Secret, The (39 page)
“You’re not makin’ sense, Grace.”
Unsure of herself now, she did not want to sound ungrateful . . . or even unkind. “I shouldn’t have said yes to your proposal, Henry.” She looked at the sky. “Ach, but this is ever so hard.”
“Wait—you’re sorry you said you’d marry me?” His voice was tinged with resentment.
She nodded slowly and looked beyond his shoulders.
His face fell, and she felt horrid. Henry was a good, dependable man. She hoped her rejection would not lead to bitterness. She knew too well how the emotion could fester and eventually overtake a person.
She recalled their first dates, the slow-paced buggy rides long into the night—how he was content to be silent for as long as an hour at a time. Once she’d turned to him and asked,
“What’re
you thinking ’bout?”
and he’d said simply, “
You, Grace.”
She’d thought it an endearing, even a tender thing to say. But his inability to express anything more made her certain, without a doubt, that Henry Stahl did not possess what she longed for in a husband.
“I honestly believe we made a mistake,” she said. “And I’m so sorry to say it.”
He didn’t attempt to change her mind, nor did he offer a good-bye kiss on her cheek. He merely bowed his head for a moment, then took a slow, deep breath. “All right, then,” he said, turning away. “If this is what you want.” And without another word, he headed back, climbed into his buggy, and drove away. Grace followed with her eyes until the horse and carriage were two black silhouettes on the road.
“Good-bye, Henry,” she whispered, half wishing he had put up a fight for her.
Walking home by the shimmer of moonlight on Deacon Amos’s silo, Grace felt a strange kinship with the night’s stillness. Contentment came so quickly it surprised her, reassuring her that she had done the right thing for both Henry and for herself.
T
he next morning, once the washing was hung out across the clotheslines, Grace asked her brother if he’d mind returning the gift Henry had given her. “Please, will ya, Adam?” she pleaded when immediate opposition registered on his face. “You don’t have to say one word to Henry ’bout the clock—I’m not askin’ for that.”
While she had no regrets, she truly felt weary. The bold action would surely lock the door on any hope of future reconciliation.
Adam’s face scrunched into a tight frown. “Ain’t becoming of you, Gracie.”
“Well, it’s the hardest thing, I know that.”
“So think about what you’re doin’, then.”
She sighed. “I have, Adam. And . . . I expect Henry will be waitin’ for the clock.”
“Then you must’ve had words last night.”
“Only mine.”
Adam shook his head. “I hope you at least apologized. It wasn’t fair to say yes if ya weren’t certain.”
“Jah, you’re right. And I was as kind as anyone could be.”
He grimaced. “Then so be it.” Her brother followed her upstairs and took from her room the most beautiful chiming clock she’d ever seen, carrying it down to his open buggy. Lifting it high, he placed it gently inside, then looked back at her. “I can’t change your mind?” he said. “No parting words to give Henry some hope, just maybe?”
“This ain’t some snap decision, Adam,” she said. “I’ve been a-ponderin’ it for quite some time.”
“Well, then, if you’re mighty sure.” He gave her a tender smile, pushed his straw hat forward slightly on his head, and made one leap up into the buggy.
Grateful for her brother’s support, grudging as it was, she said, “Denki for makin’ the delivery.” She was relieved Adam did not despise either her or what she’d done.
“Consider it done.” Adam waved, then picked up the reins and clucked his tongue. And old Willow,
bless her heart
, moved forward, pulling the carriage down the driveway to the road.
Heather politely refused Becky’s invitation to run an errand midmorning, again using her thesis as an excuse to stay in her room. She glanced out the window, waiting until Becky had hitched up the horse and buggy and left before she ventured from the house to her car, hoping to slip away unnoticed.
She wanted to drive over to her father’s land and poke around there. How glad she was that her dad was pulling out of his initial grief. Or so it seemed. A breeze shuffled the leaves in the nearby maples, and she noticed a fragrant aroma coming from Mill Creek, to the south. She’d walked along the wide stream at dusk several times, musing on her decision to abandon her summer plans to escape her grim diagnosis.
Now, as she drove the short distance, she noticed a van parked in a narrow lane, an Amishwoman and her young children filing in while an older man in jeans and a striped shirt stood near. Was he the driver? She’d heard from Marian Riehl of Mennonites and others making a living driving the Amish. She found it fascinating that a people who were prohibited to own or drive cars were permitted to pay others to drive them places. Another riddle of this Plain culture.
When Dad’s land came into view, she pulled onto the shoulder and parked. Getting out, she walked to the passenger side of the car, leaned against it, and stared in awe. This was the perfect place for her dad to recover from his great loss.
And mine.
She realized how very lonely she had been since her mother’s death. Yet she felt powerless to stop pushing would-be friends away—a lifelong pattern.
“At least I’ll have an idyllic spot to return home to, when I want to visit Dad,” she muttered, making her way across the fertile green field.
Imagine Dad growing potatoes . . .
She walked the perimeter of the acreage, thinking again of her mother. Forever missing the only person she’d ever opened up to fully.
Enjoying the breeze on her face—the sky was such a profound blue—Heather realized her mother would be happy if she could see her now. “She’d be ecstatic that I’ve come here,” she said aloud, thinking ahead to her appointment with the alternative doctor.
And, looking across the field to the farmhouses dotting the land, Heather felt as if they were all inviting her inside . . . as if she were being made welcome in this rural, back-roads place. Here, where dairy cows roamed free from constraint, munching leisurely in deep pasture grass, and where field crickets sang a familiar refrain each evening. Once she’d nearly lost her breath to the beauty of the moment as she watched a giant red sun drop gradually over faraway hills.
A subtle yet potent anticipation stirred within. And for the first time since arriving here, she wondered if there was something to Becky’s talk of Providence. Had she been led here by an unseen hand?
Heather smiled at the thought, surprised by a sense of hope for the future.
Whatever it may bring.
While refilling Jakob’s coffee cup, Adah glanced out the kitchen window. After a full morning of doing laundry, Grace was presently down near the springhouse, weeding her herb garden.
Working her heart out.
How she loved the little plot, and she could just imagine the lively flavors in their salads, come June.
It seemed like just yesterday when she’d helped young Grace make the first plantings of chives and thyme and other herbs. Lettie had been there, too, looking on and encouraging them in the process. Grace had marveled at their herb garden springing to life year after year, with many varieties reseeding themselves.
Presently, Grace stopped hoeing to look at the sky, and Adah realized anew the incredible strain on her granddaughter of late. All the energy it took to attempt to hold the family together—she was doing a fine job of it, too.
Grace wants to find her mother and bring her home. . . .
Adah had awakened with a bad dream in the night, wondering if it was an omen of sorts. She hadn’t wanted to go into much detail with Jakob, but sitting here at the table now, she felt she should ask her husband if she was making a mistake by keeping the Ohio letter hidden.
Grace saw Mammi Adah coming out the door, waving to her. Briefly, she considered confiding in Mammi about Henry; then she thought better of it. If Mamma were here and knew of her decision, she would surely agree that letting Henry go was the right thing.
“You’re out here early,” her grandmother said, bringing her own hoe.
“Wanted to get a head start on the day.”
“Ach, you sound like your mother—she says the same thing. . . . I mean—”
“It’s all right. I understand what you meant.” A knowing look passed between them, and Grace stood tall and stretched her back. “I spoke with Dat privately this morning, out in the barn. He’s agreed, though reluctantly, that I can leave to look for Mamma once lambing’s over—that is, if the market lambs are fast gainers.”
“Well, someone ought to look for her, I s’pose.” Mammi nodded slowly.
“Dat also says I mustn’t go alone in my search, though.”
“Sensible enough.” Her grandmother leaned on her hoe, her expression thoughtful. “So . . . who do ya think might go with you?”
“I really haven’t gotten that far yet,” Grace admitted. “There’s a little time to think on that, what with the lambs still comin’.”
Mammi reached into the folds of her dress to remove a slip of paper. She held it out to Grace, her eyes bright with tears. “Sounds like you might be needing this.”
Grace accepted the paper and opened it, startled to see the address for an inn in Kidron, Ohio. “Is this . . . ?”
“Jah . . . the address where your mother and I stayed in Ohio all those years ago. I talked to your Dawdi ’bout it, and he agreed you should have it.” Mammi paused a moment, then added, “We both hope it leads you to her.”
She was surprised by the sudden change in her Mammi’s attitude. “So you don’t mind anymore?”
Mammi gave her hand a quick squeeze, her eyes still brimming with tears. “If you’re successful, perhaps your mother will be home in plenty of time for wedding season. Or sooner . . . hopefully.” She stooped again to return to weeding around the chives.
Grace felt sure that was possible. How hard could it be to find someone in Ohio Amish country anyway?
Judah cradled his newest lamb as he squatted in the hay. He kept his distance from the ewe for a time as she rested from the birth. New life had been springing forth almost daily now, and he was mighty grateful for so many healthy lambs.