Rebecca's Choice (The Adams County Trilogy 3) Read online

  Lester listened soberly.

  When Rebecca had finished, he wanted to know what Isaac thought about this.

  “I don’t know,” Rebecca told him. “I don’t think he likes it.”

  “Likes what?” Lester asked.

  “That I have to stay back from communion.”

  “I see.” Her father seemed to think long and hard.

  “We don’t like it either,” Mattie said.

  “I hope it doesn’t come to something else,” Lester finally said.

  “To what?” Rebecca wanted to know, a dread creeping over her.

  “You may have to call off the wedding,” Lester said.

  “You really mean that?” Mattie asked before Rebecca could respond. “Their wedding is planned for the spring.”

  “Let’s just hope for the best. Sorry,” Lester said, glancing at Rebecca.

  Rebecca couldn’t believe what she had just heard. Her father thought she might have to tell John their courtship was called off. The fact that she was twenty-one wouldn’t help in this case, she knew. Her father’s word would still carry, if he were to demand such an action.

  “Surely I won’t have to!” she said, knowing her voice trembled.

  “We hope not,” Mattie said. “You’re father is just saying the worst thing that could happen. It doesn’t mean that it will.”

  “That’s right,” Lester said. “We’ll hope for the best.” He reached for the latest copy of The Budget and opened it, the sound of rustling paper ending any further conversation. Rebecca slipped quietly upstairs and found relief in tears again.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Rebecca knew that the strange glances had started. The youth gathering, held tonight at the Miller’s place on the hill, already was in high gear. She had caught a glimpse of John earlier, while he was propping up one of the buggy wheels to raise a volleyball net higher for the game that was soon to start. His gaze wandered in her direction, and they exchanged brief smiles—their only exchange all evening.

  John’s tender look was most certainly more pleasant than the other looks she received that evening. Rebecca doubted whether anyone knew about the upcoming communion debacle. Pre-communion church would be this weekend. Likely the news of The Budget article had made its way around, though. Such things couldn’t be kept secret even from the youth, but that didn’t dull the pain now that the sting had come.

  Wilma just blurted out the question on the way over. She and Will had picked her up tonight. Rebecca had considered driving on her own but decided to face the music instead.

  It hadn’t taken long. Will had just turned onto the blacktop from Rebecca’s driveway when Wilma asked, “Is it true you are really going to get it—all that money? I can’t believe it!”

  Seated in the tight buggy, Rebecca chuckled, surprising herself when she considered what this involved.

  “Then it’s not true,” Wilma said. “You never can trust that Budget. I’ve told Mom many a time. You hear that, Will?”

  “She hasn’t said anything yet,” Will said, his voice calm and not too interested. Rebecca knew he had taken one of the Wengerd girls home a month or so ago. She came from one of the west church districts.

  “It’s true,” Rebecca said. “All of it.”

  Wilma’s hand went over her mouth. “I can’t believe this.”

  “So you’re rich?” Will asked, curious now.

  “You want to marry me?” Rebecca asked. She figured she might as well play along with the story.

  “Sure. Tomorrow,” he said, with a straight face, “if Bishop Martin will do it. You have to marry Amish I understand.”

  Rebecca made a face at him, to which he burst out laughing.

  Wilma wasn’t so amused. “Would you two quit joking about this? It’s serious.”

  “Martin seems to think so. I’m not to go along with communion,” Rebecca told them. They might as well know. The news would get around with a better spin if it came from her own mouth. A sympathy factor in her favor, she figured.

  Will whistled, the sound drifting into the evening air.

  “Would you quit that?” Wilma told him.

  He answered with another whistle—a longer one this time.

  “I agree,” Rebecca said. Will hadn’t said any words, but his whistle was exactly how she felt.

  Wilma made some more exclamations, dug a little bit deeper, but Rebecca offered no more information—nothing about the ring at least. If it had to come out at all, this, she figured, would have to come out of someone else’s mouth.

  The crowd of girls around her chattered away. Over by the buggies, the boys were ready to start the game. They had two playing fields set up, outlined with white flour from the Miller’s bakery, which was just across the road.

  Four captains were appointed. They pulled away from each other and began to choose teams. The process wasn’t done with a lot of care. Winning wasn’t the big thing—playing was more important. An approximate equal number of boys and girls needed to be on each team. With this they were careful.

  Couples were usually left intact, the favor both granted and expected in return. When no matches were known, the hapless pair might be anyone, the decision sprung at the discretion of the captain. No magical endings were expected from these pairings. Plenty of other times existed for that.

  Rebecca stood beside John. She relished the moments in public with him. He seemed to stand taller when they were being watched. He didn’t appear to be ashamed to be beside her, at least that’s what Rebecca thought. She wondered if this would change after communion and decided it wouldn’t. John would not participate either. He would share in her misfortune. Her smile in his direction showed her gratitude, the warmth of her feelings, her love for him.

  “Let’s get going,” some boy said. “These love birds make me nervous.”

  “Get yourself one,” someone said in response. Chuckles sounded around them.

  The ball flew overhead, and all eyes followed, love forgotten for the moment. Rebecca saw the ball come her way and knew it would land in her territory. She felt terror. It would not go well for her if she missed. Groans would sound around her, and cheers would erupt on the other side of the net.

  She lifted both hands skyward, concentrated, and brought her fingers lightly in contact with the ball. It bounced back skyward, straight up above the net. John obviously knew the routine. As she stepped back, he moved over and jumped as high as he could. He slammed the ball through two outstretched arms on the other side, smashing it to the ground.

  “Now that was a play!” a boy said from across the net, admiration in his voice.

  Rebecca felt warm inside. Red crept up her neck, but she figured the moment was worth it. John and she had played together as a team. They were meant for each other. The assurance might come in handy in the weeks ahead, especially if her father talked further about her and John’s breakup. That was a horror she had tried to block out of her mind.

  As the score climbed higher, each team became more and more excited. Boys tried to stay in their assigned spaces, so the girls beside them could play. Sometimes the temptation was too much, and sometimes the boys simply forgot, caught up the fervor of the moment. Couples usually didn’t tangle—those boys were on their best behavior.

  Rebecca set the ball for John again and again, when they were in the front row near the net. She knew her face glowed with happiness. John grinned sheepishly at the wry comments. They needed it, she thought, thankful for what this evening gave them.

  After the game ended, they switched sides and played again. When the darkness made it difficult to play, two lanterns were set on top of the buggies, and the action continued. Somewhere around nine o’clock, card tables were set up, and ice cream and homemade rolls were served. Rebecca stayed with John as they went through the line and sat with him on blankets spread on the grass. There weren’t enough chairs to go around.

  Rebecca thought about telling John what her father had said, just as a warning, so he
might know it wasn’t her idea. With so many people around, she changed her mind. It was for the best, she figured. She might just not say anything at all. Surely her father just had a bad moment the other night.

  “Some game,” John said.

  “Sure was,” she said and chuckled, still warm inside despite the ice cream.

  “I’m glad spring has come, but the nights are still a little chilly.”

  “Yes, they are,” she said, suddenly aware she needed her coat. It was over in Will’s buggy, but she really didn’t feel like leaving John to retrieve it. Each moment with him seemed short enough the way it was.

  “Ice cream doesn’t help,” John shivered glancing around. “Did you come with Will?”

  “Yes. Wilma came too.”

  “I know,” he said.

  “You wouldn’t be jealous, would you?” she whispered.

  “A little.” He grinned. “I get jealous of any boy who gets to drive you.”

  “Not so loud,” she whispered again.

  “No one is paying attention,” he said, waiving his ice-cream bowl around to demonstrate.

  A few looked up from their conversation, at which Rebecca made a face.

  “See,” she said.

  “I guess you’re right.” His mood seemed to change, becoming heavier, as if he just remembered something.

  “You don’t have to stay back Sunday from communion,” she told him, her voice low. “Really you don’t.”

  “But I want to,” he whispered.

  “I know. Knowing you would do that for me makes me feel good, and that’s good enough. You don’t have to hurt yourself.”

  As if weighing the thought, he replied, “Are you sure?”

  “Sure,” she said and smiled, though her heart hurt. It had been such a comfort to think John would stand with her. It really wasn’t necessary, though, she told herself. This would only hurt John when she might need him later.

  “I don’t know,” he said, his face sober.

  “Think about it,” she told him, as Wilma came in their direction. No doubt it was time to go.

  His face revealed the pain he felt as he thought about what lay ahead.

  “Really…I have to go,” she told him and got up.

  “Sunday then,” he said. They both knew they would not see each other again until after the fateful decision would be made. Their world would then know that Rebecca had been left out of communion—a most grievous and severe complication for any Amish church member.

  “We have to go,” Wilma said from beside her.

  Rebecca turned to follow and hoped the burning in her eyes wouldn’t produce tears. This was not how she had desired the evening to end but supposed it couldn’t be helped. She felt no ulterior motive for the offer she had just made to John—no test to see if he would or wouldn’t take it. The only thing she felt was the pain in her heart, and she hoped to spare him of the same.

  Will had brought the buggy around already. Rebecca put her coat on before climbing in.

  “Nice game,” he said. “There should be more of them now that the weather is warmer.”

  “I didn’t see you with the Wengerd girl,” Rebecca said. She wanted to distract herself from her troubles, and Will just happened to be handy at the moment.

  “They didn’t put her beside me. That Johnny Byler doesn’t know I go with her.”

  “Poor, poor dears,” Wilma crooned. “Love missed its song tonight.”

  “Don’t tease him,” Rebecca said. “His heart hurts.”

  “I’m going to hurt both of you,” Will snapped and slapped the reins for emphasis.

  “Oh!” Wilma pretended to be horrified. “The wolf stalks the earth, looking for his mate.”

  “For love,” Rebecca added for good measure. “His hackles raised to the moon.”

  “You two are gone,” Will pronounced. “Gone crazy—completely.”

  Rebecca and Wilma erupted with peals of laughter.

  “Now look who’s howling at the moon,” Will said.

  “There is no moon out,” Wilma told him and made a face in the darkness. Rebecca caught a glimpse, made possible by the headlights of a car coming toward them.

  “You are the ones who said there was,” Will retorted. He tightened up the reins as the car approached.

  “He’s love sick,” Wilma concluded.

  “It does happen,” Rebecca said. Thinking of John, the laugher died in her throat.

  “I suppose so,” Wilma allowed. “Why doesn’t it happen to me?”

  “It will soon enough,” Will said, surprising Rebecca and apparently Wilma with his sudden change of attitude. “You’re a nice enough girl.”

  “Thanks,” Wilma said.

  “When you’re sleeping,” Will added and burst out in laughter.

  “That wasn’t nice at all,” Wilma told him. “You could break my heart.”

  “At least you don’t have anyone who could really break it,” Will said, as if he knew something he wasn’t telling.

  They drove on in silence, each lost in thought. Rebecca feared her heart might break come Sunday—and wondered if she could endure it.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Manny Troyer looked at the box, which sat beside the desk in his Ohio office. Outside on 39 the spring tourist traffic had already begun. At four o’clock the line of cars was stacked up, stopped by the lights downtown, and stretched past the office buildings of the Haiti Mennonite Outreach. They called it the HMO for short. Although some thought the abbreviation amusing, he thought it fit.

  Little ripples of dust lay on the top of the box, apparently missed by the cleaner yesterday. She must have thought the object too unimportant or lowly to be worthy of attention. He knew it wasn’t and also knew the reason the box had remained unopened. He didn’t quite have the courage to open it yet.

  By next week the scheduled trip to Virginia would be here, and Manny knew he needed to open the box before then. No way could he concentrate on the scheduled board meetings if the box stayed as it was, its contents unknown.

  The mission rented an upstairs apartment in Berlin. Why the board hadn’t bought it, Manny never understood. He stayed in the apartment while in the states. Others who stopped by on mission business did as well.

  He decided he would take the box there. Privacy was uppermost on his mind. Not that the office wasn’t private, but something in the recesses of his mind told him opening the box at the apartment would be a wise course of action.

  Manny had no definite routine, and he was finished with all his appointments for the day. He might as well leave, he figured. That would make time to see what Emma had sent, before going out for supper to a local restaurant. For the last few nights, he had dinner with the church people who had given him supper invitations, but tonight his calendar was open.

  He dusted the box off, placed it under his arm, and went out the door.

  “Leaving?” Fannie Esh, the young girl who filled in three days a week at the front desk, asked.

  “Out for the night,” he said and didn’t slow his step.

  “Have a good evening.”

  “You too.” He let the door swing shut behind him.

  He walked briskly up the sidewalk. Berlin lay on a knoll. The early settlers apparently liked the view and built their town on the highest hill around. Mostly he passed tourists. With his box sticking out from under his arm, he hoped no one he knew would ask him about the box and require an explanation of him.

  He reached the apartment without having to stop anywhere and breathed a sigh of relief. He wondered what it contained and why Emma would ship something to him, now that she was gone.

  Manny found a sharp knife in the kitchen, slit the wrap on the box, and opened it. He quickly removed the paper covering the contents. The first dozen papers were drawings, and they were good. He had no problem recognizing the 1956 cream-colored Chevrolet Corvette. It was his own, he was certain. He searched for and found the missing piece of hubcap, which saved him ten dollars off t
he purchase price. Even then the car had been out of his budget, but he had splurged. He loved that car.

  Why would she send him the pictures? At the bottom of the drawing, he made out a name in faint letters—Emma. So she knew how to draw or had learned. This he had not known. The next drawing was of two people. He recognized himself, but the girl had her back turned. It was dusk, and the sun colored the horizon. The tan Corvette could be seen in the background. He turned to the next page, and there they were holding hands, close together and deep in conversation.

  The others pictured more of the same—always at dusk and always showing the girl turned away. He had easily recognized his own face in the first drawing, shed of fifty years, but by the last page, he was no longer certain. At the bottom by the signed name, words had been added. Written in much smaller letters were the words, no longer can remember.

  A date was also written on the left-hand corner. He calculated that some of the drawings had been created twenty years after he had seen her last. Why send these now—after she was gone? Was there a purpose to this? He didn’t feel tormented, just empty on the subject. He had made peace with this a long time ago.

  Was Emma trying to make a point? If so, what? Did she think this would hurt him? Did she know he had never married? Did she think it was because of her? Nothing really made sense to him.

  He dug deeper and came up with letters. He recognized the return address as his own. Three of them had been written soon after the door had been closed by her brother. In the chance they might reach her, he had sent them. So Emma had received them, but why did she keep them and never respond? Did her brother really have such a hold on her?

  It didn’t matter now, he told himself. The pain had been intense back then. He had sold the Corvette for more than he paid and made a nice profit, but that had not lessened the hurt. It was only when he made peace with the God who could create such love in the heart of a man and then allow it to be denied that peace had come.