SummerHill Secrets, Volume 2

by Beverly Lewis

  “Waiting for my English cousin.”

  “C’mon.” I grinned at her, and the two of us headed inside, arm in arm.

  For once in a blue moon, Mom wasn’t waiting with hot cocoa, freshly baked cookies, and a big smile as we entered the house. But my cat quartet was snug at home, and they came bounding down the main hall toward Rachel and me.

  “Well, look at all of you,” I said, bending down to pet each one.

  Rachel put up with my fussing over the cats, though she seemed antsy to get on with what she wanted to discuss.

  “Want something hot? A snack, maybe?” I asked.

  “Hot chocolate’s nice.” She followed me down the hallway to the kitchen. There on the counter, I discovered a scribbled note.

  Merry—

  I mixed up some cocoa for you to warm…there’s a new batch of cookies in the pantry.

  You mustn’t worry when you read this. Daddy wasn’t feeling too well this morning, so I’m heading to town to be with him.

  Love you, honey,

  Mom

  I almost laughed—sarcastically, that is. “Don’t worry, she says.” How was that possible?

  “What’sa matter?” Rachel asked.

  Her voice startled me. “Uh…I…my dad got sick, I guess,” I told her.

  “How sick?”

  Suddenly, I was no longer interested in heating a chocolate drink for either Rachel or myself. “Excuse me for a second,” I said, heading to my father’s study down the hall.

  “I could come back another time,” Rachel was calling to me from the kitchen.

  “Just wait. I want to call the hospital.” I hurried into the study and picked up the phone.

  Something’s weird about this, I thought as I punched the numbers. When the hospital information person came on the line, I asked if Doctor Hanson had been admitted.

  “Yes, he’s in room 127. One moment, please.” I thought she’d never connect me.

  “Hello?” my mother answered, and I was truly relieved to hear her voice.

  “Mom, what’s going on?”

  She sighed. “Oh, honey, it’s been a frightening day, but Daddy’s going to be all right.”

  “What do you mean? What happened?”

  “I don’t want you to worry about this, Merry,” she said. “Your father’s ulcer flared up again, but he’s going to be fine.”

  “He’d better be,” I mumbled, tears welling up. “Can I see him?”

  “Not tonight, but soon. He’s going to spend the night here…they’ll be doing additional testing first thing in the morning.” She sounded tired, and I knew I was pushing my luck to keep asking questions.

  “Tell Daddy I love him,” I said. “And you, too.”

  “I’ll be home later, after supper sometime,” she said. “There’s plenty of food in the fridge. You won’t starve.”

  “No problem, Mom, I’ll warm up something. Count on me.”

  “Thanks, Merry. I’ll see you soon.”

  I hung up, strangely aware of steam whistling lightly in the radiator under the window next to me.

  Pulling the curtain back, I looked out. The sky was trying to show its icy-blue face, but low clouds kept interfering, skimming across like white, wooly lambs chasing each other in the springtime.

  “Oh, Lord Jesus, help my dad,” I whispered to the heavenlies. “Please…”

  Quickly, I headed back to the kitchen and filled Rachel in as I set about getting something to soothe us.

  She played with the strings that hung down from her Kapp, staring at the table. “Ya know, I think about things like this, Cousin Merry. That is, if something unexpected would happen to me, ya know.”

  “You’re too young to worry like that! You’re not going anywhere, Rachel—I’m telling you right now.”

  She looked up at me, her voice shaky as she spoke. “I’ve actually worried what would happen if I died before—”

  “Before what, Rachel? What on earth are you talking about?” I asked her sharply.

  “There are certain things I wanna do. Hafta do. Not because I wish to hurt my parents or disobey the bishop. It goes deeper in me than any of that.”

  I suspected where she was going with this. “You’re talking about the picture you want taken. Am I right?”

  “Jah.” She nodded her head.

  “Well, if it means that much to you.”

  She stood up suddenly. “Ya’ll do it for me? Honest, ya will?”

  I stirred her hot chocolate and placed it down on the mat in front of her. “I’m your very own personal photographer.”

  I must’ve been out of my mind to agree to her wishes, but those no-nonsense blue eyes were far too serious to ignore. We were distant cousins, for pete’s sake!

  Chapter

  8

  My mother still hadn’t returned home as I headed for bed. I’d finished all my homework, even chatted on the phone with Chelsea and Lissa for a while—filling up the emptiness in the house.

  I never mentioned a thing about Dad spending the night in the hospital. Just wasn’t in the mood to talk to them about it, especially because I didn’t really know what was wrong.

  Welcoming the dark, I slipped into bed and pulled the sheets up around my head. Turning on my side, I held Lily White close. The freshly laundered smell of my pillow slip reminded me that most likely Mom was the one bearing the brunt of the day’s trauma.

  In many ways, she and I were alike. She took charge when there was a crisis, automatically it seemed. I was the same way. “Miss-Fix-It,” I’d called myself in the past. But I felt as if I might be mellowing a bit when it came to being such a rescuer.

  Still, in rethinking my answer to Rachel’s request for a photograph, I should’ve refused. The “old” Merry might’ve. But I was feeling more adventuresome these days, and I felt it was time to change things about myself. Not that I’d be one-hundred-percent-amen successful.

  Thankfully, it wasn’t going to be a stormy night. It’s hard to feel confident during a storm—makes you feel helpless, almost childlike. With my older brother, Skip, away at college and Mom becoming more involved in collecting antiques, which involved some travel, I had to be at home alone at least occasionally.

  So tonight I was thankful for a moon and a starlit sky. Feeling cozy under my comforter, I talked to God, expressing my concern for Dad. “Please let him know you’re there with him, and bring my mother home safely. In Jesus’ name, Amen.”

  I don’t know why I didn’t pray about Levi Zook, as I often did. Nor did I ask the Lord to make it clear to me if and when I might also receive a divine “call” like his. The main thing on my mind tonight was the idea of being alone in this big, one-hundred-year-old house. Without Dad. And with Mom somewhere between SummerHill and downtown Lancaster.

  About the time my eyes were too heavy to keep them open, I heard the car pull into our driveway. Good. Mom was home. It was okay to give in to the sandman.

  The next morning at breakfast, Mom was full of talk. “It was like pulling teeth to convince your father to spend the night in the hospital.”

  “But the docs wanted to check him out, right?”

  She nodded, looking perky for the early hour. “You know how he is.”

  I knew. In fact, I’d gotten some of my own stubborn streak from him. “Will he have to be more careful about what he eats again?” I asked, staring at the mountain of scrambled eggs and two pieces of toast on my plate.

  “I wouldn’t be surprised,” she said, sitting down.

  “Guess he’ll have to start doing the cooking around here, then,” I teased her.

  “Meaning what?”

  “Dad’s just…uh…not as hung up on food, I guess.” I almost added, like you are. But I was smart and kept my mouth shut.

  “Well, along with adhering to a stricter diet, he’s going to have to get out and exercise. I’ve been telling him for years, a brisk twenty-minute walk can make a big difference.”

  Mom oughta know. She was religious
about her daily walks. Couldn’t talk her out of walking even if a tornado was heading this direction.

  It turned out that Dad was given nearly a week off. But did he follow doctor’s orders and rest? My father chose this period of time to get overly involved in my homework assignments. All of them. Meaning he stood over me as I worked. I should’ve been mighty glad about the academic help, I guess, but by Thursday it was beginning to annoy me.

  “Don’t you have something else to do?” I teased, hoping he’d catch on. But he stayed right there in the kitchen, watching me work algebra problems, offering unsolicited assistance every few minutes.

  “Dad, I’m fine. I know how to do this.” This was my second year studying the subject.

  He blinked and frowned. Before I could stop him, he stood up and left the room.

  “This is truly horrible,” I muttered, getting up to go to find him.

  He was in the living room, reclining on the sofa, eyes half-mast. I sat down across from him, wondering what to say, wishing I could unravel the last few minutes.

  “I’m sorry,” I whispered.

  He looked up at me and smiled. “Don’t worry, sweets. I’m just an old man twiddling his thumbs, anxious to get back to work.”

  “Better take care of yourself, though, don’t you think?”

  He nodded. “Can’t do much else around here.”

  “Yeah, well, we wanna keep you kicking for a bunch more years.”

  He chuckled. “Don’t you worry about that. The Lord’s got plenty of work for me to do before He puts me out to pasture.”

  “Oh, Daddy, don’t talk that way. You’re not a cow, and you’re not old.”

  “Fifty years…”

  I could tell he was struggling with his latest birthday. A milestone event. I couldn’t even begin to imagine having that many candles on my cake. Still, I needed to cheer him up.

  “Think about this,” I said, pulling something out of the air. “What would it be like never having had your picture taken?”

  “My whole life?” he said. “Well…sounds to me like you’ve been talking to some Amishman. Now, am I right?”

  I couldn’t blow Rachel’s secret. Best be careful what I said from here on out. “Is it a sin for them to pose for a camera?”

  “All depends how you look at it.” He laughed at his pun and then went on to explain the reason for their belief. “Many Plain folk believe that it is sinning against God to have pictures made of themselves. It’s included in their view of ‘the graven image’ in the Ten Commandments.”

  “But is it really a sin? Or just thought to be?”

  He shook his head. “To my way of thinking, the only way it would be a sin would be to worship the photograph—let the picture come between the person and God.”

  “Makes sense.”

  “So…whose picture are you thinking about taking?” he asked, grinning.

  I couldn’t believe it. He knew me too well.

  “Guess that’s all I’d better say for now.” I got up and stood beside the chair. “Need anything before I get back to my math problems?”

  He waved me on, smiling as if he’d seen through something top secret. Which, of course, he had.

  Rachel would clobber me good if she knew!

  Chapter

  9

  By the time Friday evening rolled around, I was actually looking forward to sneaking off to Zooks’ hayloft with Rachel. I needed a break from my dad, and he from me.

  I’d never participated in a picture-taking session like this before, and I wondered how things would play out. Originally, Rachel had said she wanted only one picture of herself, but when I explained that most photographers try several poses in order to get one good shot, she quickly agreed.

  Silly girl! I was turning her into a debutante.

  The moon was only half full as we approached the barn door. A few stars shone through stark tree branches to the east. If I hadn’t known better, I might’ve thought the night was a bit spooky, but Rachel wouldn’t be thinking such a thing. She urged me on, lantern in hand, eyes wide with anticipation.

  “This is your big night.” I made small talk, conscious of the shoulder strap on my camera case as we hurried up the ramp of the two-story barn.

  The wide wooden door creaked open as we pulled on it. Then, silently, we stepped into the sweetest-smelling place in all the world. The haymow.

  “I’m glad you picked this setting,” I told her.

  “Oh? Why’s that?” she asked.

  “It’s beautiful, that’s why.” I looked at her all dressed up in her Sunday-best Amish dress and shawl, her winter bonnet nestled over the top of her devotional Kapp. “And tonight, you look pretty as a picture.”

  A flicker of a smile crossed her face. Then she looked more serious again. “I wanna let my hair down in one of the pictures,” she announced.

  “You what?”

  “It’s all right. Nobody’ll ever know.”

  I shook my head. “People will know. I’ll know…and so will the person who develops this roll of film.” I studied her, my eyes beginning to squint. “Are you absolutely sure about this, Rachel?”

  She didn’t answer, just went over and stood next to a bale of hay, leaning on it. “Here’s a gut place for the first one,” she said, a hint of stubbornness in her voice.

  “Sit down right there, why don’t you.” I pulled my camera out of its case. “And smile, okay?”

  She posed and smiled, all right. I, on the other hand, felt somewhat sad as I clicked away. Not because she was doing anything truly horrible, as far as I could tell. No, I was down in the dumps because she seemed to be changing—my longtime friend had definitely been different the past few days. She was changing into a young woman with thoughts and ideas; plans that nobody in her entire household would ever agree with. Maybe not even Levi, her so-called wayward brother.

  After many shots and numerous poses, I watched, stunned, as she removed her outer head covering and then the white veiling beneath. She didn’t ask me to hold the sacred symbol, and for that, I was grateful. Rather, she placed it inside her dress pocket before quickly taking the bobby pins out of her bun.

  Like a waterfall, the light brown hair cascaded over her shoulders, past her waist. She stood there smiling as though she’d already accomplished something mighty important. “There, now,” she said. “I’m ready for the last picture.”

  “I hope we’re doing the right thing,” I muttered.

  “Don’t be questioning this, Merry.” The sharp way she said it sounded as if she were reprimanding me.

  I aimed and focused, recalling the days when I was fascinated with taking before-and-after pictures of people and things. Hoping this new look of Rachel’s wasn’t an indication of things to come, I finished up the final shot.

  “Done,” I said, packing up my camera equipment.

  “Denki.” She wound up her hair and put the veiling back on her head. “It’s getting cold.”

  “It’s been cold,” I replied, wondering what delicious thoughts and ambitions had kept her warm during the rather lengthy picture-taking session.

  “Now what?” she asked.

  I looked at her, trying to see the real Rachel, my dear Amish friend. “What do you mean?”

  “Wanna come to the house?” she asked.

  We made our way over the particles of hay that dusted the wooden floor. I helped her close the barn door before answering. “What’ll I do with my camera?” I reminded her.

  “Jah, that’s a problem.”

  “So I guess we oughta say good-night,” I suggested, feeling a bit reticent with her now. As though I didn’t know what to say next.

  “Supposin’ you’re right.”

  It was an awkward moment, and even more so because I spied little Susie leaning out the back door. “Looks like somebody’s missing you.”

  “I best go in.” She reached for my hand and squeezed it. “I’ll never forget this, Merry.” And she was gone, running across the yard t
o the house.

  I stood there watching from the moonlit shadows, listening as the two of them chattered away in their Amish tongue—Pennsylvania Dutch.

  Soon, though, the storm door slammed shut and the animated talk faded. I was glad for the flashlight in my pocket. Amish barnyards were such dark places at night. Except for the pale light of the February half moon.

  My parents would be waiting. I’d told them I was going to visit Rachel. Dad, bless his heart, had had the most comical look on his face. Of course, Mom had no way of knowing what the cheesy grin was all about. But I suspected he’d shared the unspoken secret with her while I was gone.

  Hurrying up the drive toward SummerHill Lane, I glanced back at the barn, now dark. We’d hid behind the moon, all right, just as Rachel had said. And no one—no one in her Amish community, at least—was ever to be the wiser.

  I expected a prick at my own conscience but felt no guilt. Dad was right, I supposed. Wasn’t a sin at all to have your picture made.

  Chapter

  10

  The next day was Saturday, and I’d agreed to baby-sit Mary while Sarah Zook hosted a work frolic—a quilting bee—in her home.

  I arrived early, before the many horses and carriages I knew would be making their way to the Amish farmhouse. Sarah seemed delighted to have me come so soon and opened the door with a warm greeting and a bright smile. “Ach, Merry, gut to see ya,” she said. “Come in and get yourself warmed up.”

  I followed her inside to the front room, which was sparsely furnished: two matching hickory rockers similar to the ones in the Zooks’ farmhouse, brightly colored handmade rag rugs and throw rugs adorning the floor, and a tall, pine corner cupboard, displaying Sarah’s wedding china set—typical for Old Order Amish homes.

  But the thing that captured my attention was the large quilting frame set up in the middle of the front room.

  Sarah must’ve noticed me eyeing the frame and the chairs set up around it. “We’ll be making a quilt for Rachel today,” she explained.