Rebecca's Choice (The Adams County Trilogy 3) Page 17

  “Sorry,” he said. “I really am. As I said, perhaps it was a mistake, but you said you trusted Emma. You want to see what she wrote?” He held out the package.

  Rebecca hesitated, then took it, her mind a whirl of conflicted thoughts. Yet the thought of Emma brought sanity to the moment. Emma, her solid rock through her school years, her source of wisdom.

  “When you have read them, write me. There’s an address in the front. It’s mine. Either way, please write. I’ll wait, okay?” He made as if to leave.

  “Letters?” she asked, the package held at a distance.

  “Emma’s,” he replied nodding. “Mine aren’t in there. Not necessary. She wanted you to read hers.”

  Rebecca stepped back as he closed the car door, and then he abruptly swung it open again.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, his smile apologetic. “I forget my manners. Let me drive you home.”

  She thought to protest but knew the time to bring in the wash had already passed. Her mother would no doubt have the first hamper inside and be glancing out the window in the direction of the bridge, ever more frantic with each moment that passed.

  He opened the car door on her side, and she slid in. With a soft thump, he shut the door, the sound causing a lump to form in her throat. Why she wasn’t sure. It seemed to transport her from one life to another. From a horse and buggy to a car, shut in and caught, yet she had driven in automobiles before.

  Perhaps it’s this, she thought, glancing toward the package on her lap.

  He turned the key, looked behind, and eased the car forward. “Getting old,” he said and groaned. “Oh, to be young again.”

  She had to chuckle in spite of herself. “You’re not that old. You said you worked in Haiti. Where Mary goes?”

  He nodded. “I’m the director there.”

  “Not too old for that?”

  “Keeps me young,” he said. “Helps at least. Good mission down there. You ever think of visiting?”

  “I’m Amish.”

  “Amish come,” he said smiling, “from Holmes County, sometimes.”

  “That’s what Mary said.”

  He slowed down for the Keim driveway, then accelerated up the driveway. Used to the slow climb in a buggy, it seemed just seconds before he stopped beside the kitchen door. Mattie came around the corner of the house, a hamper full of wash in her hands.

  “There we are.” He smiled again, then nodded in Mattie’s direction. “Tell your mother not to work too hard. Let me know.”

  She thanked him and got out. The car door shut with a soft thump. Mattie nodded her head as he took off, but her smile disappeared the moment the car was out of sight.

  “I’m sorry I’m late,” Rebecca said. “He’s the executor of Emma’s will.”

  Mattie sighed, the cloth hamper clutched in her hands. “That does explain it. I hope you got everything straightened out.”

  “Not really. He gave me letters from Emma. I have no idea what’s in them. Let me take that.” Rebecca took the hamper from her mother’s hands.

  “I hope it’s not more trouble,” Mattie said, as they walked toward the house. “You really don’t need it.”

  “I’m sure anything Emma wrote… won’t cause more trouble.”

  “She left you the money,” Mattie told her. “Don’t be too sure. Did anyone see you while you talked to him? What was his name? He told me but I forgot.”

  “Manny Troyer. And the deacon’s wife went by.”

  “Oh, well… It’s explainable, I should think. Though I’m getting tired of all the explaining. Troyer? He wouldn’t be related to Atlee, would he?”

  “He’s Atlee’s uncle.”

  Mattie held the front door open. “I don’t like this Rebecca. I really don’t. This is all disturbing, much too disturbing for our lives. For you and John too. Nothing good can come out of all this. First there’s money, lots of it. Then The Budget article about you. This is just too much. Now you get a visit from a Mennonite man. At least he’s older. He seemed nice enough. Don’t get me wrong.”

  “Maybe this will explain things.” Rebecca motioned with her eyes toward the package that lay on top of the wash.

  “One would hope so,” Mattie said sighing. “I have to start supper. Can you handle the rest of the wash?”

  “Sure,” Rebecca said, setting the hamper down, “I’ll just put the envelope upstairs.” Her mother had already disappeared into the kitchen.

  Rebecca left the package on her dresser, resisting the temptation of see what was inside. That would have to wait until she had more time. Anything from Emma needed to be opened with care, with reverence.

  Outside Matthew rattled into the driveway with his four sisters, home from school. The rush of the evening had begun. Downstairs her sisters had their lunch buckets all lined up on the kitchen table and had disappeared themselves, no doubt under orders from Mattie to change. She quickly unpacked and placed the lunch buckets in the pantry and then grabbed the hamper again.

  When Rebecca came back inside with another hamper of wash, Katie, the oldest of the school girls, was busy at work, piles of folded wash around her.

  “Where’s your sister?” Rebecca said, meaning the next oldest. “She should be helping.”

  “She’s out here,” Mattie said from the kitchen. “I’ll need Viola’s help with supper. Martha can put things away. Just tell her how.”

  Eight-year-old Martha didn’t look too happy but followed the instructions Rebecca gave her. A trip upstairs with her arms full of folded wash was made without mishap.

  “You listen to Katie while I get more,” Rebecca instructed and left for what she hoped would be the last hamper of wash. Not everything fit in, though, and another trip outside to the wash line was needed.

  Matthew passed her, on the way to the barn for chores. She stayed until the pile of wash was manageable for her sisters, then joined Matthew in the barn. He was already on the second round of milking, surrounded by the swish of the two milkers and the sound of chewing cows.

  Her younger brother would soon be a man, and she was not sure she liked the thought. She felt old herself, filled with the need to slow time down.

  “The boys talked about you and John today,” Matthew informed her, his moments free as he waited for a milker to finish. “The older ones.”

  “Really,” she said, not that interested.

  “They seem to think there’s something to it—you marrying John for money.”

  “How did you find out about this?”

  “Not from around here,” he said making a face. “If you stay back from communion, then John does too. Doesn’t take too smart a fellow. Even he’ll figure out something’s going on.”

  “Emma left me money in her will. We’re not taking it,” she informed him, since he already seemed to know.

  “Meaning you and John?”

  “Yes.”

  “You have to get married first. Right?”

  “Yes.”

  “Deacon says he’s not allowing it. Staying Amish ought to be from the heart. That’s what his boy said he said. It should never be for money.”

  “I had nothing to do with it. Really I didn’t.”

  “You didn’t know Emma would do this?”

  “No, of course not,” she snapped. “Sorry. You don’t deserve that.”

  Matthew shrugged. He bent over to unfasten the milker. The other one quit at the same time, and she went toward it. “I believe you.”

  “Thanks.” She felt relief even if he was just her younger brother.

  He lifted the milker toward the next cow and used his shoulder to keep its tail away from the machine. The snap struck him across his middle, but he ignored it.

  “I’ve seen you and John. I think you love him.”

  “I would hope so,” she said, moving to the next cow.

  “I mean… not for money. I told the boys that.”

  “Thanks,” she said again. A comfortable silence settled between them.

 
; With the third round of cows done, she left Matthew to finish up and returned to the kitchen. Martha and Katie had the wash completed and the supper table set. Her mother motioned toward the oven and said, “The casserole is almost done. Can you see to it?”

  Rebecca lifted the steaming pan and carefully placed it on hot pads in the center of the kitchen table. She knew the rest of the routine. She sliced the bread, the thick slabs falling over one by one as she cut. Butter came from the pantry, store bought because her mother claimed it was cheaper than homemade.

  The pecan pie came out of the pantry, made two days ago and still fresh. Mattie already had a fresh salad tossed and pulled a pan of just-set Jell-O from the refrigerator. Rebecca found the strawberry and raspberry jam, which joined the bread and butter on the table.

  With supper out, Rebecca sat down, while her sisters slid in on the bench seat against the wall. Mattie still bustled about, apparently up to plans for later meals. Rebecca hoped her father and Matthew would be in soon. She couldn’t wait to get upstairs and read Emma’s letters.

  “Call Dad,” Mattie said in Katie’s direction.

  “I already did,” she said.

  “Try again. Things are getting cold,” Rebecca told her.

  Katie slid out of her seat, went to the door, and hollered her loudest, “Supper.”

  There was no response from the barn, but a door slammed in the distance.

  “They’re coming,” Mattie said. She sat down with a sigh. “My, it’s been a long day.”

  “It’s report card time next week,” Katie informed her.

  “I hope all your grades are good,” Rebecca told them.

  “We try,” Viola informed her. “We have a good teacher.”

  “You all do,” Mattie told them. “We can be thankful for that. Good teachers are hard to come by. All of you did well last report card time. I’m sure you’ll be okay this time.”

  “We work hard,” Katie said.

  “I like my little girls,” Mattie told them. Her eyes found each of their faces. “All of you. The big one too. How fast you are growing up.”

  Rebecca smiled at her sisters, as they brightened up under their mother’s praise. She was surprised to find she liked it herself, even if she was the big one.

  Outside the sound of Lester and Matthew’s entry came with a shuffle of feet. They took turns at the wash bowl, then came straight to the kitchen table.

  “My… my, what a feast,” Lester boomed. “We are blessed with a good cook.”

  “Just sit down and eat,” Mattie informed him, but the edges of her face showed a smile. Apparently she liked praise too, Rebecca thought.

  “I’m going to have a wife, one who cooks like this all the time,” Matthew informed them, as he took his chair.

  “I thought you weren’t getting into such troubles.” Rebecca teased him.

  He made a face at her.

  “Now… now. We all grow up. Let’s just be thankful for that,” Lester said. He bowed his head in prayer, and they all followed.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  Rebecca excused herself as soon as the supper dishes were done. Her mother seemed to understand her haste to get upstairs. “Let me know what they say,” Mattie whispered because the others were in the living room.

  “I need to talk to you later,” her father said, as she walked to the upstairs door. The Budget lay open on his lap.

  “Surely not,” she said, her eyes searching what he had read.

  “No,” he said chuckling and then sobered. His eyes made a motion around the room. Rebecca knew what that meant—when the others are in bed. She wished he didn’t want to talk tonight, obviously about something serious. It didn’t take much for her to venture a guess.

  From the size of the envelope, the letters would occupy her time all evening. Yet her father’s talk would have to take priority.

  “Yes,” she said and opened the stair’s door.

  Apparently Mattie overheard and stuck her head in from the kitchen. “You should do it now, Lester,” she said. “Rebecca has some reading to do.”

  “The children.” His gaze went around the room again.

  “I know,” Mattie responded. “Can it wait?”

  “I suppose so,” he said smiling. “It’s trouble that doesn’t seem to go away.”

  Rebecca felt relief, thankful for the allowance of time this evening to spend with her beloved Emma’s letters. Perhaps she would find courage, even hope, from them to face the subject her father wished to address.

  “Thanks,” she said, “maybe tomorrow night.”

  Her father nodded, focusing on his Budget.

  She took the first two steps of the stairs and shut the door behind her. In her room, she gently opened the package and a multitude of letters tumbled out. Twelve, she counted slowly, and a cover letter, apparently written in a man’s hand.

  She lit her kerosene lamp, opened the window shade to let in what daylight remained, and sat on the bed.

  Dear Rebecca,

  I haven’t met you yet, but will have by the time you read this letter. I have already cried my tears over what is contained in these letters. I don’t know what your response will be. I hope it all turns out well. If it were up to me, I would not pass this on to you, and perhaps I won’t once I meet you. Obviously if you are reading this, I already have.

  These are letters I had no idea existed. Emma sent them to me, at my office in Berlin, Ohio, just the other week. All of them were stamped but unopened, till I opened them. They are the record of a part of her life no one knew about. I wish she had not kept it secret, especially from me, but regrets are too late now.

  She will refer back to letters I wrote her. I think it’s self-explanatory, so I have not included them. And just so we are clear with each other, Atlee doesn’t know what is contained in these letters. He knows only that he wishes things had turned out differently between the two of you.

  I told him he ought to speak with you, and he said he would. That was when I told him to wait until I received your response. I hope with all my heart the two of you will not make the same mistake Emma and I made.

  The letters are dated, and let me assure you, Emma wants you to read them. The explanation comes at the end.

  The best,

  Manny Troyer

  Rebecca found the first letter, its date written on the outside, written in what she recognized as Emma’s handwriting. Many times she had seen that neat handwriting during school years, the letters written in large expressive curves. She opened the letter and turned the kerosene lamp up as high as it would go. Just before the moment the flame turned into smoke, she stopped.

  “Manny,” it began.

  I just got your letter today. I won’t call you “dear” or some such thing. Not because I don’t want to, but because it hurts too much. I know you know as well as I do, this must go no further. My brother spoke to me at length, and I think sense has entered my head. You surely know he meant no harm. He does what he thinks is God’s will about this matter.

  My intense feelings are evident. I have only to pause to feel the pain or look into my heart to see how much I care about you. Remember when you dropped me off the last time and Mullet, “M-Jay” as we call him, was there? At first I was angry that he would interfere. I now see this was the kindest thing he could have done. He sees his move as the rescue of his sister, and I have to agree, Manny, no matter how much it hurts.

  The world is what it is, Manny. Surely you can see that. Our worlds are so far apart. Our people think so completely differently. In some ways it would be easier had you been from the Englisha. At least then I could think of leaving it all behind, running off into the night perhaps because that is what it would seem like to me. Surely you understand.

  Why my heart doesn’t agree with me, I don’t understand, but as M-Jay says, we must not be led around by our hearts. It is already given to another, to God, who has called us to a higher purpose. Sunday at preaching, you were all I could think about. I
felt so unclean, so wrong in bringing my fleshly desires into the very temple of God. That is how it seemed to me.

  When I listened to what the preacher said, I was even more ashamed. It seemed as if he were speaking to me, Manny. Maybe you don’t understand. I think and hope you do. Can you not see what forsaking the world means to me? It means you. I heard the message so clearly.

  I suppose you suspected the preacher knew about us, but I know he didn’t. Only M-Jay knows, and he is too loyal to me to spread such things around. His heart is like gold, Manny. I wish you would believe that.

  Just writing this, I know I will never mail this letter. I’m sorry, Manny. If I did I know where the path would lead—right back to you. I would not be able to resist if I knew that you knew. It is better this way, to walk in the will of God in silence, to live a life of holiness.

  It is holy, Manny. It is. I tell myself that when my pillow is wet with tears. I whisper your name when I can no longer stand the pain. Surely God will understand, since I did not seek out this love for you. The preacher said it was lust, lust for the world. I heard him as plain as day, though he could not have known about us.

  How could he know how much I want to see you? How could he know how much my heart yearns, aches with feeling? Did God do this? I cannot believe He did. It must be right. How could it be otherwise. We must have fallen, Manny, fallen with the rest of the world. This must be what Eve felt when she saw the apple in the garden. If it is, then I am not surprised that she ate it.

  Manny, I know you never dared kiss me. You didn’t because you thought you’d preserve what was sacred to you. Perhaps you thought that in your touch I would feel we were unclean and turn away from you. You cannot know, I suppose, but if you had tried I might not have been able to resist.

  I can only imagine what your kiss would have been like. The burning, the flame it would have ignited in me. Yet in my imagination I can resist, but in reality I’m afraid I couldn’t. So, Manny, your holiness was your undoing, if you want to look at it like that.