The Englisher Read online

  ‘‘Except for Zeke,’’ Annie said.

  ‘‘Still, I can’t just rush back to his arms, Irvin has said. Julia says so, too.’’

  Annie gave her friend a concerned look. ‘‘Cousin Irvin’s not settin’ out to convert your husband, too, I hope.’’

  Esther’s smile grew. ‘‘Oh, that would be just wonderfulgood, I’m thinkin’.’’

  ‘‘No . . . no. You’d both be shunned.’’

  Esther nodded. ‘‘I’m not taking my heart back.’’

  ‘‘Sounds mighty odd . . . like you’re in love or something.’’

  ‘‘Well, I surely am, Annie. I’ve fallen in love with my precious Lord Jesus.’’

  No wonder the brethren slapped the Bann on her. . . .

  Annie rose and excused herself. ‘‘I’ll leave you be for now. Must complete things round here before Julia returns and finds me shirking, ya know.’’

  ‘‘I’m glad we could talk frank like this, Annie.’’

  Annie wasn’t about to lie. In some ways she was sorry she’d ever sat down and listened to Esther go on so. It made little sense to her . . . and the last thing Annie wanted was to get caught up in Esther’s zeal for a personal God and whatnot all.

  After the cab dropped them off at the art gallery, Louisa introduced Courtney to Eileen Sauder, the owner, who had shown such interest in Louisa’s work. Then, strolling about the corridor, Louisa pointed out her paintings to Courtney among the various framed oils and watercolors on display. Louisa made every effort to be cheerful and to solidify her apology. Courtney, too, seemed to be on her best behavior.

  ‘‘Here’s one of my first Lancaster paintings,’’ she said, pausing in front of an autumnal landscape. ‘‘I’m mesmerized by the barns around here, the rolling countryside.’’

  ‘‘Nice,’’ Courtney acknowledged, and they moved to the next painting.

  ‘‘Now, this is one of Annie’s peacocks. Did I tell you I actually help feed these critters each morning? I think God was working overtime when He created this guy. I still don’t think I did the colors justice, but isn’t he gorgeous?’’

  Courtney shook her head. ‘‘Wow, I’ll tell you what’s gorgeous— it’s your work. Seriously, Louisa, I don’t think I’ve ever seen you paint so well, with such . . . peaceful beauty.’’

  ‘‘Thanks. That means a lot.’’

  After they had thanked Eileen, Louisa called a cab on her cell phone. Then they headed back outdoors, bundling their coats around them.

  ‘‘Your students should see your recent paintings, Louisa,’’ Courtney said. ‘‘They’re really something. What are you working on now?’’

  ‘‘Oh, I’ve kinda put my art on the back burner these last few weeks. Out of respect for my hosts—the Zooks. Besides, I’ve had other things on my mind.’’

  Courtney’s red lips parted in astonishment. ‘‘I can’t believe it. You really are different. But I still wish I could talk you into coming home and giving Michael a second chance.’’

  Louisa shook her head. ‘‘It’s over. I know it; so does he.’’

  ‘‘But what about the rest of us?’’ Courtney softened the question with a smile. ‘‘Giving up on us, too?’’

  Louisa smiled back. ‘‘No, Court. Never.’’

  ‘‘So you’ll stay in touch?’’

  ‘‘Sure, but I have no idea when I’m going home, so don’t raise my mom’s hopes, okay?’’

  Courtney nodded, then reached for her and gave her a hug. ‘‘If that’s what you want.’’

  ‘‘Jah, it is.’’

  They both laughed as the summoned cab pulled into the parking lot. ‘‘Drive us to Miller’s Smorgasbord, please,’’ Louisa said when they were settled in the backseat.

  ‘‘Excellent choice for a buffet lunch,’’ the cabbie said with a smile. ‘‘They have the creamiest cheesecake . . . and don’t forget the shoofly pie!’’

  Louisa couldn’t resist. ‘‘Wonderful-good cookin’, jah?’’

  ‘‘Oh, brother,’’ Courtney said, laughing.

  When they parted ways, after a not-so-light meal, Louisa secretly felt glad about not having fallen for Michael’s attempt at getting back together. She was rather impressed that he had given up the law partnership—an aspiration that had been the last straw between them.

  But I won’t let this news affect me, she thought, relieved the last day of Courtney’s visit had gone so well. She was eager to tell Annie all about it . . . and surprisingly eager to start painting again, as well.

  Chapter 12

  Ben accepted payment for the newly oiled harness. He offered to help carry it through the snow to the waiting buggy, but the elderly Amish bishop and his greatgrandson— introduced to Ben as a ‘‘wonderful-gut checkers player’’—would not hear of it.

  ‘‘Denki, Ben,’’ Bishop Stoltzfus called over his shoulder.

  Needing some fresh air, Ben walked to the back of the shop and pushed open the narrow door, standing where no one could see him. And where he could look out over the vast expanse of fields inundated with drifted snow. The skeletal figures of winter trees punctuated the horizon.

  His gaze settled on a grouping of scrappy trees to the south. What type of trees are they? I suppose Annie knows.

  How quickly his thoughts turned to her, as if she’d been his friend for years. His best buddy back home, Eric, had complained vociferously when he’d told him of his plan to move away. He hadn’t been able to say then why he wanted to live in the middle of Pennsylvania Amish country, because he hadn’t known himself. Truth was, he still didn’t.

  His eyes focused again on the distant grove, recalling someone from his childhood who had the uncanny ability to identify various trees. The astute person spoke of the Creator God—an all-powerful Being responsible for the majestic beauty of the woods and the meticulous design of the trees themselves. The tree expert, obscure in his memory, sometimes still appeared in his dreams.

  Ben himself had readily recognized the glossy white bark of the wild river birches planted in various yards around Paradise. He had also spotted the tall-growing native cedars with their deep evergreen lacelike leaves. Yet his was a beginner’s knowledge of trees.

  Exhaling, Ben watched his breath float aloft in the frosty air. ‘‘Who was it?’’ he whispered, aware of the too-familiar sense of frustration he always felt when struggling to remember such things from childhood.

  I’m not the only one.

  He recalled his strained conversation with Zeke, dogged in his determination to discover the murderer of his brother. Yet as pivotal as that night seemed to him, Zeke was terribly confused about what actually happened.

  Ben was incensed to think someone could sneak into this quiet community and steal away a small child. Yet wasn’t it nearly equally unjust, in a different sort of way, for the People to keep a lid on things, evidently not wanting to make waves by reporting outsiders’ offenses? Doing so left victims of such crimes unable to find solace in justice.

  You could report this, Zeke had said when moved by Ben’s pity, and later Ben had reluctantly agreed to consider it. But now he shook his head, for as much as he wanted to help raise Zeke’s banner of justice, what would happen if it were known that he had caused the police to invade the People’s sanctified privacy? It was bad enough for an Englisher to seek out an Amish girl. But this?

  His hands were stiff from the subzero temperatures. ‘‘It’s Annie who is most at risk by associating with me,’’ he muttered, pushing his hands into his pockets. He remembered the spark of awareness in her expressive blue eyes . . . the way they held his gaze. At the same time an ever-present fear was etched on her face: She was afraid of being found with him.

  I must make her feel comfortable . . . and trust me, he thought, then sighed. If that’s even possible.

  At once he smelled the familiar scent of pipe tobacco and wondered which of the regular Amish clientele had arrived, although he had not heard the clatter of carriage wheels nor the thud
of horse hooves against the packed snow.

  He wondered if Zeke had returned for yet another visit. Then again, Zeke was not one for tobacco. But Zeke had pulled a cigar out of his coat pocket—‘‘from the preacher,’’ he’d said—when Ben agreed to go tramping around in the woods, looking for an unmarked grave, which they had never found.

  Thinking back on yesterday’s strange afternoon, Ben realized he could not assent to Zeke’s urgent request, not without further advice. And who better to advise him than another Amish person, namely Annie herself? Being the preacher’s daughter she would surely know the issues at stake for Zeke—the possible shunning aspect, especially.

  Torn between frustration with Zeke’s circumstance and anticipation of seeing Annie again, Ben headed back inside to the warmth and leathery tang of the shop to tend to his unseen client.

  Esther had never intended to overhear Zeke’s discussion with Irvin. She had slipped downstairs, leaving her napping children in the attic room to get a drink of water in the kitchen. She heard Irvin talking in the small sunroom off the kitchen, telling Zeke he had proposed marriage to Julia on the tan loveseat in their living room—‘‘on the same piece of furniture where my father proposed to my mother.’’ He chuckled. ‘‘Of course, I reupholstered it since that time.’’

  Zeke’s response seemed to indicate he was more interested in the process of upholstery than whatever point Irvin was trying to make, which brought a sinking feeling to Esther. Is he that closed up to love?

  But she knew from being Zeke’s wife what sort of man he was. And she seriously doubted if Irvin, or anyone, could change his way of thinking.

  As she sipped the cold water, Irvin began to talk straight. ‘‘I’m not interested in wasting your time, Zeke . . . nor mine. To put it bluntly, I believe you have been treating Esther wrongly.’’

  Wrongly? Had anyone ever dared to be this forthright?

  Esther doubted it. No one had ever successfully dealt with Zeke’s belligerent behavior toward her, nor toward the church brethren. She knew from the grapevine that her husband had been in jeopardy of the Bann on several occasions. The fact that he had escaped by the skin of his teeth made her wonder what sort of things he had told the brethren to quash their indignation. Perhaps the ministers had shown leniency out of fear Zeke might eventually report his brother’s kidnapping, something he had threatened to do off and on over the years.

  ‘‘Here, let me read what the Scriptures say about the marriage relationship,’’ Irvin’s voice broke the quiet. ‘‘ ‘Husbands, love your wives and do not be harsh with them.’ ’’

  ‘‘But that ain’t all it says,’’ Zeke snapped. ‘‘The woman’s to come under the rule of the man . . . she’s to submit in ev’ry way.’’ Zeke paused. ‘‘And I wouldn’t put a bit of weight on that Bible you’re readin’.’’

  There was a slight pause. Then Irvin answered thoughtfully, with slow words, ‘‘Well, we can read from the King James if you prefer.’’

  Esther had to smile. Poor Irvin had his work cut out for him.

  Irvin had evidently reached for a different Bible, and he began to read yet again. ‘‘ ‘Husbands, love your wives, even as Christ also loved the church, and gave himself for it.’ This means we are to cherish our wives, tend to them as we care for our own body. Give our love away sacrificially . . . surrender it to the good of our beloved.’’

  Esther was stunned. She’d never heard such things coming from a man. No wonder Julia wears a constant smile!

  But for Esther to trust that such a verse might find its way into Zeke’s stony heart, well, she would not get her hopes up. She had never known anyone to act like the devil, but she felt she’d seen his sneering face—when Zeke’s rage overtook him. No, Irvin’s attempt to convert Zeke was futile. She felt sure she knew what made her husband tick, and it had nothing at all to do with giving himself up for his bride.

  After supper dishes were put away and Annie and Louisa were in their room, with Muffin purring in Lou’s arms, Annie brought up her secret date with Ben Martin. ‘‘It’s this Friday, after nightfall,’’ she said, watching Louisa’s expression.

  A smile spread quickly across Lou’s face. ‘‘I knew it. This is so great, Annie.’’

  ‘‘Now, don’t go jumpin’ to conclusions. I’m not going to be his girl or anything.’’

  ‘‘Well, are you sure?’’

  Annie let out a little giggle. ‘‘Now, listen. I agreed to go with him just this once.’’

  ‘‘But you’ve spent time alone with him already . . . haven’t you?’’

  Annie couldn’t hide the truth. ‘‘Actually, we’ve run into each other quite a few times.’’

  ‘‘Oh, so you’re a couple now?’’

  ‘‘No.’’

  ‘‘But that’s what he wants,’’ Lou said. Then she told her how Ben had asked about Annie some time back. ‘‘I said he should ask you himself.’’

  ‘‘Ach, you did?’’ Annie held a strand of her golden waist-length hair in her hands.

  ‘‘Sure, it beats wishing and hoping. Why should I try to set up a date with you for him when he can do it himself? It’s better this way. You know exactly where he stands.’’

  ‘‘I do like him, Lou. But he’s English.’’ Annie felt her heart do a strange dance at the thought of seeing him again. ‘‘What am I goin’ to do?’’

  ‘‘Have a fine evening, that’s what. Ben seems like a wonderful guy.’’

  ‘‘But . . . he’s off limits. My father will have my head if I’m found out. I shouldn’t have agreed to see Ben again.’’

  ‘‘Then why did you?’’

  ‘‘Because I have to know . . .’’

  ‘‘If he’s the man for you?’’

  Annie turned abruptly and looked at her. ‘‘I’m not thinkin’ of marriage. Honestly, I’m not.’’

  ‘‘You wouldn’t want to abandon your Amish ways, of course. What’s wrong with enjoying his company?’’

  ‘‘The way you enjoy Sam’s?’’

  ‘‘Umm . . . we’re not talking about me,’’ Lou said.

  Annie smiled at her friend. ‘‘Did Courtney get off all right?’’

  ‘‘You’re changing the subject,’’ Lou said.

  Laughing softly, Annie nodded. ‘‘Jah, I guess I am at that.’’

  Chapter 13

  Annie sat in the barn on Friday morning, thinking ahead to her much-anticipated date with Ben that evening. She heard the sound of the milkers and stared at the far end of the barn. Squinting her eyes, she held up her fingers in midair— her thumb and pointer finger—measuring the distance as an artist might, appraising the shape and size of the milkhouse beyond.

  ‘‘Caught you!’’ Louisa said, sneaking up behind her. ‘‘What’re you doing?’’

  Annie put her hand down quickly. ‘‘What’s it look like?’’

  ‘‘Oh, I get it. You’re missing something . . . big time.’’

  Annie nodded. ‘‘The thought that I must draw and paint, well it never, ever leaves me. Not even for a minute.’’ She pined for the feel of a paintbrush in her hand. ‘‘Some days I feel like I might just waste away.’’

  ‘‘It’s gotta be tough.’’ Lou offered to help her lay out quilting squares again, like they had one other time when Annie’s need to paint had hit ever so hard. ‘‘What about that?’’

  ‘‘Mamm was not so pleased with that crazy quilt pattern I created.’’

  ‘‘She said that?’’

  ‘‘Oh jah. She was adamant it was much too worldly.’’

  ‘‘I’m really, really sorry, Annie.’’ Lou squatted near, smiling sympathetically. ‘‘What can you do to feed your artistic side now that it’s winter?’’

  ‘‘Well, short of going back on my pledge to Daed, I just don’t know.’’

  Lou nodded and followed Annie when it was time to go to the milk house. ‘‘When’s the next quilting bee? Maybe that might help.’’

  ‘‘It’s comin’ up soon enoug
h. I’ll try ’n’ think ahead to that,’’ Annie replied, not wanting Lou’s pity. Not on this day. ‘‘I know. I’ll focus on Ben. Maybe that’ll get my mind off my art.’’

  ‘‘He is mighty perty!’’

  ‘‘Oh, you!’’ She chased Lou around the barn till the cows began mooing, which was not such a good thing. Not if Daed was going to have calm and contented cows for the rest of the milking hour.

  ‘‘What would you do if the sounds of the country weren’t humming in your ears every night?’’ Louisa said to Annie later as they swept the aisles. ‘‘I mean that hypothetically, of course. I know you’re not going anywhere.’’

  Annie wore a fleeting smile. ‘‘You’re talking ’bout lying in bed and hearin’ the owls hooting and the wind keening?’’

  ‘‘I guess, but sometimes it’s more than that,’’ Louisa admitted. ‘‘There are times when I think about the country- side being the least noisy place in the world. But how can that be true? I mean, the night sounds fill up my head and even sneak into my sleep, too.’’

  ‘‘The restless peacocks?’’

  Louisa agreed. ‘‘And other sounds. Muffin seems to hear them, too—she quivers in her sleep.’’

  ‘‘Oh, I’m sure. There’s something about animals. They not only hear, but they sense things like a brewing storm or, in the case of your cat, the agitation of the barn cats, especially when the moon is full. Ever notice that?’’

  ‘‘Not so much. I’m not into the phases of the moon. I do love the silvery look of the snow when there’s a full moon, though.’’ Louisa suddenly thought of Sam, wondering what sorts of sounds he heard each night as he fell asleep in his father’s farmhouse. What smells did he love best?

  Why should I care? she wondered.

  Not allowing herself to linger on Sam, her thoughts flew to Courtney, who she knew would not understand nor care to embrace any connection with the Plain world here. Courtney was content with her flamboyant life.