Secrets of Harmony Grove

by Mindy Starns Clark

  “You doing okay?” the intern asked as he finished off the short, tidy row of stitches at my knee.

  “I’m fine. Can’t feel a thing,” I assured him. Pleased, he moved on to the cut at my shoulder, numbed it, and went to work there as I returned to my thoughts.

  There was definitely something satisfying about the thought of living on land that had once been owned by my great-grandfather. I only wished Grandpa Abe could have found peace and contentment there in his lifetime. I understood now that he had never really recovered from the atrocities of the war. Obsessed with the fact that he hadn’t carried a gun and fought against the evil that was Hitler and his regime, Grandpa Abe had ended up pulling away from everyone, including the women who loved him. Even from God.

  If I asked Liesl or Jonah to defend the Amish stance on nonviolence, even in light of the Holocaust, they would probably say that if everyone practiced nonviolence, there would be no Holocausts, no Nazis to fight, no Hitlers, no persecution at all. Which was a valid point. At least after the past few days, when so much violence had swirled around us, I would be more respectful of Heath’s position, glad at least that he was a man of conviction.

  As for me, I would continue to maintain that Christians should turn the other cheek in situations of retaliation, but when it came to persecution, not only were we free to protect ourselves and others, but it was our Christian responsibility to do so. Fortunately, I had finally come to understand that on this issue Heath and I really could agree to disagree.

  By the next morning I ached in every fiber of my being—not just from my run-in with the bird but also because I had spent much of the night sleeping in a chair beside Heath’s hospital bed. He had gone in and out of consciousness all night, talking gibberish and tossing and turning, but now he seemed to be in a good, deep sleep.

  Seizing the opportunity to freshen up, I decided to go for a walk as well and check on Mike, who was in a room down the hall. Much to my surprise, he was fully awake and back to his normal self again.

  Pulling up a chair beside his bed, I sat while we talked about the events of the night, the status of the case, and his own brush with ketamine. He said he felt as though he had a bad hangover but otherwise would survive. He was more concerned about my injuries, but I assured him that I’d had worse, and that this too would pass.

  We were quiet for a bit after that. I wanted to say that I appreciated more than he would ever know all he had done for me, and that I had tremendous respect for him and would always be grateful he had been the detective assigned to my case. But as soon as I launched in, he interrupted me, cutting to the chase.

  “So there’s no chance for us, Collins? We’d make quite a pair, you know.”

  Smiling sadly, I reached out and took his hand, giving it a squeeze.

  “Yes, we would. I have no doubt we’d light up the sky like fireworks.”

  We shared a smile. Then I tried to let go of his hand, but he squeezed mine harder, holding on.

  “What’s wrong with fireworks?” he pressed, leaning toward me.

  Again I met his eyes, wondering how I could make him understand.

  “Nothing,” I whispered. “This may not make sense to you, Mike, and I’m sorry. But these days what I find myself most wanting instead are fire-flies—the quiet, gentle glow of a million fireflies, lighting up the night.”

  Heading back up the hall to Heath’s room, I was surprised to run into Nina—and even more surprised to learn she was there to see Mike.

  “He and I don’t know each other that well,” she told me, her cheeks flushing, “but I wanted to make sure he was okay, and to thank him for everything he did to solve the case.”

  “I’m sure he would appreciate that.”

  After expressing concern about my own injuries and Heath’s condition, Nina tried to apologize for not having believed me about Troy, but I wouldn’t let her finish. Instead, I told her that I understood, that she wasn’t the first woman to buy into the lies of a handsome and exciting man.

  “That’s why we need friends and family and community around us, so we can get input and accountability and make wiser decisions,” I explained, adding that this was something the Amish had always understood well.

  Nina nodded, thinking.

  “So what are your thoughts on…the detective?” she asked, her cheeks again flushing as she glanced toward Mike’s room.

  I smiled, telling her that I endorsed him wholeheartedly, that I thought it was about time she set her sights on such a good man, the kind of man she deserved.

  Nina and I parted ways for the time being, and as I stepped back inside Heath’s room, I stood there and looked down at his sleeping form, wondering if I deserved him. He, too, was a good man, one who would love and care for me the rest of my life.

  The one who would be the string to my kite.

  But didn’t he deserve better? Didn’t he need someone equally solid, who wasn’t so impulsive, so easily led astray, so prone to wandering down all the wrong paths?

  Slowly he opened his eyes, and when he saw me, the first thing he did was open his arms as well. Moving into those arms and burying my face against his shoulder and holding on as tightly as I could, I said a silent prayer, asking God for guidance in this relationship and in my life.

  “I love you,” Heath whispered, stroking my hair with his hands as he held me close.

  I needed to bring him up to speed, to tell him why he was here in the hospital and explain about everything that had happened since he’d been taken out by one of Burl’s tranquilizer darts. Instead, I remained silent as he went on to list qualities of mine that he loved the most. As he spoke, describing me as “spontaneous” rather than “impulsive” and “adventurous” rather than “foolhardy,” I suddenly realized something that not only made me feel better about myself as a person but also reaffirmed our relationship as well.

  To fly without flying away, the kite needed the string, yes. But just as important, the string needed the kite—to lift it up, to keep it always aiming toward the sky.

  EPILOGUE

  Three Weeks Later

  We gathered the first Saturday of November, a beautiful, crisp fall day. The colorful autumn leaves had faded to duller yellows and browns, but in the grove there were so many different kinds of trees that everything always seemed vivid anyway.

  Only a few of us would be at this morning’s private ceremony, but this afternoon was going to be a different story. This afternoon, we would fling open the gates and welcome anyone who wanted to come. That would be a happy time.

  This morning was a far more solemn occasion. In attendance was only a handful of people: my uncle Emory, my parents, my grandmother, my brother, and me. We had also invited Nina, as Abe’s honorary daughter, but she had declined, saying this was a time for “real” relatives only.

  This small, private ceremony had been a long time in coming, and every single person gathered felt guilty about that. There was no excuse for not having done this sooner. The man had now been dead for two years and four months! It was high time we honored his last wishes and sprinkled his ashes on the grove.

  My father had brought the ashes and the instructions from the lawyer, and once we were all together at the main gate, he opened the envelope and read my grandfather’s final directive: that his body be cremated after death, that his ashes be buried in Harmony Grove, and that once we had done this, we were also to bury here the ashes of his first wife, Daphne, and those of her mother and sister.

  When we heard that, my brother and I looked at each other in surprise. Hadn’t Grandpa Abe already done that himself at some point?

  “There’s a personal note written at the bottom,” my father added, reading it aloud to us:

  “I’m sorry to burden all of you with the matter of these other ashes when it involves people you never even knew. In this and so many other ways I have failed in my lifetime. Unable to bring myself to bury their ashes, I ask humbly that you bury them on my behalf once I am dead and g
one. In many ways I was a coward in life, but in this most of all—that I could not bear to carry out myself the one final wish that had been asked of me. It was too hard. The pain was too raw.”

  Nina was right. My grandfather had been a man who carried a lot of guilt. Even after death, he was apologizing!

  “And that’s it,” my dad said, folding the page and sliding it back into the envelope. “As he didn’t specify any particular place where he wanted his ashes to go, Emory and I have taken the liberty of choosing several different spots in the grove where we think his ashes could appropriately be buried. If anyone else wants to add to the ones we have chosen, by all means speak up and we’ll do that too.”

  As I watched my dad address our little group, I was amazed, as always, by his mellifluous voice and “pastorly” ways. Before we started out, he led us in prayer, and his words to the Father sounded as sweet and simple as the prayers of the angels.

  When he was finished, we all gave a rousing “Amen,” and then we began, pausing first at the Main Gate. There, Emory dug a shallow hole at the base of the first tree Abe had planted, the very genesis of the grove. My father sprinkled some of the ashes in the hole, and Emory used the shovel to cover them up with the freshly turned earth. Walking to the next site, which was a row of weeping willows along the creek where Abe had first taught Emory to fish, my grandmother Maureen sang out the chorus of a beloved hymn, and we all joined in as well. It felt good to sing as we walked, to support my dad and his brother as they sprinkled the ashes, and to memorialize once and for all the man who had long ago looked out on this wide patch of land and envisioned something altogether profound and lovely.

  As we passed by the Fishing Tree, the Southern Catawba near the Peace Gate, we all grew silent, sharing the same frustrated thoughts, I felt sure. Despite lots of digging and probing and even consultations by experts, we had never found any diamonds buried there. Wherever my grandfather had hidden them, he hadn’t replicated their original hiding place in Germany after all. Perhaps we would never know what had become of poor Emory’s diamonds!

  As we reached the final place my father wanted us to see, I was surprised by his choice, a marker with a brief quote from The Metamorphoses that read, I who am chasing you am not your enemy.

  I didn’t understand its significance, but as my father spoke for a bit, I realized he was using it as an opportunity to share with us some closing thoughts about Abe and his life.

  “These things we run from,” my dad told us, “don’t always need to be feared so strongly. Sometimes we need to stop and remember that which is chasing us is not our enemy. My dad let guilt and shame dog him throughout his life, always nipping at his heels. My prayer for all of us is that we take time now and then to turn and face those things that are chasing us, acknowledge them, and accept the fact that they’re a part of who we are. If possible, maybe we can even embrace them for the good that has come out of the bad. If my father had been able to do that, he would have ended his days as a far, far happier man.”

  Wanting to end things on a more upbeat note, my dad went on to list the many qualities Abe Collins had that were admirable: integrity, bravery, loyalty, creativity, and more.

  “He wasn’t the best husband,” he said, smiling sympathetically toward Grandma Maureen, “but he was a darn good father. He would’ve done anything for the two of us, and he always made sure we knew that. Right, Emory?”

  “You betcha!” Emory replied, and we all chuckled as he grinned, pleased with himself.

  We closed our little ceremony with a prayer, this one while standing in a circle, our hands joined. After the amen, we lingered that way, singing together a chorus of “Blest Be the Tie That Binds.” As our voices rose and blended among the trees, fresh tears filled my eyes. I realized in that moment that this truly was “harmony” grove.

  Lunch would be served back at the B and B, a special meal provided by our many Amish cousins. Liesl had coordinated the meal, and as we walked back to the inn I was pleased to see the driveway now filling up not just with cars but also buggies. There was something about the blending of the Plain community with the rest of us, the Amish cousins with the English, that felt healing and right, given Abe’s long-ago break from the faith. I knew the Amish would always keep themselves “apart,” following their own ideology, but that didn’t mean we couldn’t support each other or show love to each other. I would always treasure the Amish friendships I had, especially my relationship with Jonah and Liesl.

  Since all of the mess three weeks before, I had learned the truth about the gun charge that had gotten Jonah in trouble. Apparently, Pennsylvania regulations required a photo ID for the purchase of new firearms, with no religious exemptions. Like most other Amish, Jonah refused to have a photo ID, so he had been forced to ask a friend to buy a hunting rifle for him. The problem in this case was that the “friend” happened to be Troy, back before they’d had their falling out over the horses. Once that whole matter was cleared up with the authorities, Jonah repented of the matter to his bishops and church community, and the whole thing had been forgiven and forgotten.

  Burl wouldn’t be getting off so easily. Charged with all sorts of crimes from murder to animal cruelty to environmental endangerment and more, we knew he would be behind bars for many, many years to come.

  I was glad to have a few more of my questions answered, including the whole matter of the latch that Troy had unlocked that night while on the phone with me. According to Burl, who had watched events unfold while hiding nearby, once Troy had contaminated himself with the poison and had begun to get confused, he had wandered in completely the wrong direction, ending up at the back of Burl’s property. Facing the big wire cage that sat half concealed in the bushes, he had opened the latch, realized that the cage door led nowhere, and turned around and tried going in another direction.

  What Troy hadn’t noticed, thanks to the overgrown bushes and weeds and trees that surrounded the cage, was the big, black bird with the vivid blue neck and red wattle resting silently in the far corner. Once the door was open and Troy had left, the cassowary followed, and Burl had had no choice but to run into his house, don his protective gear, grab his tranquilizer gun, and try to subdue the bird without revealing himself to Troy.

  It hadn’t been easy. When the bird attacked Troy, knocking him down and gashing his leg, Burl had taken his first shot but had missed. Troy managed to get up and run away, finally climbing over the fence into the pool area. The cassowary followed as far as the fence, where Burl’s second shot finally hit its mark. As the bird had sat down there in the bushes, tranquilized and docile, Troy had proceeded to drown in the pool, right on the other side of the fence—mission accomplished, as far as Burl was concerned.

  The threat to the diamonds had been eliminated.

  After that, Burl was just getting a rope around the bird’s neck to lead it home when Nina showed up, spotted Troy’s dead body, and started screaming. Crouching down in the bushes not far from the resting bird, Burl had hoped he could wait things out and at some point slip away from the scene, bird in tow, unnoticed.

  Unfortunately, the cassowary had had a different idea. Just as Floyd and Nina were arguing beside the pool, it had tried to stand, letting out its signature rumble. When they both turned to see what was going on, Burl had no choice but to rise up from his hiding spot nearby and take down first Floyd and then Nina. After retrieving the darts from their sleeping bodies, he had made the decision to bring the cassowary not back to its cage, where officials might see it and put together what had happened, but instead to the hidden room at Emory’s house, which Burl had used occasionally in the past to hide some of his animal fighting paraphernalia. Thanks to the second entrance through the springhouse, Emory had never known, and Burl had hoped he wouldn’t learn about the creature being in there either.

  After that, Burl had put out a call for help to the C to B syndicate, asking that the animal wranglers come and remove the cassowary as soon as possible, at least unti
l the heat was off. Apparently, the evening that the Nightmare Twins had shown up at the B and B looking for Floyd, they hadn’t intended him any harm. They had simply wanted some help getting Emory to leave his home for a while so they could remove the animal unobserved.

  I was glad to learn that Floyd really had been telling the truth about not having much involvement with the C to B gambling ring. He was aware of its activities and its key players, but he hadn’t been a party to any of their dealings, nor had he had anything to do with Burl’s ties to the group.

  Troy, on the other hand, had been the one who first established those ties, getting Burl connected to the men who ran the whole C to B gambling syndicate in the first place. Having seen Burl’s isolated farm and empty animal housing, Troy had spotted yet another opportunity to milk the “myth of the pastoral,” and had managed to make the connection between the retired chicken farmer who could use some extra cash and the animal wranglers who were always on the lookout for places to stash their animals between fights. After all, who would ever suspect such nefarious dealings here in the heart of perfect, innocent Amish country?

  At least this whole mess had helped authorities crack a case that had been dragging on for years. Like dominoes toppling, once they had arrested Burl and persuaded him to talk, they had been able to make more arrests, apply more pressure to those people, and eventually shut down a vast network of C to B-related activities. Though I still couldn’t fathom how animals could be used for blood sport, I knew the darker side of man allowed for some pretty evil things.

  Learning about Daphne’s experience in the Holocaust had been an even more somber reminder of that.

  As for Floyd, we weren’t sure what happened to him, and the authorities weren’t saying, though I had a feeling he had finally made it to some distant beach where he was now taking it easy, sipping mango juice and no doubt cooking up more trouble. Floyd was just one of those people who knew how to work things to his advantage—and, when he couldn’t, somehow landing on his feet anyway.