The Preacher's Daughter (38 page)

‘‘You aren't Plain, no.''

‘‘But you
are,
'' Lou said. ‘‘Through and through. So, is being an artist more who you are than being Amish? I don't think so.''

Annie watched Lou shake out her dark brown hair. ‘‘What makes you say this?''

‘‘When I first came here, I thought you should follow your heart—your longing for art—but now I'm not so sure. Besides, I can't imagine how you could leave your family and the People behind for the modern world, Annie. I doubt there's any way you'd ever be happy out there . . . on the outside.''

‘‘How can you possibly know?''

‘‘You've said it yourself, that you're like a sister to me. We've shared our hearts in letters all these years, and now we're like roommates in a college dorm.'' Lou got up and walked to the window. ‘‘So I guess you'll have to trust me, Annie . . . because I'm not going to let you walk away from here. You have to do the right thing.''

‘‘I don't even know what that is.''

‘‘Go to your dad . . . talk to him.'' Lou rose and went to sit on her own bed now. Her kitty came out from under the bed skirt and curled up on her lap.

‘‘So you're not goin' to help me get an apartment?'' It was her last effort.

‘‘Listen, I'd love nothing more than to see you spread your wings . . . and for the whole world to witness your talent. But it's not the whole world I'm concerned about. It's
your
world, Annie. The Amish tradition. Right here.
This
is your world— your artist's canvas. You wouldn't be happy away from it—even with all the paint and freedom money could buy.''

Annie almost wondered if Daed had taken Louisa aside and asked her to talk straight this way. She watched idly as Lou scratched Muffin behind his ears and stroked his long fur. ‘‘Sounds like you've thought all this through.''

Lou's expression grew more serious. ‘‘I'm probably as surprised as you are—me, of all people, saying this—but why couldn't you express yourself in some acceptable way? Remember the lovely embroidery we saw at the Old Country Store?''

Annie nodded.

‘‘Art is whatever you make it. It's actually a language . . . the way you express your emotions. Just think of the quilt designs and the placement and choice of colors in all those flower beds outside come spring.''

‘‘I s'pose you want me to follow the peacocks round, too, watching for the slightest changes in color on their trains, is that it?''

‘‘Sure, why not?''

Annie smiled. ‘‘I'll think on it . . . that's all. I won't promise much else.''

‘‘Well, good . . . that's progress.'' Muffin suddenly hopped down off Lou's lap and ran over to Annie, surprising both girls. ‘‘See? Even my cat approves of you.''

‘‘It's nice someone does.'' She hugged Lou's kitty, dreading the thought of seeking Daed out.

Chapter 38

L
ouisa struggled over whether or not to tell Annie of Ben's keen interest in her, especially with all the upheaval in Annie's life. If she were aware would she entertain even more thoughts of leaving the People and feel justified in dating a non-Amish guy?

Louisa had no clue. Of course, the upside to it was the possibility that Annie might want to stay put, to be in close proximity to Ben . . . if it happened that she was interested in dating
him
. Bottom line, though, Louisa felt strange, knowing she held this romantic secret from her friend, having realized today what an amazing man Ben Martin was. Miles better than Rudy, in her humble opinion.

For someone to come in and do what Ben had done at Julia's—his gentleness in supporting Esther emotionally—was impressive. Not to mention his overall attitude and demeanor. She hadn't ever known a guy like that. And it was funny, too, because she caught herself sizing him up against what she knew of Trey Douglas.

That's ridiculous,
she reprimanded herself, waiting not-so-patiently in the bedroom while Annie talked with her father downstairs. Louisa
had
laid into Annie, no question, but she truly believed everything she'd spouted off to her friend.
So, would it be wise to let on about Ben now?
Louisa wondered, even though she suspected Annie might be attracted to him, too. She was glad she'd had the presence of mind to tell Ben she was staying out of it and to ask Annie himself. She'd messed with Annie's life enough!

Esther kissed the top of Essie Ann's little head, the peach fuzz tickling her nose. ‘‘I'm grateful to you, Julia, and to the Lord in every way,'' she said, glad for someone of like mind to talk to. ‘‘I must say, too, your husband's employee was like a messenger sent from heaven.''

‘‘That's the truth.'' Julia nodded, her soft brown hair beginning to come loose from its bun after the long day. ‘‘I can tell you, Ben's a fine young man. Though not a believer, far as we know.''

Looking down at the baby in her arms, Esther was filled with love anew for her Savior. ‘‘I pray Ben might come to know the Lord, just as I have.''

‘‘Irvin shares Christ with him every chance he can.'' Julia's eyes were soft with tears.

‘‘You all right?''

‘‘Oh yes. Seeing you there, so safe and snug, with this new little one near, well . . . I just want to tell you that Irvin and I have decided you and the children should stay here for as long as need be.'' Julia pushed back the long stray hairs, her face rosier than before. ‘‘Irvin plans to speak with his cousin Jesse, Annie's father, about keeping Zeke away from you and the children. We'll pray something can be done to help your husband in the meantime.''

A little sob caught in Esther's throat. ‘‘Ach, this takes such a burden off me, Julia . . . you just don't know!''

Julia rose and stood near the bed. ‘‘My husband won't allow any more visits like Louisa said occurred with Zeke. Not until you're ready, that is. In the meantime, the men will protect you should he show his face here again.''

Esther felt lighter suddenly. ‘‘I'll sleep better tonight knowin' this. Denki, Julia. Oh, thank you!''

The afternoon light was fading rapidly when Annie found Daed at the far end of the barn, close to the door where the cows came in for milking. ‘‘I need to talk to you,'' she blurted to him, ‘‘ 'cause I'm all ferhoodled.''

He had trouble looking at her, she knew. The anger had diminished some and in its place was great disappointment, that thing she had always wished to avoid.

‘‘I heard you're packing already.'' His words fell from his lips like broken glass.

‘‘Jah,'' she said in a near whisper. ‘‘But I don't
want
to leave. . . .''

‘‘Well, I won't budge. I'll not have you flaunting your worldliness.'' His eyes looked hollow, colorless.

‘‘I know this sounds peculiar,'' she continued, terribly tense, ‘‘but I need some time to say good-bye to my work . . . my art. Days or weeks . . . maybe longer.''

His brow was deeply furrowed and he stood there, hay fork in hand, looking at her like he hadn't ever truly seen her before. ‘‘Cuttin' off a dog's hind leg is much harder done little by little, ain't?''

She sensed how difficult it was for one so deeply rooted in the church. Ever so slowly, she nodded her head.

‘‘You want time to do what . . . dabble further in the world?''

‘‘No, Daed—'' ‘‘Well, you're askin' an impossible thing.''

She sighed. ‘‘I wish you could understand
me
.''

He set the hayfork aside and folded his arms across his chest. ‘‘Why must this be so hard . . . to lay down your will, as you must, in order to be truly happy?''

She had no answer. They stood looking at each other, father and daughter.

At last, Daed shook his head. ‘‘There will be no more discussion on this. I want you to agree to take baptismal classes come summer, to abstain from your drawings and such until then—for a full six months. It's past time to leave your rumschpringe days behind.''

She swallowed the lump in her throat. ‘‘I could think on it, jah, but whether or not I can follow through . . . that's another story.''

‘‘Must I remind you? ‘Where your treasure is, there will your heart be also.' '' He took off his hat and began to fan himself. He was worked up again, and she ought to simply walk away—and do his bidding—not cause him this much grief in a single day. ‘‘Honestly, Annie, you're a lot like our peacocks when they get their long trains caught under the buggies on the road.''

She felt dismayed with his comparison. Already, she'd hurt him enough for a lifetime. Even so, she didn't deserve to be judged against a slow-poke peacock, did she? Truth be known, she'd watched them strut along, unhurried as they were, getting their tail feathers all ripped up, away from the safety of the pen.

‘‘After baptismal instruction, I would then expect you to join church next fall,'' he continued.

Oh, for his sake, she wanted to say she would. But how? ‘‘It would be foolish to make a false covenant,'' she said softly. ‘‘Even dangerous.''

He put his hat back on his head and held out his hand. ‘‘You ain't a man, but I daresay it might be a good idea to shake on this, Annie. Will you agree to put aside your sin and give obedience a chance?''

She looked down at his callused hand, outstretched to her.

‘‘I could try.''

‘‘No, you must cease to try, and simply do it.''

Six months. . . .
She was moved to tears, although she wouldn't dare blink and let them spill down her cheeks. No, she must accept the hand of her father, who was only doing the best he could, for goodness' sake.

Mentally, she marked the moment, wondering if she would recall this promise in her old age, many years from now. And if so, would she remember it with gladness?

Reaching out, she clasped his hand.

Lighting the lantern, Jesse carried it out to the sleigh. Zeke Hochstetler was heavy on his mind and it was imperative to get him hushed up, especially now that Annie wouldn't be leaving, at least not soon. He hadn't seen real signs of repentance from her, and he didn't know how long the promise of their handshake would stick with a free-thinking woman like his daughter.

He stepped into the sleigh and urged the horse down the road, thinking of his side of the family tree. A good and strong branch of it were some downright outspoken Mennonites. Not that they were necessarily an obnoxious lot, but they sure had differing opinions. Irvin Ranck was a strong limb off that particular tree, and from what he had come and told Jesse tonight, on the heels of supper, Jesse figured Zeke Hochstetler was a loose-fitting cork in a pressure-filled bottle.

He contemplated what Irvin had stated vehemently, that they would not allow Zeke to harm Esther or the children.
So Esther's run off for certain,
he thought, not liking it. Far as he could tell, Zeke was merely a loudmouth, nothing more. And if he had ever slapped his wife around, well, then he needed to be talked to. But the way he saw it, Esther was doubly in the wrong . . . claiming salvation and now shirking her domestic and wifely duties.

But there was a larger issue of worry, which was the reason for Jesse's after-suppertime trip to see the bishop. Zeke was a problem for the People as a whole and for Jesse in particular. With Annie possibly settling down some, it would work best all around if Zeke was finally told where his brother was buried. The bishop might not agree, but Jesse felt the distraught and unstable man should be tossed a crumb of information.

Zeke won't go round stirring up the People over Annie's art
. Of this, he was fairly certain. And he was mighty glad he'd had the presence of mind to keep the proof. This way Zeke had no leg to stand on, except for shooting off his mouth, which he did like clockwork, anyway.

Jesse's greatest fear was the English authorities getting involved. Having followed Bishop Andy's demand from the start, the brethren had never reported the Hochstetler boy missing.
Best to keep it quiet,
the bishop had continually said through the years, whenever the matter was reviewed at the council of the ordained, twice annually. Preacher Moses had always had the biggest beef with it, Isaac being his kin. Which was where the rub came, far as Jesse could tell, yet the bishop had managed to keep a lid on a slow-boiling cauldron. Partly it was because not even Zeke had any idea where his parents had ended up after they left Honey Brook. Some thought they'd gone to a remote part of Ontario, Canada. Others rumored the family had left the Amish altogether.

Turning into the bishop's lane now, Jesse saw a single gas lamp burning in the kitchen window and assumed Andy was reading the German Bible to his wife. When he knocked on the back door, it took a while for the bishop to come and see who was there. Jesse should have called out, announcing himself, but he needed the extra moments to think again what he should say, even though he'd contemplated this visit all the way here in the dark and blustery cold.

‘‘Well, Jesse Zook, what brings you out?'' the older man said, ushering him inside.

‘‘Zeke's on a rant.'' He kept his voice low.

‘‘How's
that
news?''

They stood in the anteroom away from the kitchen. ‘‘I don't mean to go over your head,'' said Jesse. ‘‘I'm just wondering if Zeke shouldn't be allowed to know where we buried Isaac.''

A gentle smile creased Andy's face. ‘‘He must've broken your will. All that flap comin' out of his mouth . . . is that it?''

Jesse wouldn't reveal his daughter's ongoing sin, wouldn't use it as the reason for his request. ‘‘Truth be told, if Isaac had been my brother, I might be askin' the same.'' It was his best defense.