The Secret Keeper

  © 2013 by Beverly M. Lewis, Inc.

  Published by Bethany House Publishers

  11400 Hampshire Avenue South

  Bloomington, Minnesota 55438

  www.bethanyhouse.com

  Bethany House Publishers is a division of

  Baker Publishing Group, Grand Rapids, Michigan

  www.bakerpublishinggroup.com

  Ebook edition created 2013

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—for example, electronic, photocopy, recording—without the prior written permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is on file at the Library of Congress, Washington, DC.

  ISBN 978-1-4412-6272-1

  Scripture quotations are from the King James Version of the Bible.

  The poem quoted in chapter 18 can be found in its entirety under “Morning Thoughts” in the June 1859 copy of The Friend of Youth and Child’s Magazine.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, incidents, and dialogues are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Cover design by Dan Thornberg, Design Source Creative Services

  Art direction by Paul Higdon

  For

  Jackie Green,

  with love.

  And . . .

  for all of my devoted reader-friends whose heart’s cry is to live more simply—if not Amish, then a more peaceable life.

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Epilogue

  Author’s Note

  About the Author

  Other Books by Beverly Lewis

  Back Ads

  Back Cover

  Prologue

  Today’s the day I’ll tell them.

  I parked my car beneath the brilliantly red sugar maple tree at the impressive Connecticut estate—my childhood home. It was a yearly custom for my parents to throw a dinner party to celebrate my October birthday.

  Twenty-five and still trying to fit in . . . somewhere.

  I glanced at the console and spotted a pile of mail tucked away there, including a card from Marnie Lapp in Lancaster County. May this be the best birthday ever, dear Jenny! she’d written beneath her name.

  A chance meeting several years ago while on vacation, and curiously enough, Marnie and I had become friends. Despite being Amish, she was one of my closest confidantes.

  Getting out of the car, I drew a deep breath and strolled toward the formal entrance. At the grand double doors, I paused to muster up the required poise, straightened my breezy floral skirt, and pushed back my shoulder-length auburn hair. Ready or not, I reached for the gleaming handle and stepped inside the two-story foyer.

  My older sister, Kiersten, greeted me, her brown-eyed gaze lingering with unconcealed disapproval on my high-necked blouse and open-toed sandals. “Happy birthday, sister,” she said, waving me into the intimate gathering room near the dining room. “Mom’s knocked herself out, as usual.” Then, pausing as we passed through the doorway, she added, “Oh, and I should warn you. Robb brought along a colleague from work. His name is Frank.” Her eyes communicated the message Not my fault!

  So my brother-in-law, Dr. Robb Newburg, was obviously as concerned as Mom about my single state.

  I cringed. Now what? How could I possibly reveal my plans?

  Attempting to conjure up some enthusiasm, I smiled as Robb rose from his comfortable perch and rushed over to extend his hand. He turned to introduce a good-looking, very tall blond man.

  Frank gave me an engaging smile. “It’s great to meet you,” he said, all charm.

  “Thanks for joining us,” I replied politely even as my heart sank. I didn’t like the idea of postponing my inevitable news. This was supposed to be the night I actually dared to be honest with everyone.

  “My sister’s something straight out of the nineteenth century,” Kiersten declared. “In case you wondered, Frank.” She punctuated her remark with foolish laughter.

  Ah . . . Kiersten. True to form, interlacing her banter with shards of truth. She glanced coyly at Robb, who smiled back at me, apologizing with his blue-gray eyes.

  “Um, what’s so special about this century?” I asked, glancing over at my brother, Cameron, and his girlfriend, Tracie Wells. “High-tech gadgets aren’t everything.”

  Kiersten simpered as she fingered her diamond earring.

  “Does this mean you still don’t have a cell phone?” asked Cameron, feigning pain when Tracie poked him.

  “Life is far less complicated without one,” I replied.

  My own family. After all these years, they still didn’t know what made me tick.

  In the corner of the room, our father was hunched over one of his many research books, oblivious to the undercurrents. All the better. Wouldn’t want to spoil things for Mom. Such parties translated to fun and socializing for her—the more, the better. Dad, however, preferred to immerse himself in his work as a research scientist for a pharmaceutical company, more at home with books than with people.

  I went over to say hi. “What’re you studying, Dad?”

  He glanced up as if just realizing I was there. He blinked at me, a vague look on his face, apparently still deep in thought about his book. So typical of my cerebral father. “Hi, Jenny.”

  Not “Happy birthday, honey.”

  Then Mom appeared in the dining room archway, impeccably coifed, pretty eyes smiling. She was ready to serve dinner and motioned gracefully without a word, contentedly leading the way.

  The chandeliered space was adorned with silver streamers, and matching candles flickered across the gleaming table. We’d celebrated numerous birthdays here in Mom’s favorite room, yet I’d never stopped feeling out of place.

  Once we were all seated, I tried to make conversation with my mother, but she was eager to talk about an upcoming gala instead.

  The prime rib was wonderful. But with Frank seated next to me at the table, it wasn’t easy negotiating our forced meeting. Really, Mom? The uncomfortable pauses between Frank’s upbeat comments—and his attempt to ask
me out—were the last things I needed at my final dinner party in the modern world.

  And sitting there with my family gathered near, I wondered, If I were to disappear, would they even notice?

  After dinner, my mother produced a spectacular chocolate layer cake and lit the birthday candles. Kiersten studied me like a lab tech with a specimen while Mom coaxed me to blow out my candles, as if I were still six. “The evening’s not perfect without a birthday wish. Make it a good one, Jenny.”

  Making wishes was the easy part. It was the end result that was iffy. Despite that, I closed my eyes to appease her, knowing all too well my mother’s dearest wish—that I’d settle down and marry. The sooner, the better.

  I puffed out the candles, but my wish had nothing to do with a man—not that I was opposed to marriage and a family of my own. More times than I could count, I’d imagined what it would be like to live in a simpler era, when people actually listened to one another.

  The ideal world . . .

  But there would be no announcement tonight. Hours after the superb meal, we parted ways and I drove to my modest condo on the outskirts of Essex. Inside, I hurried to my bedroom and sat on a chair to reread Marnie’s card. Remembering the serene Pennsylvania setting that was her home, I savored the thoughtful birthday greeting, then scanned the sparsely furnished room where I’d hatched my secret plan.

  Not even my closest friends had seen my room. Not that they were missing much by their standards. My cherished decorating style was essentially Early Attic.

  I breathed out the number of my years, “Twenty-five,” and rose to reach for my scuffed antique silver brush on the simple dresser. I pulled it vigorously through my hair, eager to lose myself in something other than my parents’ decked-out home or frivolous table chatter. I stared into the antique oval dresser mirror, recalling how Kiersten always introduced me: “My sister’s an old soul. . . .”

  Absolutely, I agreed. I was born too late.

  Turning from the mirror, I strolled to the cozy window seat and opened its top. Inside were scores of clippings from my subscription to a Lancaster newspaper, arranged by categories I’d labeled more than a decade ago. I recalled the first time I’d heard of the Amish. I was only eleven when I was transfixed by a TV documentary.

  People actually live and dress that way?

  Mom hadn’t known how to react back then; my fascination with the simple life perplexed her. “What can they be thinking—no cars, no electricity, and even some outhouses?” she’d mused aloud.

  Regardless, by the time I was fourteen, I’d devoured everything written about the People, including novels with Amish settings. I yearned to know why the Plain folk continued to live as though they were locked in time. Several years later, my first road trip had led me to Lancaster County, where I had returned each summer thereafter, walking barefoot along the dusty byways and stopping at roadside vegetable and fruit stands, relishing the way the sweet, juicy peaches split right open. What fun it was to make small talk with the more outgoing Amish girls. I met Marnie Lapp at one such stand, and she agreed to exchange letters with me, apparently curious about why an Englisher girl was so taken with all things Plain.

  Oh, hers was such a gloriously peaceful world, one firmly grounded in the past. I sincerely desired the stability of Amish tradition and hoped my own personal issues might simply disappear in such an established, dependable community. I’d held that hope within me for years now—I’d even committed it to prayer. After all, God gives His children the desires of their hearts.

  If only my earthly family—my parents, especially—had taken the time to really try to understand me.

  “Bloom where you’re planted,” Mom had often insisted while I was growing up, but what if you were planted in the wrong soil? What then?

  I was very sure I knew the answer. And I was willing to give up everything to follow my dream. Never had I felt so free.

  Chapter 1

  Rebecca Lapp felt so numb and stiff she could scarcely move. It was past three o’clock in the morning according to the wind-up clock on the small table near the headboard. Breathless from the harrowing dream, she worried, Is it a warning?

  Slowly, lest she awaken Samuel, she inched her way up to a sitting position, her eyes wide against the darkened room. But her heart was a lump of lead. She pondered her dream in a stupor, wishing she could release the misery.

  Minutes ticked by, and at last she inched out of bed, creeping to the dresser a few feet away. She probed the area with her fingers in search of the box of matches. Clumsily, she managed to light the small kerosene lantern. The wing of flame faltered, then blazed brightly.

  Just a silly dream, she assured herself. Everything’s fine—I haven’t been found out. Besides, most dreams had no particular meaning; she knew that.

  Samuel’s snoring was familiar and steady, even comforting, as Rebecca reached for her warm bathrobe on the wooden wall peg and wandered down the hall to Katie’s former bedroom. She stepped inside and perused the vacant room by lantern light. Breathing deeply, she felt sure there was still a hint of Katie’s lilac-scented potpourri. Mrs. Daniel Fisher had been blissfully married now for six years and kept busy with four-year-old Samuel Dan, known mostly as Sammy, and his baby sister, Kate Marie, eighteen months old next week. Other than her blond hair—so like her Dat’s—little Kate was the spitting image of her pretty Mamma, though Kate Marie wasn’t the most Amish-sounding name Katie might have chosen.

  Close enough, Rebecca mused.

  She still could not shake the notion that the dream might be prophetic. Samuel and their sons—Elam, Eli, and Benjamin—would surely think so. After all, she was pushing the boundaries of the Bann, going over to see shunned Katie and the children now and then these past few months. If I’m caught, I’ll be accused of hindering the effect of die Meinding, Rebecca thought. She didn’t want to stand in the way of God’s work in her wayward daughter’s life, yet Katie’s was the harshest shunning in all of Lancaster County. Rebecca was terribly conflicted—wanting to obey the church ordinance while also heeding her heart’s cry to see Katie and the grandbabies.

  She set the lantern on the end table and tiptoed to the neatly made bed and knelt there. Goodness’ sake, there was plenty to pray about, considering that her niece, twenty-one-year-old Marnie Lapp, had dropped by unexpectedly last week, all rosy cheeked and talking up a storm, babblich as ever. It seemed she had befriended an out-of-state Englischer—a young woman named Jenny Burns—and written her letters for several years. Oddly, the outsider had sold off near everything she owned somewhere in Connecticut—even her car. To top things off, she was coming to live in Lancaster County as an Amish seeker and needed a place to stay for a while, till the bishop acknowledged her as a convert. “I was wondering if she might rent one of your empty bedrooms,” Marnie had suggested, her blue eyes ever so hopeful.

  Another one of Marnie’s rather ferhoodled ideas . . .

  Marnie had clasped her hands as she stood fidgeting in the utility room just beyond the kitchen, a fallen gold leaf stuck to her black woolen shawl like a curious posy. From the look on her niece’s face, there was not a doubt in Rebecca’s mind that Marnie was thrilled about the prospect, outsider though Jenny Burns was.

  Rebecca had never known any of the People to open their homes for the purpose of giving a stranger time to learn the Old Ways and Deitsch, too—certainly not with the hope of joining church. When she’d mentioned the idea to her husband after Marnie left, Samuel was not keen on the idea, though in the end he’d taken up the matter with Bishop John Beiler.

  Presently, she bowed her head and pressed her hands together. Rebecca hardly knew what to pray. “Almighty God, grant divine guidance and grace in this peculiar matter,” she whispered. “And help us know how to proceed. We want to do the right and wise thing, to glorify thy name.”

  The day following her birthday, Jenny had given her two weeks’ notice at Always Antiques, where she’d worked as an appraiser since college gradua
tion. While neither her job nor her home state of Connecticut had any real hold on her, she would miss her friends, especially Pamela and Dorie Kennedy, two sisters she’d known since childhood. It was a significant blessing that her condo lease was finally up. She would also miss Woodbury—the antiques capital of Connecticut, about forty minutes away—and beautiful Essex. Her parents’ estate was located a mere block from the Connecticut River. Rushing . . . like time’s own swift current, she thought while making a list of things to pack.

  Her soul was starving for a sensible, more solicitous life. Since her first visit to Lancaster County years ago, Jenny had decided to make it her home, but she hadn’t seen her way clear until now. Thanks to Marnie’s working behind the scenes, finding her a place to live, she was finally able to move ahead. The Amish life offered what Jenny longed for: more time to savor each moment, slow the torrent of time, and grow as a child of God. She was ready to embrace a unique people, one set apart.

  Perhaps one day her own family would come to accept this near-constant yearning in her bones. Up until now, they’d barely endured her obsession with the past, frowning at her frustration with ever-changing modern society.

  But now Jenny was sure she had the ultimate answer. “Hickory Hollow,” she breathed.

  In the diffused autumn light, she caught herself staring at the old pine desk in the corner of her bedroom, where she’d stored a beloved album from the past. The memory of creating it tugged at her, as did the thought of leaving it behind. But her heartache of that time had since mended—the split had come more than two years ago. She had moved forward, glad to have more than survived the demise of her first love.

  I’d do everything differently, given the chance, she vowed.

  She went to the desk and removed the cherished scrapbook. Taking her time, she memorized each page of the romance represented there. Every picture, every memento—the movie stubs, photos of flea market events, and visits to the Mystic Aquarium . . . the bits and pieces of two remarkable years.

  She headed to the living room and built a blistering fire in the quaint fireplace. Without another thought, she tossed the album into the flames. “Good-bye, Kyle Jackson,” she whispered. “Good-bye forever.”