Love Finds You in Sugarcreek, Ohio (12 page)

“You aren’t going to tell me any more than that, are you?”

He scraped a thumbnail into the seasoned wood of the picnic table. “No.”

She sighed and gathered her purse. “I had convinced my aunts to close down their inn until you showed up.”

“I don’t think they were
ever
convinced it was the right thing to do.”

“Stubborn old women.”

He laughed. “In fifty years, you’ll be exactly like them.”

A grin grudgingly spread across her face. “I sincerely hope so.”

The daadi haus was a modest two-bedroom cottage attached to the farmhouse by a short, well-worn path. When Bertha opened the door, a musty smell assailed them.

“It would probably be best to stay at the cabin until you get this aired and cleaned,” she advised.

Joe set the bucket, scrub brush, soap, and rags Lydia had given him on the floor. Dark brown, cracked leather furniture was pushed against a smoke-stained wall. The small living room was dominated by a large, blackened fireplace.

“My father lived here after our mother passed on. He had lost patience with all the hustle and bustle of guests. In his later years he lit a fire every day, summer or winter. He said it helped his arthritis.” Bertha’s voice held a note of apology. “I never had the heart to rent it out before we hired you.”

The kitchen was only slightly smaller than the living room, and not as dark. A silent gas-powered refrigerator sat in a corner. Joe opened an oak cabinet hung high on the wall. Ancient, thick china plates were stacked neatly inside. Another cabinet revealed a few drinking glasses and cups. A small gas cookstove sat beside the sink. And an oak table with four chairs rounded out the sparse kitchen furnishings.

“There are two bedrooms and a study,” Bertha said, “as well as an attic for storage.”

“I don’t have much to store,” Joe said, as he took stock.

Abraham Troyer didn’t appear to have collected any clutter. With soap, water, and some paint, these rooms would be quite livable. The wooden floors were scuffed, but they would shine up nicely. Joe’s spirits lifted. With a few days of hard work, this cottage could feel like a real home.

The two bedrooms were as sparsely furnished as the kitchen and living room—bare mattresses on twin beds in each, along with a chair, a kerosene lamp, and a bedside table. Nothing else. Abraham could have been living in a monastery, for all the comfort he had afforded himself.

“This is my father’s study.” Bertha led him to the back of the house. “Daett spent a great deal of time back here.”

Joe was pleasantly surprised when they entered the room. There was a wooden desk facing large, bare windows. The windows overlooked a tangled rose garden and the pasture where the sisters’ one horse stood munching grass.

He wondered if his duties would ever include harnessing and hitching this horse to the buggy he had seen in the barn. If so, they were all going to be in a world of trouble. He had no earthly idea even how to even ride a horse, let alone hitch one.

Joe turned around and took an involuntary step backward. The entire wall opposite the bank of windows was filled with shelves, and on those shelves, he estimated several hundred volumes to read.

“Daett liked his books,” Bertha said.

“Liking books” was an understatement. Joe approached Abraham’s personal library with reverence.

“Alfred Edersheim’s
Life and Times of Christ,”
he murmured, pulling the dusty volume off the shelf. He ran his finger over the spine of another.
“Strong’s Exhaustive Concordance.”
He pulled a three-inch-thick title off the shelf. “Philip Schaff’s
History of the Christian Church
—all eight volumes.” He glanced up at her. “Your father was a scholar, Bertha.”

There was confusion on Bertha’s face, and he realized that she was wondering why her handyman was so familiar with these religious books. In his excitement with coming face-to-face with these old friends, he realized that he had let down his guard.

“My father was a preacher,” he explained.

It was true. It didn’t even scratch the surface of the whole truth, but it was true.

Bertha smiled, pleased with his answer. “Your daett was a preacher?”

“Yes.”

“My father was too, most of my young life,” Bertha said. “Then the Lord chose him to be the bishop of our church.”

“I thought the Amish didn’t believe in advanced education—even biblical. How did your father come to possess all these?”

“My father’s collection is quite unusual for an Amish bishop. There was a regular guest with whom he became close friends—a professor of Bible at a small Christian college. They had many discussions about religion over the years. My father shared his own copies of Amish works with his friend, and they spent hours together comparing his German Bible with Englisch translations. The professor brought my father gifts of books every time he came. The friendship spanned decades.”

“And your father read all these?”

“Cover to cover. He never desired the position of bishop, but he took the heavy mantle Gott chose for him very seriously. He struggled to gain wisdom.”

“Why did he accept the position of bishop if he didn’t want it?”

“When a young man is baptized into the Amish church, he agrees to serve in whatever position Gott might choose for him. Our belief is that, if chosen, Gott will give him the strength to carry out his responsibilities.”

“Did he get into trouble with the others for all this study?”

“It was not something he discussed with the others.” She looked beyond him through the window, as though seeing into the past. “I doubt anyone outside our family knew. The Amish believe there is a risk in much study. Even of the Bible. There is a temptation to be proud of one’s ability to quote Scripture or know where certain passages are. My father did not tout his scholarship; instead, he took the knowledge deep into his soul and allowed it to come out only in ways that helped him lead his flock.”

“He sounds like a great man.”

“No!” Bertha looked alarmed at his praise of her father. “He was a humble man—as Gott willed.”

Joe plucked another well-thumbed book off the shelf, J. Gresham Machen’s
The Virgin Birth of Christ.
A classic.

“You can read them if you want,” Bertha said. “I haven’t known what to do with them. It would not be appropriate to give them to someone in our church. Few would understand.”

Joe reverently put the book back on the shelf and dusted off his hands. This room could be glorious with a little work and a comfortable chair. Strangely enough, he found himself longing to be lost in Abraham’s books.

It had been years since he’d had the desire to study. Now, after all he’d been through, he found himself eager to dig into the Word of God and these classic works of biblical scholars.

“Do you mind if I paint the walls?”

“No, I would be delighted. I will pay for the supplies.”

He felt more than a glimmer of hope. No one would ever expect to find him here in Sugarcreek, Ohio, living in an Amish daadi haus and working as a handyman. It was practically the last place on earth anyone would look. It would be so good for Bobby, as well as for himself, to have a place to come home to each day.

That is—if Rachel continued their unspoken truce. He thought they had done pretty well together yesterday at their little picnic. He’d done everything he knew to put her at ease.

“If you think you can live here,” Bertha said, as though reading his thoughts, “without missing too much the electricity and the television—I think you can have a good life. Bobby will give all of us joy, and we can help you watch over him. You will have no more need to run.” She smiled. “I do not think anyone would ever suspect that someone famous would be living here at our humble farm.”

“I am more grateful than you can know. But I hate having to accept pay from you.”

“The Bible says that a workman is worthy of his hire. We have enough money to pay you. Rachel has seen to that. Although I do not think she quite had this in mind.”

Before he could inquire about
that
interesting piece of information, Bertha clumped out of the daadi haus, shaking her head and chuckling at some inward, private joke. Then she turned back with a grin so wide it warmed his heart.

“Welcome home, Joe.”

It was Monday, and once again Rachel had a day off—and she had no idea what to do with herself. What did regular women do on their days off—women who had normal jobs and didn’t tote guns? Did they visit friends? Do their nails? Shop for clothes?

Shop.

Not something usually high on her list, but today it seemed like an intriguing idea. She had done nothing at all with the inheritance she’d received, except to turn a portion over for her aunts’ use.

She deserved to buy at least a little something for herself. Maybe some new clothes. Or something for the house. Serious shopping would require a drive to New Philadelphia and the New Towne Mall, but the day was gorgeous and New Philly not all that far away.

A bubble of excitement rose within her at the thought. As she went to her closet to get dressed, it occurred to her that this shopping trip was actually seriously overdue. Her wardrobe was functional but sparse. Half of her attire consisted of her basic blue-on-blue uniforms.

She was going to spend some money today, and she was going to enjoy every minute of it!

Five hours later, she staggered back into her home, footsore, eyes glazed, and laden with bags. The only thing in the world she wanted was to soak in a hot tub until the ache of mall-walking drained away with the bathwater.

Fortunately, she had just the thing. A trip to Bath and Body Works had bagged a citrus-ginger bubble bath and shampoo that had caught her attention the moment she’d sniffed the sample. Refreshing. Light. Perfect. She had also purchased some candles of the same scent, which she’d lit and placed around the bathroom.

She had never been one for scents, but there was something about this one that made her want to close her eyes, inhale, and smile.

Which was exactly what she did after she pinned her hair up and stepped into her seldom-used, claw-foot bathtub.

Pampering herself felt a little strange. She was half-embarrassed by indulging in such luxury.

Her final act of indulgence had been picking up a new mystery novel at Waldenbooks. She loved mysteries. Loved her ability to solve them long before she’d turned the last page—but for the life of her, she couldn’t remember the last time she had allowed herself the joy of reading one.

Ed was right. She needed to loosen up a little. Quit being a cop all the time. Quit feeling responsible for her aunts all the time. Quit—

The phone rang. And rang. And rang.

Her first instinct was to ignore it, but her responsible nature got the better of her. She dragged herself, dripping, out of the warm, sweet-smelling water.

Three minutes later, the tub was draining and Rachel was toweling off. Aunt Bertha had called. Joe was preparing the daadi haus for habitation, and Bertha wondered if Rachel couldn’t come and help. Bertha felt it would be best for Bobby’s health if they could move in quickly.

Rachel had no choice. She pulled the hairpins out of her hair and shook her head. The haircut she had received a few hours earlier during her shopping spree fell easily into place. As she dressed in her newly purchased, better-fitting jeans and an apricot T-shirt, she wondered if Joe would notice anything different about her.

Not that it mattered or anything.

She wasn’t going over there to impress Joe. She was going because her aunts had asked her to.

She told herself that Joe’s being there had absolutely nothing to do with the fact that she was wearing her new clothes to go help clean the daadi haus.