Her Secret Amish Child

by Cheryl Williford

  “You’ll need someone to come get you.” She pointed at the crumpled machine on the ground. “It looks like that Englischer contraption of yours is ruined.” Fredrik had always been a risk taker, never considering the cost to himself or those around him. She knew Benuel was equally to blame for the accident, but it would be just like Fredrik to blame someone else for his share of the mishap.

  Fredrik’s brows furrowed as he shoved his hand though his disheveled hair. He dropped his arm with a grimace. “That Englischer contraption, as you call it, was an expensive scooter. I saved for a year. Bought it less than an hour ago.”

  Lizbeth swallowed hard. She ran her hands down her arms, her nerves sending tremors through her body, no doubt her reaction to their near miss.

  She twisted back toward the scooter. She knew all about men’s “big boy” toys, thanks to her Amish daed, who prized all things with wheels and gears. This man was cut from similar cloth, but he lacked her father’s love of familye and commitment to this small community. No doubt he had once again set aside his Amish beliefs to fulfill some foolhardy need for speed.

  “I was on my way to the insurance company,” he grunted. He turned his broad back on her.

  She watched him glance down the empty road shimmering with watery mirages.

  He spoke to the sultry air around him. “I thought...what can happen? The insurance office is only a few blocks down the road. What a bensel I am.”

  “It’s not insured then?” She stepped back, waited for his reply while gulping down a knot the size of her fist.

  He turned back to her, his brow furrowed. “Nee, not insured.”

  * * *

  Fredrik Lapp didn’t know whether to laugh or cry at his own stupidity, not that he wasn’t used to making rash decisions that managed to put him in a bad light. He should have made a call from the bike shop, gotten the scooter insured before he left the showroom. But no, he didn’t want to be late for work and disappoint Mose Fischer, his boss, who firmly believed in punctuality. And look what a mess I’m in now.

  With a glance, he calculated the damage to the scooter. The front tire looked flat, the frame slightly bent, the fender folded back where it had hit the metal street pole. No telling what kind of scratches dug into the underside of the machine when it hit the ground.

  He groaned aloud, but not from pain. The fancy front light he’d been so excited about, and special ordered, now hung suspended in the air by a single black wire. He’d be out hundreds of dollars for restoration and the scooter’s odometer didn’t read a mile.

  He looked over at the ginger-haired boy with freckles across his button nose and instantly felt contrite, regretting his immature, self-centered thoughts. The boy looked to be young, maybe five or six. Fredrik’s heart flip-flopped, the rhythm of the beat kicking up as he realized he might have killed the kinner with his carelessness. But the boy had been at fault, too. He should have been holding his mother’s hand.

  The boy’s mother, a tall willowy woman dressed in mourning black, stood next to the child, her protective arm around her son’s thin shoulders. She’s protecting him from me. He silently asked Gott for forgiveness. He could have taken a life.

  The woman’s arched brow told him she didn’t believe she and her son had caused the accident, even though she hadn’t uttered a single word of accusation toward him. She didn’t have to. He knew he’d also made an error in judgment and driven too fast.

  Instead of enjoying the exhilaration of speed, he should have been watching the traffic more closely, paying attention to what he was doing. This was no golf cart or three-wheeled bike. He had no experience on a scooter. No idea how to control the metal machine.

  Perhaps this was Gott’s punishment for him buying such a fancy scooter in the first place. The idea of fast, dependable transportation had made all the sense in the world while looking at the showroom’s catalog a year ago. “I’m sorry. I don’t know your name,” he said, glancing at the widow.

  “Mullet. Lizbeth Mullet. And this is Benuel.” She nodded briskly, her thin fingers nervously rubbing the side of her son’s neck.

  Her crooked kapp had bobbed on her blond head when she nodded. There were laugh lines etched in her cheeks, but no smile appeared today. He realized she looked slightly familiar, like someone he should know, but he couldn’t place her. A lot of snowbirds and Plain people visited the tourist town of Pinecraft, even during the summer months, but she could easily be someone he’d been introduced to at church or met at work.

  He glanced over at the fidgeting, serious-faced child and then back to the woman. Sweat curled the fine hairs at the nape of her neck.

  Not sure what to do, he extended his hand to her. “My name’s Fredrik Lapp. I hope I didn’t scare you too much.” At first he thought she would ignore his gesture, but then her hand was placed in his. It was soft and looked fragile, even though she wasn’t a diminutive woman and stood nearly as tall as him. He felt the power of her grasp, the hidden strength in her, but she was trembling and he was to blame.

  An arrow of pain shot through his shoulder and he winced. As she held his gaze, one perfectly arched brow lifted. She inspected his face with probing eyes the color of his mamm’s blue-violet periwinkles. A pretty woman, he realized. Someone who would fit fine on his list of women to step out with—if he seriously decided to look for a fraa.

  Her frown deepened. “Are you certain-sure you’re fine?” she asked. “You’ve gone all washed out. Perhaps you should go to the hospital, be checked by an Englisch doctor. I’ve heard a person can have brain damage and not know it until it’s too late.”

  “Nee, it wasn’t my head that hit,” he said with a laugh and rubbed his shoulder like a child might. “The scooter’s front bumper took the impact. I just got the wind knocked out of me when I landed.”

  “Even so, shouldn’t the police be called? It was an accident, and they’ll want you to make a report, or do whatever is required.”

  Fredrik considered her words. He probably should, even though calling would probably cost him a traffic ticket. “Ya, you’re right. I’ll call them now.” He gestured toward a café’s front door and motioned her forward. “Come in with me. It’s too hot to be standing on the sidewalk. I don’t know about you, but a glass of sweet tea sure sounds gut to me.”

  Chapter Two

  Inside, the café pulsed with life. The lunch crowd of local Amish and Mennonite folks, with some summer tourists sprinkled in, blended into a loud, but happy, sea of faces.

  Still shaking, Lizbeth followed a waitress in and ushered Benuel into the small booth upholstered in cheap red leather. Fredrik flopped down across from them a few moments later, making himself comfortable as he ordered a glass of tea and one of the cook’s famous sweet rolls.

  “What would you two like? Sweet tea, a Coke?”

  “We’ll have ice water, danki,” she answered, watching Fredrik’s face. She searched for and found the bump on his nose. She’d caused the break when she’d thrown a basketball at him years ago.

  She relaxed. He still didn’t seem to recognize her, but there was no reason he would. She’d been dishwater blond as a teen, and full of life. Nothing like the rake-thin, ordinary, mouse-blond woman she’d become, with her unremarkable face that drew no second glances.

  “Can I have Coke?” Benuel blurted out.

  She gave her son a warning look. He shouldn’t be asking for treats. Not after running off. Unsure, she fought an inner battle, trying to decide whether to be hard on the troubled child and not knowing when to hold firm to her convictions. She hadn’t been allowed to discipline Benuel in any way while her husband was alive. He or his mother always stepped in, took control of the boy. Punished him for her mistakes.

  Benuel’s hopeful expression vanished. His forehead took on a sulky frown. She reached to pull him closer, but he pushed away with a grunt
of annoyance.

  “My treat,” Fredrik offered.

  She looked across the table at Fredrik. His grin was easygoing, relaxed. “Danki, but nee. He has to learn to obey.”

  Fredrik made a face at the boy, his nose crinkling up in a comical way. Benuel giggled slightly and then ducked his head. Silence had been a firm rule enforced by Jonah and his parents back in Ohio. Children should be seen and seldom heard. Especially her child.

  Lizbeth watched the all-too-familiar lift of Fredrik’s brow, the way his lips curved as he laughed at Benuel’s reaction to his teasing. His smile revealed a tiny chip on his front tooth. He’d fallen his last summer in Pinecraft. He’d chased her, trying to get his straw hat from her hand, and slipped on wet stones.

  “How about some pancakes with strawberries? They’re my favorite. Come on, Mamm. Let the boy enjoy life.”

  He had no idea the inner conflict she endured, the indecisiveness she fought regarding Benuel’s discipline. Her reply came out harsher than she intended. “I am letting the boy enjoy life. Benuel’s being disciplined for running away and can’t have sweets right now. He’ll be having plain food for the rest of the day as his punishment.”

  The bell over the café door rang. Lizbeth glanced over and then jumped up, rushing into her father’s waiting arms.

  “I’ve been looking all over for you, girl,” John Schwarts scolded, but gave his daughter another tight hug that spoke of his love for her. “You should have waited at the church. I told you I’d be a bit late.”

  “I’m sorry, Daed. It got so hot. We came in for a quick cold drink of water.” She looked at Fredrik over her father’s shoulder and saw a glimmer of recognition in his eyes. He finally knew who she was. Something to worry about later, she thought, lowering her gaze.

  Her cheek nuzzled against her father’s barrowed chest as she listened to the sound of him breathing, the beat of his heart. It had been five long years since she’d left the safety of his arms. It was good to be home.

  “It’s no matter,” he responded, as he slid in beside Fredrik. “So, what are you doing here? I thought Mose told me you were working early today.”

  Fredrik had the decency to look a little embarrassed. He glanced over at Lizbeth.

  She gently shook her head, praying he wouldn’t say anything about their near accident. She already had Fredrik thinking she was a bad mamm. She didn’t need her daed thinking it, too.

  “I was...ah...am working early today. I just thought I’d stop and get a cold glass of tea first,” Fredrik stammered, pulling his summer hat off and setting it on his lap. “Lizbeth was kind enough to share a booth with me. It’s pretty busy in here.”

  The waitress hurried over and interrupted the men’s chatter. Lizbeth took a deep, calming breath. Her daed looked good. His new wife, Ulla, must have been taking fine care of him.

  John smiled his grandson’s way. “So this is Benuel. How are you, soh?”

  Benuel frowned and then looked away, all the while tapping his fingers on the table. “I’m not allowed to speak to strangers,” he muttered.

  Lizbeth patted her daed’s hand. “He’ll warm up. It’ll just take him a while.”

  “Ya, sure. I understand. You were always a bit standoffish with strangers at his age. We’ll get to know each other at the chicken farm, won’t we, Benuel?”

  Benuel ducked his head, his ginger-colored hair falling in his eyes as he nodded slightly.

  Fredrik spoke up, ending the awkward moment. “You going to work at the church tomorrow, John?”

  “Certain-sure, I am. That roof’s leaking like a sieve when it rains.”

  Lizbeth took the glass of water handed to her by the waitress, slid Benuel’s water to him and watched her father’s face light up as he talked about future church repairs with Fredrik.

  It was so good to be back home. Her daed had changed very little. Oh, he’d gotten some grayer, a bit more round at the middle, but he looked happy.

  Benuel kicked her leg under the table. She flinched. “Drink your water, and keep your legs under you,” she instructed, warning him with her eyes.

  “He’s as fidgety as those new roosters I bought.” John laughed.

  Lizbeth tried to act normal. Her father didn’t understand, didn’t know about Benuel’s medical issues yet. She realized she’d have to tell him about the boy’s ADHD issues, but now wasn’t the time, not with Fredrik Lapp sitting there, listening to every word said. “He’s a hyper young man, that’s for sure,” she said and pushed Benuel’s water closer to him. She hoped she’d never have to tell her daed about the things she and the boy had seen and been through while in Ohio.

  Benuel swished his hand across the table, knocking over the water glass. He smirked Lizbeth’s way, rebellion written across his young face. “I’m sorry,” he said, righting the glass as cold water and chips of ice streamed into her lap.

  * * *

  Fredrik watched Lizbeth’s face redden, saw the way her hands shook as she grabbed napkins to sop up the spill. He still couldn’t believe this woman was the Little Lizzy he’d grown up with. She’d changed. And here she was, back in town, with a rowdy little boy. Her son had knocked over the glass on purpose. Fredrik was sure of it, and he could tell John knew it, too. The older man’s forehead was creased into an irritated scowl. Turning his head, he looked at the kinner closely. Benuel’s expression had become calm again, almost serene. As if nothing had happened.

  That boy needed a talking-to, but Fredrik could tell by the look on Lizbeth’s face that she wasn’t going to discipline him in front of his grandfather the first time they met. She’d leave it for another time. Poor woman looked exhausted and frazzled from her long trip home.

  Fredrik grabbed the napkin under his water and helped Lizbeth clean up the mess. “Kids always seem to manage to spill their water,” he reassured her with a smile.

  “Ya,” she muttered, picking up the last of the ice cubes scattered across the table. Her face still flushed with embarrassment. “Danki, Fredrik.”

  She looked at her father, her fingers twisting the wet napkin in her hand.

  Fredrik watched the tiny blue vein in her neck pulse with tension.

  “Benuel is often overactive, Daed,” she said, glancing at Benuel squirming in his seat. “But he’s a gut boy.”

  “Ya, I know he is,” John said, nodding. His smile was that of a patient grandfather who understood the ways of rambunctious boys.

  Lizbeth visibly relaxed, her lips turning up at the ends. “I’m so glad to be home. Benuel needs a strong man like you in his life.”

  “Ya, well. You’ve got the whole town of Pinecraft at your disposal, dochder. We’ll all pitch in. You’re not alone.”

  Tears glistened in her eyes as she put her arm around her son and pulled him close. “I’m so glad, Daed. Change can be hard for Benuel. All he’s ever known is the farm. Life’s been difficult for him.”

  John smiled gently. His big calloused hand patted hers. “I’ll go and grab your bag from the church. You can wait here until I get back.” She handed a ticket to John and he nodded at Fredrik. “Don’t be too late to work,” he said with a smile.

  Fredrik shook John’s hand. “I’ll see you tomorrow at the church. Make sure you wear your loose pants. The ladies are cooking for us.”

  John nodded. “I’ll be there.” And he walked to the door.

  Fredrik turned back to Lizbeth and saw a slight smile on her face. “It’s been years, and I know I’ve changed,” she said, “but I’m assuming you’ve remembered me by now, Fredrik. I’m Little Lizzy, Saul’s schweschder.”

  Fredrik leaned toward her with a grin. “Of course I know who you are. I realized it as soon as you greeted your daed. Little Lizzy. I can’t believe it. I’d heard you had married and had moved away while I was in Lancaster. Why didn’t you tell me who y
ou were as soon as we met?”

  She shrugged her shoulders. “It didn’t seem important. And I wanted to see how long it would take for you to remember. I knew it was you the minute I saw that ginger hair of yours and your broken nose.”

  He trailed his finger down the bridge, to the almost invisible bump, thinking of that day so many years ago. “Ya, and I remember who broke that nose. You had a mean pitching arm back then.”

  “I still do.”

  Fredrik glanced up and saw one of Sarasota’s finest walk through the café door, the gun on his hip standing out in the crowd of Plain people and tourists. “The police officer is here. I’ve got to go. It was good to see you again, Lizbeth.” He stood and pulled her to his side in a hug, his arm sliding around her slim waist.

  Then he let her go and walked off, peeking over his shoulder at her one last time. She’d been the picture of calm since her father arrived. Her daed was what she needed. A strong man to lean on.

  He walked toward the police officer, his heartbeat kicking up. He’d leave Lizbeth and the boy out of this situation. She had enough on her plate. Going by the shake of her head earlier, she wouldn’t want to talk to the police right now anyway, not when her father could return at any moment. Could she have thought Benuel was at fault for the accident? If she did, she was mistaken. He knew he was to blame and would make sure the police knew it, too.

  Chapter Three

  The next morning, Ulla Schwarts glanced at the quilt top Lizbeth had been working on since sunrise, and smiled. “You’ve only been home a day and that top is almost finished.” Bent at the waist, she swished a sudsy dishcloth across the big wooden farm table, reaching for and finding a spot of dried plum jelly that needed scrubbing. “You sew pretty fast.”

  “Ya, it came together quickly,” Lizbeth agreed, looking up from her breakfast, over to her father and then his wife of one month. She smiled as the gray-haired woman wiped sweat from her forehead with the back of her hand, and then went back to cleaning the big wooden table positioned in the middle of her mamm’s well-loved kitchen.