Forever Amish (12 page)

I'd always wanted to ride in a real Amish buggy and felt my arms prickle with a rush of adrenaline. “How long have you owned Thunder?” I wanted to keep the conversation light. Even though I barely knew this man, I enjoyed talking to him too much. And I liked the way he looked at me.

“Not long. I have a lot of training to do, but he'll be fine. He'd leave my brother's horse, Galahad, in the dust.”

Thunder overtook every buggy on the road. Armin waved at the other drivers, mostly bearded men, and they waved back, although a few looked irritated, their mouths turned down, disapproval stamped on their faces. I enjoyed being transported in the swaying carriage: the gritty sound of the metal wheels on the roadway and the horse kicking up gravel that hit the bottom of the floorboards. We retraced my drive from the night before, passing enormous barns and vast acres of pastureland I hadn't noticed under the evening sky.

Armin handed me a small blanket. “Are ya cold?”

“Not with Ginger on my lap.” She felt heavier, which I couldn't blame on one night in Pops's care, although he often fed her table scraps against my wishes. I'd have to put her on a diet.

“I guess that little dog is good for something.”

Lizzie's hand reached over the seat back and nabbed the blanket. “Armin, don't ya go insulting our guests. I read all about Welsh corgis, and I can't think of a finer dog.”

“If you say so.” He clasped the reins as we waited at an intersection, then allowed Thunder to surge ahead.

“Ach, there's the bishop,” Lizzie said as the bearded man passed us going the other direction.

 

CHAPTER 12

I ducked my head for no good reason. Did I expect the bishop to pull a U-turn and come after us to scold me for last night's near collision? I checked over my shoulder and saw Lizzie craning her neck to watch him drive away.

Armin, on the other hand, kept his concentration fastened on Thunder, who tried to challenge every other horse on the road in spite of the blinders affixed to his bridle.

A topsy-turvy image came to mind: my father sitting in Armin's spot just like Jeremy had the night before. I approximated what my father's age had been when he took off. He couldn't have been much older than Lizzie. Pops had no doubt gotten up early, milked cows, worked in the fields alongside his father like all the other young Amishmen in the area. The enormity that he'd hidden his childhood from me made me feel as though I were encapsulated in an episode of
The Twilight Zone
, an old TV program Pops still watched as reruns.

Minutes later, I recognized the Sunflower Secondhand Store. Armin steered us into the parking lot and Thunder halted reluctantly, shaking his head, his beautifully arched neck stretched toward the road.

“Did you remember the key, Lizzie?” Armin said.

Lizzie huffed from the backseat. “Ya think I'm losing my memory?” She dug into her apron pocket for the ring of keys. “But I'm ever so glad I have Sally to help me unlock the door without Mrs. Martin here.”

“I'd better help you get out,” Armin said to me.

“That's very sweet of you.” I was surprised by his chivalry.

Thunder pawed the ground and chewed his bit as Armin tied him to the hitching post. Then Armin strode around to my side of the buggy, scooped up Ginger with one arm and helped me with the other. It seemed Armin once again held on to my hand longer than necessary, but maybe he could tell by my silence I felt confused and defeated, and he was trying to comfort me.

Once on the ground, I made sure Ginger's leash was securely clipped to her collar. She and I followed Lizzie to the store's front door. I turned to say good-bye to Armin, but he was already gathering Thunder's reins, and moments later, he steered the buggy out of the parking lot. Thunder tore off down the road, reminding me of my near collision with the bishop last night. Since the minute I arrived in Lancaster County, disaster had pursued me. Pops's words of caution about coming here haunted me. But now I understood his objective—to keep me buried in his underground cavern of lies.

Lizzie handed me the keys, and I wrangled the one I recognized from the night before into the lock. I read the sign on the door's lower half. “Hey, the store doesn't open till ten.” I glanced at my watch. “It's not even nine.”

“Yah, we're early, but Armin wasn't going to wait around for us, and you were in a hurry to leave, weren't ya?”

She had me there. Who'd pick up a hitchhiker with a dog?

Lizzie pushed open the door, and a bell jingled overhead. “I know you're going to love the store.”

No use arguing with her. And Ginger seemed eager to go inside. She must've smelled an edible tidbit. I hadn't noticed dog food in the SUV and wondered when she'd last eaten. Had my father forgotten to bring her kibble, or had he given her a Big Mac on the way? Human food was not good for dogs and usually upset Ginger's stomach. In any case, she was wide at the girth and skipping a meal wouldn't hurt her one bit. I'd been so consumed with planning my wedding and Pops's illness, I'd neglected exercising her.

Stepping inside, I examined the small store's cluttered but ornate interior and decided there were worse places to be. The air smelled of old things—a pleasant, dusty odor laced with lemon-scented furniture polish.

“Half of the items are here on consignment,” Lizzie said, “except the books—but they're used.”

To the left, a floor-to-ceiling bookcase displayed rows of paperbacks that seemed to be Amish or historical romances, and also hardback cookbooks. I would thumb through those while biding my time. The rest of the shop was a potpourri of knickknacks—figurines, brass candlestick holders, salt and pepper shakers. A handwritten sign stated that local craftsmen had produced the items displayed on one table: potholders, tea cozies, handmade floppy dolls—most faceless—and small wooden toys. A rack laden with hand-stitched quilts stood behind a cash register and a small computer. All other wall space was adorned with framed prints and paintings, and quilted wall hangings.

Ginger and I followed Lizzie into the back room, where she leaned her quilted bag from home against a couch, then flipped a circuit breaker, which started the sound system—a stringed instrumental piece Lizzie promptly switched to a popular station. Then Lizzie turned on the electric baseboard heat. The back room contained a wooden desk piled high with receipts and papers, a wooden padded chair, a shabby plaid sofa with saggy cushions, a worn oriental carpet, and several filing cabinets.

I wandered into the cramped powder room and splashed water onto my face. Gazing into the mirror, I saw haggard blue eyes and straggly beige hair that verged on mousy brown. I viewed myself through Donald's patronizing eyes and felt small—not petite—and sadly insignificant. I couldn't help wondering about his overnight guest. Donald's bimbo was probably long legged, chic, and voluptuous—everything I wasn't.

I brought out and turned on my phone. Four new texts from Donald popped up: three stated, “Call me!” and one said, “Sugar, it's not what you think!”

I turned the phone off again and stuffed it into my purse. I didn't trust myself to stand up to him. I envisioned his thumbs urgently stabbing at his phone. I'd only seen him fly off the handle once. He'd punched his fist into a wall, then apologized profusely, saying he'd never done anything like that before and never would again. Then he'd taken me out for an extravagant dinner and treated me like a princess.

My jaw clenched; my molars ground together, I needed time to cool down and wrap my brain around something other than Donald. And Pops.

When I exited the bathroom, I noticed Lizzie had spread a towel across the far end of the couch for Ginger, who'd curled into her new nest. She'd dozed off, her head on a pillow. Lizzie filled a ceramic bowl with water and set it on the floor near the back door. I felt a smack of guilt for not thinking of Ginger's welfare ahead of my own.

“I'll need to duck out later to buy dog kibble,” I said.

“There's a small market just around the corner,” Lizzie said. “Do you want to run over there now? Or would ya like a cup of Kaffi first? Mrs. Martin has a fancy coffee maker you won't believe. Top of the line.” She moved to a snazzy espresso machine perched on a counter above a small refrigerator. “It even froths up milk, just like Starbucks.” Lizzie set to work preparing a cup. Minutes later Lizzie and I were enjoying the nutty flavor. My hunch was Lizzie would miss this handy device.

“Mrs. Martin keeps fruit and yogurt in the refrigerator and cookies in the cupboard, should you want a bite to eat.”

She leaned over the end of the couch, grabbed hold of her quilted bag from home, and set it by her feet. The bag flopped on its side, spilling a cascade of clothing, including jeans and an orange sweater. Too small for me to wear and definitely not Amish. “Ach. These are for a friend.” She stuffed the contents back in her bag with rapid movements.

“I wish I could fit into those,” I said. “But I won't be waiting on customers, anyway.”

“Only if you'd like, to help pass the time. When tourists show up, we get mighty busy and it's fun.” She let out a wistful sigh. “I'm going to miss working here something fierce.” Then she proceeded to a metal wall safe, spun the dial several times, and extracted a zippered money pouch much like Pops's.

Carrying my coffee and purse, I followed her into the store and watched her empty the pouch's contents of dollar bills and change into the cash register, count the money twice, then close the drawer.

“You need help?” I said.

“Maybe if a shipment arrives. One's late. It should have been here yesterday from New Hampshire.” She set about dusting the books and doodads.

Fine, I'd select a fiction book and snuggle up next to Ginger in the back room. On closer inspection, I was surprised how many Amish novels stood shoulder to shoulder on the bookshelves. I'd never thought to read an Amish book, but that was before I was aware I carried Amish blood in my veins. On one or on both sides?

“Almost all the Amish fiction is written by Englischers,” Lizzie said, “but I love reading them.” She gave me an impish grin. “I sneak them into the house past Dat. He frowns upon us reading romance novels of any kind. He and the bishop agree on that.”

I could write a book, but it wouldn't be a romance. If someone had told me last week my engagement to my Prince Charming would splatter over a cliff, I would have laughed them off. I glanced down at my left hand; the sight of the ring that once made my heart sing filled me with revulsion. I wrenched it off and dropped it into my purse where it disappeared beneath the hodgepodge of stuff.

The telephone on the counter rang, and Lizzie reached for it. “Hello, Mrs. Martin. How are you feeling?” Lizzie straightened the pens and pencils in a ceramic cup and a stapler on the counter as she spoke. “I'm so sorry.” She glanced to the front door. “I have an Englisch friend here to help me today, so don't ya worry about a thing.” Moments later, she returned the receiver to its cradle. “Mrs. Martin wonders if you'd be willing to work for her this next week. Otherwise, without me, she'll have to close the store.”

“You're kidding, right?”

“Nee, she's quite serious. Her doctor told her to keep all weight off her sprained ankle for ten days. She's old and wasn't healthy to begin with.”

“But she opened this shop?”

“Just last fall. I think partly to empty her house. But the store quickly became popular.”

The bell over the front door rang and a blond man in his early twenties entered. Lizzie's countenance elevated to one of giddy expectation. She sashayed out from behind the cash register, her hips swaying. “I wasn't expecting you.”

The young man wore corduroy slacks—frayed at the hem and a couple inches too short—a hoodie, and a goofy grin. “I saw the lights were on.” Electricity zinged through the air like fireworks on the Fourth of July.

I figured he wasn't Amish, not with his slicked-back hair and long sideburns. Unless he were running around, as Reuben called it.

“May I help you find something?” Lizzie said, I assumed for my benefit, because she obviously knew him.

“Just driving by and thought—” He reached out and touched her hand.

Her gaze glued to his, she back-stepped. “I'd like you to meet my cousin Sally Bender.”

“Bingham,” I corrected. “And you are?”

“Joe Miller.” He had a long narrow face and appeared scruffy—rough around the edges, as Pops would say. Again, the fact my father's real name was Ezekiel Bender rocked my world. Trying to appear composed, I was once again inundated with incredulity. Outrage. Sadness. I felt a tidal wave of tears building behind my eyes, but I'd have to deal with my new reality at a later time.

Joe looked me up and down. “You must not be from around here.”

“Nee,” Lizzie said. “Sally and I just met last night. Remember, I told ya—” She covered her mouth with her hand.

“Oh, yeah.” His foot rotated toward the front door. “Guess I should go.”

“Hey, wait up.” I marched over to him and caught a whiff of aftershave. Not that many men didn't splash it on in the morning. “You're the guy who stopped by last night.” I tilted my head. “Am I right?”

His spine, suddenly rigid, told me I was correct, even though he shook his head.

So this was Lizzie's secret rendezvous. He stood several inches shorter than Armin and was narrower in the shoulders, making him appear scrawny.

“Were you in the Zooks' barn last night?” I said, not letting him off the hook.

“No,” he said in a tinny voice lacking conviction.

“Whoever was in there was wearing aftershave.” I stepped nearer to him and inhaled. Sure enough, I recognized the fragrance. And a trace of cigarette smoke. One question answered.

“How about my car?” I said to him. “Were you pawing through that, too?”

“No way,” he said. And yet my own father had admitted to stealing an automobile. Pops was a bald-faced liar. Maybe Joe was too.

“Please, Sally, don't tell my dat about last night.” She glanced into the back room through the open doorway, then turned to me. “Didn't you say you wanted to buy dog food, Sally?” I was being dismissed so the two of them could have a cozy heart-to-heart. I wasn't the babysitter or chaperone and was tempted to run my errand.

I spotted Ginger stretched out on the couch through the open doorway to the back room. If anything happened to her—I couldn't take a chance. Not after losing Mr. Big.

“I'll keep an eye on her as if she were my own,” Lizzie said. “I promise.” As if her promises meant anything; I didn't trust her.

“No, thanks. But maybe you could go shopping for me.”

“I'd like to help ya out, but I mustn't leave the money in the till.” She worked her lower lip.

“I bet your friend here would fetch dog food for me,” I said. Joe grimaced.

“He won't know the brand or how much to buy.” This little shyster had an answer to everything.

“I'm not leaving Ginger and a grocery store won't let her inside.”

“You could tie her out front,” Joe said.

“Absolutely not. Someone might walk off with her.” I couldn't fathom what Lizzie saw in him.

But I was in a no-win situation. I strode into the back room and found a ten-dollar bill in my wallet. As I returned, he was speaking intently into Lizzie's ear, then he gave her a peck on the cheek and they hugged each other. No wonder Lizzie had been so keen on coming to work today.