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  It would be like old times, visiting there. Heather recalled that her mom hadn’t had a clue about her cancer then, though she’d been experiencing some weight loss and a puzzling lack of appetite. Her mom had been focused on nothing more serious than her obsession with heirloom quilts. While she’d never sewed herself, she loved seeing the quilts up close, even talking with expert quilters. On the final day of their trip, her mother had taken the plunge, purchasing the handmade Amish quilt that now adorned the guest bed downstairs.

  “Think. Where are those brochures?” she muttered, aware of Moe’s padding close behind her. Of the cat duo, Moe was more eager for company, following her from room to room as if he were her assigned shadow. “My constant companion, huh, Moe?”

  She pulled out the top drawer of Dad’s custom maple built-ins. Beneath a road atlas, she found the pamphlets wrapped with a rubber band. “Jackpot!”

  Heather curled up in her dad’s recliner next to the bay window. Moe waited until she was settled, then jumped into her lap. “Well, aren’t you needy,” she joked. She flipped through flyers touting the Amish Farm and House on Route 30, J & B Quilts & Crafts, a strolling tour of Strasburg’s historic district, and Wheatland, the historic mansion residence of President James Buchanan. She studied the words Mennonite Information Center—welcome, let us help you feel at home—and was captivated by the large barn and silo on the front of the brochure.

  A page fell out onto her lap. It listed tourist homes in Lancaster County. She slid her finger down the list of people offering lodging in private family homes: Benners, Groffs, Rohrers, Wengers . . . Many families offered places to stay, some suggesting a “hands-on farming experience.”

  She sighed. “How cool is this? I might actually get to stay with an Amish family. That’s something we never got to do. What do you think, Moe?”

  The cat meowed twice loudly, and Heather gave him a pat. “Hey, now . . . I wish I could take you and Igor along, but I don’t think any of these places accept cats.” Besides, there are probably zillions of Amish barn cats running around.

  The tilt of Moe’s head seemed to indicate his displeasure. He was never too keen on sharing her with his brother, let alone anyone else.

  Sighing, she decided to leave her father a note about her plan to take a break before working in earnest on her thesis . . . something vague like that. No need to concern him. And any way, he’d understand; lately he’d talked of getting away for a while himself.

  “Terrific.” She looked down the long list of accommodations, wondering how many phone numbers she’d have to try—didn’t these people have Web sites or email?—before she landed a place to call home. A place to defy gravity.

  Moe leaped off her lap, a black streak across the floor, and dashed into the hallway and out of sight. Headed for what, she had no idea. Maybe to find Igor, who was undoubtedly asleep on Dad’s bed down the hall. Cats were weird like that, but these two were definitely family to her and Dad.

  The elegant photo on Dad’s desk caught her eye, and she leaned down to gaze at it. Christmas past. She’d had no problem returning to live at home, putting off her master’s studies. Someone needed to be with Mom those final months and then keep Dad from becoming a total recluse during the first shock wave of grief. The emotional anesthesia they’d initially felt wore off quickly, following the funeral.

  Then, a year or so ago, she’d moved into the spacious loft over the garage that connected to the rest of the house. The living arrangement allowed her to come and go as she pleased, which suited her need for seclusion.

  I’m like Dad. We need our space. Lately, though, her father had begun to rally some, but just about the time you thought you were home free, waves of grief had an uncanny way of creeping up, building until they overtook like a tsunami. She’d discovered over the long months that one never fully recovered from losing a parent. And although Dad rarely talked about Mom’s passing, she assumed it was even worse to lose a spouse.

  Turning her attention again to the many addresses, she enjoyed the quirky names of the towns—Ronks, Gap, Stras-burg, Kinzers. Each had its own wonderful personality.

  “Which one . . . and which host family?” Heather tried to imagine what it would be like to live with strangers, even for a few months.

  What about Amish farmers? Maybe she’d help with the chores and get a reduction in boarding costs. She laughed at the image of herself perched on a stool beside a cow, bucket in hand. Yeah, that’ll be the day.

  She stared at the brochure, tracing the words with her finger.

  Mom would never let me get away with this.

  Her dad might not, either. But then, he wouldn’t know. . . .

  Her breath caught in her throat. It was one thing to talk bravely to herself or to a cat. But what if the diagnosis was correct? What if she was dying?

  With just the end of this semester left to complete her M.A. course work, Heather decided to forge ahead and finish up. Nothing must keep her from that. Sick or not, she’d worked too hard to quit now. Meanwhile, she would take her exams next week, then go north to Lancaster County for some rest and relaxation before fall. If she felt up to it, she could work on her thesis there.

  The list of names and addresses blurred suddenly. She’d held her emotions in check for this long since this morning’s appointment. Wasn’t she entitled to a good cry?

  The tears fell fast, dripping onto the page . . . landing on the names Andy and Marian Riehl, who lived in a town called Bird-in-Hand. When at last Heather pulled herself together enough to call the number, a woman politely answered what she later referred to as their “barn phone.” And Marian’s warm assurance that they had a place for her seemed like a sign.

  Judah hired a Mennonite farmer to haul the new mare back to the house later that day, then bummed a ride with another English fellow heading his way.

  During the drive, they traded stories of past auctions and talked some of a man near Gordonville who was doing a brisk business selling solar panels to Plain folk. “I’ve heard more and more these days that people see solar as an alternative to gas-powered generators,” the Englischer said.

  Judah nodded thoughtfully; he knew of the man, as well, and imagined the panels were fodder for discussion among the brethren of Bird-in-Hand.

  They passed a sign advertising a new residential development, and the Englischer asked how Judah felt about the encroaching neighborhoods around his farmland.

  “Well, none of us likes it,” Judah said. “And we’re losin’ too many of our young folk to upstate New York and other areas round the country—Kentucky, Indiana, Virginia, and even farther south. Not sure where it’ll end, all this movin’ out to buy more land.”

  “Will the Amish end up being squeezed out of Lancaster County?”

  “I’d hate to see it. But the reality is the outlet malls and the nursing homes are takin’ over.” He’d been hearing it for years already. If anything, more developers were building town houses and such than ever before.

  The driver had a big talk going, but Judah preferred to mull over the failed breakfast conversation with Lettie. “S’pose we ought to have us a talk,” she’d said. Despite his wife’s behavior over the past month, he now realized there had been something different about her manner today, something more defined in her attempt to share whatever she’d had on her mind.

  Yet he’d pulled his hand away when she’d clasped it, seemingly eager at last to open up. Why now? he wondered. He recalled finding her shivering downstairs in the front room on the hand-me-down sofa, all bundled up in quilts from her wedding hope chest. Other times, he’d seen her out walking through the cornfield, awake all hours. What was behind her apparent struggle?

  He was pulled out of his musing when his driver asked, “Did you happen to notice that guy all dressed up in a sports coat and tie, walking around at the auction?”

  “Jah—got his card right here. Name’s Roan Nelson.”

  “That’s right,” the driver told him. “Evidently
he’s looking to buy a small hobby farm somewhere in the area.”

  Judah nodded. “That he is.”

  “He must not have heard of the land shortage here . . . that even some Amish farmers are going door-to-door asking if land might soon be available.”

  “Some folks inquire if the owner has passed away,” Judah said.

  The driver glanced at him. “That happened to my uncle and aunt. A young Amish farmer came knocking, said he’d heard the husband of the house was awful sick.”

  Judah shook his head but didn’t mention the available plot, lest the Englischer have designs on it. For some reason, he didn’t want Roan Nelson to miss out. “The man’s a bit overzealous, I daresay. Now, if he wanted to buy a bed-and-breakfast or a house without acreage, there are plenty of those for sale.”

  “A glut, I’d say.”

  They discussed the housing situation and how terrible it was for people to have the bottom fall out of what had previously been a thriving market. “ ’Specially painful if you were hopin’ to turn a profit right quick,” Judah said.

  “You can say that again. People used to be able to buy a house and flip it nearly right away.”

  They drove silently for a time, and then the driver spoke up again. “I don’t know about you, but this Nelson fellow strikes me as odd.”

  “How so?” Judah looked at him.

  “I just don’t see how he’s goin’ to find what he’s looking for round here. The way things are goin’, it’ll take a miracle.”

  Judah knew without a doubt the driver was quite right. Then, thinking once more of his wife, he wondered if it might not take another such miracle for Lettie to truly love him again.

  chapter

  six

  Thursday morning, Martin pulled into the Bylers’ driveway and parked, waiting for Grace. She’d called last evening to say almost apologetically that she wanted to go to Belmont Fabrics in Paradise to purchase dress material—and would it be all right if he picked up her friend Becky, too? She, like her mother, always planned multiple stops to accomplish more errands in a given day.

  He found it curious how the Amishwomen expressed themselves and wondered if this tendency to overclarify was their way at home, as well.

  “Good morning,” he greeted Grace as she met him on the right side of the van.

  “Hullo.” She touched the top of her white head covering lightly as she got inside. He waited for her to put down her purse and get settled in the seat. “You won’t forget to pick up Becky, will ya?” she asked, turning to smile at him.

  “That’s our next stop,” he said and pulled the door shut.

  On the short drive to the Riehls’ dairy farm, he noticed Grace was jotting down a list of sorts on a piece of paper. He wondered if it might be a shopping list—he’d known Amish-women to go to that large fabric store and fill up the entire back of a van with dress material. Since there were only two of them shopping, he supposed that might not be the case today.

  When he pulled into the Riehls’ lane, he spotted Becky waiting near the sidewalk behind the house. She was wearing a blue dress and apron identical to Grace’s. He wondered if they’d planned to match.

  “Ach, looks like Becky needs plenty of sewing notions and whatnot,” Grace said, probably because of the large, homemade bag flung over her friend’s shoulder. “That or her Mamma does, maybe.” She let out a little laugh. “Guess we’ll be havin’ us a big sewing frolic pretty soon.”

  “Before canning season?” He glanced back at Grace, who nodded before he got out to help open the heavy door.

  Once Becky was buckled in, the girls spoke in whispers, mostly in their first language. Becky brought up a relative newcomer from Indiana, and a Yonnie Bontrager’s name was soon accompanied by titters and soft laughter.

  But the most remarkable comment of the trip was overhearing that this Yonnie was supposedly so smart he could “do crossword puzzles in his head.” According to Becky, the young man had no need to ever fill in the blanks. The girl seemed quite taken with his intelligence and playful personality.

  Martin smiled and glanced in the rearview mirror as the doting friends talked, their heads occasionally touching as they went from the topic of Yonnie to Grace’s upcoming birthday next week.

  Oh, to be young again, he thought with a quiet chuckle.

  On the day before her birthday, Grace hurried downstairs to help with breakfast and found Mamma cooking up some potatoes in a large kettle. A heaping bowl of potato salad was a birthday tradition. No doubt her mother was off-kilter, perhaps thinking the birthday supper was this evening instead of tomorrow.

  “Makin’ boiled potatoes for the noon meal, perhaps?” she asked, cracking eggs into a bowl to make scrambled eggs.

  Her mother looked momentarily confused. Then she let out a disgusted laugh. “Well, puh! I must’ve jumped ahead a whole day.”

  Grace frowned. It wasn’t like Mamma to be so forgetful.

  Shrugging, her mother continued. “Ach, my mind’s on other things.” For a quick moment, she looked at Grace—really stared—like there was something burning within her, something she needed to say. But when had Mamma taken anyone into her confidence? Other than Aunt Naomi, that is. Word was that her aunt had sat and listened to Mamma pour out her heart weeks before Aunt Naomi had died. Becky’s mother, Marian, had bumped into them sitting in front of the springhouse, both Mamma and Aunt Naomi in tears and holding hands.

  Grace felt terribly hesitant to pry but felt she had to make an attempt. Gently, she asked, “Mamma, would you mind terribly if I asked . . .”

  Mamma shook her head, eyes misty. “What?”

  Breathing in her courage, Grace looked up for a moment, staring at the day clock high on the shelf. “I hear ya walking round sometimes in the hallway,” she said softly. “And down the stairs, too . . . late at night.”

  Her mother sighed audibly. “Now, Grace, is this anything to talk with your mother ’bout, really?”

  “No, Mamma.” It tore at her heart, knowing her parents must be at odds. Why else would Mamma be so out of sorts? And Dat wasn’t one to say anything. Why, he hadn’t budged an inch to answer Adam’s inquiry out in the barn last week, either, and she doubted he’d said a word on that since.

  Mamma glanced at the window, as if concerned someone might interrupt them. “After your birthday, we’ll talk, all right?” She paused, making a slight movement toward Grace, like she might embrace her. Then she stepped away. “Isn’t that soon enough?”

  Grace nodded, more hopeful. “All right, then.” She turned her attention to the meal planned for tomorrow. If the gathering turned out to be anything like last year’s, it would resemble a party. Becky Riehl had given two quilted potholders for Grace’s hope chest, and their English neighbors to the west of them had come to surprise her—childhood playmates Jessica and Brittany Spangler. The girls had brought yellow roses from a nearby florist and put them in a pretty blue vase. “Cut flowers, indeed!” Mamma had said, startling Grace. Her mother preferred to leave flowers in the ground, where the Lord intended them, but there was no sense in hurting their neighbors’ feelings over that. To help smooth things over, Grace had thanked the girls repeatedly, admiring the pretty blooms and wondering what had come over Mamma to say such a thing.

  With Mamma so distressed, who knows what tomorrow might bring? Grace thought now as she turned on the gas and found the frying pan for the scrambled eggs. Then, pouring the egg and milk mixture into the pan, she hurried to set the table.

  Adah placed a full glass of water on the small table next to Jakob’s chair, smiling at him even though he did not look up from reading the Good Book. She reached for her tatting, glad to rest here in their cozy front room after supper. The days were lengthening quickly now, and in two months they’d enjoy the longest day of the year. But late June was not the only thing she looked forward to in this fine season of newness. Tomorrow was Gracie’s birthday.

  She raised herself up a bit to glance out the window, notin
g Lettie out on the porch. Des gut . . .

  “Gracie’s friend Becky was over this afternoon, askin’ for her,” she said softly, eyes still on the window.

  “What’d she want?” Jakob seemed preoccupied with his reading.

  “They had themselves a phone call from a young woman in Virginia, Becky said. Lo and behold if she ain’t comin’ clear up here to stay for the whole summer.”

  “That’s what happens when ya open up your house to strangers,” said Jakob, looking up at her briefly before returning to the Bible.

  “It does seem as if they have folk in all the time . . . some from even farther away.” The Riehls had started doing this sort of thing a few years ago to bring in extra income. “ ’Specially during the summer months, they’re perty much full.”

  “But someone’s staying all summer long?”

  “That’s what I heard,” said Adah.

  “When’s this here woman s’posed to arrive?”

  “Sometime next week.” Adah picked up her tatting hook, intent on finishing the pink edging on the pretty hankie for Grace. “The young woman’s named for a flower, Becky said.”

  “Iris, maybe?” Jakob tilted his head down and looked at her over the top of his bifocals. “Black-eyed Susan?”

  “Oh, for goodness’ sake, Jakob . . . it’s Heather.” She couldn’t help but laugh and wondered when he’d be saying she ought to hush now so he could read to her, like he always did in the evening.

  “That is a nice name.” He had his finger in his German Bible now and was eyeing her but good. “Ready to listen awhile, love?”

  How well she knew him. Smiling, she nodded as he opened to the page he’d marked with his finger and began to read. Adah continued tatting as fast as she could, enjoying the sound of Jakob’s dear voice and the way he shaped the words of the Lord.

  Grace eagerly turned in her time card and headed for the door to meet fellow Eli’s employee Ruthie Weaver, a sweet Mennonite newlywed who’d offered to give her a ride home. She was conscious of the warm evening sun on her back as she hurried toward the waiting car.