The Missing Read online

  Grace had fed their favorite driving horse several carrots just last evening. “What happened between last night and now?”

  “Well, since she’s older than I am in horse years, Willow’s sure to have more problems as she ages.” A gray shadow passed across Mammi’s face as she stopped beside the worktable in the sewing room. “There’s the possibility she is foundered—she injured her leg on the road this morning, according to your Dat.” Pausing, Mammi touched a pile of fabric, already cut into squares for a quilt. “She might need to be . . .”

  “Might need to be what?” Grace asked.

  Mammi sighed, her hand on her throat.

  Tears sprang to Grace’s eyes. “No, no . . . I can’t imagine puttin’ her down.” She shook her head. “Oh, Mammi . . .”

  Her grandmother reached for her hand. “Ach, this is never easy.”

  Never is right! She choked back her tears. “How was she injured?”

  “Your father went over to see one of the ministers bright and early. Willow made a misstep on the road and stumbled on the way back. She’s hurt her front right leg.”

  “Well, what ’bout some liniment? That’ll help, ain’t so?” The knot of worry increased in her as Mammi glanced out the window, toward the barn.

  “You’ll have to ask your father ’bout that, dear.”

  So had Dat already discussed this with Dawdi and Mammi?

  “Oh, I’ll be talkin’ to Dat, for sure.”

  “I know your father did everything he usually does. He was checking Willow’s hurt leg when Dawdi went out there after breakfast,” Mammi said softly. “We all know how dear that horse is to you.”

  “To all of us . . . jah?”

  In Mammi’s serious gray eyes, Grace saw the pain of the past weeks. Even before Mamma’s departure, Mammi Adah had seemed terribly vexed. Things had been tense between Dat and Mamma for much too long, something her grandparents could not take in stride.

  Wanting to rush right out to the barn, Grace instead reached for the purple and green squares on the sewing table. Makes no sense to fret over what can’t be changed. Moving the squares around, she laid out several while Mammi looked for a phone card in one of her sewing drawers. “Putting Willow out of her misery will only add to the sadness round here,” Grace said louder than she should have.

  “That it would,” Mammi acknowledged as she handed her the card.

  “Denki, Mammi.” Time now for Grace to get herself down the road and make a phone call to the faraway inn. Grace had no idea what significance the Ohio inn had for Mamma’s present absence, but there seemed to be some link to the past. The mere fact Mammi Adah had given her the address pointed to its importance.

  She held the little card and hurried to the steps, where she heard her grandfather still grumbling below. “Dawdi’s mighty upset,” she called over her shoulder, hoping her grandmother might take the hint and come down to console him. Who could tell what news Grace might soon be bringing back to their ears?

  With more than a little apprehension, she headed back down to Mammi’s kitchen. Dawdi was facing away from the door, his neck red with frustration. “Adah, bring a hand mirror here to me,” he said.

  Feeling responsible for his bad haircut, Grace slipped outside. She glanced at the barn, ever so anxious to ask Dat what more could be done for Willow—though, knowing her father, surely the vet would be arriving soon. At this minute, her missing mother required her attention more than the once-sleek bay mare. Grace picked up her skirt and ran past the windbreak of trees to the road.

  Best to make the call before another day passes. . . .

  chapter

  two

  As she strode up Beechdale Road, Grace was aware of the midmorning stillness, broken only by the occasional gust of wind or the lone bleating of a lamb beyond her father’s fence. She felt the sharp jabs of gravel and small stones against her bare feet under her long green dress. The stretch of road was the same one where she’d followed her mother, running and calling after her in the early-morning darkness.

  A lone white kite floated high behind Preacher Smucker’s stone farmhouse in the distance, and a dozen or so red-breasted robins soared silently overhead. Shielding her face from yet another gust of wind, Grace recalled how serene the hour of her mother’s departure had been. Uncannily so.

  She reached into her dress pocket and located the slip of paper Mammi Adah had given her yesterday . . . and her grandmother’s phone card. The mid-May breeze swished at her skirt hem and sent her Kapp strings flying over her shoulder as she looked at her grandmother’s writing: The Kidron Inn.

  Is this where you’ve gone, Mamma? Only one way to know for sure, yet Grace felt dreadfully awkward at the thought of speaking to a stranger. Even with the anticipation of possibly hearing her mother’s voice, she was hesitant to place the call. She could not erase the sad truth that her mother had not responded to her pleas that bitter day.

  Perhaps she didn’t hear me. . . .

  Grace liked to give folk the benefit of the doubt. She expected Mamma hadn’t wanted her or anyone else to see her go. But did that mean Mamma wouldn’t hear her out now?

  Even though Grace was eager to know something—anything—she didn’t want to bring further pain to her family. They had already suffered too much.

  Am I making excuses?

  She sped up as she spotted the wooden shanty ahead. Well hidden behind a clump of trees situated off to the far left, away from the road, it had been placed there by the People. According to Mammi Adah, the bishop himself had chosen the spot a while back, saying it was a bad idea to flaunt the modern connection to the outside world, especially before those English folk who drove past it daily.

  A lump crowded her throat at the thought of making the long-distance call in such seclusion, with the fancy world at her fingertips. As it was, she rarely needed to use this phone other than to summon a driver.

  I must do this!

  She spied the well-trod narrow dirt path and ducked her head under the low-lying branches of an ancient cluster of trees as she reached for the rickety door. Wishing she’d rehearsed what to say, she stopped in her tracks when she heard a dog barking across the way . . . and someone sobbing.

  She glanced over her shoulder and saw through the leaves Jessica Spangler, sitting cross-legged in the grass, her face bowed as she wept. The family’s golden Labrador came running, hovering near Jessica as if to comfort her.

  What the world?

  Grace quickly abandoned the phone booth and hastened up the road toward her longtime English neighbor. Forlorn Jessica remained there on the rolling front lawn—her family’s handsome redbrick house with its white shutters behind her—as Grace hurried to console her.

  I’ll call the inn later, Lord willing. . . .

  The coffee shop was humming with customers, but Heather Nelson felt unexpectedly relaxed camping out in the corner spot for Wi-Fi hookup again this morning. The same snug location as yesterday. In fact, she’d claimed the table this past Sunday, too—“the Lord’s Day,” as the Riehl family referred to it. She had waited until Andy and Marian had taken two gray buggies full of children off to something called Preaching service before she’d left to check out this comfortable nook. Here, where she could gaze out at the soothing blue sky.

  Today found her too distracted to work on her thesis—terrifying thoughts of what was going wrong with her body lay just below the surface. Instead Heather felt drawn to a particularly interesting health-related chat room. She was intrigued by someone with the screen name Wannalive, who was openly sharing about opting to go the naturopathic route for treatment. Curious to know more, Heather joined in the conversation herself. At first it seemed weird chatting with strangers about something so personal, but after a full hour, she felt as if this newfound connection to other cancer patients was a way of soothing her wounds from her recent breakup. So what if Devon Powers had dumped her for someone new? His calling off their engagement said more about him than her—she would be
better off without him. And the truth was, Heather believed she was beginning to get past the initial shock. At least she no longer woke up crying in the night.

  And at least I never told him everything. . . . Cynicism had begun to set in, and chatting with someone like Wannalive just might be a productive way to deal with her loneliness. She was smart enough not to offer any pertinent information to this guy. After all, you never really knew whom you were having a discussion with online. But weary as she was of her own thoughts, Heather could definitely see how someone could become addicted to chat rooms. It wasn’t that she believed this new friend really cared about her. Not really. But he was there, which was a far cry from her former fiancé. Or from the few friends she had back at the College of William and Mary.

  When he mentioned his blog—“Food for Thought”—Heather clicked over, wanting to read all about him. She leaned back, devouring the latest entries, then when she was finished, she returned to the chat room to read several more posts before realizing she had been online far too long already—more than two hours.

  Well, I have the time, don’t I?

  Looking out the window, she whispered, “Do I?” Her gaze swept the expanse of the hilly green landscape, and she was struck with a desire to talk to her mom. Could Heather’s mother see her from heaven, here, struggling to deal with her own frightening diagnosis?

  Drumming her fingers on the table, she hoped her father would keep his intention to visit earlier than planned, as his recent voice mail had indicated. Did he actually want her participation in creating a floor plan for the house he was so eager to build? She considered the idea of a modern-style farmhouse planted in the middle of Amish country, boasting “electric,” as the Riehls called it . . . and a fully modern kitchen and bathrooms. Was he concerned at all about what his Amish neighbors would think, shunning as they did everything from cars to televisions? And shunning their own people, too, if they failed to follow church ordinances to a tee.

  She shivered at the thought of losing one’s family because of such rigid practices. So much of their lifestyle was mystifying to her, especially the concept of total yielding, of giving up one’s will for the sake of God and a cloistered society—the opposite of the self-expression she had been groomed to embrace. There was much to be said, however, for the Amish work ethic.

  She wondered if the Plain reverence for working the land had somehow gripped her father. “We’ll have more time to enjoy nature—plant a garden together,” he’d declared in his latest voice mail, as if that was a good enough reason to relocate. But to pull up the roots of their entire life? The state of Virginia was congested, sure—at least where they lived, close to Williamsburg. But why sell their beloved family home and move here?

  Heather tried to imagine her father gardening—certainly she had never thought of herself as an outdoorsy type. Except for afternoons spent at the beach with casual college friends or taking long walks with Mom—before the cancer came and stole away her mother’s strength—she had been satisfied to spend much of her time inside. Too, her master’s program in American Studies had swallowed up her hours. Until last month . . .

  Since her diagnosis, she’d read nearly everything online about non-Hodgkin’s lymphoma and its supposed cures, both conventional medical and alternative healing methods. It was the latter that had brought her here, to the place where she’d last felt true peace, the kind that propelled her away from the stress of real life. Ah, Lancaster County . . . a love Mom and I shared for so long.

  Since arriving at the Riehls’ tourist home two weeks ago, she had taken frequent walks along Mill Stream. She’d also enjoyed quaint activities like gathering eggs with the Riehls’ oldest daughter, Becky, age twenty. And before withdrawing somewhat from Becky and her family, Heather had learned to pinch off old blossoms from the colorful perennials along the walkway, and she’d worked in the family’s garden, too.

  Yet even in this picture-perfect locale, Heather felt pulled in opposite directions—experiencing both a nagging restlessness and at the same time an inexplicable sense of satisfaction. More so than she’d experienced on the historic Williamsburg campus, surrounded by the trappings of the academia she adored. Nearly more happiness than she’d felt even with Devon Powers. Before he was sent off to Iraq.

  She sighed, needing to push aside the memory of their breakup . . . the tactless way Devon had handled things. No, she must be free of all that nonsense to focus her energies on the hope of finding a natural cure. Her oncologist, Dr. O’Connor, had referred to her disease as “quite curable.” But that cure came with the price tag of chemo, and quite possibly radiation, which she’d adamantly refused. She would not take the route that had killed her mother if another viable means of treatment could be found.

  Thankfully, she’d gotten her name on a waiting list with Dr. Marshall—the very naturopath her mom had once hoped to consult. If there was an earlier opening, the clinic would bump up Heather’s scheduled appointment, still weeks away.

  Heather leaned back in the booth, stretching her neck. As she did, she was quite aware of the large safety pin taking in the waist of her jeans. Can I beat this disease? She pondered the question so hard, she thought she had literally verbalized it.

  Looking around, she felt somewhat embarrassed, but no one at the nearest tables appeared to have taken any notice of her. She turned her attention back to the page still open on her laptop. Thanks to Wannalive’s urging, she was more determined than ever to try the natural approach first.

  Will Dr. Marshall be able to help me?

  chapter

  three

  Jessica was still sitting in a heap on the front lawn when Grace approached. Her shoulder-length auburn hair blew against her pretty face as she wiped away her tears. What has caused her such sadness?

  Grace sat right down next to her. “I heard ya cryin’.”

  “My parents are fighting again,” Jessica managed to say, tears glistening. “Mom’s on the phone with Dad right now.”

  Grace pushed her bare toes deep into the grass. “I’m ever so sorry.”

  “They’ve been arguing a lot . . . and lately Dad’s hardly ever home. It makes me scared to death.”

  “For your parents?”

  “Well, them, too . . .”

  Grace touched Jessica’s arm. “Who else?”

  “I’m nearly too freaked to marry.” Jessica slid her thick hair behind one ear. “I mean, is this what happens after so many years of marriage . . . people just drift apart?”

  Wishing her own mother had stayed put, Grace felt she understood something of Jessica’s concern. “Well, don’t forget, there are plenty of couples who get along fine, too,” she said softly.

  “Not my parents” came Jessica’s bleak reply.

  Just then her mother, Carole Spangler, came outside, wearing a long white tunic over her faded blue jeans. Without speaking, she picked up the rubber ball and heaved it over her shoulder, throwing it hard to the beautiful Labrador. The wind carried the ball, but the agile dog leaped high and caught it in his mouth. Then he bounded back across the wide, sweeping lawn and brought the ball to Grace, dropping it in her lap.

  “He likes you,” Jessica said, a reticent smile on her face.

  Grace picked up the ball and threw it, staring now at her father’s house in the distance. She wished she might offer some words to encourage her friend. Yet she, too, had struggled with similar concerns about marrying Henry.

  The dog gave chase but then stopped, panting, as he surveyed the sheep-filled pasture below, his tail arched and his ears perked straight up. Bemused, Grace wondered how a slow-moving herd of sheep could possibly capture the attention of such an energetic dog.

  About the time Grace felt she ought to head home, Carole asked Jessica to go and purchase a dozen eggs from the Riehls.“Looks like you have some time on your hands,” she said, to which Jessica groaned softly.

  “Oh, let me get the eggs,” Grace volunteered, feeling sorry for her friend.


  “Gracie . . . no. You really don’t have to,” Jessica said quickly.

  “Well, I want to.” Grace rose from her spot on the lawn and brushed off her long dress and apron.

  Carole nodded and pulled out a five-dollar bill. “Keep the change for your trouble. I’m much too busy to leave the house even for a few minutes,” she said. “I’m running out of time to make several cakes for our church bake sale.” The woman was often in a bit of a rush, Grace recalled. Even when Carole had come to check Dat’s heart rate and breathing after his recent collapse, she had seemed in a hurry to return home.

  Her whole life, Grace had noticed how prone their English neighbors were to living at a hectic pace. Scarcely did they stay at home, Mamma had once pointed out, even fretting on occasion that they were sure to meet themselves coming and going.

  “I’ll be right back with the eggs,” Grace said.

  Carole thanked her. “Just so I have them sometime after lunch.”

  “You sure?”

  “I’ve got enough for the cakes. Afternoon’s just fine,” Carole said, eyeing Jessica, who was brushing away tears where she still sat in the grass.

  “All right, then.” Grace shaded her eyes from the merciless sunlight and took the money. Then to Jessica she said, “Come over anytime, jah?”

  Jessica looked up briefly, nodding. “Thanks, Gracie.”

  Heavyhearted, she made her way to the road, turning left toward the house. When she neared the phone booth yet again, it struck her that Dat and Mammi Adah, as well as Mandy, would be eager for word back about Mamma.

  “What’ll I tell them?” she said right out. That Jessica’s parents are in a pickle, too?

  Truth was, her whole family wanted more than word from Mamma. Better yet for Mamma to simply return home—nothing else would satisfy. With less hope of that each day, Grace filled her hours with work and chores, nearly more than a body could accomplish between dawn and dusk.

  Now she rushed past the trees that concealed the phone shanty, its single window facing north, toward the Reihls’ farm in the distance. Tomorrow . . .