Leaving Lancaster (2 page)

CHAPTER TWO

With trembling hands, Esther exhumed the envelope from her purse.

Last night, Dori had called to tell her a letter had arrived. “Thanks, I'll come by first thing in the morning,” Esther had said. No further discussion was necessary. Only Esther's mother, Anna, sent Esther's mail to Dori's address, where Esther had first lived after moving to Seattle. Dori and her husband never asked questions; they could probably tell by the feminine cursive writing and the postmark that the correspondence came from a woman in Lancaster County, Pennsylvania.

Under a drizzling sky, Esther had risen early to catch the Metro bus up the hill to Phinney Ridge. She'd found Dori lounging in a jogging suit, her short salt-and-pepper hair in need of a perm. Dori had invited Esther into her Victorian-style house, but on letter days—three or four times a year—Esther always refused.

Tucking the white envelope into her purse, Esther had wanted to savor the shape and texture of the paper before reading its contents. It was mid-October—too early for a Christmas card. And Esther's birthday was six months away.

Now, sitting in the living room, she told Holly, “This arrived from your grandmother yesterday.” Esther had rehearsed the conversation with Holly for over thirty years, but the words came out clumsily, like peanut butter clogging her throat, her tongue swollen.

Holly gave her a quizzical look. Her petite frame barely filled her terry bathrobe; the legs of her pj's bagged at her ankles. “It's some kind of scam. You haven't sent this woman any money, have you?”

“My mother would never ask for money.” Esther feared losing her nerve as she had every time before. If she didn't fess up now, the moment would be gone, like when the breeze blows away dried-up dandelion seeds—off they fly.

“I was ashamed to tell you. I meant to.” She raised the envelope's flap, released the letter from its prison, and unfolded the stiff paper, bringing with it a trace scent of smoke from a wood fireplace and a memory of her mother's homemade biscuits.

Holly said, “I don't mean to be disrespectful, but I don't have time to play twenty questions.” She dropped another square of Kleenex atop the spilled coffee and jolted to her feet.

“Yes, okay, but hold on.” Esther studied her daughter's sleep-creased face, her mussed shoulder-length chestnut-brown hair, her hazel-brown eyes with flecks of amber that always made Esther think of the Pennsylvania sky at dusk—and Holly's father. How much should she tell her? The whole secret, like ripping off a bandage? Excruciating, but temporary pain.

“My mother—your Grandma Anna—says she desperately needs me.” Esther felt a slam of guilt—more like a skewer straight into her chest. Her mother had probably needed her thousands of times, but Esther had ignored her pleas. “Someone made an offer on the farm that my mamm can't afford to refuse. My brothers—I've got five of them, all younger than I am—are planning to move to Montana where farmland is more plentiful. But Mamm says she's sick and doesn't want to leave her home and neighbors.”

Esther could see apprehension darkening Holly's face, arching an eyebrow and creasing her smooth forehead.

“Mom, you're talking gibberish. First a mother. Now five brothers? Are you sure you're not becoming—how shall I put it?—absentminded? Remember how you misplaced your keys last week?”

“Alzheimer's doesn't run in my family.” Esther forced a chuckle, although she felt not a shred of happiness.

“You said you used drugs when you were a hippie in Haight-Ashbury.”

Esther shook her head; her neck was stiff, her shoulders rigid. “I'm sorry I ever told you about my stupidity. I promise, by the time I was pregnant with you and then moved up here with Dori and Jim, I'd stopped using pot and alcohol altogether.”

The corners of Holly's mouth angled down. “Wait a minute. You've never worn a wedding band. Were you and Dad even married?” Her voice flared out harshly, like when she was a rebellious teenager.

“Yes, in a chapel in San Francisco.”

Holly slitted her eyes. “I've never seen pictures of the ceremony.”

“That was our way. We didn't take photographs.”

“Give me a break. Dori and Jim's house is full of family photos. And you have a snapshot of Dad upstairs on your bureau. But suddenly you have parents and a carload of brothers?”

“One parent. My father died a few months after I left home. But my mother is alive. When you were a wee baby, I considered bringing you home, back to the farm to be raised by her with my younger brothers.” In the depths of postpartum depression and grief, Esther had planned to end her life, but she knew the Lord Almighty would never pardon her for abandoning Samuel's child.

Holly snapped her fingers. “You would have given me up, just like that?”

“No, no, I never would.” Why had she mentioned her thoughts? Now she'd hurt Holly's feelings. “With Dori and Jim's help, I moved to Seattle and lived with them until you were born, and then several more years.” Esther unbuttoned her cardigan to relieve the heat accumulating across her chest. She fanned her face with the envelope. “I thought when you were old enough to ask questions, it would be time to reveal the truth. But you never inquired about my past.”

Pacing, Holly's hands moved to her hips. “Are you insinuating your secret life—if it exists—is my fault?”

“No, I'm to blame. For everything.”

The timer binged. “I'll check the muffins.” Holly cinched her bathrobe's belt and strode into the kitchen with her mug. Esther listened to the oven door open and close, and the muffin tin settling on the cooling rack.

Holly returned with a couple of paper towels and swabbed the remaining coffee off the floor.

“I should have told you years ago,” Esther said, but Holly didn't answer. She tossed the soggy paper towels and Kleenex into a wastepaper basket and loped up the stairs.

Esther heard the shower running. She couldn't fault her daughter for being incensed. What young woman wouldn't be? Over the years, Dori had encouraged Esther to unveil the truth, but this was a mistake. She felt like unraveling her half-finished sweater and pulling the crinkled yarn out stitch by stitch in an attempt to untangle her past and start over.

One thing was for sure: She wouldn't admit her part in Samuel's death. Ever.

Esther pushed the back of her head against the velour-covered La-Z-Boy, closed her eyes, and summoned up Samuel's youthful face in vivid detail. On the day of his induction into the army, she'd run her fingers through his shaggy hair—the same color as Holly's—kissed his lips, and said good-bye to him for the last time. She'd never embraced another man since.

If she and Samuel had only returned home, as Esther's and Samuel's parents had demanded, Samuel would have been exempt from the draft. As a conscientious objector of the truest order, his nonviolent nature had been taught and nurtured since birth, imbedded in his DNA.

Her memories scrolling back to age fifteen, Esther recalled the resentment she'd harbored toward the non-Amish town kids. She'd rashly struck out when one of the boys knocked Samuel off his feet, his elbow gashed by the rubble at the side of the road. The boy knew Samuel wouldn't defend himself. At the sight of Samuel's blood, Esther's fist clobbered the kid's shoulder as if she'd been wrestling with her brothers all her life, though nothing could have been further from the truth. She'd also been instructed to turn the other cheek.

Hearing Holly's footsteps creaking overhead, Esther opened her eyes and scanned her mother's letter again. The last sentence reached out and seized her breath.

I'm begging you, come home.

Ten minutes later, Holly ambled down the stairs wearing a streamlined pantsuit and white blouse. She dug through her purse in what Esther figured was a ploy to get out the door without continuing their discussion.

“Please take a moment to read this.” Esther rose to her feet and brandished the opened letter like a flag, but Holly made no move to take it.

She unscrewed a tube of lipstick and applied a mauve veneer across her full lips, then ran her tongue over her upper teeth. She finally gave the letter a cursory once-over. “No offense, Mom, but it looks like your handwriting, only a little neater. Are you sure you didn't write it?”

Esther inspected the note more closely. “I suppose our handwriting is similar. As a girl I wanted to be just like my mother. Until I turned fifteen. Then Mamm
became a giant embarrassment.”

Holly checked herself in the mirror and gave her hair a fluff, her soft curls framing her symmetrical face. “I guess we have that in common. When I was in high school, you drove me nuts.” She grinned, the corners of her mouth perking up, but her eyes remained solemn, probing Esther's face, searching.

“I remember all too well,” Esther said. So determined was Esther never to strike out like Dat had, she had repeatedly reigned in her anger and never even spanked Holly, no matter how ornery her daughter acted as a girl. “I was glad when we finally came to a truce,” she said. Esther had dubbed Holly
Stormy,
but those tumultuous days passed when Holly graduated from college and then eventually moved back home. For the most part they got along splendidly. Until now.

“Please believe me.” Esther stepped closer. “My mother—your Grandma Anna—sent this letter.”

“I don't have the time or desire to read it.” With a strident sweep of her hand, Holly zipped her purse shut and tucked it under her elbow, then grabbed hold of her briefcase. “Can you understand how shocked I am? It's like you want me to believe the earth is flat instead of round.”

“Yes, of course. But—”

“Okay, Mom, for now I'll take you at your word. Your mother's alive and you want to visit her. By all means, do it. I've always thought it weird you never went back to Pennsylvania but figured you couldn't afford the trip.”

“I can't go without you.” Esther envisioned her childhood home, located in the outskirts of New Holland, north of Intercourse: the sprawling farmhouse, the barn, outbuildings, and two silos, the eighty acres of fields used for planting crops and grazing livestock. “For one thing, I've never ridden in a plane and I'm afraid of heights.” She refolded the letter. “And who would run the shop?”

“I can't go with you, Mom. I need a new job. Just close the Amish Shoppe on the weekdays, and I'll open on Saturdays. Honestly, no one will care.” Her brows pinched in the center, then lifted. “Or here's an idea. Aunt Dori can look after it. She's got plenty of extra time.”

“But you must come with me to meet my mother and my brothers. And your father's parents. Maybe if they saw you, looking so much like their son—no, they'll never forgive me.” Esther didn't blame Samuel's mother and father for holding her responsible for their son's demise. Over the years, Dori had tried to convince Esther not to feel guilty. Dori claimed the crazy era of flower power and war protests had lured Esther and Samuel away from the security of their Amish community; their rebellion was natural. But Esther couldn't accept that flimsy excuse. She felt like Lady Macbeth, blood staining her hands.

Samuel would have gladly remained in Lancaster County, gotten baptized into the Old Order Amish Church, then married Esther—the sooner the better. It was Esther who'd relished her newfound freedom during Rumspringa, the thrill of hitchhiking west to live in San Francisco. She'd adored the gaudy rainbow of her tie-dye skirts, crooning Bob Dylan songs on the street corners, begging for spare change. Once they'd landed jobs and earned enough money for their own place, she grew dependent on her electrical appliances: hair dryer, record player, and dishwasher—frivolities that meant nothing to her now.

“Why do you need Dad's parents' approval if they can't stand you?” Holly asked. “I don't blame you for feeling the same way about them.” She checked her wristwatch and grimaced. “If your phantom mother has suddenly reappeared, email her and test the waters.”

“She doesn't own a computer. No electricity. My family was—is—Amish. You know that.”

“Then pick up the phone and call.”

“No telephone in the house, or cell phones. But their Mennonite neighbors have one.”

“What's a Mennonite? Never mind, I don't have time to find out now.” She moved toward the back door. “Maybe you should invite Aunt Dori over when you make that call to Grandma's neighbor. Just in case she has bad news.”

“Sure, I'll call Dori and ask her if she's free to look after the shop.” But as far as contacting her mother and brothers, Esther didn't dare.

CHAPTER THREE

I'd felt dizzy ever since this morning, like a kid twirling round and around, staring at the sky, until she dropped onto the lawn. I yearned to talk to someone, but my closest girlfriend, Joanne, was on her honeymoon—a week in Hawaii, the lucky lady.

Now, after spending a day at work calling other brokerage firms hoping to find a new position, unable to piece together the remnants of my career, I was sitting in Starbucks in the University Village with Larry Haarberg.

Larry was a forty-year-old bachelor I'd known for several years from our church's singles' group. He was a handsome hunk, a banker, but had a dicey reputation as a ladies' man—love 'em and leave 'em—which was why I'd never accepted his invitations to go out on a real date. I figured he was much better friendship material. He'd called when he heard I'd soon be unemployed and wanted to get together to commiserate. I suggested we meet where chattering people and bright lights surrounded us.

The air vibrated with the aroma of steaming milk and roasted java beans. Instead of networking, I found I couldn't keep myself from blabbing to him about Mom's preoccupation with Grandma Anna, filling him in about the inexplicable letter from a woman I thought long dead.

“If your grandmother wants you to visit, isn't that good news?” Larry slid his hand across the table to take mine. His skin felt soft, not a single rough spot—the hand of a man who'd never worked with tools or dug in a garden. Which wasn't a crime, just not what I had in mind for a mate. I'd always thought I'd marry someone more hands-on, like my father or Dori's husband, Jim. Every man I met carried some insurmountable flaw because he wasn't like my father, whom Mom described as near perfect. But if Dad were such a wonderful man, why did God steal him from us?

“Here's the catch,” I said, feeling Larry's shoe nudge mine under the table. I moved my foot away. “If Mom's being straight with me, she's been putting on an elaborate charade my whole life, telling me my grandmother was dead, while all the time she was alive. Wouldn't that burn you up?”

“Yes, but I'd love to have Granny back. She died seven years ago.” He wasn't getting my point, but it was sweet he loved his grandmother so much.

I sipped my decaf latte. “I've never even seen a picture of mine.” Why no photographs? Mom had snapshots of me as a child that Dori had taken but never owned a camera herself. “If I were my grandmother, I would have hopped aboard a plane and come to visit me years ago. Maybe she's mean and nasty. My mother said my dad's family despises her for leaving home.”

“That doesn't sound right. What's wrong with living in the good old Northwest?” His expression turned sober and he leaned closer so the couple next to us wouldn't hear. “Did your mother fall recently and hit her head? Could it be early-onset dementia?” He loosened his tie—he always wore one. “Any unusual trauma?”

“Not that I know of.”

“Could she be running an infection? Have a fever?” He was bright, educated, and inquisitive. I should be crazy about him. But I wasn't.

“Mom hasn't had a sniffle in years. She's never acted odd before, just the opposite. With her, I always knew what to expect. Until this morning.”

“Did you check the postmark on the envelope to verify it's the real McCoy?” he asked.

“No, I didn't think to.”

“Some detective you'd make.” His hand curved around my fingers. “A beautiful one,” he added. Still, I didn't feel a zing of chemistry between us. “Where does your newly resurrected grandma live?” he asked.

“According to Mom, on the family farm in Lancaster County, Pennsylvania.”

“Land of the Amish? I've always wanted to go there. Haven't you?”

“Not really.” I took a sip, then licked the froth off my lips.

Since elementary school, I'd been embarrassed by my Amish background. In fourth grade, I'd unfolded one of Mom's quilts and spoke to the class about her upbringing on a farm where horses still plowed the fields. Bob Martin, the class bully, teased me relentlessly and got the other boys calling me plain as grain. Later, in my preteen imagination, I'd invented a colorful heritage for myself: half-French and half-Scottish. But Mom had forced me to study German in high school and in college I took another two years. “Your father would wish it,” she'd said.

“I don't know much about them,” I said. “My mother buys her stock from Ohio and Indiana.”

“I could try to help you find your grandmother's name in Lancaster County,” Larry said.

“I doubt she even exists.” The word
scam
came to mind.

“I hope she does, for your sake. My granny made the best lemon chiffon pie.”

“Lucky you. Just thinking about pie makes me hungry. I was so upset and distracted today, I skipped lunch.”

“May I get you a scone or another latte?” he asked.

I admit I enjoyed Larry's attention. Maybe he was finally a blip on my radar. I hadn't been out on a date for six months. A fellow at work, Bart Neilson, had asked me out several times, but our boss maintained strict rules about dating coworkers. “
Verboten
—forbidden,” Mom would say. But Bart and I wouldn't be working together much longer, and all of a sudden he didn't seem as attractive. Because now he was available?

Okay, I had a problem with men. Five years earlier, after dating several Peter Pans who'd avoided commitment, I'd gotten engaged to a top-notch attorney. But our relationship imploded when I discovered he drank too much, and trolled bars and lounges searching for—and finding—one-night stands. And he spent hours on the Internet. Since then I'd been unable to warm up to any man, really, although I wanted to.

“Tell you what,” Larry said, “I'll come to your place and talk to your mother. Sometimes an outsider can detect subtle problems. At the bank, I've become an expert at reading body language and deciphering handwriting. I'll take a look at the letter and envelope. Does your mother have others?”

“I guess she's received many over the years, but I've never seen one come in the mail.” I dreaded having to face her.

“Should I follow you home right now?” he asked, straightening his tie.

I was struck by his good manners and generosity. What was wrong with me? Didn't I want to get married, and soon? My bioclock was ticking toward its last tock.

“Not tonight. I wouldn't be good company.” I poked my hands into my raincoat's sleeves. “But thanks for the kind offer. I'd better get home.”

He walked me through the University Village's crowded parking lot to my twelve-year-old Subaru. Unlocking my car, I noticed a new door ding. I wished my car's minor injuries didn't matter to me, but they did. My life was spiraling out of control.

“Good night, beautiful one,” Larry said and kissed me on the cheek. His hands glided around my back, and he pulled me into a hug and nuzzled my ear. “Let me take you out to dinner this weekend,” he said. “Somewhere fancy, like Canlis. Okay?”

I'd always wanted to dine at the prestigious restaurant, but said, “I'll check my calendar.” Which I knew was empty. Seriously, what was wrong with me? Larry could be my knight in shining armor. What did I really know about his bad-boy reputation? Maybe it was just rumors. His new Lexus, parked several stalls over, was polished and paid for. He was a vice president at a well-established, solvent bank.

“Let's talk in a couple days.” I was glad the woman in the automobile next to mine was backing out so I could wriggle out of his embrace. “First and foremost I need to find a new job. I should stay home to work on my résumé to make me look more capable than I really am.” For the last three years, I'd concentrated my efforts on learning the trade, dreaming of becoming a broker. Then the roller-coaster market had tossed me overboard. “Let me see, I have sales experience, if you count working twelve years in the Petite Department at Macy's.”

“Why don't you let me help?” Larry said. “I'm great at writing résumés. I've read hundreds of them. After dinner this weekend, we could go to my place and put our heads together.”

I opened my car door and got in. “I'm not sure how much work we'd get done.” I'd be evading his amorous advances all evening.

Heading home, I dreaded the daunting conversation awaiting me over dinner with Mom. I drove in silence, my heart pounding against my ribs like a baby robin fleeing a crow.