Secret, The (3 page)

The van slowed to a stop. Judah opened the front door and greeted the driver, “
Wie geht’s!”

Martin comically replied with a rather garbled line of Pennsylvania Dutch mixed with English—something about feeling as good as he ought to but not as good as he wished.

Judah reached for the seat belt and managed to offer a cheerful hello over his shoulder to the two middle-aged Amishwomen behind him.

Martin glanced his way. “Pretty soon, I’ll have to start hiring
you
to take me on errands,” he said, a grin on his ruddy cheeks. “Gas prices and all.”

“So I hear.” Judah liked Martin’s frank way of speaking his mind, his spontaneous sense of humor, too. Martin’s jovial nature was one reason Judah contacted the sixty-three-year-old first for transportation, before other drivers on his list. Anymore, the highways were unsafe for horses and carriages with so many impatient motorists rushing along the roads.

Martin shook his head. “Talk has it we’ll be paying four dollars a gallon or more by summer.”

“Guess you’ll have to raise your fee per mile then, too.” Judah hoped not. The price of feed and seed and just about everything else made for plenty of worrisome talk at suppertime.

“We’ll just have to see.” Martin glanced at his rearview mirror. “Where you heading to, ladies?” He tilted his head slightly.

“You can drop us off at market,” one of them said.

“Well, I’ve never
dropped
anyone anywhere,” Martin joked.

“Oh, for pity’s sake!” the other woman said, laughing.

Judah joined in the frivolity. It felt surprisingly good to laugh again, especially with Martin. An imposing man in girth and stature, Martin had an enormous personality to match, and he had a handshake suggestive of a bear’s paw. Talkative, too, he was a teller of often inspiring tales, and one of only a few English folk Judah enjoyed communicating with.

Looking out the window, Judah trained his sights on the splendor of the season on Beechdale Road. He noticed white rose arbors boasting their first coat of paint, accenting soon-to- be colorful flower beds along front and back porches and near small springhouses.

How Lettie loves her roses
, he thought suddenly, wondering if their beauty might put a smile on her pretty face once again.

The way he was feeling, he didn’t much care what Lettie did with her roses come June. They were her business, after all. But lest Judah allow his aggravation to make a nesting place in his soul, he pushed aside the leftover frustration. He’d had plenty of practice doing so over the past few weeks—no, nearly all their married life. What was another day?

He returned his attention to the road. Presently he would simply appreciate the speed with which he could get to his destination this morning, just as he enjoyed riding by car up to visit his older brother Potato John, near Akron. At less busy times of year, he also made trips south to Bart to see dozens of his father’s Stoltzfus cousins. A quick and effortless way to escape concerns about Lettie.

Judah mustn’t be gone too long today, however, with lambing well under way, though he was glad for a good excuse to clear his head for a few hours. He was headed to a private animal auction, hoping to purchase another driving horse. The sale would be held in the barn of a Mennonite farmer in Browns­town who’d advertised in
Die Botschaft
, the weekly newspaper for the Plain community. Judah had attended the Mud Sales in Gordonville in mid-March—the fire department–sponsored horse auction—looking for just the right driving horse. He’d come up empty-handed. He knew what he wanted but wouldn’t pay top dollar, not with feed prices going through the roof.

Hopefully I’ll see something today.
With marriage around the corner, it wouldn’t be many more months before son Adam would need spirited Sassy, his sorrel, as well as another horse for himself. And their favorite driving horse, Willow—a gentle and big-eyed chestnut mare who was practically a family pet—was getting on in years and soon wouldn’t be able to pull her weight around the farm. Or on the road. Judah had often observed Grace in the horse stable, grooming her, feeding her a carrot or apple, and talking up a storm.

Too bad she has to converse with a horse
, he thought, wondering if Lettie might ever feel the need to resort to the same.

Gripping the banister, Adah moved slowly up the back stairs to Jakob. She’d cooked a hot breakfast—poached eggs and sausage patties, toast and apple butter—and it was all laid out, waiting for her husband to take his place at the head of the table. He was slower than usual this morning and, since Jakob’s hearing had dimmed, she decided to go and find him.

The creaking staircase reminded her of the peculiar talking she had heard in the wee hours. Startled awake, she’d heard someone downstairs on their side of the house . . . jumbled-up words mixed with weeping. She’d sat up in bed, straining to hear. Was it Lettie?

Curious, she’d crept down these steps, their squeaks more pronounced in the dead of night. She had stood in her large kitchen amidst strands of moonbeams, looking past the newfangled stove she’d talked Judah into installing, identical to the one in Lettie’s own kitchen. Standing before the front room window, her daughter had been hunched over as if she might be ill. A black silhouette against the white radiance of the night.

Not wanting to make her presence known, Adah had stayed put, not moving and scarcely breathing. A test of her willpower—her muscles, too. She did not want to risk the stairs creaking again. So Lettie was up and restless. Didn’t all womenfolk have the sniffles about something at least once during the month?

Surely that’s all it was.

“All I hope it is. . . .”

Making her way into their bedroom, she tapped Jakob lightly on the knee as he read from his old, tattered German Bible. “Breakfast is on the table,” she said.

He looked up, a twinkle in his eye. “Don’t have to ask a hungry man twice.” He heaved himself out of his chair and followed her to the stairs.

When they were seated and the silent blessing had been offered, she looked out the window and noticed Adam and Joe—the tall and the short of it—moseying toward the house. No doubt they had been bottle-feeding some of the weaker lambs, those rejected by the ewes. Since Judah had left the house so early, the care of the most recent newborns had fallen to the boys—at least for now.

“Our grandsons are plenty capable of lookin’ after things.” Jakob grinned at her. He’d caught her gawking and probably looking a bit worried, too. “Word has it Judah’s Adam is soon goin’ to have himself a farm of his own to look after.”

“Oh?” This was news. “But the Stahls don’t have land to spare, do they?”

Jakob shook his head, smacking his lips. “I didn’t say they did.”

So was Priscilla’s father handing over the big farm to his son-in-law-to-be? If so, did Lettie have any inkling of this?

Lettie and Susannah Stahl had been friends since childhood, but Adah hadn’t heard Lettie mention her much in recent years. Not since Naomi’s sudden passing, when Lettie had become hopelessly withdrawn, despite Adah’s efforts to get her out to quilting and canning bees.

“The way I heard it, the Stahl farm’s bein’ divided up again,” Jakob explained, shaking pepper on his eggs. “Won’t be much of it left if they keep on, but nobody asked me.”

“Well, a Mennonite farmer down the way is sellin’ off a small section of his land, Marian Riehl says. Four acres or so.”

“A small plot like that makes no sense.” Jakob shook his head.

“You’d think they’d want to pass it along to family . . . like you say Rudy Stahl’s doin’ with our Adam and his bride-to-be.”

“Well,
that’s
a good thirty acres, though. More than enough for a nice truck farm.”

“A wonderful-
gut
wedding gift, I’ll say.”

Jakob chuckled. “Whoever thought a fella could keep his weddin’ plans a secret till the time of bein’ published never had womenfolk lookin’ over his shoulder, ain’t?”

They laughed until Jakob had to pull a blue kerchief out of his pocket to wipe his blue-gray eyes.

“I’m guessin’ Judah has to know somethin’,” Adah said.

“If
we
know, then how on earth wouldn’t he and Lettie know, or at least suspect it?”

“Seems to me Lettie has more on her mind than a weddin’ dowry.” Adah rose to get more sausage, still warming on the skillet. Jakob liked his meat plenty hot.

“You must’ve heard her last night, too.” Jakob had never been one to beat around the bush, one of the reasons she’d liked him from the very start of their courtship, fifty-some years ago.

Adah stroked the top of his callused hand. “It’s just not like her . . . not anymore, at least.”

Jakob’s eyes searched hers. “
Puh!
She’s a woman, ain’t she?”

“Oh, go on with ya, Jakob Esh!” She tugged at his cuff.

“Sure hope it ain’t something cropping up ’tween her and Judah.”

Adah’s shoulders tensed. “Well, but . . . who’s to say?”

“Ain’t our business.” He paused. “And it never was.”

She nodded slowly. “The past is over and done with, thank the dear Lord.”

At a loss for how to comfort her daughter, Adah decided to bake a loaf of fresh bread, then take it over to Lettie.
Poor thing.
A nice warm slice of buttered toast with some brown sugar and cinnamon would surely cheer her up right quick.

While she was still carrying breakfast dishes to the sink, Grace heard the side door open. Turning, she saw Becky Riehl standing there, a big smile on her rosy face, her dark hair pulled tight at the middle part. “Ach, hullo. So good to see ya!”

Becky glanced about the room, a joyful light evident in her soft brown eyes. “Are we alone?” she whispered.

Laughing, Grace said, “Sure looks like it.” She put down the pile of dishes and went to her friend.

“You’ll never believe this, Gracie.”

“Jah?”

Becky looked about the room, as if confirming they were indeed by themselves. Then she said, “Yonnie Bontrager asked me to go walkin’ with him after the next Singing!”

Grace wasn’t at all surprised. “That’s just wonderful-
gut
, Becky.”

“Do you really think so?” Becky blew out a breath. “Do ya think I should go along? I mean . . . that makes me, what . . . the eighth girl he’s asked?”

Grace suppressed a laugh. According to Yonnie’s sister Mary Liz, her brother had made some sort of list of eligible girls from their church district, hoping to get acquainted with each one before deciding whom to seriously court.

“I think you should accept,” Grace said.

“Honestly?”

Becky’s dark eyes widened as Grace revealed what she’d heard from Mary Liz. “He made a
list
?” she exclaimed. “That’s lots different than the way we do things here, jah? Do you suppose he got that idea from where he grew up in Indiana?”

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

J
udah 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.