SummerHill Secrets, Volume 2

by Beverly Lewis

  “Well, I just got home,” I explained. “So…you must’ve found my pictures.” I tingled with excitement.

  “Yes, yes, they’re here.”

  “Oh, thank you, sir. I’ll pick them up first thing tomorrow.” I paused, grinning at Chelsea. Then, turning my attention to the voice on the phone, I said, “You’ll hang on to them for me, won’t you?”

  “I certainly will, young lady. Glad to be of service.”

  Actually, when it came right down to it, I couldn’t wait to see the photos. The minute Mom arrived, I pleaded with her to drive with me down to the photo lab. She had other things on her mind.

  “Evidently, you girls haven’t heard the latest,” Mom was saying.

  “About what?” I asked, peering wide-eyed at Chelsea.

  “It seems that someone has discovered a page of repetitious writing—something similar to what’s in your mother’s diary, Chelsea.” Mom looked at her, then me.

  “Where?” Chelsea asked.

  Mom’s eyes shone. “In a gas station somewhere in the area of Mt. Pisgah.”

  “Really?” I couldn’t believe it.

  Mom said, “The news report I just heard indicated that a cult group has been located and certain members identified.”

  “This is so-o incredible!” Chelsea exclaimed.

  I gave her a squeeze. “Your dad’s probably beside himself, don’t you think?”

  Chelsea nodded. “I’d really like to go home. Do you mind, Mer?”

  “Of course not—you’re outta here!” I was delighted.

  Mom let me drive the short distance up the steep grade to drop Chelsea off at her house.

  “Do you think this could be the end of the ordeal?” I glanced over at Mom as we headed toward town.

  Her eyes were thoughtful. “Keep praying. These situations are never open-and-shut cases, as you might think. Chelsea’s mother won’t come home unless she chooses to do so, which is highly unlikely. And that probably won’t happen for a long, long time.”

  I thought about that for a moment. “Wouldn’t Mrs. Davis have to be totally brainwashed if she doesn’t want to come home? I can’t understand it!”

  “People—normal, intelligent people—fall prey to cult recruiting every day, Merry.” She reached over, resting her hand on my shoulder.

  “I sure hope someone can help Mrs. Davis.” I bit my lower lip.

  Mom sighed. “Your father doesn’t offer much hope for her return, at least not of her own free will.”

  “What are you saying?” My throat felt as if a lump was lodged in it.

  “This is absolutely not to get out.” When I looked over at Mom, her eyes were serious. “You must not breathe a word to Chelsea or to anyone else. Do you understand?”

  Eyes back on the road, I nodded, wondering what she would say.

  She sighed audibly. “Mr. Davis has been talking with Dad about the possibility of kidnapping his wife and having her deprogrammed.”

  I gasped. “Chelsea’s dad would kidnap his own wife to get her back?”

  “Desperate family members do it all the time.”

  This was unbelievable. “When will it happen?” I asked.

  “I don’t know for sure, but I think it will be soon. The longer he waits, the longer her rehabilitation could be.”

  “But it’s only been five days since she left,” I said.

  “Five days of living with a power-crazed leader who orders everything his followers do and sometimes say—from their bedtimes to the amount of hours they’re permitted to sleep, to the way they interact with each other, to what they eat.…”

  I got the picture. Besides that, I remembered Chelsea hinting that the mind-controlling techniques had probably started weeks before her mom ever left. And there was Mrs. Davis’s long-standing fascination with the occult.

  The photo lab was within view now. I thought about the things Mom had told me as I pulled up to the curb and parked. “I’ll wait for you here,” Mom said.

  I hopped out, feeling a bit numb. Yet I was eager to lay eyes on my options for the photo contest. Quickly, I closed the car door and headed toward the shop.

  Inside, no one was tending the register. I waited impatiently for several minutes before I rang the bell on the counter.

  The old man peeked around the corner, smiled a grin of recognition, and lumbered across the room. “Yes, yes,” he said. “You’re the young lady who called.”

  I nodded, dying to get my hands on the photos.

  He thumbed through the alphabetized packages, half humming, half muttering to himself. “Ah, here we are. Merry Hanson of SummerHill Lane.” He handed the package to me and proceeded to ring up the amount.

  Anxiously, I tore open the package and carefully slid out the five-by-seven color glossies. I held up the first photo—a picture of a tall, stand-up antique radio.

  “These aren’t my pictures.” I looked at the next and the next. “None of these photos are mine.” My voice quivered.

  The old man lowered his spectacles and peered over the top of them. “What did you say?”

  I held up the prints, showing him. “These aren’t my pictures. I didn’t take pictures of antique furniture.”

  A frown furrowed his brow. “Well, let’s have a look.” He checked the film size and the special instruction section on the package. Bewildered, he glanced up at me. “Must be some sort of mix-up.”

  No kidding, I thought.

  I inhaled deeply. “How could this possibly happen?”

  He shrugged. “I’ve never seen anything like this. Not here.”

  “What do you mean, sir?” Worry clutched my throat. “Did someone get my pictures by mistake?”

  “Well, it certainly seems that way, but it was a simple oversight,” he said, pausing to scratch his chin. “Let’s see. You brought your film in yesterday morning.”

  “That’s right, yesterday—Monday.” I was in the process of making a mental note to boycott this photo shop forever—never, ever to darken the door again!

  Someone came in the door behind me. It was Mom.

  “Is everything all right?” she asked cheerfully.

  I explained the problem, and Mom reacted kindly to the old man. Certainly more compassionately than I had.

  “My daughter’s very talented,” she was saying. “The school photography event means everything to her.”

  He nodded, fumbling around in his pocket for a stick of gum. “We’ll just have to sit tight and wait it out and hope the other customer opens the package and discovers the mistake.”

  I cleared my throat, attempting to speak without shouting and without chewing him out—which is definitely what I thought the wrinkled-faced guy deserved. “Sit tight?” I was losing it, plain and simple. “I can’t do any such thing! I need those pictures immediately.”

  For a split second, I wished my dad was an attorney instead of an ER doctor. Thoughts of a lawsuit zipped around in my mind.

  Mom wrapped up things politely and ushered me out of the store. I fussed and fumed all the way home, desperately trying to push thoughts of Ashley Horton and Stiggy Eastman out of my head.

  Chapter

  20

  Supper lasted longer than usual with Mom lecturing me about my horrid behavior at the photo lab. I tried to explain why the pictures were so important.

  “They weren’t just any shots, Mom. You should’ve seen the lighting that day—I mean, it was something out of a masterpiece painting. Honest.”

  She wasn’t impressed. “Terrific or not, you mustn’t ever lose your temper like that. The man was only trying to do his job and cover for the owners. You heard him.”

  I’d heard him all right, and the timing for a New York trip couldn’t have been worse.

  Dad showed up when we were half finished with supper. He avoided my questions about the kidnapping and subsequent deprogramming of Mrs. Davis. He and Mom wanted to discuss things alone—I wasn’t dense—so I excused myself and went to the family room to watch TV.


  Within minutes, a news bulletin about Mrs. Davis came on. “Mom, Dad!” I called. “Come quick!”

  They came in and stood watching as the reporter linked the strange repetitious writing to a commune of cult members hidden away in a remote hilly area several miles west of Lancaster.

  “This is similar to the report I heard on the radio earlier,” Mom mentioned.

  “I wonder if Chelsea and her dad are watching,” I said.

  Dad nodded with an air of certainty. “They’re doing more than watching. They’re probably recording this right now.” That’s all he would say.

  I fidgeted, eyeing my parents more than the TV screen. Annoyed and frustrated, I finally got up and left the room. They weren’t going to clue me in, that was one-hundred-percent-amen clear!

  So…not only had Chelsea and I kept secrets from the world, now it seemed my parents had secrets of their own.

  I phoned Chelsea from Dad’s study, out of earshot. “Did you see the news report just now?” I asked when she answered.

  “Did I ever! Wow, it looks like another one of your prayers was answered. You’ve been praying, haven’t you, Mer?” I heard her sigh.

  “I said I would, didn’t I?”

  She ignored my comment. “I can only hope Mom’s okay…if they find her!”

  “Me too.” Then I got up the nerve, after former repeated rejections, to invite her to church this Sunday. “You’ll never guess what we’re studying in the high school class.” I told her about the angel stories Mr. Burg had shared with us last week.

  “Really? Angels?” She paused for a moment. Then—“Sure, I’ll come.”

  I nearly swallowed my tonsils. “Great, we’ll pick you up.”

  Joy, oh joy! I completely forgot the mistake at the photo lab. My woes had vanished, just like my pictures.

  Unfortunately, Chelsea asked about them. “Did you get your photos back?”

  “Oh, that. Well…” And I began to fill her in, leaving out the part about feeling hostile and angry. Mom was right. My behavior had been mighty pitiful. Coming on the heels of this good news from Chelsea—that she was coming with me to church—well, I wanted to alter my attitude problem right then and there. Photo lab flub or not.

  The next day at high noon, Chelsea, Lissa, and I showed up at the sandwich shop. We sat in the booth right behind Ashley and Stiggy. They didn’t seem to mind, probably because we pretended not to be interested.

  Chelsea hammed it up a bit much, though, calling it a coincidence that all of us had shown up for lunch at the same place. “Who would’ve thought!” She laughed to herself as she scooted past their table.

  Later, when the right moment presented itself, Lissa got up and went to the ladies’ room. Chelsea and I talked about everything under the sun, except the latest report about the commune. I kept my promise to Mom and didn’t say a word about her dad’s plans to kidnap-rescue her mother.

  On the way back from the rest room, Lissa just happened to saunter up to Stiggy’s side of the table, where he was showing off his art portfolio. “Wow,” she said, staring at the picture. “Is this a winning photograph or what?”

  It was our cue to get out of our seats and rush over. And we did. All three of us girls leaned over the award-winning picture, gawking.

  The photo was a city scene—the square in downtown Lancaster. The street glistened with a covering of rain.

  I looked more closely. Brightly colored umbrellas, Central Market in the background, and people scurrying by—the whole offering lent itself to award status. The subtle play of light and shadow on the pavement made for a delightful picture.

  “Did you take the shot right after sunup?” I asked.

  “Excellent perception,” Stiggy replied. “You must be a photographer, too.”

  “Man, is she ever,” Lissa piped up, even though I tried to get her to hush. “You should see her gallery of pictures.”

  “Right,” I said.

  “Oh, Merry, don’t be so modest,” Chelsea said. “You’re so good my grandmother wants to pay you to take pictures of her for her Christmas card this year.” She turned to Stiggy. “Trust me, Merry’s good!”

  I smiled. “Thanks, but this guy’s photography is truly amazing.” I turned the group’s attention back to Stiggy’s work.

  He seemed flattered by our oohing and ahhing, and Ashley really didn’t know what to make of it. She never said a word to distract us, but I wondered if she wasn’t feeling a bit ticked off despite not showing it.

  Finally, she got around to introducing all of us to Stiggy. He forced a half smile and soaked in the recognition while twiddling his thumbs. He sat tall in the booth, shifting his dark brown eyes from one girl to another. It seemed as though he’d never had to deal with accolades before. Reluctantly, we headed back to our table to finish lunch.

  It wasn’t until Friday after school that I began to freak out over Ashley. She followed me as I headed for the school bus. “What’s your subject matter going to be?” And before I could reply, she added, “Surely you’ve decided by now.”

  I didn’t tell her my subject matter had been swallowed up at the photo lab down the street. And still no word from the old man running the place. Not even a phone call to apologize!

  Chapter

  21

  I griped to Dad at supper. “How on earth could something like this happen? You’d think after all this time someone would be wondering where his pictures are and want to trade the wrong ones for his own.”

  Dad nodded rather apathetically between bites.

  With my fork, I poked at the carrots on my plate. “The photos of ancient furniture were probably taken by some antique dealer. I wonder if I should call around to all the dealers in town and see if they’ve lost some pictures.”

  Mom zeroed in on the word antique. It defined her main interest in life. “It does seem strange that someone would take pictures of antique furniture unless they were recording them for an inventory of some kind,” she suggested.

  “But why the enlargements—full-color glossies?” I asked, noting that Mom seemed as perplexed as I.

  Dad offered no help, and I was really beginning to wonder about his preoccupied state. Was the Davis kidnapping attempt coming up? Maybe this weekend?

  Mom had little to say on the Davis subject when I pumped her for answers as we cleared the kitchen table. Both my parents were keeping a tight lid on things. “I wish you’d never told me anything about rescuing Mrs. Davis,” I finally blurted out in sheer frustration.

  “I only told you about it so you would pray” came the terse reply. There was no messing with Mom.

  Tired of inquiring, I dropped the subject. When the kitchen was cleaned to Mom’s satisfaction, I went upstairs and pulled out Levi Zook’s letter. I reread it straight through; then I found some floral stationery and began to write.

  An hour later, Ashley Horton called.

  “Merry, hi,” she said. “I hope I’m not calling you at a bad time.”

  Now what? I wondered.

  “This is fine,” I said.

  “Well, I’m beginning to wonder if I should even bother to enter the photo contest,” Ashley whined.

  “Really?”

  “Oh, I don’t know, I guess I’m getting cold feet after hearing how astounding Stiggy’s entry is supposed to be this year.”

  “This year’s photo?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Have you seen it?” I asked.

  “Well, no.”

  “Then how can you possibly know if it’s any good?” She was silent.

  “I sure haven’t heard anything wonderful about his latest entry—except from you. Maybe Stiggy’s trying to scare off his competition.”

  “Why would he want to do that?” she asked.

  “Who knows? Maybe his picture isn’t really all that great, and he’s just saying it is.”

  “Oh, Merry,” she gushed, “I wish I’d called you earlier about this. I’ve worried too much.”

  I s
ighed. “Just do your best. That’s all any of us can do.”

  “That’s what Jonathan keeps telling me.”

  My heart flipped hearing his name. “Well, he’s right, you know.”

  She sighed into the phone. “I think he must be right about everything.”

  I thought I’d die or drop the phone. Or both. She was talking about my Jon. Again!

  “Merry? You still there?”

  “I’m here.” I wished I weren’t!

  “What do you think of Jonathan Klein?”

  Who is she kidding? I thought. I wondered if steam was spouting out my ears yet.

  “I’ve known Jon for a very long time,” I found myself bragging. “He and I go way back.”

  “Oh really? How far?”

  I wanted so badly to start alliterating to see if she could do it, too. Wanted to show her up any way I could, but I gripped the phone with my left hand and pulled on my shirt with my right.

  “Why don’t you ask Jon?” I blurted.

  “About you and him?”

  “Sure, if you want.”

  “Okay,” she sounded a bit reluctant. “He’s coming over in a few minutes.”

  Now I felt really foolish. What if she asked him about me like I was fishing to find out how he felt? That secondhand girl-asks-boy stuff was so junior high, and it certainly wasn’t what I’d had in mind!

  “Jon’s going to help me with my photo shoot,” she explained. “In fact, that might be him at the door now. I’d better get going. Well, ’bye, Merry. See you Sunday.”

  My heart was pounding ninety miles an hour as I hung up. This girl was driving me bazookas!

  It was a good thing I’d nearly finished writing my letter to Levi before Ashley called. My mind was so clogged up with the phone conversation that I simply put the letter away. I did remember, however, to cut out one of my wallet-sized school pictures and slip it into the envelope.

  Standing at the window, I surveyed the cornfield across SummerHill Lane. I recounted Ashley’s words and decided that she’d actually called me to flaunt Jon. He was coming to her house—that’s why she’d called. All that baloney about Stiggy and his wonderful work…it had nothing to do with anything.