The Search (7 page)

Chapter 8

“Perry and I never had much to say to each other. I didn't care for the way he treated Lydia or Frannie. He didn't care for my opinion.”

B
ETH
B
YLER

T
he man with the ice blue eyes was back. During the last twenty-four hours, Beth Byler had been too busy with cooking and cleaning, answering the phone, and greeting concerned neighbors to even look up his name.

She should have been too busy to even realize he hadn't been around. But she'd felt his absence in the back of her mind, part of her continually wondering when he would show up again.

And why he hadn't returned.

“Hey,” he said.

“Hey, yourself,” she replied, and made sure that she didn't spare him more than the briefest of glances as she kneaded bread dough.

But as he leaned against the doorway and slowly looked her over, she could feel his gaze as sharply as if he'd reached out and touched skin.

She really should have been infuriated at this blatant inspection. Instead, she only felt that crisp sense of awareness that had caught her off guard the last time he'd come to the kitchen. She darted another look his way.

He lifted an eyebrow. “So, how are you doing in here? Everything going okay?”

She knew he was teasing. She obviously wasn't doing very well at all. Bowls and ingredients littered every surface. A dusting of flour coated the floor. Actually, she felt like she was covered with flour from head to toe. Making cinnamon rolls from scratch was not for the fainthearted!

And though Frannie enjoyed baking, it was becoming very apparent to Beth that she did not enjoy it. At all. Not that Mr. Blue Eyes needed to know that. “I am doing just fine, thank you very much.”

“You don't look fine,” he murmured. “You look like you're in a competition to see how much flour you can wear.”

“I am in no such thing.”

“I'm just teasing, Beth. You know, if you try to clean your area every so often, the mess is more manageable.”

“Thank you for the tip,” she said sarcastically. She was about to ask him what he needed when, to her surprise, he took his sweatshirt off and tossed it on a nearby chair. Then, just as if he hadn't taken off part of his clothes in Frannie's kitchen, he turned to the sink and turned on the faucet.

Now clad in nothing but another light blue T-shirt that made his chest and arms seem even more muscular, he grabbed a plate.

Embarrassed about her staring, and embarrassed about the mess, she snapped at him. “What do you think you're doing?”

He paused. “This is called washing dishes. I know you may be unfamiliar with that task, but it involves turning on the water, washing things with soap, rinsing them, drying them with a clean dishtowel”—he stopped, raised an eyebrow—“and then putting them away.” With a wink, he added, “If you are good, I'll give you some tips.”

So, he could give as good as he got! For some reason, that made her thaw a little bit. “I know how to wash dishes. It may not look like it, but I do. I meant, why are you helping me?”

“Because it looks like you need it. You do, don't you? Or is someone stopping by to clean everything up?”

There was no one. No way was she going to ask either her mother or her sisters to help her at Frannie's. Oh, they wouldn't mind. They'd scurry over in a heartbeat, for sure. But they'd also have a jolly good time teasing her about her messy kitchen and her lack of baking skills.

She'd never live it down.

As she looked at Mr. Blue Eyes, and saw that his willingness to help was genuine, she came to a decision. There was pride, and then there was being smart enough to know when a kitchen had her beat.

And this kitchen had gotten the best of her from the first moment she'd stepped inside it. “I do not have anyone coming to help. And . . . and, I'd be much obliged if you would lend me a hand.”

“Was that so hard?” He turned back on the water and grabbed the bottle of dish soap from under the sink. With a few squirts, the sink began to fill with hot, soapy water.

“Yes.”

He smiled as he swished around the water with one hand, making the suds multiply.

“Oh! Wait a sec, would you . . . ?”

“What is wrong now?”

“I don't even know your name.”

He turned to her as he turned off the faucet. “And why does that bother you?”

Was he really still not going to tell her his name? With a little vinegar in her voice, she replied, “For your information, I only let people I know on a first-name basis clean up after me.”

Their eyes met. He slowly smiled, turning an already attractive face into something truly handsome. “My name is Chris.”

It suited him. “Chris is a nice name.” Of course, the moment she said the words, she wished she could take them back. Were any names not “nice”?

His smile deepened. “Thanks. I'm kind of partial to it.” Then, like there was no need for further conversation, he turned again and plunged a bowl into the soapy water.

Beth watched him for a moment. Tried to imagine her brothers washing the dishes without a whole lot of prodding, but couldn't do it. Her brothers never would have done something so thoughtful without a good reason.

As he continued to scrub, she turned her focus back to the task at hand: kneading dough. Moments later, she rolled it out for the cinnamon rolls. When it was the right thickness, she sprinkled the sugar and pecan mixture she'd already made. Next, it was time to carefully roll the dough into a neat cylinder, and finally slice off the end of the log into neat one-inch sections.

After about the third slice, she found a good rhythm. She sliced and placed the circles into the greased pans by her side. It was a
gut
feeling to finally be doing something right for Frannie.

In no time at all, she was finished—just as Chris was finishing up his third bowl and the last of the thick blue stoneware plates that Frannie was so proud of.

“The cinnamon rolls look good.”

“You know what, I think they might even turn out, when they rise some. I'm not much of a baker.” Feeling her cheeks heat, she said, “Though, of course, I guess you have realized that.”

“I've only been teasing you. I didn't come in here to judge, Beth.”

She nodded, taking his words to heart.

Looking at the pans filled with rising sweet dough inside, he murmured, “So, are you planning to bake any of these today?”

She grinned, because Chris wasn't even trying to hide his anticipation of a taste testing. “I'll bake half today, and the rest tomorrow morning.”

“Maybe I'll stick around, then.”

She didn't know why that made her so happy all of a sudden.

Looking for something to say, she stammered, “S-s-so, did you come here for a job?”

“I did.”

Stung by his lack of explanation, she faltered, desperate for another avenue of conversation. She knew from babysitting a great many children that most men loved to talk about their work. Trying to be friendly . . . and yes, because she was a little bit nosy, too, she said, “And . . . do you think you're going to like this job?”

“I hope so.” He eyed her again, looked like he wasn't sure whether he wanted to reveal more of himself or not.

“Is it near the quarry?” she pressed, remembering his early question about the quarry.

“Close enough.”

Oh, brother. She was just about to tell him that he could move on with his non-conversation when he said, “Listen, I know I sound pretty secretive. I don't mean to be. It's just that I don't want to jinx anything.”

“Jinx?”

“I've been out of work for a while. So getting hired in Marion was a real relief. For right now, it doesn't matter if I like my boss or my job. Quite frankly, I'm going to like being employed. Good jobs are hard to come by, you know?”

“Oh, I know that,” she said in a rush, now realizing why he hadn't been more forthcoming. “My
daed
was laid off for three months last year. Him being without a job was scary.”

For the first time, his expression softened. “But he found something?”

She nodded. “He got on with one of the greenhouses in the area. Everyone needs help in the spring and summer. It was tough because he got laid off in October. No one wanted to hire anyone new before winter.”

“So he had no job during Christmas?”

“Yep,” Beth said, wondering how this man—this Chris—was managing to control the conversation again. He was telling her no information and she was practically telling him her whole life story! “ Now, about you . . . do you know what you'll be doing?”

“I do. But it is sure to bore you.”

“I'm sure it will not.” Was he keeping his life a secret on purpose? “I find most things interesting.”

His lips quirked. “Have you heard any news from your friend Frannie?”

“I got a phone call from the sheriff. I guess they're going to keep Frannie overnight again. But she will recover just fine.”

He looked wary. “Why would the sheriff tell you that?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, why is the sheriff calling you with updates for the woman's injury?”

She relaxed. “Oh, you don't understand how things work in Crittenden County. The sheriff is Mose Kramer. Everyone knows him. He's more of a gossip than the sewing circle at the library. Plus, he knows it would be difficult for me to visit there. I have no car, of course.”

“Hmm.” Chris didn't look very impressed, and she supposed he wouldn't be. Describing Mose was a difficult thing, and she wasn't doing a very good job of it.

“Anyway,” she said, feeling her way around, now that he seemed so discomfited, “Mose said that Frannie's eye is bandaged, but she should be just fine, and will probably be healed up by tomorrow. She's only staying another night because the doctor didn't think she would rest here.”

Chris looked at her with a steady gaze, his lips pursed, the muscle in his cheek tense. “I hope and pray that is what happens, then.”

Hearing the word
pray
set her at ease. “Are you a praying man, Chris?”

Just like that, his expression shuttered. “I am. At least, I used to be.”

“But not anymore?” She shouldn't have asked such a thing. It was rude and none of her business.

“No. I've learned that prayer doesn't always help.”

His honesty shook her hard. She, too, used to feel more of a connection with the Lord. But like going for daily walks or eating three servings of vegetables, her good habit had drifted to the side. Now praying to give thanks seemed like a lot of bother, as well as a futile exercise.

And now she seemed to only pray when she wanted something. Or needed something. Or was afraid.

“I notice that you aren't correcting me.”

“I don't know you well enough to correct you,” she said primly.

Something shuttered in his eyes and suddenly, he became more distant than ever. “You're right.” Rapping his knuckles on the wooden counter, he said, “I should probably get going.”

Yes, she supposed he did need to go. To prepare for a job he wouldn't describe, so he could go to a place he wouldn't disclose. As he looked ready to run out of the kitchen, she blurted, “I thank you for your help. It was mighty considerate of you to give me your time.”

But all she got was a hand raised. It was a half-wave, a half-goodbye.

She did the same, half teasing him, just to see how he'd react.

But she never found out because he never turned back around.

Chapter 9

“Of course I began to hate Perry—he stole from my parents. But that don't mean I killed him.”

J
ACOB
S
CHROCK

D
eborah still couldn't believe she'd had the misfortune to see Jacob Schrock at his parents' store. What luck! No one had even mentioned that he was back in town. If she'd known that there was a chance of seeing him, she definitely would have listened to her mother and avoided the Schrock's Variety at all costs.

Now that they'd spoken and it was evident that he hoped to never see her again, Deborah was even more determined to stay away from the market for good. It would be a nuisance of course. Schrock's wasn't the only store in town, but it was the only Amish market of its kind. There was no other store in walking distance where it was possible to buy fabric, kerosene, homemade rolls, and farm-fresh eggs.

But talking to Jacob brought back too many emotions she didn't want to feel. Embarrassment about her brother's actions. Pain that stemmed from lost opportunities. Then there was her childish crush that never seemed to vanish.

After all this time, she'd thought she'd become used to other people's accusing looks and pointing fingers. She'd thought she'd finally pushed aside the shame about her brother. But her conversation with Jacob proved that she'd been hopelessly naïve. No matter what she did, for the rest of her life, Deborah was going to be known as the drug dealer's sister. There was little chance of redeeming herself in people's eyes.

To some members of her community, she was going to always be in Perry's dark shadow. It cast a long shadow, too—terribly hard to step out of.

It was beyond ironic that Jacob Schrock—the man she'd always secretly hoped would be her husband—couldn't seem to stand the sight of her.

Perry would no doubt find that amusing.

Armed with her tote that she'd hoped to fill with fresh dairy products but which now remained empty because she'd been so anxious to leave the market, she started on home. As always, the three miles it took to get home was calming.

As difficult as it was, she was glad to be back in Crittenden County, surrounded by the things she knew so well. The lush scenery, with the creeks and valleys and dense foliage, looked so different than the acres of farmland that covered almost every inch of Charm. There was a sense of coziness to Crittenden County. The narrow rural streets, the abundant greenery. All of it gave one the sense of closeness, of being cushioned in security. So different than Ohio's wide-open spaces.

So, though she'd been charmed by Charm and relieved to get away from the scrutiny here, she was glad to be back in her comfortable surroundings. As she continued walking, she looked with longing at the entrance to the Millers' farm. Before everything had happened, she would've been tempted to trespass and cross through the middle of it. The Millers didn't care for people walking through their fields, but most people went through, anyway. Their land was vast and underutilized. The Millers were older and just couldn't keep up with their large property like they used to. But instead of selling it to one of the many young Amish couples desperate for farming land, they'd selfishly clung to their property.

As if giving it away would diminish their importance.

Instead, their intent to keep it for themselves had made everyone feel like it was fair game. And because of that, no one had really been surprised to hear that those English girls had decided to smoke in the middle of it.

The Millers' land had lately become something of a spot to do things in private.

She'd even heard that Perry and Frannie had met there more than once.

Remembering when he'd come home from one of their meetings so angry, she flinched . . . sensing his anger and feeling it all over again.

“Perry, what happened?” she'd asked when he'd stormed up their driveway.

To her surprise, her brother had answered immediately. “Frannie Eicher . . . she left me.”

Left? Warily, she said, “You mean that she doesn't want to see you anymore?”

With a jerk, he shook his head. “She said I changed.”

He had. “What did you say?”

“I said if I changed, that was good. And she should want to change, too.”

Everyone knew Frannie to be one of the most easygoing women in the area. “I'm sure if you go visit her and explain that you were tired . . .”

“Tired? I'm not tired.”

Ah. So his red eyes and antsy moves didn't stem from lack of sleep. Once again, she chided herself for being so childish and naïve. Like her parents, she'd been happy to see only what she wanted to be true.

“If you aren't tired, then what is wrong with you?” she blurted, finally ready to hear the truth. “Why are your eyes so red and glassy?”

“I'm fine. My eyes are fine.” His voice turned hard. “Deborah.” When she'd been little, she'd truly hated her name. She had thought it far too big and old-sounding for a girl her age.

When she'd told Perry that, he'd promptly called her “D”—rarely ever addressing her by her first name.

But now, he had a new edge to his voice. She should've heeded it. “You are not fine,” she'd pushed. “You're acting so harsh. Nothing like the Perry we know and love.”

He'd frozen, then looked at her like she'd just said the best thing in the world. “
Gut.
The last thing in the world I want to be is the Perry you knew. I'd rather die than be the way I used to be. If I'm acting harsh, then that means I've stopped letting others take advantage of me. That's something, ain't so?”

He'd pushed by her then, walking into the house, past their questioning mother. He'd closed his door and hadn't come out until late the next day.

At first, her parents had blamed his disappearance on her. On something like sibling rivalry. Later, they were sure she'd known more than she was letting on. Of course she had. She remembered feeling so trapped, so torn. But if she told everything she knew, then she'd be betraying someone who trusted her.

Still walking, still fretting, Deborah scanned the area, hoping to see anything to take her mind off the dark memories. About a block from her house, she saw Abby Anderson, the girl who had found Perry's body. Because she was Walker's sister, Deborah had seen her from time to time. But they'd never had the occasion to talk.

Maybe they could now?

As the girl unabashedly stared right back, Deborah realized that Abby was probably thinking the same thing.

Eager to continue to face things instead of avoiding them, she stopped. “Hello. You're Abby, right?”

“Yeah. It's been a while since we've seen each other.” Perhaps thinking of the funeral, when a few
Englischers
had stayed to the back of the crowd, she bit her lip. “I mean, it's been a while since we've talked.”

Amazing how even recalling the funeral could still make her choke up. “How are you?”

Abby looked at her feet. “I don't know. Still shaken up. Would you be upset if I said that I'm sorry I found Perry?”

“I wouldn't be upset.” Actually, she was so tired of talking around her problems, talking around the circumstances of Perry's death, it was a relief that someone mentioned him outright. She almost smiled.

Noticing the way her features relaxed, Abby frowned. “I said the wrong thing, didn't I?”

“
Nee.
It's just that I started realizing that of course you wouldn't have wanted to find my brother the way you did. It wasn't your fault.”

“I don't know why I found him. No matter how hard I've tried, I haven't been able to understand why God led me to that spot.” Her voice lowered. “It was so scary.”

For the first time, she saw the event through Abby's eyes. “I imagine you were terribly frightened.”

“Frightened and afraid.” Still not looking her way, Abby added, “And so alone. I don't know if I've ever felt so alone.”

Deborah thought that was curious, for sure. She'd heard that Abby had been with two friends. Had they abandoned her? Though she'd just been feeling alone herself, she dug deep and tried to offer solace. “I've come to realize that some things are God's will and that it isn't up to us to wonder why we are put in difficult situations. Or wonderful-
gut
ones. Sometimes all we need to know is that it is His will.”

“And you believe that?”

“I have to. If God isn't involved in our lives, then we are completely alone, and we can't have that.”

Finally, Abby stared at her. “I suppose.”

“I suppose that, too.” Deborah smiled and felt a warmth spread inside her when Abby returned the smile. Impulsively, she spoke. “You know what? I'm on my way home, but would you like to go to Mary King Yoder's instead? A slice of pie sounds like a good idea.”

After a moment's pause, Abby nodded. “I'd like that.” When they started walking in the direction of the restaurant housed in a somewhat rough-looking trailer, Abby spoke. “Deborah, this is nice.”

“What is?”

“Meeting you out of the blue. Having you not hate me.”

“I would never hate you for finding my brother's body.” She paused, thinking about what Abby had said, wondering why she had to be the one to find her brother's body.

“You know, I've wondered time and again why the Lord picked my brother to take the path he went on. I've been angry and hurt and I've prayed.” Deborah thought about continuing, but she didn't have any more to add. She had done all those things—but so far, they hadn't seemed to make much of a difference.

“Did you get answers?” Hope shone in Abby's eyes. “Did God talk to you?”

Deborah considered lying. It would be the kinder thing, surely, to offer Abby some sort of hope in an almost hopeless situation. But she was so tired of lying. And keeping secrets. She just didn't think she was capable of covering up one more. “Truthfully? No.”

“Oh.”

“But that doesn't mean He won't,” she declared. If she'd learned one thing since hearing about Perry's death—and then discovering what was in his room—it was that sometimes hope was the only thing a person was able to cling to.