The Search (3 page)

Bess was a quick learner. After one buggy ride with her grandmother, she had already figured that she should hold tight to the edge of the seat so she wouldn’t slide off and land on the buggy floor when Mammi took the curves. Her grandmother drove through those country roads like a teenage boy, the buggy leaning precariously to the side. She made a tight right turn and, suddenly, there it was: Rose Hill Farm.

The farm sat in a gentle valley surrounded by rolling hills, with fields fed by a secluded, spring-fed pond. The farmhouse—a rambling house with white clapboard siding and a brick foundation—was even prettier than Bess remembered. Three years ago, when she was here for her grandfather’s funeral, she remembered being impressed by the neatness of the fields, the trimmed hedges, and the cherry trees that bordered the drive. It was the same today. Her grandmother may be ancient, but she had kept up the farm in good condition, that was plain to see.

A perfume wafted past Bess, and her eyes traveled to the fields that surrounded the house: acres and acres of blooming roses in what used to be pastures. The roses were at their peak. Pinks and reds and yellows and oranges blurred together to create a collage of color. Bess remembered that her grandmother had written awhile back that she had started a small business selling rose petal jams and jellies. But
this
—this was more than a small business.

Mammi stopped the horse under a shade tree next to a hitching rail. “We’d best get to work.”

Oh no. Bess clutched her forehead. “On my first day here?”

Mammi lifted a sparse eyebrow. “Es hot sich noch niemand dodschafft.”
Nobody ever worked to death.

Boomer let out an ear-busting woof and leaped out of the buggy to run to the fields. Mammi hopped out of the buggy and reached a large hand to pull Bess forward by the arm. She stopped dead and aimed a stern look at Bess. “A little work might put a little muscle on them bones.”

There were moments, like this one, when Bess thought it would be simpler to be English. On the bus this morning, a little girl wanted her mother to give her a snack, and when her mother refused she broke down and bawled. That’s just what Bess would like to do right now, break down and bawl. Of course, she couldn’t.

But oh! she was hot and tired from the bus trip and frustrated at what she had just figured out. She came to Stoney Ridge on a mission of mercy for her ailing grandmother, and the truth was that she was nothing more than another pair of hands—to pick roses. For an entire summer! Her father was right. Her grandmother was sneaky. Bess wished she had just stayed home and worked with her father on their farm. She missed him terribly. Far more than she had expected she would.

Bess heard Boomer bark again and she looked to see why the dog was causing such a ruckus. Boomer was standing on his hind legs, licking the face of a boy—or was it a young man?—and ended up knocking off his straw hat.

“That’s Billy Lapp,” Mammi said. “He’s my hired help.”

The boy pushed Boomer off of him and reached down to pat the dog’s big head. Then he bent down and picked up his straw hat, knocking it on his knee a few times to shake off the dirt. Billy Lapp looked to be about seventeen or eighteen years old. Man-sized. When he stood and his eyes met hers, Bess felt her heart give a simple thump. Clearly Amish by his clothes and haircut, he was tall, broad-shouldered, with curly brown hair and roguish eyes rimmed with dark eyebrows. Hands down, he was the best-looking boy Bess had ever laid eyes on. Her heart was beating so strangely now, she thought she might fall down and faint.

Things were looking up.

______

By the time Bess woke the next morning, she could hear Mammi banging pots and pans down in the kitchen. She dressed fast, already worried by yesterday’s hints that her grandmother thought she had a lazy streak. She flew down the stairs expecting to encounter a hands-on-the-hips disapproving frown, but Mammi stood in front of the range at her usual place, on gray-speckled linoleum that was worn to the floorboards. With her thumb, she pointed to the table, already set with two places. Bess slipped into her chair and Mammi slid a belly-busting breakfast in front of her.

“How do you like your eggs poached?”

“Is there more than one kind of poached egg?” Bess asked.

“Runny, soft, or hard?”

Bess looked startled. “My yolks always end up hard.”

Her grandmother flipped an egg timer. “Three minutes for runny, four for soft, five for hard.”

“Dad and I poach eggs for fifteen minutes.”

Mammi snorted. “A yolk like that could double for a rubber ball.”

Bess grinned. Blackie had done just that with a yolk, patting it around on the ground with his paws. Her father had suggested Blackie be included in a game of kickball after church one Sunday.

Where was Blackie, anyway? He had disappeared the moment he was let out of that hamper and caught full sight of Boomer, head to tail. Mammi told her not to worry, that Blackie would find a place to live in the barn. Bess was horrified. She tried to explain that Blackie was a house cat and Mammi only scoffed. “Animals belong outside.” Boomer apparently didn’t qualify as an animal, because he had followed Mammi right into the house and stayed by her side like a shadow.

They bowed their heads and then dug into the meal. They ate in silence for a long while until Mammi asked, “What’s your father got growing in his fields right now?”

Bess cracked the poached egg with her spoon and pulled off the shell in pieces. “He’s leased out the fields to a neighbor.”

Mammi broke up her egg over a piece of toast so that the yellow yolk oozed over it. “He’s not farming?”

Bess looked up, surprised. “Well, his bad back made it too hard for him. So last year he started a furniture-making business and it’s done well. He has orders piled up for months.” Bess poured molasses into her oatmeal. She would have thought Mammi would have known such a thing. She seemed to know everything, often before it happened. But her grandmother was stunned to silence, a silence so thick that Bess could hear a wasp buzzing on the windowsill.

Mammi remained deep in thought. “It wonders me. To think of my Jonah without a farm to tend.” She took off her spectacles and polished them. Then she reached into her apron pocket and pulled out a handkerchief to blow her nose. A loud honk that rattled the windows. “Allergies,” she muttered, but Bess couldn’t be fooled that easily. It shocked her, finding a tender spot in her grandmother. Mammi quickly recovered. She handed Bess a jar of pale pink jam. “Put that on your toast.”

Bess spread some on it and took a bite. Her eyes went wide. “Oh Mammi. Oh my. Oh my goodness. Is this your rose petal jam?”

“It is,” Mammi said. “It’s the food of angels, if they have a choice.”

Bess took more jam from the jar and spread it all over her toast, right to the edges. She took a large bite and chewed thoughtfully. It was the most delicate, delicious flavor she had ever tasted.

Mammi tried to hide a smile at Bess’s rapturous expression with a swallow of coffee. “So what else is your dad doing?”

“Not much,” she said, reaching for a spoonful of jam. “Well, except . . . he’s given some thought lately to getting married again.”

Mammi raised an eyebrow. “About time.”

She shrugged. “You know Dad. He acts like a sheep that spooks and runs off at the slightest mention of marriage. He says it’s because his heart belonged only to my mother.”

Mammi nodded.

Bess took a bite of toast. She took another bite, chewed, and swallowed, then frowned. “But there’s a neighbor lady who’s wearing down his matrimonial resistance.” She hoped the glum note didn’t sound in her voice.

“En grossi Fraa un en grossi Scheier sin kem Mann ken Schaade.”
A big wife and a big barn will do a man no harm.

Bess shrugged. “It’s not that. I want Dad to find a wife . . .”

She felt Mammi staring at her, hard. “What’s wrong with her?”

“Oh, nothing. She’s . . . real cheerful. And talkative. Cheerful and talkative.”
Professionally cheerful.

Mammi raised an eyebrow. “Our Jonah is a catch.”

Bess knew that. Her dad was a fine-looking man. Even her friends said so. And he was young, only thirty-five. He was well thought of in their community, by men and women alike, and nearly every single female in their district—plus two neighboring districts—had set their cap for him. Cookies and pies, invitations to dinners and picnics, one father even boldly hinted to Jonah that his dairy farm would be passed down to his only daughter if Jonah married her. But Jonah never took the bait.

Until now.

That was half the reason Bess decided to come to Stoney Ridge this summer. Her father was spending time with Sallie Stutzman, a man-hungry widow with twin six-year-old boys—and the whole notion turned Bess’s stomach inside out. Sallie had a heart of gold, everyone said so, but her very presence set Bess’s teeth on edge. It wasn’t that there was anything wrong with Sallie, other than the fact that she never stopped talking.
Not ever.
She even talked to herself if no one was around to listen.

Bess had a hope that her father would fall in love again, and she just didn’t think he was in love with Sallie. That didn’t seem to be a worry for Sallie, though. Bess saw how she was weaving her way into her dad’s life. She asked him for rides to church and frolics, so often that other people assumed they were a couple since they always arrived together. Sallie stopped by every day with a casserole or cake or pie. The everydayness of it all was what made the difference between Sallie and other persistent female suitors. Even Bess found herself counting on Sallie’s fine cooking. Sallie usually dropped broad hints about how it would be so much easier to cook for Jonah and Bess in their own kitchen. About how their new cookstove was so much more reliable than her old temperamental one.

Her father always paled a little when Sallie dropped those hints. Sallie kept at it, though. Bess overheard her point out to her father that every girl needed a mother, and poor Bess—poor Bess, she always called her, as if it was one word—had gone without one far too long. She needed a mother’s love before it was too late.

And what could her father say to that? Sallie’s dogged determination was causing her father to weaken. Just last week, he asked Bess what she would think about having a little brother or two around the house.

The truth of the matter was that Bess thought it would be a terrible idea. Sallie’s twins weren’t like most Plain boys. Sallie’s twins were as tricky as a box of monkeys. Their idea of fun was spreading Vaseline on Bess’s toilet seat. But to her father, she only said, “Well, now, that’s certainly something that needs serious thought.”
Long and hard.

Her father grew pensive at her response. And that was the moment when Bess decided to come to Stoney Ridge for the summer. She may not be able to stop a marriage with Sallie from happening, but she didn’t want to watch it happen.

Bess suddenly realized that Mammi’s gaze was fixed on her, and she was sure her grandmother could read the dark thoughts that were darting through her mind. Her cheeks grew warm and she looked out the window. Billy was coming up the drive and gave a wave to them before he disappeared into the barn.

Mammi smacked her palms down on the table. “We got us some roses to tend.” She was on her feet now, making short work of the dishes.

Not ten minutes later, they joined Billy out in the rose fields. Mammi repeated the rose petal–picking instructions she had given out yesterday. Bess didn’t interrupt her to say she understood; after all, her grandmother was older than the hills.

“The best time is in the late morning, after the dew has dried and before the strong afternoon sun.” Gently, Mammi held a large pink rose with the tips of her fingers and pulled it off the base. “Trim the white sections with scissors—this will save you time.” She quickly snipped the white part off of each petal and then let them shower into the basket by her feet. “Next, cut the stem to the next five leaves. That’s where the next bud will form.”

It amazed Bess to see Mammi’s chapped, man-sized hands handling the roses like they were made of spun sugar. Her own hands looked like a child’s next to her grandmother’s. And she was embarrassed by how soft her hands were. As careful as she tried to be, thorns kept pricking her. Within fifteen minutes, her hands were covered in cuts and scratches. And how her back ached, bent doubled over!

When they had harvested a large basketful, Mammi gave a nod to Bess to come along, and they went to the barn. Boomer trotted behind, never more than a few feet away from Mammi. Inside, Bess stopped abruptly when she noticed that the cow stanchions and horse stalls were empty. There were no animals other than Frieda, the buggy horse. She had been so distracted by the sight of Billy Lapp yesterday that she hadn’t even gone into the barn.

“What happened to the animals?” The last time she was here, this barn had been filled with horses, mules, cows, and even two ugly sows.

“Couldn’t take care of them without my Samuel, so I sold them at auction,” Mammi said matter-of-factly. “I buy milk from a neighbor. Still have my ladies, though.” She meant her hens. She loved those chickens and called each one by name. She slid the door shut behind Bess. In the center of the barn were rows of sawhorses with screen doors laid on top. “This is how we dry the petals. Lay ’em out so they can air dry. No overlaps or else they’ll mold. They need to get as crisp as cornflakes.”

“Why don’t you just put them out in the sun to dry?” Bess asked. “That’s what we do with apricots and peaches. Apples, even.”

“No. I keep them in the barn and out of direct sunlight.”

“Have you ever thought about drying them in a warm oven?” Bess asked. “Once when it rained all summer, Dad put sliced up fruit in the oven to finish drying.” She felt pleased with her suggestion. Maybe that was one way she could be helpful to her grandmother this summer: by pointing out ways to improve the farm. Being fifteen, Bess had some pretty good ideas about modernizing, and her grandmother had lived here since Noah’s ark reached Mt. Ararat. She could use Bess’s help with such things
. Like indoor plumbing.

Mammi cast her a look as if she might be addle-brained. “Might work for fruit but not for my roses. You’ll lose oil. Lose oil and you’ll lose fragrance.” She straightened and pressed a hand against the small of her back. “Go bring me another basketful.” She handed the empty basket back to Bess. “Be quick about it. We can’t pick flowers in the afternoon. It’s gonna be hotter than hinges today.”

Bess took the basket and went out to join Billy in the fields. Yesterday, he had left soon after she arrived so she hadn’t had time to get acquainted with him. Mammi said he usually only worked a few hours a day, then needed to get home to tend to his father’s farm. Bess was looking forward to getting to know Billy. She followed behind him as he worked. He culled roses from the right row of bushes, she from the left. She could see he was concentrating on the work. He kept peering at the roses as if he was learning something from them. She racked her brains for an interesting thing to say, but nothing bubbled up to the surface. Finally, Billy stopped for a moment to gaze at a golden eagle flying overhead and seemed surprised to discover she was there.

“So, Bess, where are you from?” he asked.

“Berlin, Ohio.”

Billy went back to examining roses, so Bess hastened to add, “Some folks think it’s Ber-Lin, like the place in Germany. But it’s really pronounced Burrr-lin. Folks changed the way they pronounced it during World War I, so it would seem less German.” She could tell Billy wasn’t really listening. Silence fell again. She tried to come up with a topic that would create conversation. Something that would make him notice her and realize she was bright, intelligent, deep. Nothing came to mind.

He stopped at a bush and examined a few blossoms, then started picking them. “You sure don’t look anything like your grandmother.”

That was a good thing, in her mind. Mammi must be nearly six feet tall and half as wide.

He eyed her bright blue dress. “Is it different in Ohio? Being Amish?”

“What do you mean?” She shrugged one shoulder. “Amish is Amish.”

He snorted. “That’s like saying roses are roses.” He put a hand on his lower back and stretched, looking out at the wide variety of blooms. “What color is your buggy?”

“Black.” So maybe there were differences. Lancaster buggies had gray tops.

“Some folks think Ohio churches are more worldly than ours.” He shook the basket so the petals spread out. “Can you ride bicycles?”

“Yes.”

“Telephones?”

“Only in the barn.”

“You drive a car?”

“Gosh, no.” Billy looked so disappointed that she added, “Once I drove a neighbor’s tractor, though. And I take a bus to the public school.”

He whipped his head up. “You go to public school?”

“High school.” Bess had just sailed through ninth grade and was in shooting distance of high school in Berlin. All that stood in the way was that dreaded algebra class. That was the other half of the reason she changed her mind about spending the summer at Mammi’s. On the day she took her final exam for algebra, she decided Stoney Ridge didn’t sound so bad, after all. And if she hurried about it, she could leave Berlin before report cards would be mailed home, which suited her just fine. That way, she wasn’t being deceitful. She didn’t know for sure that she had failed the class. She had a pretty good idea that she did, but until that report card arrived, there was a slight hope she had squeaked by. And had she failed, well, if she were in Pennsylvania, then she couldn’t possibly attend summer school in Ohio.