddy’ dances. Only Stu won’t be dancing with his dad.”

  Herb laughed again as they stepped into the reception area. “Attagirl. I’m thrilled that you’ve inherited my cutting sarcasm. But maybe you should do something with your hair first.…”

  Remy shot a look at Viola, who shrugged.

  “What’s wrong with my hair?” Self-consciously Remy reached behind one ear for the thick reddish locks she wore long to keep them from curling into little-girl ringlets.

  “When was the last time you cut it? You could go to one of those salons … get a total makeover, like on TV. My treat.”

  “Herb!” Remy rolled her eyes.

  “In fact, a few phone calls and I might get you on that makeover show. Wouldn’t that be—”

  “Mr. McCallister, excuse me?” Viola reached for him, as if directing traffic from behind her desk. “I don’t butt in much, but I gotta say you are over the line.”

  “Really?” Herb shrugged then stuffed the cigar back into the corner of his mouth. “Fine. Leave your hair long, then. Just wear something nice, will you? No jeans.”

  The idea of a night out with Herb and his two cronies had as much appeal as a root canal, but if business was the way to her father’s heart, Remy was willing to give it her best shot.

  EIGHT

  wo dozen more Holsteins would nearly double our herd.…” Jonah shook his head, his dark eyes round with awe as he scanned the barn from end to end. Gray afternoon light seeped in through the open doors of the old wooden structure. “Where would we put them all?”

  “That’s a good point,” Adam said. “We would probably need to pour cement and build some new stanchions. From what I read we need more than sixty cows to turn a profit. It’s just an idea right now, nothing definite yet, but I wanted to see what you both thought.”

  “It sounds crazy to me.” Gabriel rested the shovel beside the bucket and looked from Jonah to Adam in disbelief. “How would we ever milk a herd like that?”

  “Milking machines, like the one at Uncle Nate’s farm. And Mark Zook’s. Plenty of Amish dairy farmers use them now. It would save us lots of time.”

  Gabe notched his hands over the top of the shovel’s handle and leaned on it. “I can hear Dat’s voice in my head, saying: ‘Just because all your friends jump from the roof of the barn doesn’t mean you
should do it, too.’ ”

  “It’s a way for the farm to grow,” Adam said, trying to keep his voice level. He had expected resistance from his brothers—logical objections—but he could not fight the memory of their father, who had clung to the old ways, even when certain types of change were permitted. “I’m still not sure about the cost, and there are other considerations.”

  “Like mucking out twenty-four more stalls.” Gabe adjusted his work gloves. At sixteen, Gabriel was the member of the King family who seemed to be most in tune with the cows. Although everyone save Sam and Katie helped with the milking, Gabe knew the names and personalities of all the cows, and he had a handle on who could be the most stubborn and who tended to wander off to the back fields. “And don’t forget, we’d have twenty-four more to feed,” Gabe added.

  “Right,” Adam agreed, realizing Gabriel, who had been close to Dat, was going to be a tough sell. “I’ve been wanting to go over the numbers with Mammi, see if we grow enough hay and alfalfa to sustain a larger herd.”

  “I know that last year we had a surplus of alfalfa, more than our cows could eat. We ended up selling it off.” Jonah tipped his hat back and scratched his chin thoughtfully. “It might just work.”

  “Nay.” Gabe’s face was sullen, his jaw set as he scraped at a clod of hay with the shovel. “The old ways are best. Dat wouldn’t want us turning into a fancy dairy farm.”

  “It’s not about being fancy,” Adam said, concerned that his younger brother misunderstood his motives for changing things. He was about to argue that they wouldn’t be violating the old ways, that the Ordnung permitted use of milking machines powered by diesel, when a soft noise outside the barn alerted him that a horse was approaching.

  “Must be the women arriving for the quilting,” he said. “We’ll talk about all this later, and the whole family will have a voice in the decision making.” That wasn’t the Amish way; usually the man of the house made important decisions, which the rest of the family were bound to accept. But Adam didn’t have Dat’s experience, and he didn’t think it right to hand decisions down to his siblings so close in age. Without a parent at the helm, they were an unusual family. Most Amish family traditions did not apply to a household run by the oldest son.