A Marriage of the Heart (34 page)

A
BIGAIL METHODICALLY BEGAN TO GATHER UP THE PILLS
from the floor. She got down on her hands and knees, looking under the bed and peering beneath the bureau. Then she realized that she could look at the bottle and tell how many were supposed to be there—if no one had taken any, that was. If Joseph hadn’t . . . She pulled her mind and heart together in support of him. He said he hadn’t, so he hadn’t.

But her mind whirled when she thought about his revelation. She had read things in her magazines about teenage addiction and drugs, but it all seemed so far away from her way of everyday life. Yet it was real, very real, and it threatened the one person who had gone out of his way to help her, despite how she had treated him in the beginning.

She sat back on her heels, deep in thought. And what of Molly? Abigail clutched a white pill in her hand and wished she could bring back the scene, turn away the red-haired girl who’d mocked her in her own house and brought this turmoil back into Joseph’s life. Yet he had said it was a choice.

Still, she rose with determination. She may not be able to keep him from other drugs in the future, but she could keep one girl from her husband; she was sure of it.

She grabbed up a dark cloak and put the last of the pills into the bottle. Then she slipped down the stairs and out the front door before anyone could see her. Her father had gone to bed, and Joseph must have gone into the living room. She moved steadily in
the dark, going into the barn. Once there, she emptied the pills out onto her father’s workbench, took a mallet, and pulverized them into a pile of white powder. Then she scraped the stuff back into the bottle, being careful to wipe the bench clean of every trace of whiteness. She peeled off the label on the bottle and tore it to tiny shreds, adding it to the bottle, then left the barn, moving into the cold night air. Whispering a prayer, she stood behind the barn, where she opened and tilted the medicine bottle, holding her hand aloft. An autumn wind caught the contents and sent them blowing away into nothingness. She drew a deep breath of peace. She walked calmly back to the house and threw the bottle into the garbage, being careful to press it down under several items.

“That was the easy part,” she murmured aloud as she made her way back outside. “Now for the true battle.”

She prayed as she hitched up Carl to the buggy. She felt as though she was driving to meet not just another woman, but a direct threat to her marriage and way of life. If Molly so carelessly thought to hurt Joseph, what else might she do if she stayed in town for a few days? And though she believed him when he said the girl didn’t matter, she wasn’t sure where Molly stood, especially since she’d gone to the trouble to find him.

She caught a firmer grip on the reins as a car whizzed past, honking at the buggy. She didn’t especially like to drive at night, but it was something she’d learned to do well nonetheless. And Carl was a steady horse.

She soon gained the town, and though there were numerous bed-and-breakfasts throughout the streets and outlying areas, she’d prayed that she might be able to recognize Molly’s blue convertible easily from the street. And sure enough, by the time she’d come to the third business, Bender’s Bed-and-Breakfast, she saw the metallic gleam of the blue convertible reflected in the streetlamps. She pulled Carl in and slipped out of the buggy to hitch him up to the convenient post. The place was Amish owned
and run; she knew the Benders vaguely, though they attended a different service.

She saw that lights still burned in the downstairs windows, and she marched up the steps and knocked. Her heart pounded, but she still prayed beneath her breath.
Derr Herr
would give her the words that she needed to say. The door opened, and Mrs. Bender peered out into the relative dark of the porch.

“Ya?”

“Mrs. Bender, it’s Abigail—Kauffman. But I’ve recently married. I’m Abigail Lambert now.”

Mrs. Bender smiled and the door widened. “
Kumme
in out of the chilly night.”

Abigail stepped inside and darted a look into the adjoining sitting room. She was relieved to see only Mr. Bender, reading
The
Budget
. He nodded to her, then went back to his paper.

“I’m sorry for the late hour, Mrs. Bender.” In truth, Abigail wasn’t entirely certain of the time.

“It doesn’t matter. Do you want some tea? What can I do for you?”

“Tea would be nice.”

Abigail followed her into the kitchen and sat down at the wooden table. She glanced around at the beautifully carved wooden cupboards with their intricate scrolling.

Mrs. Bender followed her gaze. “My Luke does cabinetry on the side,” she said with pride.

“It’s beautiful.”

“
Danki
. And your husband?”

“He works with my father.”

“
Gut
. It’s good to keep work in the family.”

Abigail nodded, unsure how to broach the subject she’d come about.

“So you’re Abigail Lambert now, hmm? It seems your husband is a bit popular around here lately.”

Abigail lifted her gaze to Mrs. Bender’s twinkling eyes.

“
Ach
. . . that’s what I’ve come about.”

“I’m sorry, my dear, for telling the
Englisch
girl that I knew of him.”

“That’s all right. And I . . . I don’t want to disturb your guests, but . . .”

“You need to talk with her?”

“Ya.”

“Second door on the right at the top of the steps. I’ll keep your tea warm for you.”

Abigail got to her feet. “
Danki
, Mrs. Bender. I won’t be long.”

She went out of the kitchen and up the carved staircase, sliding her hand along the patina of the balustrade. She continued to pray beneath her breath until she came to the door. She knocked on the wood, and a moment later Molly stood in the doorway, considering her with an insolent smile.

“I think I rather expected you, little Amish wife. Or maybe not. Aren’t your kind supposed to avoid confrontation?”

Abigail spoke in a quiet voice, though her ire was pricked by the other girl’s words. “May I come in, please?”

“Sure, honey.”

Abigail entered the room and closed the door behind her. She noted the heavy smell of perfume and the abundance of clothes thrown about. A half-painted scene of the countryside stood on an easel near the window, and fresh paint stained a palette. The bed was unmade, and a cigarette smoldered in an ashtray on the nightstand. It was a room of chaos for Abigail’s senses despite the beautiful carved furniture and rumpled Nine Patch quilt, and for a moment she felt out of her depth. But then she remembered why she’d come.

Molly lounged with her denim-clad hip against a bureau while Abigail collected her thoughts.

“I can’t believe that Joseph’s got a girl fighting his battles for him.”

“I’m his wife.”

“Are you? I’ve heard it nosed about that yours was a rather hasty marriage. Maybe you’re not as pure as you’d like to present—all lemonade and apple spice . . . But then, Joseph is a very persuasive man.”

Abigail smiled. “It might interest you to know that my character is exactly as you say, but his is not. You see, despite the Amish dress, I think I’ve been like you in some ways. So I understand what’s in your heart.”

Molly snorted and crossed her arms. “You’re a child, for all you know of the real world.”

“Maybe . . . but maybe not. Maybe you came looking for Joseph because you saw that potential for good in him and you hungered for it. Or perhaps you wanted to destroy it, because it’s something you can’t truly understand.”

“Oh, I understand a lot more about Joseph than you ever will.”

Abigail lifted her chin. “And I understand that you’re hurt and lonely and despise who and what you are deep inside.”

“Shut up,” Molly hissed. “Do you think that I’m going to stand here and take this from some little girl? Some stupid, isolated, insular little girl. So you know about the drugs, hmm? But do you know everything?”

“I know what my husband told me, that’s enough.”

Molly laughed as she turned her back and picked up a paintbrush. She gave the canvas a few experimental strokes, then looked over her shoulder.

“Do you know that you can never trust a drug addict? That they lie, out of habit. Do you know that it’s a fact that ‘once an addict, always an addict’?” She stepped back to consider the painting, then began to walk around Abigail. “Do you know how easily he took those pills from me, at the very beginning of his so-called new life? What do you think he’s going to do when things get
hard? When boredom sets in? And it will. Joseph is too smart to be occupied by cows and bonnets for very long. How are you ever going to trust him fully? Can you answer that?”

Abigail felt as though it was a hungry wolf that prowled around her . . . but then a word of Scripture came to her mind.
“No weapon that is formed against thee shall prosper.”
This girl was using all she had because she was intimidated, scared inside, and so very, very lost.

“I can’t answer that, and that answer doesn’t belong to you anyway. It belongs to Joseph. So listen well to what I say . . .”

Molly stood still and cocked one hip. “Go ahead, honey.”

“If you come near my husband again, in any way, it will not go well with you.”

“Aren’t the Amish against violence?” Molly reached and flicked at one of Abigail’s
kapp
strings.

“Yes, but you see, I’m not very good at being Amish . . . so remember what I say.”

She stared with intent into the other girl’s eyes until Molly looked away. It was enough for Abigail.

She turned and left the room without looking back.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

J
OSEPH PACED THE TINY BEDROOM
. I
T WAS AFTER TEN
o’clock, and Abby was nowhere to be found on the property. He hadn’t told her father, but he’d found Carl and the buggy gone. He also knew, without a doubt, where she had gone. One aspect of his masculine pride was affronted at letting it seem like he’d sent his wife to fight his battles. But another part of him was touched to the depths that she would so want to defend him.

It was not that he couldn’t go after her; there were three other horses in the barn. Yet something held him in check, some instinct or feeling from the Lord that he should wait.

But he wasn’t good at waiting.

Finally he heard the sound of hoofbeats on the lane. He resisted the urge to run down and help her unhitch. Maybe she needed some time alone. But soon enough he heard her quiet movements as she entered the house and came up the stairs. He leaned against the windowsill, trying not to appear anxious when she walked in.

The first thing he noticed was that she looked very pale and distracted. She barely seemed aware that he was there as she slipped off her dark cape and missed the nail as she went to hang it up. She sat down on the edge of the bed, and he saw that her hands were shaking.

“Abby?” he said, coming to kneel in front of her. “What’s wrong?” He caught her hands together in his own and felt their icy coldness.

She looked at him. “I saw Molly.”

He nodded. “I thought that’s where you were. You didn’t have to do that.”

“I know . . . and I felt all right when I was there, but then—coming home, I just started to shake.”

He put his arms around her, rocking her forward until he felt her hands slide up tentatively along his shoulders.

“It’s all right, Abby. I’m here, and you need never again deal with Molly. I promise.” He felt her stiffen and drew back to study her face. “What is it?”

She wet her lips, and he was hard-pressed not to be distracted by the motion of her tongue, but he dragged his gaze back up to her blue eyes.

“It’s—nothing. I’m all right now, just tired. I think I’ll go to bed.”

He didn’t let her go. “Abby—I know you. At least, I think I do. What did she say?”

Abby wouldn’t meet his eyes. “You said—you promised. And she said . . .”

“That you can never trust the word of a drug addict?”

She nodded.

He slid his hands back to rest on his thighs and looked at her. “Well, maybe she’s right. That’s up to you to decide. But I’ve been honest with you this far. It’s my plan to keep on telling the truth, inasmuch as I know it about myself. But I can’t spend a lifetime trying to prove something to you; that would be cheating both of us.”

“I don’t want to hurt you.”

“You haven’t. At least, the truth may hurt, but it’s a clean cut. I’m fine.” He paused, then touched her hand once more. “How are you?”

“Better.”

“Gut,”
he whispered.

He rose up on his knees and bent forward to press his lips against her own.
Light,
he told himself.
Keep it light. A good-night
kiss . . . that’s all . . .

But she was suddenly kissing him back with a fervor, her arms around him, her hands doing small things with the back of his hair that made him catch his breath.

“Abby . . .” he managed. “What are you—”

“I just want to forget tonight. Help me forget, Joseph, please.”