SummerHill Secrets, Volume 1 (30 page)

I scarcely heard the pastor’s sermon, even though I truly wanted to. The sight of Lissa and Jon sitting together kept distracting me. Jon Klein looked absolutely delighted sitting there with Lissa at his side. Completely crushed, I wondered if he’d introduced her to the word game yet. And if so, could she keep up with him the way I always had?

As best I could, I avoided them after the service by simply hanging around my parents. Dad seemed happy with the extra attention I gave him on the way down the aisle and out to the parking lot. To my delight, he agreed to tell me more about Joseph Lapp.

“We’ll talk right after dinner,” he said, holding the car door open for Mom.

After a spectacular spread of baked chicken, mashed potatoes, gravy, yellow buttered squash, peas and carrots, and a whole series of “no thank yous” when I felt too stuffed to move, Mom shooed Dad and me into the living room.

Skip helped in the kitchen at her request. I was surprised he didn’t give her a hard time about it. Maybe being a senior was doing him some good. If I could just get him to accept my cats as part of the family…

Dad settled down in his easy chair to tell his tales. “To begin with, your grandfather Hanson, my father, was as sharp as a tack when it came to remembering passed-down details and events. So I guess you could say I have him to thank for the stories about Joseph Lapp.”

I sat on the end of our green sofa, sharing the matching ottoman with Dad, intent on what he was about to say.

“Joseph Lapp, I was told, had a rebellious streak in him from the day he was born,” Dad said.

I thought of Levi Zook’s grandfather, who had pounded away with stories of Joseph Lapp’s rebellion and consequences.

Dad continued. “Evidently, Joseph was the last to be baptized in his family, and even then, he broke his vow by marrying outside the church.”

“What did he look like?” I asked.

Dad moved a tasseled throw pillow out from behind him. “As a matter of fact, he was tall and lanky, had a full head of light brown hair, and the bluest eyes this side of the Pocono Mountains.”

The description matched Levi Zook perfectly.

“Sounds like someone I know,” I replied.

“Well, plenty of Amishmen match that description, I suppose.” He leaned back. “But not many do what Joseph Lapp did, at least not back in those days.”

“What do you mean?” I was all ears.

“Being ousted from the church—that’s excommunication. An Amishman’s life revolves around the community of men and women who make up the church district. They fill one another’s silos and plow or milk when a farmer is too sick or has no sons. They pitch in money to take care of one another during drought or hard times. They rejoice when new babies are born, and they mourn and bury their dead together.” Dad paused, sighing. “The key word to remember about the Amish is
community
.”

I crossed my legs on the ottoman. “If a person is kicked out of the community, how does he survive?”

Dad’s eyes grew more serious. “Many Amish who leave often return because of the hardship of shunning.”

“Something like being disowned, right?”

He nodded. “Not only does the person lose close ties with his family, he isn’t allowed to eat or do business with
any
of his Amish relatives or friends. It must surely seem like a death to the loved ones involved. But if it weren’t for the shunning, lots of young Amish teens today would leave the church for cars and electricity.”

“Do you think Joseph Lapp ever repented?”

“Well, if he had, you and I might be sitting in the middle of a group of Amish folk right now, finishing up Sunday dinner,” Dad said with a weak smile and then a hearty yawn.

I could see he was tired. Sunday was the one day out of the whole week he wasn’t on call, and he wasn’t getting any younger. In fact, this summer Dad would celebrate his fiftieth birthday.

I gave him a hug before covering him with one of Mom’s many afghans. Then I giggled looking at him lying there. “Just think, by now, if we were Amish, your beard would be down to here.” I pointed to my stomach.

“Very funny, Merry,” he said.

Hurrying upstairs, I wrote down everything I could remember about Joseph Lapp, wondering why he’d married outside the Amish church.

After that, I went to Dad’s study and was closing the door when I turned around and discovered Skip there on the phone. He gave me one of his get-lost looks.

“For how long?” I whispered.

He said, “Excuse me for one sec, Nikki,” covering the phone as his eyes squinted into narrow little slits.

I stood my ground. “I need the phone.”

“Wait outside,” he barked. “And shut the door when you leave.”

“How much longer?”

“You’re really making this difficult, you know?” Skip glared at me.

“I’ll give you five minutes. If you’re not off the phone by then, look for me in your room raiding your desk drawer.”

Skip’s eyes bulged. “You wouldn’t dare!”

“Five minutes.” I turned and walked out, leaving the door wide open. His gasps of exasperation were obvious as I scurried down the hall, suppressing a giggle.

Precisely seven minutes passed. I headed directly for my brother’s room. The door was partway open, so I barged in, heading for his desk.

Not everyone knew my brother kept a journal. It seemed like a girl thing to do, but he really enjoyed keeping a record of his life. So did I, in a more unusual way—by photographing people, places, and things.

I slid his chair away from the desk, making sure it screeched across the hardwood floor. That way Skip would know I meant business, since his bedroom was directly above Dad’s study.

Listening, I smiled. The unmistakable sound of footsteps could be heard on the stairs.

Genius!

I made a mad dash out of Skip’s room and down the hall to my bedroom. With my heart pounding ninety miles an hour, I locked the door.

“What were you doing in my room?” Skip bellowed through my door.

I giggled at his reaction. “I gave you fair warning.”

“I’m telling Mom!”

“Go ahead.”

I heard the pounding of his big feet on the back stairs that led down to the kitchen. But as fast as he left, he returned, thumping his fist against my door.

“Where’s Mom?” he demanded.

“Probably out for her afternoon stroll, dear brother,” I said, sprinkling my words with a British accent.

“Cut the Brit routine,” he sneered. “You’re dead meat for this.”

“What did
I
do?”

He stomped around outside my door. “Did you snoop through anything?” There was a twinge of desperation in his voice.

Good. Maybe this would give me some leverage for later. If and when I needed it.

“So,” I began snootily, “it’s you and Nikki, is it?”

“When are you ever going to keep your nose out of other people’s business?”

I let him rant on and on while I reclined on my bed, stroking my four cats. The door seemed to heave and sway with the noise of his threats and accusations.

When I didn’t comment for a long time, he insisted that I answer. I remained silent, laughing under my breath that I’d never even touched his precious desk drawer. Or journal. Finally, he evaporated—the weirdest brother a girl could ever have.

When I knew he was back in his room, probably recounting his most recent romantic chat in his journal, I crept down the hall, past his door, to the steps.

Downstairs, I found peace and solitude in Dad’s study as I talked on the phone to Chelsea. When I hung up, Lissa called.

“Hi, Mer,” she said, all pert and sweet.

I curled my toes. She was the last person on earth I wanted to talk to. “How’s your family tree growing?” I said.

She laughed. “Very clever.”

I held my breath, afraid she’d say,
Say that with all c
’s.

“Chelsea and I got most of ours done yesterday,” I said.

“Jon and I are nearly finished, too,” she said.

More than anything, I wished
that
were true. Finished as in kaput—over!

Lissa continued. “I can’t wait for the ninth-grade picnic. It’ll be really cool. You’re going, aren’t you?”

“Not sure.” If she and Jon were going, there was no way I’d be showing up.

“Why don’t you ask someone?” She sounded all excited. “Then the four of us could go together!”

Oh no! This was truly horrible.

“We’ll see,” I said, gritting my teeth.

“Don’t wait too long,” she advised. “The picnic’s less than two weeks away.”

“I’ll remember that.”

“Well, I’d better get going. See ya.” We hung up.

Frustrated, I went to do math homework, trying not to think depressing thoughts. It wasn’t easy. Lissa was wild about Jon; there was no getting past that. But how interested was Jon in
her
?

I finished my algebra in record time, then headed to the garage to get my bike, securing my camera case and water bottle in the bike basket before pushing off.

I wondered if I’d see Mom out walking, but I knew she usually went
up
the hill toward Strawberry Lane. I was going down Summer-Hill to the covered mill bridge several miles from here. Besides, I needed to be alone.

It was a good long distance to pedal, but the exercise wasn’t the only draw. Hunsecker’s Mill Bridge was beautiful any time of year, but especially in late spring. A truly peaceful place to contemplate life’s disappointments…among other things.

The afternoon was humid, but a mild breeze rippled the grass in the ditch beside the dirt road. Birds sang heartily as I followed the banks and curves of SummerHill Lane toward the main road. I suspected an afternoon shower—the birds seemed to know these things first—although there was little indication from the sky. A perfect deep blue, and only a few thunderclouds in the distance.

Everywhere I looked, flowers were beginning to push their heads up, adding a colorful addition to my ride and a fragrant touch to the air. Summer was almost here!

I stopped by the side of the road to take a picture of Mrs. Fisher’s flowers. Profuse with dark pink peonies, the lovely flower garden was framed by two lilac bushes, one on each side. Carefully, I set my camera for the proper lighting and distance, then snapped away, hoping at least one of the shots would capture the brilliance.

Just then Ben Fisher, the oldest son, came outside. “Hello, Merry!” He sat on the front step.

I smiled. “Don’t worry, I didn’t get you in the picture.”

“That’s good. I’ve been in enough trouble for a spell.” He exchanged a somber look with his elderly father, who sat in a hickory rocking chair nearby, puffing on a pipe.

I snapped my camera case shut and waved good-bye, wondering how Ben was doing. He’d dabbled with the modern world for a while—sowed some wild oats as the Amish say—even bought a car and had an English girlfriend. But Levi Zook, his true and loyal friend, had helped bring him back into the Amish community, even after Ben was uncovered as the culprit behind the Zooks’ recent barn fire.

Last I heard, Ben had given a kneeling confession in front of the local church district not long ago. All was forgiven. I wondered if Levi and Ben were still good friends—and if so, why was Levi running with a crowd like the Mule Skinners?

I hurried down the road, eager for the tranquil setting of the Conestoga River and the old covered bridge. Pedaling hard, I flew down SummerHill to the intersection at Hunsecker Mill Road.

Minutes later, I arrived at the bridge. I got off my bike and pushed it through the deep wild grass along the south side. Locating a tree, I abandoned my wheels, and with camera and water bottle in tow, headed for the quiet banks of the river.

There, in the partial shade of a giant maple, I settled down for some serious photo shooting. First, I took several shots of the bridge itself, finding the most unique angle possible for my scrapbook. Next came the river and the large, stately trees and flowering bushes. What a glorious day!

I put my camera away and sat there, listening to the sounds of springtime as the midafternoon light cast curious shadows over the water. I wondered what it would be like to have someone fall in love with me. Really and truly in love.

Oh, I’d formed some ethereal ideas about it, of course, but never anything concrete. Maybe he’d paint my name on a billboard somewhere. Maybe he’d hire a sky painter. And there was always the Goodyear blimp…

I daydreamed about the endless possibilities. And by so doing, forced the discouraging thoughts of Jon Klein out of my mind.

Down the road to the east, I heard hoofbeats. Fast, clippityclopping ones. Soon the horse and buggy came into view. For a fleeting moment, I envied the young couple in the open courting buggy.

I stood up, trying to get a better look.

The buggy made the turn into the bridge. Pounding hoofbeats rattled the loose boards inside. Was it my imagination, or had the driver increased his speed? It sounded like the wild, reckless way Levi Zap ’em Zook handled his horse.

I sat back down in the grass, ducking my head, hoping Levi wouldn’t see me. If it
was
Levi.

“Merry!” came his voice. “I know you’re over there.”