SummerHill Secrets, Volume 2

by Beverly Lewis

  “Really? For Rachel?” I wondered if the womenfolk who were coming to piece the quilt together might suspect that Matthew Yoder was courting my friend.

  I thought back to last night and the many pictures I’d taken of Rachel. I hoped I hadn’t thrown things off-kilter by agreeing to photograph her, because this quilting bee seemed ripe with purpose. Was the soon-to-be-made quilt intended for Rachel’s hope chest? Was this church district holding its collective breath for another wedding come next fall…or the next?

  Thankful that Rachel was still young, though not too young to consider marriage, I wondered if she was feeling pressured. Was this the reason she wanted to “sow wild oats”?

  Sounds in the kitchen—baby babblings—brought me back to my responsibilities at hand. “Mary must need some company,” I said, anxious to see the little dumpling.

  Quickly, Sarah led the way, calling to her baby daughter as we hurried to her. “Ya know it’s your English friend, now, don’tcha? Do ya know your favorite sitter is here?” She leaned over and lifted Mary up, handing her to me.

  “Well, hello again, sweetie,” I cooed into her big blue eyes. What fun I was going to have!

  Almost on cue, she nestled her head against my shoulder. “Ah, she’s a bit droopy,” Sarah said, offering a blanket and a bottle. “Thank goodness, she ain’t cranky. It’s ’bout time for her mornin’ nap, but ya just never know. Mary doesn’t like to nap all that much anymore. Likes to be up and about, watchin’ what everybody’s doin’. ’Specially at a quilting.”

  I kissed the soft cheek. “We’ll just rock a little, then. How’s that?” I suggested to my precious bundle, heading for the rocker in the corner of the kitchen.

  “Ya’ll see what I mean,” Sarah said, grinning. “She’s a live wire, that one.”

  I hugged Mary, wondering what I was in for today. She didn’t seem restless now, but I smiled to myself, thinking that maybe, just maybe, this baby felt comfortable with me, the girl who’d first found her.

  Choosing to believe that, I sat down to rock the doll of a baby in my arms. A beautiful, live baby doll, dressed in light blue homespun linen.

  One by one, and sometimes in groups of twos and threes, the quilters began to arrive. Rachel Zook and her two grandmothers came in together.

  When Rachel spied me, she hurried over. “Whatever ya do, don’tcha leave till we have a chance to talk.” Her eyes looked as if she hadn’t slept much.

  “You okay?” I asked.

  “Jah, fine…fine. But it’ll hafta wait” was all she said.

  Now I was really curious. Was she having second thoughts about last night?

  She scurried back to greet the women as they came into the kitchen. Most of them stood near the fire, warming their hands.

  I watched Rachel, wondering why she hadn’t even glanced at her little niece, now almost asleep in my arms. What could be so important that she’d ignore baby Mary?

  Snatches of gossip filled the room. One group of women was discussing the weather in Dutch. I was pretty sure I was right because I recognized the word Winderwedder, meaning winter weather.

  Closer to me, Dutch was mixed freely with English. An elderly woman was estimating the gallons of apple butter left over from one of the last work frolics. At least, I assumed that’s what she was saying.

  Without being noticed, I got up and put Mary in her playpen to nap, covering her with one of several beautifully hand-stitched baby quilts. Standing there, looking down at her pretty hair, I wondered how on earth she could sleep through the din of kitchen chatter.

  But she did—twenty-five minutes longer than Sarah said she would. By the time Mary was awake again and ready to play with wooden blocks, I had gotten quite an earful of Amish hearsay.

  So-and-so’s cousin was found to have a portable radio in his courting buggy, and what was the preacher gonna do about it?

  And would Naomi’s Jake ever get himself baptized and join the church? Foolish boy…

  I had to be careful not to chuckle. The air was thick with conversation, and soon I had the notion that the faster these women talked, the faster their stitching needles worked the fabric.

  Mary was drooling and giggling now as she knocked down the tower of blocks I’d made. I reached over and tickled her under the arm. She burst into more cute chortles.

  “I think you need a constant playmate,” I said to her, rebuilding the blocks.

  Unexpectedly, there was a break for the ladies, and everyone got up and had a snack of hot black coffee and sticky buns.

  Rachel came over and sat down on the floor next to me, watching the block-building process only briefly before she spoke. “I’ve been thinking,” she said softly.

  “That’ll get you in trouble,” I snickered.

  She placed her hand on my arm. “No, listen…I ain’t jokin’.”

  I turned to her. “What is it?”

  “Last night…remember?”

  I nodded, glancing at the women milling about the kitchen. “Aren’t you afraid you’ll be overheard?”

  “Nobody’s payin’ attention just now,” she replied. She steadied one of the baby’s blocks, pausing before she continued. “I wanna take things a step further.”

  I knew better than to respond, so I kept quiet, listening.

  “Don’t say no yet, Merry. I wanna come to your house later and talk about attendin’ school with ya.”

  “What?” I whirled around, accidentally knocking down the blocks. “Are you crazy?”

  “Monday, that’s when I wanna go to high school.” Her voice was sure, but her expression was tense. My friend had lost sleep over this latest wild idea of hers.

  “This Monday? Two days from now?” I squeaked out.

  “Jah.”

  Before I could say more, she got up to pour some hot cocoa for herself.

  “Yee-ikes. I think your aunt Rachel’s gone ferhoodled,” I whispered to tiny Mary.

  And there we sat—the baby and I—mouths gaping, block tower scattered.

  Chapter

  11

  After the quilting, Rachel and I continued our conversation at my house. “There’s no way, Rachel. You can’t do such a thing!” I insisted.

  “Don’t say I can’t,” she retorted. Her eyes were hot blue flames, her neck growing redder with each second. “What’d be so wrong with me comin’ with ya to your school? I’ll be your visiting cousin, just for one day.”

  I couldn’t believe what she was asking, what she was putting me through. Shaking my head, I sat on the floor, leaning against my bed.

  Rachel, on the other hand, was making a beeline for my walk-in closet. “Could I borrow something to wear?” She didn’t wait for my answer, just started taking things out of the closet and holding them up for me to see.

  I groaned. “Oh, now I know you’ve flipped out!”

  “Jah, flipped,” she muttered, turning to look at herself in my dresser mirror. “Do ya have any idea how long I’ve been waiting to do this? A very long time, Merry.”

  I watched as she rummaged through more of my winter clothes. “What’s this world coming to? My Amish girl friend’s losing touch with reality.”

  She agreed with me, smiling. “You can say that again. I’m a-tryin’ on the English life, starting with your jeans.”

  “But, Rachel, do you have any idea what they feel like? They’re tight, they’re confining—not like the comfortable flowing skirts you’re used to. And—”

  “Still, I hafta know,” she interrupted.

  My hands flew up in surrender. “Okay, okay, try on anything you like.” I hoped by my giving in, she’d give up.

  The most astonishing smile swept over her face, and for the first time in a while, she looked well rested and serene.

  “You mean it, Merry? You’ll let me?” she asked.

  “I said you could try on some clothes. That doesn’t mean I’ll pass you off as my English cousin come Monday.”

  She shrugged her shoulders, as if to say, we’ll
see about that.

  One thing led to another, and in short order Rachel was putting on some light pink lipstick, then mascara, fumbling with my eyelash curler in her hand.

  “No…no, let me show you.” I took the cosmetic bag from her. “Watch me.”

  Her curiosity couldn’t be quelled, it seemed. We spent nearly two hours making her over. Everything from curling the uneven ends of her long, long hair to brushing it straight back, attempting to hide the middle part.

  Meanwhile, she did her best to persuade me. “Please, Merry, won’tcha at least think about takin’ me to your school?” She even seemed eager to ride the school bus, for some odd reason. “I hafta see for myself what I’ve been missin’.”

  I sighed. “Oh, Rachel, what’ll I do with you?”

  She grinned. “You’re gonna let me do this, that’s what. Just this once, honest. Then I’ll hush up about it.”

  I stared at her. She actually looked like any other teenager around Lancaster County with her makeup and long hair tastefully done. Well…close.

  “I’ve turned you into a modern girl. A fancy one,” I told her as she gazed into the mirror, adjusting the hand mirror to just the right angle to see the back of her hair.

  “Jah.”

  “So what do you think?” I asked. “Like the new you?”

  She went to sit on the bed, twiddling her thumbs in her lap. “I think I do.” She was beaming. “Jah, I do.”

  I crossed the room to my closet and closed the door. “That’s what I was afraid of.”

  “There’s only one thing,” she said. “I wanna wear my veiling over my new hairdo. Like a Mennonite.”

  “Okay with me.”

  “Gut, then,” she said, grinning. “I’ll go Plain, just not Amish.”

  “Better tone down the eye makeup and lipstick, then.”

  She groaned. “Must I?”

  “Do you want to go to school with me or not?”

  I had her over a barrel. She had no choice.

  I couldn’t tell a soul about even the tiniest part of my plan with Rachel. She’d sworn me to secrecy—not that an Amish girl would know how to do such a thing as swear, but I’d promised, at least. And that was saying a lot about the whole situation. Because I knew without question this could snowball, leading Rachel down a completely different life path—a too-modern one. But she was a mighty stubborn girl, determined to have herself a taste of English life, come what may.

  Chapter

  12

  My dad stayed home from church on Sunday. He wasn’t feeling sick, he said, just not quite up to par. Because of that, I insisted on staying home, too. And then, because Mom was worried about Dad, she stayed home to oversee both of us.

  I went around the house, upstairs and down, taking pictures of my parents. One of my mother cooking dinner, wearing her lacy apron. Another of her pouring milk into the cats’ community bowl.

  While Dad read his Bible silently, I took a shot of him from close up. He blinked his eyes and shook his head. “Can’t you give a person fair warning?” he grumbled good-naturedly.

  I laughed. “That would spoil everything, now, wouldn’t it?”

  He pretended to be blind for a second.

  “Okay, I’m giving you advance notice this time. Don’t move, just freeze,” I said.

  He cooperated, but it seemed that he was holding his breath, not blinking an eyelash.

  I sat on the floor, angling the lens to get only his upper torso. “There,” I said when I’d finished, “that’s an interesting perspective.”

  He glanced down at me. “Not half so interesting as your photo shoot with Rachel, eh?”

  “Dad, what are you talking about?”

  Returning to his Bible, he smirked. “You heard me.”

  “Oh, you don’t know…”

  He peered over his reading glasses. “Better not lead your girl friend astray.”

  “How can that be?” I wailed. But I was disgusted with myself and wished I hadn’t given in to Rachel’s request. And I wished something else, too: that my father didn’t have eyes in the back of his head!

  “Let’s have a devotional time,” he said, calling Mom into the living room. “We’ll have house church today—like the Amish do,” he teased, sending a wink my way.

  We took turns reading the Scripture references out loud—first Mom, then me, and last, Dad. I listened as my father read the devotional story, but the lesson didn’t pertain to my dilemma with my friend. Rachel was on my mind in a very heavy way.

  While my mother prayed aloud, I did so silently. Dear Lord, what should I do about Rachel?

  It didn’t take long for the answer to arrive. Although I wasn’t so sure it was a divine one. Rachel herself showed up after dinner. Came right into the driveway and parked her parents’ horse and carriage.

  “Wanna go for a ride?” she asked as I answered the front door. “It’s a right perty day for it.”

  I knew something was up, because I noticed a twinkle in her eyes. She was anxious to twist my arm some more about going to school.

  “Come in,” I said. “The kitchen’s not quite cleaned up.”

  “I don’t mind waitin’,” she said, tiptoeing into the living room.

  Big mistake!

  Dad was sitting in his favorite chair, reading. Actually, he was closer to snoozing than anything. But he opened his eyes wide when he saw Rachel, and I hoped he wouldn’t question her.

  “Well, hello there, Rachel,” I heard him say as I hurried off to the kitchen. The sooner I finished up the kitchen, the quicker I’d have her out of there!

  Things took a strange turn, though. Just as I was wiping off the countertops, Jon Klein called. “I wanted to see if you were sick or something,” he said, emphasizing the s’s.

  “I’m not, but my dad’s feeling a little out of it,” I said.

  “So…your SummerHill sisters started getting sassy. Silly too.”

  “Who’re you talking about?”

  “The tongue-twisting trio,” he replied.

  “Oh, Chelsea and company?” I should’ve known.

  “None other.”

  I was curious to know what they’d said. “What did I miss?”

  “Missed much, Mistress Merry.” He was laughing. “They want a match. A meeting of the minds.”

  “When?”

  “In a week.”

  “Says who?”

  “Chelsea Davis got it started,” he said. “She’s getting good, Mer. You’re a terrific teacher.”

  “Whatever.” I was disgusted. My friends had jumped the gun. Hadn’t waited for me to give the signal. They weren’t even close to ready for a face-off with the Wizard.

  “Hey, you sound upset. Everything okay?” His voice was sweet and mellow. Any other time—for instance, the months before I’d ruined things and divulged the details of the Alliteration Game to my girl friends—I might’ve delighted in his complimentary approach.

  But now? My ability to pass on alliteration-eze was at stake.

  “Fine, fabulous, fantastic,” I replied.

  “Yes!”

  “Don’t get worked up about it,” I told him. “I’m not playing your game today. I’m too busy.”

  “Is this a bad time?”

  “I’ll talk to you at school tomorrow,” I said.

  And that was the end of it. We said good-bye and hung up. I marched into the living room.

  “Well, it’s good to see you’re through with kitchen duty,” Dad said, closing his book.

  I eyed the two of them suspiciously. “Are you ready, Rachel?”

  “Jah. Are you?”

  “Sure am.” I hurried to the hall closet to get my jacket, wondering what Dad had weaseled out of Rachel. “Let’s go,” I said, opening the front door.

  “Your pop’s awful funny,” she said as we headed for the gray carriage.

  “He can be,” I said, getting in and sitting to her left.

  She situated the woolen lap blanket over the two of us and then
picked up the reins. “Why’dja tell him about taking my picture?”

  I spun around, staring at her. “What?”

  She didn’t repeat herself.

  “I didn’t tell him, Rachel. I didn’t!”

  “Then how’d he know?”

  I sighed. It was going to be a very long ride.

  Chapter

  13

  All the talk in the world wasn’t going to convince Rachel to stay home on Monday morning.

  Bright and early, she showed up at my house. “Plenty of time to change into modern clothes,” she said when we were alone in my room.

  “Do you honestly have to do this?” I whined.

  She shook her head. “Can’t talk me out of it.”

  Since I knew I couldn’t, I started filling her in on life at public school—the teachers, the students, even the lockers.

  “Lockers?” she gasped. “They have freezer lockers in a school? Whatever for?”

  I couldn’t help but laugh at her naiveté. “School lockers aren’t for storing a side of beef or frozen vegetables, silly girl. They’re for books and notebooks…and hanging up jackets and other things,” I explained.

  Eyes wide, she said, “Oh, I see.”

  Of course, she didn’t comprehend; she couldn’t possibly understand till she laid eyes on the whole setup.

  I tried to prepare her for the crammed hallways, kids rushing to and fro, talking and calling to one another. “It’s nothing like an Amish one-room schoolhouse,” I said, brushing my hair. “There are so many kids.”

  “What about higher learning?” she asked, pulling on a pair of my best jeans.

  “What?”

  “Ya know, education past eighth-grade level. What about that?” she inquired.

  “There’s nothing magical about going past the eighth grade. If you’re gonna be a good Amish girl, you can’t be thinking about such things.”

  “Ya, I know. Still, it’s awful tempting.” Now she was standing beside me in the mirror.

  “Don’t tell me,” I said. “You want me to do your hair like before.”