The Search (2 page)

Mammi slapped the horse’s reins and it took off with a start, as if they were heading to a fire. But instead of turning down the road that would take them to Rose Hill Farm, Mammi steered the horse to a little bakery called The Sweet Tooth. She stopped under a shade tree and wrapped the reins on a low-hanging branch. “Bet you’re hungry. Let’s go get us something to eat.” She turned to Boomer, who had a hope to go in with her. She waved her finger at him to say no. Boomer hung his head and settled back down for another nap.

Bess
was
hungry. The last few months, she had grown so quickly, she was always hungry. But it surprised her that Mammi was willing to shell out money to pay for premade food. Her father said that his mother’s cooking skills surpassed most everyone in the county. And she was thrifty! Mammi never bought anything new or threw anything away; even her letters were written on the backs of old bills.

Bess followed and waited in line behind Mammi at the bakery counter. An older woman standing at the counter gave a double take when she saw Mammi. The woman had a massive pile of braided hair, like a coiled snake, on top of her head. Bess wondered how she managed to sleep at night.

The woman recovered from her surprise. She put a hand to her chest. “Bertha Riehl, as I live and breathe.”

“Dottie Stroot,” Mammi said. “And I hope you are still living and breathing.”

“Have you finally decided to let me sell your rose petal jam in my bakery?”

“I have not,” Mammi said firmly.

Mrs. Stroot sighed. “Folks are asking me for it all the time, Bertha. They can’t always find you to buy it up at the farm.”

“I’m busy.”

“I’d give you a generous cut.”

“For my own jam?” Mammi stared her down, and Bess saw Mrs. Stroot start to crumble.

In a longsuffering voice, Mrs. Stroot asked, “Is there something you came in for today?”

“I want to talk to that one.” Mammi pointed in the kitchen area, to the back of a girl in an apron and uniform who was putting a pie in a pink box, then carefully tying it with string.

Mrs. Stroot looked puzzled but called out, “Lainey. This lady wants you to wait on her.” An oven buzzer went off and Mrs. Stroot quickly forgot Mammi to hurry to the kitchen.

Without looking up, the girl named Lainey called out, “Be with you in a minute.” Bess saw her write something on top of the pink box and slip the cap back on her pen. The girl whirled around to face Mammi and froze. Then she stiffened up straight and swallowed hard. Bess was getting the feeling that people often had to swallow hard when they encountered her grandmother. She felt the same way.

“Bertha Riehl,” Lainey said, faint and far off.

Bess had it wrong. Lainey wasn’t a girl at all. She was a small woman, probably in her mid-twenties. She was very pretty. Her hair—nearly coal black—was cut short and curly. Her thickly lashed eyes were the color of blueberries that grew in her father’s garden. Her complexion was perfection, as delicate as bone china.

“Lainey O’Toole,” Mammi said flatly in return. “Last time I laid eyes on you, you were ten years old and so thin I could almost see the sun shining through you. You’ve gone and grown up.”

Lainey swallowed again. “It’s good to see you, Bertha.”

“This here is Bess.” Mammi indicated Bess with a thumb, without saying she was her granddaughter. Mammi never told more than the minimum.

Lainey gave Bess a brief nod, then turned back to Mammi. “I’ve been meaning to pay you a call since I came back to Stoney Ridge.”

“Good. I’ll expect you for Sunday noon dinner.” Mammi looked through the glass counter. She pointed to a cherry tart. “You make those?”

Lainey nodded. “Just this morning.”

“I’ll have one. Make it two. And a cup of coffee.” She glanced at Bess. “What about you?”

“A Danish please,” Bess answered. “And a coffee too.”

“Make it milk,” Mammi said. “And best stick to those cherry tarts. If those are as good as I remember, you’d be a fool to miss ’em.” She paid Lainey for the baked goods and took her coffee to a small table by the window.

Bess asked her grandmother how she knew her.

“Who?” Mammi asked, the picture of surprise.

“The bakery lady. Lainey.”

“She grew up around here. Then she left.”

Mammi didn’t offer up another word. She ate with the fork in one hand, the knife in the other, polished off her two cherry tarts and then eyed Bess’s. Bess quickly stuffed it into her mouth. It was the finest cherry tart she had ever tasted, with a crumbly crust and cherries that were sugared just right and still tart. Soon, Mammi was ready to go, and she looked at Bess pointedly. Bess guessed that when Mammi was ready, she’d better be.

That was another odd thing about Mammi—as big as she was, she could move like greased lightning. In a twinkling, she was at the door, pointing at Lainey. “Sunday noon, then.” It was a statement, not a question.

The bakery lady looked a little pale but gave a nod.

Lainey O’Toole watched Bertha Riehl walk out the door and climb into the buggy. Bertha had always been a big, husky woman, now even bigger than Lainey remembered. Older, too, but she still moved along like a ship under full sail. And beside her was the young girl with platinum blond hair under an organza prayer cap that was shaped differently from the Lancaster heart-shaped cap. She had white lashes that framed her wide blue eyes. They made an odd pair. The girl turned back to wave at Lainey, as if she knew she was being watched. That young girl seemed as jumpy as a cricket. But those blue eyes—they were the color of a sapphire.

As surprised as Lainey was to see Bertha Riehl walk into the bakery, she was relieved too. She had wanted to see Bertha again and wasn’t sure how to go about it. She’d already been in Stoney Ridge for two weeks and hadn’t mustered up the courage to head to Rose Hill Farm. Bertha wasn’t the kind of woman you could just walk up to and start asking personal questions. She could just imagine the way Bertha would stare her down, until Lainey’s mind would go blank and she would forget why she was there. Like it did only fifteen minutes ago, when she turned and found herself face-to-face with her in the bakery.

Still, there were things only Bertha could tell her. It was the reason she was in Stoney Ridge in the first place.

Lainey had a plan. She was on her way to attend the Culinary Institute of America in upstate New York—she had scrimped and saved every penny for tuition since she was eighteen. She finally had enough money, was accepted, and was eager for her new life to begin. The school term didn’t start until September, but she wanted to find a place to live and get settled. She thought she could pick up a waitress job to tide her over. Lainey liked planning her future. It was a trick she had learned years ago. Making plans gave her great comfort; she always felt better with a plan in place—like she had some control over her life.

Two weeks ago, Lainey packed up everything she owned and said a teary goodbye to her two best friends, Robin and Ally. She was going to make a quick pass through Stoney Ridge on her way to New York. At least, it was going to be a quick stop until her eleven-year-old VW Beetle sputtered to its death in front of The Sweet Tooth and she went inside to borrow the phone. Apparently, the bakery owner had just put up a sign for help wanted and assumed Lainey had come in to apply.

“Can you bake?” the owner, Mrs. Stroot, asked.

“Once I won first prize at the county fair for my cherry tart,” Lainey said truthfully. She was just about to explain that she only came in to make a phone call, when Mrs. Stroot cut her off and gave a decided nod.

“You’re hired,” Mrs. Stroot said. “I’m desperate. My best girl quit this morning and my other best girl is out with bunion surgery. I’m busier than a one-armed wallpaper hanger. Here’s an apron and there’s the kitchen.”

Lainey tried, several times, to inject that she wasn’t going to be in town very long, but Mrs. Stroot was more of a talker than a listener. She pointed to a building across the street as she dialed the phone. “See that brick building across the street? The landlord happens to be my very own sister—” she held a finger in the air when someone answered the phone—“Ellie? I found you a boarder for that room you got available. What’s that? Turn your telly down.” She rolled her eyes at Lainey and whispered, “She doesn’t appreciate being interrupted during
General Hospital
.” Ellie must have said something because Mrs. Stroot’s attention riveted back to the phone. “A lady boarder. Uh-huh, uh-huh.” She covered the mouthpiece. “Do you smoke?”

Lainey shook her head.

“No, Ellie. She doesn’t smoke.” Mrs. Stroot covered the mouthpiece again. “Any pets?”

Lainey shook her head again.

“Weekly or monthly?”

“Weekly,” Lainey said. “Definitely weekly. I don’t plan to be here long, you see . . .” She gave up. Mrs. Stroot wasn’t listening. She was asking her sister for today’s update on
General Hospital
.

Lainey had to admit that God had a funny way of answering her prayers. As she set out on her road trip to New York, she had prayed that God would direct her path while she drove through Stoney Ridge. She wanted to visit only one person—Bertha Riehl. Here she was, just a few hours later, and she was employed—even though she wasn’t looking for a job. And it happened to be doing the one thing in the world that Lainey loved to do: bake.

Less than ten minutes after arriving in Stoney Ridge, Lainey had a place to live and a job to bring in some cash so she wouldn’t have to dig into her culinary school tuition money. Her car, the mechanic said, was a lost cause. She thought that was God’s idea of a joke. He directed her path all right. To a dead stop.

The house was painfully quiet. Jonah glanced at the clock in the kitchen and counted forward an hour. Bess would be in Stoney Ridge by now, probably at Rose Hill Farm. There were hundreds of reminders of his daughter throughout the house, more than he had ever been conscious of. Dozens of images of Bess at different ages rolled through his mind: taking her first wobbly steps as a toddler, dashing to the mailbox each afternoon to meet the mailman, running barefoot from house to barn and back to house.

Taking a sip of coffee from his mug, he lifted the pages on the calendar hanging by the window and counted off. Just twelve weeks to go and she’d be back.

He wondered how Bess and his mother would be getting along. He hoped Bess would let him know just how sick his mother was. He felt worried about her, and that was a new feeling for him. In the letter, his mother said she was pining for her granddaughter and off her feed. It troubled him, that letter. It wasn’t like his mother to pine. Or to be off her feed. She had a mighty appetite. He never remembered her ailing, not once, not even with a head cold.

He sighed. Something wasn’t adding up. Either his mother’s health was truly a concern or . . . she was up to something.

Just then, Jonah saw his neighbor and particular friend, Sallie Stutzman, coming up the drive with a casserole dish in her arms. He set down the coffee cup and went to see what Sallie had in that dish. It had been only a few hours since Bess had left, and he was already tired of his own cooking. And he was lonely.