Secret, The (27 page)
“Mornin’, Judah!”
He looked up to see Andy Riehl and two of his older sons out planting corn. Judah waved and spotted Andy’s nephews in the field to the east of their house, spreading manure. Looking toward the Riehls’ house, he realized he’d turned left on the road and come this way in the midst of his daze. Marian and Becky were hanging out the last few trousers on the clothesline.
Washday,
he thought.
Where’s Grace?
The sun felt warm on his aching neck and shoulders as he walked past the Riehls’. If anything, the pain was increasing, rather than diminishing as he’d hoped. He ought to return to the barn and help Adam dispose of the dead lamb, yet he was not up to taking on that chore just now. His children needed at least one confident parent around these days. Perhaps he would return stronger for the walking.
Suddenly he understood something of Lettie’s need to walk at night: It was so she could manage to keep her chin up all day long.
Helped her hide whatever was troubling her.
He began to run, swinging his arms, work boots pounding against the road . . . his breath coming faster. All the way to Preacher Smucker’s house he went—a good half mile or so. Buggies clattered up and down the road, some folk waving and calling to him, some rattling past.
Let them think what they will.
Judah wasn’t sure if the moistness in his eyes was perspiration or tears, but he kept up his pace, unable to stop.
Grace could hear voices inside Uncle Ike’s house, so she didn’t bother to knock but rather made her way in through the summer porch, where she noticed thick cobwebs in one corner.
Aunt Naomi would never have allowed that.
She turned toward the kitchen, and there she found Uncle Ike having a breakfast of fried scrapple, eggs, and toast. Two of Grace’s elderly great-aunts sat at the table with him.
Lest she startle them, she coughed softly. All three turned to look her way. “Well, lookee there . . . it’s Judah’s Gracie.” Ike half rose out of his chair, then just as quickly sat down. “Come . . . come and eat with us.”
The older women smiled and nodded before returning their attention to breakfast. “What brings ya?” asked the older one, her fork midway between her plate and mouth.
“Just wanted to talk with Uncle Ike a bit.” She sat where Aunt Naomi had always sat, the seat still vacant after her passing. “Would ya mind?” she asked.
“Not if you don’t sit and stare at me all through my breakfast.” His eyes twinkled mischievously, and he reached for his coffee. “What would ya like to eat?”
Since she’d already eaten, she wasn’t much hungry. But she supposed if she was to get any information, she was going to have to politely settle in with a plate of food and visit first.
Unless . . .
“My driver’s comin’ back for me in an hour,” Grace said, hoping that might hurry things along.
Ike glanced at the window. “Wasn’t that Martin Puckett I saw bringin’ you?”
She straightened. “Was indeed.”
“Well, why would ya want to—”
“Ain’t a thing wrong with Mamma callin’ on Martin to take her to catch a train, is there?”
“Well, it was wrong of her to leave town, ain’t so?” Ike said, wiping his plate clean with a crust of toast. He took a final swallow of his coffee and stiffly rose out of his chair, motioning Grace into the front room to sit down.
Grace quickly changed the subject. “I know you’re busy, but I thought you might be able to fill in some pieces of a very big puzzle for me,” she told him.
“Which puzzle’s that?” Like so many farmers, his cheeks were ruddy from many years of working in the sun. His puffy lids nearly covered his eyes; his age showed since Naomi’s death.
“Well, the puzzle of Mamma’s earlier years.” Grace explained that she felt sure her mother had cherished the poetry books Aunt Naomi had once kept. “Did Aunt Naomi ever tell you where the books came from?”
The whites of his eyes glistened suddenly. “I wish I could help ya, Grace, but I’m afraid I have nothing to tell. Naomi never did say why she had those books, and I never thought to ask.” He paused, his eyes searching hers. “Do you really think some old poetry books are important?”
Grace hesitated to tell her uncle her suspicions, fearing it might open her mother up to further criticism. “I just can’t see why Mamma would have bothered to bring them home if they didn’t have some special meaning for her.”
Uncle Ike sighed. “I’m sorry ya had to come over here for nothin’. S’pose you found it hard to get away with so much to keep you busy these days.”
Grace gave a small nod, her thoughts still on Mamma as her uncle began to speak of spring planting and whatnot.
Set back from the road and nestled in its private grove, the boardinghouse looked surprisingly the same as it had years ago. Even the paint on the outside was exactly the same color, Lettie recalled, although the front porch had been extended.
Nowadays a much younger couple, Carl and Tracie Gordon, ran the quaint inn. Lettie was thankful for that, as well as for having gotten an upstairs room, so she wouldn’t have to hear latecomers tramping overhead.
Four days since the train left Lancaster,
she thought, both dread and anticipation filling her. It had taken this long to discover Samuel’s exact home address from a handful of leads, beginning with someone her cousin Hallie had recently mentioned in a letter. Aside from the innkeeper’s phone number and the driver they’d recommended, the list of telephone numbers she’d brought along had proved little help. Although the innkeeper’s wife had gently suggested that if Lettie had attempted to access a computer, she might have found Samuel’s address more quickly.
In such a small town, she’d expected her search to be far easier. But Samuel hadn’t belonged to an Amish group for years—not since his family had left Bird-in-Hand so long ago.
She was astonished at how many listings for Samuel Grab-ers there were in the area. By the time she’d worked her way down the directory, calling one number after another using the Gordons’ telephone, she was discouraged.
To think I had such high hopes of walking right up to his door
and ringing the bell!
But today she had a new lead and new hope that she might finally see her former beau, a recent widower after twenty years of marriage.
The bishop’s long-ago words to her rang in her ears:
“Do
you accept this man as your husband, and do you promise not to leave
him until death separates you?”
Lettie pushed away the remembrance and straightened the bed. She was glad for a bright corner room. Not so different from the one she’d stayed in before in this historic inn. She and her mother had come at the recommendation of dear friends, Mamma had explained to her that bitter winter’s day. And they’d stayed only a short time, if her memory served her now.
She looked about. The pale green-striped wallpaper was attractive, although some of it was peeling off near the wide doorframe. Surely she would have recognized the color if this were the same room.
She went to the door and glanced back at the small dresser, where she’d stowed away her personal things—plenty of space for the time being.
“What God hath joined together, let not man put asunder. . . .”
Sighing, Lettie sat next to the window, there in her private haven. She reached for her beloved poetry book and leisurely read the last few pages. Then, clutching the slip of paper, she stared longingly at the address. “My last hope.”
H
eather brushed away tears as she backed out of the curved driveway, casting a pensive look at her family’s red-brick colonial house.
I’m doing this for you, too, Dad.
She stared up at her window over the garage—that sweet and cozy spot she and her father had created just for her.
She’d hardly taken any time at all to pack, piling a bunch of clothes and personal stuff into the trunk of the car and the backseat before heading off in search of a stress-free summer. As she saw it, serenity was the first ingredient necessary to health. Lancaster County, the Garden Spot of the World, would perfectly fill the bill. For her, gardens equaled tranquillity . . . and tranquillity, wholeness. Not that she was going to start espousing that Mother Earth mumbo jumbo, but nature was natural, after all.
Glad for the GPS mapping system on her iPhone, she’d have no trouble navigating her way to Pennsylvania. The map routed her up to Interstate 95 through Baltimore and then she would take Interstate 83 into Pennsylvania.
Listening to one song after another, Heather already felt herself relaxing. She was eager to meet Marian Riehl, who had been so accommodating by phone, even to the point of suggesting Heather pay by the week.
“We’ll give you a nice discount as
a long-term guest . . . and remember, we don’t charge on the Lord’s
Day.”
She’d never heard anyone refer to Sundays like that and found it charming, even intriguing.
Hours later, as she took the exit off of Highway 30 and turned onto 340, Heather wondered if her dad had spotted her note by now. Glancing at the digital clock, she realized he wouldn’t have seen it propped up on his desk as of yet.
Four o’clock. He’s still at work. . . .
He really didn’t need to know the hard facts about her leaving, except that she was on a self-imposed getaway. She’d made it clear she would keep in touch and had decided at the last minute to take her phone along. She couldn’t imagine living without Twitter or instant messaging or email.
She had been quick to delete a former draft of an email she’d written to Devon last week, telling him she would be tied up for a while—
going to hang out in an exotic community for the
summer
. Now that he’d dropped his bombshell, her only love would never know of her plans—or of her disease.
Suddenly she noticed a real live horse pulling a quaint gray buggy in front of her car. She let out a gasp and remembered how remarkable this old-fashioned sight had been the very first time she’d visited here with her family, as a girl. Seeing the Amish mode of transportation so very close brought it all back . . . the reason they’d kept returning here.
Gone now were Heather’s health concerns . . . gone her perplexity over Devon’s choosing someone else over her. At this moment she was zeroed in on the incredible sight before her eyes. She never got past the awe no matter how many times she’d come here. This was, after all, the twenty-first century, even though she felt like she’d fallen through a time warp somewhere between Virginia and here.
Heather stared at the red triangle on the back of the buggy and noticed the thin, wobbling carriage wheels on either side.
No chance of surviving against a speeding car.
Cringing, she crept along at less than ten miles per hour behind the boxlike carriage, traveling that way all the way to Bird-in-Hand. Nervous for the family inside, she could see several towheaded children peeking out from the back. She checked her rearview mirror, aware of the lineup of cars behind her.
They’re content to go at a snail’s pace,
she thought.
The GPS indicated how many feet she had to travel before turning. She marveled at this cool technology while her car followed the horse and buggy. “Okay, now for the turnoff.”