The Englisher Page 4

  She said she’d heard of the tradition from Annie. ‘‘How will you put your studies to good use?’’

  ‘‘Still workin’ on that.’’

  They walked a ways farther in comfortable silence.

  After a time, she said, ‘‘How hard is it for a person to figure out what they really want in life?’’

  He paused as if pondering her question. ‘‘I s’pose it can be easier said than done.’’

  ‘‘That’s the truth. I can’t count the times I thought I was right on with something . . . only to realize I was following the wrong path.’’

  ‘‘Things tend to come more easily for some than others,’’ he replied. ‘‘My brothers, for example . . . things just fall into their laps. The oddest thing.’’

  She agreed that life’s struggles came and went.

  He paused briefly. ‘‘Would ya want to head on back?’’

  ‘‘Sure, if you do.’’ She couldn’t believe such an appeasing remark had popped out of her mouth.

  ‘‘Well, if it were up to me, I would stand right here and continue talking to you,’’ he admitted.

  She tried not to smile. He was so honestly outspoken. Certainly countrified, but smart, too. His interest in higher education was a real no-no, from what Annie had told her, but Sam was anything but pretentious. She knew clearly where he stood on everything from raising chickens to butchering hogs to conservative politics, such as they were, and even how many strapping sons he hoped to have one day. Louisa believed she was forging a bona fide friendship with Samuel R. Glick—no game playing, no pressure. He knew she wasn’t staying in Paradise. They were just walking and talking and having fun in this moment.

  ‘‘What’s the R in your name stand for?’’ she asked boldly.

  ‘‘Family name. But not your typical Amish.’’ He explained it stood for Ranck, commonly a Mennonite name. ‘‘There’s an interesting story that goes with that.’’

  ‘‘I know some Rancks,’’ she said. ‘‘Cousins of Annie Zook’s father.’’

  ‘‘I heard that, too.’’ He pushed his hat forward a bit on his head. ‘‘My connection to the Rancks comes from three generations back, is what my father says. My greatgrandfather fell in love with an Amish girl and married her. That’s how I came to be Amish, too.’’

  Non-Amish marrying into a cloistered group? How weird is that?

  ‘‘I’ve never heard of that . . . where someone from the outside comes in and joins.’’

  ‘‘It’s rare, but it happens.’’

  Louisa and Sam turned to walk back toward the deacon’s big stone house.

  ‘‘I hear some of the youth are callin’ you Lou,’’ he said suddenly. ‘‘But you seem more like a Louisa to me.’’

  ‘‘Oh, that’s Annie’s and her brother’s idea. I doubt it’ll stick.’’

  ‘‘Well, I sure hope not. You’re much too perty for a tomboy name.’’

  She felt the flame of embarrassment in her cheeks. ‘‘Uh, I think Annie will wonder where I’ve disappeared to.’’

  ‘‘Oh, I’d say she’s smarter than that.’’

  ‘‘You know what?’’ she said suddenly, surprising even herself. ‘‘I think I might go to the singing tonight.’’

  His eyes lit up. ‘‘So I’ll be askin’ ya to ride home in my courting buggy, then?’’

  Not to let on . . . and not to be stupid, either, she said, ‘‘That’s very nice of you, Sam. I hope you won’t mind if I think about it, though.’’

  ‘‘If you’re coming to singing, you’ve gotta get home somehow, jah?’’ He smiled broadly.

  ‘‘I suppose that’s true.’’ She left it at that. One small problem, of course. Courtney would not be interested in attending a barn singing. Even if she surprised them and agreed to go, there was no way it could possibly work unless Louisa talked her into abandoning her fancy clothes and slipping on one of Annie’s cape dresses.

  Yeah, like that’ll happen!

  Chapter 4

  Not only was Courtney gone from the B&B when Louisa and Annie arrived back at the colonial inn later, but she had taped a note on her door.

  Hey, Louisa!

  All that sleeping made me hungry, so I’m out for a late lunch. I figured you and Annie had someplace to be, since it’s Sunday. I’ll catch you later.

  I’ve got wheels—I called for a cab!

  See ya!

  Courtney

  Louisa slipped the note deep into her dress pocket, and she and Annie made their way down the long staircase. They turned and waved to the smiling owner and headed back outside to the waiting horse and buggy.

  ‘‘She must’ve slept in really late,’’ Louisa said, checking her watch. ‘‘It’s already three-thirty. Guess it was my fault . . . that long walk with Sam.’’

  ‘‘You could ask to use the phone here, maybe.’’

  Louisa agreed it was a good idea. They hurried back up the walkway and into the house. After requesting permission, they were led into the large sitting room, near the open kitchen, where she dialed Courtney’s cell number. She got the voice mail, left a short message, and hung up. Courtney was probably talking to one of her college pals back home. But she has call waiting, Louisa remembered. So Courtney would have known Louisa was trying to get through. No, of course not . . . she wouldn’t have recognized the inn’s ID.

  Once they were outside again, Annie hopped into the driver’s seat. ‘‘You’ll see her later,’’ Annie said. ‘‘Don’t fret. Maybe she’ll try callin’ you soon.’’ She picked up the reins, smiling.

  ‘‘Well, I guess if I brought my Palm along sometimes that might help.’’ Louisa laughed at herself, realizing that on some level, at least, she had actually begun to dismiss the outside modern world—if only occasionally.

  They rode along, crows heckling overhead in the icy air as Louisa settled into the front seat of the enclosed gray buggy for the ride back to the Zooks’ farmhouse. Looking over the stretch of drifted white cornfields, she was aware once again of the way the fields literally ran up to the People’s front yards. As if the Plain and the fancy are somehow interwoven, in spite of their differences, she decided, realizing inwardly that she, too, was an odd part of this intermingling, at least for the present. A modern woman’s soul dressed in Amish garb. The strangest thing I’ve ever done. She recalled again Courtney’s reaction at the airport.

  ‘‘Are you planning to go to the singing tonight, Annie?’’ She hadn’t intended to ask quite so abruptly. The question was out, nevertheless.

  ‘‘Why, no. I just assumed Courtney was comin’ for supper.’’ Annie glanced at her, eyes revealing a surprised glint. ‘‘Any particular reason why you’d want to go tonight, Lou?’’

  Not wanting to stir up unnecessary suspicion, Louisa simply said, ‘‘Just wondered.’’

  ‘‘Well, if we did happen to go . . . and we took along your friend, she might cause a stir if she showed up in her trousers, ya know!’’

  No kidding, Louisa thought. Just then it occurred to her—‘‘I hope you didn’t worry about my coming here. You certainly had no idea I would do my best to blend in. Not beforehand, at least.’’

  Annie shook her head. ‘‘Ach, no, your visit was long overdue. Don’t think another thing ’bout it.’’

  She found it interesting how accepting Annie had been even from the earliest days of their letter writing. She recalled Annie’s prompt replies with Amish sayings printed on a separate page along with sketches of a one-room schoolhouse, Annie’s father’s black buggy, and other childish drawings. Never had there been any hint that Annie was doing something inappropriate by having an English pen pal, or that she should be careful about what she wrote. No indication, either, that Annie had any problem with Louisa’s being ‘‘worldly’’ and Annie, herself, as Plain as can be.

  ‘‘I say we plan on goin’ tonight,’’ Annie said, bringing Louisa out of her reverie.

  ‘‘You do?’’

  ‘‘Sure, but first let’s see
what happens with Courtney’s plans—whatever they are—before we decide.’’ Annie smiled. ‘‘There’s been some quiet talk of a square dance.’’

  Oh, great. Sam didn’t say anything about that.

  Louisa’s Palm was in the top drawer of the bureau in the Dawdi Haus. She wondered how long before Courtney might actually call. ‘‘If we dress her up Plain—’’ she laughed out loud—‘‘she might end up riding home with a cute Amish boy! Who knows?’’

  Annie cast a knowing glance her way. ‘‘Cute, jah?’’

  ‘‘Well, you know.’’ And she was fairly sure Annie caught her meaning.

  ‘‘A raw day for a walk, jah?’’ Jesse said after the common meal when he saw Zeke coming back from the outhouse.

  Zeke nodded, his face drawn, his black hat pulled low on his forehead.

  Jesse waited for Zeke to get closer before saying what was really on his mind. ‘‘S’pose you made it over to the graveyard all right, then?’’

  Zeke’s bearded chin trembled momentarily. He slapped his gloved hands on his arms. ‘‘Can’t seem to get myself over there, now that I know where you and the bishop buried him.’’

  ‘‘Well, no one’s sayin’ you have to go, Zeke. Maybe it’s for the best if you don’t.’’ Jesse put a hand on his shoulder. ‘‘You’ve been through some rough waters.’’

  ‘‘Jah, my life’s out of kilter.’’

  Rightfully so. A man needs a wife—an obedient one. . . . ‘‘How’s the missus?’’ Jesse asked. ‘‘You’ve visited her and the children over at Irvin’s, no doubt?’’

  ‘‘Well, I stopped by there, but my temper’s fierce. Awful hard for me to control it anymore.’’ Zeke paused, breathing loudly. ‘‘Even still, Irvin’s keepin’ me from my wife and children.’’

  ‘‘Would you want me to speak to my cousin on that?’’

  ‘‘No . . . no. ’Tis best, prob’ly, that Irvin do things his way, since he’s the one givin’ my family shelter for now.’’

  For now. . . .

  Jesse wondered, indeed, if the Rancks were getting their grip on Zeke’s wife . . . would the People ever get her back? Especially with all her talk of saving grace and whatnot. ‘‘If she’s not back home in a week—and hasn’t repented of her pride—we’ll have to be talkin’, you and I.’’

  ‘‘A sorry situation all round. If she’d just stayed home, ’stead of seeking out that Mennonite friend.’’ Zeke scratched his face, looking down at his toes. ‘‘I have yet to see my youngest up close.’’

  ‘‘A baby girl, I hear,’’ Jesse offered, hoping to raise Zeke’s spirits.

  ‘‘Named after my Esther. And your daughter.’’

  ‘‘Oh?’’

  ‘‘Essie Ann’s the full name.’’

  Jesse and Zeke turned and walked together, not saying any more as Jesse pulled a cigar from his frock coat. He offered it to the downtrodden new father, who, even though he was known to dislike the smooth, sweet aroma, accepted it gratefully.

  Ben had been driving in broad circles around the vicinity of Annie’s house for more than an hour, enjoying the wintry countryside, lost in reverie. He decided to drive down Route 30, stopping long enough for lunch at a Bob Evans restaurant.

  Resuming his aimless driving, he listened to WDRE, 103.9, out of Philly, all the while stopping frequently on the most deserted roads to take digital pictures of various snowscapes— an old corncrib and wooden windmill, and outbuildings where snow clung to rugged stone structures.

  But it was the virtually never-ending fields, stretching away from the road on either side—corn and tobacco fields dormant beneath a foot of snow—that reminded him of home. I’ll give Mom and Dad a call tonight, he decided.

  Having made it a point to know precisely where Annie Zook and her family resided, Ben had driven past the tall farmhouse several times in the space of a few days. A slowmoving peahen wandering onto the slushy road had intrigued him. He had stopped the car to watch the large bird strut in slow motion.

  Annie raises peacocks, he thought, recalling the interesting tidbits he’d gathered while having supper at Irvin and Julia Ranck’s. Not chickens or pigs, but peahens and their young.

  Now he found himself watching an Amish father pull four small children on a long wooden sled, mesmerized by the man and his plump wife as they picked their way over the plowed roadside, bundled up in their black garb, including the mother’s winter hat, a candlesnuffer style he’d seen in parts of Kentucky, as well.

  They must be headed home for milking.

  Later he went in search of the area’s historic bridges. He had done some initial checking on the Internet and had printed out a listing of Lancaster County covered bridges, complete with colorful pictures and descriptions of each. There was the picturesque Pinetown covered bridge built in the late 1800s northeast of Landis Valley on Bridge Road, as well as the Hunsecker Mill Bridge on Hunsecker Road, damaged due to a tractor-trailer hitting the overhead support beam and steel rods, leaving a splintered mess of wood and twisted metal in its wake. Originally constructed in the mid-1800s but rebuilt after Hurricane Agnes destroyed it in 1972, the bridge had been fraught with troubles. Several of his tack shop customers had told hush-hush stories about vandals attempting to cut up the bridge and carry it away. It was the longest single-span covered bridge in Pennsylvania, as well as one of the newest, and was featured on the cover of the state’s transportation map, attracting many tourists.

  But it was not the folklore of just any bridge Ben was after, nor the fact that it was the two hundredth anniversary of the nation’s covered bridges that spurred him on. He believed in his gut he would know the one bridge he had come in search of when he saw it.

  Creeping along on Belmont Road, past the weathered wood siding of the Progressive Shoe Store on the right, he slowed the car as a stately covered bridge came into view. He pulled off the road and set the brake. Slowly he surveyed the long expanse of the bridge with barn-red planked sides, spanning Pequea Creek. A kissing bridge popped into his mind, and he wondered where that had come from.

  He reached into his jeans pocket and pulled out his wallet, then removed a folded picture. He opened it and compared it to the landscape before him—the gray stone abutments and the wide creek, now frozen, beneath the wooden bridge. He was also very aware of the stark black grove of trees to the left of the bridge, down along an embankment, although he was uncertain as to why. Everything matched the picture he held in his hands. A picture he’d stared at so often, he actually felt as if he had been here before.

  Getting out of the car, he stood with his hand on the door. Then he walked closer and paused in what might have been the shadow of the bridge had a cloud not blown across the face of the sun.

  This is it, he realized.

  He scanned the sloping area to the west of the road, then turned to look into the distance, seeing Queen Road to his left. Quickly he returned to the car and snatched up his Lancaster County map from the seat. He was able to locate the road, this bridge—a small icon set on a thick blue line defining the creek—and he decided he had indeed found the match.

  He checked and double-checked. Not a question in his mind. This was undeniably the landscape captured in the striking picture he had carried with him ever since first seeing it last Christmas. . . .

  He had gone to hang out with a friend at a printshop in Marion, Kentucky, one miserably cold afternoon. The place was so unpretentious no one ever would have guessed a slick-looking magazine was being created on the premises.

  ‘‘Hey, wanna see how we lay out our cover art?’’ the pudgy designer asked, motioning for Ben to have a look.

  At his first glance at what was to become a magazine cover, Ben felt something of a fist growing in the pit of his stomach. The featured painting, titled ‘‘Obsession,’’ rattled him as he observed a reddish covered bridge and a grove of trees bursting with autumn colors. From one of the trees hung a long rope swing.

  What jolted him even more was the sunbeam hig
hlighting something unlikely on the wooden seat of the swing—a peach stone—that sent a wicked shiver down his spine.

  ‘‘Can you make a copy of this for me?’’ he had asked the designer.

  ‘‘Sure,’’ his friend said. ‘‘This picture happens to be the winner of our first-ever art contest.’’ The man went to print a full-color copy.

  Ben hadn’t thought to ask who the artist was, only to inquire of the location of the painting.

  ‘‘Well, I believe it’s Lancaster County, Pennsylvania’’ was the reply.

  ‘‘Nothing more specific?’’

  The guy nodded. ‘‘Someplace in Paradise. How’s that for a name of a town?’’

  As Ben stared at the painting, he’d felt his friend’s curious gaze.

  ‘‘We’ve got a few Plain groups around here,’’ the designer continued. ‘‘Sure is hard not to gawk at people who look so out of place in the twenty-first century.’’

  Ben had agreed. But how did that explain his fascination with the painting? No Amish folk in it anywhere . . . just an old covered bridge, the stream, and a cluster of trees at peak foliage.

  There has to be a logical explanation, he thought.

  Still, Ben had not told anyone how captivating he found the painting to be, nor that the picture had stirred up a world of visions in him.

  Now he stood on the brink of the actual bridge, staring at the frozen creek below. Turning away from the stone abutment, where he had leaned hard for fear he might become ill, he faced the dark tunnel.

  The sound of footsteps echoed, and he looked but saw nothing. No one.

  An inexplicable sense of danger registered in his brain.

  Turn back! Run!

  Ben’s hands were suddenly cold. He had lost all feeling in his fingers. They were as strangely numb as his soul.

  What’s happening to me?

  Chapter 5

  Louisa led Courtney up the stairs in the Dawdi Haus to get her dressed for the barn singing. ‘‘Annie and I hang out here,’’ Louisa said, opening the door.