SummerHill Secrets, Volume 1 (28 page)

Supper that night was eaten by candlelight.

Everyone except Skip was seated at the table, made lovely by Mom’s attention to lace, centerpiece, and polished silver. My brother had an appointment. At least that’s what he said on his way out the back door before company arrived. But if you ask me, he was probably going out with Jon Klein’s older sister. Again.

The roast and potatoes were baked to perfection, and Dad’s cousins, Martin and Hazel, seemed pleased. Mom too.

Dad’s relatives actually showed interest in my family history assignment, although at first I thought they were only being polite.

Then Hazel mentioned something about her grandfather’s journal. “You might want to include this tidbit of information in your project, Merry,” she said, leaning forward and adjusting her glasses. “From what I understand, one of our ancestors, Joseph Lapp, was quite a fascinating fellow.”

Dad agreed, chuckling. “One of the more interesting characters in our family tree.”

I perked up my ears. “Was he the one who left the Amish?”

Dad nodded. “He’s the black sheep of the family, I guess you’d say. Although—” he paused—“Hazel and I are his descendants, so I don’t know where that puts us.”

Mom smiled at Dad’s remark.

Hazel’s eyes brightened. “Weren’t there some letters written by Joseph Lapp after the shunning?”

Dad nodded. “I’m not sure where they are, but it seems to me I have them packed away somewhere.”

“Probably in the attic,” Mom said, refolding her napkin and placing it under her dessert fork.

I had to know more about this shunning business. “Who were the letters written to?” I asked.

“I believe they were sent to Joseph’s younger brother”—Dad glanced at the ceiling as though he was trying to put all this in perspective for me—“who would be your great-great uncle Samuel.”

Hazel slid her glasses up her nose again. “Weren’t the letters written during the six-week probation period before the actual shunning?”

“You know, now that you mention it, I think that’s probably the case,” Dad said.

Mom started clearing off the dinner plates. “Maybe you could locate the letters for Merry,” she said.

“Oh, could you, Dad?” I pleaded.

He scratched his chin, looking rather nonchalant. “Well, I suppose so…if you’d like.”

Like? I was delirious with the thought. “When can we do it?” I asked, ready to drop everything, candlelight dinner included.

Mom came in and filled the coffee cups, sending me a warning signal with her eyes. “I’m sure this can wait, Merry.”

Cousin Hazel appeared to be as disappointed as I. But she didn’t press the issue further, and all of us settled into a calm and quiet half hour of rhubarb pie, with black coffee for the adults.

I may have appeared to be calm and quiet, but I sure didn’t feel that way. Dad’s long-ago relative had left the Amish culture and gone through the
Bann
and
Meidung
.

Excommunication—the Bann—was bad enough, but not being allowed to eat or associate with his Amish relatives or friends in any way? Being completely disowned?

I wondered about Joseph Lapp. Who was he, really? And what had made him leave?

Later that night, Dad agreed to help me find the letters. “First thing tomorrow,” he said before I headed off to bed.

Unfortunately, Saturday morning he was called away to the hospital before I got up, so I asked Mom where I should look.

“Try that old steamer trunk up in the attic.” She stopped to think. “You might have to move some rugs to get to it.”

“No problem,” I said, scampering off to my parents’ bedroom. Filled with anticipation, I opened the door leading to the attic.

Steep and solid, the attic steps were the original wood, as well built as the rest of our hundred-year-old colonial frame house. The steps creaked, and I remembered the days when Faithie and I had played up here.

Years ago, Dad had succeeded in converting the drafty old place into an enchanting secret playroom simply by adding extra insulation and Sheetrock. Later, he painted the walls and put up oak trim around the gabled window. Next came bright and thick rose carpet. Faithie loved the color. I didn’t at first; it grew on me, though.

Now the space had been turned into storage, and although boxes were stacked and color-coded in the far corner, the room still held its rustic charm.

Mom had kept all of Faithie’s toys, dresses, and baby things, tenderly packing them away up here. The pain of loss had prompted Mom to save everything. She’d actually refused to part with any of it.

Two years had passed since I’d last set foot here. Staring at Faithie’s childish art—drawings we’d hung on the walls—I realized once again how desperately I missed my twin.

The wind came up under the eaves, whistling a mournful tune, but there was no time for sadness now. I searched for the trunk Mom had mentioned and found it easily. Just as she had said, it was piled high with afghans and blankets wrapped in loose plastic, and Amish hook rugs by the dozen. With armloads of two or three at a time, I hauled them onto the floor, placing them carefully in a neat pile.

Then, slowly, carefully, I opened the giant lid. Peering into the enormous trunk, I saw all sorts of long-forgotten things.

One by one, I lifted small boxes out of the trunk, creating a semicircle of memories behind me on the floor. Then, almost unexpectedly, I noticed a sealed plastic bag wedged in between the wall of the trunk and another box. Taking care not to bend or disturb the contents, I pulled the plastic square out of its hiding place and into the light.

Old letters—at least five of them!

I studied the writing closely through the plastic. The name
Samuel Lapp
was visible in the center of the envelope, and although very faded, the gray ink was quite legible.

“Mom!” I sat at the top of the steep steps and scooted down like Faithie and I had always done as little girls. “I found the letters!”

“In here, Merry,” she called from her bedroom.

Excited, I dashed over to the wide window seat where she sat reading a book in the sunlight.

“Well”—she peered over her book—“why don’t you have a look?”

“Do you think Dad’ll mind if I read them before he gets back?”

She smiled wholeheartedly. “I doubt it—go ahead.”

I sat on the edge of the antique four-poster bed, unsealed the plastic, and pulled out the stack of letters. “Wow,” I whispered. “Can you believe this? These are
so
old.”

Mom nodded. “Over a hundred years.”

“It’s like a blast from the past.” I shivered. “O-oh, I feel like I’m beginning to tread on—”

“Merry,” she interrupted, laughing. “You’re dramatizing again.”

“That’s what Chelsea Davis says—constantly.” I fingered the ancient envelopes, wondering more than ever about the life of Joseph Lapp, cast out as he was by the Amish.

“Well, maybe it’s good to have friends like Chelsea,” Mom said, giving me her undivided attention for a change. “I guess all of us can use a nudge toward reality now and then.”

“Sure, Mom,” I said, even though I had no idea what she was talking about.

I opened the first letter, careful not to tear the near-brittle, parchmentlike stationery. I scanned the page. The writing was foreign to me. My heart sank when I realized it was written in German.

“Something wrong?” Mom set her book aside.

I held up the letter. “Joseph Lapp spoke German, right?”

She threw her arms up. “Oh, of course!”

“Well, now what?” I said, more to myself than to Mom.

“Your father doesn’t speak a word of it…never has.”

“Wait a minute.” I got up and went to the wide triple window overlooking the Zook farm. “I think I know someone who can translate these.”

Mom swung her legs down off the cozy, pillowed perch. “Rachel might be able to decipher it, although she speaks a Pennsylvania Dutch dialect.”

“I know,” I said, “but she reads the Bible and other books in German.”

Mom pointed to the letters lying on the bed. “Please take care of them. Your father didn’t appear to be interested in this last night, but take my word for it, he would be mighty upset if the letters got lost.”

“Count on me.” I gathered the letters into the plastic once again and zipped them safely inside. “All set. Now I’m off to see Rachel.”

“Not without breakfast, you aren’t.”

“Oh, Mom,” I fussed.

Her eyes meant business. “Breakfast, Merry.”

There was no way out of it. My mother had a hang-up about food. She truly believed a person had to eat heartily in order to stay healthy and productive. It was also the mentality of the Plain people around us.

I sighed and went to my room with the letters, placing them safely on top of my desk. Then I hurried down the back steps leading to the kitchen.

Mom encouraged me to eat. And eat. Finally, I held up my hands. “I’m full, honest!”

Skip grinned, accepting a third helping of fried eggs and ham. “You can’t be full,” he teased.

“Oh yeah? Well, maybe
my
stomach hasn’t stretched out as fat as yours.”

He scowled. “Who said anything about fat?”

“That’s what’ll happen if you keep scarfing down everything in sight.”

“Aw, how sweet,” he said, taunting me. “Little Merry’s looking out for her big brother.” He reached over and tickled my elbow.

I jerked my arm away. “Quit picking on me!”

“Skip, please,” Mom intervened. Then, eyeing me, she said, “Remember, Merry, your brother won’t be around here next year.”

“Hallelujah for college,” I mumbled.

Skip laughed. “You’ll miss me. You’ll see.”

“I can’t wait to find out!” Pushing my chair back with a screech, I ran upstairs to brush my teeth.

What a relief,
I thought. Starting next fall, I’d have Mom and Dad all to myself. Just like an only child…

Only child.
That thought got me thinking about Lissa Vyner, an honest-to-goodness only child—the last person I wanted to think about!

Eager to show Rachel the German letters, I gave my hair a quick brushing. Then I emptied my largest camera case, making room for Joseph Lapp’s letters. I couldn’t wait to find out more about this great-great grandfather of mine. Why
had
he abandoned his Amish life so long ago?

Staring at the letters, an anxious feeling crept over me. I remembered the words I’d said to Chelsea yesterday.
Don’t all families have skeletons in their closets?

I reached into the camera case and caressed the old letters. What secrets would I discover in my own family closet?

Rachel and Nancy Zook were helping their mother make schnitz pies when I arrived at their back door. My mouth watered as I smelled the delicious tartness of dried apples. Mm-m! Maybe I wasn’t as full as I thought.

“Merry, it’s good to see ya!” Rachel said, dropping everything to hurry to the screen door. “Come on in and sit for a spell.”

I sat at the long wooden bench behind the equally long table in the spacious kitchen, observing the bustling activity. Rachel and her sister wore long dresses with black belted aprons pinned to their waists, and a
Kapp
, a white netting head covering similar to their mother’s.

“How many pies are you making?” I asked.

“Oh, seven or eight,” Rachel replied. “The Yoders are having a quilting frolic. We’re going over there later on to surprise them.” She seemed very excited. “Sarah, my sister-in-law—you know, Curly John’s wife—is expecting a baby in the fall.”

“So you’ll be an aunt for the first time?” I said.

Rachel noticed my camera case, but I quickly opened it, showing her it was empty except for the letters. The Amish shied away from cameras because they believed the Bible told them not to make any graven images—photographs included.

“I wonder,” I said, pulling the first letter out very carefully. “When you finish with the pies, could you read this to me?” I showed her the envelope, explaining my school project.

“Jah, this is German.” She jabbered something quickly in Pennsylvania Dutch to her sister and mother while washing her hands, then dried them on her long black apron. “Come with me, cousin Merry.”

I always grinned when she called me that, even though I’d been hearing it from her nearly all my life. Rachel Zook viewed me as her cousin, which I was. A very distant one.

We headed for the front porch, going through the wide dining room with a built-in corner cupboard where many fancy dishes were displayed. Next came the large, open living room. The Amish liked their living rooms uncluttered, without much furniture—a hickory rocking chair, hand-painted wooden chairs, and homemade throw rugs—so it was simple to set up for church when it came their turn to host.

“The letters are very fragile.” I gave the first one to Rachel. Her blue eyes were wide and she had a strangely curious expression.

“They even feel old, jah?” Rachel sat down on the old porch swing, sniffing the paper. “Smell old, too.”

I leaned against the porch railing. “Very old.”

She began to read under her breath as though she was trying to determine the content. “This is what Joseph Lapp wrote to his younger brother,” she began, glancing at me with sincere eyes. “ ‘My dear brother and friend, Samuel Lapp. It is with great sadness that I write these things. I can no longer live in the Amish community. I will miss you, my brother, and my sisters, too, and dear
Mam
and faithful Dat. With everything in me, I will miss all of you. It is not because of lack of love or respect for my family that I do this thing. It is for Mary…all for Mary, whom I plan to wed.’” Rachel stopped reading and sighed.

“Mary who?” I asked, eager for her to read on.

“Wait now,” Rachel said, reading further silently. “He says something here about her being English—an outsider!” Rachel exclaimed. “He writes this: ‘I love Mary deeply. I must be true to my heart and make her my wife.’”

Rachel stared at the letter for a moment longer, not reading. Her face turned suddenly pale. “
Ach, der gleh Deihenger
—so this is the scoundrel!”

“What are you saying?”