SummerHill Secrets, Volume 2 (48 page)

As I walked with our quirky old neighbor across the backyard and up the slope of her own property—all that time—I could see my brother’s ridiculous smile in my mind.

“You sit here, dearie.” Miss Spindler stepped aside so I faced her computer screen directly.

“Where will
you
sit?” I asked.

She was already one step ahead of me, pulling a folding chair across the attic’s carpeted floor. “Here we are,” she said.

She asked me to click onto her e-mail program, which I did. “Now,” she said, “I was hoping you’d read each of this week’s messages to me.”

This week’s
. There were thirty messages!

“Oh, I have such a hard time,” she explained, taking off her thick glasses and showing me where the trifocal line began. “You have no idea just how difficult it is to see the words.”

“Maybe you should order a software program with larger letters.” I’d heard of such things, especially for folks who suffered from partial blindness.

“Well, for now, I’ve got
you
here,” she said. “Thank you for agreeing to help this old lady.”

I began to read her personal messages, feeling a bit awkward. The first was from an Amishwoman who said she lived north of the Davises on SummerHill Lane. She described her busy day—washing and hanging out the clothes to dry, baking, cleaning, sewing, and gardening. On and on.

The writer signed off with:
Nobody’s seen hide nor hair of a big black cat
.

“You asked her about Abednego?” I said, turning to face Miss Spindler.

“Oh yes, I’ve asked every one of my e-mail friends.”

“Is that why you wanted me to come help you?”

She responded with a quick smile. “Keep on reading,” she said, moving her hands.

I read the next five, but none of the writers had seen my cat. We were clear down to the next to the last message. An Amish lady two houses down from the Fishers’ place—out near the highway—wrote to say that she’d spotted a large animal prowling around her house.

If it’s a house cat, it’s a very big one
, she wrote.
I daresay that one would take a batch of field mice to keep full
.

“Sounds like Abednego!” I said, eager to read on.

Last night, we put out a bowl of milk for him. Fast as a wink, he drank it down. My grandson put out another bowl, and that one was gone in nothing flat. If ya wanna come and see for yourself about this here mouse catcher, I’ll hang on to him for ya, just a bit
.

I was clapping my hands. “Can we go, Miss Spindler? Please?”

“It’s getting late,” she said, reminding me that Amish folk head for bed about eight-thirty. “I’ll tell you what, dearie, we’ll drive on over there. If the oil lamps are burnin’ in the kitchen, we’ll know they’re still up.”

Thrilled beyond belief, I closed down the Windows on the Hill. Miss Spindler was truly amazing.

“Don’t get your hopes up too high, dearie,” she told me as we rode down SummerHill Lane.

Crickets were chirping to beat the band, and the moon was starting to rise in the east. I sat in the front seat of the fanciest sports car this side of the Susquehanna River, praying that Abednego would be waiting on the front porch for us.

Miss Spindler pulled slowly into the driveway when we found the house. “See any lights?” I whispered.

“Not a one,” she said.

I opened the car door. “I’m gonna go look for him.”

“No…no, you mustn’t be impatient, now. All good things come to those who wait.”

I argued. “But I’ve been waiting nearly a week. Can’t I at least walk around the house and call for him?”

She shook her head. “Not on your life, dearie. That’s trespassing, pure and simple.”

“I know, but—”

“No buts. We’ll come back tomorrow.”

“Abednego might be gone by then,” I insisted.

“Not if these good folk are feeding him milk every day, he won’t.”

She had a point. Still, I wanted Abednego in my arms tonight!

“Here, kitty, kitty,” I called softly. “It’s Merry come to get you, baby. Come on, now, you know your Merry’s here.”

Miss Spindler was beside herself. “Get in the car,” she said. “We best be goin’. ”

“I promise not to trespass,” I said, moving to the front of the car. “It’s Merry…Merry’s here. Come on, little boy, you know you wanna go home.”

The sky was dotted with shimmering silver flecks of light. All around me I heard the sounds of nightfall.

“You want some Kitty Kisses?” I said softly. “Merry’s gonna give her little boy some treats.”

I waited some more, listening for the slightest clue. The tiniest sound of a cat.

“Psst, Merry,” called Miss Spindler. “We’ll try again tomorrow.” She flicked her headlights on and turned on the ignition.

Just then a light came on in the back of the house. “Look!” I said. “Someone’s up.” My heart was thumping with anticipation.

Miss Spindler was out of the car, catching up with me as I hurried around to the back door of the farmhouse. “Best let me handle this,” she said, opening the screen door and knocking on the inside door.

“Jah, who’s there?” said an Amishman, peering out at us.

“It’s Ruby Spindler, your wife’s friend up the road a piece. She wrote something about finding a stray cat.”

The man was nodding his head, his gray beard bumping his chest each time he did. “Jah, we know of such a cat.”

“He’s here?” I asked excitedly. “Abednego’s here?”

Looking quite perplexed, the man frowned and shook his head. “I never heard of that name—not for a cat.”

“But it’s him, isn’t it?” I could hardly stand there, aching to know if they had him or not.

“Ach, I think ya must be mistaken. We saw no such tag on the cat—not nowhere.” The man was beginning to close the door.

“Please,” I said, “may I have a look at the cat you found?”

He paused, as if he wasn’t sure whether he should invite us in.

Then behind me I heard a stirring in the bushes, followed by
meow
.

“Wait! I’d know that sound anywhere,” I said, turning and scooping up my beloved baby into my arms. “Oh, you’re safe, Abednego! You’re truly safe.”

I heard Miss Spindler thank the man.

“Well, that takes care of that,” he said, closing the back door.

All the way home, I cuddled my cat. “Hey, I think you’re fatter than before,” I told him.

Abednego didn’t talk back; instead, he purred like a motorboat and leaned his head against my arm.

“How can I ever thank you, Miss Spindler?” I asked.

She kept driving, probably deciding what she ought to say to me. Then it came. The cutest thing I’d heard all year. “Guess Old Hawk Eyes ain’t so awful bad, now, is she?”

I sucked in a little breath, shocked that she knew her nickname. “I won’t ask where you heard that,” I said, giggling. “It’s really none of my business, is it?”

Her head went back with hearty laughter. And I snuggled with my newly found pet.

It was a night to remember.

Miss Spindler was kind enough to let me take pictures of her attic computer room so I could show all my girl friends. And my new boyfriend. That’s right, Jon Klein and I are officially going out. It’s a dream come true, and I only wish Faithie were alive to witness my joy.

I haven’t written Levi about it yet. I figure I can wait till he comes home this summer. Besides, he should feel relieved to hear the news, especially if he has someone new himself.

Dad and Mom are back from Costa Rica, and all they talk about is taking Skip and me the next time. “You’d love the people,” Dad says. “They’re so hungry for Jesus.”

Speaking of hunger, Abednego has never been so interested in his regular kitty food. He learned a hard lesson by running away. But now that he’s back home, his behavior is improving. Even Skip has noticed how placid and cooperative my wayward cat is now.

As for Chelsea, she’s completely well and back to school. She says she’s sorry she missed the day Jon and I sat together on the bus. She said she’d give anything to have been there. Of course, he and I still sit together, but Chelsea’s right there, too. Either in front of us or right across the aisle.

The Alliteration Word Game is history, a thing of the past—for Jon and me, at least. Chelsea, Ashley, and Lissa are still going strong, and occasionally Miss Spindler tries her hand at alliterating. Jon and I are much better communicators without the limitation of having to match up every word in a sentence. I must admit, I’ve never been so happy.

Rachel Zook and I
finally
talked Miss Spindler into taking one of the gray kittens as a pet. When the light is just right, the sweet little thing matches Old Hawk Eyes’ blue-gray hair!

Most of all, I’m thankful that God’s eyes were on Abednego during those six worry-filled days. And I know something else: He used Old Hawk Eyes’ curiosity and turned it into something good.

I’m thinking it might be time for a new nickname for my neighbor. Or maybe none at all.

Special thanks
to
Gordon and Betty Bernhardt,
who shared with me
the story of Buttercup,
the
real
twin lamb.

For
Julie Arno,
who heralds herself a
“Sincere SummerHill Secrets Series Fanatic.”

Hide me in the shadow
of your wings…

—P
SALM
17:8

Right off the bat, I’ll admit that I’d only
thought
I was over the loss of my twin sister. Some days, Faithie’s death seems like a long time ago. Other days, it’s like yesterday that the leukemia came and took her away.

But the day everything got stirred up again—or got me “all but ferhoodled,” as my Amish girl friend would say—was as perfect as any Pennsylvania springtime. It was late May, and the remnants of my sophomore year at James Buchanan High were fading all too quickly. Not a single cloud cluttered the clear blue sky.

Rachel Zook came running up SummerHill Lane just as I stepped off the school bus. I took one look at her and knew something was wrong. Her white head covering had tipped a bit off center, and her usual long gray apron was mussed. Nearly breathless and eyes wide, she sputtered her request, “Can ya come … help me out, Merry?”

“You can count on me.” I scurried down the road toward the long dirt lane that led to the Zooks’ farmhouse, trying to keep up with Rachel, the hem of her skirt flapping in the warm breeze.

“My twin lamb’s gonna die, I’m afraid,” she said as we ran.

“What’s wrong with her?”

“Well, her mama died yesterday morning, hours after she birthed the twins … and then ’twasn’t long and the first twin lamb up and died, too.” Rachel stopped running as we neared the barnyard. Catching our breaths, we strolled over to the white plank fence.

I shaded my eyes with my hand as I scanned the grassy, fenced area. “Where is she?”

We searched the corral with our eyes. At last, Rachel located her. “
Ach
, of all things—she’s right here.”

Peering down through the fence slats, I spied a single baby lamb, all fluffy and white. “Oh, she’s so adorable.”

“Adorable,
jah
, but she’s all alone in the world. Won’t eat nothin’, neither,” Rachel said, her voice soft and low. “We can’t get her to take milk, not even from Ol’ Nanna.”

I was surprised to hear it because I’d seen Ol’ Nanna with her own babies. The older sheep was gentle and loving—the way a good foster mother ought to be.

Rachel pointed to Ol’ Nanna grazing by herself across the meadow. “She doesn’t mind sharin’ her milk with young’uns that ain’t hers. I can’t begin to count the number of orphan lambs we’ve bonded on to her. And plenty-a time, too.” Rachel shook her head. “But not
this
time. It just ain’t workin’ out.”

I stared down at the poor little creature. Her fleece was creamy white, like detergent suds. Made you want to reach down and pick her up—cuddle her like a human baby. My heart went out to the lost lamb. “Why do you think she won’t eat?” I asked.

Rachel’s fingers trailed down the long white strings of her
Kapp
, the prayer veiling she always wore. She moved close to me, whispering. “If ya want my opinion, I think she’s dyin’ of loneliness.”