The Missing

by Beverly Lewis

  “Me too,” she said, eyeing him. Right now she didn’t care to make small talk. What she really wanted was to blurt out that she was seriously ill—get it all out in the open at last. But Dad was busy talking about his work and how famished he was.

  At her father’s urging, Heather joined him in ordering the full buffet, and her resolve to eat only fresh raw vegetables and fruit quickly disappeared.

  “It’s much too quiet at the house,” Dad said as they settled in at a table for two. “Besides that, Moe and Igor miss you.”

  “Aw, they’re such sweet little kitties,” she said. “Did you bring them along?”

  He shook his head. “No, and your mother wouldn’t be happy if she knew her beloved felines are winging it.” He poured more sugar into his coffee and stirred it. “I asked the neighbor to look in on them—feed and water them—while I’m away.”

  “That’s great, Dad. The cats like her.”

  He set down his spoon and picked up his knife and fork.“Well, eat up, kiddo. I’d say you could use it.” Her father took a bite of pork and sauerkraut, smiling at her as he chewed. It was obvious he had something on his mind. “I’ve been thinking a lot about this house. I don’t know when I’ve been more excited about anything.”

  “It’s all over your face, Dad.”

  “At first I thought it would take a few months to get the ball rolling, but I asked around, and it turns out there’s an Amish carpenter who can start right away.” He chuckled. “Guess even the downturn in the housing market has its silver lining.”He suggested they drive together to the home of the Amish carpenter he’d hired to construct the new place. “I want you to meet Josiah and his family. He’s touted as the best Amish builder in Lancaster County. . . . I saw several of his houses earlier today.”

  In spite of his drive from Virginia, her dad looked better rested than Heather remembered. “Everything’s falling into place so quickly,” he said.

  “Sounds like it.” She could hardly believe this was her dad talking—it wasn’t like him to be so impulsive.

  He reached inside his tan sports coat and pulled out a sketch of a floor plan. “It’s rough, but what do you think?” He passed it across the table to her. “Three bedrooms are enough, right?”

  She nodded, assuming he would use one as a home office, as he did at their present house. “Dad . . . you know I’ll be going back home to Virginia in the fall.” If all goes well.

  He frowned. “You’re working on your thesis, right?”

  “Well . . . not so much.”

  “I thought you came here for that—to get away from distractions.”

  “I’ve just lost some steam, that’s all.”

  Suddenly he looked worried. “Honey, what are you saying? You had such passion before.”

  She sighed, knowing this was lousy timing. She couldn’t possibly reveal her terrible news when he was so exuberant about the new property . . . and the house plans.

  “I’m just saying I won’t need my own space there, except when I come to visit.” She had to play down whatever he’d picked up on in her voice. Sometime soon—perhaps tomorrow—she would tell him about her enlightening appointment with the naturopath.

  She stared at her plate of chipped beef, potato salad, baked beans with brown sugar, and her tall glass of Coke. She’d certainly blown it at this meal. I’ll eat better after my cleansing program, she told herself.

  Her dad referred again to the Amish master carpenter. “Josiah Smucker has an amazing reputation here. And not only is he a carpenter, but he’s a preacher, too . . . though he makes his living building.”

  Smucker? Could this be Sally’s husband, or were there lots of Smuckers in the area?

  “Amish ministers aren’t paid a salary,” Dad explained—strangest thing she’d ever heard. Yet she was intrigued by her father’s seemingly avid interest in all things Amish.

  “What exactly does being a master carpenter entail?” she asked.

  “Josiah’s in charge of planning barn raisings and other local building projects. He’s had tons of experience, and he’s really great. I think you’ll agree soon enough that we’re lucky to have caught him and his crew at the perfect time.”

  “We’re lucky . . .” Heather was worried her dad was including her too much in all of this. And she found it hard to believe when he said the house could be built and ready to move into within about five weeks. Maybe less. “Sounds like Extreme Makeover: Home Edition,” she quipped.

  Her dad laughed and raised his coffee cup to her in a sort of toast. “It does sound incredible, but with the kind of teamwork Josiah has, he can raise a two-story barn in a day.”

  Their young Amish waitress returned to the table. “Will there be anything else this evening?” she asked before tallying up their order.

  “I think we’re fine.” Dad looked across the table, grinning.

  “Unless the young lady would care for more.”

  “Oh, I’ve had plenty.” She smiled up at the rosy-cheeked girl, who couldn’t be a day older than eighteen. “Thanks anyway.”

  Her dad also thanked the waitress and accepted the bill. They got up from the table—the scene of my latest dietary crime, thought Heather, recalling her discussion with LaVyrle.

  Weaving through the maze of tables and diners, she followed her father to the cashier’s table, noting the many Amish and Mennonite customers, as well as Plain waitresses, some with white netting prayer caps. As many trips as her family had made here throughout the years, she still was not completely accustomed to this somewhat foreign place nestled within the bounds of the contemporary real world. And now here was her dad, ready to put his job on hold to build a new house and start up a gentleman’s farm on former Amish land. It was hard to wrap her brain around that, but the past eighteen months had taught her the death of a spouse could alter a person’s thinking.

  Like the loss of a mother?

  Observing him pay for their meal, she felt as if she was seeing her father for the first time in a very long time. The prospect of building a house had definitely put a spring in his step. A man his age needed purpose in life, something to get him out of bed every morning. Supposing he kept it up, his successful career couldn’t be his only reason for living.

  As long as Dad doesn’t use the new house as a place to retreat from the world . . . like I am. . . .

  Together they walked through the parking lot, to their individual cars. Dad suggested they caravan over to Josiah’s. “I’ll lead the way,” he told her. “I’d like to get some of your ideas down on paper as soon as possible. I can only stay around for a few days.”

  Long enough for a serious father-daughter talk, she hoped.

  “Sounds like you know where you’re going.” She clicked the remote to unlock her car.

  He chuckled. “That I do. I’ve already visited Preacher Josiah at his farmhouse,” he admitted, opening her door.

  “Wow, Dad . . . aren’t you full of surprises.”

  Smiling, he touched her elbow. When she was inside, he closed the door and patted the window. “See you there, kiddo.”

  Kiddo . . .

  Thinking what her news might do to him made her depressed. And no amount of wishing could change the fact Heather was still somewhat skeptical about Dr. Marshall’s natural approach to healing. Is it too good to be true?

  chapter

  eleven

  There’s going to be a hen party next Wednesday morning,” Susan Kempf said as she took the reins in her all-black buggy.

  “We call our baking get-togethers back home Sisters Days or baking bees,” Lettie said. She was quite taken by the openness of Susan’s carriage. Not at all like our buggies back home.

  “I think you’d enjoy meeting my neighbors, ’specially May Jaberg. She helped me pick up the pieces . . . after Vernon died.” Susan went on to talk more about her “dear neighbor,” who was hosting next week’s work frolic. “May’s Amish-Mennonite, and the most nurturing woman you’ll ever meet. She has thr
ee adopted children, and a whole bunch of biological kids, too.”

  Adopted? The word tugged at Lettie’s heart.

  “We’ll be baking cookies and pies for her church’s bake-sale benefit.”

  Lettie was still deep in thought about May’s family. “How old are May’s adopted children?”

  “Oh, let’s see: The two older girls are in their twenties. I’m not sure about their son,” Susan said. “Believe me, Lettie—May would be ever so pleased to have you join us.”

  “Well, it would be nice, but I doubt I’ll be here that long,”Lettie said, though she did wonder whether she might catch a glimpse of May’s children there. The idea she could be very close to finding Samuel’s and her missing child gave her pause.

  Oh, dear Lord, could it be?

  Susan continued to sing the praises of her neighbor, and Lettie found the woman’s winning way quite infectious. Is meeting her the answer to my prayers?

  Except for some occasional prattle with Tracie Gordon in Kidron or the heartbreaking visit to Samuel Graber, Lettie had been cut off from any real fellowship since departing Bird-in Hand. Being with jovial Susan was ever so encouraging.

  “Would you happen to know how May and her husband went about adopting their children?” she asked somewhat apprehensively. “Was it through an agency . . . or a private adoption?”

  “You know, I never heard.” Susan glanced at her. “But as forthcoming as May is, she’d pro’bly be glad to talk about it.”

  “Ach no, I don’t need to be that nosy.” Though I’d love to know . . .

  “We can drop by right now, if you’d like.” Susan smiled.“Are you thinkin’ of adopting?”

  “No, no,” Lettie protested. “It’s just so interesting how families come together.” She felt bad, fudging on the truth to this good-natured woman.

  Susan mentioned several other families in their farm community who’d actually gone overseas to places like Romania and China to adopt children.

  “Amish couples?” Lettie asked, surprised.

  “Some, jah. Lots of Mennonite families especially have gone the route of foreign adoption.”

  As they rode, Lettie was aware of the sound of the carriage wheels click-clacking on the road, the occasional snort of the horse’s nostrils. Wonderful-gut sounds. Susan lovingly referred to the bay mare as “Molly.” Watching the horse’s head rise and fall with her rythmic movements, Lettie couldn’t help but enjoy herself in the front seat of the old carriage.

  They talked of the pleasant springtime weather, and Susan brought up May’s hobby of beekeeping. “Ach, Lettie, I’ve never seen anyone so pleased as May was last month when she received nearly four pounds of honeybees in the mail. They come in a wooden crate, ya know.”

  Lettie nodded. “Our neighbors back home are beekeepers, too. They sometimes share their raw honey with us.”

  “There’s nothing like it, is there?” Susan commented as they rode down the main street, toward the little motel where Lettie was lodging.

  Lettie quickly thought ahead to what she might say to the owner. She could not afford to lose the money she’d paid in advance for her room. No telling how much longer she’d have to be away—how much cash she would need to stay afloat.

  Feeling impolite for letting her mind drift, Lettie focused again on Susan, who continued to describe the many aspects of beekeeping: the queen cage, the worker bees, the new hive, and the building of honeycomb for a bee nursery. “May’s just so excited to watch the bees come back to the hive, all laden with pollen.” She sighed happily. “Seems to me, spring creeps right up on a person, ain’t so?”

  Lettie agreed. She’d experienced that while staying in Kidron last month, seeing the newly planted fields turn from brown to dazzling green, a sight she’d always enjoyed during this season. And the gold of daffodils and pink dogwood trees . . . and dozens of beautiful hummingbirds.

  “There’s nothin’ like a new honeycomb in a new hive to bring that home, seems to me,” Susan continued.

  Never having kept bees, Lettie could only listen. But the way Susan talked so warmly of her “bee-lovin’ neighbor”—and Lettie’s own curiosity about May’s adopted children—made her hope all the more she might be able to get her money refunded. She was so drawn to the idea of staying with Susan.

  “Is this here the place?” Susan asked as they approached the motel with window boxes filled with red and white petunias.

  “Jah, just park in the back.” Lettie was torn between pulling up stakes here to go to Susan’s house, and longing for her own house on Beechdale Road. But she’d already committed herself this far. Sure hope I’m makin’ the right choice.

  “You’ll be very comfortable at my home,” Susan said.

  True, but I can’t stay long, thought Lettie. She opened the buggy door and made her way to the motel entrance.

  “Nee—no, I wouldn’t think of startin’ on another house till the work’s done on yours.” Josiah Smucker was leaning over his wife’s kitchen table. Younger than Heather had expected—perhaps in his mid-thirties—Josiah was drawing a rough map of Heather’s father’s plot of land, taking into consideration the location of Mill Stream. He pointed out the creek to Heather but continued directing his conversation to her dad. “I can tell ya this, Mr. Nelson, I have no slackers on my crew. That’s how we get things done quickly. That, and I’ve got me a gut many workers, all doin’ their jobs at once.”

  “Please, call me Roan.”

  Josiah grinned, ran his hand through his thick brown hair, and accepted a tall glass of homemade lemonade from his darling pink-faced daughter. “Would ya like some, too?” the girl asked Heather next.

  “Sure, thanks,” Heather said.

  Her dad marked the area where three massive trees stood on the property. “You should know my daughter and I are tree huggers,” he told Josiah, winking at Heather. “Is it possible to preserve them?”

  Josiah nodded his head vigorously. “The way my men and I look at it, whatever the Lord sees fit to put on the land stays there.”

  Her dad nodded. “Wonderful.” He glanced at Heather, smiling. “My daughter and I will meet with the draftsman and go over the blueprints tomorrow. She’s staying at an Amish bed-and- breakfast close by . . . and I’ll try to get a room on Route 340 somewhere.”

  Josiah peered over his shoulder at his pretty wife, who stood at the sink, washing dishes. “Well, if that doesn’t work out, let us know. We have two spare rooms. So anytime you’re in town, Roan, just let us know.”

  Heather was again struck by the uncommon hospitality of these people. And because there had been no talk this evening of cost, she assumed her father had already discussed price and payment with this man who could raise a two-story barn in a single day, as well as preach a sermon to a houseful of Amish folk. It boggled her mind.

  Mom would never believe this!

  The thought of her mother and the courageous battle she’d fought and lost with cancer brought Heather’s thoughts back to the radical approach to eating LaVyrle had advocated. But first the hardest part—the ten-day lodge program down the road.

  Surely LaVyrle’s way would be easier than chemo and radiation. Anything else would have to be! She’d witnessed the conventional medical route firsthand and had no desire to go there. Marian Riehl, on the other hand, had been completely accommodating of Heather’s request this morning to steep some green tea for her in lieu of the usual coffee. And Heather had taken her food supplements in the bathroom upstairs before coming down for breakfast. Other than her slipup this evening, things had gone pretty well since yesterday’s appointment.

  So this is how best-laid plans go awry, she thought, once more realizing that the diet she was considering was going to take some remarkable willpower. Not to mention a fair amount of reprogramming. I’ll have to send out a memo. . . .

  Sighing, she was conscious again of her gaping waistband, surprised her dad hadn’t made more of her weight loss. He’s being polite . . . or he’s too caught up
in his new adventure.

  She cringed at the thought of laying her bad news on him—she felt distressed even trying to imagine such a conversation. But how long could she afford to wait on the recommendation LaVyrle had so wholeheartedly urged?

  Am I playing Russian roulette?

  Without any pleading whatsoever, Lettie was pleasantly surprised to receive a refund for the balance of her intended stay at the motel. “God bless you,” the kindly woman said after counting out the bills.

  Lettie thanked her and pushed the money into her purse, then headed for the parking lot. “It won’t take me but a few minutes to pack my things,” she told Susan as she hurried off to the room.

  When she’d double-checked the vanity and bathroom area for her personal items, she folded her clothes into the suitcase and zipped it shut. Before leaving, she placed several dollar bills on the desk as a tip for housekeeping, along with the room key.

  A small miracle, this, she thought, returning to the buggy.

  Susan agreed when Lettie mentioned it. “God has a way of directing our ev’ry step, I’ll say.”

  Even when we run away from home? She pondered her own decision again, what it meant to be absent in the midst of the busiest time of the year. Lambing season had always been so hard on Judah, and she breathed a prayer for strength for her hardworking husband even as the sound of Molly’s clip-clopping began to ease her nerves. She relaxed in the seat, traveling for at least a mile without speaking. It was odd, because Susan had been so talkative earlier.

  “You must be weary from the day,” Lettie said.

  “Not so much tired as nervous.” Susan pointed ahead to the tall house on the corner. “See a ways up there? For the past few weeks, every time I’ve made this turn, I’ve been pelted by either small stones or acorns. They just come flyin’ right into the carriage.”

  “What on earth?”

  Susan looked surprised. “You mean you don’t have this problem in Lancaster?”

  “Occasionally, but it’s not something we hear much about. There are more incidents of cars speeding round buggies and whatnot.”

  “Well, it happens too often here. In the summer and fall, the boys even throw rotten fruit, most often apples. And there are many thoughtless pranks, ’specially during the harvest. Plenty of troublesome things go on in October all over Ohio Amish country, I’m afraid.”