Rebecca's Return (The Adams County Trilogy 2) Page 3

  Maybe there was something he wasn’t aware of, some secret passion missing from his constitution. His mother, Rachel, seemed to think so. Luke could see her disappointment in the way she looked at him when they had conversations about money and farms. The accusation was there, the blame that he didn’t care enough about what really mattered in life—security.

  But did it really matter? He so easily could just have let it go. Yet here was the letter in his pocket, surely promising otherwise.

  Thoughts of last Sunday with Susie, her eyes glowing with the pleasure of having him in her parents’ house, crossed his mind. How she brought out the cookies and brownies on a plate, just a plain white one, nothing fancy. He could tell that she was delighted from the way the cookies lay against each other, the brownies touching just so, the crumbs brushed off the plate and out of sight. Susie cared deeply about him.

  It all felt like the old buggy blanket he used. Worn? Yes. Poor? Yes. But comfortable, at ease, and having a place in his life. Why disturb it, uproot it like a weed in the garden? That’s what this letter now felt like—a danger with its claws out for him, drawing him away to who knows where. Why not just put the letter back and forget it?

  Then he remembered his mother, what she would say and how she would look if he told her that he had a letter, gotten it out of Emma’s mailbox, and then put it back. Luke, she would say, I can’t believe what you’ve done.

  Her eyes would say, You are as worthless as your father. A hopeless wreck of a man, who will settle for anything as long as your bed is warm and food is on the table. Never mind that the food is meager and stringy and the bed is covered with hand-me-down quilts your mother made for her wedding night.

  Lift your head higher, she would say, without saying a word, her eyes flashing at him. Remember Rebecca, she would say, as he was even thinking now, the image of her going through his mind.

  Luke touched the letter in his pocket. He would take it home as soon as he could, let the chips fall where they may. Susie would still be Susie, there for him if he needed her, but there was no reason to let that stop him from walking through a door if one should open. If it was open, he would walk through it.

  Letting his breath out, Luke turned the key on the New Holland, waiting while the timer ran down, indicating it was warming up. He then started the engine. It roared to life, black smoke pouring out for a few seconds. Slowly he drove out of the barn, refraining from going too fast until the engine was thoroughly warmed up.

  Once through the gate, he got to work on moving the feeding bins with a vengeance, urgency now pushing him on, the news in his pocket needing to be told at home.

  The cattle followed him around, seeming to enjoy the spectacle of the semi-airborne feeding bins bouncing across the ground. A few times he had to slow down lest he hit a cow with a steel bin. The delays were frustrating, but broken legs or ribs on the cattle would not be easily explained and would keep him here till late in the day.

  With all three bins finally moved from the slippery mud and restocked with new hay, Luke went into the house. He told Emma that he was done for the day and was leaving. For a moment he thought his eyes would betray him with their guilt. Then he got his emotions under control, remembering what was at stake.

  With the horse harnessed, Luke was on his way, taking care to drive at the proper speed out of Emma’s driveway. On the way home, his courage faltered again, the seriousness of what he was doing pressing in. Should he return the letter to Emma’s mailbox?

  No, having left the farm, Emma would surely see him returning. And there would be his mother’s wrath to contend with if he faltered now. She would surely find out. In her presence, he would give himself away. His guilt before her would betray him even more than his guilt over taking Emma’s letter.

  Arriving home, Luke saw his father come out of the barn and pause to watch him drive in.

  I’ll have to wait to see Mother. He wants me to do something with the chores.

  Pulling up, Luke jumped out to unhitch. His father came over to the other side of the buggy to help with the traces, saving Luke from having to walk around.

  “I’m glad to see you home early, Luke,” he said. “I have to go into town. The water main broke during that last storm we had. I only found it today. Wasn’t sure how I was going to feed the cows yet. But this really helps out.”

  “How many bales have to go out yet?”

  “Only one to the back pasture. I was getting ready when I noticed the wet ground on the west side. The cattle in the upper pasture are already done. You ought to get right to it before dark.”

  “I have to tell Mom something first,” Luke stated hastily. “It shouldn’t take long.”

  “Just get right to it then.”

  “How are you going in? You could use my horse.”

  “I’m already harnessed up.” Reuben motioned toward the barn. “I need a fresh horse anyway. Have to get to the supply place before they close at five.”

  “Want me to help you hitch up?”

  “Sure, I’m in a hurry.”

  Assuming that his father was using his double-seated surrey to bring materials home, Luke went over to pull the buggy out. His parents’ surrey was parked inside the barn during winter because they typically used their single buggy for most trips—it was small and light and had just enough room to fit the two of them.

  After pushing the barn door open, he brought the buggy out by the time his father returned with the horse. From there it was a simple few minutes to get the horse under the shafts and his father on the road. As the buggy turned south on the paved road, Luke walked toward the house.

  His mother was in the kitchen, preparing a salad. Peppers, tomatoes, and cauliflower lay on the counter, waiting to be added.

  “I’ve got something you’ll be interested in,” he announced, sure no one else was in the house, but glancing around just to be sure.

  “There’s no one here,” she told him, wiping her hands on her white apron. “What is it?”

  He sat down at the kitchen table, producing the letter from his pocket, “A letter to Emma’s lawyer. She just took it out to her mailbox this morning.”

  “Really?” Rachel took a seat and reached for the letter. Once in her grasp, she turned it over carefully.

  She walked over to where steam was rising from the teakettle and ran the edge of the envelope over the rising vapors, carefully removing the torn pieces of paper. Opening the envelope, she removed the letter and returned to her seat. Unfolding the paper, she read out loud.

  Dear Mr. Bridgeway, Esquire,

  Please, first of all accept my gratitude again for your consenting to visit with me here some two weeks ago. In a continuation of our conversation, I have arrived at a final decision on the disposal of my assets. Due to my continued serious illness, I wish to deal with the money appropriations to my family first and the three farms given out according to my wishes.

  You can determine the amount given to my relatives by tripling the percentage basis used by my brother, Millet, in his will. From the list I gave you, please have this amount given to each relative.

  At this, Rachel paused. “I still have a copy of my father’s will. We can easily figure out how much that amounts to.”

  “Okay, so go on. I want to hear about the farms.”

  Rachel, finally proud of Luke, continued reading.

  Then please name Rebecca Keim, of Union, Ohio, the daughter of Lester and Mattie Keim, as the primary beneficiary of all my property.

  Rachel gasped. Luke stood up straight.

  This is all contingent upon the same clause that Millet had placed when he first had your father draw his will when I was still in my early twenties. The clause being that Rebecca Keim must not under any circumstances marry a non-Amish person. Amish is to be defined as a church which does not allow for the driving of motor vehicles. She may, as I have, remain in an unmarried state, if she so wishes.

  I am aware that there are considerable assets involved an
d that my brother did not have as many when he made the gesture toward me out of his deep concern for my well-being. Yet he remained true to his promise, even when his possessions increased, believing that he was under the Lord’s blessing.

  I will proceed under the same belief and would appreciate it if you would notify Rebecca Keim of this decision by certified letter as soon as convenient. I will not need to be notified of this correspondence between the two of you but will wait for you to contact me to sign any necessary papers.

  Sincerely,

  Emma Miller

  Milroy, Indiana

  Rachel’s face was white. “She’s doing it, and this time it’s not even in the family.”

  Luke’s mind was whirling. He barely heard his mother. He simply said, “I have to go do the chores.” His body felt strange, out of focus. But before he got to the door, he turned and said, “Get that letter sealed again. I’ll drop it off in the mail tomorrow. Emma will never miss it.”

  When his mother didn’t reply, Luke looked at her.

  “We’re not mailing it,” Rachel declared, her lips bloodless.

  “We have to!” he said.

  “Do your chores,” she said, rising and returning to her salad. “The Lord will help us somehow. We’ll yet overcome this evil. We have to.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  John, his mind continually wandering to thoughts of Rebecca and when she might return, forced himself to the task at hand. He was in the middle of showing a midsized cherry wood chest, finished in a natural stain with recessed hinges, to a young couple who had just walked in a few minutes before. They would be, he hoped, his last customers of the day.

  “We’re looking for something for our daughter for Christmas,” the lady told him, her blue eyes sparkling. Bending over the chest, she ran her fingers over the heavily grained cherry. “Perfect for Candice,” she half whispered, affection in her voice.

  “How are you getting it home?” Candice’s father asked, standing back from the chest in question, more interested in the price tag at the moment, which he couldn’t seem to locate.

  “That’s why I had you remove the backseat of the Navigator this morning,” she said. “I thought I might find something exactly like this. They have wonderful things here.”

  He nodded, then asked, “Sure this fits? I still want that Panasonic screen. Today—if possible.”

  “They don’t sell those here. Do you?” she asked, glancing at John.

  “No,” he said, not certain what a Panasonic screen was, but assuming it had to do with television.

  “See,” she told her husband, triumphantly, “You can get the Panasonic on the way home. Probably at Circuit City. With the size you want, it has to be delivered anyway. This now,” she said, her fingers following a V-shaped grain of dark cherry halfway across the top, “is the thing of dreams. It goes with us today.”

  The man chuckled, glancing at John. “You watch football?”

  “No,” John shook his head and replied, “not really.”

  “Thought so.” His chuckle turned into a grin. “Watching the game on a new fifty-eight inch plasma is a dream.”

  “Just ignore him,” the woman told John. “This is what we want. A real Amish hope chest for Candice. A quilt for her too. Just to start things off. A real jump-start to her hope life. Perhaps one of those.” She motioned across the room with her eyes. “From there Candice can come up with her own ideas. Isn’t that right?”

  “What is Candice going to do with a hope chest?” he asked. “She’s only five.”

  Her eyes regained the sparkle John had seen earlier. “You Amish have hope chests, don’t you?” She directed the question to John.

  “I’m not sure.” John found himself searching for an answer. “My older sister had a cedar chest.”

  “There you go,” she pronounced in victory, turning in her husband’s direction. “That’s what I want for Candice—what the Amish girls have. Something to keep her in touch with reality. The way things are messed up in this world—just look at the political situation. This is the perfect touch. A real Amish hope chest. Right in her own room.”

  He shrugged. “I suppose she can use all the help she can get.”

  “We’ll take it,” she announced with zest, turning toward John. “Let’s get it paid for and then packed into the Navigator. I’ve got some blankets to use so it won’t get scratched on the trip back home. You will help load it, won’t you?”

  “Sure,” John assured her. “We have shipping too, at an extra charge if you want that. It then comes right to your door.”

  “I thought the blankets were for the screen.” The husband was protesting the inevitable. “Why not ship this? Then we can have the screen home by tonight.”

  “The screen can ship,” she told him firmly. “There’s nothing special about a new television. This,” she said, running her hand over the cherry grain again, “I want to bring home myself.” She smiled, but her husband was still looking for the price tag.

  “Will that be all then?” John asked, clearing his throat and remembering her interest in the quilt but not wanting to push too hard. He flipped over the tiny price tag and busied himself writing the size and price on his clipboard. He saw the husband register the price and wince.

  With that look, John figured the big screen he planned to purchase must have just gotten a few inches smaller and might get even smaller if the quilt was still in play. Feeling sympathy for the man, he was about to walk toward the checkout counter.

  “The quilt,” she exclaimed into her husband’s ear. “Can’t forget that. Could be a long time before we get up here again. We can’t give Candice an empty hope chest for Christmas. What a horrible start to a dream—with an empty chest. Show me what you have,” she said, glancing in John’s direction, her eyes still carrying the alarm of her just spoken thoughts.

  John avoided the man’s eyes, fell into his responsibilities as the salesman, and followed the wife over to where the quilts hung on a rack. The first one she stopped at had a floral arrangement design. The center was dominated by a flowerpot. Its flowers protruded up and down, past the sides, and everything was held visually in place by two circles.

  “Don’t think so,” she muttered to herself, “a little overdone. Let’s see…” She moved over to the next quilt, nestled closely beside its companion. Her eyes ran over the cross in the center, its crossed arms of equal length, ends flaring with eight-sided stars. Another larger cross outlined the smaller one, the sort which graced the Christian shields of the knights of old. Beyond that was a repeat of an even larger version, going all the way to the edges of the quilt.

  “No,” she said in John’s direction, who was waiting respectfully, his tablet ready. “Most certainly not hope chest material.”

  John nodded because he agreed, sale or no sale, the truth was the truth. The husband, having done his own evaluation agreed for other reasons. “I think you’re right. Maybe this one over here…Now that’s perfect. Take a look at this one.”

  She turned toward her husband and crossed the short space between the two racks to the quilt in question. Coming in close and then stepping back, she said nothing as she looked the quilt over. The center had a circle of squares, overlaying each other like fallen dominoes. Each square was made of multicolored squares within squares, and a six-sided, solid-lined hexagon surrounded the circle of squares. An outer border, made of many brightly colored rectangles, finished the design perfectly.

  “That’s it,” she said firmly. “Perfect. The patchwork of life. So many different colors and ways of putting it together—then overlapping each other. We’ll take it.”

  “I think it’s nice too,” the husband agreed, then tried quickly to cover up his pleasure at the lower price by a half-hearted protest. “It could be quite mature for a five-year-old. But I suppose Candice will grow into it.”

  “It shows her where to go,” she said, standing in front of the quilt, her face contented.

  The husband was obviou
sly in a leaving mood. “So let’s get this stuff into the Navigator, then on the road.”

  John wrote the price and description on his tablet, copying down the name of the maker of the quilt, which was how they kept track of quilt inventory. The price varied with each quilt, both from Aden’s evaluation of its intricacy and from the quilter’s own report on the time it took to make. This one had Mrs. C. Kemp’s name written on the back of the price tag.

  Excusing himself, John went into the storage room at the back of the store. Finding a box and a step stool, John returned to where the quilt hung. All the quilts were fastened by their upper edges to the frames, a little out of reach of even someone of his height.

  Asking both of them if they would stand on either side of the quilt to keep it from brushing the floor, John undid the snaps on top and released it carefully. The folding process began even before he was off the stool. “Makes it easier with help,” John said to express his thanks. Taking the half-folded quilt, he completed the task by himself.

  When the woman noticed the tag on top of the quilt inside the open box, she bent over to look at the name. “Who is Mrs. C. Kemp? Is she the one who made this?”

  John nodded.

  “Can you give me any information about her? What she’s like?”

  “Sure. That would be Clara Kemp, about sixty years old, I think. Her husband died of cancer some years ago.” John searched his memory. “Five years, now,” he concluded. “She lives by herself just outside Unity. Still keeps up the small farm her husband left her. Most of her income comes from these quilts though.”