The Preacher's Daughter (21 page)

Louisa went to stand near the empty easel. ‘‘I traveled a long way for this, Annie.''

Turning to the artist's desk, Annie gingerly carried the dry canvas, setting it just so on the easel. ‘‘This painting has a sad, sad story behind it. For the longest time, I wasn't even sure what to call it.''

Louisa stepped back, studying the picture. Then, finally, she said softly, ‘‘This is very good.'' She paused, tilting her head a bit sideways. ‘‘You have some really wonderful contrasts here . . . and I can feel the mood. It's an undertow of something portentous. Bravo, Annie.''

‘‘You honestly sense something?''

‘‘Absolutely! It pulls me right in.''

‘‘It's titled ‘Obsession.' '' Louisa turned to look at her. ‘‘Meaning what?''

‘‘I'll tell you tomorrow. We'll go up to the covered bridge and walk around.''

‘‘Now you have me riveted. I can't wait.''

‘‘Well, since Julia's not payin' me to stand here and yak, I need to get busy.'' She turned toward the stairs.

‘‘So, just like that, you're going to leave me hanging?''

Annie wiggled her fingers in a dainty wave. ‘‘You like ‘hanging,' remember? Besides, I'll be anxious to see what you paint today!''

With that she headed back to her domestic work, most excited about Louisa's response to the Pequea Creek painting. Yet, once again, she was torn by what the People would think of her if Mamm's discovery got out . . . how disappointed Daed would be. She hated letting her parents down.

The Lord God must be terribly displeased, too
.

Louisa sat quietly in bed snuggling with her sleepy kitty long after Annie had left the room for the night. They'd talked about their day, and Annie had been quite elated over Louisa's colorful peacock painting, saying she ‘‘just knew'' this would capture her imagination.

But it was not her own sketching and subsequent painting that intrigued Louisa. Annie's startlingly real depiction gripped her even now as she propped her head up higher with an additional pillow. She wished for a way to offer Annie some technical pointers—to share a wealth of knowledge she had gleaned in L.A. at art school—although Annie was unmistakably on her way to becoming a superb artist under her own steam.

Remarkable . . . considering her humble background,
she thought.
Shoot, no one even knows!
Except now Annie's mother was on to Annie's talent. . . .

Louisa contemplated what Annie's mom might do at having accidentally discovered Annie's ability—at least in part. It was bad enough for the Zooks to innocently open their home, let alone allow Louisa to influence Annie.

Her eyes roamed the wide plank floorboards to the windowsill, the flush of a full moon all around, and she was taken with the pronounced difference in the wispy, nearly ethereal light she experienced here in this country setting. It was as if she were nestled on the edge of the world as she knew it. Annie's world. Nothing at all like the glaring light of Denver's metropolis.

Annie was born into this, so how can she possibly appreciate what she has?
wondered Louisa.

But she also pondered the flip side.
What if Annie were to leave the only life she knows?
Louisa shuddered, aware of the fierce competition within the artistic community.
How could an Amish woman possibly survive?

Louisa decided quickly that Annie was probably better off staying here . . . that is if she would even be allowed to remain for much longer. From everything Annie had shared regarding the strict denial of individual self-expression, Louisa didn't see how Preacher Jesse would allow Annie to stay past a certain age, barring some unexpected turn. And if Annie's pull toward art was as strong as Louisa's own, which she surmised it was, how could Annie simply walk away from that?

High in the cozy attic earlier today, Louisa had gotten so completely lost in her peacock painting she'd forgotten to charge up her Palm. She'd even snoozed checking her email or connecting with her students by IM, too.
Friday's soon enough,
she thought, relishing the hours spent in Annie's delightful studio.
Unless Preacher Zook sends me packing before then!

Jesse cradled his wife in his arms as they talked in bed, careful to keep his voice low. ‘‘I wish I'd known years ago,'' he told her. Hearing that Louisa was an art teacher did not set well with him. Nor did his wife's recent discovery—Louisa's teaching Annie how to draw. Had Annie tricked all of them, bringing Louisa here? ‘‘You were right to tell me, love,'' he said.

‘‘I do wish you might've seen what I saw. I think you would've been quite surprised. Our Annie, I daresay she may have a gift.''

‘‘Now, Barbara . . .''

‘‘No . . . I mean it.''

Her words troubled him greatly.

‘‘The best gifts are compassion, serenity, and joy. You know that. Patience, gentleness . . . self-control. And surrender to God, the Ordnung, and the ministry.'' He paused, thinking how he ought to say further what was on his mind. ‘‘Annie's gifts dwell within the confines of the church, not in self-expression.'' He felt her body tense. ‘‘No matter how much talent you may think our daughter has, you cannot encourage Annie in this. We must, all of us, offer ourselves up to God as a community—pure, unspotted, and without blemish. Nothing less will do.''

Barbara's breathing came more slowly, yet she did not verbally agree to abide by his wishes.

‘‘Have we made a mistake, bringing the blind and perverted world to our doorstep?'' he said.

‘‘Well . . . maybe so.'' Barbara's voice quivered, and for this reason sleep did not come to Jesse for another wretched hour.

He could not bring himself to think about Annie rejecting the faith, yet he could see she was most surely on the path right out of the community. And having Louisa to talk to and spend an inordinate amount of time with, well, he could kick himself for agreeing to invite Louisa here. Beneath the façade of Amish attire and head covering, she was no more interested in the Plain life than any ungodly outsider. He'd heard her talking on her little phone late into the night, even thought he heard her singing threads of a worldly song alone in the room. Aside from all that, it was rather remarkable how she had made an attempt to fit in.
To please Annie, no doubt
. Despite Moses' prediction, Jesse could see no evidence of Louisa's visit moving his daughter closer to joining church.

I ought to give Annie a time limit,
he thought.
At what point does a father simply give up hope?

Chapter 22

F
irst thing the next morning, Annie tiptoed to Louisa's room. She knocked lightly and whispered, ‘‘You awake?'' Aware of a small groan, she inched the door open and peeked in. ‘‘Psst! Louisa? All right if I come in?''

‘‘You're halfway in already, you goof.''

Annie sat on the bed, smiling. ‘‘I want to show you around today.''

‘‘What about chores?'' Louisa sat up and stretched her arms. ‘‘And when's that quilting bee you talked about?''

‘‘You'll see how quickly chores get done . . . and we'll even sew you up a dress or two before noon.'' She was surprised Louisa had remembered the comment made to Esther about the quilting bee. ‘‘The quilting's tomorrow—would you like to learn how to make the teeniest tiniest stitches ever?''

Louisa looked at her, a sleepy haze still evident on her pretty face. ‘‘That's why I'm here, right?''

‘‘Oh you!'' Annie plopped down on the pillow next to Louisa's; her cat came right over. ‘‘What did I ever do without a sister?''

‘‘Aw, you're too sweet, Annie.''

‘‘I mean it.''

‘‘Well, I feel the same way.
And
I have so much catching up to do if I'm going to be a
good
big sister . . . starting with you showing me how to cook on that funky stove of yours.''

‘‘Honestly? You want to make breakfast today?''

Louisa nodded, reaching for Muffin. ‘‘I'll give it my best shot.''

‘‘Sounds like Yonie and his hunting adventure . . . probably shooting everything in sight.''

‘‘I'll need time to de-feminize the place so he doesn't freak when he returns.'' Louisa glanced at the room.

‘‘No matter what, you'll have to open the window and air it out.'' Annie laughed, but she meant it.

‘‘Hey,'' Louisa protested, ‘‘I told you I wanted to bathe more often!''

‘‘I didn't mean it like that—it smells far too perty in here, that's what.''

‘‘Mm-hmm, sure. . . . So, what did you want to show me today?''

‘‘This afternoon, I'll take you to Pequea Creek, where little Isaac disappeared.'' She paused, looking over her shoulder to see that the door was securely shut. ‘‘And we'll smuggle along our sketchbooks, too, if ya want.''

Louisa raised her eyebrows. ‘‘You're one rebellious chick.''

Chick?
‘‘So now I've been reduced to a fowl?''

‘‘You crack me up, Annie. Go get dressed.''

‘‘I'll meet you downstairs in ten minutes.'' Annie headed to the door.

‘‘Too short. I need time for a sponge bath.''

Annie gave a little laugh. ‘‘You showered at Julia's yesterday. How clean must ya be?''

Louisa shook her head, feigning a pout.

‘‘Okay, I'll bring up some heated water in a bit.''

‘‘Thanks, Annie. Maybe I'll actually be able to live with myself now.''

Annie wasted no time giving Louisa a thorough lesson on how to cook on a wood stove. She began by talking about a good grate and how important it was to have a tight fit when it came to tending a fire, as well as keeping it from smoking up the house. ‘‘The fire is the focus of your attention, really. Once you get used to how hot you need the surface to be, you'll be fine.'' She paused, watching Louisa's expression.

‘‘Want to help me get the fire started?'' Louisa asked.

‘‘This time, sure. Next time, you'll be ready to do it yourself.'' Annie pointed out the vents, ash box, and dampers and explained their functions. ‘‘Actually, a firebox this size is wonderful-good, 'cause it can hold a fire longer and requires less tending.''

‘‘I've read that food cooked or baked on a wood stove tastes better.''

‘‘Prob'ly so, but I haven't had much experience otherwise.'' Annie remembered eating at Cousin Julia's and, once in a blue moon, when she and Rudy were courting, she'd enjoyed supper at Harvest Drive Restaurant, as well as at Dienner's.

‘‘I'll try to remember everything.'' Louisa reached for the big iron skillet and set it on the counter.

‘‘Do you want to gather eggs or set the table?'' Annie asked, curious to know which Louisa would choose.

‘‘You're way better at the egg thing, so have at it.''

‘‘Ach, you'll be doin' that in your sleep by the time Christmas comes.'' And then it dawned on her: if Louisa stayed put, she could attend the annual school program at the one-room school, along with all the other fun holiday activities.

Louisa was studying her. ‘‘You think I'll ever gather eggs without getting pecked to death by defensive hens?''

‘‘Maybe not.'' She offered a smile. ‘‘When I return from the henhouse, I'll show you how to test the stove's surface for adequate heat, with water droplets. All right?''

Louisa nodded, smiling, and turned to wash her hands. When she'd dried them, she pulled out the utensil drawer and counted eight place settings, including enough for the grandparents next door. ‘‘You must be laughing at me, Annie.''

‘‘Now, why's that?''

‘‘I must seem nearly helpless in the kitchen . . . at least to your way of doing things.''

Annie looked her over good. ‘‘I daresay you definitely need another dress or two. That one's got a telltale sign on it, by the way—paint from yesterday's visit to the attic.'' Here, she lowered her voice to a whisper.

Louisa grimaced. ‘‘An apron will remedy that, jah?'' She went to the back of the cellar door and removed Barbara's work apron off the hook. ‘‘There. Ta-dah!''

Annie had to laugh. ‘‘You've come a long way in a few days, Miss Lou. You look and cook Plain, and you talk our first language.'' With that, she headed for the mud room to put on her work boots.

Miss Lou? Hey, I like that
.

Louisa watched Annie leave the house, then went to the trestle table and, remembering precisely where each person always sat at mealtime, she began to set the table. ‘‘If my mom could see me now. . . .''

At that instant, a little furry creature appeared from under the cellar door and skittered across the width of the kitchen floor. Louisa stifled a squeal, looking around for safety. The mouse ran toward the sink and hid in the shadows. In turn, Louisa dashed to the long bench pushed against the table and hopped up.

Shaking with fright, she spied the rodent running the length of the counter. Then it zipped behind the cookstove. Louisa got up on the table and sat cross-legged there.
This would never happen in my apartment!
she thought.

She contemplated the contrast between the black-and-white checkerboard linoleum floor here and her own high-end ceramic-tiled kitchen with its state-of-the-art Sub-Zero fridge and stainless steel sink.
Definitely no mice!

Her pulse pounded in her head, because more than anything, she despised rodents—filthy, disease-ridden critters. She leaned down, putting her hands over her face, and groaned. Her mother would be appalled and Michael would be splitting his sides with laughter. Yeah, they were so sure she wouldn't last here, and at the moment Louisa couldn't see herself ever getting down off this table.
Never!