The Redemption of Sarah Cain

by Beverly Lewis

  Bryan chuckled a bit. ‘‘A few days in Amish country might do you good. You might be surprised.’’

  ‘‘So . . . we’re back to the stuff issue?’’

  His irresistible smile drew her in. ‘‘Ivy’s kids are related to you by blood, Sarah. I think you might enjoy them if you give yourself half a chance.’’

  Half a chance . . .

  Where had she heard that before? Ivy was forever inviting her to ‘‘come visit us in the country,’’ implying some of the same things Bryan had just now.

  Was there no one on the planet who understood her? She would absolutely not think of giving up a lucrative career to raise someone else’s family. She loved her things, her life, her money too much to let it all go. And for what? Amish children . . . Ivy’s offspring?

  ‘‘I think we’d better skip this conversation.’’ She studied his face, his brow, his eyes.

  He winked at her. ‘‘If you can’t talk it over with me, then who?’’

  A legitimate point. No one in her life had discerned the IvySarah issue over the years as well as Bryan Ford. No one else had ever taken time to decipher the frustration in her voice on the phone; the numerous times she’d felt guilt ridden after receiving yet another letter from her narrow-minded sister.

  ‘‘May I at least keep in touch while you’re there?’’

  ‘‘Believe it or not, there is a phone in the house. But I’ll have my cell phone, too,’’ she replied, patting her purse.

  ‘‘And your laptop computer, I suppose?’’ He was grinning.

  ‘‘Can’t leave my email behind.’’

  Their breakfast was coming—eggs and waffles for Bryan, a fruit plate and cottage cheese for her. She realized then, as the food was placed before them, she hadn’t asked a single question about his life, how things were going back in Boston.

  Suddenly she felt embarrassed, ridiculously self-centered. ‘‘Forgive me, Bryan. How’s everything with you?’’

  ‘‘Thought you’d never ask.’’ He leaned forward, studying her across the table. ‘‘As a matter of fact, my work is going along better than ever. It’s very possible I might be able to get away again for a few days, visit you in . . . Lancaster, is it?’’

  ‘‘Oh, you mustn’t come. Ivy’s children aren’t your problem.’’

  He smiled knowingly. ‘‘But . . . we’re friends, aren’t we?’’

  ‘‘Thanks.’’ Then she added quickly, ‘‘I mean, for your friendship.’’ He was nodding. ‘‘But you meant ‘no thanks’ to my coming to Amish country?’’

  She felt completely ashamed. ‘‘Yes,’’ she said so softly she wondered if he heard. Bryan knew her far too well, yet loved her still. Seemingly, there was nothing she could say or do to make him change his mind about her.

  Nothing at all.

  Sunday afternoon, January 23

  Ach, what a day of days.

  Levi King asked if Caleb could drive me in the family buggy over to Singing tonight. Glory be! But I told him I’d best stay at home with my sisters and brothers. ’Course, I thanked him for asking.

  ‘‘Maybe somebody could put a bug in Fannie Flaud’s ear . . . just for tonight.’’ He winked at me after he said that!

  ’Course, I knew what he was getting at. He wanted one of my other girlfriends to contact Fannie, see if she couldn’t take over for me here at the house while I went to the Singing at the Eshes’ big barn.

  But then I thought of poor Fannie missing out on her own fun, and I knew it wouldn’t be fair to cheat her out of a good time. No, I’d stay put . . . where I belong for now. I just have to give up this one chance to spend some time with Levi.

  Jah, I could tell by the look on his face, he was more than just a little disappointed. But not enough to go looking for another girlfriend. He reached for my hands and squeezed them gently. ‘‘I’ll miss ya, Lyddie, but there’ll be other times for us. I know there will.’’

  I’ll never forget the sound of those words. Now I’m thinking— more convinced than ever—he really and truly loves me. Yet I daresn’t let on a thing to Caleb or the others. This courting business must be kept quiet. It’s the way things have been done amongst the People for nearly three hundred years. Makes right good sense to me, too.

  In spite of everything I’ve thought and worried about Aunt Sarah, still a part of me hopes there might be a way to get Sarah Cain to come right soon and maybe even stay. More than anything, ’cept for the promise I made Mamma, I want to be Levi’s wife someday.

  Chapter Seven

  Sarah folded her lingerie, placing each item in the soft pockets of her wardrobe Pullman. Methodically, she checked off the categories of clothing she intended to pack for her trip—sufficient for a full week. Undergarments, hosiery, silk pajamas and robe, slippers, two suits, three skirts and blouses, pants ensemble to mix and match, two Angora wool sweaters, dress shoes, two pairs of casual shoes, jewelry, and necessary toiletries, including makeup and hair needs.

  Of one thing she was convinced: She would remain in Lancaster County no longer than necessary. She fully intended to wrap things up on behalf of Ivy’s children in a single week’s time. Psychologically, she could better handle the stressful, complicated situation if she mentally limited the amount of time spent on Ivy Cottrell’s Amish turf.

  Fondly, she surveyed her suite of rooms, taking in the canopied rice bed done in a delicate but somewhat sophisticated floralpatterned duvet and solid ivory coverlet. A white wood fireplace with recessed bookcases over the mantel graced one entire corner of the room, surrounded by matching pale rose-hued overstuffed armchairs.

  She would miss this opulent chamber. How could she not? She had closely involved herself in the impassioned process, working with an exclusive decorator, intent on creating the ultimate in fine design. This house—the three-thousand-squarefoot town home—represented everything she had ever worked for. It was her Shangri-La, her haven in the storms of life.

  Had she overlooked anything? Deliberately, Sarah combed the suite with her gaze, as one who dreads abandoning a shrine.

  Then, nearly gasping, she spied the tiny gold frame on the bedside table—the picture of her deceased student, sweet and mildly handicapped Megan Holmes. Nicknamed ‘‘Meggie’’ by her friends, the youngster had been in Sarah’s second-grade class in Stonington, Connecticut.

  Lovingly, she wrapped the picture in several layers of tissue and placed it in the suitcase next to her silk pajamas. Safe there , she decided, rejecting the impulse to study the image again.

  Satisfied that her packing was complete, she went to her writing desk and pulled open the deep middle drawer where she stored Ivy’s recent letters.

  Opening the first envelope her fingers touched, she noted the postmark. December 1997. She unfolded the off-white stationery, taking note of the greeting—Ivy’s customary salutation. Greetings, my dear sister, in the name of our precious Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ .

  Often, Sarah had wondered if Ivy’s reference to our Lord was a subconscious approach to ‘‘preaching,’’ or if her sister purposely wished to set an ultraspiritual tone for the body of the letter. Rereading this particular note, Sarah noticed that there was not a single trace of rebuke to be found.

  We’re having our share of cold weather here lately. Snow is falling and the wind is blowing just now as I write. Some of the womenfolk, including myself, will take turns going from one house to another during the next week, repairing old quilts and making new ones from scratch. It’ll be fun, mixed in with the work, too. How we do enjoy the Tellings that come out of such gatherings. I must say, too, that I believe my Lydia is coming up in the ranks as a fine storyteller herself.

  Susie Lapp and her daughter Emma and granddaughter Fannie soon will come to help cook up some cabbage chowder. We’ll make plenty, as I know how much her family and mine do enjoy such a meal on a blustering day like today.

  Two Tuesdays from this coming, a group of us plan to make up a batch of homemade doughnuts, the Lord will
ing. Oh, I wish you could smell the aroma as it fills the house. Sarah, I wonder if you recall how we helped Mother make her once-a-year doughnuts back in Connecticut. Do you remember the year we got snowed in? In late February, I believe it was—well after Valentine’s Day. Dad wanted to put chains on the car and drive around in the parking lot near the little shopping center, making his own kind of doughnuts in the snow, I s’pose. But in the end Mother put her foot down, remember? You and I fell asleep to the delicious smells of yeast and dough, our stomachs full of sweet, warm pastry. I’m not sure, but those doughnut-making sessions with Mother might just be where my yearning for baking got started .

  Sarah readily recalled that winter day. The wind had howled in the trees beyond the fence as snow piled in drifts against the front door and covered every tree and shrub like fluffy white frosting on a cake. The family cat snoozed beside the hearth, and the fragrant warmth from the kitchen was deceiving, giving the illusion that all was well. As usual, though, Sarah felt the strong undercurrent of conflict, stemming from Ivy’s need to be ‘‘in charge’’—either of assigning aprons or measuring ingredients.

  But for Sarah, frequent summer visits to the shore with her father were the memories she most cherished. Daddy had always been intrigued by seashells washed up on the sand. So the two of them went barefoot together in the spring, summer, and fall, their pants legs rolled up to midcalf, gathering dozens of shells; caressing each one—channeled whelk or moon shell alike. Daddy spoke as if each had an important life lesson to impart, and for him the shells did have something beautifully enlightening to share. Every aspect of nature seemed to communicate— reveal itself intimately—to Alfred Cain. Never had there been any doubt that her father was in tune with the Creator of all things. Thankfully, he had not pushed his theology off on her the way Ivy had attempted to do in recent years.

  Refolding Ivy’s letter, Sarah slipped it back into the envelope. She rose, carrying a handful of letters, and placed them into her suitcase before closing it.

  Thoughts of Megan Holmes swept over her unexpectedly. Perhaps it was the reminiscing of sea creatures; moon shells especially, with their glossy-smooth surface and flawless spiral. ‘‘The heart-core in the center is like an island,’’ Daddy would say, pointing to the ‘‘dark eye.’’

  Perhaps it was the subconscious connection to an island that brought Meggie to mind. At any rate, she found herself longing for the darling girl, overwhelmed by guilt once again.

  Breathlessly, Sarah began to unzip the section where several pairs of pajamas were nestled, removing Meggie’s picture. She chose to tuck it away inside her briefcase instead. At least it would be safe there, in the event her luggage became misplaced or lost.

  Simply put, she could not allow herself to risk losing the one and only tangible memento of a precious life. A young life lost to Sarah’s poor judgment.

  Time spent collecting shells on the sand at Watch Hill had taught young Lydia fascinating things. Things a person didn’t learn at school, ’specially not public schools. Jah, in Amish schools, for sure and for certain. But, thanks to Grandpa Cain, she’d learned the art of shedding unnecessary things early on.

  ‘‘Watch closely the hermit crab,’’ he would say, picking up a castaway shell house. ‘‘See how little he seems to get by with?’’

  She’d observed hundreds of seashells, too many to count— perty, simple shelters abandoned by former snail owners. No wonder Dat had taken up the refrain about casting off vanity. He’d heard it enough times, too, from Grandpa, long before they’d ever thought of becoming one with the People.

  These things she pondered to the muted clip-clop-clip of the horse’s hooves against the snow-packed road, ever thankful for Caleb’s strong arms today as he reined in Dobbin, one of their two most reliable driving horses. Grateful, too, for Josiah’s and Hannah’s calm repose behind her in the second seat of the carriage. Anna Mae was again the quietest of all, sitting between her younger brother and sister. But now and then Lydia could hear Anna Mae muttering, like she was talkin’ to somebody but nobody was listening.

  Josiah spoke up from the back. ‘‘Preacher Esh was mighty long-winded today.’’

  ‘‘Best not say such a thing ’bout God’s anointed,’’ she chided.

  ‘‘Well, he was ,’’ Anna Mae said. ‘‘I don’t see no reason for not sayin’ so.’’

  ‘‘Any reason,’’ Lydia corrected her sister out of habit, though she knew there was more to admonish Anna Mae about than her poor grammar. Her sister was becoming mighty headstrong— and all just since Mamma’s passing. She wondered if she ought to speak to one of the older women about what to do.

  But, no, Sarah Cain was on her way, so she’d prob’ly just wait and leave it up to their aunt to apply the right discipline.

  ‘‘When didja say Mamma’s sister is comin’?’’ Caleb broke the silence.

  She’d told them a dozen times, if she’d told them once, just since this morning when Mr. Eberley had called before breakfast, of all things. On a Sunday morning yet. It was as if her brothers and sisters had to hear the same thing over and again in order to believe it.

  She couldn’t blame them, really, for it seemed like a solitary dream to her, too, that Mamma’s fancy younger sister was actually comin’ to be their guardian. ‘‘Her plane’s landin’ at Harrisburg, and Mr. Eberley says it’ll take her a gut forty minutes to get here.’’

  ‘‘Ach, I wonder what it’s like to fly in a plane high up in the sky,’’ Josiah said, making buzzing sounds behind her head.

  ‘‘The Lord never meant a person to go so awful fast,’’ she said, offering words that Dat used to say about the pace of things. ‘‘Life goes by so terrible swift without forcin’ it along faster.’’ She felt she had to say the latter, just to put Josiah in his place.

  It worked. He stopped making the whirring sounds right quick and began chattering with Hannah. All the while, Anna Mae carried on her private conversation with no one at all.

  ‘‘How will we know it’s Aunt Sarah when she comes?’’ Caleb asked softly, his left hand resting on his leg. His right hand held both reins loosely.

  ‘‘Oh, I think we’ll know.’’

  Anna Mae whispered, ‘‘For sure?’’

  ‘‘Well, she must be an awful rich lady now, from what Mamma always said. Aunt Sarah drives fast cars and likes to dress up a whole lot. So I ’spect she looks perty fancy most all the time.’’

  ‘‘She wears for-gut clothes everywhere ?’’ Hannah said, revealing her astonishment.

  ‘‘Jah, but I’m thinkin’ it’d be best if we don’t gawk or say anything ’bout how she looks. Promise me that?’’ She turned in her seat, eyeing Josiah and Hannah sternly. As for Anna Mae, Lydia reached around and patted her sister’s chubby knees through her long woolen coat. ‘‘I’m almost positive we’ll recognize her. She must look something like Mamma, after all.’’

  ‘‘No . . . you look like Mamma,’’ Anna Mae pointed out.

  Lydia knew it was true. Everyone, from the time she was born till Mamma’s funeral, had always said she was the spittin’ image of her mother. Truth was, she was right proud of it, in a humble sort of way. She had Mamma’s features and golden brown eyes and hair, just not the same strawberry hues as Mamma had in her flaxen hair. No, her own was more like wheat after a hard rainstorm, blanched nut brown with no hope of red. Still, she had the persistent waves that sometimes worked their way into ringlets around her hairline on a hot summer day.

  ‘‘Where’s Aunt Sarah gonna sleep?’’ Hannah asked.

  ‘‘Mamma’s old room.’’

  The enclosed carriage fell silent. Only the soft snort of Dobbin the horse could be heard.

  Sighing, she thought maybe she shouldn’t have been so quick to volunteer their mamma’s former abode. Maybe it bothered the children to think of Aunt Sarah coming into their home that-a-way.

  Sometimes, here lately, instead of having to make so many decisions for the family, she almost wished sh
e were small enough to fit inside the weathered channeled whelks Grandpa used to pick up and talk about so cheerfully. Up . . . up the tiny spiraling staircase, safe from harm, secure in his strong, wrinkled hand.

  Chapter Eight

  In Chicago, Sarah made her connecting flight with little hassle. On board the plane, she found her aisle seat and settled into row ten. Immediately, she was greeted by the passenger in the seat next to hers. ‘‘Hello, there.’’

  ‘‘Hello,’’ she replied, not so interested in engaging in conversation.

  ‘‘Where are you headed?’’ asked the woman, not much older than midthirties.

  ‘‘Harrisburg.’’

  ‘‘I’m going back to Lancaster,’’ the brunette woman volunteered. ‘‘I’m a Bible school student there.’’

  She nodded, saying no more, eager to get back to her novel.

  ‘‘Are you from Harrisburg?’’ inquired the woman.

  Sarah chose to remain elusive. ‘‘New England’s my home.’’

  The passenger’s eyes lit up with recognition. ‘‘You know, I thought you might be from somewhere up there. I have relatives in New Hampshire . . . they sound just like you.’’ She paused all too briefly, then continued. ‘‘What part of New England?’’

  Sarah didn’t want to appear rude, but she did want to discourage a long discourse with a stranger and get on with her reading. ‘‘Not far from Mystic, Connecticut.’’

  ‘‘That’s beautiful country up there.’’

  ‘‘Yes.’’

  ‘‘I spent several summers in Stonington when I was in my teens,’’ the young woman volunteered. ‘‘A long time ago, it seems.’’

  She refused to admit to having been born and reared there. The wounds were still too fresh.

  ‘‘I love Lancaster County. Ever been there?’’

  ‘‘This happens to be my first trip.’’

  ‘‘Oh, then by all means, let me encourage you to take a bus tour of Amish country while you’re there. It’s like nothing you’ve ever experienced.’’