A Simple Winter: A Seasons of Lancaster Novel (26 page)

“With laundry for eleven, I bet it is.” Remy glanced from the moving rollers to the basket of damp clothes. “Do you want help with these? I might as well make myself useful. Where is the dryer?”

Mary laughed as she crossed the porch to the door. “The dryer is a clothesline beside the vegetable garden.” When she peered outside, the sky had an opaque wash, like a bucket of milk. She didn’t trust it. “But since it looks like rain, we’ll have to hang the clothes inside.”

“I don’t think they predicted rain.” Remy pulled a small, slender rectangle from the pocket of her jeans and ran her fingers over the face of it.

“One of those portable telephones?” Mary asked.

“A BlackBerry. I can bring up the forecast on it, and … let’s see. No rain until tomorrow.”

“Ya?” Mary didn’t want to offend Remy, but such gadgetry was not a part of the Plain life, and she couldn’t place her trust in an object the size of a cookie. “Well, just to be sure, we’ll hang the clothes in here.” Looping rope through the hooks that were installed in the corner of the ceiling for days like this, she strung a clothesline through the mudroom. “Why don’t you hang the clothes while I finish washing?”

“I’m on it.” Remy lugged the basket of wet laundry and clothespins to the end of one line. “You know, I was thinking that, since I have my car here, I could go pick the kids up from school.”

Mary did not look up as she fed a shirt into the wringer. “That’s very kind of you, but it’s not necessary. The school isn’t far, and the children don’t mind walking.”

“I just thought it would be fun for them.” Remy peeked out around a dress she’d just hung. “Considering the way they enjoyed riding in the limo last time.”

“Your kindness is appreciated, but riding around in cars for fun is not how we choose to live.” For a second she thought of the three men seated at their table after Remy’s visit, Uncle Nate and the bishop and the preacher. Would Remy be upset to learn that they had voiced some disapproval over Sadie and the others riding in the big white car?

“Am I pushing too far?” Remy asked. “I apologize if—”

“No need to be sorry. It’s just that there’s a reason for living Plain. We hire cars when we have to, but we don’t own them. Electricity is forbidden, and yet we have a gas-powered washer and tools. It may seem contradictory, but it’s a matter of sticking to a slower pace and keeping worldliness separate from our lives.” Mary
moved away from the washer and pressed a hand to her lips as she glanced up at Remy. “I don’t mean to preach.”

Remy shook her head. “It helps me to understand. But when I was here last time, it didn’t seem like a problem for the kids to ride in the car.”

“Our bishop does not condemn modern things, but we don’t want to be a slave to machines. We want to control the technology we use. So we hire cars when we have a distance to travel. Sadie and Gabe travel by scooters, but our order doesn’t use bicycles. The bishop says that even bikes can take you too far from home. Too far from the things that matter.”

“Too far from family,” Remy said as she smoothed the bodice of a dress on the line. “I get that.”

Mary lifted a sopping-wet dress from the rinse water. “But Adam and Susie, they could have used your car today.”

Remy squinted as she pinned a shirt to the line. “What do you mean?”

“With Susie’s doctor some twelve miles away, it’s more than an hour each direction.”

Remy gaped. “And they didn’t hire a car?”

“We have in the past, but it’s a manageable trip, and Susie is happy to miss school. Not the student, that one.” Mary rose, not wanting to gossip about her sister. It had been a while since she’d had a companion to help her with chores, and she had never worked alongside an English person.

When Remy had decided to wait here, she had anticipated that the girl would bide her time chatting or lazing by the fire until Adam arrived.

As far as Mary was concerned, Adam was the real reason Remy McCallister was here today. She had seen them together by the paddock that cold Sunday afternoon. She had watched from the
kitchen window as the two of them talked up close, like a couple. Mary had been sure to turn away from the window as they’d embraced, and she hadn’t slipped a word of it to anyone. Not even Five, whom she usually shared everything with. But it was upsetting, seeing Adam take a step back. He needed an Amish wife, not a girlfriend from the fancy world.

Watching from the corner of her eye as Remy shook out a dress, Mary had to admit the girl was a good worker and a cheerful one at that. There was a light in her eyes, a certain glimmer that reminded Mary of her mamm, who used to find joy in everything from cooking to washing to digging in the dirt to thin her vegetable garden. “You do good work, Remy.”

“Thanks, but I sense that I’m learning from the master.” Remy pointed a clothespin at her. “Honestly, with eleven people, how do you stay on top of all the household chores? Cooking and cleaning and laundry …”

“A full day is a good day, and look at what we’ve accomplished.” Mary gestured to the hanging clothes.

“A virtual forest of clothes,” Remy said.

“Work is good for the soul, and it’s good training for a young girl. After this, I know I’m ready for …” Mary stopped herself short of admitting she was ready to start her own family; that was a private matter between Five and her.

“Girl, with training like this you are ready to take on half the state of Pennsylvania. Correction: the entire state.”

Mary couldn’t help but grin at Remy’s joke. Her presence was a pleasant surprise this afternoon. “There’s one more load of laundry to do, but with your help it will be finished with time to spare. I was thinking of baking a batch of buttermilk cookies.”

“Are you kidding me? Baking is a favorite pastime of mine. Well, it would be if I had someone to bake for.”

That struck Mary as sad. No one to care for? “Then today your prayers have been answered. You may bake for eleven people who will surely come home hungry and eager for sweets.”

“A captive audience.” Remy pressed a hand to her heart. “This is going to be a very good day.”

eaning over a gargantuan mixing bowl, Remy worked at softening butter and sugar with a wooden spoon. Aside from the ticking of the wall clock, the gentle breathing of the sleeping children was the only sound in the King kitchen, and Remy smiled at the true peace and quiet that hovered in the house. This was something she would love to capture for her story.

A portrait of Amish life …

That was how she planned to pitch the article when she spoke with Adam. A quaint piece, with a few updates on how the family was recovering from tragedy.

The door closed gently as Mary came in, her cheeks tinged pink from the cold. “Three eggs, fresh from the henhouse. You’ll want to add them once the butter and sugar are creamed.”

“Just give me one more minute.” Remy gritted her teeth and put some muscle into her task. As she stirred, she tried to formulate a question that would not offend Mary. “You know, I met Adam a year ago, just after your parents died.”

“A dark time,” Mary said as she placed a bottle of vanilla on the counter.

“So much has changed for him in the past year. How do you think he’s dealing with it? His return home from a very different world, and taking on the responsibilities of running the farm.”

“It can’t be an easy position Adam has landed in, suddenly head of our family.” Mary cracked an egg into the bowl, then stood back as Remy stirred. “But it will be much easier when he has a wife. I’ll be relieved when he finally asks Annie Stoltzfus to marry him.”

The words slowed Remy’s heartbeat to a sickening pace. Adam was going to get married? Married to a girl named Annie … Remy couldn’t deny the disappointment that pressed on her at the thought of Adam being in love with someone else. The spark between them, the connection—had she imagined it?

Remy pursed her lips, stirring viciously for a second. “I didn’t know Adam had a girlfriend.”

“Actually, there are a few Amish girls interested in my brother right now.” Mary frowned, her fingers nervously checking the pins on her apron. “The thing is, Adam needs to marry an Amish woman. The bishop, the congregation, and most of Halfway are waiting on him to do the right thing, and soon. If he’s to take care of our family, he needs a wife. An Amish wife, of course.”

“Of course.” Remy nearly choked on the words as Mary’s description of her brother’s situation loomed in her mind, a portrait of Adam. This was a twenty-four-year-old man enmeshed in another world, committed to his family, sworn to follow a lifestyle completely alien to hers. They lived in two separate worlds, with little in common.

And she had come here as a journalist with the goal of writing a story that would help the King family. She hadn’t come here to stalk Adam King, and the sooner she separated her feelings from this story, the better off she’d be.

“Hold on while I add the last two eggs,” Mary said, interrupting Remy’s thoughts. “The way you’re stirring, you’ll whip it into a froth.”

Remy stopped stirring and stepped back from the bowl, as if it had stung her.

“You’re a good worker, Remy. I’m always glad to have help in the kitchen,” Mary said as she cracked another egg.

Remy was glad to change the subject. “It’s been so long since I had a reason to bake, but I’ve always liked it. I used to make things with my mother. I was only seven when she died, but I remember baking cookies. My job was to sprinkle in the chocolate chips. And we used to make little balls of dough on the bowl of the spoon. Cookie drops, I called them.”

“The smells and sights of a kitchen are good for a thousand memories.” Mary began to measure a teaspoon of baking powder. “Our mamm always had us helping in the kitchen. She had special recipes for certain occasions, like pecan rolls for Christmas morning or rhubarb pie in the spring. No-bake oatmeal turtles for a funeral. And everyone likes the traditional wedding rolls.”

“And you’re carrying on her traditions.” Remy tried to focus on the positive. If she focused on the article, maybe the queasy feeling about Adam would fade. She waited as Mary measured baking soda into the bowl, then made eye contact. “So what occasion are buttermilk cookies for?”

Mary touched a finger to her chin. “Let’s see. That would be those days when you’ve got a few cups of buttermilk that the children won’t drink. I’ll add the sour milk.” She patted the lid of an airtight container the size of a bucket. “You add eight cups of flour.”

“Eight cups. Are you kidding?”

“We have a dozen mouths to feed,” Mary reminded her.

“I know, but eight cups?” As Remy dipped the plastic measuring cup into the bin and leveled it off with a knife, she was
struck by the tradition of cooking in this room where the clean linoleum floor had been worn thin by countless footsteps and the old wooden table behind her was scarred from years of use. It was loaded with family history, something that did not exist in the McCallister family.

There was a legacy here that could not be extinguished by death, even the deaths of two parents.

Remy measured the third cup, choosing her words carefully. “Just thinking about our moms. My mother died of heart failure, but there’s still a mystery surrounding your parents. Do you ever wonder what happened to them? Are you curious about what went on that night on the roadside?”

“It’s not something I think about.” Mary poured a cup of buttermilk into the bowl. “Worrying through the details won’t bring Mamm and Dat back.”

“What about justice for the person who hurt them?”

“There is no justice on earth.” Mary shook her head. “Only God can mete out judgment and punishment. For the man who killed them, I pray for peace. I pray that he might one day know God’s love.” Mary stepped up to the bowl and began to stir, her jaw set, a stern look in her eyes.

The air in the kitchen had changed. Looking behind her at the daybed, Remy was grateful that the children were still asleep.

“Can I ask, do you have any idea who the killer was?” Remy asked quietly. “Do you think it’s someone your parents knew?”

“I can’t fathom that we might know a human being capable of such evil.” Mary’s eyes held a dark expression as she stared down into the giant bowl and worked the dough. “My parents had no enemies, but I do know one thing for sure deep down in my heart. It was not Simon who killed them. Those rumors of my little brother gone mad were ridiculous.”

“He was just a kid.” Remy shook her head. “Why would anyone even think that?”

“Something about the gun in the buggy. Our dat had taken Simon shooting that day, target practice, so it got people to thinking, as he knew how to handle a gun.” Mary capped off the buttermilk. “But anyone who would say something like that doesn’t know our Simon. He’s a good boy. You should see the way he takes care of the horses, how he minds the chickens.”

“I’ve met Simon. He seems like a good kid.”

“Only eight years old when it happened, and after the torment he went through, he still suffers at night.” Mary stopped stirring and rapped the spoon on the bowl’s edge. “No child should have to endure such pain, and Simon, he would never harm another person. Not our Simon.”