The Bridesmaid

by Beverly Lewis

  © 2012 by Beverly M. Lewis, Inc.

  Published by Bethany House Publishers

  11400 Hampshire Avenue South

  Bloomington, Minnesota 55438

  www.bethanyhouse.com

  Bethany House Publishers is a division of

  Baker Publishing Group, Grand Rapids, Michigan

  www.bakerpublishinggroup.com

  Ebook edition created 2012

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—for example, electronic, photocopy, recording—without the prior written permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.

  ISBN 978-1-4412-6039-0

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is on file at the Library of Congress, Washington, DC.

  Scripture quotations are from the King James Version of the Bible.

  This story is a work of fiction. With the exception of recognized historical figures, all characters and events are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to any person, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Cover design by Dan Thornberg, Design Source Creative Services

  Art direction by Paul Higdon

  With love

  to my beautiful cousins—

  Cindy, Diana and Sharon,

  Shelley and Brenda,

  and Kendra.

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Epilogue

  Author’s Note

  By Beverly Lewis

  Back Ads

  Back Cover

  Prologue

  Three times a bridesmaid, never a bride.”

  That’s just what my younger sister said about me—in front of our engaged cousins, no less—most of them planning to marry come Amish wedding season. A mere five months away.

  Seventeen-year-old Cora Jane’s words echoed in my head . . . and rippled through my heart. Jah, she was as superstitious as many of us in Hickory Hollow, but to be so glib about announcing it?

  There I was, sitting on the sand at Virginia Beach, surrounded by oodles of Englischers—families with little children, young couples, and singles like me. All had come for the sunset. Some were celebrating more than others, relaxing on their portable beach chairs with cans of soft drinks.

  Meanwhile, my younger Witmer cousins, Malinda, Ruthann, and Lena—first cousins to each other—and my fair-haired sister Cora Jane were up yonder on the boardwalk, laughing and eating cotton candy. Sighing, I recalled Cousin Malinda earlier today, looking mighty excited when she asked me to be in her wedding. We had been packing sandwiches with Cora Jane and the others for a picnic lunch when Malinda leaned over to ask me, her face pink from more than the June sun. If I was to agree, it would be the third time I’d be a Newesitzer—side sitter, or attendant in a wedding.

  “It just ain’t schmaert, Joanna,” Cora Jane warned, her big blue eyes flashing. “You’re already twenty-four, ya know!”

  And still a Maidel. I shrugged away the wretched thought. Drawing a long breath, I tried to relax on the beach, alone with my writing notebook . . . away from Cousin Malinda and other relatives who’d come to attend tomorrow’s funeral for my great-uncle Amos Kurtz. We’d traveled in large vans to honor the eighty-eight-year-old deacon, who was revered in Hickory Hollow and the Shipshewana, Indiana, church district where he later lived. As a result, many Amish had come to pay last respects and to offer comfort to his elderly widow. Years ago Amos and Martha had retired here in Virginia, joining a growing community of other aging Amish near the ocean they loved.

  My thoughts returned to Cousin Malinda’s upcoming wedding—and her kindly request. Although I’d once yearned for a beau and marriage, I’d given up on love. And I wished I’d never confided in Cora Jane about any of that. I rejected her pity—and anyone else’s, for that matter. Goodness knows, I’ve dished out enough of that on myself!

  Opening my notebook to the end of the last scene in my current story, I pushed my bare feet into the warm sand, still wearing my green dress and matching cape apron. My white organdy Kapp was safely in the hotel room—no sense in getting it unnecessarily soiled. Even so, as I sat fretting and looking ever so Plain amongst all the folk in skimpy bathing suits and shorts, I knew I must be a peculiar spectacle. The years of wearing Amish attire at market and elsewhere outside the confines of the community had led me to accept the fact there would always be curious stares.

  But soaking up the ocean spray and salty scent was worth any amount of attention. Oh, the wonderful-gut feeling of the sea breeze against my hair, still up in a tight bun. How I longed to let it down . . . let the wind blow through it. Still, I didn’t want to add to the misconceptions far too many Englischers already had about us, some even from novels they’d read.

  My pen poised, I played my favorite what-if game as I began to write. The squeal of a sea gull caught my attention as the sun fell, faster now it seemed, behind me, over my shoulders, its gleaming rays fanning out to the clouds high above. I leaned back and stared at the evolving light show above me, letting my mind wander as I watched beachcombers and shell collectors. Certainly I hadn’t meant to be rude, ignoring Malinda’s request.

  Yet, dare I accept?

  Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed a tall Amish fellow walking barefoot in the foamy surf, snapping pictures every few seconds. A curious sight, to be sure! His black pant legs were rolled up, and he was minus his straw hat. His light brown hair fell below his ears, longer than that of the young men in the Hickory Hollow church district back home. I could scarcely pry my gaze from him.

  “What’s he doin’ here?” I whispered, observing his amble through the gentle breakers, his handsome face aglow with a rosy cast.

  Then, surprisingly, he glanced over at me.

  “Hullo there.” He smiled in the fading golden light.

  I almost looked around to make sure his greeting was meant for me. “Hullo,” I managed to reply, quickly closing my notebook.

  As the sky dimmed, he moved away from the water and walked right toward me. “Mind if I join ya?”

  “Nee, not at all.”

  He sat down beside me, pointing to a black ship on the horizon.

  “Jah, awful perty.” I felt too shy to say more.

  We sat, not speaking, amidst the smell of popcorn and sea air while beams of red, pink, and gold sprayed the sky from the west.

  “No wonder people thought the earth was flat, back before Columbu
s,” he said quietly.

  I nodded. “Sure looks that way from here.”

  “Ever see anything like this?”

  “My first visit to the ocean,” I admitted. “So, no.”

  He turned slowly, unexpectedly. “I’m Eben Troyer, from Indiana.” His smile was disarming.

  “Joanna Kurtz . . . from Hickory Hollow.”

  “Ah, Pennsylvania, where some of my cousins grew up. But I’ve never been there—unique name for a town, jah?”

  We talked further, and I soon learned that soft-spoken Eben had come here for his deacon’s funeral. I could hardly wait to say that it was the same service my family and I had come to attend.

  “Well, how’s that for a coincidence?” he said, his features growing faint in the twilight.

  He showed me his camera, saying he took mostly pictures of landscapes and animals, same as our bishop, John Beiler, allowed. “Rarely pictures of people,” he remarked . . . although the way Eben brought it up, he almost sounded like he wanted to take my picture.

  His attention flabbergasted me, but it was ever so pleasing. No one had ever sought me out like this. For sure and for certain, my family and every last one of my girl cousins had written me off as destined to be an alt Maidel.

  “How long are ya here for?” he asked, his smile warming my heart anew.

  “Three days, counting today.”

  Then Eben surprised me again, asking if I’d like to walk with him to the fishing pier down yonder. I agreed, and he politely offered his hand as I got up from my sandy perch. Oh, glory be, we must’ve walked for miles into the night. So far and so long we got ourselves plumb lost trying to find our way back.

  Following the funeral the next day, Eben and I hurried again to the beach. There, we waded into the ocean up to our knees—in our clothes, of all silly things. And later, after the sun and wind dried us out some, we rented a bicycle built for two and rode up and down the boardwalk, the warm air on our faces. We ate chili dogs and ice cream under the fishing pier, and his eyes rested on me when he said, “I’ve never known a better day, Joanna.”

  My heart pounded in my ears.

  That evening and the next, we met at sunset, laughing together and talking about whatever popped into our heads until, wonder of wonders, Eben reached for my hand! My heart beat so wildly, I wondered if he sensed it. All I could think of was our interlaced fingers.

  But all too soon, we had to part ways, our private time together at an end. He asked for my address, and I happily gave it. In such a short time, we’d become so dear to each other. I tried not to cry.

  Our meeting on the beach—as romantic and special as it was—birthed a renewed hope in me. After all, it was nearly a blight on any Amish girl to still be single at my age. Ach, but Eben Troyer had surely changed all of that. Surely he had. . . .

  Then and there, I decided it was safe to go out on a limb. I agreed to be Cousin Malinda’s bridesmaid, hoping with all of my heart to prove wrong my sister’s pointed warning.

  Chapter 1

  If Joanna hadn’t witnessed it, she wouldn’t have believed Cousin Malinda would break down and cry on the morning of her wedding. Certainly all the preparations were stressful, and November’s weather was also quite unpredictable—today was undeniably disappointing, with rain making down in sheets. But is that reason to shed tears on your wedding day? Joanna wondered.

  Neither of the other two brides Joanna had stood up with had wept before going downstairs to make their marriage vows. But then, neither of those weddings had taken place on days with a cloudburst and deafening thunder.

  Standing before the bishop with Malinda and her tall, brown-eyed Andrew, Joanna hoped her cousin wasn’t moving ahead with something she might later regret. Once the sacred promises were made, there was no looking back. Marriage was to be honored for life.

  Surely Cousin Malinda’s tears were related instead to something other than second thoughts or cold feet. Oh, Joanna hoped so. Something to do with a blend of many emotions, maybe?

  Through the windows, she saw the last vestiges of leaves falling in the downpour, the sky a slate gray. It nearly looked like nightfall, even though it was closer to noon.

  Returning her attention to the bride and groom, Joanna was relieved to see Malinda look up adoringly at Andrew just as Bishop Beiler pronounced them husband and wife. “In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost.”

  After the tears, only love remains, Joanna thought, aware of the reverent spirit in the temporary house of worship. So many church members were present today, as well as extended family from other districts and even Englischer friends.

  O Lord, bless Cousin Malinda and her husband, Andrew, with your loving care, Joanna prayed silently.

  All during the wedding feast and the fellowshipping that afternoon, the rain continued, pouring over the eaves and streaming down the windowpanes. Then, lo and behold, it turned to sleet . . . and later to snow, with thick flakes filling the sky.

  “Such a lot of weather for a single day,” Joanna overheard Malinda’s mother saying to Andrew’s, a heavyset woman in her late fifties.

  “Makes things interesting, jah?” Andrew’s mother replied, making note of the edible wedding novelties for the bride and groom at the Eck, the special corner of the wedding table. Besides sticks of chewing gum and wrapped candies, there were little animals made from Rice Krispies and candy. And miniature buggies made from marshmallows, hitched with toothpicks to animal cracker horses.

  Joanna nodded absentmindedly from the corner where she and several other single girls, including her golden-haired cousins, Ruthann and Lena, stood talking and nibbling on sweets.

  Cora Jane was there, too, looking exceptionally pretty in her bright green dress and white apron. “To be honest, weather ain’t the only thing amiss today,” she said, looking askance at Joanna.

  For goodness’ sake, thought Joanna, letting the remark slide over her, even though it felt like an ocean wave threatening to topple her. True, this was the third time she’d served as a bridesmaid, but now that Eben Troyer was in her life, she wanted to set foolish superstition aside and just enjoy the day.

  Joanna thought back to the beautiful beach where she’d met handsome Eben. How she yearned to hear his voice, the way he’d said her name as they walked together. It was easy to fall into that daydream; she missed him terribly. She would not soon forget the delightful day at the mailbox last summer when she’d laid eyes on Eben’s first letter, her name and address written in his strong hand. It was the beginning of their long-distance friendship, now blossoming into something so much more. She secretly treasured that special letter, having read and reread it before tucking it safely away in a wooden letter box in her hope chest. It was there that Joanna kept her most treasured possessions, including her writing notebooks.

  Around midafternoon, copies of the German hymnal, the Ausbund, were passed around, and a special wedding Singing began for the newlyweds’ enjoyment, with the courting-age youth sitting in pairs at the feast table. Such a happy time, Joanna encouraged herself, out of place though she felt at such gatherings anymore.

  She put on a smile when she spied good-looking Jake Lantz, also known as Freckles Jake, sitting across the front room. The nickname arose from the freckles dotting his nose and cheekbones. His tall, robust frame proved he was hardworking, the kind of young man any Amish girl would welcome as a beau. His sandy hair and hazel eyes were identical to those of his younger brother, Jesse, who sat nearby, singing with other fellows in their late teens. Though Jake was twenty-three, both brothers were still quite single—according to the rumors, Jake had scared off a couple of girls on the first date, wanting to hold hands too soon.

  Remembering that Eben had taken her hand in his the last evening they’d been together, Joanna couldn’t help but smile as she sang with the others. Eben’s gesture had been so natural, an outgrowth of their shared affection.

  Between songs, Joanna chuckled over the candies made to look like littl
e airplanes that decorated the table in front of her. When did make-believe planes become the norm at Amish weddings?

  Suddenly, she was again aware of Jake’s gaze and felt a wave of pity for him, feeling as sorry for him as she had for herself last year around this time, at her first wedding as a bridesmaid. No doubt Jake just wanted to marry and get on with life. Maybe if he’d had a sister, he’d know better how to treat a girl. . . .

  Later, Joanna poured her heart into the gospel song “I Love to Tell the Story,” one of her favorites. But she wasn’t able to put Jake out of her mind for long. Several times over the course of the afternoon he caught her eye, and as Joanna learned later, he even went so far as to ask Malinda to pair him up with Joanna for the evening barn Singing.

  “He’s awful sweet on ya, cousin,” Malinda herself revealed to Joanna in whispered tones prior to the evening meal.

  But Joanna gave no indication she’d heard . . . nor did she say she was no longer available. Best to hold to tradition and keep Eben a secret—at least till the proper time.

  After the wedding supper, Joanna and the other courting-age young folk headed to the barn for the regular Singing. The evening was still, without a hint of a breeze. If it were summer, she might be sitting out by the pond beyond their barn, bare feet in the water . . . her writing notebook on her lap. Out there, with the occasional breeze, she could keep her stories from prying eyes, especially Cora Jane’s. It was one thing for Joanna to keep a daily journal, but quite another to write made-up stories, since fiction was frowned upon by the ministerial brethren.