Secret, The (13 page)

She frowned, her hands folded on her lap. “What is?”

“The past month.”

She seemed to bristle. “Well, I’ve tried to explain, Judah. Truly, I have.”

“You’ve tried, jah. Perhaps you might try talkin’ to someone besides me.”

Instantly, he regretted his words. He didn’t wish to speak harshly—her pained expression bored a hole into his soul. She withered before him, and he felt guilty again. Guilty for every conversation that had gone miserably awry. And yet, hadn’t he waited in vain for her to speak her mind, only for her to shrink back time and again? He’d learned as a young husband that his bride harbored something deep within, something she could not seem to share.

Now, quietly, he waited again, searching for the right words to make things easier for her. But the moment was tense, even draining. He leaned forward. “What is it, Lettie? What’s both-erin’ you?”

She fixed her eyes on him, her words coming with slow deliberation. “I want you to hear this from me, Judah. . . .” She paused again, and Judah felt the blood drain from his face. After weeks of wandering the night, was she finally about to say what troubled her?

Suddenly, a series of loud thuds came from downstairs. He jerked his head toward the door.

“Judah . . .” Lettie whispered, her pretty eyes brimming with tears.

Adam’s voice rang out. “Dat,
kumm schnell—
come quick!”

Judah turned back to his wife. “Ach, the ewes!”

“Dat! You awake?” Adam’s voice was closer now, his footsteps in the hall.

“Let Adam manage for a few minutes,” she pleaded. “Won’t ya hear me out, Judah?”

He stood up, pulled away by his own insensible need to go. “I should see about this.”

“Please?” Her voice was a mere whisper.

Swiftly, he pulled on his work trousers over his pajamas. “I’ll be right back,” he said, dashing out the door.

Downstairs, he cringed at his cowardly reaction but hardened his resolve, hurrying outside. Whatever was on Lettie’s mind could wait till morning.

Tomorrow,
he promised himself.
We’ll get to it then.

Lettie closed her eyes as she lay in bed. She should have gone out to help her husband. More times than she could count, she’d assisted with pregnant ewes struggling in their labor. But now she felt depleted of energy, too exhausted to walk across the room, let alone to the barn.

“It’s awful hard on the children,”
Judah had said, referring to these recent weeks.

“Ach, such trouble in my spirit,” she whispered.

The memory of Judah’s fiery eyes remained before her, yet her own emotions were torn between what she recalled of their former love and the present reality. Oh, she knew he’d cared for her early on. But now?

Still fully dressed, Lettie lay there, waiting for her husband’s return.

Along about ten o’clock, when she’d filled several pages of her new journal, Grace was startled by a bright light climbing slowly up the windowpane, then swimming crazily across it. As the light moved in a circular motion, she realized what this might be. Going to the window, she raised it high enough to poke out her head.

She looked down and saw Henry standing far below, shining the light on his face.

“I’ve brought the clock,” he whispered, cupping a hand around his mouth. Then, catching himself, he added, “Hullo again, Grace.”

“Henry?” She hardly knew what else to say. He was standing clear down there, directly below her window. Chime clock aside, that could only mean one thing.

Glory be! Is this the night?

“Is now all right . . . I mean, for a visit?”

Goodness, he could scarcely get the words out. Was he that nervous?

“I’ll meet you at the side door,” she said, then slowly closed the window.

Heart in her throat, Grace wound her hair back up into the best bun she could manage quickly, her hands trembling. Her mind raced as she twisted the sides of her hair and pinned it quickly, then secured her reverent white Kapp. As excited as she was for this moment, she worried Henry had arrived too early, before everyone was sound asleep—especially Mamma.

She looked closely at her room, glad she had not put on nightclothes or rumpled her bed just yet. Oh, to think Henry had come calling here!

Scarcely able to believe it, she took the stairs quietly, then once she was down, she flew through the sitting room and into the kitchen.

She opened the side door and stood waiting as he carried the chime clock up the steps. “Please, come inside,” she said, unsure of herself.

“I best be takin’ the clock out of the box first,” he said, and she wondered if he was concerned about the chimes making a ruckus. As was the age-old custom, they mustn’t draw any attention to themselves whatsoever—all of it an overture to the most wonderful-good part of all.

Soon . . . very soon!

Heather finished studying for tomorrow’s exam and decided to incorporate some additional ideas into her master’s thesis, titled
Patriarchy in the Writings of Colonial Williamsburg
. Her fingers tapped out her thoughts, racing over the keyboard as she added a few more pages. Soon she would have to begin the dreaded chore of double-checking the latest footnotes.

Stretching, she looked at the digital clock on the microwave.
Dad should be home by now.
She hadn’t expected him to call; he rarely did. She assumed he’d picked up dinner or ordered take-out for the office.
“Eat on the run or go hungry
,
”
he’d once said in reference to his demanding schedule.

She thumbed through two research books—one focusing on the patriarchal ideal and reality, and the other on the function of the colonial family—making sure she’d accurately documented everything. A desire for top marks had always been her priority, and that had not changed, even with Dr. O’Connor’s words still ricocheting in her head.
Even now,
she thought, shrugging away the dreadful diagnosis.
I’ve no time for doom and gloom.

For the time being she was determined to cap off her last semester by acing her exams. After that she would head to Amish country for a great escape, leaving next Tuesday—in six days. She hoped to further her work on her thesis and oral presentation at the Riehls’ quiet tourist home.

When she’d tweaked the first twenty pages for the umpteenth time, Heather was satisfied . . . for now. Tomorrow she would print out what she had and work off the hard copy, obsessing as always. After all, anything written late at night often looked entirely too disappointing in the daylight.

She was tempted to call it a night and head off to bed, but something urged her to check her email . . . see if Devon had written. She still was not totally clear about what the time difference was between Virginia and Iraq. She was sure he was in Baghdad, but his company was constantly moving, and for security reasons he wasn’t allowed to disclose his location.

Her heart slammed hard when she saw who’d written: Devon’s battle buddy, he’d called him.
If anything happens to
me, you’ll hear from Don Hirsch first,
he’d written soon after deployment. The words had sounded so ominous.

And now here was Don’s email address showing up like a bomb in her in-box. She could hardly breathe as she read.
Hey,
Heather, don’t freak. . . . Devon’s sick, but he’s gonna be okay.

She squinted back tears to read more.
There’s a weird virus
floating around,
Don explained.

“Aw, poor guy . . .” she groaned.

They’ll keep an eye on him at the military hospital for a few days,
so he won’t be online for a while. He says not to worry and sends his
love “to his sweet babe”—and I quote.

“Um, how do I not worry?” she sputtered, and Moe meowed loudly. She leaned down to pick up her favorite cat. “Devon’s real sick,” she whispered. “Can he get well fast without us, huh?”

Moe began to purr, rolling over on his back as he lay on her lap. She rubbed his tummy, thinking all the while about her fiancé’s being so ill he had to go to a hospital.
Where?
She felt helpless not knowing . . . not being able to visualize any of it. She really wanted to hop on a plane and fly over there.

Shoot, he’d signed up for guard duty and gotten
this
? It still baffled her why he’d signed up at all.

Hey, Don,
she began to type, expressing her gratitude for his email, jarring as it had been to receive it.
Tell Devon I love
him, and I’m really sorry he’s sick. Please keep the updates coming.
Thanks!

She stopped typing, frustrated with the immense distance between them.
My incredible guy . . . so ill!

She wished she could do this entire year over, starting from the day Devon had held her in his arms at the airport. She’d gotten a gate pass so she could go with him through security to his departing gate. In the end, it might have been easier if they’d said their
good-bye
s and
I love you
s a dozen times in the terminal. But no, she’d had to see him off completely.

“I really despise this war,” Heather muttered, hitting Send
.
She shut down the laptop and shuffled off to her room.
I’ll be
lucky to get any sleep tonight.

Henry carried the clock up the stairs without the chimes ringing even once. Grace shyly led the way to her room, leaving the door slightly open as Mamma would expect.

Whispering now, she moved the birthday cards off the dresser. “For the time being, it can go here.”

Henry placed the small, gleaming clock in the center, in front of the mirror on her long doily runner. He seemed stiff, standing there in the middle of her room.

She felt just as ill at ease—so much so that she nearly forgot what to do next. Thankfully, Henry motioned toward the hope chest at the foot of her bed. “Oh . . . jah,” she said, still concerned their talking might disturb the family. “Would you like to see what I’ve made?”

He moved to the padded settee and silently sat down.

“I embroidered these pillow slips,” she began, wondering if he expected her to describe each item. She’d never done this before. Of course, neither had he, and she smiled at the lovely thought.

Next came the woolen shawl she’d made several years ago, when she’d first learned to spin wool with Jessica. And the woolen lap afghan for chilly days.

Henry regarded each item with seeming interest, and Grace hurried along, showing him the four winter-weight quilts she and Mamma had made, and another one made by Mammi Adah. There were quilted potholders and placemats, too, and dozens of linens—many of which were treasured family heirlooms—towels, bed coverlets, and even a cradle quilt done in lovely pastels. She told him about her sewing equipment and cooking utensils, all packed away in boxes in the attic for now.

When she’d displayed everything, she carefully returned the items to the chest and closed the lid. She sat there, heart pounding as Henry gave a slow smile and held out his hand. She rose and went to his side.

“Sit here . . . with me.” He released her hand. “Denki for showin’ me all your nice things.”

She nodded, still feeling awkward and shy. “Happy to.”