‘‘We can work things out,’’ he had declared repeatedly. ‘‘I know we can.’’
She was unyielding. ‘‘I don’t think so.’’
‘‘We should try, at least.’’ His eyes searched hers, desperate for answers.
Bryan’s stubborn stance—his reasoning askew—coupled with Ivy’s ceaseless sermonizing letters collided in a colossal reaction in Sarah’s mind. ‘‘It’s a pointless discussion.’’
‘‘Please, Sarah, help me understand why you feel this way.’’
She had never brought herself to reveal the truth to him— the reality of her debilitating fears coupled with her inability to get past his unreasonable insistence on wanting so many children. She felt he was hung up on the idea, and his position continued to annoy her.
Yet he attempted to woo her, repeating her name sweetly, obviously enamored with her.
To no avail.
Sarah . . .
Over the years, she had taken issue with her mother for assigning her a name with obvious religious overtones. Sarah with an ‘‘h’’ had automatically linked her in primary school, if only subconsciously, with the Hebrew spelling. That old-fashioned spelling used by so many conservative types these days.
Sarah coupled with Cain was pure misery. She could hardly forgive her parents for this unseeming and unnecessary blight on her persona. There had been ample opportunity, back before her parents’ deaths, to change things. Often she had considered altering her names, at least the spellings, though she’d never followed through with the legal contacts. Changing her last name to Kane , she’d decided months ago, would be far better suited for an auspicious real estate agent.
She wouldn’t have admitted to being preoccupied with name changes, though the association with two rather unserving ones tended to push yet an additional thorn into her psyche.
Stopped in rush-hour traffic, Sarah became restless and reached for the glove compartment. Opening it, she located a card from Bryan, sent months ago. She dared not reread the amusing verse and the familiar signature.
Sarah, please help me understand. . . .
The past was too far behind her now. Had she accepted his marriage proposal instead of sashaying out of his life, her last name could have changed rather effortlessly.
She laughed softly. Their romance was neither here nor there, yet Bryan continued to hang on. Why?
Just as the traffic jam loosened up a bit, her cell phone rang. Shaking her head, she was exasperated to see that it was the real estate office calling. She reached for the cellular phone. ‘‘Sarah speaking.’’
‘‘Sorry to bother you, but a long-distance call just came in . . . for you,’’ Heidi informed her.
She felt her throat muscles tense. ‘‘Long distance?’’
‘‘Charles Eberley from Pennsylvania. Can you take the call?’’
Sarah was frustrated, staring at the clock on her dashboard. It had been days since she’d first heard from Mr. Charles Eberley. She’d hoped he wouldn’t call back.
‘‘Can you handle this for me?’’
‘‘Get rid of him, you mean?’’
It wouldn’t be wise to stonewall any longer. She couldn’t put this man off forever.
‘‘He asked specifically for you,’’ Heidi urged.
Most assuredly, the call was urgent . Sarah felt as if she had been plunged into a vast tide of formidable responsibility, against her will. She needed more time to ponder, to plan. Her personal and professional future was in peril.
‘‘What should I tell him?’’ Heidi’s voice penetrated Sarah’s thoughts.
‘‘Give me a second.’’ Inhaling, she held her breath long enough to mentally replay the initial call from the Lancaster County law firm of Chatwyn, Dunlap & Associates.
Signaling, she made a right-hand turn onto the exit ramp and headed for a coffee shop. She sensed that a larger circle of time and space was about to encompass her life, demanding immediate attention. Torn between career and conscience, she waited for the receptionist to put ‘‘Amish country’’ on the line.
Staring through the windshield, she focused on a complex of office buildings in the distance. She’d dreamed of—coveted — managing her own real estate office someday. For the first time in her life she felt prosperous in her own right, entirely fortuitous.
Certainly, the news of Ivy’s death had been unsettling. With both her parents deceased, and now her only sibling, Sarah assumed she might start to feel alone in the world. But she hadn’t actually mourned. Not yet. To think of sitting down and shedding tears over someone who had merely shared the same genetics seemed a travesty. Not that she was heartless. Simply put, she and Ivy had never clicked. Not as sisters. Certainly not as friends.
Charles Eberley’s voice came on the line. ‘‘Hello, Ms. Cain. I’d hoped to hear from you by now.’’
‘‘Yes . . . things got hectic here.’’
Without skipping a beat, he continued. ‘‘Ivy—your sister— had specifically requested that you be present at the formal reading of her will—’’ ‘‘I realize that, but—’’ Charles Eberley continued. ‘‘I have no choice but to relay her wishes over the phone.’’
Sarah listened silently.
‘‘Your sister appointed a sole legal guardian for her children prior to her death. You, Ms. Cain, are her first and only choice, as stated in Ivy’s last will and testament.’’
Sarah’s worst fear.
By dying prematurely, Ivy was putting Sarah in a bind. Unquestionably, a noose of sorts. What reasoning was behind such a preposterous choice?
‘‘You’ll have to excuse me, but this makes no sense,’’ she replied. ‘‘Well, it’s quite simple. Mrs. Cottrell wished for you, her only sister, to care for her children. Makes perfect sense, Ms. Cain.’’
‘‘I don’t think you understand . . .’’ She stopped short of revealing their rocky childhood and all the adult years of disputatious conversations, not to mention Ivy’s persistent God-filled letters, which were most offensive of all.
‘‘You’re quite right. I don’t understand the relationship you had with your sister, but I do respect your unwillingness to accept guardianship. You are under no obligation to do so. You must know, however, that if you choose not to take custody, the state of Pennsylvania will step in and make decisions on behalf of your nieces and nephews.’’
You are under no obligation. . . .
Sarah thought of Ivy’s Amish friends and neighbors, the various women her sister often mentioned in her letters. Ivy had never minced words when it came to her community of ‘‘sisters’’ or the camaraderie they shared. We’re one in the unity of the spirit , she would write. If that were the case, then perhaps some of those ‘‘spirit sisters’’ could pitch in and care for Ivy’s offspring.
‘‘What about an Amish family?’’ she asked. ‘‘Why isn’t that a workable solution?’’
He sighed audibly. ‘‘There are few Amish foster homes available, and even fewer who are able to take on five children. Social Services will step in, separate the children, and place them in state-authorized foster care—more specifically, non-Amish homes.’’
What’s wrong with that? she thought.
‘‘Ivy was adamant about not wanting her children separated or raised by strangers,’’ he added.
Sarah shrugged, thinking how she might’ve welcomed such an idea as a girl, even benefited by such an intrusion by outsiders when her own mother passed away. Living separate from Ivy as youngsters? Why, the thought was positively appealing.
‘‘Ivy named you the legal guardian. She wanted you to live with Lydia and Caleb, Anna Mae, Josiah, and Hannah in Lancaster County, preferably.’’
‘‘And this is stated precisely in Ivy’s will?’’
‘‘I drafted the will myself’’ was the less-than-cordial reply.
Considering everything, she felt overwhelming hostility toward Ivy, who—even from the grave—was still trying in her overzealous way to connect. The audacity,
Ivy insisting that Sarah summon whatever maternal instincts she possessed to take charge of five nieces and nephews!
Such a decision would thoroughly complicate Sarah’s lavish life-style.
Yet she was torn emotionally over her dilemma. Are the children being cared for properly? she wondered. Are they frightened at the loss of their mother?
Quickly, she dismissed such thoughts. None of this was her responsibility.
She simply wouldn’t accept guardianship for Ivy’s children. Her sister would not have the last word—again!
She recalled a letter Ivy had written to her weeks prior to Thanksgiving. If I should fail to recover from this affliction, if the Lord God should choose to call me home, I’ll need someone to care for my dear children. . . .
Sarah had ignored the comment, disinterested in volunteering her services in the event of her sister’s death. Instead, she encouraged Ivy to take care of herself. Why don’t you see a good cardiologist? Please don’t put it off any longer , she’d written in a letter, knowing, most likely, that bullheaded Ivy would not heed her advice. No, Mrs. Cottrell was deep into herbal home remedies— the original Earth Mother. That Sarah’s sister had breathed her last, trusting the ‘‘Great Physician,’’ as Ivy liked to refer to God, yet failing to follow a doctor’s strict recommendations, was another thorn in Sarah’s side.
The fact remained, Sarah had ceased corresponding with her sister after that final letter, and because of this and for other reasons, she was puzzled why Ivy hadn’t considered one of her Plain friends as a guardian. Someone like the amiable Susie Lapp or Emma Flaud or any number of other women whose names frequented Ivy’s letters. Someone similar to Ivy herself, perhaps, who had birthed a number of children, who was comfortable around little ones.
Someone . . . anyone else.
The attorney’s voice pierced the cloud of her musing. ‘‘I need to know if you plan to come, Ms. Cain.’’
Cradling the cell phone in her hand, she felt cornered. Literally. It never entered her mind that she had an indisputable choice. And there was no need to contemplate her Day-Timer. Her schedule was solidly booked weeks ahead. ‘‘I’ll phone my niece Lydia tonight . . . check in with her,’’ she said. The truth was, she scarcely knew of her sister’s children, let alone felt comfortable dialing the phone and chatting with one of them.
‘‘These matters simply cannot wait another week.’’
These matters . . .
She shivered despite the sun’s fading rays, grateful that Mr. Eberley had not inquired as to why she hadn’t attended Ivy’s funeral. No need for him to probe the issue. He’d probably sized her up accurately—self-assured, wealthy younger sister, caught up in her own world. No doubt, this was his impression of her.
Gripping the steering wheel, she wished the nightmare away, selfishly wanting her sister well again. She’d wanted Ivy out of her life, of course. But not this way—with Ivy dead and the awesome intrusion facing Sarah head on.
The well-spoken attorney had not a clue as to the nature of her disheartening relationship with her sister. How could he? It was impracticable to undertake an explanation of why she had not immediately flown to Grasshopper Level—or wherever the location of her sister’s children—and gathered them up in her figurative arms. No words could rationalize her behavior.
‘‘I’ll make travel arrangements tonight,’’ she heard herself say as if in a dense fog. Impenetrable.
‘‘When may I expect you?’’
He was pinning her down. There was no escape.
‘‘Tomorrow, early evening, if at all possible.’’ Sarah’s world orbited crazily, tipping off its axis. Sighing, she backed out of the parking spot and sped back to the real estate office.
Chapter Five
Saturday evening, and still no sign of Aunt Sarah. And nobody but nobody in the Amish community wanted local authorities aware of the Cottrell children’s ‘‘in limbo’’ status, waiting for validated adult supervision, so to speak. Not after the dreadful thing that had happened with the Glick family in Northumberland County a while back.
‘‘Outrageous.’’ That’s what Lancaster Amish folk were still saying of the whole mess. In silent, stoic terror, seven young Amish brothers had been removed from their home and placed in English homes, of all things. Two of the younger children— five-year-old twins—didn’t even speak a word of English yet. So for sure and for certain, that was prob’ly one of the reasons the Lapps and Flauds had come so often to look in on them.
Lydia stopped her speculatin’ and went to the kitchen sink to wash her hands. ‘‘Who wants pumpkin pie and ice cream?’’ she called.
From all over the house, her brothers and sisters came running. ‘‘Geb’s mir —give me some!’’ Josiah called, slipping on the checkered linoleum and nearly losing his balance.
‘‘Careful, now, and say ‘please,’ ’’ she scolded gently.
‘‘Sei so gut —please.’’ Her youngest brother grinned from ear to ear.
Lydia gave him a spontaneous hug. ‘‘You’re somethin’, now, aren’t you?’’
‘‘Jah, he is ,’’ little Hannah said, wagging her pointer finger. ‘‘Guess what I seen Josiah doin’.’’
‘‘What you saw him do,’’ Lydia corrected her wee sister, seeing the smudges of chocolate in the corners of Josiah’s smile.
‘‘And I do believe I’m a-spyin’ right this minute what Hannah’s talkin’ about.’’
Turning back to the sink, she ran the cold water, then proceeded to wash Josiah’s face clean with the flap of her apron.
‘‘There, now, much besser .’’
With his white shirttail hanging out of his trousers, Josiah stood there lookin’ at her. ‘‘Can I have two dips of ice cream?’’
‘‘Don’tcha mean may I?’’
Hannah smiled, showin’ the gaps where her front baby teeth had been. ‘‘Lyddie would make a gut schoolteacher someday, jah?’’ she lisped.
Lydia hadn’t thought of it, not recently, anyways. What with the months of Mamma bein’ so awful sick and doublin’ up on chores and whatnot all.
Josiah asked more politely this time. ‘‘May I have three dips of ice cream with my pie, please?’’
She had to laugh. ‘‘Looks like the amount of sweets goes up with the askin’, ain’t so?’’
Caleb unfolded his long lanky legs beneath the kitchen table, nodding his head in agreement. ‘‘Josiah gets his sweet tooth from Dat,’’ he said, waiting his turn for a hefty slice of pumpkin pie.
Lydia was mighty glad she’d made three pies this morning, after everybody left for school. Scooping up homemade ice cream, she turned her thoughts to Mr. Eberley’s phone call. She wasn’t sure if she liked the idea of him callin’ when she was home by herself. A man’s voice over the phone sometimes made her downright jittery. Sure, he was Mennonite and all—awful nice of Mamma to pick someone sympathetic to their ways. Still, her toes curled in her black high-top shoes, hearing Mamma’s lawyer say, ‘‘Your aunt lives a long ways from here, you know.’’ This, his explanation for Aunt Sarah staying away this long.
But Lydia was no fool. She knew Mamma’s sister lived far away. She just didn’t understand the holdup. Why on earth had Mamma picked such a woman for their caretaker anyways? ’Specially if this fancy lady wasn’t gonna budge an inch and get a move on?
I will fear no evil: for thou art with me. . . .
Lydia stopped her stewin’ and took two long, deep breaths. ‘‘Fillin’ the lungs with air is wonderful-gut for the soul, too, don’tcha forget,’’ Mamma would say if a body was out of sorts. Lydia often had to do such as that, tryin’ her best to keep herself calmed down over one thing or another.
‘‘Tell us a story, won’tcha?’’ Josiah asked from the table, his eyes blinking to beat the band.
‘‘First, I want you to take two deep breaths,’’ she told her youngest brother. ‘‘Try ’n relax now, jah? Your eyelids are nearly blinkin’ off.’’
Caleb grin
ned silently, keeping his peace.
She looked down both sides of the table. Caleb, at the head of the table where Dat used to sit, kept an eye on spunky Josiah to his left. The girls—tiny Hannah and redheaded Anna Mae— sat together to Lydia’s left.
What with the pie-eatin’, the kitchen quieted down right nice, ’least for the time it took to gobble down dessert.
‘‘I’ll tell y’all a story when sticky fingers are clean,’’ she said, repeating Mamma’s constant bidding.
Hannah and Josiah licked their gooey hands. And without being asked, Caleb reprimanded Josiah and Hannah. ‘‘Licking your fingers clean is not what Lyddie had in mind, I daresay.’’
Josiah, his blunt-cut hair all rumpled up and blue eyes downright sincere, volunteered an apology. ‘‘Sorry, Lyddie,’’ he said.
‘‘Es dutt mir leed —I am sorry,’’ Hannah squeaked, brown braids wrapped ’round her head.
Anna Mae had remained silent all during dessert. Supper, too, for that matter. Lydia had hesitated to speak too pointedly to her sister since Mamma’s passing. The girl could turn on the shyness at will, it seemed. ’Specially so in the past seven days.
‘‘Emma Flaud is makin’ some suey stew and bringing it over for supper tomorrow night,’’ Lydia said.
‘‘Ach, now, I like the sound of that,’’ Caleb replied.
‘‘Jah, I ’spect you do.’’
Anna Mae didn’t so much as raise her eyes.
‘‘I’m thinkin’ Fannie’s the nicest friend you’ve got, Lyddie,’’ Josiah said, nodding his head. ‘‘Her sisters and brothers are awful nice, too.’’
Lydia agreed. ‘‘The whole Flaud and Lapp family are nice.’’
The Redemption of Sarah Cain Page 4