‘‘A condo would be cool,’’ the young man said.
Sarah went out of her way, professionally at least, to walk them through her usual systematic approach to finances and housing needs. In this case, though, a place to call home was more than likely a desire . Not a necessity. Her guess? These two merely wanted to play house, break free of overdemanding, restrictive parents. Such was the lot of many of society’s young people these days.
Doesn’t anybody get married anymore? She shrugged off her temporary disgust, happy to move ahead with her afternoon.
Now she was on her way to meet with an upper-middle-class client and his wife. They were interested in ‘‘moving up’’ to a more expensive house. ‘‘A preexisting home would be perfect— no older than five years,’’ the new client had indicated over the phone, explaining that they were in need of four ‘‘good-sized bedrooms,’’ three baths, a separate, elegant dining room, etc., etc.
A house like that would push them into a higher sales bracket and earn Sarah more money for the same amount of Realtor work. She could easily imagine the chic new outfits, complete with accessories, she would purchase for herself with part of her sales commission. Maybe it was time for an upgraded computer, as well. And why not throw in the latest color printer while she was at it? A vacation cottage somewhere would be nice, too. So much money—too little time to spend it.
The sky was overcast as she drove to the Summit Point sales office just south of Portland proper. Her spirits began to droop the closer she got to the designated meeting place, though not a soul would have known by the looks of her. She had taken extra care to apply her best makeup that morning, choosing a particularly well-tailored suit—turquoise virgin wool—with a creamcolored blouse. She slid her fingers across the pearl choker at her throat, enjoying the feel, smooth and sumptuous. Her earrings matched her neck jewelry, and she played with first the right, then the left, as she waited for her clients inside the temporary building.
Staring at the sky, she thought of Ivy and the possibility of her last wishes. It was beyond ludicrous to second-guess her deceased sister. Besides that, Sarah had no solid evidence that such a last will and testament even existed. Ivy had never been the type of woman to plan too far ahead, except, of course, for a year’s worth of fresh canned goods, dried meats, and fruit preserves she often wrote about ‘‘putting up.’’ No, Ivy Cottrell, Amishwoman by choice, placed far too much stock in God’s providence to do any such estate planning. But nagging thoughts continued, and Sarah tried to no avail to force them away.
She spotted the well-dressed couple as they walked arm in arm up the steps to the sales office. Over the next two hours, she showed them four different house options. All the while her thoughts were entangled with unanswerable questions. Questions that related to her sister’s children and the possibility that Ivy had made her a beneficiary of something—or someone.
By nightfall, she had worked herself into a subconscious frenzy. To help absorb some of the shock of the past day’s news and to avoid the madness of insomnia, she turned to her finances and checked off her credit card expenditures, reconciling last month’s statement with her checkbook. As usual, the management of her income gave her great comfort.
Chapter Three
Lydia stared at the wooden lamp on the table across the room, her eyes drawn to the light. More than a few of her Amish girlfriends—back when she attended the one-room schoolhouse— had been Old Order. Each night their fathers brought in the gas lamps from outdoors. Younger brothers and sisters gathered like bees to a honeycomb, sittin’ under the golden circle to read or sew or color, as grown-ups talked over the day’s events near the ring of light.
She had spent many-a night at one particular girlfriend’s house, down the road a piece. Fannie Flaud, one of Noah and Susie Lapp’s numberless grandchildren, was her best friend in all the world.
Fannie had gone with Lydia to their first Singing ever, back nearly a year ago. Both sixteen at the time, they sat side by side on the same bale of hay, watchin’ the boys come strutting into the barn. Levi King and all the other boys wore their for-gut black trousers and long-sleeved white shirts and tan suspenders. ’Course, Lydia and Fannie acted disinterested, like they weren’t really payin’ the fellas any mind. That’s how it was at Singings and whatnot. Girls weren’t s’posed to let on they liked any one boy.
‘‘Levi’s sweet on ya.’’ Fannie had been the first to say it. She’d whispered it to Lydia just minutes after the fast songs had started.
‘‘No . . .’’
‘‘Ach, you just wait and see.’’
Her heart was beating too fast. ‘‘Do you think so, really?’’
‘‘I know so, Lyddie.’’
Turned out, Fannie was right. Quick as a wink Levi had asked Lydia to ride home with him in his new courting buggy.
All these months later, and now she was really and truly Levi’s Aldi —girlfriend. Whether or not she would end up Levi’s wife was another thing yet.
Sarah was thumbing through a home decorator magazine when the phone rang. Because it was late in the evening, she let her answering machine screen the call.
Bryan Ford’s familiar voice came on the line, and quickly she picked up. ‘‘Hey, stranger.’’
‘‘Great to hear your voice, Sarah.’’ He paused. ‘‘Any chance I can entice you to have supper with me tomorrow night?’’
The ever spontaneous Bryan .
‘‘Maybe, if you’d called me two weeks ago. I’m back-to-back with appointments.’’ And my sister just died , she thought.
‘‘Must you always be so busy?’’
She ignored the question. ‘‘So . . . what’re you doing in town?’’
‘‘Research.’’
She didn’t press for more. Fact was, Bryan seemed to enjoy popping up at the most unexpected times, despite his busy life as a computer systems analyst based in Boston.
‘‘I’m here for two days, then you won’t hear from me again.’’
‘‘That a promise?’’
He chuckled. ‘‘I’m attracted to spunk, which, I suppose, is why I’m here.’’ His voice had softened to a more serious tone, but there was a definite hint of jest.
‘‘You’re impossible.’’
‘‘Look who’s talking.’’
Their bantering took her back to college days. Dark-haired, witty, and terribly good-looking, Bryan Ford had declared her to be his one and only soul mate, the woman destined to complete him. At the time, she’d scoffed. ‘‘You’re a dreamer,’’ she’d told him, meaning it.
But he was more than earnest about starting a romance. And they’d had a whirlwind of camaraderie and affection. Nearly two years’ worth. ‘‘Never forget who loves you best,’’ he always said, walking her up the dorm steps.
Without question, she had believed him. Yet they’d parted ways after graduation.
Her decision. Due, in part, to Bryan’s dogged tenacity—his obsession with having been an only child and wanting a wife who also longed for many children. Overwhelming to Sarah at the time. Now, as well.
‘‘I could meet you somewhere Sunday morning—fifteen minutes over coffee,’’ Bryan suggested. ‘‘How about it?’’ He hadn’t given up on her over the years. Apparently, he wasn’t backing down now, either.
‘‘Sunday morning—any morning is next to impossible. Ditto for tomorrow supper.’’ She knew how heartless it would be to encourage him, though she did enjoy his company more than she cared to admit. Spending time with Bryan often made her feel as if she were missing something quintessential in life. Yet their mutual esteem had suffered from the marked disagreement, the one enormous wedge between them, separating two friends, keeping them a continent-length apart—she, in Oregon; Bryan, in Massachusetts.
‘‘I’m told you do eat breakfast sometimes,’’ he taunted.
‘‘Rather infrequently.’’
‘‘Then will you have an infrequent Sunday breakfast with me?’’ He was being ter
ribly polite, not at all pushy as he had been years before—the singular, too-enterprising push that had ended their romance. Today he was merely asking permission to have breakfast with her. It had been months since his work had brought him this far west.
The urgency in his voice piqued her curiosity. She sighed, careful not to exhale into the phone. ‘‘Oh, Bryan. I just don’t know. . . .’’
‘‘It’s only breakfast.’’
Most likely, he had come all this way to see her , though she was fairly certain there was also a client waiting somewhere in the wings.
Legitimately, she couldn’t refuse. ‘‘All right, but we’ll have 36 to make it short.’’
‘‘And sweet?’’
‘‘Whatever.’’ She laughed.
‘‘Hey, don’t overdo it with the enthusiasm.’’
She wondered, Is he impervious to pain? Why did Bryan keep coming back? Not that she disregarded him; on the contrary, Bryan Ford was as likable as any of the men she’d dated. But he was more than good-natured and fun-loving. He happened to be devoted to her, for a reason that she herself had yet to discern.
‘‘Seven-thirty too early?’’ she asked.
‘‘Name the place.’’
She did. He promised to be prompt.
‘‘See you soon,’’ she said and hung up.
Returning to her magazine, she pushed thoughts of Bryan out of her mind. No time to analyze whatever relationship they did or didn’t have. She struggled to read, but after a few minutes of distracted effort, the decorator magazine soon lost its appeal. Sarah placed it under the glass-topped coffee table and headed for bed, ignoring nagging thoughts of Ivy . . . and Charles Eberley.
Sarah still hadn’t decided what—if anything—to do about the attorney’s pointed request. One thing for sure, she did not want to wedge valuable time out of her schedule merely to travel to Pennsylvania to hear the inconsequential details of Ivy’s last will and testament.
Too much work to be done here. Too much living to do.
Sarah thought of her deceased sister’s children. What would happen to them?
‘‘They’re not my problem,’’ Sarah whispered to herself. She brushed her teeth, flossed, and headed off to bed.
Friday night, January 21
I feel compelled more than ever to write down my thoughts several times a day. ’Least for a while I will. Maybe just till things settle some inside me.
Fannie says it’s a good idea to get my feelings on paper. ‘‘Helps clear your mind,’’ she told me today when she and her mamma stopped over for hot cocoa and sticky buns midmorning. The Good Lord surely must’ve sent these dear friends to me while my brothers and sisters were at school. I felt ever so lonely till I saw them coming.
Every now and then, without warning, I see Mamma’s face clearly before me. Never will I forget how beautiful she was, inside and out. Heart-shaped face, cinnamon brown eyes, soft strawberry blond hair nestled in a thick bun under her prayer cap. And her smile, ach, it nearly takes my breath away just remembering.
How I miss her! Sometimes, when the house is dark and my brothers and sisters are fast asleep, I’m tempted to have a looksee inside the family chest in Mamma’s room. The deep drawers tempt me so, to do more than just look, really. I ’spect there must be letters, lots of ’em, hidden away inside the wide bottom drawer. Some from old friends in Connecticut, I’m perty sure. From Grandma Cain, too. Others from Aunt Sarah herself. And somewhere safe, Mamma’s own journals are tucked away.
Truthfully, I’m afraid I might yield to the Tempter and read such personal writings come one of these days. Almighty God knows it takes more than simple willpower to steer clear of my mother’s empty room altogether—takes downright grit. Still, it irks me to think of our worldly aunt comin’ and rummaging through Mamma’s private things, simple as they are. Just doesn’t seem basslich—fitting—somehow.
So what’ll become of us? I lie awake worryin’, this same tormenting question swirling ’round in my head. Standing at my window, I pray often, staring down at the sleepy fields around Grasshopper Level, all white and silvery in the moonlight. God will hafta do something and right quick, I’m thinking. ’Cause, no telling, Aunt Sarah won’t wanna stay here in Amish country. If she does, she’ll be more than befuddled by our ways: horse and buggies and three-hour Preachin’ services. Thank goodness we’re the sort of Plain folk who are allowed electricity and telephones— even running water. Otherwise, there’s no telling what Aunt Sarah would think . Backwoods urchins, she’ll prob’ly call us, when what we really are is God-fearing Amish.
After everything our parents went through to join the Amish and live the simple life before God and the People, I truly hate to think of leaving Lancaster County. It’s a mighty good thing my brothers and sisters don’t remember modern ways. They’d be scared something awful, I fear .
Chapter Four
Saturday’s farm chores were the same as any other day— sweeping out the barn, feeding chickens, and milking three cows to supply milk for themselves and a good many payin’ English customers.
‘‘Fresh raw milk is a wonderful-gut source of income and makes for healthy English bones as well as Amish,’’ Mamma often said if any of the younger children fussed over having to crawl out of bed in the dark.
Along with everything else, there was forever a growin’ basket of mending, hand stitching, and other sewing to be done, ’specially with youngsters like Hannah and Josiah in the house. Anna Mae wasn’t nearly so rambunctious, though, and for that, Lydia was grateful.
Plenty of cookin’ and bakin’ needed to be done, too. Caleb was a lanky boy, nearly as tall as Dat was before he died, though sometimes it was hard to remember just how tall without any pictures to jiggle her memory. Lydia often wondered how it would be to own just a picture or two of her deceased parents. Even black-and-white snapshots would be awful nice. But she never questioned the unwritten rules of the Ordnung , nor Bishop Joseph and church members who passed down the centuries-old blueprint for the People. This was the life Dat and Mamma had chosen for themselves and their children.
Forgetting those things which are behind . . . I press toward the mark for the prize of the high calling of God in Christ Jesus , she recited mentally as she stirred the batter for blueberry pancakes.
Tomorrow, the Lord’s Day, would be another story yet. There’d be no extra chores, just what had to be done in the barn—milkin’ and whatnot. She would be cookin’ food ahead for her siblings today. A right-gut baking ham was just the thing. She’d slice and serve it with other cold cuts tomorrow, along with strawberry-banana Jell-O, cup cheese, and homemade bread. Josiah had been beggin’ for Apple Dapple cake here lately, so she’d prob’ly go ahead and bake some for the whole family.
She’d never been tempted to cook or bake on Sundays. It never crossed her mind to do such a thing. Mamma was always so careful to follow the ways of the People when it came to food preparation. Lydia sometimes fretted that if Sarah Cain did come to stay, they’d be forced into doin’ things the fancy way, the English way. She shuddered to think they’d have no choice but to go back on their parents’ solemn vow to the church and to God.
’Course, if she had her way all ’round, she and her brothers and sisters would just continue doin’ the things they were doing each and every day. Really, there was no need for Sarah Cain to come. Not at all. And by the looks of it, with no hide nor hair of Aunt Sarah yet, she must be feelin’ the selfsame way.
Wiping her hands on her apron, Lydia moved to the utensil drawer. ‘‘Come now, Anna Mae . . . Hannah. Time to set the table,’’ she called.
Hearing the pitter-patter of scurrying feet—helpin’ hands on the way—she thought how appreciative she was to the Lapps and Fannie’s mother, Emma Flaud, too, for havin’ kept a close watch on her and her brothers and sisters all week.
Still, she couldn’t help but wonder how long before the Children and Youth Agency might come a-calling, knockin’ on their door, inquiring of them,
possibly escorting them out to a waiting police car and whisking them away to strangers. The what-if visions in her mind made her shiver sometimes.
If Aunt Sarah did come and they could talk her into settlin’ down here—look after them the way Mamma wanted—at least they’d be spared bein’ split up. And Lydia’s promise would become a reality. It was the one and only reason why she ever pleaded with the Lord God heavenly Father. ‘‘Please, Lord, change Aunt Sarah’s heart, if it needs changin’, that is. And . . . if it’s not too much to ask—and in your divine will—won’t you send her to us real soon?’’ She’d prayed this every single night now, for over a week.
Quickly, Lydia dipped out one-fourth cup of batter from the large mixing bowl and onto the black-iron griddle. She watched as the sizzle ceased to sing on the griddle, the tiny air bubbles beginning to appear.
Lord Jesus, take my hand and lead me through this day , she prayed silently, squeezin’ fresh oranges for their juice. I trust you always, puttin’ a smile on my face for those ’round me to see your grace at work in me. I’ll keep on lovin’, workin’, and prayin’. For as long as I live. Amen .
The fragments on the horizon had amassed, steadily growing into a partial cloud cover. The sun would be sinking into the great sea to the west a few hours from now.
Bryan had often referred to the Pacific Ocean that way, especially after Sarah first moved to Portland. ‘‘The great sea beckons,’’ he liked to say with a glint in his dark eyes. His way of enticing her away from the office for a few hours . . . he was well aware of her weaknesses. Walking barefooted along the shore, the tide tickling her toes, was definitely one of them. ‘‘Come with me, Sarah, let’s go beachcombing.’’
Sometimes, especially if the day was a sky-blue Saturday like today, she would give in and allow him to take her to the ocean. Their impulsive getaways rarely occurred more than once or twice a summer. They weren’t actually dating, but Bryan called whenever he was ‘‘in the area,’’ which, in the past eighteen months or so, had been rather sporadic. She had even wondered if he was losing interest in her. Maybe he had found another love interest, someone to return his affection, the way she had at first, before the subject of their fierce disagreement emerged toward the end of their senior year in college. The great debate had been to blame for their demise. Ultimately, Sarah blamed Bryan.
The Redemption of Sarah Cain Page 3