The Keeper (10 page)

During dinner, Julia decided that Rome was right about one thing: Someone should talk to Paul. Someone like Julia’s best friend Lizzie. Lizzie knew Paul pretty well; she might be able to help sort things out between them. As she drove the buggy down the drive, she saw a stranger standing by the roadside stand, a young lady. She looked up at Julia. It was Annie—the granddaughter of a neighboring Swartzentruber farmer M.K. had dubbed “gnudle Woola,”
curly wool
, making fun of his long hair and untrimmed beard. Julia hadn’t seen Annie since last summer. Then, she was a gangly girl, as slender as a willow reed, as dainty as china. Now, she was a young woman, with generous curves. Pretty too.

Julia pulled the wagon to a stop. “Can I help you, Annie?”

“Menno told me about Lulu’s puppies. He told me to come and see them sometime, so that’s why I’m here.”

“When did you see Menno?”

Annie’s face turned crimson red. She shrugged. “He might have stopped by once or twice.” She spoke in a small, breathy voice. “Menno’s been very nice to me.”

Menno? When would he have stopped by Annie’s farm? “You might be able to find him up at the house. The puppies are in the barn, in an empty horse stall. I’m sure Menno wouldn’t mind if you wanted to look at them.”

Annie started walking up to the house.

A spike of concern rose in Julia. She had to force herself to speak calmly, naturally. “Annie . . . you know that Menno is a special child, don’t you?”

Annie tucked a loose curl behind her ear. “I know he’s special.” She spun around and kept walking, hips curving as she walked.

Julia felt time slowing down a bit, all her senses growing more alert. Menno wouldn’t be sweet on a girl, would he? The thought of Menno getting involved with someone never even occurred to Julia. He’d always been so childlike to her; she thought he always would. Things were so different these days she could hardly understand them.

She wished she could have a conversation with her father about this, let him do the worrying, but then she thought twice about it. The last thing she wanted to give him was something else to fret over.

The horse nickered and Julia turned her thoughts back to her errand. She flicked the reins and the horse lurched the buggy forward before settling into a smooth rhythm. She was eager to talk to Lizzie. She was sure Lizzie would agree with Julia that the blame for Paul’s reluctance could be pinned directly on Roman Troyer. It took everything she had to be polite at dinner. She tried to remember if Lizzie had been one of Rome’s adoring fans. So many girls were. Even her own sister. Sadie stared at Rome during dinner as if he held the moon in his hands. Julia wanted to scold Sadie, to kick her in the shins, to warn her it was the same smile he gave everyone. Rome Troyer might not be hideous looking, but he was effortlessly charming, far too confident—he thought he was something. At least she was glad that would be the last dinner she’d have to share with Rome Troyer this year.

As she turned onto Rose Hill Farm, she saw that Lizzie already had a visitor. A familiar horse and buggy rested at the top of the drive. It was Paul’s buggy and sorrel mare.

She stopped the horse, heart pounding, then turned the buggy around and left.

Sadie and M.K. hurried to gather a list of things Fern wrote down: buckets, brooms, mops, Clorox, ammonia, and rags. Fern told Menno to harness his pony to the cart, and the girls piled everything on the cart. Then Fern added more things: towels, sheets and pillows, a blanket or two, and rag rugs.

“What do you have on your mind, Fern?” Sadie asked, but Fern wouldn’t answer.

She led them out to a small cottage on the far edge of the property. It had been the original house. Amos’s great-grandfather had been born in it. Later, his grandfather built the large farmhouse closer to the hilltop because he liked the view. Amos added the red windmill.

Fern took an old key from her apron and jimmied the door open. She walked in, swatting cobwebs. The others tentatively followed. Fern walked around, examining the cottage.

Fern told Menno to get the supplies out of the pony cart and bring them in. The four of them spent the next two hours sweeping out dirt and more than a few dead mice, dusting, scrubbing, washing windows. She sent Menno back up to the house for more supplies, including a bed frame and mattress from the attic.

When they were done, Fern looked it all over, gave a satisfied nod of her head. “It’ll do just fine.”

“I’m just not sure Roman Troyer is going to want to live here,” Sadie said. “He likes being known as the wandering type. What’s this going to do to his reputation?”

“His reputation will just have to survive,” Fern said decidedly.

At seven o’clock, Rome walked in from the orchards, washed up at the hose spigot, and was suddenly interrupted by Fern.

“Come with us,” she said. Ordered was a better word. And how did she always seem to appear out of thin air?

M.K. ran out the kitchen door and leaped off the porch, landing by Rome’s feet. She was nearly beside herself with excitement.

“Don’t you tell, Mary Kate,” Menno warned as he joined them.

“I won’t!” M.K. shook her head, dimples flashing.

M.K. grabbed Rome’s hand and pulled him along, down past the fields and through a wooded area. She chattered like a magpie the entire way, pointing out bats and lightning bugs and owls. Sadie was on his other side, quiet, looking so pleased she might burst with happiness. Fern and Menno brought up the end.

When they reached the top of a hill, M.K. couldn’t contain herself any longer. “Look, Rome.” Then, more impatiently, “Look!” She pointed down the path. He almost missed it. A small, weathered cottage, made out of clapboard.

Pine needles dusted the shingled roof and four spindly candlestick posts held up the rickety porch. The once-white paint had grayed and the shutters had faded to a dull green. It was really old-fashioned, with firewood stacked on the porch. The fireplace was the house’s best feature; it was made of stacked fieldstone. The windows glowed with yellow lantern light.

M.K. ran to the porch and stood by the door. Rome saw that there was no knob on the door, just a string latch arrangement.

“Hurry, hurry, hurry,” she said. “Open it!”

He eased up the latch, and the door swung open. They walked into the living area, which had bare wooden floors and two windows. The main room had little furniture: an overstuffed sofa topped with a quilt, a painted three-drawer chest, and a table holding a kerosene lamp. A potbellied stove sat in a corner. Rome peeked into the bedroom. There was a charming bed with a curlicue iron headboard covered in chipped white paint.

“Fern thought the kitchen could be the room for your honey equipment, since it’s got a door to the outside,” M.K. said. “There’s good sunlight and the linoleum floor can be easily washed.”

“In case it gets sticky, Fern told us,” Menno said.

Rome looked around the kitchen. A table and two chairs. A shelf with some cans of food. Pegs on the wall, and a blue coffeepot on the stove. He walked from room to room, first once, then twice.

Finally, M.K. couldn’t stand it any longer. “Will you stay? Oh Rome, will you stay?” Her small face was shining with excitement.

He gave a nod; he didn’t trust his voice.

“Fine, then,” Fern said. “Everyone, clear out and let the man have some peace and quiet.” Before she left, she added in her dictatorial way, “You’ll take your evening meals with us.”

Rome stood out on the front porch, watching the four of them head up the path until they reached the top and disappeared down the other side. It was so quiet.

His heart hammered.

This was home. “Dibs,” he said softly.

6

S
ix years ago, Roman Troyer was almost twenty, a typical Amish farm boy. Born and raised in Holmes County, Ohio, where his father owned a sixty-acre dairy. The farm had originally belonged to Rome’s grandfather, then his father, and Rome grew up understanding it would one day be his. He was his father’s only son, the eldest, with four younger sisters. Rome’s mother was the beekeeper in the family. She had several hives of brown bees that she nurtured and protected. Folks drove long distances to stock up on her sweet clover honey. It was the best, the very best.

Two months before Rome turned twenty, his family hired a van and driver to attend the wedding of Rome’s uncle, his father’s eldest brother, who was finally marrying at the age of fifty-one. His bride was marrying for the first time too, late in life. The two had exchanged letters for over two years before meeting face-to-face and then waited another six months to marry. They were cautious types, his uncle had said. The wedding was a distance, at the bride’s house, so Rome volunteered to stay home and take care of the dairy cows. His family and his uncle were on their way to the wedding when a recreational vehicle had skidded on ice and sideswiped the van. They crashed into the guardrail. It wasn’t anyone’s fault, the highway patrolman explained when he came to tell Rome what had happened. It was wintertime, and the roads were icy. It was just one of those things, he told Rome.

But it wasn’t fair how things happened without warning. Rome had woken up that morning to life as usual. Someone’s vehicle skidded on ice, a family was wiped out, and his whole reality was changed forever. Rome had lost everyone. He was left orphaned, although that wasn’t really a word he wanted to attach to himself. He was, after all, nearly twenty. An adult.

After the funerals, Rome sold off the dairy cows and other livestock at an auction—even his favorite buggy horse. No attachments, not even to a horse. The only things he kept were his mother’s beehives. He built a specially designed wagon to hold the beehives, leased the fields to a neighbor, bought a mule to pull the bee wagon, locked the house up tight, and left it all. He ended up in Lancaster County, though it wasn’t by design. All that he knew about Lancaster County was that there were plenty of crops needing bees and plenty of Amish, and that no one knew him.

Amos Lapp found him one April day. Rome was camping out by Blue Lake Pond, after an early fishing trip. He had made a small campfire to cook his breakfast. The morning fog hugged the lake’s surface. The trees weren’t leafed out yet, but blossoms were starting to swell. Out of nowhere, Amos tapped on his shoulder. “You lost?”

Rome jumped up, spilling his coffee into the campfire. “No. No, I’m not.”

But the words rang uncertain and Amos cocked his head to one side, taking a step closer, his fishing pole and line dangling at his side. “Those are your beehives?”

“Yes. They are.”

Amos sat down beside the campfire.

He watched Rome with a deepening frown, then his eyes rounded upward in a wise, tender curve. “That hair of yours could fool a fellow. You’re awfully young.”

“I’m not so young,” Rome answered, and Amos leaned closer, smiling slightly, as if he were trying to figure him out.

Amos looked at him, looked at the beehives, and said, “Are you and your bees looking for work?”

Rome didn’t even think about it. “Yes, we are. I mean, I am.”

Amos wrinkled his forehead. “You wouldn’t happen to know how to play chess, would you?”