Secret, The Page 3

  Grace shrugged. “He’ll likely run out of girls to choose from,” she said. “The longer he takes to decide, ya know, the more girls’ll get snatched up by other fellas.”

  Becky paused, her eyes wistful. “Mighty puzzling, ’tis. If he wasn’t so interesting, I might just decline.”

  Grace remembered Yonnie’s appeal all too well.

  “So, I guess I’m one of the last ones on that list of his,” Becky said, shaking her head. “What do you think the chances are . . . ?”

  It was clear to Grace that no matter her hesitance, Becky was indeed smitten. She smiled at her dearest friend. “You have every bit as good a chance of stealin’ his heart as the next girl, Becky.”

  “Well, I don’t know . . .”

  Grace reached for her hand. “I’m tellin’ ya, you do.” She motioned for her to sit on the wooden bench. “Have a cinnamon bun with me,” she coaxed. Secretly, she was surprised it had taken this long for Yonnie to work through his supposed list. As for herself, she was in love with Henry Stahl, who stuck closely to their courting rituals. Her Henry had a good head on his shoulders, and he was hardworking, too.

  Just like Dat!

  chapter

  three

  Judah was mighty glad the auction’s makeshift registration window had opened early. He’d waited only a short time for his ID number, enjoying a cup of coffee and briefly chewing the fat with several Amish farmers. He’d even become acquainted with one intriguing Englischer from out of state—a friendly man in his early fifties or so who was sniffing out the area for a gentleman’s farm to purchase. He’d given Judah his business card, but it was only printed with the man’s name, Roan Nelson, and his email address. The man had immediately apologized, pointing out Judah was most likely not in a position to contact him that way. “Not without a computer,” Roan had quipped.

  Laughter followed, and for a time Judah and Roan strolled the grounds together, talking about the morning’s offerings. Judah had been glad to oblige when Roan had asked more than a handful of questions about what qualities to look for in a good horse.

  Presently Judah found himself shoulder to shoulder in the buzzing crowd, vying for the fine mare on the auction block. He caught the auctioneer’s eye and then twitched his eyebrow—his preferred way to bid. The mare, a young black Morgan named Maddie, had already stepped out nicely to demonstrate her road trot. This was one slick auctioneer, and Judah had to stay alert. Tough when his mind kept wandering.

  Judah arched his eyebrow to the auctioneer, raising the bid. . . .

  This morning’s exchange with Lettie plagued him. He’d witnessed her occasional moodiness from early on in their marriage, although she’d done her best to conceal it. But in the past weeks her gloom had been more pronounced, and he had no idea what to do to make things better. He’d never had a good understanding of womenfolk.

  The auctioneer looked to him for a third bid, and he nodded his head. He was staying in and soon would be the happy owner of this horse if the farmer over yonder bowed out. Even if the other bidder kept going, Judah was willing to go a bit higher. It wasn’t that he was suddenly willing to pay a pretty penny for a horse, but he knew the value of a good mare.

  His thoughts returned to Lettie. There had been times in the past when he’d wondered if her thinking was askew. After Naomi had died so unexpectedly, she’d gone to Ike, Naomi’s husband, asking to go through her sister’s personal effects. For a reason unknown to Judah, or even to Ike, Lettie had been particularly interested in some poetry books. She’d said merely that she wanted to have them, and she’d brought a collection of them home, placing them in the bedroom bookcase Judah had built as her engagement present. He knew the books were there, but he’d never looked at them. Never cared to. She was, after all, entitled to a measure of privacy.

  Eventually, though, as time had passed, Lettie became less sorrowful, apparently accepting her sister’s untimely death. And once again, all seemed to be well.

  But then came this year’s blustery month of March, with its early spring barn raising down south. He had been too tied up to attend as he worked through his detailed records on his flock and plans for the year’s breeding pairs—instructing Adam about the paper work involved. But looking back, he never should have allowed Lettie to go, because his wife had not returned the same woman.

  He raised his eyebrow at the auctioneer yet again. Then came a pause as the auctioneer looked about the crowd, waiting for one more bid.

  At last the wood gavel pounded. “Sold! To number eighty-three!”

  Rejoicing with a nod of his head, Judah made his way to the cashier’s table to pay for and claim his new horse. He spotted Roan Nelson on the fringe of the crowd. When he saw him, the man waved and called, “Did you get your horse?”

  Judah nodded, surprised the Englischer thought enough to ask.

  “Congratulations!”

  “Denki,” he called over his shoulder. While making his payment, he recalled hearing that a small parcel of land was up for sale—by word of mouth only—a mere two miles from his own farm. “Say, Roan,” he said, turning, “if memory serves me, there’s a piece of land available over on Gibbons Road, not far from the one-room Amish schoolhouse. A small swath is all, but it might serve your purpose.”

  Roan’s eyes lit up. “Wonderful . . . thanks for the tip!”

  Judah gave him directions and said if he ended up with it, they’d almost be neighbors. “There’s no house on that property, though,” he added.

  “Oh, that can come later.” Roan was making note of the directions on a square-shaped gadget that looked like a small calculator with letters. “This sounds great. . . . I’ll follow up today.”

  Mighty friendly for a city slicker, Judah thought, tipping his hat.

  “It’s s’posed to be nice all week.” Grace smiled at her mother, who sat beside her on the right side of their family carriage, holding the reins. They’d chosen their gentle trotter, Willow, for the trip, and Grace was delighted to slip her some sugar cubes right after hitching up the buggy.

  “Well, lookee there!” Mamma pointed to the purple ground cover near the neighbor’s mailbox as they rode. “In full bloom already.”

  “Reminds me of my English lavender,” Grace said.

  “You and your herb garden.” Mamma laughed softly, glancing her way. “You remember where your fascination with herbal remedies came from, don’t ya?”

  She’d heard it many times before, but she listened attentively now, because it had been a good while since her mother had been this talkative.

  “Mammi Adah was the one who first taught you ’bout growin’ herbs. I think you were around nine.”

  Grace cherished the memory. “I remember sitting beside Mammi out on the front porch swing on that hot and muggy summer day. Then, when it was close to sunset, we walked hand in hand around her herb garden, and she named off each plant . . . and described the medicinal properties, too.”

  “That’s right,” said Mamma, a faraway look in her eyes. “And you were just ten when the two of you concocted a special tea for sore throats. Do you recall?”

  “Jah, had some chamomile in it.” Grace smiled to herself, tempted to lean closer to Mamma.

  Maple Avenue was coming into view, and soon they made the turn east toward the store. “Denki for droppin’ me off.” Grace jumped down from the carriage, her apron floating up slightly.

  “When did ya say you’ll be home?”

  “In time for a late supper.” Grace held on to the buggy door, searching her mother’s face.

  “All right, then. I’ll keep it hot for ya.”

  Reluctant as she was to end this pleasant interlude with Mamma, Grace turned toward the store. She wanted to be on time and preferred to be a few minutes early.

  She looked back and noticed Mamma still sitting in the enclosed buggy, unmoving, like she was daydreaming. When at last Willow pulled forward and the black spokes on the buggy wheels turned, Mamma straightened to sit taller in h
er seat, her Kapp strings floating in the breeze.

  Why’s she sometimes so dear and other times so distant? Grace shook her head. If there was a way to make things better, she would certainly try.

  As he was headed back toward Bird-in-Hand, Martin Puck-ett received a call on his cell phone. An Amish family of six needed a ride down to Paradise. More than anything, Martin enjoyed driving Amish children, with their happy chatter in Pennsylvania Dutch. The things they said often brought a smile to his face.

  “Okay. Off to meet the Zook family in front of the general store,” he muttered to himself, thankful his Plain customers were becoming dependent on his transportation service. Like a taxicab without the meter, he thought, remembering what Judah Byler and he had discussed earlier that morning. The way the economy was heading had become the hot topic of conversation in households around the country, and his home was no exception. These days his wife was limiting her driving to only twice a week. Surprising, because she had been known to gallivant some with their married daughters—frequenting Root’s Country Market and traveling nearly every Tuesday morning to Central Market at Lancaster’s Penn Square. Before the gas crunch, they’d made a habit of driving up to the Green Dragon for Amish baked goods or homemade candies on Fridays.

  Turning into the parking area in front of the general store, Martin spotted a vacant spot and pulled in. Next to him, a solemn-faced middle-aged Amishwoman stepped down from her buggy and went to tie the horse to the hitching post. She looked familiar, but not wanting to stare, he looked the other way as he turned off the ignition.

  Martin leaned back on the headrest, twiddling his thumbs. Semiretirement was working out well, despite its coming on his doctor’s orders. “If you want to die of a heart attack, keep doing what you’re doing.” His wife, Janet, was all for his switching gears from his former hectic job as an electrician to providing wheels for the “People,” as some referred to Amish and “team Mennonites.” Both Plain groups set themselves apart from the modern world. Who else could pull off living and dressing like it was the 1800s while surrounded by all the modern trappings of the twenty-first century?

  All of a sudden another Amishwoman came rushing out of the store, waving her hand in greeting to the woman tying up her horse. “Lettie . . . ach, is that you? It’s been ever such a long time since you’ve come to quilting bees and whatnot all.” The woman sounded as though she was a close friend or relative.

  Lettie? Of course—he recognized her now. He’d driven Let-tie Byler and her pretty blond daughters—Gracie, they called the older, and young Mandy—at least a dozen times in the past year. On occasion, Martin had even taken the whole family to see relatives southeast of Strasburg, near Bart.

  While the two women visited on the porch of the store, he realized it had been weeks since he’d received a request for transportation from Lettie Byler and her girls.

  But he had seen Lettie heading somewhere on foot. He’d observed her twice recently as she walked south on Church Road, past his own house. He would never have been up at that hour had he not suffered from insomnia and been doing a bit of walking himself—the full length of the first floor—waiting for his sleeping pill to take effect.

  Watching her now, as Lettie stood silently listening to the other woman, her face impassive, he couldn’t help but notice how ashen she was. Her vacant stare reminded him of his own sister’s; she had seemingly walked in a daze for a year before a doctor prescribed depression medication.

  Just then, the Zook family emerged from the store. Sadie Zook herded her brood toward his van, carrying a large sack. “Hello there!” he greeted her and opened the passenger door for them, waiting as they climbed in. “Going to Paradise today?”

  “No, no . . . I’ve changed my mind.” Sadie fanned herself with a handkerchief after she got settled into the second seat with her youngest two, the sack of purchases on her lap. “Ain’t much use runnin’ ourselves ragged. We’re all but tuckered out.”

  “Un hungerich,” the smallest boy declared, rubbing his stomach.

  “Then to home it is. We’ll have us a nice hot meal,” said Sadie. Glancing up, she gasped when Lettie Byler hurried back to her carriage and climbed in. And she was openly staring at the sad-eyed woman as Martin pulled the door closed for her.

  Martin was taken aback—even embarrassed—by Sadie Zook’s gawking as he went around and got in behind the wheel. In his rearview mirror, he could see her craning her neck, eyes positively fixed on Lettie as he backed up and turned around to merge into traffic.

  Has she also seen Lettie Byler out alone at night, walking? he wondered.

  chapter

  four

  Heather Nelson sat on the lone chair across from the oncologist’s desk. The room was spinning and she focused on her every breath. How many times had she walked into this doctor’s office in the last six weeks? She’d come secretly, so as not to alarm her father, not wanting to burden him with this impossible situation.

  Dr. O’Connor was talking again, but she had difficulty following him, especially after hearing the initial comment. “I’m sorry to tell you this. . . .”

  Other worrisome phrases intermixed with his medical jar-gon: “lymph nodes . . . stage IIIA . . . radiation . . .”

  Her lab results had come back startlingly bleak—a diagnosis precipitated by a physical after she’d discovered a couple of painless nodules in her right armpit.

  Completely stunned now, she uncrossed her legs and leaned forward. She looked the doctor in the eye as he ceased his discourse. “This may sound presumptuous, but how can you be so sure, Dr. O’Connor? You say the areas of swelling in the lymph node regions have spread, but I have no symptoms.” She made herself slow down. “I mean, I feel perfectly fine.”

  Am I making any sense?

  Dr. O’Connor wore an annoyed look, as if he’d heard this rebuttal before and did not appreciate being questioned. But didn’t he understand she’d just had the living daylights knocked out of her?

  He folded his well-manicured hands and leaned forward at his desk, more solemn than before. “There are four levels of this disease. And with each of the first three stages, many patients have few, if any, symptoms.” He shook his head gravely. “After all the tests, Heather, I’m afraid the reports are quite conclusive.”

  You’re afraid?

  He continued on—something about a “nodular sclerosis variant in the late stage.” He sounded too clinical . . . detached.

  He must tell hundreds of patients similar news.

  She wanted additional information, the kind that wasn’t so quantifiable . . . and cold. Perhaps if she focused on the medical jargon—assuming she could—it would help her to make some sense of it. What exactly had the PET scan detected? Was it enough to know the medical imaging had shown increased glycolytic activity. . . and blood tests had found elevated levels of eosinophils?

  She wanted to see these reports for herself, even though her brain was currently in freeze-up mode. Was this how Mom felt?

  “Would you mind . . . starting over?” She blinked back tears.

  The doctor nodded, offering a considerate smile. “I’ll go over the initial biopsy results again and then the PET scan.” He turned a light on behind him and dimmed the canned lighting overhead.

  She stood up to watch the screen, listening as her plans for a career, her perfect wedding, her future with the only guy she’d really loved—all of it—slipped away.

  How can this be happening?

  She was too young and too healthy—only twenty-four. The staggering news seemed far too pessimistic. Heather had always lived life with a cheerful outlook, even in spite of her darling mother’s passing. She had been perpetually upbeat most of her life, even without the benefit of a serious date for high school prom or college sorority events. While she had a few casual friendships with a handful of girls, truly connecting with anyone, especially with guys, had always been difficult . . . if not impossible. But all that had changed when Devon Powers stared
her down during an English Lit class in her final semester of undergraduate work. She’d promptly decided he was her one and only heart mate. Never before had she so thoroughly latched on to another human being, aside from her mother.

  She had struggled through a challenging double major—sociology and English—at the College of William and Mary, near historic Williamsburg. The school was also her parents’ alma mater, where they’d met their junior year and fallen in love, and within easy driving distance of Heather’s childhood home. But she had spread her wings and lived in the dorm her freshman year, moving to a sorority house for the next three. Not so fond of hanging out with elitist roommates, she’d longed for her own place. Mom had always said Heather was happiest with her own company.

  As eager as she was to make her way in the world following her four-year degree, after a year’s break Heather had opted to continue on, content to remain enmeshed in the academic mind-set as she worked toward a master’s degree in American studies. She’d managed to work part-time all the while, editing Web content for a large telecom firm, not willing to mooch off her too-generous father, who’d received a significant sum from Mom’s life insurance policy.

  She jerked to attention. Was this a cruel twist of fate? First Mom, now me?

  My poor dad, she thought as Dr. O’Connor droned on. Inhaling slowly, she folded her hands, as if clasping them together might help her through this painful maze. She paid close attention now: He was saying that medical imaging did not lie, walking her through even the smallest details as though trying to convince her things were as serious as he’d first said.

  This doctor could definitely use some work on his bedside manner. The grim reaper . . .

  In the midst of her fog, a tiny thought burst through: Maybe he was wrong. Shouldn’t she get a second opinion? Or even a third? After all, she couldn’t let this news destroy her dreams.