Gathering Shadows (4 page)

“I intend to spend some time with Esther tomorrow. We'll
see. Better plan on being here a couple of days. We have to make sure we've got everything we need.”

“Okay,” he said, drawing the word out. “Just keep me in the loop, will you? I don't like being on the outside.”

I watched him as he left, Esther's words ringing in my head.
“Some people
are willing to protect their secrets at all costs.”

“So what do you recommend?” I asked as I perused the menu at Randi's Oil Lamp Restaurant. According to Reuben, there were two restaurants in Sanctuary. The other one, The Whistle Stop Café, was only open for breakfast and lunch. Randi's was it for the Sanctuary resident who wanted to eat supper out. It was a charming little place with mismatched vinyl tablecloths and red and yellow plastic mustard and ketchup bottles. The air was heavy with the aroma of grease and grilled onions.

“Randi's got some great dishes,” Reuben said with a smile. “Her cabbage casserole is incredible. And if you like liver and onions, you'll never have any better than hers.”

Zac had decided to stay back at Esther's and clean his camera equipment. Honestly, I was relieved. His attitude grated on my nerves. Not having him around allowed me to relax a bit.

I happened to glance back toward the kitchen and noticed a man staring at me from a large pass-through window. An older man with sparse, graying hair and the features of a basset hound. His expression was less than welcoming. Surely visitors
to Sanctuary weren't that unusual. I broke my gaze away from his and turned my attention back to ordering.

“Well, I'm up for liver and onions,” I said.

Reuben nodded. “Sounds good to me too.”

I glanced up and caught him looking at me. Every time I looked into his blue eyes, my heart beat a little faster. I had to remind myself that I wasn't here to pick up a Mennonite boyfriend. I had something much more important to accomplish.

“So tell me about Sanctuary,” I said. “When was it founded? Was it always Mennonite?”

Reuben started to say something, but I held up my finger. “Wait a minute. Do you mind if I record this? I don't want to trust my memory.”

“Sure, that's fine,” he said, “but it's a little intimidating. What if I say something I want to take back later?”

I smiled. “Then I'll erase it. It's not like our conversation will end up in court or anything.”

“I'm afraid that would be a pretty boring court case. Nothing very exciting ever happens here.”

I fumbled through my purse for my phone. After several attempts, I finally gave up. “Must have left my phone in my room. Guess I'll have to do this the old-fashioned way.” I pulled out the small notebook I always carried with me, along with a pen. “I'll just take notes. It will help us decide what we want in the interview.” As I put my notebook on the table, I couldn't help but look back toward the kitchen once more. The cook was still there, but he was looking the other way. Good.

Before Reuben had a chance to respond, a young woman came up to our table with an order pad in her hand.

“Hey, Reuben,” she said. “Who's your friend?”

“Evening, Randi.” Reuben nodded toward me. “This is Wynter
Evans, a reporter from a television station in St. Louis. She's here with a photographer to do a story about Sanctuary. Wynter, this is Rachelle Lindquist,” Reuben said, “the owner of this fine establishment. We all call her Randi.”

“Nice to meet you.” Her words were welcoming, but the look on her face echoed her cook's. Fortunately for her sake, she was much better looking. “Hope you won't make us all out to look like hicks,” she said. “We're not, you know.”

“We have no intention of presenting Sanctuary in a bad light,” I said. “We're here because you have a unique town. This is just a human-interest piece, not an exposé. You have nothing to worry about.”

The guarded expression on Randi's face slipped a bit, but the look in her eyes made me feel slightly defensive. What was it with these people? As soon as the thought entered my mind, the reality that I was here with ulterior motives hit me. I felt a quick stab of guilt.

“I'll hold you to that.”

“Your cook seems upset,” I said. “He's been giving me the evil eye ever since I sat down.”

She shrugged. “Not my problem. Guess you'll have to take it up with him.”

“Knock it off, Randi,” Reuben said. “Wynter is our guest. Let's treat her with some respect.”

“Respect is earned, Reuben,” she snapped back. She swung her gaze back to me. “So what do you want to drink?”

Reuben and I ordered coffee.

“We'd also like to get something to eat,” Reuben said. “Can you hold the poison?”

For the first time, a small smile flitted across Randi's face. “Yes, I think I can do that. I suppose you want the usual?”

Reuben shook his head. “No, I think tonight I'll try the liver and onions.”

Randi's expression registered her surprise. “You never order liver. What's up with that?”

He grinned and looked at me. “Guess I'm just in a mood to try something new.”

Randi pointed her pen at me. “And you?”

“Uh, liver and onions, please.”

She raised an eyebrow but didn't say anything. Just wrote down my order. Then she grabbed our menus and walked away.

“Sorry about that,” Reuben said as soon as Randi was out of hearing distance. “She's a little opinionated.”

“A little?” I said with a smile.

He grinned. “I get your point.” He cocked his head toward the kitchen. “Don't worry about August. He's our local curmudgeon, but he's harmless. I was just kidding about the poison, you know.”

“I wasn't really worried about poison,” I said. “But there are other rather disgusting things cooks can do to food if they're unhappy with you.”

“Trust me. August isn't the kind of person who would do something like that. He takes great pride in his cooking.”

“Well, that makes me feel a little better,” I said, trying to smile. Despite Reuben's assurances, I decided to keep a close watch on the angry cook.

“So you were asking about how Sanctuary was founded,” Reuben said. “Do you want me to talk about that now or after dinner?”

“Now's fine. Just tell me what you can. I'll stop you to ask questions when I need to, if that's all right.”

He nodded. “Sounds good.”

Before he had a chance to say anything else, Randi suddenly showed up with our coffee. “Here you go,” she said. She took two cups of coffee off her tray and set them on the table.

I thanked her, but she didn't respond. Just tossed her head and walked away.

Reuben shook his head and chuckled. “Okay, one more time.”

“Don't worry about it. Interruptions are par for the course. I'm used to it.”

He took a sip of coffee and then put his cup down. “How did you become a reporter? Was it something you always wanted to do?”

I laughed. “Wait a minute. I'm supposed to be asking
you
the questions. Not the other way around.”

“Hey, turnabout is fair play. You answer my question, I'll answer yours.”

“Okay. No, not really. I got interested in high school after a local reporter spoke at one of our assemblies. Her life seemed interesting.” I shrugged. “That's all there is to it. There wasn't any earth-shattering revelation or voice from the heavens telling me I'd found my calling.” I smiled at him. “Can I ask an unofficial question before the actual interview begins?”

He nodded. “That's permissible.”

“I'm surprised Sanctuary has a mayor. Especially one so young. How old are you?”

“I'm twenty-nine. I'll be thirty on Christmas Day.”

“A Christmas baby, huh?”

Reuben laughed. “Yes. At least I know I'll never have to work on my birthday.”

“I was surprised when we first met. I read something about Mennonites not believing in local government.”

“You're right. It's only an honorary title. The state and county
make decisions that affect us. Someone has to deal with them. The town chose me to do that.”

“They voted for you?”

“Not really. We held a town meeting and the pastor of a local church stood up, suggested my name, and asked if anyone had a problem with using me to deal with whatever the local government threw our way. No one objected, so I was elected. Although I don't know if
elected
is really the right word to use.”

I grinned. “Wow. I'm impressed. It sounds like a landslide.”

“Well, more like gradual erosion. There wasn't anyone interested enough to stop it.”

“You're pretty funny for a Mennonite.”

Reuben's eyebrows shot up. “And what do you think a Mennonite is?”

“To be honest, I thought all the women would be wearing long dresses and head coverings—”

“They're called
prayer
coverings.”

“Oh, sorry. Prayer coverings. And the men would be dressed in black pants, long-sleeved white shirts, and big black hats.”

He nodded. “You're not entirely wrong. Some conservative Mennonites dress that way, but not all Mennonites are conservative. The modern Mennonite church isn't much different than most mainstream churches anywhere in the country.”

“What are the differences?”

“A commitment to nonresistance and the belief that the church and the state should be separate.”

I frowned. “But isn't that part of the problem in the world today? People trying to take God out of everything? Our schools and our government?”

He shrugged. “That's an argument you'd have to take up with someone who's Mennonite.”

My jaw dropped. “I . . . I assumed—”

“I was Mennonite?” He shook his head. “No. I respect our Mennonite neighbors, but I'm not Mennonite. I attend a nondenominational church.”

“Well, that's what I get for making assumptions.”

He smiled. “Maybe we should get back to our interview.”

“Okay. Here's my first official question. Can you tell me how this town was founded?”

He nodded. “German Mennonite immigrants came here in the 1800s. It was called New Zion back then. As the years progressed and residents died, it became what it is now. Still strongly Mennonite but integrated with people of other beliefs as well.”

I hesitated a moment. “Something's bothering me. Esther said something about people living in Sanctuary having . . . secrets. Do you know what she meant?”

Reuben's mouth tightened just a little. “Sorry, but it's my turn.” He stared at me for a moment. “You have the greenest eyes I've ever seen. Do you wear colored contacts?”

I smiled at him. “No contacts. Real eye color. Which is odd because everyone else in my family has brown eyes. They also have dark hair. I'm the only blonde.”

“Anything your mother and father didn't tell you?”

“No. Just one of those weird genetic things. My mom was blond as a child. Now I get an extra question.”

He started to protest, but I held up my hand. “You got an extra question. Turnabout is fair play.”

He grinned. “Okay, just this once.”

“Randi seemed a little . . . unfriendly. Is it just because she doesn't want us here, or is there something else?”

He colored slightly. “Oh, that. Sorry. We dated for a while,
but it didn't take long for us to realize we weren't right for each other. We're just friends now.”

I wasn't sure Randi was convinced they were
just friends,
but at least I knew her antagonism wasn't totally because of our story.

“Okay, we each got an extra question,” I said. “Now, abide by the rules. Answer my original question.”

“All right. People come to Sanctuary for many different reasons, Wynter. Some are simply tired of big-city life and big-city problems. Sanctuary is like . . . like stepping back into the past. We don't have crime here. No bars or liquor stores. No smutty book or video stores. We don't lock our doors. We believe in old-fashioned values, and God is welcome everywhere. We don't try to shut Him out the way the world does.”

“But what if someone moved here and wanted to open a bar—or a smutty bookstore? Wouldn't they have the right to do it?”

“I think it's my turn.”

I held my hand up. “Wait a minute. This is related to my other question. I should have the right for a follow-up.”

He laughed easily; fine laugh lines crinkled at the corners of his eyes. “Okay. You win.” He took another sip of his coffee as he considered his answer. “So far no one has tried to do anything like that. Why would they? There wouldn't be any support. Even if someone tried to open an . . . inappropriate business, how would they pull it off? There's nothing for sale here. We're all too protective of this town.”

“So you're telling me that no one—meaning not one person—ever tried to buck the system?”

“Well, Randi used to joke about serving beer in her restaurant, but that's the extent of it. Like I said, she wasn't serious. Folks who live here know the rules.”

“Rules? Are there really rules?”

He quickly shook his head. “No, maybe that wasn't a good way to say it. There aren't any written codes that we live by. No
Ordnung
like many Amish communities have. But we know what Sanctuary is—and we keep a close watch over it. It's as simple as that.”