The Amish Groom ~ Men of Lancaster County Book 1 (21 page)

F
IFTEEN

O
n Friday I began my morning devotions an hour before Brady’s alarm went off. It was growing more clear to me that my coming to California was layered with purposes that were not just my own or my dad’s. To start with, something had wedged itself between my brother and me, and I likely would not have picked up on it had I not come. Second, I was still prayerfully contemplating my dad’s parting words when he left on Wednesday, that perhaps he wished he had done things differently with me. This was not something I had ever detected from him before. Third, and the most compelling, I was feeling my mother’s presence here in a way I never had before, which was odd considering she’d never stepped foot in this house nor even been to California, as far as I knew.

This was not a trip just to discover who I was. It was also a trip to discover who my mother was out in the world, beyond the farm and my Amish family’s recollections. Perhaps, I realized now, what God had been doing the last few restless months was not so much preparing me to figure out where I truly belonged, but to confront once and for all the reasons why my mother left the Amish faith. I was her son. Those reasons mattered.

Especially if I ended up following in her footsteps.

In my prayers I asked God to keep guiding me to the truths He wanted me to find. If I really was here to learn more about my mother, I wasn’t sure why He had ordained I come at the exact time when the one person who had known her best—my father—was out of the country, but I trusted He had things under control.

As for me, all I had to go on thus far was the one conversation between me and my dad before he left, the new knowledge that my mother loved photography, and the messages she had written to him in the pictorial book on Germany. I desperately wanted that box of my mother’s photos my dad had mentioned. It was no good to me locked away in a storage unit somewhere.

When my prayer time ended, I headed to the study and emailed my dad, asking him if he would mind if I went to the storage unit myself to find that box of photos.

After that, I made blueberry pancakes for Brady and me, using
Mammi
’s recipe with a little nutmeg and cinnamon. They turned out pretty good, and as he wolfed down his share, he told me that his friend’s sister, the photographer, Lark, would meet me at the snack bar tonight as soon as the game was over.

“Thanks for setting it up,” I told him. “Any idea what she’s hoping to accomplish when we meet?”

He took one final bite and then carried his plate to the sink. “I dunno. You said you wanted to learn stuff about photography. She told me she knows a few other students who might be willing to help. Not for free, but it’ll still be cheaper than hiring some professional. Isn’t that what you wanted? A cheap tutor?” His tone was still sharp, his attitude defiant.

“Um, yeah. Sure. Thanks, Brady.”

“Yep.” He rinsed his dish and set it in the sink. He hesitated for a moment, as if he wanted to say something else, and then he seemed to think better of it and held his tongue. He walked back to the table and began gathering up his papers and books.

“What about you, though?” I asked. “You don’t mind waiting around after the game while she and I chat?”

He paused to look up at me, the now-familiar disdain fully returning to his expression. “The players can’t leave right away, Tyler. I’ll be in the locker room, at least for a while.”

“Ah,” I said, my voice even. “Thanks for clarifying.”

He asked what I would be wearing so that he could text Lark a description and she could find me. I told him probably Dad’s UCLA Bruins hoodie.

“Good choice,” Brady said, with no hint of whether he was being sarcastic or not.

Once he was gone, I took Frisco for a morning walk, trying to put my little brother’s contentiousness out of my mind. It was trash day but the trucks hadn’t come through yet, which unfortunately meant stopping at nearly every set of cans in the neighborhood for a good sniff.

At least we had another beautiful day, I told myself as I tugged on the dog’s leash to get him moving again. And again. I was looking forward to the time I would spend working on my container garden project. I hoped I could finish clearing out all of the bushes this morning and then finally get to a store for all of the supplies this afternoon.

Frisco and I walked our usual three-block by three-block square, the last leg bringing us past the house where I had fallen off the bike the day before. I wouldn’t have given it a second thought except that when we paused at their trash cans, I spotted a familiar sight crammed into the pile: the little boy’s skateboard.

I glanced toward the house, amazed that he would simply throw it out, especially after spending all that time on it. The poor kid really had needed my help, and all I’d done was ride on by.

I felt terrible. I considered knocking on the door, introducing myself to his parents, and offering to fix whatever was wrong if I could. But, again, I had no idea how something like that might be received. Behind me, I heard the telltale beep-beep-beep of the garbage truck slowly working its way along, so I knew I needed to make a decision.

Impulsively, I removed the skateboard from the can and tucked it under my arm. Then I carried it home, deciding I would fix it here, on my own, and then bring it back. For now, though, I was itching to get to my big project, so I set the skateboard aside in a corner of the garage to work on later.

I spent the rest of the morning and early afternoon out back, removing the last of the bushes on the south side of the house and decreasing the amount of space taken up by the pebbled walkway. I found an empty heavy-duty storage tub in the garage to put the extra pebbles in. When I was finished, I would use them for ground cover in between the boxes to make access for planting, watering, and harvesting easier.

Brady had told me where the nearest builders’ store was, so in the midafternoon I made the trip to get the supplies and rent a table saw and sawhorses, and this time I used Liz’s GPS to get there and home again. Some conveniences sure made life easier.

Back at the house, I eased Dad’s car out of the garage and parked it next to Liz’s so that I would have the space to set up my work area inside. Once I got organized, I dove right in. I was relieved that it didn’t take long to get the hang of using the saw, which was similar to one I used back home—though mine was retrofitted to run on compressed air while this one simply plugged into an outlet in the wall.

Dad didn’t have a sander, but I actually preferred using elbow grease to get the shorn ends smooth. The heady smell of pine as I rubbed the planks reminded me of home, and the exercise felt good.

I stopped at six, made myself a couple of grilled cheese sandwiches, and checked my email to see if there was a message from Dad about the box of photos. There wasn’t. I shut down the computer and went upstairs for a shower. After cleaning up, feeding the dog, and bringing in the mail, I secured the house to go to Brady’s football game.

The last time I had seen him play had been four years earlier when he was on a Pop Warner team and I happened to visit at a time when the season had just started. I didn’t remember much of that game, only that Brady had a solid kick for a ten-year-old.

Watching him now, it was easy to see that he was incredibly gifted—and that the pressure on him must be tremendous. On three different fourth-down situations there was no hope for points unless Brady kicked a field goal. Anybody on the field could make a touchdown, even a defensive player if he caught an interception or recovered a fumble. But only one person could do the job Brady had. He did it beautifully.

And he was only fourteen years old.

Making the stakes even higher was the fact that most of the other players were seniors whose post–high school plans would be shaped by how the team fared overall this season. Brady’s points made the better players shine all the more. Add to that the load our father was heaping on him, and it was no wonder he was bucking against it.

By the end of the game, not only had my empathy for Brady greatly increased, but I was surprised to find myself empathizing with my father as well. Just like Dad, I began to swell with satisfaction over the way Brady handled himself on the field. When the last points on the scoreboard, which were his, sealed the win for his team, I nearly turned to the family sitting next to me and said, “That’s
my
brother!” in a very non-Amish display of pride.

Afterward, as the crowd began moving from the stands and the team jogged off the field to head to the locker room, I said a quick prayer, asking forgiveness for my attitude, strength and guidance for Brady, and the right words to speak to my father on his behalf.

The night was chilly, even for Southern California, and as I made my way to the snack bar to meet Aaron’s sister Lark, I wished I had worn something heavier than Dad’s hoodie. Most people were headed out of the stadium and away from the concessions, so I found myself going against the tide as I walked.

I had no idea what this Lark person looked like, so I positioned myself near the first window, within easy view of the departing spectators, and waited for her to find me. After a few minutes my phone vibrated with a message from Brady. He was finished in the locker room and some teammates were going to “In and Out,” whatever that was, for hamburgers and shakes. He didn’t need a ride home. And he didn’t invite me to join them.

I texted him back.
These friends are ones Dad and Liz are okay with?

Yes
was his short answer.

I replied with,
Have fun and be careful.

His
Yep
seemed shorter still.

After about five more minutes, a young woman approached. She had reddish-blond hair with hints of blue, a diamond stud sparkling on her left nostril, and a daisy tattoo gracing one side of her neck. A few inches shorter than me, she was rail thin, wearing a colorful scarf, leather jacket, black leggings, and fat suede boots that to me seemed better suited to the tundra than Southern California.

“Tyler? I’m Lark Parrish.”

I thrust out my hand. “Hi. Nice to meet you.”

“Nice to meet you too. Sorry it took so long to get over here.”

“No problem. I appreciate your help.”

She cocked her head slightly as she released my hand. “You have an accent.” Before I could respond, she added, “I thought you were from Pennsylvania.”

“I am.”

“You don’t sound like it. You sound like you’re from another country or something.”

I shrugged, concerned at how things were starting out. Had Brady not told her that I’d been raised Amish? If not, why not? Had it simply not come up? Or was it because he was ashamed of that fact?

Pushing those questions from my mind for now, I ignored her comments and shifted the conversation over to the task at hand, explaining that I’d never had anything to do with cameras or photography before, but that I had taken an interest of late and wanted to find someone knowledgeable to teach me a few basics over the next month while I was in town. The crowd continued to thin out as we stood there and talked, me answering her questions and the two of us discussing what I was looking for and what might be involved. To my dismay, though, once Lark and I had hammered out the details, she hopped right back to the topic of my accent.

“I just can’t place it,” she said, looking me over closely as if my face or hair or clothes might give her a clue. “I’ve met your parents, so I know you didn’t get it from them.”

Startled, I hesitated for a moment before understanding her confusion.

“Oh, Liz is my stepmother. Brady and I are just half brothers, not full.”

“Ah,” she replied, stretching it out. “So that explains it. I didn’t realize Liz was your dad’s second wife. Is your mom foreign? I know he was in the military, right? So he’s probably lived all over the world.”

I could tell she wasn’t going to let this go. I glanced away to see that the playing field was nearly empty and the concession stand workers had begun to close up shop.

“Actually, I was raised Amish. The accent is from Pennsylvania Dutch, the language we speak among ourselves.” I didn’t add that my mother had passed away seventeen years ago.

“Whoa,” she said, eyes wide. “Seriously? You’re
Amish
?”

I shrugged, feeling as though she expected me to whip out a straw hat and a pair of suspenders at any moment.

“It’s not that big of a deal,” I told her, feeling self-conscious. “I mean, I’m still just a regular person. All Amish are. Just regular people.”

She seemed to realize her behavior had been bordering on rude. “I’m sorry. I guess it just took me by surprise. You’re the first Amish person I’ve ever met.”

“Then we’re even,” I replied with a smile. “You’re the first photographer I’ve ever met.”

She tossed back her head and laughed. “Holy cow. You’re cute and funny. Want to give me a ride home? I think I just might end up deciding to tutor you myself.” She started to walk away.

“What?”

Lark turned back. “Give me a ride home and we can talk about it some more. You came here tonight in a car, right?”