SummerHill Secrets, Volume 2

by Beverly Lewis

  “He’s here?” I asked excitedly. “Abednego’s here?”

  Looking quite perplexed, the man frowned and shook his head. “I never heard of that name—not for a cat.”

  “But it’s him, isn’t it?” I could hardly stand there, aching to know if they had him or not.

  “Ach, I think ya must be mistaken. We saw no such tag on the cat—not nowhere.” The man was beginning to close the door.

  “Please,” I said, “may I have a look at the cat you found?”

  He paused, as if he wasn’t sure whether he should invite us in.

  Then behind me I heard a stirring in the bushes, followed by meow.

  “Wait! I’d know that sound anywhere,” I said, turning and scooping up my beloved baby into my arms. “Oh, you’re safe, Abednego! You’re truly safe.”

  I heard Miss Spindler thank the man.

  “Well, that takes care of that,” he said, closing the back door.

  All the way home, I cuddled my cat. “Hey, I think you’re fatter than before,” I told him.

  Abednego didn’t talk back; instead, he purred like a motorboat and leaned his head against my arm.

  “How can I ever thank you, Miss Spindler?” I asked.

  She kept driving, probably deciding what she ought to say to me. Then it came. The cutest thing I’d heard all year. “Guess Old Hawk Eyes ain’t so awful bad, now, is she?”

  I sucked in a little breath, shocked that she knew her nickname. “I won’t ask where you heard that,” I said, giggling. “It’s really none of my business, is it?”

  Her head went back with hearty laughter. And I snuggled with my newly found pet.

  It was a night to remember.

  Chapter

  20

  Miss Spindler was kind enough to let me take pictures of her attic computer room so I could show all my girl friends. And my new boyfriend. That’s right, Jon Klein and I are officially going out. It’s a dream come true, and I only wish Faithie were alive to witness my joy.

  I haven’t written Levi about it yet. I figure I can wait till he comes home this summer. Besides, he should feel relieved to hear the news, especially if he has someone new himself.

  Dad and Mom are back from Costa Rica, and all they talk about is taking Skip and me the next time. “You’d love the people,” Dad says. “They’re so hungry for Jesus.”

  Speaking of hunger, Abednego has never been so interested in his regular kitty food. He learned a hard lesson by running away. But now that he’s back home, his behavior is improving. Even Skip has noticed how placid and cooperative my wayward cat is now.

  As for Chelsea, she’s completely well and back to school. She says she’s sorry she missed the day Jon and I sat together on the bus. She said she’d give anything to have been there. Of course, he and I still sit together, but Chelsea’s right there, too. Either in front of us or right across the aisle.

  The Alliteration Word Game is history, a thing of the past—for Jon and me, at least. Chelsea, Ashley, and Lissa are still going strong, and occasionally Miss Spindler tries her hand at alliterating. Jon and I are much better communicators without the limitation of having to match up every word in a sentence. I must admit, I’ve never been so happy.

  Rachel Zook and I finally talked Miss Spindler into taking one of the gray kittens as a pet. When the light is just right, the sweet little thing matches Old Hawk Eyes’ blue-gray hair!

  Most of all, I’m thankful that God’s eyes were on Abednego during those six worry-filled days. And I know something else: He used Old Hawk Eyes’ curiosity and turned it into something good.

  I’m thinking it might be time for a new nickname for my neighbor. Or maybe none at all.

  Special thanks

  to

  Gordon and Betty Bernhardt,

  who shared with me

  the story of Buttercup,

  the real twin lamb.

  For

  Julie Arno,

  who heralds herself a

  “Sincere SummerHill Secrets Series Fanatic.”

  Hide me in the shadow

  of your wings…

  —PSALM 17:8

  Chapter

  1

  Right off the bat, I’ll admit that I’d only thought I was over the loss of my twin sister. Some days, Faithie’s death seems like a long time ago. Other days, it’s like yesterday that the leukemia came and took her away.

  But the day everything got stirred up again—or got me “all but ferhoodled,” as my Amish girl friend would say—was as perfect as any Pennsylvania springtime. It was late May, and the remnants of my sophomore year at James Buchanan High were fading all too quickly. Not a single cloud cluttered the clear blue sky.

  Rachel Zook came running up SummerHill Lane just as I stepped off the school bus. I took one look at her and knew something was wrong. Her white head covering had tipped a bit off center, and her usual long gray apron was mussed. Nearly breathless and eyes wide, she sputtered her request, “Can ya come … help me out, Merry?”

  “You can count on me.” I scurried down the road toward the long dirt lane that led to the Zooks’ farmhouse, trying to keep up with Rachel, the hem of her skirt flapping in the warm breeze.

  “My twin lamb’s gonna die, I’m afraid,” she said as we ran.

  “What’s wrong with her?”

  “Well, her mama died yesterday morning, hours after she birthed the twins … and then ’twasn’t long and the first twin lamb up and died, too.” Rachel stopped running as we neared the barnyard. Catching our breaths, we strolled over to the white plank fence.

  I shaded my eyes with my hand as I scanned the grassy, fenced area. “Where is she?”

  We searched the corral with our eyes. At last, Rachel located her. “Ach, of all things—she’s right here.”

  Peering down through the fence slats, I spied a single baby lamb, all fluffy and white. “Oh, she’s so adorable.”

  “Adorable, jah, but she’s all alone in the world. Won’t eat nothin’, neither,” Rachel said, her voice soft and low. “We can’t get her to take milk, not even from Ol’ Nanna.”

  I was surprised to hear it because I’d seen Ol’ Nanna with her own babies. The older sheep was gentle and loving—the way a good foster mother ought to be.

  Rachel pointed to Ol’ Nanna grazing by herself across the meadow. “She doesn’t mind sharin’ her milk with young’uns that ain’t hers. I can’t begin to count the number of orphan lambs we’ve bonded on to her. And plenty-a time, too.” Rachel shook her head. “But not this time. It just ain’t workin’ out.”

  I stared down at the poor little creature. Her fleece was creamy white, like detergent suds. Made you want to reach down and pick her up—cuddle her like a human baby. My heart went out to the lost lamb. “Why do you think she won’t eat?” I asked.

  Rachel’s fingers trailed down the long white strings of her Kapp, the prayer veiling she always wore. She moved close to me, whispering. “If ya want my opinion, I think she’s dyin’ of loneliness.”

  I looked out over the enclosure where at least twenty sheep roamed the pastureland, wondering how on earth the lamb could be lonely. “But look at all her relatives. She’s got oodles of aunts, uncles, and cousins … doesn’t she?”

  Rachel didn’t smile. She frowned instead. “It’s the oddest thing, really. But I think she downright misses her twin … and her mama.” Rachel’s voice grew even softer. “If something doesn’t change, and soon, I’m afraid she’ll lie down and die. Just plain give up.”

  Squatting to get closer, I stroked the animal’s soft wool coat. Seemed to me, Rachel might be right. “See how her eyes plead?”

  “Like she needs someone to help her, ain’t so?” Rachel said. “That’s why I asked ya over here, Merry. I thought you could coax her to take some milk … from this baby bottle, maybe.” She handed the bottle to me.

  “Me?”

  “Jah.” She paused, and a peculiar look swept across her pretty face. “If ya think on it, I�
�m sure you’ll understand why.” She didn’t say more but headed off toward the barn, waving that she’d be back “awful quick.”

  I had to stop and really ponder what Rachel had just said. Kneeling in the grass, I was nearly nose to nose with the adorable animal. “You’re such a pretty thing,” I said through the fence. I stroked the fleecy coat, cooing at her like I often did to each of my four cats.

  Then, while I continued to pet the lamb, I realized exactly what my Amish girl friend meant. It struck me like lightning hits a tree. I was a good choice for her lamb project. A very good one, in fact. Because I, too, had suffered great loss. Of course, my twin hadn’t died at birth, or even close to it, but Faithie was gone all the same.

  I kept watch over the poor, suffering lamb, observing her sad face, the way she could hardly raise her eyes to look at me. She seemed too downhearted to think about living, let alone care about drinking milk from a bottle.

  “You poor thing,” I said softly, offering the baby bottle. When the lamb wasn’t interested, I didn’t coax. “I think I know what you need.”

  Setting the bottle down, I turned and sat in the grass. “I think you need a pretty name—one to match who you are.”

  After a good deal of thinking on my part, an idea came. I whispered the name into the air, imagining the warm breeze picking it up and carrying it high over the silo on the Zooks’ bank barn, on past the pond with its bottomless holes, and beyond the creaky windmill.

  Yes, it might well be the perfect name. And one way to cheer up a sad little lamb. Sighing, I said, “I think your name should be … Jingle Belle. Jingle, for short. What do you think of that?”

  At first, I wondered if I might be dreaming, because Jingle responded to her new name. I actually thought she was beginning to smile. Well, sort of, because I guess lambs don’t really smile. Unless, of course, they want to.

  Jingle shook her head playfully, which rang the tiny bell at her neck. A sweet, cheerful ringing sound. Jingle Belle. What a terrific name. One-hundred-percent-amen wonderful!

  It was the sweetest thing—the absolutely nicest thing that had happened to me in a while. Sitting there in the thick green grass, I leaned against the fence and knew that Rachel would be delighted, too. Yep, things were about to change for her little lamb.

  And something else. I couldn’t be sure, but I had a funny feeling that things were about to change for me, too. Because deep inside, where no one ever sees but God, I still longed for Faithie. It was as if a shadow covered everything on the path of my future.

  “Only time will heal that kind of wound,” Dad gently reminds me every so often. But I honestly didn’t see how that could ever be. Half of me is gone. Faithie’s absence is like thick pollen in springtime, scattered everywhere.

  Leaning my head against the fence, I felt Jingle’s soft wool on my forehead. Sweet and comforting, she nuzzled me.

  Closing my eyes, I allowed my tears to spill out. “I know how you feel, Jingle,” I whispered. “And I’m going to help you. I promise.”

  Chapter

  2

  On a really warm day, you ought to be able to sit outside in pajamas and play with your cats. Soak up some sunshine. At least, that was my idea of a lazy Saturday morning in SummerHill. But my mother had other plans for me, and I worried that spring would slip through my fingers before I had a chance to do anything truly frivolous.

  “We’ll sit in the sun another time, little boys,” I told Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego, the cat brothers. I discarded my bathrobe and headed into my walk-in closet to see what to wear.

  When I was dressed for the day, I noticed Lily White—the only lady of the feline group—still lying at the foot of my bed. She opened her tiny eyes and blinked beore succumbing again to morning drowsiness. I laughed at her, ignoring her disinterest. “I know, I know…you’re not a morning person.” Then, catching myself, I realized what I’d said. “Yee-ikes! You’re not a person at all!”

  To that, she opened both eyes wide, stretched her petite hind legs, and jumped off my bed, padding slowly toward me.

  “Well, what’s this?” I said, still laughing at my adorable white cat. “Are you up for good?”

  She followed me down the hall to my parents’ bedroom, where my mother was busy gathering up laundry. The washing was probably the reason Mom had nixed my idea of whiling away the morning in the sun. Laundry, it seemed, could never wait. It had to be attended to in a timely manner. Which meant the notion that dirty clothes might merely lie patiently in a hamper until a designated weekly wash day—like the Amish folk do it—was out of the question. At least at our house. If so much as two days of washing piled up, Mom was on to it like a cat after a mouse.

  “Let’s get our work done before noon, what do you say?” Mom suggested, her hair neatly combed. She wore her pretty blue blouse and her best casual pants. I had a feeling she was going out later.

  “What’s the rush?” I asked.

  “Oh, there’s an antique show in the area,” she muttered, her arms filling up with Dad’s shirts. “That’s all.”

  That’s all.

  Funny she said it that way, because I knew about Mom’s great fascination with antiques. There was no hiding it. Her interest had become stronger with the passing of each year.

  I stumbled after her, my own arms loaded down. “Are you looking for a specific piece?”

  “Not for me personally,” she said as we made our way downstairs through the kitchen toward the cellar steps.

  It seemed to me she didn’t really want to say what she was looking for. So I changed the subject. “After I help with the laundry, is it okay if I just hang out for the rest of the afternoon?”

  “Hang out?” She pushed Dad’s shirts into the washer. “As in hang out the clothes to dry?” She wore an affected smile, which quickly faded.

  I should’ve known Mom would think I was volunteering. In her opinion, there was not a more pleasant smell than clothing dried by the fresh air and sunshine.

  “Hang out the clothes? Well, no,” I said, “that’s not what I meant, but…”

  She eyed me curiously. “You didn’t mean to say that you were going to waste away your Saturday afternoon, did you?”

  I wondered if my mother would ever understand that what I said most of the time didn’t have anything to do with what I meant to say. I sighed. “I thought I’d spend some time with Rachel Zook today. That’s all.”

  “Well, why didn’t you say so?” Mom replied, turning on the washer and pouring in a cup of detergent.

  The suds reminded me of Rachel’s little lamb, but I couldn’t bring myself to tell Mom about yet another “mammal mission,” as she so often referred to my attraction to strays or other needy creatures.

  I thought more about Jingle Belle. Such a sad situation. But it wasn’t like I wanted to offer the lamb a roof over her fleecy head. I couldn’t have her sleep at the bottom of my bed with the cats, and I certainly didn’t want to have her following me around inside the house all day. No, I simply wanted to help give her the courage to live. Somehow.

  “Okay, Merry,” Mom said, jolting me out of my thoughts. “I think it’s time we have some breakfast.”

  If you’ve never had Saturday breakfast at our house, you have no idea what Mom’s idea of “breaking a fast” was all about. To her, it meant cooking up more than enough food for the entire rest of the day!

  So while the washing machine did its thing, Mom whipped up waffle batter, fried German sausage and eggs, and made French toast in the oven. I set the table and arranged the homemade jellies and jams, gifts from Esther Zook, Rachel’s mother. Then I scurried off to check on my cats…and Dad.

  I found him reading the paper in his study, still wearing a bathrobe. “I hope you’re hungry,” I whispered, poking my head around the corner.

  He looked up and grinned at me. “Is your mother cooking up a storm?”

  “It’s Saturday, right?” I laughed, settling into the chair across from his desk. “She’ll expe
ct us to sample everything, you know.”

  Folding his paper, he focused his attention on me. “Your mother has some very interesting plans for herself.”

  “Yeah, she told me. She’s off to an antique show.”

  He nodded his head. “I didn’t mean her plans for today.”

  “What, then?”

  “She’s talking of converting our potting shed into an antique shop.”

  This was news to me. Not once since Dad’s early retirement had I ever stopped to think that we might need additional money each month. But with my older brother, Skip, off at college, maybe we were short of cash. “Are we…I mean, does Mom need to work?”

  His hearty laugh brought some relief for me. “No, no, your mother doesn’t need to work. We’re fine, honey.” He paused, getting up and standing near his chair. “I think your mother’s just getting her second wind. That’s all.”

  Not sure what he was talking about, I waited for more.

  “She’s a bit restless at this stage of her life, I guess you could say. You and your brother are nearly raised, so her interests are beginning to broaden.”

  “But she’s always loved antiques, so this is nothing new.”

  He fell silent, still holding the folded newspaper in his hands.

  “Why would she want an antique shop in our backyard? Doesn’t she realize it could be an absolute nightmare—tourists tromping all across our lawn,” I spouted. “What’s this really about?”

  Dad came and pulled me up out of the chair gently. “I think your mother’s ready to compete with our Amish neighbors.”

  I was the one chuckling this time. Amish roadside stands couldn’t be the reason. “Mom’s not going to sell jams and jellies or make quilts, is she?”

  “Who knows what she’ll sell in her shop.” Dad seemed somewhat guarded about Mom’s ambitions.

  “But this is her idea, right?”

  He hugged me and guided me down the hall toward the kitchen. “We’ll talk more later, okay?”