SummerHill Secrets, Volume 2 (31 page)

“Don’t you have something else to do?” I teased, hoping he’d catch on. But he stayed right there in the kitchen, watching me work algebra problems, offering unsolicited assistance every few minutes.

“Dad, I’m fine. I
know
how to do this.” This was my second year studying the subject.

He blinked and frowned. Before I could stop him, he stood up and left the room.

“This is truly horrible,” I muttered, getting up to go to find him.

He was in the living room, reclining on the sofa, eyes half-mast. I sat down across from him, wondering what to say, wishing I could unravel the last few minutes.

“I’m sorry,” I whispered.

He looked up at me and smiled. “Don’t worry, sweets. I’m just an old man twiddling his thumbs, anxious to get back to work.”

“Better take care of yourself, though, don’t you think?”

He nodded. “Can’t do much else around here.”

“Yeah, well, we wanna keep you kicking for a bunch more years.”

He chuckled. “Don’t you worry about that. The Lord’s got plenty of work for me to do before He puts me out to pasture.”

“Oh, Daddy, don’t talk that way. You’re not a cow, and you’re not old.”

“Fifty years…”

I could tell he was struggling with his latest birthday. A milestone event. I couldn’t even begin to imagine having that many candles on my cake. Still, I needed to cheer him up.

“Think about this,” I said, pulling something out of the air. “What would it be like never having had your picture taken?”

“My whole life?” he said. “Well…sounds to me like you’ve been talking to some Amishman. Now, am I right?”

I couldn’t blow Rachel’s secret. Best be careful what I said from here on out. “Is it a sin for them to pose for a camera?”

“All depends how you look at it.” He laughed at his pun and then went on to explain the reason for their belief. “Many Plain folk believe that it is sinning against God to have pictures made of themselves. It’s included in their view of ‘the graven image’ in the Ten Commandments.”

“But is it
really
a sin? Or just thought to be?”

He shook his head. “To my way of thinking, the only way it would be a sin would be to worship the photograph—let the picture come between the person and God.”

“Makes sense.”

“So…whose picture are you thinking about taking?” he asked, grinning.

I couldn’t believe it. He knew me too well.

“Guess that’s all I’d better say for now.” I got up and stood beside the chair. “Need anything before I get back to my math problems?”

He waved me on, smiling as if he’d seen through something top secret. Which, of course, he had.

Rachel would clobber me good if she knew!

By the time Friday evening rolled around, I was actually looking forward to sneaking off to Zooks’ hayloft with Rachel. I needed a break from my dad, and he from me.

I’d never participated in a picture-taking session like this before, and I wondered how things would play out. Originally, Rachel had said she wanted only one picture of herself, but when I explained that most photographers try several poses in order to get one
good
shot, she quickly agreed.

Silly girl! I was turning her into a debutante.

The moon was only half full as we approached the barn door. A few stars shone through stark tree branches to the east. If I hadn’t known better, I might’ve thought the night was a bit spooky, but Rachel wouldn’t be thinking such a thing. She urged me on, lantern in hand, eyes wide with anticipation.

“This is your big night.” I made small talk, conscious of the shoulder strap on my camera case as we hurried up the ramp of the two-story barn.

The wide wooden door creaked open as we pulled on it. Then, silently, we stepped into the sweetest-smelling place in all the world. The haymow.

“I’m glad you picked this setting,” I told her.

“Oh? Why’s that?” she asked.

“It’s beautiful, that’s why.” I looked at her all dressed up in her Sunday-best Amish dress and shawl, her winter bonnet nestled over the top of her devotional Kapp. “And tonight, you look pretty as a picture.”

A flicker of a smile crossed her face. Then she looked more serious again. “I wanna let my hair down in one of the pictures,” she announced.

“You what?”

“It’s all right. Nobody’ll ever know.”

I shook my head. “People will know.
I’ll
know…and so will the person who develops this roll of film.” I studied her, my eyes beginning to squint. “Are you absolutely sure about this, Rachel?”

She didn’t answer, just went over and stood next to a bale of hay, leaning on it. “Here’s a gut place for the first one,” she said, a hint of stubbornness in her voice.

“Sit down right there, why don’t you.” I pulled my camera out of its case. “And smile, okay?”

She posed and smiled, all right. I, on the other hand, felt somewhat sad as I clicked away. Not because she was doing anything truly horrible, as far as I could tell. No, I was down in the dumps because she seemed to be changing—my longtime friend had definitely been different the past few days. She was changing into a young woman with thoughts and ideas; plans that nobody in her entire household would ever agree with. Maybe not even Levi, her so-called wayward brother.

After many shots and numerous poses, I watched, stunned, as she removed her outer head covering and then the white veiling beneath. She didn’t ask me to hold the sacred symbol, and for that, I was grateful. Rather, she placed it inside her dress pocket before quickly taking the bobby pins out of her bun.

Like a waterfall, the light brown hair cascaded over her shoulders, past her waist. She stood there smiling as though she’d already accomplished something mighty important. “There, now,” she said. “I’m ready for the last picture.”

“I hope we’re doing the right thing,” I muttered.

“Don’t be questioning this, Merry.” The sharp way she said it sounded as if she were reprimanding me.

I aimed and focused, recalling the days when I was fascinated with taking before-and-after pictures of people and things. Hoping this new look of Rachel’s wasn’t an indication of things to come, I finished up the final shot.

“Done,” I said, packing up my camera equipment.

“Denki.” She wound up her hair and put the veiling back on her head. “It’s getting cold.”

“It’s
been
cold,” I replied, wondering what delicious thoughts and ambitions had kept her warm during the rather lengthy picture-taking session.

“Now what?” she asked.

I looked at her, trying to see the real Rachel, my dear Amish friend. “What do you mean?”

“Wanna come to the house?” she asked.

We made our way over the particles of hay that dusted the wooden floor. I helped her close the barn door before answering. “What’ll I do with my camera?” I reminded her.

“Jah, that’s a problem.”

“So I guess we oughta say good-night,” I suggested, feeling a bit reticent with her now. As though I didn’t know what to say next.

“Supposin’ you’re right.”

It was an awkward moment, and even more so because I spied little Susie leaning out the back door. “Looks like somebody’s missing you.”

“I best go in.” She reached for my hand and squeezed it. “I’ll never forget this, Merry.” And she was gone, running across the yard to the house.

I stood there watching from the moonlit shadows, listening as the two of them chattered away in their Amish tongue—Pennsylvania Dutch.

Soon, though, the storm door slammed shut and the animated talk faded. I was glad for the flashlight in my pocket. Amish barnyards were such dark places at night. Except for the pale light of the February half moon.

My parents would be waiting. I’d told them I was going to visit Rachel. Dad, bless his heart, had had the most comical look on his face. Of course, Mom had no way of knowing what the cheesy grin was all about. But I suspected he’d shared the unspoken secret with her while I was gone.

Hurrying up the drive toward SummerHill Lane, I glanced back at the barn, now dark. We’d hid behind the moon, all right, just as Rachel had said. And no one—no one in her Amish community, at least—was ever to be the wiser.

I expected a prick at my own conscience but felt no guilt. Dad was right, I supposed. Wasn’t a sin at all to have your picture made.

The next day was Saturday, and I’d agreed to baby-sit Mary while Sarah Zook hosted a work frolic—a quilting bee—in her home.

I arrived early, before the many horses and carriages I knew would be making their way to the Amish farmhouse. Sarah seemed delighted to have me come so soon and opened the door with a warm greeting and a bright smile. “Ach, Merry, gut to see ya,” she said. “Come in and get yourself warmed up.”

I followed her inside to the front room, which was sparsely furnished: two matching hickory rockers similar to the ones in the Zooks’ farmhouse, brightly colored handmade rag rugs and throw rugs adorning the floor, and a tall, pine corner cupboard, displaying Sarah’s wedding china set—typical for Old Order Amish homes.

But the thing that captured my attention was the large quilting frame set up in the middle of the front room.

Sarah must’ve noticed me eyeing the frame and the chairs set up around it. “We’ll be making a quilt for Rachel today,” she explained.

“Really? For Rachel?” I wondered if the womenfolk who were coming to piece the quilt together might suspect that Matthew Yoder was courting my friend.

I thought back to last night and the many pictures I’d taken of Rachel. I hoped I hadn’t thrown things off-kilter by agreeing to photograph her, because this quilting bee seemed ripe with purpose. Was the soon-to-be-made quilt intended for Rachel’s hope chest? Was this church district holding its collective breath for another wedding come next fall…or the next?

Thankful that Rachel was still young, though not too young to consider marriage, I wondered if she was feeling pressured. Was this the reason she wanted to “sow wild oats”?

Sounds in the kitchen—baby babblings—brought me back to my responsibilities at hand. “Mary must need some company,” I said, anxious to see the little dumpling.

Quickly, Sarah led the way, calling to her baby daughter as we hurried to her. “Ya know it’s your English friend, now, don’tcha? Do ya know your favorite sitter is here?” She leaned over and lifted Mary up, handing her to me.

“Well, hello again, sweetie,” I cooed into her big blue eyes. What fun I was going to have!

Almost on cue, she nestled her head against my shoulder. “Ah, she’s a bit droopy,” Sarah said, offering a blanket and a bottle. “Thank goodness, she ain’t cranky. It’s ’bout time for her mornin’ nap, but ya just never know. Mary doesn’t like to nap all that much anymore. Likes to be up and about, watchin’ what everybody’s doin’. ’Specially at a quilting.”

I kissed the soft cheek. “We’ll just rock a little, then. How’s that?” I suggested to my precious bundle, heading for the rocker in the corner of the kitchen.

“Ya’ll see what I mean,” Sarah said, grinning. “She’s a live wire, that one.”

I hugged Mary, wondering what I was in for today. She didn’t seem restless now, but I smiled to myself, thinking that maybe, just maybe, this baby felt comfortable with me, the girl who’d first found her.

Choosing to believe that, I sat down to rock the doll of a baby in my arms. A beautiful, live baby doll, dressed in light blue homespun linen.

One by one, and sometimes in groups of twos and threes, the quilters began to arrive. Rachel Zook and her two grandmothers came in together.

When Rachel spied me, she hurried over. “Whatever ya do, don’tcha leave till we have a chance to talk.” Her eyes looked as if she hadn’t slept much.

“You okay?” I asked.

“Jah, fine…fine. But it’ll hafta wait” was all she said.

Now I was really curious. Was she having second thoughts about last night?

She scurried back to greet the women as they came into the kitchen. Most of them stood near the fire, warming their hands.

I watched Rachel, wondering why she hadn’t even glanced at her little niece, now almost asleep in my arms. What could be so important that she’d ignore baby Mary?