I studied the steady rising and falling of Susie’s, Aaron’s, Ella Mae’s, and Nancy’s shoulders as they sat next to one another, looking like stairsteps. Rachel and Levi sat at the end of the bench row. Their bereaved grandmother sat between Abe and Esther, and occasionally, she slumped in her chair. I held my breath, hoping she wouldn’t pass out or maybe even pass away in front of our eyes.
Amish funerals usually lasted about two and a half hours. I felt truly sorry for Grandma Zook. Then, when the minister began to direct his comments toward the teenagers gathered there, I began to feel sorry for Levi.
“My dear young people,” he said, “when you reach the age to think of joining the church, please do not put it off.” The words were accented with strong emotion, and I wondered if they would have an impact on Levi and his plans for the future.
Two long passages were read from the Bible. But no one said anything about Jacob Zook’s life. The thrust of the sermons was an appeal to the people to live godly, righteous lives. To prepare for death, as well.
Next, the first minister stood up and read a brief obituary. “Jacob’s memory is a keepsake—with that we cannot part. His soul is in God’s keeping. We have him in our hearts.”
There were no flowers at this funeral. No music, either. Someone read an Amish hymn, then all of us sitting in the living room went outside while the ministers arranged for the coffin to be placed on the front porch—the most convenient area for the final viewing.
Abe, Esther, Grandma Zook, and all the Zook children stood behind the open coffin as the long line of friends and relatives filed past. Some shed tears, but I didn’t hear any weeping. Not even from Jacob’s widow. It was surprising how matter-of-fact these dear friends were about embracing death.
I wondered if things would’ve been different if Susie had been the one lying in the pine box today. But it was Jacob’s time, the minister had said. Jacob’s.
When I stood in front of the coffin to say good-bye to Grandfather Zook, Susie left her family and tiptoed silently to stand beside me.
Gently, she slipped her small hand into mine and whispered, “Come one, come all, to the firefly ball. Dance with ’em, laugh with ’em. Run straight and tall.”
Through my tears, I saw Grandfather Zook’s body dressed in the traditional white—a special white burial vest and trousers. His white dress shirt was neatly pressed for the occasion.
I held in the sobs that threatened to burst out, remembering the feel of his cheek against my hand in the hospital, then my arms around him. I remembered the exuberant way he’d first read his poem to me, here on the front porch while he sat in his hickory rocker. And the way he’d brought the jar of fireflies to the hospital for his unconscious granddaughter.
“ ‘True light shines on us all,’ ” I whispered. “I’ll miss you, Grandfather.”
Susie let go of my hand and slipped back into line with her family. I walked to the driveway to stand with the rest of the mourners, waiting for the horse and buggy processional to the graveyard. I glanced over at a group of Amish teen boys preparing the hearse—a one-horse spring wagon with the seat pushed forward.
At last, the viewing line ended. The horses were hitched up to the many buggies parked in the side yard and along the Zooks’ lane. Levi was going to drive one of them since there wasn’t room in the family buggy for all the Zooks. So Rachel, Nancy, and Susie rode with Levi and me.
What a long procession it was. Susie sat close to me up front, sometimes leaning her head against my shoulder.
“How are you feeling?” I asked her.
“Not sick, just lonely.”
For Grandfather, I thought as I watched the stately line of horses and carriages slowly making their way down SummerHill Lane. A sobering sight.
“There’re about two hundred buggies in the caravan today,” Levi remarked, glancing at me. “It’ll take us about an hour. Hope you won’t be too tired.”
It was a thoughtful thing for him to say. After all, I was used to getting places fast in fancy cars. But today, the slowed pace allowed time for reflection. A nice change from the hustle-bustle of the modern world.
By the time we arrived at the Amish cemetery, the sun was high overhead. Susie and Rachel stood on either side of me as four pallbearers carried the coffin to the appointed sight. The hole in the earth was ready, and Susie reached for my hand, squeezing it hard as her grandfather’s coffin was lowered into the ground.
The pallbearers dug their shovels into the rich Pennsylvania soil. Clump. The sound of the dirt hitting the top of the coffin brought tears again to my eyes. Susie sniffled, and Rachel kept her hands tightly folded as she stared at the ground.
When the hole was half filled, one of the ministers read a hymn. Then another recited, “ ‘The Lord giveth; the Lord taketh away….’ ”
I glanced down at Susie, surprised to see an endearing smile on her angelic face. The Lord giveth.
How glad I was that the Lord had given her back—had answered my prayers. I wanted to sing for joy. I wanted to run around and shout God’s mercies to the mourners. But I didn’t want to embarrass Levi or Rachel, and I certainly didn’t want to give my spunky little friend any ideas. However, I must admit, I was mighty thankful. God was good!
Chapter
19
Susie and I eventually did go chasing fireflies again. Levi and Rachel got in on the fun, too. We even taught them to say the poem by heart.
Word of Jacob Zook’s poem spread up and down SummerHill. Everyone was saying it, and those who hadn’t learned it wanted to.
I got the bright idea to self-publish it—even took some timeexposed shots with my camera at dusk one night. The sky was hazy red and the fireflies were dancing and twinkling everywhere you looked. One picture turned out better than the rest, so I made a bunch of copies to go along with the poem.
Rachel, Susie, and I had a regular assembly line going. Rachel copied the poem in her own handwriting, I glued the photo in place, and all three of us started distributing them.
Before long, every neighbor on SummerHill had a hand-printed copy of the poem with the picture glued to the bottom.
As for Lissa, she and I started spending more time together. Lots more. We secretly teamed up to pray for Chelsea. When I told Levi, he wanted to be in on it, too. The way I see it, Chelsea doesn’t stand a chance of continuing her atheist routine.
Jon Klein called several times, and we’ve actually started playing our alliteration game again. Maybe Ashley Horton is going to make her move, but I’m not worried. She can’t alliterate worth beans!
Which brings me to Levi. My Amish friend wants to take his GED so he can go to Bible school in September. I’m excited for him, and if all goes well, he’ll be a college freshman.
School—now there’s a scary thought. Tenth grade’s coming up mighty fast. Too fast. I guess if I could make a wish and have it come true, I’d want the summer to last forever.
Earlier tonight, Rachel, Susie, and I sat on their front porch sipping lemonade. In the stillness, I could almost hear Grandfather’s sweet, wavering voice as though it were coming from his hickory rocker—now vacant in the fading light of dusk.
’Tis the night of the fireflies…
For
Barb Lilland,
who first shared the dream
that became
SummerHill Secrets.
And…
who received
a true gift from God
one Christmas Eve—
Jordan Robert.
A joy that’s shared is
a joy made double.
—ANONYMOUS
Chapter
1
“Don’t move!” I aimed my camera lens at the blond, wispy-haired girl posing on my front porch. “This is it! A truly amazing shot. Don’t breathe!”
“For how long?” Lissa Vyner asked, smiling.
“Till I say so.”
Slowly, I backed away from the porch, where my friend balanced gracefully on the wh
ite banister leading to the sidewalk. Dressed in summer pink, she put on airs for the camera. She’d worn the dazzling junior bridesmaid’s dress to her cousin’s wedding last week, and by the dreamy look on her face, I knew she was still chock-full of romantic whimsy.
Three more shots. Each took several minutes to set up. That’s how I liked to work—meticulously. Photography was my passion, and when I was working with film, like now, I had to be even more particular.
“Hurry, Merry, it’s hot out here,” Lissa urged.
“Can’t rush a masterpiece.” I carefully checked the aperture on my camera, adjusting the lens opening for appropriate light.
Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed a pickup truck coming down SummerHill Lane. The noisy muffler captured my curiosity. I wouldn’t have bothered to look, except the old rattletrap swerved off the road, crept along the shoulder, and came to a shuddering stop right in front of our mailbox.
“Expecting company?” Lissa teased.
I had no idea who the driver was or what he wanted. And since my parents were in Lancaster running errands, I kept my distance.
A hefty guy in his early twenties leaned his arm on the window and hollered out, “Y’all live here?” He glanced for a moment at Lissa, who was still perched on the banister waiting for the next picture.
“Are you lost?” I asked, avoiding his question.
“Jist wonderin’ about this here neck of the woods” came the reply. “Shore would call it the sticks back home. Not much activity round.” His eyes were a hot blue—far different from the kind, innocent blue of Lissa’s eyes. I felt uneasy.
“Are you looking for a street address?” I asked politely, careful not to display my concern.
“No, ma’am, I ain’t.” His accent was southern, and his answer rather blunt. He ran a chapped hand through his thick, greasy hair. “Is thar a doctor in these here parts?”
“Is someone sick?” I studied him from my vantage point. He didn’t appear to be in need of medical help.
“Well, it ain’t yer run-of-the-mill sickness, if that’s whatcha mean….” His voice trailed off.
“There’s a hospital in town about twenty minutes away.” Although our mailbox noted the fact that my dad was an ER doctor, I was hesitant to divulge family information, especially to a stranger.
“In town, ya say?” He craned his neck, looking around. “Alls I see is fields and barns, and…” He paused. “Them Plain folks…uh, whatcha call ’em?”
“They’re Pennsylvania Amish.” I said it proudly, as though I were one of them. My great-great grandfather had been Amish, and one of my dearest friends, Rachel Zook down the lane, was, too.
The stranger nodded, scratching his left eyebrow. “Well, thanks for yer help. I ’spect I best be goin’.” With that, he turned on the ignition and steered his clunky pickup onto the road and down the hill.
I scurried up the lawn to Lissa. “Did you catch that?”
She nodded. “Seemed kinda strange.”
“Sure did,” I said, fooling with my camera. “I’m glad he’s gone.”
Lissa agreed. “Did you notice his license plate?”
“Nope, did you?”
“Well, I know it wasn’t a Pennsylvania plate, but I couldn’t see the state.” She wiggled around, swinging her legs. “How much longer do I have to sit here?”
“Just keep smiling. I’m almost done—honest.” Click! I took five more shots before calling it quits. “Okay, you can relax now,” I said, walking toward her.
“Grammy will be so thrilled.” She stood up and brushed herself off.
“Why’d your grandma want so many pictures?” I leaned against the porch railing.
“Grammy Vyner broke her hip last week and couldn’t come to my cousin’s wedding,” Lissa explained. “You should meet her sometime, Merry. My grammy lives for family events. Her life revolves around them.” She sighed. “Her hip surgery—the whole thing—completely devastated her.”
“She probably wanted to see her granddaughter in a dress, right?” I laughed.
“Silly you.” Lissa twirled around, and the fancy skirt billowed out. “It’s not like I never wear one.”
I put my camera in its case and set it down on the step. “Okay, when was the last time, not counting the wedding?”
Lissa stared at the cornfield across the lane. “Let’s see…”
I waited, then—“See! You can’t remember the last time you had on a dress.”
“Merry Hanson, don’t exaggerate!” She chased after me as I ran down the sloping front yard toward the dirt road.
“When’s the last time you ran in dress shoes?” I yelled back.
But my taunting didn’t stop Lissa. She kicked off her white leather sandals and ran along the road barefoot through the wild strawberry vines nestled in the grassy ditch.
“Watch out for garter snakes,” I teased.
“What?” She stopped running.
I turned around, calling back to her. “Didn’tcha know? Snakes come out when city girls come to visit.”
“Merry!” she hollered. “You know that’s not one bit true! Besides, I’m not a city girl!”
I grinned at her, my good friend Lissa Vyner. Gullible. Stubborn too. Pete’s sake, she’d stolen Jon Klein, my secret crush, out from under my nose last spring. But Lissa and Jon were a thing of the past.
“Thirsty?” I asked.
She wiped the perspiration off her face. “It’s way too hot, running around in this heat.”
“Okay, we’ll go inside and cool off.” I hurried up the lane, matching her stride. “The humidity’s a killer.”
We walked up the hill together, past the willow grove and the shortcut to the Zooks’ farm. Then I heard a familiar noise. The sound of that rickety old pickup. It was coming up the lane, right behind us!
“Look who’s back,” Lissa said as the truck slowed down.
“Let’s go!” I grabbed her arm, and we ran all the way up the hill to my house. When we were safely inside, I peeked through the living room curtains, catching my breath.
“What’s he want?” Lissa whispered.
“I wish I knew.”
The two of us watched as the faded pickup slowed to a crawl. The driver eyeballed the house. My heart pounded when his eyes came to rest on our mailbox. “Oh no,” I whispered. “Now he knows Dad’s a doctor. What if he comes to the door?”
“It’s locked, right?” Lissa asked softly.
I nodded. Still, I was fearful.
Then, without warning, the faded blue truck accelerated, struggling against the steep grade. It snorted and puffed, leaving a trail of dust in its path.
“Man, he needs some new wheels,” Lissa remarked, a hint of relief in her voice.
“A new muffler, too,” I said, remembering what my older brother had told me about worn-out mufflers. For once, something Skip had said actually stuck in my brain.
“That guy scares me,” Lissa said, still peering out the window. “What’s he want?”
“I know one thing, I wasn’t going to stick around to find out.”
“Maybe he’s a serial killer,” she suggested.
“We’re still alive, aren’t we?” I forced a laugh, which helped lessen the tension. “There’s something weird about him, though. Something about the way he kept checking the place out. And looking at our mailbox.”
“What could it mean?”
“I’m not sure,” I said. “I hope he’s not a burglar. Maybe he’s into identity theft.”
Lissa and I headed up the long wooden staircase to the second story of my family’s hundred-year-old farmhouse.
“I can’t wait to put on some shorts,” she said as we entered my room.
“See, I told you! You hate dresses.” We laughed about it. I’d caught her good.
While Lissa changed clothes, I put my camera away, trying to shake off the weird feeling. But as hard as I tried, I couldn’t get the stranger in the blue pickup out of my mind. I must admit—he gave me
the willies!
Chapter
2
“It’s a scorcher,” Dad said as he and Mom came into the kitchen loaded with grocery bags.
“You’re tellin’ me.” I got up to help. “It was so hot, Mrs. Vyner brought ice cream over when she came to pick up Lissa. The three of us made cones and sat out in the gazebo trying to cool off.”
Mom turned the lazy susan in the corner of one kitchen cabinet. “How’s Lissa doing these days?”
I knew she really wanted to know how Lissa’s father was doing. He’d had severe problems with alcohol and abuse—so bad that Lissa had run away. Thankfully, those frightening days were behind them. “Lissa says things are totally different since her dad’s been going for therapy.”
“So, you think the abuse has stopped?” Mom asked, searching me with all-knowing brown eyes.
“I’m one-hundred-percent-amen sure.”
Mom smiled. “That’s good.”
I stretched on tiptoes, sliding two cans of tuna onto the top corner shelf. “Lissa says her mom’s going to invite him to the church potluck next week.”
“Great idea,” she said. “I hope he’ll come.”
I smiled, watching Mom dash around the kitchen, putting things away. The old tension-filled days between us were gone. Mom was relaxed now, no longer preoccupied with the loss of Faithie—my twin sister—who had died of cancer the summer she was seven. Actually, Mom’s cheerful demeanor surprised me because the anniversary of Faithie’s death was coming up. Three days from now—July 31.
Dad hauled in two more grocery sacks before sitting down with a glass of iced tea. “Sure will be nice to have your brother home,” he remarked to me.
My obnoxious big brother had gone to help out at a camp for handicapped kids—something he did every summer. This time would be his last before heading off to college next month. I couldn’t wait for that moment. Total peace and quiet—my life could possibly be stress-free for a change. “When’s Skip supposed to get back?” I asked.
“Let’s see.” Dad pulled a pocket calendar from his wallet. “He’ll be home the weekend after next.”
SummerHill Secrets, Volume 1 Page 37