The Imposter (14 page)

“But one thing is good,” Molly said. “She says she scorns the maxim that children should be seen and not heard.”

“That's probably because she's single,” Jesse said.

“And some big bug is attacking Luke Schrock,” Emily said. “Nearly every day, he gets stung.”

“He's starting to look like he's covered in polka dots.” Lydie pointed to spots all over her neck. “Maybe it's a case of chicken pops.”

“Chicken pox.” Jesse looked up. “Just Luke? No one else.” Interesting.

“Ruthie thinks it's a killer bee,” Molly said.

“Hopes,” Ruthie whispered, eyes on her fork. Jesse heard. So did their father. His gaze went straight to Ruthie, and stayed there, but she was studying a forkful of gray, limp, overcooked string beans.

“Jesse? Jesse, anyone home between your ears?”

Jesse startled, realizing his father was talking to him.

“I asked you how your days were going as a buggy repairman.”

“Sorry, Dad. My thoughts were elsewhere.” Pondering the mystery of Luke Schrock's personalized bug attacks.

“Just what is it you do all day there with Hank, besides keep him company?”

An apt question, not easily answered.

“This, that, and the other,” he replied to his father honestly enough. He doubted that his father would be in favor of the bill collection aspect of his apprenticeship, thus he had decided it would be wise to avoid mentioning it. He held up his dish and plastered a smile on his face. “Molly, how about another helping?”

Molly beamed.

For the next few days, Jesse made a point to put himself in the general location of the schoolhouse around three o'clock. It took that long to catch Yardstick Yoder. When he finally cut him off in a detour and cornered him against a barn, Yardstick held his hands curled tightly into fists, his knuckles white, as if he needed to be prepared at all times to punch someone.

“Look, I'm not going to hurt you. My name's Jesse Stoltzfus. I just want to talk to you.”

The boy was skinny as a broom and stood so rigid, he looked as if he might snap in two in a stiff wind. He scooped the floppy brown hair back from his eyes and met Jesse's gaze with a bleak one. He was even more gaunt-faced than he looked from a distance. “About what?”

Jesse had his answer ready, along with a slight smile. He nudged the boy's bony shoulder. “How'd you like to run in a race?”

Birdy watched the kinetic energy of the children on the playground, their happy shouts lifting up into the sky. Her eyes went to the bird feeder that was attached to a low point
on the schoolhouse roof—safely away from misdirected balls and mischievous boys, but low enough that she could easily reach it to resupply with birdseed. Like right now, she realized, seeing how near empty it was.

In the coatroom, Birdy kept a container of sunflower seeds that she had grown over the summer just for the purpose of feeding her birds. The sunflowers took up most of her garden space, which her sisters-in-law teased her about, but she didn't mind. She loved birds, always had.

A year ago, Will Stoltz, who ran the Wild Bird Rescue Center, knowing of Birdy's bird interests, asked if she might be willing to lead local bird-watching tours. She was flabbergasted when he asked. And thrilled beyond words. She jumped in, loving every minute of it. Early dawn expeditions to Blue Lake Pond to spot a nesting pair of sandhill cranes. Tromping through the woods to seek out a yellow-rumped warbler. Climbing hills to catch sight of a ruby-crowned kinglet.

Then this last summer, Will Stoltz said her tours had developed a following and he wanted to increase tours for the fall migrating birds, plus give her a raise. She was as happy as she'd ever been. It felt as if she had finally found the one thing in the world that she was good at. Until Freeman told her—told her! never
asked
her—she would be teaching school this term.

Teaching school, she was convinced, would not give her the same satisfaction that leading bird tours did. She tried to explain that to her brother, but he wasn't listening. He never listened. It was a common characteristic in her family.

Birdy had always been surrounded by big personalities, starting with her father and mother, then her older brothers.
Freeman was the firstborn, the oldest son. After him came five more boys, like stair steps. Then, when Freeman was twenty, her mother gave birth to Birdy. She had the daughter she'd always longed for.

But Birdy didn't fit, quite literally, the notion her mother had about having a daughter. She was ungainly, awkward, oversized. By the age of fourteen, she was an inch taller than her tallest brother. She preferred being outdoors, regardless of weather, to being stuck indoors with women's work. Her mother did everything well. Birdy did very little well. The harder her mother tried to make Birdy into her image, the more clumsy and self-conscious she became. Her mother passed when Birdy was twenty-one, but her awkwardness remained.

Birdy didn't know how or why or when it happened, but suddenly, in the midst of teaching school one day last week, she felt confident. Competent. Nearly as self-assured as when she led bird tours. For now, she knew that little schoolhouse was where she was meant to be. Even her clumsiness—a hallmark of her life—was leaving her.

She filled up the feeder and stepped back to watch the birds return to the feeder. Two little finches, one gold, one red, had lit on the feeder.

“Which is your true favorite?” His voice moved down her neck like a whisper. David.

He had said he would try to stop by after lunch to teach a Bible class one afternoon this week.

She swallowed. Her heart was pounding. He'd never stood so close to her. “I'm not sure.” She smiled and gave a tiny shrug. “Depends on the day.”

“If you could choose one bird to observe, which would it be?”

She swung around. He had asked just the right question. “Ospreys!” This,
this
was exciting! Unless she was leading a bird-watching tour, hardly anyone ever asked her about birds. “One of my favorite sights is to see a white-and-black osprey fly across a deep blue sky, usually with an unlucky fish in its talons.”

Their eyes met, locked. There was something in his face that touched her like the flutter of bird wings.

He inclined his head. “Oh, I almost forgot. Would you like to come to dinner on Thursday? Katrina is bringing Thelma and wanted you to come too. Our Molly is learning to cook.”

Is Thelma a chaperone or is he being kind? She nodded, holding his gaze.

“Is five thirty early enough?”

Something like hope bloomed in her chest.
Don't
get excited
, said some cynical voice in her head,
he
would never find you appealing
.

The atmosphere had shifted, the air grew taut between them. Then a ball came hurling through the air, breaking the moment. On legs that felt wobbly, she turned and went into the schoolhouse to pull on the bell. Lunch was over, David would teach his class and go back to his life, and she was almost relieved. He was too much, the feeling was too much. But how do you stop a feeling once it begins?

Birdy peeked in the Stoltzfus kitchen at four thirty on Thursday evening—early because she was so excited—to find supper uncooked but Molly bent low to the opened oven. When she saw Birdy, her eyes filled with horror. “Teacher Birdy! This bird refuses to get cooked.”

Pale and dry and flabby, the small turkey lay there in the roaster. Birdy rolled up her sleeves. “If I might make a suggestion, it is time to baste the beast.”

Molly looked doubtful. “What does it mean to baste?”

“Allow me.” Crouching where Molly had been, Birdy spooned the turkey's drippings over the breast and drumsticks. “There, now, that bird has no choice but to cook.”

An hour and a half later, the bird was perfectly cooked. Molly was so excited that she screamed, which brought the girls running into the kitchen. As Birdy carefully placed the turkey on top of the oven, she had to admit, it looked pretty delicious. “And this, girls, is what happens when you baste a bird.”

“Just the bird?” Ruthie said, giggling. “Or you too?”

Birdy looked down at herself. The top of her dress had greasy splatters from the basting of the bird, her face felt flushed from the oven, and she smelled of a roasting turkey.

And in walked David with Mary Mast hanging on to his arm. Mary looked at Birdy with the faintest frown of censure, then lifted a long elegant hand in a slight wave. Mary was so petite, her movements delicate and graceful, couched in femininity yet with undeniable strength, and Birdy found herself wishing she were more like that and less like . . . herself. But she gave them both her best grin.

The sound of his daughters' giggles, as they surrounded Birdy—who stood in the middle of his kitchen with a cockeyed prayer cap and a grease-splattered dress—so startled David that he jerked to a stop.

“Hungry?” Molly said, still smiling, eyes darting between David and his guest.

“Always,” David said with a smile directly at Birdy. Pink touched her cheeks, but they didn't flame. In fact, David felt heat in his own cheeks when she met his glance with a shy smile. But maybe that was just from being out in the sun all afternoon. Still, he was glad to see Birdy there, glad to feel the way she seemed to belong, glad to hear Ruthie and Molly and Lydie and Emily laughing with her.

He felt a tight squeeze on his elbow and realized he had forgotten all about the woman on his arm. Millie? Mona? Good grief, he couldn't remember her name! He didn't even know why she
was
here. He was about to lock up the store to head home for a special meal—Katrina had been unusually emphatic about having a family dinner tonight—and when he turned around, there was Mina.

Margaret? Mindy?

He gave her the beneficent ministerial version of his smile, which was low key and meant to be kindly. She was beaming at him, positively beaming, and walked alongside him all the way back to the house as if he'd invited her.