At Home in Pleasant Valley (17 page)

“So you never really fit into the English world.” That was what Johnny had hinted.

Lydia intrigued her, and she'd like to understand the woman better. Lydia apparently loved her work and was probably very good at it, but she didn't seem entirely to match with the life she'd chosen.

“Something like that.” Lydia smiled, her gaze meeting Leah's. “I've told you that sometimes I wonder if I'd be better off right now if I were still Amish, and I can never really leave that yearning behind. But that's not the choice I made.”

“You could change.” Leah ventured the words tentatively.

Lydia shook her head. “Some can't go back because they invest too much in the English world, like John. Others, like me, might long to return, but there's something they can't give up. For me, it's my work.”

Leah nodded. She might not entirely understand what made someone leave, but she could understand why a woman like Lydia couldn't go back.

She hesitated, wondering if it would be intruding to ask the question in her mind. “Do you think, twenty or thirty years from now, you'll have regrets?”

“I'll be alone here in my little house then, you mean. With no family and community to look after me.”

Leah thought about Mamm, surrounded by people who loved and cared for her. That was the old age an Amish woman expected to have. They didn't worry about being left alone.

“I didn't mean to offend you,” she said.

“I'm not offended.” Lydia's smile had a tinge of sadness. “It's an honest concern. Yes, I think about that. But I've made my choice.”

Leah nodded. Each time she met Lydia, the woman gave her something new to think about.

“You know, Leah, if you ever left, it would be for reasons like mine. For the work, not for love.”

Her breath caught in her throat. She couldn't answer. Couldn't even think about it, because she was afraid Lydia had verbalized something that might possibly be true.

•   •   •

This
welcome should go a long way toward convincing his mother that he and the children were fitting in here in Pleasant Valley. Daniel smiled, relaxing a little as he saw that Mamm had settled into a folding chair in the shade of the big maple in the Beilers' backyard.

His mother had arrived on yesterday's bus from Lancaster County, fresh from helping at the birth of his sister's new babe, and already the Beiler family had planned a picnic to welcome her.

“I hope your mamm wasn't too tired from her trip.”

Leah paused next to him, a basketful of rolls in her arm that must be intended for the serving table that was filling up with more food as each family arrived once evening chores were done.

“If she was, seeing her grandchildren has more than made up for it.” He nodded toward his mother. “It seems like she and your mamm are finding plenty of things to say to each other.”

“Ja.” The faintest shadow crossed Leah's green eyes at the thought.

Perhaps she still worried about the persistence of the matchmakers who were determined to yoke them together. That didn't seem as annoying to him as it once had.

“It is gut for her to see that we're fitting in and happy here. She can't help but worry.”

“That comes with being a parent.” Leah smiled, the shadow vanishing. “My mamm certainly hasn't stopped yet, no matter how old we are.”

He nodded, looking down at Leah. She'd be that kind of mother, too, he felt sure. You could see that in the care she had for every one of her students.

“When my children were gone—” He paused, his throat tight at the memory. “I don't know how I'd have gotten through it without my family.”

“They must have been overjoyed when the children came home at last.” She hesitated. “I wonder if—” She stopped, perhaps not wanting to voice the thought.

But he knew what it must be. “They didn't really understand why I
wanted to move afterward. They hated seeing me take the children away from Lancaster County, but once they knew I felt it was the right thing, they supported my decision.”

“It's hard to let go, for them and for you.” Her understanding was as quick as ever. “But I suppose sometimes it's needed. You had to get away from the reminders.”

“Getting the children away was the important thing. The older ones, especially. They couldn't seem to settle down after they came home. I felt as if they were always looking for Ruth. They're better here.”

Elizabeth raced up to them at that moment, tugging on Leah's skirt. “Did you see that my grossmutter is here for a visit, Teacher Leah?”

“I know.” Leah smiled at her. “That makes you both happy, doesn't it?”

The tenderness in Leah's face when she looked at his daughter touched Daniel's heart. Elizabeth darted off again, giving him the opportunity to say something that was on his mind.

“She was happier even before my mamm arrived. She told me—about her feelings over Ruth's dying that way. About feeling guilty over it.”

It was difficult even to say the words, but if he'd learned one thing from this, it was that speaking was better than keeping silent. “She said you wanted her to tell me.”

Her face filled with the concern she felt for his child. “I did my best to reassure her, but I knew she needed to hear it from you as well. I hope you're not upset that I didn't tell you about it right away.”

Maybe he had been, just for a moment, but then he'd realized that Leah had done exactly what she'd said she would. “I can't be, when it's turned out so well. My little Elizabeth acts as if a weight has been lifted from her shoulders.”

“That's wonderful gut. I'm so glad.” Her free hand moved, as if she'd reach out to him, but then it stilled.

Maybe she was too aware of the people who watched them. No one came near to interrupt them, though. They were being given a chance to be together, even in a crowd.

There was one thing more he had to say—had to admit—to Leah.

“I should have seen long before this that something was eating at her. You tried to tell me, but I thought I knew better.”

“Maybe there are times when things are easier seen by an outsider instead of a parent. It won't help Elizabeth for you to be blaming yourself, you know.”

“I know. But you're wrong about one thing, Teacher Leah.”

She looked up at him, her gaze puzzled. “I am?”

“Ja.” He touched her hand lightly, and even that small contact seemed to send awareness of her flowing through his body. “You're not an outsider.”

Her eyes darkened as they met his. Was she as aware of the attraction as he was? His grasp tightened, and her fingers pressed his in response. The noise and activity around them receded, and all he could see was Leah.

He took an abrupt step back, dropping her hand as if it were a hot coal. He'd told himself he should think of remarrying, giving his children a mother. And physical attraction was important, wonderful important, in a woman he might think of courting.

But not if it overpowered his common sense. He'd already made a mistake that had nearly cost him his children. He couldn't make another.

That would sound foolish if he tried to explain it to anyone—the idea that he didn't trust feeling too much for a woman he might want to wed. But he couldn't let his head be ruled by his heart, not in something as important as this was to his family's happiness.

L
eah
shuffled through her reports for the week, double-checking to be sure she had everything. She'd be meeting with Stacie in a few minutes, and she didn't want to give the woman any reason to criticize her work. Their relationship was difficult enough already, although it had seemed a little better the last time.

She heard a step and glanced up, tensing a little. But it wasn't Stacie—it was Dr. Brandenmyer, coming down the hallway with his long stride.

He paused when he saw her. “Ms. Beiler, how nice to run into you. Are you here to see John today?”

Her fingers tightened on the sheaf of papers as she shook her head. Why would he think that? Did he know about that private conversation between them the last time she was here?

“I'll be meeting with Stacie in a few minutes to go over my interview reports.”

She expected him to hurry off, but instead he sat down next to her, his long white coat flapping around his legs. He peered at her over the top of his glasses, his eyes keen.

“How do you feel about the work, now that you've been at it for a while? Is it satisfying?”

She considered. “I like talking with the families, and I suppose I'm satisfied when I draw something out that I didn't expect. But—” She hesitated.

“Go on.” He nodded encouragingly.

She smoothed the papers in her hands, staring down at them. “I just wonder sometimes. Is this really going to help the children?”

“You have one particular family in mind?” His voice was warm and interested, giving her the courage to continue.

“I suppose I do, although naturally I'm concerned for all the affected families. But Naomi Miller—hers was one of the first interviews I did. Two of her three children have Crigler-Najjar disease.” She forced herself to be honest. “She is a friend. And my brother is marrying her husband's sister, so naturally, that is a personal interest.”

“Nothing wrong with that,” he said quickly. He reached out, as if he'd pat her hand, and then seemed to reconsider. “Many of us have personal reasons for becoming involved in a particular line of research. My younger sister was a Down's syndrome child, and she died when she was eight.”

“I'm sorry for your loss.” Her heart filled with sympathy. So that was what drove him—not just science, but love for a small sister.

He nodded. “I don't tell that to many people.” He looked a little surprised at himself. “But even though research doesn't bring about instant results, every small step forward brings us nearer the goal of healthy children.” He waved his hands, and she saw the light of passion in his eyes. “There are so many things that can make a difference. Genetic counseling, early testing, even organ transplants . . . Those solutions are here already, and there are more to come.”

She nodded, moved by his obvious dedication.

“Your brother and his fiancée should come in for genetic counseling, if they're willing. It may not make a difference in their choices, but at least they'll know what the risks are.”

That was a positive step, as the doctor said.

“I'll talk with them about it. Perhaps I can persuade them.”

“You do that. I imagine if anyone can, it's you.”

She blinked. “Why would you think that?”

“Because you are the teacher. You're a person who affects many lives. If you urge your people to have genetic counseling or to have their babies tested immediately after birth, they'll listen to you.”

“I'm not so sure of that.”

“I am.” He touched the forms she held. “Look at the progress you've made already. You're reaching families who would never talk to us.
That's important.” He did pat her hand then. “I'm not saying that to make you feel prideful, as you Amish would say. I'm telling you that because you are doing good, important work that could touch lives in ways you can't imagine right now.”

“I hope what you say is true.” Perhaps, as the Scripture said, she was planting a seed, even if she wouldn't be there to see the harvest.

“It's what keeps me going.” He stood, giving her a smile that made him look younger than his years.

The door behind him swung open, and John came in quickly, checking at the sight of them. “I didn't mean to interrupt . . .”

“You're not, you're not.” Dr. Brandenmyer glanced at his watch. “I must be off. I have patients.” He hurried off toward the exam rooms of the clinic.

John looked at Leah with a quizzical expression. “It's not often Dr. Brandenmyer slows down for a private conversation.”

“He was asking how I like the work.” Actually, the doctor had given her a new image of herself and what she might do, and she wanted to consider that privately. “How are you?”

“Great.” He smiled, looking more relaxed and open than she'd seen since he'd returned. “I can't tell you how much it meant to see Rachel again.” He shook his head. “Hard to believe she's a wife and mother. I wish I could meet my nieces and nephew.”

“Maybe that will come, in time.”

“Maybe. Anyway, I owe you, Leah. Not just for making the arrangements, either. For helping me not to let pride interfere.”

She smiled in return. “I seem to recall you often needed someone to do that.”

“Good thing I had people who cared enough about me to do it.”

She suddenly realized that she was at ease with him. With who he was now, not just thinking about who he used to be. That was another step forward, wasn't it?

•   •   •

“That's
all you managed to get this week?” Stacie's voice was sharp.

Maybe she had honestly expected more interviews from Leah. Or
perhaps her current ill will had been caused by having seen Leah in conversation with Johnny.

“I had other responsibilities this week.” She had no intention of betraying to Stacie that some of those responsibilities had involved Johnny. “And now that I'm going to the farther-off homes, I can't do as many in a day.”

“If you took a car, you could do more.”

Stacie seemed to have forgotten that she was a volunteer. “I'm afraid I can't afford to hire a car each time I make a visit.”

Stacie looked momentarily abashed. “No, I guess not.”

She frowned down at the forms for a moment, but Leah had the feeling she wasn't really concentrating on them. Her lips were pressed tightly together, as if she were holding something back.

She flipped a page over and slapped her hand down on it. “Maybe if you weren't spending so much time with John, you'd be able to accomplish more.”

For a moment Leah stared at her. How open could she be with Stacie? She didn't know anything about Stacie's background or family, and she couldn't imagine how she'd lived her life.

But the emotion she felt now was surely common enough to both Amish and English.

“I'm afraid you have a mistaken idea about the two of us.” Leah kept her voice quiet, not wanting to be seen as confronting the woman. “There is nothing between John Kile and me but an old friendship.”

Stacie's eyes narrowed. “Is that why he went off someplace to meet you the other day?”

So Stacie had somehow gotten hold of that, but she obviously didn't know that the meeting had been between John and his sister, not between John and Leah. It was easily explained, but if John hadn't chosen to confide in her, Leah could hardly do it for him.

“That was not . . .” She hesitated, not sure what to say. “That was not personal. I'm still close with his family, you know.”

Stacie sniffed. “Tell that to someone who might believe it. The only reason you're here is John.”

Funny, she was getting the same response from the English at the
clinic as she had from some of her own people. But she didn't feel like laughing.

“John is the person who asked me to volunteer, that's true,” she said carefully. “But I've continued with it because it's important work, not because he's here.”

Stacie slapped her hands down on the desk in the gesture that seemed to be habitual with her. “Maybe you really believe that, or maybe you don't. But I've seen the way John looks at you.” Her face twisted a little, and she was suddenly vulnerable. “He has feelings for you.”

“No. No, he doesn't.” All she could think was to deny it. It wasn't true. It couldn't be, because if it was, her life would be complicated beyond belief.

Stacie ran her fingers through her hair, shaking her head. “Okay, maybe you really haven't seen it. But trust me, he's completely different when he talks to you than he is with anyone else.”

Relief washed through Leah. “But that is because we are old friends. The bond between us goes deep. And I am Amish.”

Stacie shrugged. “So what? He gave all that up years ago.”

It seemed impossible to make Stacie understand, but she had to try. “He left the church, but a person can't stop being Amish so easily. If you met someone who'd grown up in . . . in Africa, for example, you wouldn't expect that person to be able to turn off how he was raised in the flick of a switch, would you?”

“I guess not.” The admission was grudging. “But John didn't grow up in another country.”

“His life is closer to that than to anything else you might imagine. He didn't learn English until he went to school, for instance. All the things you take for granted”—she waved her hand toward their surroundings—“the computers, the television, the cell phones, the constant information about the outside world. Try to imagine growing up without ever being exposed to that.”

“I can't.” Stacie's gaze met hers, and for the first time, there seemed to be no antagonism in it. “I guess that means I can't ever really understand him.”

“You care about him.” Leah said the words softly. “That's all that's important.”

Stacie shook her head a little sadly. “I used to think that. But he doesn't seem to see me that way. And nothing you've said changes the fact that he has feelings for you. Not for me.”

“No.” Denying it might not convince Stacie, but maybe it would reassure her. Because if Johnny really did have feelings for her—

A flicker of panic went through Leah. She couldn't deal with that. Not again.

•   •   •

Daniel
smoothed the sheet over Elizabeth's shoulders. Her face was relaxed in sleep, clearly visible in the light of the full moon pouring through her bedroom window.

She stirred a little, as if she felt his touch, and then slipped deeper into slumber. Heart full, he turned and walked softly across the hall to check on his sons.

Jonah slept on his side, one hand under his pillow. But Matthew knelt by the window, a piece of paper in front of him on the sill.

“Was ist letz?” Daniel whispered, tiptoeing to the window. “What's the matter? Why are you still awake?”

Matthew moved his hand over the paper. “The moon is so bright, I couldn't go to sleep.”

Daniel knelt beside the boy, resting his hand on Matthew's shoulder. “What are you writing?”

He could feel tension in his son. “It's a drawing.”

“A drawing of what?”

Matthew hesitated. Finally he pushed the paper over to Daniel. “For when we bring the hay in next time. To use with the generator, is all. Not electric.”

For a moment Daniel struggled to keep from crumpling the paper. Would the boy's interest in mechanics never leave? He took a deep breath, trying to come up with the right thing to say.

Matthew must have sensed his negative reaction. He pulled back. “It's not electric, Da.”

He wanted to shut down the idea. But even as his hand tightened on the paper, he seemed to hear Leah's voice in his head, telling him to listen, to talk, to explain instead of order.

He smoothed the paper out, studying the detailed drawing, and his admiration for his son grew. How many ten-year-olds could come up with something like this?

“I see.” He tried to sound neutral. “What made you think about this? Because you like machines?”
Things that pull you toward the English world?

Matthew eyed him warily. “It's hard to run the farm mostly by yourself, with only me. Jonah's too little to do much. I thought this would help us do more.”

For a moment Daniel couldn't speak. His throat was too tight.

He ruffled his boy's hair, feeling the fine strands under his fingers. “That's smart thinking, Matthew.”

The tension left the boy's face. “You think so, Daadi? It's not against the Ordnung. Even the Beilers use one, Mahlon says.”

“I know.” He hesitated. Leah would say this was a moment he should use to teach his son. “You understand why some things are against the Ordnung, don't you? Because they might take us away from our family and our church, or connect us too much to the outside world. The rules aren't meant to punish us, but only to keep us from being worldly. You understand?”

Matthew studied on it for a moment. “It's hard, isn't it, to figure out why some things are okay and some aren't?”

Daniel nodded. “That's why the whole church will talk and talk about a new thing, trying to figure out what God's will is for us, until Bishop Mose helps us come to an understanding.”

Matthew nodded slowly, and Daniel had the sense that he was pondering something deeper.

“Daadi—” He stared down at his hands, clasping the windowsill. “Is that why you didn't try to get us back?”

Daniel's heart stopped, as if it had turned to a chunk of lead in his chest. “Is that—” He had to stop and clear his throat. “Is that what you think? That I didn't try to find you?”

He hadn't talked about it when they'd come home, thinking that it would be like probing an open wound. Better to try to forget, he'd told himself. But Matthew, at least, hadn't forgotten.