The Haven (28 page)

His father looked at him sharply. Another awkward silence fell.

“Maybe . . . we could start again. You know . . . this time as father and son. Instead of . . . brilliant brain surgeon and numbskull protégé.”

To his surprise, his father’s eyes closed in pain. “I . . . wouldn’t know where to begin.”

His total helplessness touched Will. This wasn’t easy for his father. “Maybe you could just give it a try.”

The water started to boil then, rolling, gurgling bubbles. “Let me show you how we used to wash dishes on the farm,” his father said, rolling up his sleeves.

As Will and his father scrubbed and rinsed and dried dishes together, they started to talk. It was clumsy, uncomfortable, stilted, painfully awkward. It was wonderful.

After Will said goodbye to Amos and Fern and M.K., he jerked his head to the side in a silent bid for a private conversation with Sadie. He turned to his father. “There are a few things I need to discuss with Sadie. Could you give us a moment of privacy?”

His father told him he would wait in the car for him. Once Sadie followed Will outside, he didn’t waste time. He knew M.K. was watching them from the family room window, but he didn’t care. He took both her hands in his and said, “Let me get the worst of this over straight off. Gideon Smucker is absolutely correct. I came to Windmill Farm with the intention of doing something illegal. I was going to try and sell a falcon chick to a private breeder. Then he wanted two chicks. Then three. I needed the money and I was going to do it, Sadie.”

She gasped. Other than the sharp inhalation of breath, she neither spoke nor moved.

“In the end, I couldn’t see it through. That’s why I called my father today. That’s why I’m leaving tonight.” He took a step closer to her. “Sadie, I care for you in a way I’ve never cared for a girl before. I couldn’t leave here without telling you. I came here as one kind of man, but I’m leaving as another. I’m a better man because of you.” The words slipped out as though his tongue belonged to someone else. He didn’t try to snatch them back or pretend he hadn’t confessed something so serious aloud. Will opened his mouth to comment on her lack of reaction, then realized this must be what she was like as she listened to her clients spill forth their problems—she seemed calm and still and ready to hear anything. “Have you nothing to say to me, Sadie? No words of goodbye?”

Finally, she looked up, her eyes filled with tears. She looked at him as if she was memorizing his features. Then she brushed his cheek with her lips. It wasn’t the kiss he wanted. It was a kiss for a child, with something final in it, something of a farewell. Yet she moved nearer than she probably meant to. He wasn’t just looking for a sign; he knew—deep down, he knew—something in her wanted him to take her in his arms. He knew it, and he knew she wouldn’t let it happen. Sadie who never wavered might have come near the brink, but she stepped back again.

“We’ll meet again, you know,” Will said.

“Will we?” she said, sounding as if she didn’t believe him. Her eyes became blurry and she turned away, but he put his hand under her chin and made her look at him.

“I need to get some things sorted out . . . like, my whole life. But I promise you that we will meet again.” He cupped her face with his hands. “Sadie, you and me, what we have—it wouldn’t have been the end of the world if we’d seen it through.”

She lifted her eyes and looked at him as if she couldn’t believe she’d heard him right. “But Will, it would have been the end of my world.”

Sadie followed Dr. Stoltz’s car out of the driveway, waving until her arm ached. She wondered if she’d ever set eyes on Will again, wondered if what he had said might someday come true. Would they ever meet again? She’d had a sense from the beginning to hold onto him lightly.

Pity for Will welled inside her, along with sadness for what he’d missed in his life. He didn’t seem to know what he had been lacking until he saw it this spring with the Lapps. Yet she could see something had shifted inside of him today. The time he spent at Windmill Farm was no accident. It was a chapter in Will’s book, but the ending wasn’t written yet. That would be up to Will. “May God go with you,” she said aloud, as the car’s brake lights went on, preparing to round the bend in the road.

Just as the car turned toward the bend in the road, a buggy appeared on the opposite side. A long pole stuck out of the buggy window, and on it, a blue bird feeder. The car honked loudly and then swerved dramatically to avoid the bird feeder. In the buggy was Gid, heading up to Windmill Farm. He waved to Sadie from down the road, using his left hand, still in a large white cast. Sadie knew he had built the blue bird feeder to replace the one he had ruined in the ridiculous tussle with Will. It was a silly sight, really, to see a bird feeder sticking out of one side of the buggy and a big white cast waving to her from the other side.

Gid pulled over to the side of the road as he reached the end of the driveway. “I brought you a new bird feeder.” He picked up a dinner dish with a hole drilled in the center and held it up to her. “The squirrel thingamajig too.”

Sadie looked at the bird feeder. “How did you ever manage to build it with a broken hand?”

He shrugged. “Simple.”

“Nothing’s simple, Gid,” she said. She lifted her eyes to gaze at him. “But you know that.”

The tips of his ears began to turn pink. “Well, you can test it out when I finish installing it.”

She took her time, paying attention to her words as she always did. Tilting her head. Taking him in. His eyes found hers, and she felt her mouth curve, offering him a shy smile. “That’s all right,” Sadie said. “I think it’s going to work.”

1. This story begins like the child’s game of telephone—Mary Kate tells exciting news about Sadie to her friend, who tells another friend, and another. Soon, the story spreads like wildfire. Have you ever been the victim of a hurtful rumor? Certainly, most of us have participated in them. What is the difference between sharing information and spreading gossip? This Amish proverb might help: “There is a vast difference between putting your nose in other people’s business and putting your heart in other people’s problems.”
   
2. Will Stoltz could charm even a crying baby with ease, yet he kept himself carefully hidden behind that casual, lighthearted facade. Have you ever met someone like Will—easy to like but hard to know? How did your feelings about Will change after you learn more about his father? How did his autocratic father affect him?
   
3. Oddly enough, Sadie—from an Amish community—felt free to choose the life she wanted. Will—from a wealthy, professional family—felt no such freedom. What’s behind that irony? What does it say to you about choices?
   
4. As Sadie found her purpose as a healer, she started to bloom—just as Fern had hoped she would. Have you ever found yourself blooming unexpectedly? In what way? Or maybe you have a dream that hasn’t yet been realized. Are there people in your life who could help you realize that dream? If not, pray that God will bring an encourager, like Fern, or a mentor, like Old Deborah Yoder, into your life.
   
5. How did Sadie’s friendship with Will help her to become a more confident person? Do you think Sadie’s newly acquired boldness might have backfired on Will as he attempted to romance her? In what way?
   
6. What a fluke!
   Will thinks. “To end up on a quiet Amish farm and find himself reenergized, renewed, inside out. But it didn’t feel like a fluke. It seemed that this place, Stoney Ridge and the people here, had been prepared for him, designed ahead of time as a nurturing nest, a soft place from which to grow new wings.” Have you had a similar experience of God’s provision in an unexpected way?
   
7. Free will is a theme in
   The Haven
   —for the falcons; for Will—who is flirting with the wrong side of the law; for Annie—a young mother who abandons her baby. Each has a choice to make and consequences to bear. In what way does that parallel God’s relationship to us?
   
8. Do you think Annie deserves a second chance? Discuss how you felt about the way the Lapps handled Annie’s return.
   
9. In order for Annie to succeed, the help of the Amish community will clearly be needed. How can strong communities—churches or neighborhoods or circles of friendships—help when a member struggles through difficult situations? When has your community helped you in a time of need?
   
10. Amos believes that trust is a fundamental part of the relationship between a falconer and his falcon. When the falconer releases the falcon, it has a choice to return. What message is he trying to get through to Will’s father? Is there someone in your life whom you have to “let go”? So much of the Christian life is about trusting God. How can you trust that, as you let go, you are really handing that individual into God’s care?
    
11. The story doesn’t end with the reader knowing, without any doubt, who Sadie will end up loving—Gideon Smucker or Will Stoltz. How would you finish Sadie’s love story? Which young man do you think Sadie will ultimately choose, or which one should she?
    

I
n the writing of this book, I had the pleasure of learning about the art of falconry through Kit Daine, falconer extraordinaire. Kit provided more than just information—she gave me a sense of the rare and wonderful bond of trust between a falcon and its trainer. Thank you, Kit, for your time and for sharing some valuable resources. A heartfelt high five to Mela Brasset, for linking me to Kit. And a grateful shout-out to Cheryl Harner, president of the Greater Mohican Audubon Society and blogger behind the Weedpicker’s Journal (http://cherylharner.blogspot.com).

On the publishing end, my gratitude goes to the incredible group at Revell. To Andrea Doering and Barb Barnes, thank you for being everything a writer could hope for in editors. Thanks for your guidance, astute suggestions, and encouragement, and for helping Stoney Ridge come to life.

To the crew in marketing, publicity, and art (Deonne, Twila, Michele, Janelle, Claudia, Donna, Cheryl)—I so admire the awesome job you do in bringing the books to the shelves. To my agent, Joyce Hart, thanks for taking care of business so I can focus on writing.

Gratitude beyond measure goes out to reader friends, far and near. Thank you for sharing the books with friends, recommending them to book clubs, and taking time to send little notes of encouragement my way via email and Facebook. Thank you, all of you, for being a blessing, a joy, and a treasure. I hope you find a few treasures of your own in Stoney Ridge, and that this story returns the joy and the blessings in some small measure.

Last but never least, an over-the-top, words-can’t-express thank-you to God for the opportunity to write stories of faithful people.

Sneak Preview of

The Lesson

Stoney Ridge Seasons • Book 3

Suzanne Woods Fisher

Available January 2013

The year Mary Kate Lapp turned nineteen started out fine enough. Life seemed full of endless possibilities. But as the year went on, a terrible restlessness began to grow inside of her, like sour yeast in a jar of warm water on a sunny windowsill. There were days when she thought she couldn’t stand another moment in this provincial little town, and days when she thought she could never leave.

On a sun-drenched afternoon, M.K. was zooming along on her red scooter past an English farmer’s sheep pasture, with a book propped above the handlebars—a habit that her stepmother, Fern, scolded her about relentlessly. She was just about to live happily ever after with the story’s handsome hero when a very loud
Bwhoom!
suddenly interrupted her reading.

Most folks would have turned tail and run, but not M.K. She might have considered it, but as usual, curiosity got the best of her. She zoomed back down the street, hopped off her scooter, climbed up on the fence, and there she saw him—an English sheep farmer in overalls, sprawled flat on the ground with a large rifle next to him. The frightened sheep were huddled in the far corner of the pasture. Doozy, M.K.’s big old yellow dog of dubious ancestry, elected to stay behind with the scooter.

M.K. wasn’t sure what to do next. Should she see if the sheep farmer was still alive? He didn’t look alive. He looked very, very dead. She wouldn’t know what to do, anyway—healing bodies was her sister Sadie’s department. And what if the murderer were close by? Nosir. She was brave, but she had to draw the line somewhere.

But she could go to the phone shanty by the schoolhouse and make a 911 call for the police. So that’s what she did. She waited at the phone shanty until she heard the sirens and saw the revolving lights on top of the sheriff’s car. Then she jumped on her scooter and hurried back to the sheep pasture.

The sheriff walked over to ask M.K. if she was the one who had called 911. She had known Sheriff Hoffman all her life. He was a pleasant-looking man with a short haircut, brown going gray around his ears, and a permanent suntan. Tall and impressive in his white uniform shirt and crisp black pants, radio clipped to one hip, gun holster on the other. He questioned M.K. about every detail she could recall—which wasn’t much, other than a loud gunshot. She didn’t even know the farmer’s name. The sheriff took a pen from his back pocket and started taking notes. (What would he write?
Amish witness knows nothing. Absolutely nothing.
) But he did tell her she did the right thing by not disturbing the crime scene. He took her name and address and said he might be contacting her for more questions.

M.K. stuck around, all ears about whatever she could overhear, fascinated by the meager clues the police were trying to piece together. When the county coroner arrived in his big black van, M.K. decided she had gleaned all she could. Besides, the trees were throwing long shadows. The sun would be setting soon and she should get home to let her father and Fern know about the murder. It was alarming news!

She took a shortcut through the town of Stoney Ridge to reach Windmill Farm as fast as she could but was intercepted by her friend Jimmy Fisher. Standing in front of the Sweet Tooth Bakery, he called to her, then ran alongside and grabbed the handlebars of her scooter to stop her. She practically flew headfirst over the handlebars.

Men! So oblivious.

“I need your help with something important,” Jimmy said.

“Can’t,” M.K. said, pushing his hands off her scooter. “I’m in a big hurry.” She started pumping her leg on the ground to build up speed. Doozy puffed and panted alongside her.

“It won’t take long!” Jimmy sounded wounded. “What’s your big hurry?”

“Can’t tell you!” she told him, and she meant it. The sheriff had warned her not to say anything to anyone, with the exception of her family, until they had gathered more information. She felt a prick of guilt and looked back at Jimmy, who had stopped abruptly when she brushed him off. She liked that he was a little bit scared of her, especially because he was older and much too handsome for his own good.

She glanced back and saw him cross the road to head into the Sweet Tooth Bakery where her friend Ruthie worked. Good! Let Ruthie solve Jimmy’s problem this time. M.K. was always helping him get out of scrapes and tight spots. That boy had a proclivity for trouble. Always had.

Distracted by the dead body and then by Jimmy Fisher, M.K. made a soaring right turn near the Smuckers’ goat farm, and possibly—just possibly—forgot to look both ways before she turned. Her scooter ended up bumping into Alice Smucker, the schoolteacher at Twin Creeks where M.K. had spent eight long years, as Alice was herding goats across the road into an empty pasture.

A tiny collision with a scooter and Alice refused to get to her feet. “I AM CONCUSSED!” she called out. M.K. was convinced that Alice was prejudiced against her. And she was so dramatic. She insisted M.K. call for an ambulance.

Two 911 calls in one day—it was more excitement than M.K. could bear. She hoped the dispatcher didn’t recognize her voice and think she was a crank caller. She wasn’t! Nosir.

Naturally, M.K. waited until the ambulance arrived to swoop away with Alice, who was hissing with anger. When M.K. offered to accompany Alice to the hospital—she knew it was the right thing to do, though the offer came with gritted teeth—Alice glared at her.

“You stay away from me, Mary Kate Lapp!” she snapped, before she swooned in a faint.

Alice. So dramatic.

After M.K. rounded up the goats and returned them to the Smuckers’ pasture, she arrived at Windmill Farm, her home and final destination. She couldn’t wait to tell her father and Fern about the news! She was sorry for the sheep farmer—after all, she wasn’t heartless. But finally, something interesting had happened in this town. It was big news—there had never been a murder in Stoney Ridge. And she had been the first one on the scene.

Well, to be accurate—and Fern was constantly telling her not to exaggerate—M.K. wasn’t
quite
on the scene. But she did hear the gunshot! She absolutely did.

She knew Fern would be irritated with her for being so late for dinner. Fern was a stickler about . . . well, about most everything. But especially about being late for dinner. The unfortunate incident with Alice Smucker had slowed her down even more. The accident did bother M.K.—she would never intentionally run into anyone. Especially not Alice Smucker. Of all people!

M.K. set the scooter against the barn. She heard her mare, Cayenne, whinny for her, so she went into the barn, filled up the horse’s bucket with water, and closed the stall door. She latched it tightly, her mind a whirl of details. It wasn’t until she had pulled the latch that she noticed her father’s horse and buggy were gone. She peered through the dusty barn window and saw that the house was pitch dark, its windows not showing any soft lampshine. Where could her father and Fern have gone? They were always home at this time of day. Always, always, always.

This day just kept getting stranger.

****

Guilt pinched the edges of Chris Yoder’s conscience. Old Deborah had taught him better manners than to ignore a neighbor’s greeting, but he wasn’t interested in being neighborly. All that interested him was fixing up his grandfather’s house. For now, it was a disaster. It looked as if a good puff of wind would be all that was required to bring the house tumbling down.

Jenny turned around to peer out the buggy window. “I think she was hoping you would stop and say hello, Chris. She’s seems like such a nice old lady.”

“Can’t,” Chris said. “Gotta get home.” Erma Yutzy was a very nice old lady, and he had done some odd jobs for her, but she liked to talk and he could never find a way to break in and excuse himself. But it wasn’t just that he wanted to avoid Erma Yutzy today. He was always in a touchy mood after a trip to town. People were everywhere—on the sidewalks, in the stores, riding bikes, eating ice cream cones, sipping expensive coffees. As if nothing bad could happen. As if nothing could hurt them or threaten their sense of security.

“This isn’t going to work,” Jenny whispered. “We’re going to get caught.”

Chris glanced over at his thirteen-year-old sister. The last few months had taken a toll on her. She had always been a worrier. She worried about everything and everybody. “It’s been working for over six weeks now, Jenny. If we were going to have a problem, we would have had it by now. I think we’re home free.” He didn’t entirely believe that, but he knew it was best to ease Jenny’s concern.

Jenny’s chin jutted forward. “Plunking me in school is the worst idea you’ve ever had.”

“No, it’s not,” Chris said. “You need schooling. And I need you to not be underfoot.”

“I’m going to need new shoes for school.” She scowled at him. “We can’t afford them.”

She had him there. He had no cash to spare, but he had been prepared for lean times. And he wasn’t going to let a few dollars stop his sister from getting an education. Schooling was something he didn’t take for granted.

“Think of school as an adventure. Something new.” Chris kept the smile on his face and the worry out of his voice.

Jenny leaned her head against the window and closed her eyes.

For a moment he was lost in another time of his life, another season. Was it only two months ago? It seemed like much longer. That was the week that Old Deborah, as close to a grandmother to him as anyone ever would be, passed to her glory.

Hours before she had died, she had covered his hand with hers. “Every now and then, Chris, life throws you something you’d never have chosen in a million years. I know that’s how you feel right now.”

He looked into her tired brown eyes. “How am I going to do it?”

She smiled. “The Lord taught us to pray, ‘Give us
this
day our daily bread.’ We’re supposed to live one day at a time, not to borrow another day’s troubles.”

One day at a time. That’s how they had been living ever since they arrived in Stoney Ridge two weeks ago, but he hadn’t expected things to be this hard. They were scraping by on a wing and a prayer. But there were good things, too. They were settling into a new home. He had picked up some odd jobs, like mowing Erma Yutzy’s lawn, that provided ready cash. Just today he had gotten a tip at the hardware store about a man named Amos Lapp who needed a fellow to help with fieldwork because he had some heart trouble. Wasn’t that a sign of God’s just-in-time providence?

A whinny from his horse made him smile. Chris had a magnificent thoroughbred horse, Samson, that he had raised since he was a foal. The stallion was a legacy from Old Deborah, along with the knowledge that a little piece of real estate in Stoney Ridge was waiting, intended for him from his grandfather. It was a start.

He exhaled. One day at a time.

****

After Jimmy Fisher watched Mary Kate Lapp charge up the road, he started to head to the Sweet Tooth Bakery but changed his mind. He wasn’t really in the mood to try to talk to Ruthie today—she often burst into a fit of giggles when she was around him. Plus, it was getting late and he knew his mother would be wondering where he was. Chore time on the chicken-and-egg farm.

He had really wanted to talk to M.K. She would have a good idea about how he should proceed. Much better than Ruthie. M.K., for all her shortcomings, was very reliable about these kinds of things.

Jimmy was in love. At a horse auction in Leola—his favorite pastime—he had noticed an attractive young Amish woman who was selling a two-year-old brindled mare. He couldn’t take his eyes off that girl. Shiny auburn hair, snapping green eyes. And tall! He’d always wanted to marry a tall woman. It was a dire disappointment to Jimmy that he wasn’t as tall as his brother, Paul. Jimmy wasn’t tall at all, but he held himself very straight as if to make the most of what he had. He planned to rectify that genetic flaw for the next generation. Tall was good. It was number five on his list of critical requirements for his future wife.

The brindled mare had fetched a good price, and the young woman was saying goodbye to the horse, tears streaming down her face. Jimmy was touched. Three heartbeats later, he tracked down the auctioneer to find out to whom the mare had belonged. The auctioneer was taking a break behind the large canvas tent while the horse lot was being changed. A stub of a cigar hung from his mouth as he eyed Jimmy. “Why do you want to know?”

“I had an interest in that brindled mare,” Jimmy said. That was true. It wasn’t a lie. He was more interested in the mare’s owner than the mare, but he wasn’t lying. “Just wondered if they might be breeders or not.” Jimmy kicked a rock on the ground with the toe of his boot. “Giving some thought to becoming a breeder myself. Just thought I’d talk to her, ah, him.” He cleared his throat, tried to act nonchalant.

The auctioneer threw the cigar stub on the ground and rubbed it out with his shoe. “I thought you Amish knew everybody, anyway.”

“A common misperception,” Jimmy said.
Along with assuming we look alike and think alike and act alike.
He nearly said that part out loud, but held back, given that he had become so mature lately. Still, it rankled him how the non-Amish lumped the Amish into one-size-fits-all.