The Bridesmaid
Authors: Beverly Lewis
Tags: #FIC042000, #FIC026000, #Amish women—Pennsylvania—Lancaster County—Fiction, #Women authors—Fiction, #Amish farmers—Indiana—Fiction, #Man-woman relationships—Fiction
© 2012 by Beverly M. Lewis, Inc.
Published by Bethany House Publishers
11400 Hampshire Avenue South
Bloomington, Minnesota 55438
Bethany House Publishers is a division of
Baker Publishing Group, Grand Rapids, Michigan
Ebook edition created 2012
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any meansâfor example, electronic, photocopy, recordingâwithout the prior written permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.
ISBN 978-1-4412-6039-0
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is on file at the Library of Congress, Washington, DC.
Scripture quotations are from the King James Version of the Bible.
This story is a work of fiction. With the exception of recognized historical figures, all characters and events are the product of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to any person, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Cover design by Dan Thornberg, Design Source Creative Services
Art direction by Paul Higdon
With love
to my beautiful cousinsâ
Cindy, Diana and Sharon,
Shelley and Brenda,
and Kendra.
T
hree times a bridesmaid, never a bride.”
That's just what my younger sister said about meâin front of our engaged cousins, no lessâmost of them planning to marry come Amish wedding season. A mere five months away.
Seventeen-year-old Cora Jane's words echoed in my head . . . and rippled through my heart.
Jah
, she was as superstitious as many of us in Hickory Hollow, but to be so glib about announcing it?
There I was, sitting on the sand at Virginia Beach, surrounded by oodles of
Englischersâ
families with little children, young couples, and singles like me. All had come for the sunset. Some were celebrating more than others, relaxing on their portable beach chairs with cans of soft drinks.
Meanwhile, my younger Witmer cousins, Malinda, Ruthann, and Lenaâfirst cousins to each otherâand my fair-haired sister Cora Jane were up yonder on the boardwalk, laughing and eating cotton candy. Sighing, I recalled Cousin Malinda earlier today, looking mighty excited when she asked me to be in her wedding. We had been packing sandwiches with Cora Jane and the others for a picnic lunch when Malinda leaned over to ask me, her face pink from more than the June sun. If I was to agree, it would be the third time I'd be a
Newesitzerâ
side sitter, or attendant in a wedding.
“It just ain't schmaert, Joanna,”
Cora Jane warned, her big blue eyes flashing.
“You're already twenty-four, ya know!”
And still a
Maidel.
I shrugged away the wretched thought. Drawing a long breath, I tried to relax on the beach, alone with my writing notebook . . . away from Cousin Malinda and other relatives who'd come to attend tomorrow's funeral for my great-uncle Amos Kurtz. We'd traveled in large vans to honor the eighty-eight-year-old deacon, who was revered in Hickory Hollow and the Shipshewana, Indiana, church district where he later lived. As a result, many Amish had come to pay last respects and to offer comfort to his elderly widow. Years ago Amos and Martha had retired here in Virginia, joining a growing community of other aging Amish near the ocean they loved.
My thoughts returned to Cousin Malinda's upcoming weddingâand her kindly request. Although I'd once yearned for a beau and marriage, I'd given up on love. And I wished I'd never confided in Cora Jane about any of that. I rejected her pityâand anyone else's, for that matter. Goodness knows, I've dished out enough of that on myself!
Opening my notebook to the end of the last scene in my current story, I pushed my bare feet into the warm sand, still wearing my green dress and matching cape apron. My white organdy
Kapp
was safely in the hotel roomâno sense in getting it unnecessarily soiled. Even so, as I sat fretting and looking ever so Plain amongst all the folk in skimpy bathing suits and shorts, I knew I must be a peculiar spectacle. The years of wearing Amish attire at market and elsewhere outside the confines of the community had led me to accept the fact there would always be curious stares.
But soaking up the ocean spray and salty scent was worth any amount of attention. Oh, the wonderful-
gut
feeling of the sea breeze against my hair, still up in a tight bun. How I longed to let it down . . . let the wind blow through it. Still, I didn't want to add to the misconceptions far too many Englischers already had about us, some even from novels they'd read.
My pen poised, I played my favorite what-if game as I began to write. The squeal of a sea gull caught my attention as the sun fell, faster now it seemed, behind me, over my shoulders, its gleaming rays fanning out to the clouds high above. I leaned back and stared at the evolving light show above me, letting my mind wander as I watched beachcombers and shell collectors. Certainly I hadn't meant to be rude, ignoring Malinda's request.
Yet, dare I accept?
Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed a tall Amish fellow walking barefoot in the foamy surf, snapping pictures every few seconds. A curious sight, to be sure! His black pant legs were rolled up, and he was minus his straw hat. His light brown hair fell below his ears, longer than that of the young men in the Hickory Hollow church district back home. I could scarcely pry my gaze from him.
“What's he doin' here?” I whispered, observing his amble through the gentle breakers, his handsome face aglow with a rosy cast.
Then, surprisingly, he glanced over at me.
“Hullo there.” He smiled in the fading golden light.
I almost looked around to make sure his greeting was meant for me. “Hullo,” I managed to reply, quickly closing my notebook.
As the sky dimmed, he moved away from the water and walked right toward me. “Mind if I join ya?”
“
Nee
, not at all.”
He sat down beside me, pointing to a black ship on the horizon.
“Jah, awful perty.” I felt too shy to say more.
We sat, not speaking, amidst the smell of popcorn and sea air while beams of red, pink, and gold sprayed the sky from the west.
“No wonder people thought the earth was flat, back before Columbus,” he said quietly.
I nodded. “Sure looks that way from here.”
“Ever see anything like this?”
“My first visit to the ocean,” I admitted. “So, no.”
He turned slowly, unexpectedly. “I'm Eben Troyer, from Indiana.” His smile was disarming.
“Joanna Kurtz . . . from Hickory Hollow.”
“Ah, Pennsylvania, where some of my cousins grew up. But I've never been thereâunique name for a town, jah?”
We talked further, and I soon learned that soft-spoken Eben had come here for his deacon's funeral. I could hardly wait to say that it was the same service my family and I had come to attend.
“Well, how's that for a coincidence?” he said, his features growing faint in the twilight.
He showed me his camera, saying he took mostly pictures of landscapes and animals, same as our bishop, John Beiler, allowed. “Rarely pictures of people,” he remarked . . . although the way Eben brought it up, he almost sounded like he wanted to take
my
picture.
His attention flabbergasted me, but it was ever so pleasing. No one had ever sought me out like this. For sure and for certain, my family and every last one of my girl cousins had written me off as destined to be an
alt
Maidel.
“How long are ya here for?” he asked, his smile warming my heart anew.
“Three days, counting today.”
Then Eben surprised me again, asking if I'd like to walk with him to the fishing pier down yonder. I agreed, and he politely offered his hand as I got up from my sandy perch. Oh, glory be, we must've walked for miles into the night. So far and so long we got ourselves plumb lost trying to find our way back.
Following the funeral the next day, Eben and I hurried again to the beach. There, we waded into the ocean up to our kneesâin our clothes, of all silly things. And later, after the sun and wind dried us out some, we rented a bicycle built for two and rode up and down the boardwalk, the warm air on our faces. We ate chili dogs and ice cream under the fishing pier, and his eyes rested on me when he said, “I've never known a better day, Joanna.”
My heart pounded in my ears.
That evening and the next, we met at sunset, laughing together and talking about whatever popped into our heads until, wonder of wonders, Eben reached for my hand! My heart beat so wildly, I wondered if he sensed it. All I could think of was our interlaced fingers.
But all too soon, we had to part ways, our private time together at an end. He asked for my address, and I happily gave it. In such a short time, we'd become so dear to each other. I tried not to cry.
Our meeting on the beachâas romantic and special as it wasâbirthed a renewed hope in me. After all, it was nearly a blight on any Amish girl to still be single at my age.
Ach
, but Eben Troyer had surely changed all of that. Surely he had. . . .
Then and there, I decided it was safe to go out on a limb. I agreed to be Cousin Malinda's bridesmaid, hoping with all of my heart to prove wrong my sister's pointed warning.