Summer of Secrets

by Charlotte Hubbard

  Two spots burned in her cheeks. She hadn’t shared this secret with anyone except Sheila and—

  Leah! Did my own sister tell the bishop about this after she was here this mornin’?

  Miriam concentrated on spreading butter over every square inch of the dough, giving her answers time to bubble up like yeast. “You’re a father, Hiram,” she began carefully. “Surely you can imagine my shock and—and fear as I watched my runaway toddler bein’ carried away by the risin’ river.”

  “Why were you so close to the water? Didn’t you see the storm coming?”

  Miriam had asked herself these questions a hundred times, pointing the finger of blame at herself. But Naomi’s assurances—and speaking with Bob Oliveri and Sheila—had freed her heart of its guilt. And she refused to invite it in again. “Jesse was fishin’ that day, and I went to fetch him when I saw the weather blowin’ in,” she replied quietly. “Had to take my triplets, of course. They weren’t quite three that July. At a wiggly age and gettin’ worked up by the weather, especially when the rain started pourin’ down on us.”

  She sprinkled sugar and cinnamon liberally over the dough and then dotted the surface with raisins. “I was heavy with child at the time, too. And when I grabbed the girls to hurry up the bank to safety, Rebecca broke away ... and fell in. I—I knew I couldn’t stay ahead of the risin’ water, so all’s I could do was holler after her ... and watch her disappear around the bend as I clutched my other two cryin’ babies.”

  Hiram ambled toward the counter and picked up one of Rachel’s chocolate cookies. “And you searched for her, no doubt.”

  No sign of empathy in that voice. No allowance for her pregnant condition, or the fact that Jesse hadn’t been there to help with the girls. Was Hiram giving her enough rope so she could hang herself with her own words?

  Miriam sprinkled the raisin-studded surface with more sugar and cinnamon. “Jah, Jesse and the neighbors looked all along the riverbanks, clean into New Haven and beyond,” she replied around the lump in her throat. “My husband was torn up, but as ya know, he was also the deacon. So when Bishop Byler decided against callin’ in the police and firemen to help us search, we went along with his decision—even though it broke this poor mother’s heart.”

  Broke our spirits for a gut long while, too. But this is no time to get all weak and watery-eyed.

  He closed his eyes in pleasure as he bit into the cookie. “That’s the way Preacher Hostetler and Gabe Glick recall it, too. And—just as we Amish wanted no interference from the authorities or outsiders before, we must insist this incident remain buried in the past. For the People’s safekeeping, as it were.”

  What exactly did he mean by that? Miriam’s throat tightened around a retort as she carefully rolled the dough lengthwise away from her, tucking as she went. “Jah, I see no purpose in callin’ in reporters or such, to cause a hoopla in the papers,” she replied in a controlled voice. “Is that what you’re sayin’, Bishop?”

  Hiram cleared his throat and came to stand beside her. “We’ve already seen how a single visit from this Tiffany—your Rebecca—has led young Micah to seek out her company. And she’s compelled you, a pillar of the church, to sneak away for a meeting with the man who raised her,” he said, placing a hand firmly on her shoulder. “These are prime examples of how Englishers entice us away from the Ordnung and from God’s holy purpose for our lives, Miriam.”

  She shrugged from under his hand to fetch her sharpest knife. Oh, how this man made her insides simmer and stew! Had Rachel and Micah seen the bishop come in? Would they wonder why he was here, and come over? Miriam reminded herself of the warning she’d given her daughter about letting her temper get the best of her.

  “Beggin’ your pardon, but it’s not like we invited Tiffany to come here. I didn’t know she was alive!” She sliced the dough log into separate rolls with quick, practiced strokes. “And no matter what the brethren consider as holy purpose, ya can’t deny that Tiffany is my long-lost daughter. Nor can ya keep me from lovin’ her as my own, no matter what she looks like or what comes of it!”

  Even as her words rang in the kitchen, Miriam knew she’d crossed the line. Said too much, too insistently—and with a knife in her hand, no less.

  “Be still and listen when I’m talking to you!” Hiram stepped behind her to clap his hands on her elbows, pinning them to her sides. He wasn’t hurting her, but as the bishop stood behind Miriam, his low, sonorous voice left no room for doubt—just as his grip kept her from wiggling out from between him and the kitchen counter. “Living without a husband for two years—running this business—has given you a dangerous sense of independence and lack of humility, Miriam Lantz. And it’s clouded your judgment, as well. I advise you to leave your black dresses behind and cleave to a new husband. Soon.”

  You, for instance? She knew better than to defy Hiram Knepp, but neither would she agree with him. Miriam let the knife drop to the counter as a sign of submission, but she made him continue the conversation. She hoped Micah and Rachel had become aware of her visitor and would come over soon ... even if it meant Rachel would learn her most recent secret.

  “You’re a woman in your prime yet, Miriam. Created by God to keep a man’s household and bless him with children.” The bishop stood so close she felt the tickle of his breath upon her neck. “You believe that, do you not?”

  Now there was a noose with her name on it! Miriam turned to meet his gaze. “Not a soul in Willow Ridge can deny that I fulfilled those promises while I was Jesse Lantz’s wife,” she replied. She couldn’t just stop there, so she prayed God would give her words to get Hiram Knepp off her case and on his way.

  “The day we lost Rebecca, I also lost the babe I was carryin’. And we could conceive no more,” she added sadly. “So I have three daughters and I love them all—even if that love’s not the same for the English-raised girl who’s returned to learn the truth of her Amish roots. By this I’m not defyin’ your advice, Bishop. I’m statin’ things the way they are. Didn’t Jesus preach that when we feed and help ‘the least of these’ we help Him, too?”

  Hiram’s dark eyes flashed like coals rekindled. “Could be I need to remove you from this kitchen for a while,” he said coolly. “It brings you into contact with tourists and other outsiders. It fills your days with labor—with the earning of income—rather than with the wifely duties that would fulfill you as a woman of God.”

  Oh, there was no missing his message. Many times the grapevine had vibrated with the news of yet another Knepp baby on the way ... never mind that Hiram’s second wife had been only half his age. While Miriam had never considered it a hardship to bear Jesse’s children, it seemed God had declared her unfit to create any more. She had accepted her lot faithfully: she’d had more time and energy to fully love Rachel and Rhoda, not to mention her husband.

  But that was not what the bishop wanted to hear, nor did she care to share something so close to her soul. Not with him, anyway.

  “If you take away the baker, you have no bakery.” It irked her that Hiram kept his hands on her, kept her from putting these sticky buns into pans before they swelled out of shape. “And if you close the bakery, you affect the welfare of the Brenneman family, and the Kanagy bunch, and all the other wives who bake here to sell in so many places. The Sweet Seasons attracts folks to Zook’s Market, too—and other stores and roadside stands where English folk buy our handmade crafts and garden produce.”

  Hiram’s smile flickered above his beard. “Is this pride I’m hearing in your voice, Miriam?”

  Ah, yet another sin he was pinning on her. This time she kept her mouth shut and she wished fervently that Micah and Rachel would peek in the kitchen door—that would surely make the bishop back away. Yet he seemed as unlikely to change his physical position as to change the opinions he was forming during this uncomfortable chat.

  Next door, a pneumatic tool whined shrilly, once ... twice ... three times against a wall.

  “What’s that? Is som
eone working in Jesse’s shop?” Hiram kept his hands on her arms, but as he gazed through the glass in the door he eased away from her.

  To Miriam, the driving of those screws sounded like an answer to her prayer—even if her reply might further nail her to a cross, of sorts. “Truth be told, Micah Brenneman’s buildin’ a little place for me—and for Rhoda—in the loft, on account of how he’s thinkin’ to marry Rachel this winter. But ya didn’t hear that from me, of course.”

  “He and Rachel should live with you. Plenty of rooms in that house, now that your parents are gone.”

  “Jah, or I could live there with them, dependin’ on how ya want to look at it. But I’m thinkin’ every man deserves to be king of his own castle—at least for a while.” She smiled sweetly and inched him back enough to resume her work with the cinnamon rolls. “And when you find another wife, Bishop, will ya want your oldest, Annie Mae, movin’ into your house with her husband? My girls are sayin’ she and Yonnie Stoltzfus are gettin’ mighty thick. Could be they’ll soon publish their intent to get hitched, if things keep on the way they’re goin’.”

  “Yonnie Stoltzfus isn’t fit to wipe manure from my Annie Mae’s shoes—if she were stupid enough to step in it.” Hiram scowled, and then looked up again when the drilling next door sounded louder and more insistent. “I can see I need to be asking her some questions—but you and I aren’t finished with our conversation, Miriam. You’d best consider your response to your disruptive daughter, as well as to my advice concerning your courting and remarrying in a timely manner. Your soul’s welfare—how you obey our God—is my highest concern, of course.”

  Of course! she retorted silently as the bishop made his way toward the smithy. Miriam quickly arranged the spirals of dough in her pans, inhaling their cinnamon sweetness to soothe her troubled heart. No doubt in her mind, Hiram Knepp could close the café if he took a mind to it: he could work the “evidence” of her ruination into a case to convince the other brethren it was best for the community, too.

  But could he force her to marry again? And was he positioning himself to be the man who courted her? If he tells Rachel and Micah where I went yesterday, I’ll have no end of explainin’ to do ...

  Exasperated, Miriam covered the pans with clean towels and shoved the rolls into an oven, where the warmth of the pilot light would help them rise. Indeed, she and Hiram weren’t finished with this conversation. She’d talk nonstop until God’s Judgment Day to keep from getting caught with any of the lines Hiram had been casting.

  Chapter 11

  “Is Mamma all right, do ya think? Twice today, she forgot to set the oven timer—burned two batches of pecan rolls,” Rhoda remarked in a concerned voice. “I’ve never known her to act so distracted.”

  “Stunk to high heaven, too,” Rachel agreed. “Didn’t help that she forgot to put baking sheets under a couple pies, either. Bubbled over in the oven and not even the exhaust fan could suck out that awful smell.”

  “Jah, Nate Kanagy asked if we were doin’ burnt offerin’s, like in the Old Testament. Said he had a few sins he wanted to throw on the fire.”

  They laughed together as they stood at the kitchen table that afternoon, spooning peanut butter no-bake cookies onto long sheets of wax paper. Like clockwork, from working together all their lives, they formed the fragrant mounds from opposite sides, filling the sheets toward the middle before moving down a couple steps to start a new section. As Rachel’s hands went through the repetitive motions, she considered how best to answer her sister’s question.

  “I’m thinkin’ Mamma’s still got her mind on the bishop’s visit last night,” she began. “Like I told ya, we couldn’t hear every word they were sayin’, but once I slipped over to stand outside the kitchen, the gist of his lecturin’ came through loud and clear.”

  “And ya think he wants to close the Sweet Seasons? What would that accomplish, considerin’—”

  “Exactly what Mamma told him. If he decides she’s spendin’ too much time workin’ there, insteada findin’ a new husband, all of Willow Ridge’ll suffer for it.” Rachel scowled as she recalled listening with her ear against the door, then scurrying back to the smithy just in time to avoid being caught. “And when he saw how Micah was fixin’ the loft of Dat’s shop for—” She bit back the rest of a sentence that would give away her man’s secret about their futures. “Well, let’s just say I wasn’t any too keen on bein’ held responsible for Mamma and Micah both, as far as how things’re goin’ with Tiffany. Nothin’ like it when Hiram puts ya in charge of somebody else’s salvation.”

  Rhoda scraped the sides of the bowl with a rubber spatula so they could dip out the last of the cookies. “And he’s thinkin’ we could’ve kept her from showin’ up? Not like we asked her to come—and besides, he’s goin’ on hearsay, ain’t so? He’s never laid eyes on Tiffany, yet he’s forbiddin’ Mamma from seein’ her own daughter—”

  “Jah, that’s the message I got. But some pieces of the puzzle’re missin’.” Rachel fetched the second bowl of dough while her sister ran water into the one they’d emptied. “Once Micah started drivin’ screws into two-by-fours, their talk got drowned out.”

  Across the table, her sister’s face lit up with a catlike grin. “Ya might as well tell me what Micah’s doin’ up there, Sis. I’ll worm it outta one of ya sooner or later. Or I’ll just go see for myself when you’re not watchin’.”

  Rachel laughed out loud and then looked down the lane. “Here comes Mamma—”

  “If it’s her you’re keepin’ the secret from, ya know I won’t let on!”

  Rachel hedged ... but why was she keeping Micah’s project a secret from Rhoda? Might not hurt to get her sister accustomed to the idea of living above the vacant blacksmith shop: they could use her coolheaded way of handling the situation, if Bishop Knepp came calling again to say they were veering too far from the People’s path. “Oh, Mamma already knows. ’Twas her that gave Micah the thumbs-up about us livin’ here, in the house, after we get hitched—not that he’s told anybody else that part. So he’s fixin’ an apartment in the smithy’s loft for her and you, Sis.”

  The kitchen went still. Rhoda’s lips pursed into a pale pink rosebud as she considered this information. “Well ... that’ll be different, not havin’ my room next to yours. But I s’pose—”

  “We’re not doin’ it to keep ya outta my life, Rhoda! Never that! ’Specially not after the way Tiffany’s got us all on pins and needles!” Rachel reached across to stop the hand that was so stiffly, automatically dropping dough: she’d inflicted a wound she hadn’t intended. “’Twas Mamma’s idea, makin’ a little dawdi haus, to give Micah and me a chance at bein’ newlyweds, I’m thinkin’.”

  Rhoda smiled wryly. “The bishop had a few words to say about that, then.”

  “Jah. Said there was plenty of room here for us all—but there was no missin’ the way he was suggestin’ Mamma needed to find a new husband—”

  “Meanin’ she should be considerin’ him? ”

  “Uh-huh.” Rachel peered through the glass in the door again. “She’s on the steps. Let’s not trouble her with this anymore.”

  Again they busied themselves with the dough, staging an unspoken race to see who could form the most cookies the fastest. As the door opened, they focused intently on their hands, spooning up dough and then pushing it to the wax-papered table with a finger to form mounds of peanut butter sweetness made chewy with oatmeal and coconut.

  Mamma sighed as she crossed the kitchen, but she was smiling. “Got us a cookie frolic goin’, do we?” she asked as she peeled one from the far end of the paper.

  “Jah, Aunt Leah says these go real well at her farmers’ market stand,” Rhoda offered cheerfully.

  “We haven’t had any of these in the front case lately, either,” Rachel chimed in. “And they don’t heat up the house with the oven.”

  “Jah, there’s that. Had my fill of ovens today—cleanin’ them, that is. Broke my heart to throw out two big pans of
pecan buns, but they were too far gone to use for bread puddin’, even.” Their mother’s eyes closed over the fudge-textured cookie as she let out a tired sigh. “Mmmm! Like chewy, salty-sweet candy. Maybe we could sell them all in the café ... Leah’s got lots of veggies these days, and we wouldn’t want our goodies gettin’ runny in the hot sun. Or squished, from her pilin’ other stuff on them.”

  Rachel glanced sideways, matching her mother’s expression as she talked about Leah. It was yet another sign Mamma had something weighing on her mind, when she sounded less than generous—and critical of her sister.

  “Leah been givin’ you a piece of her mind lately, Mamma?” Rhoda ventured.

  What was that flickering across their mother’s face? Irritation? Resentment? As Mamma pulled out a chair, she landed with a sigh that said she was heavy of heart ... maybe about something she’d tried not to bother them with. As the youngest of seven sisters, she’d tolerated a lot over the years—and what did it say about her family’s growing-up years, that Mamma and Leah were the only two whose families stayed in Willow Ridge after their parents had passed on?

  “You girls’re too sharp for your own gut sometimes,” she murmured as she pried off her shoes. “Which is why I’d better be tellin’ ya what’s what, before ya hear it elsewhere.”

  Rachel glanced across the table, her eyebrows arched. Rhoda, too, looked up from the dozens of cookies they’d been forming.

  “Understand when I tell ya this—that I wasn’t aimin’ to upset anybody or to show favoritism or whatnot. But there’s things a mother’s just gotta know.”

  Two spoons stilled on the wax paper. Rachel knew without asking how Rhoda’s heart was fluttering like a hummingbird’s wings, hovering above the doubt and fear their mother’s words brought on.