Reflection (12 page)

Rachel nodded. “That makes sense.”

“I became consumed by it and eventually realized I wanted to be a minister. I wanted to make it my life's work.”

“Wow.” She smiled. “So you went into the seminary?”

“Uh-huh. In Harrisonburg. Then I came back here.” He looked over at his church again. “This is a terrific congregation. The most progressive Mennonite church in the area. Most of our energy goes into relief work of one sort or another. We're gathering supplies to send to Rwanda—well, to the refugee camps in Zaire—in a month or so.”

“Really?” She wanted to ask him about Rwanda. She wanted to know if his heart ached when he saw the pictures of suffering in the paper every morning. If anything, she guessed it would be worse for him than it was for her. She had seen the need over there when she was in the Peace Corps, but she'd also recognized her limitations. Michael, on the other hand, had never allowed limitations to color his actions. He gave away his small allowance each month. He'd buy medicine for a sick child or food for a hungry family. He gave away his clothes, his time, his energy. Gave and gave and gave. He fit in well in Katari, better than she did, because the villagers were a generous people. The village reminded him of Reflection, he'd told her once. Everyone caring about one another, like one big extended family.

“Teaching would never have been enough for me, Rache,” he said. “Now I get to do all the things I love to do. I can still teach, but I can also write, and study, and speak, and counsel, and I can help people all over the world.” Michael's eyes had taken on a glow as his voice rose with enthusiasm.

Rachel touched his hand. “I'm so glad, Michael,” she said. “I think Katy's been good for you.”

He looked at her as though he'd never had that thought before. “In some ways, yes, but… I don't know how much to say. I don't talk about this. I belong to a support group through the church—Mennonites are very big on support groups.” He smiled. “But I can't tell them what's going on with Katy and me. Sitting here with you, though…we used to tell each other everything, didn't we?”

“Yes, but please don't feel as though you have to—”

“No. I want to. I don't get to say much of this out loud. I've let one of my friends, Drew, in on a little of it because sometimes I think I'm going crazy.” He plucked a blade of grass from the hem of his shorts and flicked it into the air. “Things aren't wonderful between Katy and me,” he said. “She's ambitious and intelligent and beautiful and a terrific doctor, but she's one of those people who keeps some distance between herself and everyone else, you know what I mean?”

Yes, that was the Katy she remembered. “Even with you?” she asked.

“Even with me. And with Jace, too. She's not at all demonstrative. Not warm. She's always been that way, but even more so lately. Before she left for Moscow, she said she wasn't very happy anymore, although she couldn't really say why. I tried to persuade her into going to a counselor with me, but she refused. She said the few months' separation would be good for us. We'd each get a chance to think things through.”

“How long has she been gone?”

“Three weeks, and we've only talked on the phone a few times since she left, although she's spoken to Jace more than that. She comes back in October.” He folded his arms across his chest. “It scares me. I want my marriage to survive, but I want it to survive in a better form, and I'm not sure Katy can change. Or that I can. And divorce is not an option.”

“Because of your religion?”

He nodded. “There are no divorced Mennonite ministers. I'd lose everything. There are very few divorced people in the congregation as a whole, and depending on their circumstances, they're either tolerated or subtly shunned.” He let out his breath. “So now you know the unpleasant truth about the minister and the doctor. Everyone thinks Katy and I are this very bright, very noble couple who has it all together. They don't know that when we go home at night, we don't talk.” He winced as if the words cut him, then looked at her with a weak smile. “Didn't mean to dump all that on you, old friend.”

She touched his arm. “I'm glad you felt like you could,” she said.

“Enough of that topic,” he said abruptly.”How is Helen doing?”

Rachel looked toward the gazebo, where the sun was dipping behind the latticed roof. “She's doing quite well. A little easily spooked by thunder and lightning, but who can blame her?”

“No kidding.”

“And speaking of my grandmother”—she looked at her watch—”I'd better get home to her. I'm playing the role of master chef this summer.”

He smiled at her. “I bet you're good at it. I'll never forget the culinary talent you displayed with that boar in Katari.”

She groaned. She had wanted to make a feast for her neighbors, and she'd tried spicing up the precious meat, a gift from a neighbor who could ill afford it, with Italian seasoning. She and Michael were the only ones who would touch it.

“Michael,” she said slowly, “when you see the newscasts or the pictures from Rwanda in the paper, how do you feel?”

He looked into her eyes. “Helpless,” he said. “Like something inside of me is dying and I can't do anything about it.”

“Me, too,” she said. “Tell me what your church is doing. Can I help, even though I'm not a Mennonite?”

“Of course you can. I'm not sure they've actually started gathering things yet. I can put you in touch with Celine Humphrey. She's one of the elders, and she's in charge of the program.”

“Good. That would be wonderful. And you know something else I want to do while I'm here?”

“What's that?”

“Tutor. On a voluntary basis. Can you tell me who to contact to find some potential students?”

He hesitated, and she was surprised by his lack of enthusiasm.

“I can take the kids nobody else wants,” she added. She'd taught classes filled with those kids for the past ten years. “So, who should I call?”

Michael told her the name of one of the counselors at the high school. “She's there this summer,” he said. “You should be able to reach her between nine and two without any problem.”

“Great.” She stood up, and Michael fell into step next to her as she started walking toward the street.

The path dipped into the woods once again, and Rachel ventured to ask him the question that had been gnawing at her for the last couple of hours.

“Who's the woman who works in the bakery?”

“Arlena Cash?”

“Gray-haired? Has arthritis in her hands?”

“Uh-huh.”

Rachel pursed her lips. “When I bought the brownies, she asked me if I was Rachel Huber, and when I said yes, she disappeared into the back of the store. Left me standing there. Finally a girl came out and sold me the brownies. She said I should probably not come into the store again.”

Michael nodded, his eyes on the path. “Definitely Arlena. Her son was in your class.”

Why hadn't she guessed? “Was he one of the ones who…” She couldn't finish the sentence.

“Yes,” Michael said. “And Otto Derwich owns the bakery. His son Jimmy was in your class, too. Jimmy's all right, though. Some injury to his foot, but he's a record producer in England and doing okay.” He rested his hand on her back. “Maybe you'd better forget about the brownies while you're in town.”

She turned to face him in the middle of the path. “It never occurred to me… I was only thinking about myself, coming back here. I thought that maybe being here could heal me. I'm still haunted by what happened sometimes. But I'd forgotten there'd still be people here who were hurt by it all. It was so long ago.” Her voice had risen, and she was glad they were in the cover of the woods.

Michael put his hand on her arm. “It's true it happened a long time ago, but this town has never been able to forget.”

“What if I talked to them? To Arlena. And to Mr… Derwich, is it?” She couldn't place the name from that long-ago classroom. “What if I told them how sorry I am? I never had the chance to do that when it happened, Michael. I left so quickly. They probably think I feel no remorse. And…” She looked up at the canopy of trees above them. “Oh, God, I was rambling on in the bakery about the pond or the brownies or something completely inane. I wish I'd known she was one of the mothers. I need to be able to talk to her and tell her—”

“Listen to me, Rachel.” Michael held her by the shoulders. “There's something you need to understand. Arlena Cash is not the only one. She's the tip of the iceberg.” He spoke carefully, his eyes cutting into hers as if she might be too slow or too thick to get his point. “Yes, it was a long time ago, but just as you're still haunted by it, so are they. The mothers are everywhere. The fathers, too. My friend Drew is one of them. And there are sisters and brothers, and cousins, and people who knew people. This is a tiny town. Everyone was touched in some way, and you were the logical scapegoat. You can try talking to them, one on one, but the truth is, I don't think they'll give you the chance.”

She swallowed her shock. He sounded so stern that she couldn't help but wonder if he blamed her, too. “What can I do?” she asked.

He shook his head. “I don't know. I don't think there's anything you can do at this point. Just realize that some people here might not welcome you with open arms.”

She lowered her head, squeezing her eyes closed as he pulled her close to him.

“I'm sorry,” he said softly.

She drew away from him with a long sigh. “Well, thanks for the warning, I guess.”

They started walking again, and the woods quickly fell behind them as the path neared the street.

“Where's your car?” he asked when they reached the sidewalk in front of the Mennonite church.

She pointed toward Water Street.

“I'll say good-bye here, then. Tell Helen I'll be over Saturday. He leaned over to kiss her cheek. “I'm very glad you're here, Rachel.”

You and Gram may be the only people who are
, she thought to herself as she hugged him quickly. Then she turned and started walking toward her car.

LILY WAS LATE GETTING
to the salon on Wednesday morning. One of the dogs—she didn't have a clue which one—had gotten sick on the living room carpet, and she'd taken the time to clean it up before leaving. By the time she'd reached the salon with her bagel from the deli, Polly and Marge and CeeCee were already there, and the coffee was hot.

She poured herself a cup. “Anyone check the messages yet?” she asked.

“I'll get them.” Polly pulled a pad and pen close to the answering machine and pressed the play button.

“My name is Rachel Huber.” The voice rose from the machine, and all four women froze to listen. “I'd like to make an appointment for a perm. Is there any chance of getting in either today or tomorrow?”

Rachel Huber left her number, and Polly clicked off the machine. “Okay,” she said. “Who takes her?”

“Marge should probably do it, since she does Helen,” CeeCee suggested.

“I'd really rather not,” Marge said. “I know too many people who'd call me a traitor.”

“Well, I don't trust myself to do a decent job on her,” CeeCee said.

Lily leaned against the counter, sipping her coffee, watching her coworkers. She knew they didn't consider her to be in the running.

“I think we should draw straws,” Polly said.

“Don't bother.” Lily reached for the appointment book. “I'll take her.”

The women stared at her in stunned silence.

“You don't have to do that, Lily,” Marge said. “None of us actually has to take her. We can call her back and say we're booked.”

“Don't do it,” Polly was looking at Lily as if she were a wounded animal. “Why put yourself through that?”

Lily lifted the receiver from the phone and began to dial. “We are not booked up,” she said to the other women. “And she's a paying customer who's entitled to an appointment. I'm going to give her one.”

The voice that answered matched the voice on the answering machine.

“Is this Rachel Huber?” Lily asked.

“Yes, it is.”

“Rachel, this is Lily Jackson from Hairlights Salon. I have an opening at two today. Can you make it?”

“That'd be perfect.”

“All right. See you then.” She hung up the phone and shrugged at the pained disbelief on the faces of her coworkers. “Done,” she said. “Now let's get to work.”

She was blow-drying Diana Robinson's hair when Rachel Huber arrived. CeeCee and Marge exchanged looks across the heads of their customers, and Polly cracked her knuckles, like she always did when she was anxious about something.

If Lily had not been expecting her, she never would have recognized her second-grade teacher. Lily could barely remember what “Miss Huber” had looked like—she'd only had her as a teacher for six days—much less imagine how twenty years had altered her. Still, she had no doubt at all that the woman standing at the reception counter wearing denim shorts and sporting a fading perm was Rachel Huber.

She watched Polly check her in, hand her a Styrofoam cup of coffee, and usher her to a seat in the small waiting area. Rachel sat down and pulled a magazine from the coffee table onto her knees, and Lily felt the slow tease of nausea. Maybe this wasn't such a great idea after all.

She finished Diana's hair, then steeling herself for what lay ahead, stepped over to the waiting area.

“Rachel Huber?” she asked.

The woman looked up, and Lily was struck by the ready smile, the open, trusting face. She was a little overweight and her features were imperfect, but she was still quite attractive. It was impossible not to feel the warmth in that smile.