SummerHill Secrets, Volume 2 (26 page)

“Aw, such a shame,” he joked. “We’ll just hafta see ’bout that.”

Like I always said, Levi was persistent. Never gave up. And because he was stubborn this time, I got my courage back. And much more.

The winter sun was high a week later when Levi knelt to lace up my brand-new skates. “Let’s just say they’re a gift from an old friend.” He grinned up at me.

The first few steps on the ice frightened me nearly to death, but Levi reached for my hand. Then, supporting my back, he pushed forward, sending the two of us gliding across the pond. Together.

The wind was gentle and kind on my face this day. And far away were the echoes of fear, growing more distant with each stroke of our skates.

When Levi left for his Mennonite college, I said good-bye with only a touch of sadness. It won’t be long—he’ll be back for spring break. And there’ll be letters…plenty of them from each of us.

Chelsea remembered to take her puppy, Secrets, for a visit to his cocker spaniel mama. Little Susie Zook was tickled to see the beautiful gold-haired pup again.

Mrs. Davis is acclimating to her own home and surroundings surprisingly well. According to Chelsea, she hopes to plant an extra-large flower garden come spring.

As for Jon, the way I view him has begun to change. A brush with death often alters things between friends. For the better, I believe. He’s asked me to show him some of the features on my 35-millimeter camera—the same as his. He could probably figure it out if he read the instruction booklet, but maybe this is the start of a new kind of bond between us.

And Ashley Horton? She and I are planning a big sleepover on Valentine’s Day with Chelsea and Lissa—complete with a lesson in alliteration-eze. It’s about time the women of SummerHill unite.

Speaking of the neighborhood, Miss Spindler might be pleased to know that I’m offering my services to house-sit the next time she leaves town. The way I see it, someone’s got to get to the bottom of things over there. I mean, how
does
she do it—keeping track of everything and everyone?

Chelsea’s offered to help me snoop around—that is, if I ever get inside Old Hawk Eyes’ house. Meanwhile, I may have to be content with my imagination. Not an easy task. Especially for a girl who hears echoes in the wind.

For Larissa
with love.

“There’s all the difference in the world, you know,
between being inside looking out and
outside looking in.”

—FROM
A
NNE OF
W
INDY
P
OPLARS
by L. M. M
ONTGOMERY

“Shh! We daresn’t be heard,” whispered Rachel Zook, my Amish girl friend. Silently, she leaned over the old attic trunk and pulled open the heavy lid. Her eyes were filled with glee.

“I can’t believe I let you talk me into this,” I said, looking around at our creepy surroundings. “Cobwebs aren’t exactly my cup of tea.”

She stifled a giggle. “
Ach
, leave it to you, Merry Hanson. You ain’t scared, now, are ya?”

The musty darkness stretched all the way under the attic eaves in both directions. Rachel’s kerosene lantern swayed back and forth from the rafters, casting lively shadows over wooden crates and old canning jars.

“So
this
is what an Amish attic’s supposed to look like,” I teased. “Thought it’d be more organized.”

“It’s about as
ret
up as it can be. Besides, lookee here, I think I might’ve found somethin’. ” She stood up, brushing the dust off the sleeves of her purple dress and long black apron, staring at the dilapidated-looking stationery box in her hand.

I inched closer, very curious. “You sure it’s such a good idea to snoop like this?”

Rachel’s blue eyes were serious, determined. “I’m getting warmer,” she said. “I can feel it in my bones.”

“Well,
I’m
cold. It’s freezing up here.” I waited for her to take the hint, but she kept rummaging through the box, searching for what, I didn’t know exactly.

“I’m almost positive there’re some old poems up here,” she muttered to herself.

“Well, they can wait, right? Till summer, maybe?”

“But we’re here now…and
Dat
and
Mam
are gone for a bit.
Jah
, I think we best go ahead and keep lookin’. ”

Rachel motioned for me to come over to help, so I did. After all, besides being sixteen like me, she was one of my dearest friends in all of Lancaster County. SummerHill, to be exact.

Oh, she’d gotten this hare-brained notion that there was a strain of writing talent in her family somewhere, and she just had to prove it to her English friend, namely me.
English
meaning I wasn’t Amish. Or as Rachel often said, “You’re my English cousin.”

Technically, I
was
related to her. My Swiss ancestors and Rachel’s had arrived in America back in 1737 on the same boat—
The Charming Nancy
. We shared a common relative—Joseph Lapp, one of my great-great grandfathers—which made us distant cousins.

“Here’s another big box,” I said, pulling it out of a hodgepodge of quilts and linens and things. “Looks like a diary.”

“Let’s have a look-see,” she said.

I sat on another dusty trunk near the lantern’s eerie circle of light, observing as she opened the oblong wooden box.

She rummaged through some loose papers inside, but nothing seemed to catch her interest. “Nah, nothin’ much here.”

Growing impatient, I asked, “Isn’t it about time to be making doughnuts again?” I wanted to get her mind off her present pursuit and start her contemplating sweets, one of her weaknesses.

“Jah, this Saturday we’ll be making some,” she replied, still nosing around in the trunk.

“Well, am I invited?”

She stopped her searching, glancing over at me. “Of course you’re invited. What’sa matter with ya, askin’ something so foolish?”

I just smiled, watching her bend over and remove several more boxes from the seemingly bottomless trunk.

“Better put everything back the way you found it,” I told her.

“Ach, as if I ain’t smart enough to know that.”

I sat there a few minutes longer, itching to get back to the warmth of the Zooks’ kitchen, just below us.

Then without warning, she jerked up. Stood right up and stared at something small and square in her hands. “
Himmel
, what’s this?” she sputtered.

I hurried over to see what great treasure she’d uncovered. “Looks like…is it a
picture
?” I asked, amazed.

“Well, goodness me, I don’t rightly know.” She rushed over to the lantern, and I followed.

There under the light, she held up a photograph of an Amishman. It was old and tattered. Where it had come from, I had no idea, because Amish folk don’t believe in such things as taking pictures of themselves. Especially the Old Order Amish, which Rachel’s family certainly was.

“Who
is
this?” she whispered, eyes wide with wonder.

“Maybe your parents could tell you.”

She turned to look at me, worry creasing her brow. “Now, don’tcha breathe a word of this to Dat or Mam, ya hear?”

I was startled. This was one of the few times she’d ever spoken so frankly to me.

“Okay,” I replied. “We’ll keep it secret.”

She nodded, lowering the picture. “We hafta zip up our lips about this, honest we do. ’Cause I think I’ve stumbled onto someone. Someone who ain’t too fondly remembered in these parts.” I knew by the scowl on her face she meant business about not spilling the beans.

Still, I was dying to know. “Who do you think it is?”

“I think this here’s Joseph Lapp…perty sure ’tis.”

I inhaled sharply. “Our ancestor? The man who got himself shunned for marrying outside the Amish church?”

“It’s beyond me why he thought he had to go off and marry his English sweetheart” was all she said.

“Count on me to keep it quiet,” I said. “Nobody’ll hear it from
my
lips.”

So it was settled. We had a secret between us. A big, juicy one.

“Why do you think your parents kept this photo all these years?”

Rachel shrugged her shoulders. “Dat probably knows nothing of it. Mam must’ve hid it, I’d guess.” She shook her head, puzzled. “Looks to me like it’s been passed down for generations. Really odd, though.”

It
was
peculiar, to say the least. But even more intriguing was the inquisitive look on Rachel’s face. Why her sudden interest in a shunned man, one who’d left the Amish church?

Esther Zook, Rachel’s mother, was a devout and energetic woman who derived great satisfaction from the simple things: cooking, baking, caring for her children, and cleaning house.

Nearly every year, long as I could remember, she would throw a doughnut-making party, usually in mid-February. After all, it was the dullest, bleakest time of year, smack-dab in the dead of winter. Of course, Esther would never admit to calling it a party. Amish folk didn’t engage in such “fancy” things. Still, it was a major event all the same.

Often on Valentine’s Day—an icy Saturday morning
this
year—she liked to fill up her kitchen with close friends and her married sisters. Rachel and her younger sisters—Nancy, Ella Mae, and little Susie—were the ones most encouraged to join in the fun. And today was the annual doughnut-making day at the Zooks’ old farmhouse, just across the meadow from my house.

This time of year, it was fairly easy to see the Zooks’ place through the bare branches of the willow grove. The trees ran along the dividing line between our property and theirs. Only an occasional dried-up leaf clung to the wispy limbs.

I made my way down snow-packed SummerHill Lane, glad for fur-lined boots and gloves and my warm earmuffs. Pennsylvania winters weren’t anything to scoff at. The sting in the wind was enough to turn my cheeks numb by the time I made the turn onto our neighbor’s private lane.

Gray carriages galore were already parked in the side yard, their tops glistening with a hint of snow. The horses had been led to the barn for warmth and watering by Rachel’s father, Abe, and her younger brother, Aaron.

“Come in, come in,” my friend greeted me as the back door swung wide.

“Br-r, it’s cold,” I said, closing the door quickly and slapping my gloved hands together.

“Warm yourself by the stove,” she offered.

“Thanks,” I said, hurrying over to the large black wood-stove, where Rachel’s mother was keeping a watchful eye on the fryer.

“Glad you could come over and help.” A dimple appeared in her cheek as she smiled.

“Nice to be here,” I said, grinning back.

The kitchen smelled heavenly, of yeast and dough. My mouth watered at the aroma. “Mm-m, I can’t wait for a bite,” I told Rachel.

“Me neither.” She took her mother’s place at the stove, monitoring the oil in the fryer, making sure that it did not exceed the temperature needed to begin cooking the doughnuts.

Nancy, Rachel’s thirteen-year-old sister, scurried about taking my coat and hanging it on one of the wooden pegs in the outer utility room, just off the kitchen. “Now we hafta find you a spot to work,” she said.

“Ready when you are,” I said, tying on the long Amish apron handed to me by one of the women.