Secret, The (15 page)
“No . . . please.” She shook her head. “Someone’s meeting me . . . where I’m goin’. Not to worry.”
Relatives?
he wondered. But it wasn’t his place to ask.
“As I said, please keep this hush-hush, Martin.”
“Well, your husband is a friend of mine. If he asks me whether I drove you here, I won’t lie.”
Worry swept her face and she held out his pay for the trip in rolled-up bills. He stepped forward to take it, then withdrew quickly. “Have a safe trip . . . wherever you’re going.”
“Ever so kind of you.”
He offered to carry her suitcase inside, but Lettie declined. “No need, but thank you.” Then she said a quick good-bye.
Her dejected tone made him shudder as she clutched her suitcase and resolutely walked into the station.
A
s panicked as she was at the sight of her mother’s leaving, Grace was also terribly upset at not finding Mamma’s letter in her room when she returned. Mentally retracing her steps, she remembered staring out the hallway window, seeing her mother’s dark silhouette. . . . Then hadn’t she tossed it into her bedroom?
But rechecking her room—and the hallway—the letter was nowhere in sight.
She made her way downstairs and looked in the front sitting room, searching even on the china hutch, where Mamma displayed her prettiest teacups and saucers and plates. Breathlessly she hurried into the kitchen to look on the table and counter—every imaginable spot she might have inadvertently left it during her rush out the door.
Could it have been taken? But who would do that?
And anyway, everyone was sleeping.
She crawled into bed, still wearing her robe, shaking with a bad case of nerves. She’d witnessed her mother leaving, carrying a suitcase . . . getting into a car even as Grace pleaded for her to stay. Was it possible to ever wipe away that image?
Doubting she would fall back to sleep, she prayed. Only the dear Lord knew what she should tell Mandy and the boys at the breakfast table, when they discovered Mamma gone. And Dat? What could she possibly say to him?
She rolled over and covered her head with the quilt.
What
would cause Mamma to do such a thing?
It was incomprehensible, and now she couldn’t even reread the letter . . . unless it had fallen under the bed.
Tossing off the covers, she got out of bed and peered beneath. Not finding the letter there, either, she opened the narrow drawer on the small round table next to her bed, her heart racing. She slipped her hand inside but found nothing.
Reaching under the bedside table, she discovered only a coating of dust—she must remember to push the dry mop under there later. Weeping silently, Grace returned to bed and curled up in a tight ball as she recalled the dear way Mamma had signed off:
My heart is ever so tender, if not breaking. . . . I
love you.
Oh, Mamma,
she cried silently
, but it’s
my
heart that is break
ing now.
Judah’s hand trembled as he held the letter. He hadn’t been able to put it down.
“Lettie,” he whispered, head throbbing. “Why?”
He stared at the bare wooden pegs on their bedroom wall where her dresses and black aprons had been and remembered their awkward discussion last night. Something compelled him to open her dresser drawers, though he felt oddly intrusive about that. Each one was empty.
Earlier, he’d searched the house and outdoor perimeter for her, shining his lantern over the pastureland, spreading its light over the area. He’d walked the road, too, heading north, thinking surely she would not go on foot out toward the highway. Route 340 was much too dangerous.
He’d wanted urgently to call out her name, but that was impractical. Besides, he didn’t want to raise the neighbors. They’d all know soon enough, come daylight.
Bad news travels faster than good
.
For now, though, his knowledge of her intentions belonged to him alone. Or to him and Grace, if she’d even read her mother’s letter yet. Most likely she had been out with her beau. If so, Grace knew nothing of Lettie’s leaving . . . or the letter.
Assuming he was correct in his thinking, the best thing to do was to keep the letter hidden for now. That way Grace would be spared having to read it, although Lettie’s words to her daughter were as tender as any he’d heard uttered from her lips.
“She’s miffed at me,” he said. Maybe she’d simply gone walking in the wee hours and would return when she was ready to forgive him. Certainly, he had offended her.
After daylight
, he thought
, I’ll go and find her . . . bring her
home
. In his bewilderment, he read the letter again, searching for a clue—anything at all.
But as he reread the puzzling words, it seemed even Lettie was unsure about her destination. Her desperate plea last night rang in his ears.
“Won’t ya hear me out, Judah?”
No, this letter was no mere attempt to get his attention.
Martin Puckett hadn’t driven but two miles when he noticed something Lettie Byler had dropped on the floor. At the nearest stop sign, he leaned down to get it and saw several phone numbers—all outside the 717 area code. Just what part of the country they were from he did not know. But they were undoubtedly important to Lettie, so he turned around and headed back to the Lancaster train station.
Under different circumstances, he would have enjoyed seeing the historic station again. Now, still pensive about Let-tie’s troubling request, he almost timidly entered the nearly palatial-looking terminal. The place seemed to be in the process of restoration. He recalled having read something about the restoration online, as well as in the
Lancaster New Era
.
The ceiling soared to a glass-paned insert high overhead, and the words
To Trains
were engraved on the wall over a portico. Even at this hour, the waiting area was scattered with would-be travelers, and he spotted Lettie over in the far corner, sitting alone on a tall-backed wooden bench. She was crocheting a scarf. He considered her forlorn state momentarily, noticing the streaks of gray in her blond hair for the first time. Then, pulling the piece of paper from his pocket, he slowly approached her. “Excuse me, Lettie.” He reached down to give her the paper.
She started, obviously surprised to see him.
“I found this in my car. Is it yours?”
A light came into her sad eyes. “Ach, I would be a cooked goose without it.” She smiled broadly. “Ever so
gut
of you to bring it.”
Still anxious about her safety, he felt compelled to sit with her. “I thought it might come in handy,” he said.
She nodded, obviously pleased. “Oh my, you have no idea. . . .”
“Well, I’m glad it’s helpful.” She hadn’t invited him to sit, but there he was all the same. “Lettie . . . I . . .” He paused, cautious as to what he should say. “I’m concerned for you.”
She looked down at her hands, the crochet hook poised to make the next loop. “You mustn’t be. Really.”
He noticed her sack lunch and the book she’d brought. “I don’t wish to meddle.” He assumed Judah and Lettie Byler were as amicable at home as they appeared to be in public. Yet if so, why was she here in secret?
She smiled weakly, then began crocheting again. Instinctively, he sensed their conversation was over.
Not thinking, he touched her arm. “If you ever need help—from either my wife or me—please don’t think twice about calling.”
Slowly, as if painfully, she nodded, lifting her eyes to his. He saw tears wetting her cheeks and took his handkerchief from his pocket and handed it to her. “You’re very kind,” she said, accepting it and dabbing at her face. “Very kind.”
“I mean it . . . no matter where you’re going,” he emphasized. Then, when she’d returned his handkerchief, he remained there awhile, temporarily unable to say yet another good-bye.
At last he rose and walked across the marble floor. It was then he recognized Sadie Zook’s cousin among those waiting for trains. Pete Bernhardt traveled weekly to the Big Apple on business and was sitting across the way, his briefcase propped near his feet.
Because he’d known Pete for many years, Martin was about to head over and say hello, but Pete glanced up furtively and quickly looked away. Confused by that, Martin hesitated.
Why
so distant?
Then it struck him—had Pete witnessed his exchange with Lettie Byler?
Offering a wave, Martin felt quite embarrassed by what Pete might presume to have seen. He made his way out the door and down to the parking lot, mortified for having taken even the most benign liberty with Judah’s attractive wife—sitting beside her, offering his handkerchief.
Martin opened his car door and got in. Janet would be up making breakfast before she put the finishing touches on their packing. They were eager to get an early start to their own outof-town trip today. He needed to do his part in fueling up and having the car washed, the reason he’d chosen to drive the car instead of his usual van.
As he turned the key in the ignition, he found himself breathing a prayer for Lettie, a vulnerable Amishwoman traveling quite alone.
G
race awakened with a jolt, having fallen back to sleep. Still wearing her robe beneath the covers, she was vaguely aware of the sound of steady rain on the roof. She stretched but instead of relief came a profound feeling of melancholy and fatigue. Bits and pieces of the predawn hours slowly emerged in her memory.
Finding a letter from Mamma . . . racing down the road . . .
watching helplessly as Mamma stepped into a strange car.
Grace sat up in bed, her heart pounding. Had she simply dreamed this nightmare?
Moments passed as she attempted to sort through the panic. But no, it was true. She hadn’t imagined it at all.
Grace peered with one eye at her exquisite chime clock. Seven o’clock.
Ach, I overslept.
Leaping out of bed, she nearly tripped on her robe and could not find her slippers.
I’m misplacing too many things.
She thought again of Mamma’s letter as she moved to the window and looked out on a dim and foggy morning. It was impossible to see even to the edge of the yard, let alone out to the road. She pressed her fingers against the pane, feeling the chill through it and remembering Henry’s visit.
How overjoyed she had been. Now she felt so grief stricken in comparison as the recent events of her life mingled—Henry’s proposal and her mother’s departure—like the intricate weaving of a variegated rag rug.
Grace felt terribly out of sorts. Something had gone completely off beam for Mamma to pack a suitcase and leave.
After forcing herself to go through the motions of getting dressed, she hurried downstairs to start breakfast, late as it was, and realized Mandy was still asleep. A glance around the corner into the front hall revealed her father’s and brothers’ work boots were missing. The men had already gone to look after the baby lambs. New ones were arriving every few days now, just as Dat had planned it. The round-the-clock checking on the expectant ewes kept him and the boys up off and on during the night.
Didn’t they wonder about breakfast—why Mamma wasn’t up
and cooking?
She found it curious no one had even called to awaken her for the task. What did they make of Mamma’s absence? Did they assume she, too, had overslept?
Hearing sounds coming from the kitchen on the other side of the house, she guessed Mammi Adah was making eggs for Dawdi Jakob. The air caught in her throat as she thought how saddened they also would be by Mamma’s disappearance.
Once it’s known.
Turning on the faucet, Grace filled the kettle, thinking that on such a dismal and rainy day the men would want coffee. The mid-spring day more resembled autumn in temperature and dampness.
Glad that Mandy had gathered the eggs yesterday, she brought out the bowl filled with fresh ones and set it down on the counter. She turned on a burner and set the frying pan on the stove, plopping a chunk of butter in the center. Dat’s stomach would be growling and so would Adam’s and Joe’s. They liked scrambled eggs made with bits of bacon and cheese, but today she wouldn’t take the time for any of that.
Fried eggs
are quicker.
Still in disbelief, Grace gritted her teeth and wished she might know what to say when they came in. Suddenly she realized she’d stepped immediately into Mamma’s role without even considering it.
She set the flame to a gentle heat, then cracked the eggs against the edge of the pan before dropping them in. Placing a lid on top, she turned to stare out the window. Still not hearing Mandy, she walked to the bottom of the stairs. “Daylight’s a-wastin’!” she called, waiting to hear the thud of her sister’s feet on the floor before she resumed cooking.
In a few minutes, Mandy came dragging down, barefoot and in her bathrobe. “Why’d ya let me sleep in?” she asked, sounding nearly accusing.
“I overslept, too.”
Mandy slumped onto the bench next to the table, leaning her head into her hand. “I’m so tired . . . can’t seem to wake up.”