by Marta Perry
She’d half expected Emma to protest that she couldn’t stay long, since that seemed to be the pattern with any Amish visitors, but Emma nodded. She followed Fiona up the back staircase, her long dress rustling.
“This is nice, having the stairs that come right down to your kitchen. Saves time and steps, ja?”
“Yes, it does.” She led the way into the living room, where the lamps were already on, bathing the room in their soft glow. “I haven’t quite finished with the painting up here yet, but the room is livable, at least.”
She was nervous, and that was making her babble. What had brought Emma here tonight? Surely she risked getting into trouble with her parents if they found out.
Emma sat on the sofa, looking around with frank curiosity as she picked up the steaming mug. “This is very nice.” She fingered the afghan that was draped over the back of the sofa. “This is Elsie Schuler’s work.”
Fiona had to smile, despite the tension that skittered along her skin. “If I’d known how recognizable handwork is to you, I probably wouldn’t have shown you my mother’s quilt pieces.”
“The quilt squares.” Emma gave a quick, characteristic nod. “I would like to see again.”
That startled her. She’d have thought Emma would be happy to forget about them.
Fiona crossed to the bookcase and picked up the small dower chest, carrying it across to Emma. “Maybe you recognize the box, as well.”
Emma took it, holding it at eye level for a moment, her eyes bright. “I know it. Our papa, he made one for each of the girls. Mine will go to my daughter one day.” She sat the box in her lap, her fingers caressing it. “He made these with much love.”
For Hannah, Fiona reminded herself. Not for the granddaughter he didn’t want to know. Still, that love seemed to show in the precise corners and delicate painting, even after all this time.
Emma opened the lid carefully and lifted out the quilt pieces. She saw what was underneath and hesitated for a moment before picking up the cap and apron. Her eyes flickered. “So many years. I miss her still, my big sister.”
Fiona’s heart clenched. “I didn’t think about that. I’m sorry.”
“It is not your fault. The memories are good ones.” She fingered the delicate baby gown. “She made this for you.”
“I suppose she did.” Tears stung her eyes, and she blinked them back. “Why did you want to see the quilt patches again?”
Hannah set the box on the coffee table and turned the fabric squares over in her hands. “If you still want, I will make the quilt for you.”
“Yes, of course I want. But your mother—”
“I will do it at Ruth’s. No one will say anything to my mother about it.” Her gaze met Fiona’s and slipped away. “You understand, about her illness.”
“I know that you’re trying to protect her. I don’t want to do anything to upset that.” Her heart twisted at the thought that her grandmother had to be protected from her existence.
“She won’t know,” Emma repeated. She smoothed the squares with gentle fingers. “When I was very young, I had a doll, and a tiny cradle my father had made. Hannah—she was one of the grown-ups to me, because she was so much older. But she made a little quilt for the doll cradle.” Her smile was soft. “So I will piece the quilt for you, and think of her.”
Fiona’s throat was too tight for words. She reached toward Emma, barely knowing that she was doing it, and Emma clasped her hand in a hard grip. Fiona couldn’t be sure whether the tears that splashed on their hands were hers or Emma’s, but they were melting the shell that protected her heart.
* * *
Much later that night, Fiona sat cross-legged on her bed, the dower chest open in front of her. Carefully she folded the tiny baby dress and tucked it inside, then the apron, and finally the cap.
She closed the lid, letting her fingers stroke the painted designs. Her grandfather had made this for his firstborn child. It didn’t take a lot of imagination to picture the love in his face—after all, she’d seen fathers catching their first glimpse of a son or daughter.
Her heart was so full her chest seemed to ache with it. Another image filled her mind. Her mother, a blond, rosy-cheeked teenager, sat making a doll quilt for her little sister, sewing love into every stitch.
Had she felt that love when she’d sewn the tiny dress for her unborn child? Or had it been overshadowed by her sense of being a stranger in a strange land?
Tears spilled over onto her cheeks, and she wiped them away with her fingers. It was too late now, wasn’t it, to cry for her mother? To long for something she’d never known?
Through the blur of tears, she saw her past more clearly than she ever had. When she’d gone to live with her father and her stepmother, she’d known that they didn’t welcome questions about her mother. If she’d been a different kind of child, the kind who demanded answers, perhaps things would have turned out differently.
She swung off the bed in a quick movement and put the dower chest on her dresser. She was being foolish, crying over something that was long past. She’d go to bed, and things would look better in the morning.
But even when she’d turned off the lights and curled up in bed, her busy mind wouldn’t shut down. She stared at the ceiling, where a faint light reflected from Ruth’s store next door, facing the thought that had nibbled at the edges of her mind for days.
Her father hadn’t had to put her in foster care with strangers. He could have sent her back to Pennsylvania after her mother died, even if he hadn’t wanted to return himself.
The Flanagans would have taken her in, no matter what the quarrel was between her father and her uncle Joe. She’d seen enough of their warm, open hearts to know that.
And her mother’s family? Her heart twisted. Would they have taken her in or turned their backs? She didn’t know. Maybe she’d never know.
Lord…Her prayer choked on a sob. I’ve held back all my life, always afraid of rejection if I got too close. Maybe I’ve even done the same thing with You. I can’t seem to do that any longer, but I’m afraid to change. What if I can’t? Please, help me see the way.
She wiped the tears away again, too tired to get up and do something, too restless to seek refuge in sleep. She stared at the ceiling, trying to sense an answer in her heart. What…
Something crossed the rectangle of reflected light on the ceiling. She blinked. What had that been? A bird, maybe, flying between the two buildings—would that cause a shadow like that?
She lay still, watching. In a moment, another shadow crossed the pattern of light, and tension skittered along her skin. That was no bird, or anything else that had reason to be between the buildings or in Ruth’s store at this hour of the night. That was a human shape.
Ruth, coming in to do some work? She turned cautiously, as if someone might hear her, looking at the bedside clock. It was hardly likely to be Ruth out and about, not at nearly two in the morning.
She slid out of bed, her bare toes curling into the rag rug, and shivered as she reached for the robe that lay across the footboard. Pulling it around herself, she padded silently toward the window. No one could see her, surely, as long as she didn’t turn the light on.
Still, she stood to the side of the window, cold with tension, and peered out cautiously. There was the nearest window of Ruth’s store—it was the window of the workroom, where the quilts were. If someone were there on legitimate business, they’d put on a light, wouldn’t they? The soft glow was that of the dim light Ruth always left burning in the back room, visible only from the side or the back of the store.
She stood, undecided, clutching the curtain with one hand, her feet cold on the floorboards. She leaned forward, pressing her face against the pane. Her eyes must be growing accustomed to the faint light, because she could make out objects in the narrow passageway between Ruth’s store and her house—the old-fashioned rain barrel that stood beneath Ruth’s downspout, some boards the carpenters had leaned against the wall.
And a figure. He was mostly in shadow, but she saw the slight movement. On its heels came a sound, the faintest tinkle of breaking glass. Barely audible, it shrilled an alarm in Fiona’s mind. The police—she had to call the police.
Afraid to turn on a light, she felt her way across the room and snatched her cell phone from the dresser, taking comfort from its glow. Even as she punched in 911, she remembered what Ted had said. Night calls went directly to him. The thought was oddly reassuring.
“Crossroads police, Ted Rittenhouse here.”
She pressed the phone against her ear. “This is Fiona.” She kept her voice low. She’d heard the glass break. Could they hear her? “Someone is in Ruth’s store. I can see them moving around, and there’s a person in the alleyway between her place and mine.”
“Stay where you are.” His voice was crisp, authoritative. “Are you upstairs? Are your doors locked?”
“Yes. But the store—they’re in the quilt room.”
“I’m on my way. Don’t come out of your house until I tell you it’s safe. And don’t hang up.”
She could hear the sound of the car’s motor through the cell phone and realized that he was, literally, on his way.
“Don’t worry about me. I’m fine. But all those quilts—”
“Better a quilt than you.” He sounded grim. “I’m almost there.”
She slid along the wall to the window. “I’m at the upstairs window.” A crash interrupted her words, and she realized she was shaking at the violence that implied. In the city it would have sickened but not shocked her—here in this peaceful place it was obscene. “They’ve knocked something over.”
Several things happened at once. She heard, faintly, the sound of a car. The lookout, if that’s what he was, must have heard it, too. He moved, rapping sharply at the window frame.
“They’ve heard you.” She rushed the words, as if that would make a difference. “They’re coming out the side window, three of them, dark clothes, I can’t make out their features. Running toward the back of the building. The other one, the lookout, he’s running, too.”
Ted muttered something, and then the wail of his siren shattered the night air. Too late now to worry about alerting the intruders. She shoved the window up, leaning out in hope of getting a better view of them.
Their figures were silhouetted briefly as they skirted the light cast by her back porch lamp. Teenagers, she’d guess, by their size and the way they moved. The first three had hoods up, turning them into featureless shapes. The last one—
She pulled back inside so sharply that she struck her head on the window frame, seeing stars for a moment. She sank down on the floor, rubbing her head, the cell phone dropping in her lap.
The last figure—she couldn’t be mistaken. The dark clothes, the shape of the hat, the cut of the trousers—it had been someone in Amish garb.
* * *
Ted walked toward Fiona’s back door, frustration tightening every muscle. He’d been close, so close. Closer than he’d ever been to catching or at least identifying the vandals, thanks to Fiona, but they’d slipped away again.
He glanced toward the dark patch of woods behind the store. Were they back there someplace, watching him? Common sense said they’d headed straight for home, but he couldn’t shake off the thought. What kind of cop couldn’t outwit a few teenagers?
No use feeling sorry for his circumstances, because they were his choice. He wasn’t a big-city cop anymore, with plenty of backup and a forensic team. He was only one man, and they’d had just enough of a head start to elude him. He could only hope that Fiona had seen something that would help him identify them.
He rapped on the door, frowning at the glass window in it. Very nice to see who was out here, but also very easy for someone to break.
Fiona swung the door open, eyes widening at his expression. “What is it? What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. I was just thinking that you should have something more secure for a back door—either a solid door or wire mesh over the window.”
She stood back to let him enter the brightly lit kitchen. A kettle steamed gently on the stove, and the windowsills were bright with pots of yellow mums. “I thought this was a safe place to live.”
“So did I.” He pulled out his notebook and flipped it open. “Tell me exactly what you saw.”
“What about Ruth’s store? Have you told her? Did they damage the quilts?”
It was tempting to answer her, to get into a conversation between friends about what had happened, but he couldn’t. He needed to get a statement from her as close time wise to the incident as possible so it wouldn’t be contaminated in any way by his outside information.
“Concentrate on what you saw and heard.” That sounded more abrupt than it needed to. “Please, Fiona. It’s important to go over it before you forget.”
“I’m not likely to forget.” Her voice was tart. She picked up the mug of tea that sat on the table and held it between her hands, as if she needed its warmth. “I couldn’t get to sleep, because—well, that doesn’t matter.”
Because of that visit from Emma? He longed to ask her, but that too would be sidetracking.
She clutched the mug a little more tightly. “The light that Ruth leaves on in the store reflects on my bedroom ceiling. I saw a shadow move across it.” She frowned, as if trying to be sure she got it exactly right. “I waited a couple of minutes, thinking maybe it was a bird flying between the buildings, but then I saw it again and knew it was a person. I went to the window.”
“Is it possible they could see you?” The last thing either of them needed was for the vandals to target her next.
She shook her head. “I was careful to stay back and leave the lights off.” She shut her eyes briefly, as if to visualize what she’d seen. “There were people moving in the store. And there was one outside in the alley, in the shadow of the building.”
“People? What kind of people? How many?” His frustration put an edge to his voice.
Her lips tightened. “I’m telling you what I saw then. That was when I called you.”
He was ticking her off, apparently. He regretted it, but duty came first. If he’d gotten here a little sooner—but he knew that was impossible. “Did you get a better look at them at any point?”
“The one outside, the lookout, must have heard your car. He said something to them, but I couldn’t hear what. Then they all bailed out the window and started running down the alleyway between the buildings.”
She came to a stop, but he sensed that there was more. “Your back porch light was on?”
She nodded, glancing toward it.
“Then you must have seen something when they ran past.”
“Not much.” Her tone was guarded. “The three who had been inside the store ran past first.” She frowned a little, shaking her head. “I couldn’t get a good look—it happened so fast. They all wore jeans and dark sweatshirts or maybe jackets with the hoods pulled up. Judging by their size and the way they moved, I’d guess they were teenagers, but I can’t swear to that.” She shrugged. “I’m sorry I can’t be more help.”
She was holding something back. He knew it, and it angered him.
“This is no time to be evasive. What else did you see? Come on, Fiona, out with it.”
“Or what? You’ll lock me up?”
“Or you’ll be withholding evidence in a criminal case,” he replied evenly. “And I know you don’t want to do that.”
She lifted a hand to her forehead, shoving her hair back, the fight going out of her. “No. Of course not. It’s just that I—” She shook her head.
“Whatever it is, it’s my job to figure out. Is it something about the fourth boy?”
She nodded. “He was several steps behind the others. When he passed the light I could see—not his face, but his clothing. He was wearing Amish clothing.”
It was like a punch to the stomach. For a moment he couldn’t say anything at all. Then he shook his head violently. “
You must be wrong.”
“I know what I saw.” Her eyes flashed. “The hat, the dark jacket and pants—believe me, I’d like to be mistaken, but I’m not.”
The pain behind her words convinced him. “It’s just—” He shrugged, not knowing what to say. “It’s unheard of, that’s all. Even during their rumspringa, when they have more freedom to try things, Amish youngsters don’t get up to criminal mischief, especially not with English teens.”
Fiona rubbed the back of her neck tiredly. “I wish I hadn’t seen it. But maybe it was some kind of a prank—a kid dressed up in Amish clothing, hoping to throw the blame on them.”
“Possible, I suppose, if these kids are cleverer than I’ve been giving them credit for.” Dread was building in him. Balancing between two worlds wasn’t an easy thing at the best of times. If he had to arrest an Amish kid, he’d be landing in no-man’s-land. “Look, are you sure—?”
“Do you think I like this any better than you do?” Fiona had to be at the end of her rope. “What do you think it will do to my practice with the Amish if word gets out that I’m accusing one of them?” She paled. “Please—this doesn’t have to be public, does it? Maybe you can forget who told you.”
He stiffened. “I have to do my duty, no matter how little I like it.”
“I’m not asking you to break any laws.” Her eyes darkened. “But does doing my duty as a citizen have to cost me a big share of my practice? The Amish community is already wary of me.”
“I hope not.” He shook his head, suddenly bone-tired. “I won’t be making anything public while I’m conducting an investigation, but if it comes to an arrest, I can’t promise you anything.”
She gave a short nod, seeming to pull back into herself. “All right. I guess I can’t expect anything else.”
His duty stood like a barrier between them, and she must know it as well as he did. Unfortunately, there wasn’t a thing he could do about it.
Chapter Eight
“This is going to look terrific.” Nolie ran her paint roller over the wall of Fiona’s living room, then stood back to admire the effect of the light moss green. “I love to paint. It makes everything look so fresh and new.”