The Preacher's Daughter (4 page)

Which reminds me, did you decide what to do about the doves? Or has your mother changed her mind yet again? (I'm sure you're still wishing to have your guests simply blow the little bubbles, as you described in your last letter. To be honest, I think that would be the most fun.)

She stopped writing, trying to picture thousands of bubbles with every color of the rainbow gleaming within each tiny circumference. Smiling, she daydreamed about being present on Louisa's special day, to witness firsthand the peculiar yet fascinating way the English celebrate a wedding ceremony and reception.

‘‘What would Daed think if I just upped and went?'' she whispered to herself.
I really ought to. . . .

But Mamm was entirely right—she had never set foot outside Lancaster County. So what made her think she could be high-minded enough to get herself a bus or train ticket all the way to the Rocky Mountains, which is nearly where Louisa's well-to-do family lived? Somewhere south of Denver, in a place called Castle Pines. Louisa had herself an apartment in the town of Castle Rock, just a hop, skip, and a jump from her parents' home.

According to Louisa, the prime location had been her father's first choice some years ago—five acres, a custom-built home set high on a ridge with sweeping views of the mountains, with three rock fireplaces, a separate library large enough for a writing desk and three overstuffed chairs, and five large bedrooms, each having its own bathroom. And although only the two of them resided there, they had four living areas, a ‘‘separate dining room big enough to entertain thirty for sit-down dinners,'' as Louisa described it, a butler's pantry, and a kitchen with every imaginable appliance, including electric everything— refrigerator, a regular oven, convection oven, dishwasher, garbage disposal and compactor, and the list went on and on. All this in a room the size of the entire downstairs of the hundred-year-old farmhouse where Annie lived. Most of these things Annie had never heard of before in her life.

She couldn't begin to know why Louisa's parents needed so many rooms, but it was not her place to question.
Englischers
were often frivolous, Daed had always said of outsiders. Still, in spite of that, Annie felt mighty happy all these years to have ended up with such an interesting pen pal. A true and faithful friend.

She let her mind wander back to the day the first letter from Louisa had arrived in the mailbox.

The afternoon had been unseasonably cool and rainy. Fall housecleaning was well underway, with plenty of hands making light the work. Annie kept herself busy whitewashing the picket fence that bordered the main pastureland.

When the mail truck came with a letter postmarked Denver, Colorado, but with the recipient's name and address all soiled, Annie opened it, planning only to read enough to see who the letter was meant for. The inside salutation had read simply:
Dear New Friend,
so Annie began to read the first few lines. The letter writer introduced herself as Louisa Stratford, named for her paternal grandmother. Louisa was obviously not Amish and said she was almost eleven. But she'd written that she wanted to be an artist when she grew up, ‘‘with all of my heart, I do.'' Declaring this in the first few lines immediately grabbed Annie's curiosity.

Reading further, Annie soon realized the letter was not intended for her. She knew she ought to check at the next farmhouse over, to see if the English farmer's daughter, Jenna Danz, had signed up for a Colorado pen pal at school, maybe. Yet eight-year-old Annie was compelled to read on, especially because some pretty drawings in the margins caught her eye. And before she knew it, she'd read the entire letter, so captivated by this faraway modern girl and the way she described herself. Most of all, her keen love of drawing.

Quickly Annie wrote down Louisa's name and her return address. Then she put on her galoshes and raincoat and promptly marched down the road stepping in all the mud puddles, taking the letter to its rightful owner. She also apologized for having opened the letter and read it all, but dared not admit why . . . that she, too, loved to draw. She left that part unsaid, hoping Jenna would forgive, and she had.

Returning to the house, she had scarcely any hope of ever getting a letter back, even if she did have the courage to write to the Colorado schoolgirl. But since she was still learning English grammar at the one-room schoolhouse, she reasoned childishly that writing to Louisa Stratford would be extra good practice for her, too.

The rest was history, as Louisa liked to say. Besides that, Annie had always felt it providential—meant to be—her getting the letter from outside the Plain community . . . the two of them so completely worlds apart, yet opening up their hearts to one another by mail. Daed had never said one word against it, though Annie was fairly sure he had no clue how often the letters flew back and forth.

But Mamm knew and was good enough to keep it to herself. Annie supposed her mother assumed there was no harm done, what with all the miles between the girls. Up until just this year, Annie never would have given a second thought to a wedding invitation such as the one she held now in her hands.

What would it be like to see the colors of all those cut flowers . . .
and the golden candelabra, and satin bows, and . . . ?

She shook herself, knowing she must simply pick up the pen and politely reply on the RSVP card that she would not be going. Even though with all of her heart, she would be there in her mind's eye when Louisa took her father's arm and strode the lengthy walkway along the rows of church pews, the ‘‘aisle,'' Louisa had called it, covered with an ivory runner and sprinkled with red and pink rose petals by the five wee girls dressed as miniature brides and carrying flower baskets. All this to get Louisa on her way to her smiling and handsome husband, who was to stand with nine other men also in fine black suits, lavender shirts, and matching cummerbunds high at the chapel altar.
Formal tuxedos,
Louisa had written to describe them and had sketched them, as well.

Annie easily read the words, but without the aid of the drawings tucked into each letter, she would have been completely bewildered about the upcoming wedding ceremony of Miss Louisa Victoria Stratford to Mr. Michael Logan Berkeley at twelve o'clock noon on Saturday the nineteenth day of November. . . .

Chapter 3

L
ouisa Stratford parked her silver Mercedes in the circular driveway in front of her parents' home at Crown Pointe Place. Opening the car door, she headed for the house, already missing her signature jeans and ankle boots. At her mother's urging, she had donned one of the few ultraconservative outfits hanging in her closet—a chic blue-and-gray-plaid woolen skirt and coordinating blue cashmere sweater.

‘‘Hello, dear!'' Mother called as she emerged from the front door. ‘‘Shall I drive today?''

‘‘My car's warmed up,'' Louisa said. Making note of her mother's prim navy suit and pumps, she went to open the passenger door and waited for her mother to get settled in the front seat.

When they were on their way, heading north on I–25 to Denver, Louisa absentmindedly slipped in an old Sheryl Crow CD, one of her favorites. ‘‘I'm exhibiting my art students' work in two weeks, so I can't be late for class today,'' she said, hoping to keep their outing as brief as possible.

Suddenly, the plaintive wail of
Every Day is a Winding Road
blared into the car, and she quickly poked the eject button. ‘‘Sorry about that.''

Off to a classic start,
she thought, restless, even preoccupied. She was eager to meet with her students again, having grown weary of the wedding preparations, more than a full year of them already. Each week's schedule of events, teas, and luncheons was a reflection of her parents' tastes, but she had learned from her childhood to acquiesce to Mother's wishes to avoid making waves.

Her dream wedding—hers and Michael's—bore little resemblance to the plans being carved out for them. Both families had decided their children, their
only
offspring, deserved something of a gala
to die for
. Well, Louisa was dying all right, and it had nothing to do with the composition of the gift sachets—satin or netting?—for three hundred dinner guests, nor whether the reception china should be rimmed in gold or silver.

Gold,
her mother had insisted, with full endorsement from Ms. Tyler, the wedding planner. The reasoning was linked to the gilded birdcages with large satin bows tied to their gleaming posts to be positioned strategically along the wedding aisle. No mere candelabra or flowers with simple bows along the aisle, no. Nothing ordinary in
this
wedding. And because the embossed invitations were also gold, it was only fitting the dinnerware be etched with the same.

On the other hand, the groom had early voiced his humorous opinion to the bride, but the notion of saying vows before a justice of the peace was out of the question. Not with his family connections. And
hers
.

In fact, Michael paid little mind to their wedding plans. If anything, his primary interest seemed to be the exotic honeymoon cruise package. She smiled to herself.
Typical guy
.

‘‘Driving a little fast?'' her mother commented as Louisa navigated the wide streets of Littleton, a suburb of Denver, to the appointed boutique.

She tapped the brake. ‘‘Sorry.''

Today's quest was to select gifts for the bridesmaids and junior bridesmaids, as well as the guestbook girls—
why three?
Louisa knew the answer all too well. Everything was about Daddy's prestigious law firm. It was essential, as it had been explained to her, that the upper echelon of her father's company—their up-and-coming progeny, at least—be well represented in the Stratford/ Berkeley wedding, whether Louisa and Michael had ever made their acquaintance or not.

At least I chose my own maid-of-honor,
Louisa consoled herself, smiling at the thought of Courtney Engelman, her outspoken, even cynical, but fun-loving college friend.

The addition of bodies had begun to aggravate her, including three of the supposedly ‘‘charming'' yet nameless flower girls whom Mother had lined up without her knowledge until just recently.

Sighing, Louisa parked in front of the boutique, then pulled her keys from the ignition.

‘‘Darling.'' Mother turned and touched her arm lightly. ‘‘Is something the matter?''

Louisa sighed again. ‘‘I'm fine . . . maybe a little tired.'' Not only was she tired physically, but weary of attending to the infinitesimal details of a full-weekend wedding celebration, from calling to double-check room reservations at Denver's most exclusive hotel, the Brown Palace, for out-of-town guests to a zillion and one bridal showers in her honor—both lingerie and household— all happening in the next two weeks. Not to mention the post-wedding announcements to be sent to newspapers on the never-ending list: the
Denver Post,
for their present location, the
Chicago Tribune,
where most of Daddy's side of the family lived, the
Los Angeles Times,
where Mother's people still resided, and several more small-town papers her parents had decided were a ‘‘must send.''

Why did we hire a professional planner at all?
she wondered, wishing she and Michael might have arranged a simple but elegant wedding.

‘‘We mustn't tire you out, darling. You tell me when you've had your fill, all right?''

Louisa forced a smile.

Growing up in opulence, Louisa was accustomed to the niceties of life. But once this wedding hoopla was past and she and Michael returned from their honeymoon—once the hundreds of thank-yous were properly addressed and stamped, with the proper return address label on the proper day—the life she now led was going to screech to a halt. She had little interest in kowtowing to the almighty dollar. Daddy's riches hadn't brought joy to Mother's heart or peace to her perfect plastered smile. Oh, they were content and at ease with their friends and societal functions, but deep down weren't they as frustrated as everyone else on the planet, well off or otherwise?

However, in the midst of this crazy and contrived world, Louisa knew someone who had long embraced a simple and unpretentious life. A young woman who knew well the meaning of genuine beauty, laughter, and love, although without a boyfriend at the present time. Annie Zook understood how to live to the fullest and on very little means monetarily, or so Louisa assumed. The Zooks supplemented the sale of cow's milk and butter by raising peacocks, and from the honest and caring letters Annie wrote so frequently, Louisa had enjoyed a front-row seat to the Plain life—the daily routine on the back roads of Paradise.

Perfect name for a honeymoon resort,
Louisa thought, smiling.

While her mother paid for each of the two-hundred-dollar bracelets to be presented to the attendants at the bridesmaids' luncheon in a few days, Louisa wandered toward the lace-covered bay window. She looked out to the horizon, past the flurry and cacophony of traffic, and considered the Pennsylvania barnyard where Annie often ran barefoot up until the first frost, bringing home their herd of cows twice daily and feeding the peahens and their chicks. She closed her eyes and visualized the fall plowing which was happening this week, with the help of Yonie, Luke, and Omar, the three younger Zook boys.

A ‘‘closet'' artist, Annie also had a surprising knack for word pictures, even though she had only an eighth-grade education. The real-to-life descriptions in her letters helped Louisa envision the foreign world of the Old Order Amish.

Her curious connection to Annie Zook all these years had created within her a yearning for a less-complicated life, even though it was clear that brokenhearted Annie was caught in an ominous situation with her secret love of art, which was forbidden by her strict church community.
A train wreck about to happen,
she thought, wishing she could do something more than write letters to support her friend.