SummerHill Secrets, Volume 2 (49 page)

I looked out over the enclosure where at least twenty sheep roamed the pastureland, wondering how on earth the lamb could be lonely. “But look at all her relatives. She’s got oodles of aunts, uncles, and cousins … doesn’t she?”

Rachel didn’t smile. She frowned instead. “It’s the oddest thing, really. But I think she downright misses her twin … and her mama.” Rachel’s voice grew even softer. “If something doesn’t change, and soon, I’m afraid she’ll lie down and die. Just plain give up.”

Squatting to get closer, I stroked the animal’s soft wool coat. Seemed to me, Rachel might be right. “See how her eyes plead?”

“Like she needs someone to help her, ain’t so?” Rachel said. “That’s why I asked ya over here, Merry. I thought you could coax her to take some milk … from this baby bottle, maybe.” She handed the bottle to me.

“Me?”

“Jah.” She paused, and a peculiar look swept across her pretty face. “If ya think on it, I’m sure you’ll understand why.” She didn’t say more but headed off toward the barn, waving that she’d be back “awful quick.”

I had to stop and really ponder what Rachel had just said. Kneeling in the grass, I was nearly nose to nose with the adorable animal. “You’re such a pretty thing,” I said through the fence. I stroked the fleecy coat, cooing at her like I often did to each of my four cats.

Then, while I continued to pet the lamb, I realized exactly what my Amish girl friend meant. It struck me like lightning hits a tree. I
was
a good choice for her lamb project. A very good one, in fact. Because I, too, had suffered great loss. Of course, my twin hadn’t died at birth, or even close to it, but Faithie was gone all the same.

I kept watch over the poor, suffering lamb, observing her sad face, the way she could hardly raise her eyes to look at me. She seemed too downhearted to think about living, let alone care about drinking milk from a bottle.

“You poor thing,” I said softly, offering the baby bottle. When the lamb wasn’t interested, I didn’t coax. “I think I know what you need.”

Setting the bottle down, I turned and sat in the grass. “I think you need a pretty name—one to match who you are.”

After a good deal of thinking on my part, an idea came. I whispered the name into the air, imagining the warm breeze picking it up and carrying it high over the silo on the Zooks’ bank barn, on past the pond with its bottomless holes, and beyond the creaky windmill.

Yes, it might well be the perfect name. And one way to cheer up a sad little lamb. Sighing, I said, “I think your name should be … Jingle Belle. Jingle, for short. What do you think of that?”

At first, I wondered if I might be dreaming, because Jingle responded to her new name. I actually thought she was beginning to smile. Well, sort of, because I guess lambs don’t really smile. Unless, of course, they want to.

Jingle shook her head playfully, which rang the tiny bell at her neck. A sweet, cheerful ringing sound.
Jingle Belle
. What a terrific name. One-hundred-percent-amen wonderful!

It was the sweetest thing—the absolutely nicest thing that had happened to me in a while. Sitting there in the thick green grass, I leaned against the fence and knew that Rachel would be delighted, too. Yep, things were about to change for her little lamb.

And something else. I couldn’t be sure, but I had a funny feeling that things were about to change for me, too. Because deep inside, where no one ever sees but God, I still longed for Faithie. It was as if a shadow covered everything on the path of my future.

“Only time will heal that kind of wound,” Dad gently reminds me every so often. But I honestly didn’t see how that could ever be. Half of me is gone. Faithie’s absence is like thick pollen in springtime, scattered everywhere.

Leaning my head against the fence, I felt Jingle’s soft wool on my forehead. Sweet and comforting, she nuzzled me.

Closing my eyes, I allowed my tears to spill out. “I know how you feel, Jingle,” I whispered. “And I’m going to help you. I promise.”

On a really warm day, you ought to be able to sit outside in pajamas and play with your cats. Soak up some sunshine. At least, that was my idea of a lazy Saturday morning in SummerHill. But my mother had other plans for me, and I worried that spring would slip through my fingers before I had a chance to do anything truly frivolous.

“We’ll sit in the sun another time, little boys,” I told Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego, the cat brothers. I discarded my bathrobe and headed into my walk-in closet to see what to wear.

When I was dressed for the day, I noticed Lily White—the only lady of the feline group—still lying at the foot of my bed. She opened her tiny eyes and blinked beore succumbing again to morning drowsiness. I laughed at her, ignoring her disinterest. “I know, I know…you’re not a morning person.” Then, catching myself, I realized what I’d said. “Yee-ikes! You’re not a
person
at all!”

To that, she opened both eyes wide, stretched her petite hind legs, and jumped off my bed, padding slowly toward me.

“Well, what’s this?” I said, still laughing at my adorable white cat. “Are you up for good?”

She followed me down the hall to my parents’ bedroom, where my mother was busy gathering up laundry. The washing was probably the reason Mom had nixed my idea of whiling away the morning in the sun. Laundry, it seemed, could never wait. It
had
to be attended to in a timely manner. Which meant the notion that dirty clothes might merely lie patiently in a hamper until a designated weekly wash day—like the Amish folk do it—was out of the question. At least at our house. If so much as two days of washing piled up, Mom was on to it like a cat after a mouse.

“Let’s get our work done before noon, what do you say?” Mom suggested, her hair neatly combed. She wore her pretty blue blouse and her best casual pants. I had a feeling she was going out later.

“What’s the rush?” I asked.

“Oh, there’s an antique show in the area,” she muttered, her arms filling up with Dad’s shirts. “That’s all.”

That’s all
.

Funny she said it that way, because I knew about Mom’s great fascination with antiques. There was no hiding it. Her interest had become stronger with the passing of each year.

I stumbled after her, my own arms loaded down. “Are you looking for a specific piece?”

“Not for me personally,” she said as we made our way downstairs through the kitchen toward the cellar steps.

It seemed to me she didn’t really want to say what she was looking for. So I changed the subject. “After I help with the laundry, is it okay if I just hang out for the rest of the afternoon?”

“Hang out?” She pushed Dad’s shirts into the washer. “As in
hang out
the clothes to dry?” She wore an affected smile, which quickly faded.

I should’ve known Mom would think I was volunteering. In her opinion, there was not a more pleasant smell than clothing dried by the fresh air and sunshine.

“Hang out the clothes? Well, no,” I said, “that’s not what I meant, but…”

She eyed me curiously. “You didn’t mean to say that you were going to
waste
away your Saturday afternoon, did you?”

I wondered if my mother would ever understand that what I said most of the time didn’t have anything to do with what I
meant
to say. I sighed. “I thought I’d spend some time with Rachel Zook today. That’s all.”

“Well, why didn’t you say so?” Mom replied, turning on the washer and pouring in a cup of detergent.

The suds reminded me of Rachel’s little lamb, but I couldn’t bring myself to tell Mom about yet another “mammal mission,” as she so often referred to my attraction to strays or other needy creatures.

I thought more about Jingle Belle. Such a sad situation. But it wasn’t like I wanted to offer the lamb a roof over her fleecy head. I couldn’t have her sleep at the bottom of my bed with the cats, and I certainly didn’t want to have her following me around inside the house all day. No, I simply wanted to help give her the courage to live. Somehow.

“Okay, Merry,” Mom said, jolting me out of my thoughts. “I think it’s time we have some breakfast.”

If you’ve never had Saturday breakfast at our house, you have no idea what Mom’s idea of “breaking a fast” was all about. To her, it meant cooking up more than enough food for the entire rest of the day!

So while the washing machine did its thing, Mom whipped up waffle batter, fried German sausage and eggs, and made French toast in the oven. I set the table and arranged the homemade jellies and jams, gifts from Esther Zook, Rachel’s mother. Then I scurried off to check on my cats…and Dad.

I found him reading the paper in his study, still wearing a bathrobe. “I hope you’re hungry,” I whispered, poking my head around the corner.

He looked up and grinned at me. “Is your mother cooking up a storm?”

“It’s Saturday, right?” I laughed, settling into the chair across from his desk. “She’ll expect us to sample everything, you know.”

Folding his paper, he focused his attention on me. “Your mother has some very interesting plans for herself.”

“Yeah, she told me. She’s off to an antique show.”

He nodded his head. “I didn’t mean her plans for
today
.”

“What, then?”

“She’s talking of converting our potting shed into an antique shop.”

This was news to me. Not once since Dad’s early retirement had I ever stopped to think that we might need additional money each month. But with my older brother, Skip, off at college, maybe we
were
short of cash. “Are we…I mean, does Mom need to work?”

His hearty laugh brought some relief for me. “No, no, your mother doesn’t need to work. We’re fine, honey.” He paused, getting up and standing near his chair. “I think your mother’s just getting her second wind. That’s all.”

Not sure what he was talking about, I waited for more.

“She’s a bit restless at this stage of her life, I guess you could say. You and your brother are nearly raised, so her interests are beginning to broaden.”

“But she’s always loved antiques, so this is nothing new.”

He fell silent, still holding the folded newspaper in his hands.

“Why would she want an antique shop in our backyard? Doesn’t she realize it could be an absolute nightmare—tourists tromping all across our lawn,” I spouted. “What’s this
really
about?”

Dad came and pulled me up out of the chair gently. “I think your mother’s ready to compete with our Amish neighbors.”

I was the one chuckling this time. Amish roadside stands couldn’t be the reason. “Mom’s not going to sell jams and jellies or make quilts, is she?”

“Who knows what she’ll sell in her shop.” Dad seemed somewhat guarded about Mom’s ambitions.

“But this is her idea, right?”

He hugged me and guided me down the hall toward the kitchen. “We’ll talk more later, okay?”

“Sure,” I said, my curiosity piqued. “Later.”

The morning was balmy, with a hint of a shower in the air. Rachel and her sisters, Nancy, Ella Mae, and little Susie, were outside urging the tiny lamb to drink when I arrived at the Zooks’ farm.

“How’s Jingle doing?” I asked, leaning on the fence post.

“About the same,” Nancy said. But the somber look on her face gave her away. The Amish sisters were as worried as before.

“So…nothing’s changed?” I pressed.

Rachel shook her head. “Here,
you
try, Merry. Let’s see if Jingle will drink for you.”

I shrugged, accepting the baby bottle. Hesitant to hunker down and force the poor thing to eat in front of an insistent group, I sat in the grass about two feet from the fence. “Has she ever been let out?” I asked, referring to the fenced area.

Little Susie gasped, cupping her hand over her mouth in horror. “Ach no, Merry! Jingle might run away and get herself lost. We wouldn’t want that to happen, now, would we?”

“No, Susie,” Rachel said quickly, comforting her small sister.

Clearly, the youngest Zook was not in favor of my idea. “I didn’t mean that Jingle should run loose,” I explained to Susie. Then, turning to Rachel, I asked, “What if the lamb came outside the fence—right here with me?” I patted the grass.

Rachel was nodding. Her smile spread across her tan face. “I’d say it’s an awful
gut
idea, Cousin Merry.” She liked to call me “cousin” because of our distant connection to the same Plain relative.

Usually, I had to smile at her reference to our remote kinship, but not today. Today, something very important was on my mind—more vital than my mother’s idea to run an antique shop out of a backyard shed. Right now
I
hoped to get a lonely and dying lamb’s full attention. Because maybe today Jingle Belle would nurse from the bottle for me. I could only hope…and pray.

Before she embarked on her antique adventure, Mom stopped by the Zooks’ house. There was a familiar glint in her eye as she leaned her head out the car window. “Merry, honey, I thought you’d like to know that Jonathan Klein called as I was leaving the house.”

Jon!
My heart jittered.

“What did he want?” I asked.

She touched one delicate blue earring, a grin adding even more pizzazz to her outfit. “He wanted to talk to
you
. But since I told him you were over here, he said he’ll call you later, in about an hour.”