Forever Amish (6 page)

They fell silent, although I guessed Reuben had plenty on his mind.

I felt a wave of relief relax my shoulders. Their argument had nothing to do with me. The family was engulfed in a personal spat. Bad timing on my part. I would ignore their dispute—something to do with a prying bishop and a guy named Arthur.

 

CHAPTER 7

I headed for the staircase leading to the second floor. I passed Lizzie's brothers, Jeremy and Peter, in the living room. Seeing them seated before the stone fireplace clad in trousers and suspenders, their shaggy hair dusting the tops of their ears, I felt transported back a century.

Jeremy stared at my soaked jeans and bare feet. “What happened?” he asked.

“Were ya outside on this brutal night?” Peter gaped at my damp legs. Then he looked away, his cheeks blushing. Embarrassed by my revealing silhouette?

“I was checking on my car.” At least my long-sleeved T-shirt remained unscathed and wasn't sticking to me. Comparing myself to Rhoda's and Lizzie's modest dress, I questioned my motives for exposing my shape to the whole world. No wonder Reuben had been put off when I'd first entered the kitchen. Or was there more to his crabby attitude toward me? He couldn't treat all outsiders with such animosity unless they only took in Amish boarders.

Pops's words, like a fish out of water, reverberated in my ears.

“Kumm join us when you get dried off,” Jeremy said. Their game over, he repositioned the checkers on the board atop the knee-high coffee table.

The crackling fire welcomed me. “I might, after I drink the tea Lizzie's fixing.”

“Bring your tea in here,” Peter said. As we spoke, the two got into their game, their checkers gliding diagonally on the dark squares.

“Lizzie won't stick around for long.” Peter peeked up from behind his bangs. “She'll sneak out the moment Dat and Mamm turn in.”

“Hush, blabbermouth,” Jeremy said to him. “Keep your voice down.”

“She'd go out tonight?” I looked through the window into the bleakness. A car motored past on the road; I heard rain spraying up from its tires.

“Ya don't know our Lizzie.” Peter lowered his volume and glanced toward the kitchen door. “But don't tell her I said anything.”

Jeremy reached across the coffee table and socked Peter's arm. “Lizzie will give you what for for spouting off,” he said, a notch above a whisper.

“I'm so scared of my sister.”

“Well, ya should be.”

I watched Jeremy jump his red checker over Peter's black disc and snatch it off the board. “Gotcha.”

“Pride cometh before a fall,” Peter said, and jumped his checker over two of Jeremy's. “Ya may be older but not wiser.”

“I bet Lizzie won't go anywhere in this storm,” I said, but neither responded. They were either immersed in their game or not willing to argue what they knew to be true—or perhaps they didn't wish to be overheard. Why would Lizzie leave the comfort of this house, I had to wonder, especially when her father insisted she rise at dawn to do chores?

As I trotted up the stairs, I heard Peter speak. I stopped to listen. “Come on, tell me what our
Schweschder'
s up to.”

“Our sister ain't up to nothin'.”

“You can trust me,” Peter said.

“What are ya talking about? You're the last person I'd trust.”

“Bruder, I know a thing or two about you, so don't ya give me your I'm-so-innocent look. And I know about Dat—”

“Ya don't know the half of it,” Jeremy murmured. “Sounds like the bishop's found out even if Mamm don't guess a thing,” he said.

“Are ya kidding me?” Peter's voice rose in pitch. “You should have been in the kitchen before supper tonight.”

I felt goose bumps erupting on my legs but waited until Peter finally said, “That's why Dat got passed over for minister again. Only one nomination.”

“Must have been Mommy Leah. Mamm wouldn't want him buried with a lifetime of extra responsibilities.”

“'Tis God who does the choosing through the lot, anyway.”

“Yah, but first a man must be in good standing and nominated.”

As I padded up the stairs and into the hallway a brief lull ensued. I stood with my hand on the doorknob and tried to untangle their words. Reuben wanted to be a minister? Was he trying to get into divinity school? I couldn't think of a poorer candidate. Was Lizzie Reuben's stumbling block because she was working at a store?

Peter raised his volume and asked, “What were you thinking when you took Sally to see Lizzie?”

“How was I ta know who Sally might be? And think about it, how would she know who I was, let alone recognize our buggy?” He must have been creaming Peter at checkers, because he snorted with laughter and said, “King me!”

After a pause he said, “Truly, I don't think Sally was looking for Liz. You should have seen the verhoodled expression on Sally's face when they met, like she was seein' a ghost.”

That was how I'd felt—as if running into a phantom, a figment of my imagination. I'd hoped I'd done a better job concealing my shock upon meeting her. Evidently not. And now I was eavesdropping. What if their father caught me? He might boot me out into the night, storm and all.

I turned the knob as quietly as I could, entered my room, and found my sweatpants and zip-up hoodie hanging on wooden pegs on the wall. I hadn't packed much. I pulled open a bureau drawer and found my lingerie, running shorts, and socks neatly folded. Instead of my slinky pink nightie, a white cotton ankle-length nightgown and an aqua-green robe lay across the end of the bed. I hadn't thought I'd needed a bathrobe at the B&B and was glad to have use of one to dodge across the hall to the bathroom.

I noticed a small hand mirror on the bureau and shuddered to think what I looked like. I brought the reflective surface to my face. Not so awful, considering the wind and rain. But my hair was a different story. I raked the shoulder-length sandy-colored strands with my fingers to no avail. Then I wriggled out of my jeans, and I dove into my heather-gray sweatpants and matching hoodie. Thankfully, while bringing in my overnight bag, Armin had kept my belongings dry. But where was the bag?

Once dressed, I rolled my jeans into a wad and carried them downstairs to find Jeremy and Peter still playing checkers and chattering in Pennsylvania Dutch. In the kitchen, I spotted Rhoda speaking to Lizzie and to Reuben, who was sitting at the head of the table, his shoulders hunched.

“Excuse me, is there a place to hang these to dry out?” I asked Rhoda.

“Yah, sure.” She took the soggy jeans. “I'll wash them. No trouble.”

“I could do it right now,” Lizzie said, her hands reaching out.

“I thought you were going to bed early,” Rhoda said.

“I'm planning to.”

“I'll hold ya to it.” Reuben tugged his untrimmed beard. “Did ya hear me?”

“I haven't gone deaf, Dat.”

Reuben pushed his chair away from the table and got to his feet. He looked weary, wrung out. His gaze met Rhoda's, then he turned to Lizzie.
“Gut Nacht.”
Not giving me a glance, Reuben trod out of the room.

“Good night, Dat,” Lizzie said to his departing form. Jeremy and Peter's laughter in the living room came to a halt.

Lizzie emptied my cold tea into the sink. “Mamm, I could wash those jeans right now,” she said to Rhoda again.

“You just agreed to go ta bed early, ain't so?”

“Tomorrow will be fine,” I said. “Do you have a dryer?” I hadn't seen one, only that relic of a washing machine with a ringer that would probably mangle my favorite jeans.

“Nee, but it won't take long for the sun to dry them tomorrow.”

“Mamm will be gentle on them,” Lizzie said, seeming to pick up on my angst. “Don't ya worry. See how nice she launders my
Kapp
?” She smoothed her hand over her delicate white head covering.

“Must all Amish women cover their heads?” I asked.

“Yah,” Rhoda said. “In case we wish to pray, as instructed in the Bible, 1 Corinthians 11:6.”

I persisted. “Even in the heat of summer?”

“Yah, always covered with something.” She carried my jeans into the utility room and returned a minute later. “Well, Sally, see you in the morning. You can talk while Lizzie finishes cleaning the kitchen. Unless there's anything else you need.”

“No, not a thing. Thanks for bringing my clothes upstairs.” I sank onto the rocking chair. I was beginning to feel at ease in this kitchen. Twice the size of mine, but already familiar.

“Glad to help.” Rhoda backed out of the kitchen. “Gut Nacht.”

“Go to bed, Mamm,” Lizzie said. “I want to speak to Sally.” Lizzie's demeanor lightened the instant Rhoda left. Lizzie tossed aside her damp rag and said, “Think I'll make us hot chocolate with whipped cream instead of tea. How does that sound?” She strode to the refrigerator, poured milk into a pan, and set it on the stovetop to warm. “You like our Armin, don't ya?” she said. “I could see the way you two were looking at each other.”

Oh, dear. “You didn't lure me all the way to Lancaster County to meet Armin, did you?”

“Nee, but now that you're here, you admit he's a fine man.”

“Then why is he still single and working for your father?”

“By choice, believe me.” She stood at the counter, whipping cream using a whisk. “The single women bring him baked goodies—sticky buns, whoopie pies, apple crisp, pineapple cake—trying to snag his attention, hoping to get him to drive them home from Sunday Singings or take them out on a date. And they invite him for dinner, but he usually declines, not wanting to lead them on.”

She stirred squares of chocolate into the hot milk—I doubted it was pasteurized—added sugar, and poured the cocoa into two mugs, then plopped a dollop of whipped cream atop each. She gave me one mug, pulled up a chair, and settled close to me.

Finally, my chance to get some straight talk. But before I started my interrogation, I couldn't resist taking a sip. Steam rose from the cocoa's surface. My taste buds embraced the frothy beverage. Never had I enjoyed a creamier hot chocolate.

“Sally, tell me about your family,” she said, dominating our conversation while my mouth was full.

No way would I mention Mom. Thinking of her made my throat constrict. I chomped into the cookie but had trouble swallowing the buttery crumbs, so I took another sip. “I live with my father, but you already know that.”

“How would I?”

“Good question. How did you know about my dog kennel?”

“A few months back, a Mennonite neighbor who makes his living driving us Plain people spotted a used passenger van at a car lot named Honest Ed's in Connecticut. And he saw your kennel's name on a nearby sign. When he got home—Arthur lives down the road a spell—he told me about your dog kennel, right next to the car lot. And like I said, Mrs. Martin Googled it for me.”

“I've since removed the sign.” I felt a pang of defeat as I recalled tossing it into Pops's Dumpster. “But why would this driver give two cents about Welsh corgis?”

“I must have mentioned my idea of buying a dog to Arthur. He drives me to go shopping and such when I can't use our buggy.” She swigged a gulp of cocoa. “Now here's an odd twist to his tale. Arthur thought the owner of the lot looked the spitting image of someone he knew as a lad. But when Arthur introduced himself, the car-lot fellow shooed him away saying he'd changed his mind and refused to sell him the van.” She stared into my eyes awaiting my reaction, but I wore a poker face while my mind whirled with questions and inconsistencies.

“That doesn't sound like my father. He wouldn't pass up a genuine sale,” I said, realizing too late what I'd divulged. I lay the cookie aside. “The driver—Arthur—must have spoken to Ralph, my father's assistant.”

“No, the man claimed he was the owner.”

“I know my father. Arthur must have been lowballing him, trying to wheel and deal on the van, or backing out at the last minute. Selling cars isn't an easy game.”

“No, I 'spect not.”

I'd come here to escape the world, not discuss my father and automobiles. But my curiosity was screaming for answers. Scrutinizing her features and finding her face pinched, I asked, “Did Arthur know the car salesman or not?”

“The fellow Arthur knew as a youth had a different name altogether.”

I recalled my conversation with Rhoda, who seemed overly inquisitive about Pops. “My father's always been Ed Bingham, and he's from New Jersey, not Pennsylvania. So that mystery is solved.”

“Yah, I guess—” Her squinty eyes indicated she wasn't convinced. “Are ya married?” she asked, her gaze moving to my ring.

“No. I'm engaged—I guess.” I twisted the band, hiding the sparkly stone in my palm.

She tasted her drink, licked her upper lip. “Tell me about your beau, Sally.”

“Tell me about yours,” I said. Lizzie was way too nosy; time for her to do the talking.

She glanced at a clock above the stove. She jumped to her feet. “I didn't realize it was so late. Ach, I need to run out to the barn and make sure Jeremy turned off the lantern. We don't want the barn burning down.” She chugged her hot chocolate. “You're welcome to stay up as long as you like, but I should warn ya the rooster crows mighty early. Dat rousing Jeremy and Peter for milking will wake you for sure. And Mamm will be rummaging in the kitchen preparing breakfast.”

“I should have brought earplugs.”

“Not such a bad idea around here.” She jaunted toward the back door, found a hooded jacket and a flashlight.

“I can't believe you're going out in that rain,” I said.

Jeremy swaggered into the kitchen. “Caught ya, Liz.”

Hands on hips, she spun around to face him. “Caught you, my dearest Bruder.”

“I'm using Taffy tonight.” I assumed he was referring to a horse.

“Nee, I was about to—”

He raised his freshly shaven chin. “Take the buggy without telling Dat and Mamm?”

“I have permission.”

“You do not.” He positioned a straw hat on his head, pushing down hard, and dove into a jacket. “I'll drive ya to Sunday Singing in a couple days. Surely some poor chump will give you a lift home.”