The Love Letters (34 page)

“Oh yes. You see, I was Eleanor's pianist for a number of years.” Boston gazed out the window, a faraway look in his eyes, like he was beginning to remember more. “Eleanor and I toured all over the country and in parts of Europe, too . . . a long time ago. It's hard to remember precisely when.”

“She warbles like a songbird,” Small Jay said.

“A most lyrical high soprano.” Boston's smooth hands began to sway and lift once again. “I believe I was living in Arlington, Virginia, when we recorded this album. Sometime later, this popular single came out of that.”

Small Jay made a mental note of everything Boston was saying—the music seemed to be prodding the man's memory. It was the oddest yet most wonderful thing. “Where's Arlington?”

“Near Washington, D.C.,” Boston replied without missing a beat, as if he knew right away. Then, as the music wafted along, he began to tell of being a well-known pianist and composer of music, one who played with the top American orchestras and around the world, too. His wife, Abigail, couldn't always travel with him because of her work, but she wrote love letters to Boston when he was touring as Eleanor's accompanist. “I wrote the song ‘Melody of Love' specifically for Eleanor's vocal range. But it was about Abigail.” He sounded so proud of himself and happy, too.

“Where was your house then? Did ya live there recently? And where's Abigail now?”

Boston wrinkled his brow for a moment, as if struggling to recall everything just asked. Small Jay was sure it was a lost cause; Boston hadn't remembered details like this in the longest time.

Then a smile appeared on the man's lips, and he quickly rattled off his address. Small Jay swallowed hard and began to repeat the important information over and over in his head while the woman sang Boston's heartbreaking melody.

I have to talk to Dat right quick,
Small Jay thought, worried he'd forget the address and everything else if he didn't hurry.

After the last note was sung, a man with a deep voice began to talk, telling how the song had been sweeping the nation because its composer, Dr. Boston Calvert, had disappeared from his home earlier that summer.

“That's
you
, Boston! The man's talking 'bout you!”

Goodness, he must be famous. . . .

Boston, meanwhile, was trying to locate his harmonica in his trouser pocket. “That was the Boston who could remember . . .
me
before my memories flew the coop like so many chickens.”

When he'd found his mouth organ, Boston began to play the lovely song once more as great tears stained his face.

Small Jay wanted to weep, too, because of sudden joy and a creeping sadness that mixed up inside of him like a rag rug with many colors. But he was a child no longer. Small Jay climbed out of the van, determined to handle Boston's revelations in a way that might make his father proud.

A
s soon as Small Jay revealed to his father what had taken place, Vernon agreed to drive Small Jay, Boston, and Dat over to the Hendricksons' to place a collect call to Mrs. Abigail Calvert in Arlington, Virginia. They planned to use the address Boston had recited so effortlessly as a way to get the correct phone number from the operator. Soon, very soon, Boston would know for sure if his wife, or any other family members, were waiting for his return.

“Why don't I put you on the phone, Jake, once we know if Abigail's even there?” Dat said at the neighbors' house while Boston sat expressionless in a nearby chair. “Do you remember what day you met Boston at the old mill? How long ago was that, son?”

Small Jay said he didn't recall for certain, but he
would
like to talk to Abigail. In his mind, he felt he knew her at least a little from reading her letters aloud to Boston.

The right connection was made, and someone answered the phone. From the sound of Dat's side of the conversation, not only was Abigail Calvert alive and well, but she was thrilled
to know that her husband was safe and had been found. Dat gave her the information he had about Boston and how to locate their farmhouse, as well.

When Dat paused to listen to what Abigail had to say, he nodded at Small Jay, literally grinning.
The first he's ever looked at me like that,
Small Jay thought, gritting his teeth to keep back the tears.

When at last his father handed the phone to him, Small Jay said, “Hullo, Abigail. This is Boston's friend Small Jay Bitner.”

“Your father says you're responsible for helping my husband in many ways. I want you to know how very grateful I am to you.”

Oh, was her voice ever pretty. As beautiful as the first rose of summer, and as sweet as her letters. “Boston's sitting right here smilin' at me . . . I believe he wants to talk to ya.”

“Before you go, Small Jay, I wonder . . . did Boston happen to tell you how he managed to get so far from home?” Abigail asked, her words mixed with tears. Small Jay knew this remarkable woman was crying because she loved Boston. She'd missed him so and had been terribly worried.

“Maybe he'll remember all of that when he sees you again,” Small Jay said with a glance at Boston. “He does remember a few things when he hears his music . . . I found that out just today.”

“Oh, please do put my darling on. And, young man, I don't know how to thank you adequately. This phone call from your father and you is an answer to my every prayer. Thank you so very much.”

Small Jay blushed, at a loss for what to say. He placed his hand on Boston's shoulder. “It's Abigail,” he said quietly. “She's a very happy lady, and she says she can't wait to see ya.”

“Do you mean my wife did not forsake me?”

Small Jay held up the phone as Dat stood near.

“This is Boston,” the man said, leaning his head near the receiver. Then he began to whimper, then sob. “Oh, my dear, dear girl . . .”

Small Jay stepped back to give him some privacy, wondering how long before Abigail would arrive there to take her beloved husband home.

After market, Marlena went to Bitners' to get Angela Rose. There, she met Dorcas's grandmother, whom she offered to pay for being there to oversee Dorcas. But Mammi Bitner refused, and Marlena walked back to her own Mammi's with Angela Rose, pushing the stroller up the hill. Tired after a hectic day selling their jams and jellies, she smiled remembering Boston's serenade at market and the way he took such an interest in people's response to his music.

Presently, the phone rang as she put Angela in her crib upstairs. When Mammi didn't answer on the second or the third ring, Marlena wondered if she'd gone out on the porch or slipped away to the garden.

By the time Marlena had hurried down to the kitchen and picked up the receiver, she was out of breath. “Martin residence,” she answered.

“I received your letter, Marlena,” said Nat.

Not hello or how are you?

She caught her breath, surprised that he'd called to tell her. “I'm so relieved to hear it, Nat. I've been praying 'bout things here lately,” she said softly. “And hope you have been, too.”

“Listen, I don't understand why this is so hard. Couldn't your mother take the baby . . . or your grandmother, maybe?”

She fell silent. Then she said, “Mammi's honestly in no shape to do that.”

“And your mother?” He sounded miffed. “Won't ya try and look at this from my point of view, Marlena?”

“I've tried, believe me,” she said. “Besides, that's not what I've been prayin' the most about.”

“How much longer do ya think you'll have your niece?” He ignored what she'd said. “'Cause it seems to change nearly every week.” He paused a moment. “We
are
a courting couple, after all.”

“I know that, but tellin' the truth, it really doesn't matter to me how long Angela's with me.”

He breathed audibly into the phone. “Another month, then . . . or two?”

She bit her lip. “What if it's a year or more?”

Nat paused, a long silence that seemed to last forever. Then he said, “That's too long. So's six months. We'll be officially engaged by then. How can we court properly with a baby around?” He went on to explain that he had everything all planned out. “And there's no room in any of it for an
Englischer
's child . . . especially not the child of a wayward person like your sister.”

She stepped back, gasping. “So that must be the
real
problem, then.”

He was quiet again. Then he said more thoughtfully, “It's all of that . . . and also what I wrote in my letter.”

“Where I go to church,” she said flatly.

“You never told me when you left that you planned to attend the Mennonite church with your grandmother. And then when I ask you to stop, you won't.”

“I just assumed you'd know that I would go to church with my Mammi out of respect and all,” Marlena continued. “But over time, it's become more to me than that—I'm learning things about the Lord I never knew before, things I need to hear with Luella gone.” She paused to take a breath.

“As for Angela Rose, she's my sister's baby, Nat. I know things weren't so
gut
between Luella and me, but her daughter needs me. And I want to take care of her . . . and for as long as God allows.” Her lower lip quivered.

“How can ya be willin' to throw away our future for someone else's baby?”

“If it's the Lord's will, then I want to be here for Angela. I feel certain He's asking me to do this.”

The silence on the other end of the line stretched out so long she wondered if the line had gone dead. Then Nat spoke again. “How can you say that, Marlena? It simply won't work.”

She'd never felt so hemmed in, but he'd obviously made up his mind, without room for compromise. “Do ya mean to say that this is the only choice I have . . . that I must choose between you and Angela Rose?” Marlena was incredulous—she had been so sure Nat would understand once she'd explained.

“You'd honestly choose the baby over me, even though you likely won't keep her in the end?” He sounded equally astonished.

“
Jah
, 'cause you're unreasonable, Nat. I never knew it till now.” Surprisingly, she didn't feel anger toward him. Rather, she felt terribly sorry for him. How could Nat be so blind to the importance of giving her niece a loving home, however temporary? And why couldn't he demonstrate some patience in this, or feel some appreciation for her growing faith?

Marlena shook her head in disbelief as they said good-bye
and she hung up the black wall phone, feeling almost dizzy, her heart dangling as if from a phone cord.

From the second-floor balcony, Marlena could see a shiny black car turning into the Bitners' long lane after supper. She noticed Boston sitting on the back porch in one of the rocking chairs. The entire Bitner family lined the walkway as though anticipating someone's arrival.

When the car rolled to a stop, a tall, thin man dressed in a charcoal gray suit and a black hat stepped out of the car and hurried around to open the door on the opposite side. The passenger was a middle-aged woman, her blond hair swept up. She wore a cream-colored suit, the graceful skirt falling just below the knees as she moved with poise toward the Bitners.

Almost in unison, Roman, Ellie, and their children moved toward the woman, and Boston rose and walked down the porch steps, making his way around the walkway as the Bitners made an opening for him.

“Who's
this
?” Marlena whispered, intrigued.

What she saw as she inched closer to the railing made her weep, especially when Boston opened his arms wide and the beautiful woman walked toward him.
Can this be the woman Ellie's talked about—the one who wrote love
letters to Boston?

———

Ellie kept wiping her eyes as she watched the tender reunion unfold.

“Oh, my darling,” Abigail said as she and Boston embraced. “Just look at you! Have you converted to Amish?”

He beamed down at her and removed his straw hat now. “When in Rome, you know . . .”

Abigail looked into his face, pleading for forgiveness, and then quickly explained what had transpired that critical evening, nearly a month ago. “I thought you were having one of your better days, my dear, so I slipped out to the grocery store. When I returned, you were gone, Boston . . . vanished from our home.” She said again how terribly sorry she was to have frightened him so.

Boston slipped his arm around her waist. “I must have gotten my old leather satchel, the one I'd often take on my musical tours, and left the house in search of you,” he said softly. “After a time, I was certain you'd left me . . . or worse.”

He thought she'd passed away,
Ellie thought sadly, glad that Boston was remembering more details. Was it Abigail's arrival that triggered this, just maybe?