The Revealing (9 page)

“Jimmy,” she said, pushing him back slightly. “Kissing is fun and all that, but it’s time we started making plans.”

Jimmy put an arm around her and wiggled his eyebrows. “I do have plans.” He gave her one of his persuasive grins and cupped her jaw to kiss her with a tender consideration. As his lips joined hers, she swayed toward him, her fingertips grazing his chin. When at length he lifted his head, they were both breathing harder as they gazed into each other’s eyes.

“Jimmy, don’t you want more than that?”

His blue eyes widened in innocence. “Why, Bethany Schrock. I’m shocked!”

“Shootfire!” She snapped forward, cheeks flaming, and smoothed out her apron. “You know what I mean.”

He took his arm back and sighed. “Bethany—we’ve been through this before. I’m trying to get all my ducks in a row.” He wiggled his eyebrows again. “And you know how ducks can be.”

“Jimmy, be serious, for once in your life. Are you or are you not planning on marrying me?”

“Well, sure. Of course. It’s just that I’m not ready yet. I’ve got a few things I need to do first.”

“That’s what you told me months ago. It’s that horse, isn’t it? Lodestar.” She crossed her arms against her chest. “You love that horse more than you love me.”

“Now, sweetheart, that’s not true.”

She rolled her eyes. “You’re going to keep pining over that horse and using it as an excuse not to get serious.”

“I’m not pining for Lodestar. Not much.” His smile faded. “I only think about him a few times a day now.”

She huffed. “That’s a few times more each day than you spend thinking of me.”

“I think of you every other minute of every day. Especially how to get you up to the pond for some serious kissing.” He leaned toward her to kiss her, but she lunged for the door handle. He reached out to grab her arm before she could slip out of the buggy. “Bethany, hold on a minute. Simmer down.”

She closed the door and glared at him. “You just want to kiss so you don’t have to talk.”

He held his head to one side and smiled at her. “What kind of faith have you in me, that you give me such bad motives?” She ignored him. “Look, I don’t want to be a chicken farmer for the rest of my life and I haven’t figured a way out of it.”

“Can’t you get Hank Lapp to propose to your mother?”

“That wouldn’t solve anything. Hank Lapp is not a chicken man.” He relaxed his grip on her arm. “I wish my brother Paul would return to Stoney Ridge and take over for me.”

“Ask Paul to come back.”

“I can’t. He’s settled in at his in-laws, up in Canada. Besides, there were fireworks between my mother and Paul’s new wife. I can’t ask him to move home just because I prefer horses over poultry.”

“But what you really want to do is work with horses.”

“I know. But it would take a request from the bishop himself to convince my mother that horses are more important than her chickens.” He picked up the reins and gave them a little shake to get the horse moving. “Give me a little time, Bethany.” He turned toward her and wiggled his eyebrows in that way that made her smile. “What’s the rush, anyway? We’ve got our whole lives ahead of us.” He grasped her hand and wove his fingers through hers.

Later, as Bethany was getting ready for bed, she thought about Jimmy’s dilemma and knew he was right, as much as
she hated to admit it. He had done a good and noble thing to give up horse training with Galen to help his mother with the chicken and egg business.

But the facts remained: Jimmy loved horses and hated chickens. He had a dream to become a breeder for well-bred, well-trained buggy horses, filling an important need for their church and other districts. Galen had more demand for trained horses than he could fulfill. Last year, as Jimmy apprenticed for Galen, he had developed skills that proved his mettle. It wasn’t easy to change Galen King’s mind about anything or anybody, but he had grown impressed enough with Jimmy’s way with horses that he called him a partner.

David Stoltzfus had just said in Sunday’s sermon that God didn’t give a desire without planning to fulfill it. Would the Lord give her the desire to marry and have a family if he didn’t intend on fulfilling it? Would the Lord give Jimmy a desire to raise horses if he didn’t plan to fulfill that?

There were many things about being Amish that frustrated Bethany to no end. What was good for the group was considered good for the individual . . . even if it wasn’t. But then, to be fair, there were also many things about being Amish that made life worthwhile.

Have a little faith, Jimmy told her. Where was she putting her faith, anyhow? It had grown leaps and bounds in the last year since she had moved back to Eagle Hill. In many ways, she was a different person than she was a year or two ago.

But her main question wouldn’t be silenced, and once again she was asking God:
Would you give
us desires if you didn’t plan to fulfill them?
She didn’t receive an answer, but she didn’t feel wrong about asking either. The silence that surrounded her was gentle, not accusing. Perhaps that was
enough of an answer. To accept her desires, and Jimmy’s, as a mystery.

For now, anyway.

The sun was cresting the hills that framed the back of the farmhouse as Brooke woke. The smoky scent of crisping bacon floated down from the kitchen and in through the open window of the guest flat. Brooke’s stomach started to rumble. She threw on a bathrobe when a knock came on the door and there stood Mim, holding a tray that was covered with a red-checkered napkin.

Brooke was relieved whenever she opened the door and found it was someone else besides Vera Schrock, who always looked as if something had displeased her and she was about to issue a complaint. Vera had a tight, drawn look, a near permanent frown, solid and glum-looking. Brooke had expected a similar countenance from the innkeeper, Rose Schrock, and was pleasantly surprised to find Rose to be lovely, warm, and kind, dressed in soft, cheerful colors: turquoise or pink. Vera dressed in drab brown or olive green. No spark, no life. Brooke didn’t know how the family abided Vera.

Mim’s gaze was fixed on the sky. “The eagles are out.” She lifted her chin toward an eagle, soaring above the creek. “They have an aerie in a tree on our property.”

Brooke opened the door wide to let Mim cross the threshold. “What’s an aerie?”

“It’s an eagle’s nest. It’s huge. Made of sticks and lined with grass and moss. The eagles have been here two years now. Last year, they had one eglet but it died. We’re hoping they’ll have better luck this year.” Mim set the tray on the
table in the small living area. “That’s why there’s yellow tape around that far section of the farm. The Game Commissioner doesn’t want bird-watchers bothering the eagles.”

“Do they?”

“Yup. Bird-watchers are pretty intense around here. As soon as some eggs are spotted in the aerie, they’ll be camped out across the street with their telescopes, day and night.”

Brooke smiled. That was the longest speech she had heard come out of Mim Schrock. It pleased her. She was hoping someone, anyone, on this farm would slow down and talk to her a little. She was always noticing them darting around the farm, but rarely still. Especially not those two young boys with the black felt hats—they were in constant motion. Like a blur.

She lifted the large fabric napkin and found a bowl of baked oatmeal, toast with raspberry jam, four strips of thick-sliced bacon, scrambled eggs, orange juice, and a thermos of coffee. “Why, thank you. I thought I smelled bacon frying. It’s perfect.”

Mim gave a demure nod and darted out the door. Goodness, those Amish were always in a hurry. A cat rubbed against her as she settled at the end of the table. It must have slipped in behind Mim. Brooke thought about banishing it to the great outdoors but decided she didn’t mind a little company. Not so much.

Brooke made a grab for the small spiral-bound notebook on the table. Tomorrow, she’d begin to follow the schedule she’d set up for herself:

Rise at 6:00 Meditation

Yoga or brisk walk or hike

She picked up her pen and added:

find eagles’ aerie

Breakfast (but with such a large breakfast, perhaps she should eat, then exercise)

Construct new life plan

Lunch

Revise new life plan

Scheduled time for spontaneity. Sightsee, window-shop, explore, meet new people

Dinner

Inspirational reading, journal writing

Deep breathing exercises

Bedtime 10:00 pm

Her eyes slipped from the notebook to the
Stoney
Ridge Times
newspaper that Mim had left under the breakfast tray. She skimmed the headlines and turned the page as her eyes caught on the Mrs. Miracle column. She nestled into the chair, happily distracted. She’d always loved advice columns.

She leaned closer to the newspaper. Interesting—this column was situated on the upper corner of page three, a perfect spot for the eye to land as the pages opened. She knew enough about newspaper layout from a journalism class in college to know this was no accident; the column must receive high traffic. She skimmed the column and found herself smiling at Mrs. Miracle’s no-nonsense advice.

Dear Mrs. Miracle,

My brother is always asking to borrow money from me. He is divorced and never pays his child support. He did, however, recently buy a 48" flat screen TV. He says he needs it so his son will come to his apartment and watch sports with him. What should I tell him the next time he asks me for money?

Yours truly,
Frustrated

Dear Frustrated,

It sounds as if your brother believes things, like a television, will solve his problems. Ironically, if he didn’t have a television in the first place, perhaps he wouldn’t be divorced and living away from his son. I wish more people lived without televisions, as I do. Maybe they would talk to each other instead of letting an electronic machine do all the talking for them. But to answer your question, the next time he asks you for money, tell him no.

Sincerely,
Mrs. Miracle

Brooke leaned back in her chair and wondered what Mrs. Miracle might say about her own current dilemma. She could just imagine how she would compose the letter:

Dear Mrs. Miracle,

I need . . . something. I need to reinvent myself. I need to change. A new mantra, a new tagline, a new reason to get up in the morning. Any advice?

Most sincerely,
Empty of Ideas

Or maybe . . .

Dear Mrs. Miracle,

My favorite aunt thinks I spend my life sailing on the wind of others’ talent. She thinks I am avoiding something by not discovering my own self. I feel there’s no point in reinventing the wheel. Why not borrow from the inspiration of others? Look at how the American public imitates celebrities. Is it so wrong to copy others? Any advice?

Most sincerely,
A Borrower

Brooke took a sip of coffee. Why not? Why not send a letter to Mrs. Miracle and see if she had an answer for her? She flipped the page of her notebook to a fresh sheet and started to write. When she finished, she found an envelope and a stamp in her purse—she traveled well prepared—addressed it, tucked the letter inside, and set it by the door to put in the mailbox on her brisk walk to find the eagles’ aerie.

Why not? Why not see what wise old Mrs. Miracle has to say?

6

M
im Schrock liked to collect wildflowers and press them in a book, color intact. Virginia bluebells, coltsfoot, Dutchman’s breeches, sweet white violets. After they dried, she would carefully glue them on cards and write their botanical names underneath in her most excellent handwriting. Her mother said she was a real artist.