The Amish Bride

by Mindy Starns Clark

  “Okay.” I grinned

  “I’ll try to call tomorrow night.”

  I imagined him outside in the barn, in the freezing cold.

  “Sounds good,” I said. “I’ll talk to you then.”

  I held the phone in my hand for a moment, staring at the screen, overcome with loneliness. For comfort, I grabbed my magnifying glass and opened Sarah’s book, flipping to the first drawing of the hen. The next entry wasn’t dated, but it was after June 1903. She would have been thirteen or older. She wrote in cursive, I found Alvin looking through this book today. He ran and showed it to Mamm before I could get it back. I can’t draw in code—but at least I can write in one. I told Mamm I wished Alvin would grow up. She told me I needed to accept God’s will—and accept Alvin too.

  Next was a lemon cream pie recipe, then a bread recipe, and then a recipe for cabbage chowder. The next three entries were written in code. I reread the next one, not in code, dated December 27, 1910.

  Mrs. Gus Stoll. With no Alvin around, I won’t need to use my code anymore.

  What is the recipe for a good marriage? Women have told me to keep the house tidy…to cook a delicious meal every night…to never to go to bed angry… to put my husband before myself…to never criticize him in public. Respect is what Gus needs most, I think.

  Then three months later she wrote, Gus is always on the alert. Always has a plan. Always moving. Sometimes I just want him to sit still, but he is like a hawk, always circling around. Always absorbed in a task.

  I sat back, thinking for a moment.

  He is like a hawk.

  A hawk.

  The symbol for Gus was the hawk! I grinned, feeling like a code breaker.

  Still smiling, I continued reading, the next entries dated more than a year later.

  June 28, 1912—Recipe for a baby... The wise woman near LaGrange told me to use red clover blossom. I’ve been making a tea and drinking it every morning. I am ready to be a hen with a brood of babies. Gus prays for a baby for us. Still no baby.

  September 5, 1912—The wise woman recommends black cohosh now too. I’m taking it along with the red clover blossom. Still no baby. Mother Stoll asked me the other day if I had any unconfessed sin. I love my husband, but I have to say I don’t love living on his parents’ farm.

  October 10, 1912—Gus was injured in a hunting accident. Please God, I don’t care if You never give me a baby. Just let my husband live. I’ve been caring for him night and day, doing all I can.

  October 17, 1912—We buried Gus in the old cemetery outside of town. Alvin feels horrible. I almost think it’s harder on him than on me. His gun discharged as he jumped down from a boulder. He thought Gus was behind him and wasn’t as careful as he should have been, but Gus had circled around in front of him. The bullet entered Gus’s back and then out his stomach. At least he was conscious until the last day. He forgave Alvin, who is still beside himself with grief. Gus was so kind to him.

  I strive to follow Gus’s example, but my heart is so heavy.

  I will never remarry. Never be a mother. (I was still hoping, but I know for sure it’s not meant to be, now that Gus is gone.)

  November 28, 1912—I’ve moved back to the Home Place. Steeping a cup of sage, hoping it will help me rally. No one has told me to stop feeling sorry for myself, but if I don’t snap out of it pretty soon, they probably should. Alvin mopes around worse than I do.

  November 3, 1912—I caught Alvin with my book. He’s twenty-five and much too old for that. I guess it’s back to the code. I do wish he would grow up. I think he feels somehow responsible for me now, but the truth is I’m much more capable than he is.

  The next entries were all in code, even the dates. I felt as heartbroken as I did the first time I read it. Her husband, dead, at the hands of her brother. Sure, it was an accident, but what a tragedy. It made me all the more curious as far as Alvin. What was up with him?

  I didn’t understand how Sarah could marry again after losing Gus. If Ezra died, I knew I’d never marry. I closed the book, not able to bear going on to read about her second husband again. I fell asleep thinking about the Home Place, longing to visit it more than ever.

  The next morning I called Plain Treats, hoping it really was a bakery as I suspected. No one answered, so I left a message, saying I was thinking about moving to Indiana and wondered if they were hiring. I decided not to say I was a relative, afraid Rosalee might spill the beans to someone back here.

  In the evening she left a message in return. I was babysitting for a family in our church and changing a diaper when she called, so I couldn’t answer. Her voice was soft and somewhat tentative, typical of an older Amish woman using the phone. She said the bakery wasn’t hiring but might be in a couple of months. She told me to check back then.

  The bakery wasn’t hiring. While I was disappointed that she had no openings at the moment, I was thrilled to learn that I’d been correct. Plain Treats really was a bakery, and it was located at the Home Place, right next door to a dairy farm.

  Thank You, Lord, for making Your will for Ezra and me so clear.

  I spent the next stretch of days looking online for jobs and researching Indiana more when Zed wasn’t home. Mom had two births that week, so she was out quite a bit. When she was home, I mostly tried to avoid her. It was easy to avoid Zed. All I had to do was stay away from the computer, which he monopolized day and night when he was around.

  On Thursday Mom had several appointments near Mammi’s so I hitched a ride with her and spent the morning with my grandmother. I’d made cranberry scones the night before using a recipe from Sarah’s book, and I brought some along to have with our tea. She was in a chatty mood, telling me about a visit the day before with Ada and the twins.

  “Those little girls.” She laughed. “I think they take after their Uncle Ezra. They’re always up to something.”

  “Speaking of, I’m not sure you heard, but Ezra’s parents are thinking about buying a dairy, and before they do, they want Ezra to work on someone else’s dairy farm to learn the trade.”

  “Yes, I believe Klara and Alexander were talking about that just the other day,” Mammi replied. “Alexander has a cousin with a dairy farm down near Chambersburg, and he was thinking that might make a nice option.”

  I looked at her, wishing I knew if she’d heard the real reason they were sending Ezra away or not. I hoped not.

  “Actually, I was wondering if you thought your old dairy farm would be a possibility. Maybe he could go out there and work for the Kline family.”

  Her face fell into a frown. “All the way to Indiana? That’s so far.”

  “That’s what the Gundys want—to send him far from Lancaster County so he can broaden his horizons.”

  “I see. Well, at least that explains why Klara was skeptical of the Chambersburg idea. That wouldn’t take Ezra very far at all.”

  I exhaled. Judging by that remark, Mammi obviously hadn’t heard the full story, thank goodness.

  I took out my piece of paper and explained that I’d been doing some research on the computer. “There are two Darryl Klines near Nappanee, but I figured out which one lives next door to the Home Place. Do you think I should give his name and address to Ezra?”

  Mammi squinted at me. “I think it’s up to his family to find a place for him.”

  I folded the paper and put it back in my apron pocket, feeling a little sheepish. I’d fallen to a new low.

  Then she surprised me. “I’ll talk to Alice.”

  “No,” I said. “I shouldn’t have brought it up.” I regretted trying to manipulate her.

  “She’s coming over this afternoon. I’ll mention it and see what she thinks.”

  I went to pour the Earl Grey and serve the scones. Mammi wouldn’t remember what we’d talked about by the time Alice arrived—at least, that’s what I told myself. While we were waiting for the tea to cool, I pulled Sarah’s journal from my backpack. I asked her about the little flower, saying I was sure it was edelwe
iss.

  “Oh, ya.”

  “I thought so. It looks like the edelweiss carved into the side of the wooden box Lexie has.”

  Lexie and Ada both had carved wooden boxes just like the one I kept under my bed. All three boxes had been made by our ancestor Abraham Sommers, and though the carving on the lid of mine featured the Home Place, Lexie’s showed Abraham’s residence in Switzerland, a gorgeous mansion called Amielbach. Ada’s featured his childhood home and business, a bakery, in the Swiss town of Frutigen.

  “How about this?” I pointed to the drawing of the alpine horn, hoping she could see it. “Did your grandfather have one of these?”

  “He brought his with him from Switzerland.”

  “How big was it?”

  “As tall as he was,” she said. “I don’t know how he had room for it on the ship, much less once they got here and had to make their way across the country to Indiana.” She leaned back and closed her eyes. “I remember it as a child. He used to play ‘Amazing Grace’ on it, out in the pasture, under the willow tree by the pond.”

  “Wow.”

  She opened her eyes and met my gaze. “Wow is right. It wasn’t still at the Home Place by the time I was grown. I don’t know where it ended up. Maybe one of his older sons got it.”

  I held the book open to one of the recipe pages that had symbols drawn in across the top and bottom.

  “Remember when I said I thought the symbols represented people?” I asked.

  Mammi nodded.

  “Well, I’ve been pursuing that line of thought, and I think I’ve figured some of them out.”

  She gasped, her face lighting up like a lantern with a sparkling clean globe.

  Grinning, I pointed to the page and explained. “See this hawk? It represents Sarah’s first husband, Gus Stoll. This owl is her second husband, Clive Chapman. I’m guessing the eagle is David Berg, her third husband. Can you think of some reason she would have chosen an eagle to represent your father?”

  “I have no idea,” she said. “What about the hen? You mentioned that before.”

  “Right.” I flipped through the pages. “It’s the only symbol Sarah included through the entire journal from beginning to end. I’m guessing it represents her. An ongoing self-portrait of sorts.”

  “Oh, Ella. I think you’re figuring this out. We need to get you to the Home Place—and soon.”

  “I would really like that,” I said, calmly, “though let’s not share that idea with anyone else just yet, okay?” That was all I needed, for her to blab to Ezra’s grandmother about sending me to Indiana!

  Mammi nodded, a faraway look in her eyes. “Ya. Of course, dear.”

  “When was the last time you had contact with anyone from Indiana?”

  “Rosalee wrote to me faithfully for a while, but then she had some troubles of her own and I didn’t hear from her as often. I can’t remember the last time I received a letter from her…” Her voice trailed off. “And I really didn’t keep in touch with anyone else.”

  “What about your uncle Alvin? Did he have any children?”

  “No, he never married.”

  “Do you remember him?”

  “Oh, no. He died long before I was born. He lived at the Home Place his entire life, and my mother spoke quite fondly of him.”

  I couldn’t help but think of Alvin’s snooping when it came to Sarah’s book. “Really? She was positive toward him.”

  “Oh, ya. But also with regret. She said she didn’t fully comprehend until much later than she should have that there was something different about him. She said he was always childlike, and it took her years to accept and appreciate him for who God made him to be.”

  I wondered when Sarah’s opinion of her brother changed.

  Mammi yawned, so I closed the book and asked if she needed a rest.

  “Yes, but I’d like to have tea first. And one of whatever that is you brought. I always look forward to your treats.”

  “Well, then, you’ll appreciate these especially.” With a grin, I unveiled the plate of scones. Eyeing them expectantly, she chose one and took a bite. Her eyes widened with delight.

  “Oh, Ella, God bless you! These are the exact scones my mother used to make! You must have followed her recipe.”

  “To the letter.” I sat back and watched as she relished the confection. Despite the many years that showed in the wrinkles on her face, it wasn’t difficult at all to picture her as a little girl, enjoying her mother’s treats.

  Thinking of that little girl, regardless of my own ulterior motives at play here, I really did want to break the code for her sake.

  I wanted to bring her whatever truth of her mother’s she’d waited a lifetime to learn.

  The next evening my cousin Lexie called.

  “Just to check in,” she said, but I was certain Mom told her Zed had revealed his birth mother to me.

  I was touched that she cared, really, but I was still feeling raw.

  “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “It wasn’t my place.”

  “How long have you known it was Lydia?”

  “Since that day at Mammi’s, when James led the family come-to-the-truth session.”

  “You mean the family come-to-just-part-of-the-truth session?”

  “Ella, that’s not fair. This other information was Zed’s. Your mom couldn’t tell you before Zed was ready to know.”

  “Freddy Bayer is my father too.” I winced. Now I was sounding as if that was a good thing. “I had a right to know.”

  “I know it’s hard. I feel for you, I really do.”

  I muttered a thank-you.

  “So when are you going to see Freddy?”

  “I’m not.”

  “Why?” Her voice was incredulous.

  “Because I don’t want to.”

  “Aren’t you curious?”

  “No,” I answered. “And what’s up with you? You never met your birth mother.”

  “That’s different. She’s thousands of miles away. If she showed up in Oregon, you bet I’d make a point to see her.”

  “How’s James?” I asked, changing the subject.

  “Good.”

  “When are you two going to start a family?”

  “Ella.” Her voice was soft but firm.

  “Oh, come on. It’s not like you’re Amish. I can ask you things like that. You’re a nurse-midwife, for goodness’ sake.”

  She changed the subject anyway, asking how my job hunt was coming along. Because there wasn’t much to report, we only talked for a few more minutes before wrapping up the call.

  A little while later, Ezra sent me a text, asking if I wanted to go for a ride on his motorcycle. The rain had finally stopped, and it was unseasonably warm, even though snow was predicted for the next day. I kept my emotions in check as I said yes.

  I undid my bun and shook out my hair, changed into my jeans and a sweater, and put on my warm down jacket. I stayed in my room until I heard his motorcycle turn into the drive, and then I rushed down the stairs and nearly got out the door before I heard Mom’s voice from the kitchen.

  “Ella!”

  “I’ll be home soon.” I slipped through the front door, jumped down the steps, took my helmet from Ezra, and climbed on behind him.

  “There’s a party down by the canal,” he said. “Want to go?”

  I shrugged and then pulled my helmet on my head.

  “How about you?” I usually didn’t defer to him.

  “Not really.”

  “You know what sounds good?” I fastened the helmet.

  He shook his head.

  “Hot chocolate.” I positioned my arms around his waist.

  His face was still pointed toward me and a look of relief passed through his eyes. “At Nick’s?”

  I nodded. We hadn’t been there together for a couple of months, although I’d been in twice since then looking for a job. It was hard to put my finger on exactly what was so appealing about
the place. It was a strange mix of Italian and American desserts, soups, and breads in an old brick building with lots of charm, but the decor was a little outdated and actually pretty tacky.

  Thankfully it was open well into the evening.

  Ezra usually liked parties. At the first one I went to with him, I drank too much and really regretted it, but after that one bad experience, I learned to enjoy them. I met a lot of people—both Amish and Englisch. I met kids from my school I never would have known before, kids who, once they saw me at a party, thought of me in a whole different way. At least they noticed me after that, even if before then I’d been absolutely invisible to them.

  Everyone loved Ezra. He was funny and friendly. He didn’t drink much, and he seemed to get along with everyone. If a hot topic came up, he’d change the subject with a joke. People were drawn to him, including the Englisch girls. “You’re so lucky,” they would say to me. “He’s the best guy around.”

  I snuggled closer to him, trying to stop shivering. It was too cold to be out on a motorcycle, even if it was warmer than it had been. In a couple of months it would be motorcycle weather, though. I wondered what it would be like to take his motorcycle to Indiana but then caught myself. There was no reason for me to get my hopes up.

  By the time we reached Nick’s Bakery, I’d stopped shivering. It really would be the perfect place for me to work, somewhere I could get both baking and waitressing experience. I led the way into the shop, my helmet under my arm. I didn’t recognize the girl at the counter, so I asked if she was new. She said she was, hired just last week.

  I tried not to pout as I placed my order for a cup of hot chocolate and a pain au chocolat. Ezra mimicked my French accent as he ordered, shooting me a teasing look.

  “What does she have that I don’t?” I asked as we sat down at the table.

  Ezra pulled a napkin from the dispenser. “Experience?”

  I slouched against the bench. “How much experience does it take?”

  He shrugged and smiled. I glanced around the eating area. It was as boring as could be. Old vinyl booths lined the walls. Cheaply framed posters of European landmarks—the Eiffel Tower, Big Ben, the Coliseum, and the Pantheon—hung on the white walls above the booths, but that was it as far as decor. I had no idea if Nick was French or Italian or maybe even Greek. We actually only saw girls around my age working in the bakery.