Forever Amish (2 page)

CHAPTER 2

I answered my cell phone to hear the B&B's proprietress say, “Thank goodness I caught you before you arrived.” Her voice was aflutter. “We had a storm last night—we needed the rain, that's for sure—but our roof leaked. I just discovered your room was hit the hardest. The bed's soaked.”

Ah, my chance to get upgraded. “Do you have other rooms available?”

“Nothing, I regret to say. And we have a waiting list. I called around and couldn't find another vacant room closer than the city of Lancaster. I'm afraid it's a good drive from here and not in the best part of town. I'm sorry, miss, really I am.”

I was tired and grumpy when I said good-bye to her. Good riddance, I felt like saying, all the time recalling Pops's disapproval of my coming here. I was tempted to make a U-turn and slink back home. Or find a cheap motel on the highway.

Why hadn't Donald called?

I reminded myself I usually came groveling to him. But not this time. We needed to start our marriage on an even footing or I'd always be the underdog. Yesterday, when I'd told Donald that Pops's kidneys were in trouble and I might offer one of mine should my father need it, Donald said, “No way; no how. That would ruin our honeymoon.” His words made me feel prickly inside. He'd shown no sympathy for Pops. Did I want to marry a man who'd let my ailing father die without a fight?

I lowered my window farther and the fragrances of moist sod, mowed grass, and farm animals inundated the car, luring me into the valley. For late March, the air felt coolish, in the forties. Cars zipped along, as they did back home. But with buggies on the road, I slowed for fear of hitting one. Sure enough, I spotted a gray carriage in front of me—an orange-red reflective triangle affixed to its back—and told myself to be content following it.

A blanket of clouds enveloped the sun and the road darkened, yet few street lamps shone and most of the houses remained relatively dim. I'd heard the Amish didn't use electricity, so how did they light their homes?

Motoring south on the two-lane road, life moved in slow motion. I followed the buggy until it rolled off onto the shoulder. I seized the opportunity to speak to the driver. I scooted up next to it to see an Amish youth at the reins. We both stopped. Leaving my car idling in Park, I lowered my passenger-side window. The young man, around age eighteen and wearing a straw hat, eyed the Mustang with what appeared to be envy.

“Hey there,” I called. “You know of any motels or bed-and-breakfasts around here?” I doubted the woman at the B&B had called every single hotel in the county on my behalf.

“
Nee
, but I'm meeting up with a couple friends. One of them might.” He tipped his head toward two buggies at the side of the road ahead of us. One of the drivers, dressed Amish and about the same age, stood outside.

I rolled the Mustang forward and asked the same question. The young man ambled over to admire my car and removed his wide-brimmed hat, revealing longish straw-colored hair, flattened on top and cut like someone had placed a mixing bowl over his head, following the rim.

“My parents rent out a room at our farmhouse and it's vacant.” His voice carried a sing-songy accent. He seemed harmless enough, but out of habit I locked my car with my elbow.

“'Tis true,” he said, and replaced his hat, pushing his bangs to his eyebrows and over the tops of his ears. “My mamm will fix ya supper if you're hungry.”

“I could do with a snack.” An understatement. My stomach was gurgling.

“I'm Jeremy.” He grasped his horse's reins when the brown mare lowered her head to munch scrub grass.

I didn't give my name—none of his business, Pops would say. He'd drilled into me when I was a child: never talk to strangers. “Sure, I'll swing by and take a look.” What other options did I have?

“If you'd care to follow me, I need to head home—after I pick up
mei Schweschder
—my sister. Won't take long.”

“Okay, thanks.”

He hopped into his buggy and slapped the reins. The reluctant mare grabbed another mouthful of grass before clopping back onto the road. I put on the headlights and trailed behind him, watching the reflective triangle. Keeping near the shoulder, I ignored the cars and trucks stacking up behind us, let them zoom past. People on their way to join their families.

I pictured Pops eating alone tonight and felt apprehension flood my chest, dampening my spirits. When I got married and moved to Brewster, New York, with Donald—where his parents lived—I wouldn't be around to care for Pops. Unless I called off the wedding. The invitations were addressed and stamped, set to go in the mail Monday, in three days. Would Donald's mother have a fit if I told her not to send them? Or maybe Darlene would be relieved. She was probably worried spitless about what Pops would wear to the rehearsal dinner and how he'd act during the ceremony.

Ten minutes later, I saw the regal sign for the town of Intercourse, founded in 1754. The small village seemed sparse, nothing like New Milford with its neatly manicured green and white gazebo surrounded by shops and restaurants. This town's streets were devoid of pedestrians and most of its stores already closed. I raised my windows. Why had I driven this gas-guzzling flashy car, a cinch to break into? I was glad I'd packed my overnight bag in the trunk, out of sight.

Jeremy drew to a halt off to the right on the other side of town, about a half mile farther. Thankfully, the triangle reflector caught my eye. I stopped behind him, glanced off to the left, and saw a sign: Sunflower Secondhand Store.

“Land o' Goshen,” my father might sputter. The store really existed.

A young Amish woman in her early twenties at most, wearing a mid-calf dress, an apron, a cape, and a white heart-shaped head covering, stood struggling to lock its front door.

Jeremy yelled, “Hurry up or you're walking!” impatience grating his voice. “Someone's following me home.”

The young woman blasted him with a volley of words in another language, what I presumed was Pennsylvania Dutch, because I understood bits and pieces from high school and college German classes. “I can't leave it open, now, can I?” She tried another key.

I called out my window. “You closing shop for the day?” What time was it? The clock on the forty-plus-year-old car's dash didn't work and I'd neglected to wear a watch.

She turned to me. “Yah, and I'm running late.”

“You need help locking up?” Between Pops's old house—where I lived—and his compilation of vehicles, I doubted a lock existed I couldn't finagle. And I wanted to get moving.

“Yah, I do or I'll be out here all night.”

Ignoring Pops's lectures to mind my own business and not speak to strangers, I drove into the gravel parking lot at the side of the two-story building and got out.

“I ain't got much time,” Jeremy said. “Our dat needs me.”

As I approached the flustered young woman, I inspected her pretty face—the set of her pale blue eyes, her high cheekbones, her sandy-blonde hair tucked into a bun and straggling out from under the delicate white organza head covering. No makeup.

“I usually don't close,” she said, her pale complexion blotchy, “but the owner went home early.” She handed me a key ring. Why would she trust a complete stranger who drove a car? But on the other hand, why was I trusting her Hicksville brother in a buggy? Pops would have a fit.

“Let me try.” I extended my palm. Without hesitation she handed me the key ring. “You're using the wrong one.” I slid a stainless steel key into the lock and with a little prodding turned it, then heard the bolt click into place. The store was faintly illuminated by an overhead look-alike Tiffany lamp. I glanced through the store's wide windows and saw a plethora of secondhand items: tea cups, quilts, clocks, old-fashioned dolls, and a case of reading material off to the left. I should have thought to bring a novel and take a break from TV.

I gave her the keys, and she dropped them into her apron pocket. “You're ever so kind,” she said, with the same accent as Jeremy.

“I'd better hurry,” I said, still unnerved to be standing in front of the Sunflower Secondhand Store. “My mission is to find a place to spend the night. Jeremy said your parents rent out a room.”

“Yah, you come home with us. We're used ta havin'
Englischers
staying with us.”

“I'm not English.”

“Sorry, I meant anyone who isn't Amish. Although my dat—my father—may insist you park your car at the side of the house so neighbors don't see it. It sure is red, like a cardinal. We mostly use the back door, anyways.”

“All right, I'll follow you and Jeremy.” I couldn't resist asking, “Say, do you have someone working at the store named Lizzie?”

“Yah, that would be me.”

“You're Lizzie?”

She bobbed her head. “Yah, Lizzie Zook.”

I felt what Pop would call bamboozled, like last winter when my tires skidded on a patch of black ice. Out of control, I'd fishtailed, pulled a one-eighty, and ended up headed in the opposite direction.

“Are there many Zooks in Lancaster County?” I asked.

“Oh, yah, 'tis a common name.” Her gaze took in my skinny jeans and suede loafers.

“And probably a good many Lizzies, too,” I said.

“Yah, my aunt on my dat's side and two cousins. Why do you ask?”

“Because I'm Sally Bingham.” I held my breath, half-hoping her face would remain placid because she'd never heard of me. She must be in some kind of trouble, because she didn't look like any pedigreed dog fancier I'd ever met.

“Sally!” Her hands flew up to cover her cheeks. “Ya came? I can't believe it.”

“That makes two of us.” I didn't put faith in coincidences and happenstance. I felt disoriented, my world rotating in the wrong direction. This couldn't be the person who'd emailed me because I didn't believe in flukes. I refused to.

“'Tis an answer to prayer.” Lizzie's voice rippled with elation.

I was stunned to find her standing before me. Knock me over with a feather, Pops might say. He'd also caution me to beware. “Things are seldom as they seem,” he'd occasionally sung, a line from an old Gilbert and Sullivan musical.

“Willkumm!”
Lizzie said, harpooning me to the present. “I can't tell ya what this means to me.” Her oval face beamed like a kid opening a birthday present.

“So you're Lizzie?” I tried to make light of it, when in fact I felt as if I might topple over a cliff. I was tempted to dive into my car and take off. But how could this young woman do me any harm? Yet she seemed to possess enough gumption for both of us.

“I'm that Lizzie Zook,” she said. “Ever so glad ta finally meetcha.”

“Happy to meet you, too.” No, I wasn't. I didn't like surprises. My words marbled out. “So you're in some kind of trouble or what?”

She put a finger to her lips. “I can't talk in front of mei
Bruder
—my brother—Jeremy.”

The sky was fading, the world turning monotone. The temperature was dropping. Chilly air traveled up my jacket sleeves. What alternatives did I have? I'd at least check out their accommodations.

As I watched Jeremy adjust his hat, I formulated a plan to exhume Lizzie's scheme—my hunch was she'd devised one. “Is it okay for you to ride in my car?” I asked.

“Yah.” She bounced on her toes. “That would be ever so nice.” She spoke to Jeremy in Pennsylvania Dutch. He jiggled the reins and the horse lugged the buggy forward.

“I told him to go ahead,” she said. “We'll probably pass him.”

I stood for a moment, marveling at Lizzie's lack of sophistication—or was it a theatrical act for my benefit?—before opening the passenger door for her.

“You ready?” I was glad she couldn't decipher what lay behind my cheerful facade.

“Denki,”
she said as she got in. “Thank you.”

“Sure, no problem.” I bopped around the hood, slid behind the wheel, and started the engine while she buckled her seat belt. The tires bit into the gravel parking lot as I backed up, then maneuvered the car toward the road. Jeremy and the buggy were nowhere in sight.

“Okay, Lizzie. Where to?” I switched on the headlights and rolled forward.

At that moment, a horse pulling a carriage came cantering in our direction. A spike of fear shot through me. I slammed on the brakes and skidded. The horse stopped short and reared, its front legs pawing the air. The driver, a bearded gent I guessed to be in his sixties, settled the animal, then gave me a less-than-cordial look, his lips drawn back.

I mouthed the words I'm sorry, but his expression remained severe as he glared at Lizzie and me.

Lizzie sank down in her seat. “Ach, 'tis Bishop Troyer,” she said, wringing her hands.

My mind floundered with uncertainties. Recalling Pops's admonishment not to come, a shiver ran through me. What was I getting myself in to?

 

CHAPTER 3

As I watched the bishop's horse and buggy recede from sight, I envisioned the car slamming into the horse, and the buggy toppling to its side, injuring, if not killing, the man.

The near accident was my fault. Distracted, I hadn't given driving top priority. I felt a wedge of shame for my negligence. I wasn't normally impetuous or strong-willed. Why had I ignored Pops? Why did I insist on borrowing this pretentious car that didn't even have headrests?

“Thank the
gut
Lord you didn't crash into Bishop Troyer.” Lizzie craned her neck to gawk out the window. “I hope he doesn't tell my parents he saw me in your car.”

“What's the problem? Is riding in a car against your rules?”

“I can be a passenger. But …” She resecured her seat belt. “He appeared in a hurry. He must have been needed somewhere.”

“Unless he just robbed a bank,” I said, hoping to make light of the situation.

“Nee—he never would.”

“I'm joking.” I coasted onto the road. “Who'd use a horse and buggy as a getaway car?”

An automobile honked, startling me, urging me forward. I was so shaken I was tempted to renege on my offer to drive Lizzie home. But Jeremy had taken off; I couldn't leave her stranded. Anyway, I needed to talk to her alone so she'd explain her emails.

My right foot pressed too hard on the accelerator and the Mustang jolted forward, as if to prove I was an irresponsible driver. The car's chilly interior evoked goose bumps on my legs. I turned up the heat but kept the fan on low. I wanted to hear every word this young woman had to say. I'd regather my courage and filter her explanation as if through my father's ears. I admired his built-in radar; he could detect a tire-kicker from a genuine buyer across his lot.

I hugged the side of the asphalt road, allowing the car on my rear bumper to zip past me. Then I swerved to a stop on a wide patch of dirt alongside a plowed field. “Before we go anywhere, I insist on an explanation,” I said, trying to sound parental, when in fact only six or seven years separated us. “Why did you keep emailing? Are you in trouble or not?”

“Nee, I was searchin' for a dog,” Lizzie said, all innocence, her face angelic. “For a Welsh corgi, in particular.”

“Is that right? A Pembroke or Cardigan Welsh corgi?”

“Uh … the kind you have.” She tucked rogue tendrils of hair under her cap, its strings dangling. “I get them mixed up. The one without a tail.”

“I don't believe for a second you're in the market for a show-quality corgi.” My words came out angrily—what I called my “bad-dog voice,” which I saved for our neighbor's German shepherd when it heckled my Ginger through the chain-link fencing.

“Well?” Swiveling in my bucket seat, I saw her worrying her lower lip with her front teeth. “I'm not moving until I get a straight answer.”

“You're right. I don't need a show dog.” She laced her fingers. “Bishop Troyer would frown upon dog shows. Prideful is what he'd call them.”

The hair on my arms bristled. “I have every right to be proud of my dogs' blue ribbons, particularly those earned in the Bred-by-Exhibitor class. Not to mention placing First in Group several times.” I'd hoped for a Best in Show with Mr. Big, but too late now. My Best of Breed and group-winning Pembroke Welsh corgi, my sweetie-pie favorite dog ever, had died last month.

“'Tis not our way to make others feel unworthy,” she said.

A brown-and-white pinto and an open buggy carrying a couple in their late teens glided toward us from the other direction. “Look at that horse,” I said. “Wouldn't owning such a showy animal make others feel jealous? Wouldn't the owner feel proud?”

“Ya might be right. Not a display of humility, for sure. But 'tis not my business to be judging others. That in itself is a sin.”

She was dodging my questions like a pro. So far I'd learned nothing, and my stomach was churning with hunger. Enough already, with playing Twenty Questions. I'd drop Lizzie at her farmhouse, gobble down a quick meal, and scram.

“Want to give me the directions?” I said, my impatience expanding with my hunger.

“Yah. Follow this road, then take the next left.” She gestured with a sweep of her arm.

I waited for two cars and a van to cruise by, then tucked in behind them.

Lizzie gazed up at the visor. “I was lookin' through a book at the store on my break—not when I should have been working, mind you. Yah, a book about dogs. Did you know corgis can be used for herding ducks, not to mention sheep and cattle?”

“Yes, I'm aware of that fact.” I'd once brought Mr. Big to an unofficial fun trial; he took to herding sheep as though he'd been rounding them up his whole life. “Why didn't you simply come out and ask me in your emails?” I said. “Why did you want me to come here? I could have found you the name of a local kennel.”

“But then I wouldn't have met you.” She gave me a coy look, her chin dipped. “Isn't this nice, getting to know each other and all?”

Was she pulling my leg? I appraised her simple attire and recalled her using the wrong key; maybe she was—how to put it kindly?—a bumpkin. I began fretting about her parents' house. Was it a log cabin?

“I don't believe anyone would contact my kennel for a herding dog,” I said. “As stated on my website, I'm down to one female adult, an American/Canadian champion, but her show career is over.” With Donald's distaste of dogs, I felt as though I'd have to find a good home for her eventually. Unless Pops wanted Ginger. No, he was already buried in responsibilities and his future was unclear.

“My time's running out working at the Sunflower Secondhand Store, so I won't have access to the Internet,” Lizzie said, as if that made one wit of sense. “I gave notice to Mrs. Martin, the Englisch lady who owns it. Tomorrow is my last day.”

“Where was she just now?”

“The poor lady—she's getting on in years—twisted her ankle this morning. Her
Dokder
—doctor—told her to elevate her foot and use an ice compress. I doubt she'll be able to put weight on her leg for a week. She opened the store just last fall and now this misfortune.”

“Can't you fill in for her?”

“Nee, I mustn't.”

“Something wrong with the job? You get fired?”

“No, I enjoy workin' there ever so much. But my dat—my father—says I've taken my running around—what we call
Rumspringa
—too far. 'Tis time I prepare for baptism classes and settle down.” Her rosebud mouth drooped at the corners. “My brothers Jeremy and Peter are also running around. Dat put his foot down and says we must shoulder our load on the farm.”

“If I were running around, as you call it, I'd be exploring the world somewhere exciting like Paris or Rome.” A huge exaggeration—I'd never left North America.

“You travel a lot?” she asked.

“Not really. Air travel is such a hassle these days.” I still had no clue where Donald and I would spend our honeymoon. He'd insisted he'd chosen a fabulous romantic location as a wedding present and told me to pack for warm weather and bring my passport. I'd begged for a hint, but he refused. Once we married, I had to wonder if he'd make all the decisions.

The heater blew dusty warmth at my legs.

Lizzie patted her knees, smoothing her apron skirt. “That feels
wunderbaar
. Take the next left,” she said, and I turned onto a smaller road. We passed expansive farms, plowed fields, dots of green I assumed were baby alfalfa, and every now and then a brightly illuminated house with cars or a pickup parked out front.

“Those homes belong to Englischers,” she said, answering my inquiry before I could verbalize it. And yet she hadn't come clean with the biggest question: why and how she'd tracked me down.

I glanced at her outfit. Lizzie dressed as if she were living in another century. Even though we shared a few common features, she and I couldn't be more different. She wasn't wearing makeup and her hands were bare, her nails clipped short. My unruly, sandy-colored hair was loosening from its ponytail, long bangs straggling over my forehead. Not to mention my one-carat engagement ring, which—for the first time—seemed out of place. Gaudy.

“If you're running around, as you call it, why are you wearing Amish clothing?” Not polite, but no time to dillydally. I figured we were almost at her house.

“I tried dressing Englisch for a couple days, but Dat hated it. Anyways, I'm used to these and our customers like them.” Pulling down the visor, she glanced at herself in the mirror, then flipped it shut. “I'm ever so sorry.”

“Can't you look at yourself? I've heard Amish don't like to be photographed, but surely they must see their reflection every now and then.”

“We're allowed, as long as it's to part our hair, not ogle at ourselves. We have enough tourists doin' that.”

“Like me?”

“No, I didn't mean to insinuate—here, take the next right. We're close now.”

A dozen starlings landing on a row of poplars caught my sight. With no one behind us, I let up on the gas again, slowing to ten miles per hour. “Let's start at the beginning, Lizzie. How did you find my name?”

“My Mrs. Martin showed me how to Google Welsh corgis. Your kennel's name popped up, so pretty, like it was calling to me.”

I was proud of my website, one reason I hadn't closed it down. But I'd promised Donald I would as soon as we got married.

I flicked on the radio—no CD player in this out-of-date car. Bad reception, but I could make out the words to “Help!” a Beatles song from the sixties that seemed to suit the Mustang. And me. The vocalist—John Lennon?—was begging for support, needing to get his feet planted on the ground. I could relate.

Lizzie squirmed in her seat, crossing and uncrossing her legs, and biting at her fingernail. Seeing her discomfort made me feel more in control. I sped up and tailgated a van. “What's wrong?” I asked her.

“Our bishop don't like us listenin' to the radio.”

“You've got to be kidding.” I tapped my fingers on the steering wheel as if I hadn't a care in the world. “What about classical music?”

“He forbids radios in the home. But I enjoy music and I'm not baptized yet.” Lizzie stroked the Mustang's black vinyl upholstery. “My brother was practically drooling over your car.” She giggled—a girlish titter reminding me of a mockingbird. “Such a fine comfy seat. I like it ever so much.”

Was she trying to distract me or was she just ditzy?

“Here we are!” she said with exhilaration. “Ya see the next house?”

Up ahead stood a two-story clapboard home with a trio of gables and a smaller house oddly attached to one corner, a wraparound front porch with a railing, a sizable barn, and several outbuildings. “Spanking white,” Pops would label them. A lovely and impeccable property with a manicured lawn. Not like the houses in the movies
Psycho
and
The Addams Family
. Maybe my misgivings were for naught. At twenty-seven, had I turned into a paranoid, suspicious worrywart?

No. Meeting up with Lizzie was downright bizarre. I hadn't emailed that I was coming or agreed to visit her. Nor had she sent her home address.

“If ya wouldn't mind, continue into the driveway,” she said.

As I motored up the narrow lane, I caught sight of a cylindrical tin-roofed corncrib. On the other side of the barn stood a silo and a windmill.

“Would ya please park over there?” She pointed to a couple of low buildings near the barn. “Right there, behind that shed, if ya don't mind. We all use the back door. 'Tis no slight on you.”

I could see gangly Jeremy ahead in the barnyard, unhitching the mare from the buggy. The animal stretched its neck, shook its head.

“Get a move on it,” Jeremy said to Lizzie as we exited the car. “Dat's finished milking. Everyone's waitin' on us for supper.” He took the horse by its bridle and guided her into the barn.

I spoke over the car's roof. “What about me?”

“'Tis fine.” Lizzie slammed the door too hard, making the car sound tinny. Pops would cringe. “Come inside,” Lizzie said.

“With such short notice? I need to know how much this is going to cost.” A startling thought came to mind. “Do you accept credit cards?”

“No. But you can talk it out over dinner.” Lizzie ushered me to the back stoop. “We always have room. Wait 'til you taste Mamm's
appeditlich
—delicious—cooking.”

A dog-show term,
faultfinder
, came to mind: a spectator who sees a dog's faults instead of its good qualities. Blinded by a less-than-perfect muzzle width or tail carriage, the viewer missed the dog's flawless gait. I'd become one, all right: focusing on negatives, momentarily ignoring this unique chance to stay in a real Amish home. Even though Pops wouldn't approve.

I inhaled the farm's sweet scent knowing Donald would hate it. Thank goodness he wasn't here.

Above me the blackened sky displayed a glamorous near-full moon. With only a lantern on the house's back porch and a light of some kind in the barn, I stood gazing up. Glittering stars populated the luminous heavens, mapping out constellations.

I'd take a chance, I decided, jump on this carousel, and enjoy the ride. Maybe I'd stumbled into a sliver of heaven. I deserved a weekend retreat.

Using prudence—my father's words of warning niggling at me—I left my overnight bag in the trunk, then followed Lizzie up the stairs. She entered a dimly lit back room laden with clunky work boots—lined up like a battalion—heavy jackets on pegs, an archaic washing machine with a hand-wringer, and a small sink near a door that must lead to the kitchen.

Ahead, I heard raised jagged voices—both male and female—squabbling in what I deduced was Pennsylvania Dutch, reminding me of a dogfight I'd once witnessed—a gruesome sight.