The Search (3 page)

Lainey shook her head.

“No, Ellie. She doesn’t smoke.” Mrs. Stroot covered the mouthpiece again. “Any pets?”

Lainey shook her head again.

“Weekly or monthly?”

“Weekly,” Lainey said. “Definitely weekly. I don’t plan to be here long, you see . . .” She gave up. Mrs. Stroot wasn’t listening. She was asking her sister for today’s update on
General Hospital
.

Lainey had to admit that God had a funny way of answering her prayers. As she set out on her road trip to New York, she had prayed that God would direct her path while she drove through Stoney Ridge. She wanted to visit only one person—Bertha Riehl. Here she was, just a few hours later, and she was employed—even though she wasn’t looking for a job. And it happened to be doing the one thing in the world that Lainey loved to do: bake.

Less than ten minutes after arriving in Stoney Ridge, Lainey had a place to live and a job to bring in some cash so she wouldn’t have to dig into her culinary school tuition money. Her car, the mechanic said, was a lost cause. She thought that was God’s idea of a joke. He directed her path all right. To a dead stop.

The house was painfully quiet. Jonah glanced at the clock in the kitchen and counted forward an hour. Bess would be in Stoney Ridge by now, probably at Rose Hill Farm. There were hundreds of reminders of his daughter throughout the house, more than he had ever been conscious of. Dozens of images of Bess at different ages rolled through his mind: taking her first wobbly steps as a toddler, dashing to the mailbox each afternoon to meet the mailman, running barefoot from house to barn and back to house.

Taking a sip of coffee from his mug, he lifted the pages on the calendar hanging by the window and counted off. Just twelve weeks to go and she’d be back.

He wondered how Bess and his mother would be getting along. He hoped Bess would let him know just how sick his mother was. He felt worried about her, and that was a new feeling for him. In the letter, his mother said she was pining for her granddaughter and off her feed. It troubled him, that letter. It wasn’t like his mother to pine. Or to be off her feed. She had a mighty appetite. He never remembered her ailing, not once, not even with a head cold.

He sighed. Something wasn’t adding up. Either his mother’s health was truly a concern or . . . she was up to something.

Just then, Jonah saw his neighbor and particular friend, Sallie Stutzman, coming up the drive with a casserole dish in her arms. He set down the coffee cup and went to see what Sallie had in that dish. It had been only a few hours since Bess had left, and he was already tired of his own cooking. And he was lonely.

Bess was a quick learner. After one buggy ride with her grandmother, she had already figured that she should hold tight to the edge of the seat so she wouldn’t slide off and land on the buggy floor when Mammi took the curves. Her grandmother drove through those country roads like a teenage boy, the buggy leaning precariously to the side. She made a tight right turn and, suddenly, there it was: Rose Hill Farm.

The farm sat in a gentle valley surrounded by rolling hills, with fields fed by a secluded, spring-fed pond. The farmhouse—a rambling house with white clapboard siding and a brick foundation—was even prettier than Bess remembered. Three years ago, when she was here for her grandfather’s funeral, she remembered being impressed by the neatness of the fields, the trimmed hedges, and the cherry trees that bordered the drive. It was the same today. Her grandmother may be ancient, but she had kept up the farm in good condition, that was plain to see.

A perfume wafted past Bess, and her eyes traveled to the fields that surrounded the house: acres and acres of blooming roses in what used to be pastures. The roses were at their peak. Pinks and reds and yellows and oranges blurred together to create a collage of color. Bess remembered that her grandmother had written awhile back that she had started a small business selling rose petal jams and jellies. But
this
—this was more than a small business.

Mammi stopped the horse under a shade tree next to a hitching rail. “We’d best get to work.”

Oh no. Bess clutched her forehead. “On my first day here?”

Mammi lifted a sparse eyebrow. “Es hot sich noch niemand dodschafft.”
Nobody ever worked to death.

Boomer let out an ear-busting woof and leaped out of the buggy to run to the fields. Mammi hopped out of the buggy and reached a large hand to pull Bess forward by the arm. She stopped dead and aimed a stern look at Bess. “A little work might put a little muscle on them bones.”

There were moments, like this one, when Bess thought it would be simpler to be English. On the bus this morning, a little girl wanted her mother to give her a snack, and when her mother refused she broke down and bawled. That’s just what Bess would like to do right now, break down and bawl. Of course, she couldn’t.

But oh! she was hot and tired from the bus trip and frustrated at what she had just figured out. She came to Stoney Ridge on a mission of mercy for her ailing grandmother, and the truth was that she was nothing more than another pair of hands—to pick roses. For an entire summer! Her father was right. Her grandmother was sneaky. Bess wished she had just stayed home and worked with her father on their farm. She missed him terribly. Far more than she had expected she would.

Bess heard Boomer bark again and she looked to see why the dog was causing such a ruckus. Boomer was standing on his hind legs, licking the face of a boy—or was it a young man?—and ended up knocking off his straw hat.

“That’s Billy Lapp,” Mammi said. “He’s my hired help.”

The boy pushed Boomer off of him and reached down to pat the dog’s big head. Then he bent down and picked up his straw hat, knocking it on his knee a few times to shake off the dirt. Billy Lapp looked to be about seventeen or eighteen years old. Man-sized. When he stood and his eyes met hers, Bess felt her heart give a simple thump. Clearly Amish by his clothes and haircut, he was tall, broad-shouldered, with curly brown hair and roguish eyes rimmed with dark eyebrows. Hands down, he was the best-looking boy Bess had ever laid eyes on. Her heart was beating so strangely now, she thought she might fall down and faint.

Things were looking up.

2

______

By the time Bess woke the next morning, she could hear Mammi banging pots and pans down in the kitchen. She dressed fast, already worried by yesterday’s hints that her grandmother thought she had a lazy streak. She flew down the stairs expecting to encounter a hands-on-the-hips disapproving frown, but Mammi stood in front of the range at her usual place, on gray-speckled linoleum that was worn to the floorboards. With her thumb, she pointed to the table, already set with two places. Bess slipped into her chair and Mammi slid a belly-busting breakfast in front of her.

“How do you like your eggs poached?”

“Is there more than one kind of poached egg?” Bess asked.

“Runny, soft, or hard?”

Bess looked startled. “My yolks always end up hard.”

Her grandmother flipped an egg timer. “Three minutes for runny, four for soft, five for hard.”

“Dad and I poach eggs for fifteen minutes.”

Mammi snorted. “A yolk like that could double for a rubber ball.”

Bess grinned. Blackie had done just that with a yolk, patting it around on the ground with his paws. Her father had suggested Blackie be included in a game of kickball after church one Sunday.

Where was Blackie, anyway? He had disappeared the moment he was let out of that hamper and caught full sight of Boomer, head to tail. Mammi told her not to worry, that Blackie would find a place to live in the barn. Bess was horrified. She tried to explain that Blackie was a house cat and Mammi only scoffed. “Animals belong outside.” Boomer apparently didn’t qualify as an animal, because he had followed Mammi right into the house and stayed by her side like a shadow.

They bowed their heads and then dug into the meal. They ate in silence for a long while until Mammi asked, “What’s your father got growing in his fields right now?”

Bess cracked the poached egg with her spoon and pulled off the shell in pieces. “He’s leased out the fields to a neighbor.”

Mammi broke up her egg over a piece of toast so that the yellow yolk oozed over it. “He’s not farming?”

Bess looked up, surprised. “Well, his bad back made it too hard for him. So last year he started a furniture-making business and it’s done well. He has orders piled up for months.” Bess poured molasses into her oatmeal. She would have thought Mammi would have known such a thing. She seemed to know everything, often before it happened. But her grandmother was stunned to silence, a silence so thick that Bess could hear a wasp buzzing on the windowsill.

Mammi remained deep in thought. “It wonders me. To think of my Jonah without a farm to tend.” She took off her spectacles and polished them. Then she reached into her apron pocket and pulled out a handkerchief to blow her nose. A loud honk that rattled the windows. “Allergies,” she muttered, but Bess couldn’t be fooled that easily. It shocked her, finding a tender spot in her grandmother. Mammi quickly recovered. She handed Bess a jar of pale pink jam. “Put that on your toast.”

Bess spread some on it and took a bite. Her eyes went wide. “Oh Mammi. Oh my. Oh my goodness. Is this your rose petal jam?”

“It is,” Mammi said. “It’s the food of angels, if they have a choice.”

Bess took more jam from the jar and spread it all over her toast, right to the edges. She took a large bite and chewed thoughtfully. It was the most delicate, delicious flavor she had ever tasted.

Mammi tried to hide a smile at Bess’s rapturous expression with a swallow of coffee. “So what else is your dad doing?”

“Not much,” she said, reaching for a spoonful of jam. “Well, except . . . he’s given some thought lately to getting married again.”

Mammi raised an eyebrow. “About time.”

She shrugged. “You know Dad. He acts like a sheep that spooks and runs off at the slightest mention of marriage. He says it’s because his heart belonged only to my mother.”

Mammi nodded.

Bess took a bite of toast. She took another bite, chewed, and swallowed, then frowned. “But there’s a neighbor lady who’s wearing down his matrimonial resistance.” She hoped the glum note didn’t sound in her voice.

“En grossi Fraa un en grossi Scheier sin kem Mann ken Schaade.”
A big wife and a big barn will do a man no harm.

Bess shrugged. “It’s not that. I want Dad to find a wife . . .”

She felt Mammi staring at her, hard. “What’s wrong with her?”

“Oh, nothing. She’s . . . real cheerful. And talkative. Cheerful and talkative.”
Professionally cheerful.

Mammi raised an eyebrow. “Our Jonah is a catch.”

Bess knew that. Her dad was a fine-looking man. Even her friends said so. And he was young, only thirty-five. He was well thought of in their community, by men and women alike, and nearly every single female in their district—plus two neighboring districts—had set their cap for him. Cookies and pies, invitations to dinners and picnics, one father even boldly hinted to Jonah that his dairy farm would be passed down to his only daughter if Jonah married her. But Jonah never took the bait.

Until now.

That was half the reason Bess decided to come to Stoney Ridge this summer. Her father was spending time with Sallie Stutzman, a man-hungry widow with twin six-year-old boys—and the whole notion turned Bess’s stomach inside out. Sallie had a heart of gold, everyone said so, but her very presence set Bess’s teeth on edge. It wasn’t that there was anything wrong with Sallie, other than the fact that she never stopped talking.
Not ever.
She even talked to herself if no one was around to listen.

Bess had a hope that her father would fall in love again, and she just didn’t think he was in love with Sallie. That didn’t seem to be a worry for Sallie, though. Bess saw how she was weaving her way into her dad’s life. She asked him for rides to church and frolics, so often that other people assumed they were a couple since they always arrived together. Sallie stopped by every day with a casserole or cake or pie. The everydayness of it all was what made the difference between Sallie and other persistent female suitors. Even Bess found herself counting on Sallie’s fine cooking. Sallie usually dropped broad hints about how it would be so much easier to cook for Jonah and Bess in their own kitchen. About how their new cookstove was so much more reliable than her old temperamental one.