The Redemption of Sarah Cain (5 page)
By nightfall, she had worked herself into a subconscious frenzy. To help absorb some of the shock of the past day’s news and to avoid the madness of insomnia, she turned to her finances and checked off her credit card expenditures, reconciling last month’s statement with her checkbook. As usual, the management of her income gave her great comfort.
L
ydia stared at the wooden lamp on the table across the room, her eyes drawn to the light. More than a few of her Amish girlfriends—back when she attended the one-room schoolhouse— had been Old Order. Each night their fathers brought in the gas lamps from outdoors. Younger brothers and sisters gathered like bees to a honeycomb, sittin’ under the golden circle to read or sew or color, as grown-ups talked over the day’s events near the ring of light.
She had spent many-a night at one particular girlfriend’s house, down the road a piece. Fannie Flaud, one of Noah and Susie Lapp’s numberless grandchildren, was her best friend in all the world.
Fannie had gone with Lydia to their first Singing ever, back nearly a year ago. Both sixteen at the time, they sat side by side on the same bale of hay, watchin’ the boys come strutting into the barn. Levi King and all the other boys wore their
for-gut
black trousers and long-sleeved white shirts and tan suspenders. ’Course, Lydia and Fannie acted disinterested, like they weren’t
really
payin’ the fellas any mind. That’s how it was at Singings and whatnot. Girls weren’t s’posed to let on they liked any one boy.
‘‘Levi’s sweet on ya.’’ Fannie had been the first to say it. She’d whispered it to Lydia just minutes after the fast songs had started.
‘‘No . . .’’
‘‘Ach, you just wait and see.’’
Her heart was beating too fast. ‘‘Do you think so, really?’’
‘‘I
know
so, Lyddie.’’
Turned out, Fannie was right. Quick as a wink Levi had asked Lydia to ride home with him in his new courting buggy.
All these months later, and now she was really and truly Levi’s
Aldi
—girlfriend. Whether or not she would end up Levi’s wife was another thing yet.
Sarah was thumbing through a home decorator magazine when the phone rang. Because it was late in the evening, she let her answering machine screen the call.
Bryan Ford’s familiar voice came on the line, and quickly she picked up. ‘‘Hey, stranger.’’
‘‘Great to hear your voice, Sarah.’’ He paused. ‘‘Any chance I can entice you to have supper with me tomorrow night?’’
The ever spontaneous Bryan
.
‘‘Maybe, if you’d called me two weeks ago. I’m back-to-back with appointments.’’
And my sister just died
, she thought.
‘‘Must you always be so busy?’’
She ignored the question. ‘‘So . . . what’re you doing in town?’’
‘‘Research.’’
She didn’t press for more. Fact was, Bryan seemed to enjoy popping up at the most unexpected times, despite his busy life as a computer systems analyst based in Boston.
‘‘I’m here for two days, then you won’t hear from me again.’’
‘‘That a promise?’’
He chuckled. ‘‘I’m attracted to spunk, which, I suppose, is why I’m here.’’ His voice had softened to a more serious tone, but there was a definite hint of jest.
‘‘You’re impossible.’’
‘‘Look who’s talking.’’
Their bantering took her back to college days. Dark-haired, witty, and terribly good-looking, Bryan Ford had declared her to be his one and only soul mate, the woman destined to complete him. At the time, she’d scoffed.
‘‘You’re a dreamer,’’
she’d told him, meaning it.
But he was more than earnest about starting a romance. And they’d had a whirlwind of camaraderie and affection. Nearly two years’ worth.
‘‘Never forget who loves you best,’’
he always said, walking her up the dorm steps.
Without question, she had believed him. Yet they’d parted ways after graduation.
Her
decision. Due, in part, to Bryan’s dogged tenacity—his obsession with having been an only child and wanting a wife who also longed for many children. Overwhelming to Sarah at the time. Now, as well.
‘‘I could meet you somewhere Sunday morning—fifteen minutes over coffee,’’ Bryan suggested. ‘‘How about it?’’ He hadn’t given up on her over the years. Apparently, he wasn’t backing down now, either.
‘‘Sunday morning—
any
morning is next to impossible. Ditto for tomorrow supper.’’ She knew how heartless it would be to encourage him, though she did enjoy his company more than she cared to admit. Spending time with Bryan often made her feel as if she were missing something quintessential in life. Yet their mutual esteem had suffered from the marked disagreement, the one enormous wedge between them, separating two friends, keeping them a continent-length apart—she, in Oregon; Bryan, in Massachusetts.
‘‘I’m told you do eat breakfast sometimes,’’ he taunted.
‘‘Rather infrequently.’’
‘‘Then will you have an infrequent Sunday breakfast with me?’’ He was being terribly polite, not at all pushy as he had been years before—the singular, too-enterprising push that had ended their romance. Today he was merely asking permission to have breakfast with her. It
had
been months since his work had brought him this far west.
The urgency in his voice piqued her curiosity. She sighed, careful not to exhale into the phone. ‘‘Oh, Bryan. I just don’t know. . . .’’
‘‘It’s
only
breakfast.’’
Most likely, he had come all this way to see
her
, though she was fairly certain there was also a client waiting somewhere in the wings.
Legitimately, she couldn’t refuse. ‘‘All right, but we’ll have 36 to make it short.’’
‘‘And sweet?’’
‘‘Whatever.’’ She laughed.
‘‘Hey, don’t overdo it with the enthusiasm.’’
She wondered,
Is he impervious to pain?
Why did Bryan keep coming back? Not that she disregarded him; on the contrary, Bryan Ford was as likable as any of the men she’d dated. But he was more than good-natured and fun-loving. He happened to be devoted to her, for a reason that she herself had yet to discern.
‘‘Seven-thirty too early?’’ she asked.
‘‘Name the place.’’
She did. He promised to be prompt.
‘‘See you soon,’’ she said and hung up.
Returning to her magazine, she pushed thoughts of Bryan out of her mind. No time to analyze whatever relationship they did or didn’t have. She struggled to read, but after a few minutes of distracted effort, the decorator magazine soon lost its appeal. Sarah placed it under the glass-topped coffee table and headed for bed, ignoring nagging thoughts of Ivy . . . and Charles Eberley.
Sarah still hadn’t decided what—if anything—to do about the attorney’s pointed request. One thing for sure, she did
not
want to wedge valuable time out of her schedule merely to travel to Pennsylvania to hear the inconsequential details of Ivy’s last will and testament.
Too much work to be done here. Too much living to do.
Sarah thought of her deceased sister’s children. What would happen to them?
‘‘They’re not my problem,’’ Sarah whispered to herself. She brushed her teeth, flossed, and headed off to bed.
Friday night, January 21
I feel compelled more than ever to write down my thoughts
several times a day. ’Least for a while I will. Maybe just till things
settle some inside me.
Fannie says it’s a good idea to get my feelings on paper.
‘‘Helps clear your mind,’’ she told me today when she and her
mamma stopped over for hot cocoa and sticky buns midmorning.
The Good Lord surely must’ve sent these dear friends to me while
my brothers and sisters were at school. I felt ever so lonely till I
saw them coming.
Every now and then, without warning, I see Mamma’s face
clearly before me. Never will I forget how beautiful she was, inside
and out. Heart-shaped face, cinnamon brown eyes, soft
strawberry blond hair nestled in a thick bun under her prayer cap.
And her smile, ach, it nearly takes my breath away just remembering.
How I miss her! Sometimes, when the house is dark and my
brothers and sisters are fast asleep, I’m tempted to have a looksee
inside the family chest in Mamma’s room. The deep drawers
tempt me so, to do more than just look, really. I ’spect there must
be letters, lots of ’em, hidden away inside the wide bottom drawer.
Some from old friends in Connecticut, I’m perty sure. From
Grandma Cain, too. Others from Aunt Sarah herself. And
somewhere safe, Mamma’s own journals are tucked away.
Truthfully, I’m afraid I might yield to the Tempter and read
such personal writings come one of these days. Almighty God
knows it takes more than simple willpower to steer clear of my
mother’s empty room altogether—takes downright grit. Still, it
irks me to think of our worldly aunt comin’ and rummaging
through Mamma’s private things, simple as they are. Just doesn’t
seem
basslich
—fitting—somehow.
So what’ll become of us? I lie awake worryin’, this same tormenting
question swirling ’round in my head. Standing at my
window, I pray often, staring down at the sleepy fields around
Grasshopper Level, all white and silvery in the moonlight. God
will hafta do something and right quick, I’m thinking. ’Cause, no
telling, Aunt Sarah won’t wanna stay here in Amish country. If
she does, she’ll be more than befuddled by our ways: horse and
buggies and three-hour Preachin’ services. Thank goodness we’re
the sort of Plain folk who are allowed electricity and telephones—
even running water. Otherwise, there’s no telling what Aunt
Sarah would think
. Backwoods urchins,
she’ll prob’ly call us,
when what we really are is God-fearing Amish.
After everything our parents went through to join the Amish
and live the simple life before God and the People, I truly hate to
think of leaving Lancaster County. It’s a mighty good thing my
brothers and sisters don’t remember modern ways. They’d be
scared something awful, I fear
.
