SummerHill Secrets, Volume 2 (38 page)

As promised, I received Levi’s e-mail.

Hi, Merry,

Here’s my alliteration for the day: Hope for happiness, holiness, humility, and honor—no halfhearted, ho-hum hypocrisy.

—Levi

I had to call Chelsea. “You’ll never guess who’s the new Alliteration Wizard!”

“I give up.”

“No…you have to guess,” I insisted.

“C’mon, Merry, I don’t have time for games.”

“Oh, so you’re not playing, either?” I taunted.

“Who else isn’t?” she asked.

“Well, not so long ago Jon wasn’t. Or at least he said he wasn’t.”

“That’s strange.”

“What?”

“He just called here and was babbling baloney,” she said.

I laughed. “So the former Wizard’s making a comeback!”

“And maybe
you’ve
got him back?” she asked.

“Oh,” I sighed. “I’m not so sure about Jon anymore.” I felt the pain anew.

“Oh really?” She was probing for more details, but I had to put her off. Besides, Levi was on my mind. I was dying to tell her how excited I was about
his
call. “Levi Zook’s an incredible alliterater.”

“How do you know?”

I told her about the e-mail—the many, many
h
’s in a row. “He’s truly amazing.”

“With words or just in general?” she asked, laughing.

I wasn’t ready to divulge any more secrets. Not yet. But I did tell her about my timely encounter with Matthew Yoder on SummerHill Lane. “Rachel’s through with running around,” I said. “I’m one-hundred-percent-amen sure!”

“If you say so,” she replied.

We giggled briefly and then hung up.

Mom wanted to know what was so funny. “Glad you’re having such a good week,” she commented.

“Well, none of my cats got run over,” I said, heading for the stairs and a mountain of homework.

“Honey, you’re not making much sense,” she pointed out.

“You’re right.” I rushed to my room before she could call any more comments up to me.

I plopped onto my bed, gathered my furry foursome around me, and thought of Joseph Lapp. “Well, I guess we have him to thank for the total chaos this week,” I told them. “I think Rachel and her brother must share some of his genes.”

Abednego eyeballed me as if to say,
Look who’s talking
.

“Hey, I’ve been on both sides of the fence—the inside
and
the outside—and you know what?”

He meowed politely.

“It’s not so much where you are; it’s who you know. And I’m not talking riddles here, boys.” I bowed my head. It was time for a personal chat with my heavenly Father—about Rachel and her future, about Levi and his, and about my own uncertainties.

Weeks later Dad decided, after all was said and done, that he would take early retirement from the hospital. And he and Mom are planning an overseas trip without me, since I can’t miss that much school. Amazingly, Miss Spindler—Old Hawk Eyes, the neighbor lady behind us—has agreed to let me stay with her.

Maybe now I’ll have a chance to do some sleuthing over there. I’ve been dying to know how she keeps such a close eye on everybody in SummerHill.

As for my baby-sitting job, it’s earning me some spending money. The best part is getting to see sweet little Mary every weekend.

Levi’s coming home for spring break, and it’s for sure! I found out yesterday from Rachel, who, by the way, is behaving like her old self once again. In fact, I can hardly remember what she looked like in a short skirt and lipstick.

She’s wearing her veiled covering consistently—
reverently
—and seems more content with being Plain. “I’m where I belonged all along,” she told me recently.

Matthew Yoder forgave her in an instant. Last I heard, they’ll start taking the required baptismal classes together come late July. I wouldn’t be surprised if there’s another wedding coming up in a year or so.

Now, if I can just get my favorite jeans back from her sometime. Souvenirs of wayward days probably aren’t the best thing to keep around. I’ve told Rachel that, but she only smiles and says, “Looking at them and Joseph Lapp’s secret picture every so often are what help keep me Amish.”

I don’t ask “What?” in response. Instead I listen sincerely with my heart and pray…and try to understand. That’s the best a friend can do, with or without the moon.

For
Julie Witner,
who loves cats as much as
Merry Hanson.

“For the eyes of the Lord run to and fro throughout the whole earth…”

—2 C
HRONICLES
16:9
KJV

I’ll never forget the day my sweet and sassy Abednego disappeared. The afternoon was unseasonably warm and sultry. Too warm for the middle of April.

Perched on the garden bench under our backyard maple, I played with the lens cap on my digital camera. I’d loaded it with freshly charged batteries for today’s special event—a retirement party for my dad. Actually, the party was an open house, a come-and-go sort of thing. I wouldn’t have admitted it to my parents, but I was bored out of my mind.

My cat quartet—Shadrach, Meshach, Abednego, and Lily White—gathered around my feet. I figured they were horribly hot and uncomfortable inside their heavy fur coats. Fidgety, they rolled around in the cool grass, pawing at one another.

I leaned back and gazed up at the pale blue sky. A series of ballooning white clouds sped across the heavens. Mom liked to call them thunderheads. I’d nicknamed them thunderbumpers.

“Looks like rain,” I told my feline friends. “Those clouds up there are gonna crash together and make all kinds of racket pretty soon.” I didn’t realize that what I’d just said would actually happen. And in a very frightening way.

The cats didn’t seem too alarmed by my comment. Only Abednego lifted his fat, furry head and stared at me. His eyes blinked slowly. Then he put his head down again and licked his paws.

“What’s on your mind, little boy?” I reached down for him, but he hissed back at me. “Abednego! Is that any way to behave?”

He responded by making a beeline for the gazebo, squeezing his plump black belly under the white latticework—his favorite hiding spot. Whenever he was missing, I first checked under the gazebo.

“He’s upset about something,” I muttered, playing with Lily White, my fluffy white cat, now a year old. Sitting there, I felt a bit miffed at Abednego, not knowing what on earth was on his mind. Maybe he shared my indifference toward the strangers in our yard. Several former colleagues of Dad’s had already arrived—emergency room nurses and doctors. They were laughing and sharing stories in the shelter of the large gazebo.

Originally, Mom had decided to book a downtown hotel suite for the occasion. In the end, though, Dad got his way—a simple springtime picnic on the grounds of our one-hundred-year-old farmhouse.

Casually, I looked toward the back porch and noticed Mom motioning from the kitchen window. She called through the screen. “Merry, come and help serve finger food.”

I was glad she’d asked—something to do. Quickly, I left my private post, and the three remaining cats insisted on following me up the back steps and into the house.

By the time I arrived in the kitchen, Mom was occupied with the arrangement of carrot sticks, celery, cauliflower, and broccoli on one side of a round tray.

When I caught her eye, I noticed she seemed a bit stressed. “Please pass this tray around outside, honey.” She glanced at the sky through the wide kitchen window. “And pray that the weather holds.”

Her request was understandable. With temperatures soaring and humidity hovering in the ninety-percent range, the chance of a storm was extremely high. I hoped—and prayed—for both Dad’s and Mom’s sake that the breeze might blow the ominous clouds far away.

I headed toward the back door, carrying the enormous tray. My mouth watered at the sight of the creamy, homemade buttermilk dressing smack-dab in the center. There were other delicacies, too, and I made note of the barbecued chicken wings and drumsticks, hoping some of them might get passed over so I could have a taste later.

Dad’s party was in full swing. The gazebo was filling up with folks offering their best wishes for his early retirement. Gingerly, I carried the tray across the yard and up the white wooden gazebo steps.

“Here’s my girl,” Dad said. His eyes lit up as he began making introductions. “This is my daughter, Merry. She’s quite the photographer, so you may see her roaming the grounds taking candid shots.”

“Hello. Nice to meet you,” I said, smiling and feeling terribly awkward, yet offering my courtesy.

Dad nodded, obviously pleased that I’d made an attempt to chat. “Merry’s making a scrapbook of the afternoon,” he commented. “So her old dad will remember this day.”

“Oh, Daddy,” I said, feeling the heat of embarrassment work its way into my face. “You’re not old.”

Several of the men agreed.

“My daughter’s an optimistic young lady,” Dad said, winking at me.

“And she must be very thoughtful, too,” added one of the nurses, smiling. She went on to say that she’d attended a creative workshop on scrapbooking recently. “What a wonderful way to record special memories.”

She’s right about that
, I thought, recalling the cherished scrapbooks of my twin sister, Faithie, and me. The long-ago pictures brought back some of the happiest days of my life—days before Faithie died of leukemia at age seven.

I kept smiling and playing hostess, taking the tray items around to fifteen or more people. The finger food vanished quickly, and I headed toward the house to stock up.

“Merry, honey,” Dad called. “Why don’t we have a group picture when you come back out?”

“Okay,” I replied and hurried into the kitchen.

“Back so soon?” Mom said, eyeing the empty tray.

I nodded. “People are showing up in droves. Probably because of all the free food.”

“Merry, for goodness’ sake,” Mom scolded. “Your father’s a highly respected doctor in Lancaster County.”

“
Was
…”

She was shaking her head at me. “C’mon, Merry. You know what I mean.”

“Sorry, Mom. It just came out wrong.”

She fell silent, going about the business of scraping more carrots. I leaned against the fridge, watching Lily White chase her golden-haired brothers around the corner and into the family room.

“Are the Zooks coming?” I asked, thinking of our Amish neighbors and good friends.

Mom answered without looking up. “Abe and Esther and the children were invited. I’d be very surprised if they didn’t drop in for a while.”

“What about Old Hawk Eyes? Do you think
she’ll
come?”

Mom’s head jerked up. Her deep brown eyes bored into me. “Merry, now, really.”

I wrinkled my nose. “Everyone calls Miss Spindler that…even the Zook kids!”

Mom shook her head. “Does she deserve a nickname like that?”

“Well, she’s always spying on the neighborhood. Always seems to know exactly what’s going on in SummerHill, you know.”

Mom knew it was true, and she had too many things on her mind to argue with me now. “Ruby Spindler is a lonely old lady, but she has a heart of gold” was all she said.

I bit my tongue—wasn’t going to remind Mom unduly of Miss Spindler’s nosy behavior. I headed back outside to prepare for the group picture Dad wanted. That’s when a crack of thunder like I’d never heard boomed down on the party.