Sisters of the Quilt Trilogy (56 page)

“Not an Englischer one.”

“I see. Well, Zabeth had already made those transitions long before I was born, so I guess I hadn’t really thought about how you might feel.” He backed against the island. “You need to—”

She held up her hand, interrupting him. “I know. I need to put that on my list.”

He opened the fridge and grabbed another water bottle. He took the lid off and passed it to Hannah. “I hated church as a teen. Zabeth had Dad’s full backing, and I went, even though he didn’t go. Then after college, I started going again, but only for Zabeth. It sorta grows on you, but it took awhile to fit in. Maybe because I had to work out some stuff with God before I could really tolerate it.” He slid onto the counter, looking relaxed and comfortable with his confession.

His words didn’t sit well, although it seemed like they should. “That’s … that’s not … I don’t have a problem with God …”

“So what’s the problem?”

She shrugged.

“I saw something in those eyes, Hannah. Just say it.”

“The only thing I was thinking is that I don’t know why, but I just don’t want to be in church. Okay?”

Martin smiled. “It’s okay with me. I get the idea it’s not so okay with you.”

She sighed. “There’s a phrase that comes to mind whenever you’re around.”

“Yeah? Are the words
charming
and
intelligent
involved?”

“Nope.” The desire to tell Martin to “shut up” had risen within her since they’d met, but she couldn’t imagine actually saying it.

He laughed. “Why am I not surprised?”

The sounds of drums and guitars vibrated through the air. “Palmer, front and center.” The male voice echoed through the amps.

“Come on. Zabeth said you have a great singing voice.” He grabbed her wrist and pulled her toward the back door.

This was an item he’d put on her list that she wasn’t at war with herself over—well, not completely anyway. She’d been looking forward to learning new songs and how to sing with instruments. She’d always loved singing a cappella at the church meetings, but most of the songs were about religious martyrs. Surely that wasn’t the only kind of music God enjoyed.

W
ith everyone settled into bed for the night, Sarah slipped out of the house. Earlier in the day she had seen Daed in the tack room putting a folded piece of paper into a tin box before he shoved the container behind some loose slats on the wall.

She hoped that’s where Daed was hiding the letters Matthew had passed to him, the ones Hannah had written and left for them before she boarded that train six months ago.

Six months!

It was ridiculous that Daed hadn’t shared the letters with them in all this time. It wasn’t his place to be the keeper of what wasn’t his. Of course, her sister might not have written to her.

Sarah had been caught on many occasions trying to find these letters, but no one had figured out what she was looking for. Maybe because she wasn’t always looking for the same thing. When caught, she’d make up some missing item and say she was hunting for that. They’d look at her funny, but then they’d walk off and leave her alone.

But now she knew right where to go. Walking into the musky-smelling barn, she headed straight for the tack room. Through the darkness she ran her hands along the shelf, gently searching for the kerosene lamp. When her fingers touched the smooth glass, she grasped the lamp and set it on the workbench. After finding the matches on the same shelf, she lit the lantern and slid the matches into the bib of her apron. She held up the light in front of the area where she’d seen her Daed move the boards.

Placing the lamp on the bench next to her, she giggled. Hannah just might have told where she was going and what she did with her baby … Why, the little thing would be sitting up by now.

Instantly she could imagine a sweet little babe growing and happy. That thought seemed to be all that kept her sane these days. The board had a nail at the top, but with some pressure it swiveled onto the boards next to it and out of Sarah’s way. The tin box reflected the firelight, and she pulled it from its hiding spot. Her hands trembled as she removed the lid and grasped the papers in her hands. She laid the stack on the workbench and opened the top one.

Day four:
I keep looking for her return. Wake at every sound …

Sarah flipped past that page and several others before reading the last line on the final page.

Six months:
Each night I lie awake, wondering …

Sarah groaned. That wasn’t written by Hannah. She tossed the letters to the ground and grabbed one from the bottom of the stack.

Dear Sister,
What has hap—

“Sarah?”

She jumped at the sound of her father’s voice. When she turned, he was in the doorway of the tack room.

“I thought we had a thief or something. What are you …” His eyes landed on the papers and then on the gap in the wall as he walked toward her. Concern drained from his face, and anger replaced it. He bent and snatched the papers off the ground and pulled the letter from her hand and the others off the bench. He shook them at her. “Is this what you’ve been searching for, worrying your poor mother over? Wanting this?” He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and removed the globe from the lamp.

“Daed, no, please!”

Ignoring her, he held the bundled letters over the flame until they caught fire. He turned them sideways, letting the orange and yellow flames leap. Before the fire reached his fingers, he tossed what was left into a bucket. She watched as the last scripted words blazed and then turned to thin, black ash.

“Go to bed, Sarah.” He pointed to the door.

Staring into the bucket, she wondered what had been written before fire destroyed the words.

“Go!”

A thin trail of smoke danced in a circular motion, rising into the air before it disappeared.

Never before had she dared to really look … She lifted her gaze to meet his. It was odd seeing him eye to eye. “Did you see how fire removed what had been written?” She stared into the bucket. “Did it erase the truth with it?”

“There was no truth there, Sarah.”

She stooped next to the bucket and smelled the aroma of fresh fire. “Or if there was, it’s better to burn it than face it. Ya?”

“Go to bed, Sarah.”

Sarah pulled her attention from the ashes, rose, and headed for the house.

Matthew whistled softly as the horse trod toward the Zook place. The heat of the August day was over, but it’d be daylight for hours yet. Elle had been gone four of the six months she’d promised to her dad, and she was back for a visit, probably arrived at the Zooks’ less than an hour ago. She was leaving again first thing tomorrow morning, but he’d been looking forward to this visit since she wrote him a few weeks ago, sharing her plans. He missed her something fierce—from the moment he woke each day until sleep took over. The need to see and talk to her never seemed to lessen.

The upside was the number of hours he could pour into expanding his business. He was working sixteen-hour days, six days a week.

All those hours were paying off too. Really paying off.

But he’d gladly give that up for more time with Elle.

Bits
. His mind jumped subjects on him. He had to remember to go by the storage shop and get a package of bits before tomorrow.

Well, he and Elle could swing by there tonight while they were out riding and talking.

Luke was a really good partner, and surprisingly enough, his own brother David was a lot of help. Between him and Luke, they were gaining customers from other states.

He slapped the reins against the horse’s back. He could have hired a driver to take him as far as the Zooks’, but he was hoping to bring Elle to see his updated and expanded shop. And he wanted to do so in as slow and private a manner as possible. A hired driver provided neither slowness nor privacy.

He hummed for a while and then prayed for a while as the horse clopped along. As he pulled in front of Kiah and Abigail’s home, he could smell the feast.

“Hello,” he called as he hopped down from the carriage.

The doors and windows were open as they always were when it wasn’t winter, but no one responded to his call.

He strode to the screen door and knocked.

“Come on in,” Abigail said. A moment later she came around a corner, smiling. “Matthew Esh. Come in, come in.”

She sounded surprised that he was here.

He entered the house, looking for Elle. “It sure smells like ya been busy today.”

“Busy canning.”

Just canning?

“So”—Abigail wiped her hands on the corner of her apron—“what brings you out this way?”

He scratched his head. “Where’s Elle?”

“Elle?” Abigail’s face was serious. Her eyes narrowed before she winked at him. “Why, I have no idea.” She pointed to a door, a closet door from the looks of it.

Matthew walked to it. “Oh, well, I guess I got the days mixed up, and she won’t be comin’ tonight.” He opened the door, expecting to see his fiancée, but what he saw left him speechless.

A huge camera lens stared him in the face as a bright light flashed. He covered his eyes. “What are you doing?”

Elle stepped out of the closet. “An Amish man caught by surprise,” she laughed. “Now that should sell.” She took the strap of the camera from around her neck, held the bulky contraption away from her in one hand, and gave Matthew a one-armed hug. “Hey.”

He laughed. “Leave it to you.” He returned the hug, thankful she was in his arms.

She pulled away and took another photo.

“Elle,” Matthew protested, “you do remember you’re in an Amish home, right?”

Elle made a face at him as if he was making a fuss over nothing.

Her hair was pinned back in a ponytail with reddish blond wisps dangling about her face and neck. Her straight blue-jean skirt and sleeveless knit top gave her a very modern look—a modest one by Englischer standards—but Matthew wasn’t comfortable with it.

He looked to Abigail, who pulled a kitchen towel from the bib of her apron and snapped it in the air. “This is my defense.”

“You pop her with it?” Matthew looked around the kitchen. “Where’s mine?”

“Matthew!” Elle scolded.

“No, it’s not for smacking anyone.” Abigail frowned at him before shaking the towel. “You’ve seen the captions that say ‘Amish woman avoids camera.’ Well …” She draped the towel over her head and face.

They shared a laugh, but Matthew wagged his finger at Elle, not sure how amused he really was. She lifted one shoulder, angling it toward him while raising her eyebrows. But rather than looking like a shrug, her move looked like a dare. Abigail removed her towel just as Kiah came in covered in a sheet with two holes cut out for his eyes. Everyone broke into laughter. Kiah looked like an Englischer kid, a really tall one, dressed as a ghost on Halloween.

Matthew held out his hand. “Elle.” He said it firmly.

She harrumphed but placed the camera in his hands. “I told my teacher I’d do a complete photo shoot inside an Amish home. Don’t know how a girl is supposed to do that if she can’t include some photos of real people.”

Her voice and mannerisms said she was joking—sort of.

Kiah pulled the sheet off his head and wrapped the camera in it. “I am real, and so is Abigail.”

“Uh, yeah, real covered,” Elle retorted.

She took a stack of plates out of the cabinet and began setting the table. It wasn’t long before they all sat down to eat, talking about the lack of rain and the price of horse feed.

“Matthew’s business is doing so well you might’ve heard of it all the way in Baltimore. He’s got customers from at least seven states—Amish, Mennonite, and Englischers.” Kiah stabbed another fried pork chop and plunked it onto his plate. “All wanting buggies, horses, and leather goods from E and L Buggy, Harness, and Horses.”

All hint of a smile left Elle’s features. “Is it really doing that well, Matthew? You’ve said nearly nothing in your letters.”

Matthew wiped his mouth with a napkin. “It’s doing good. Just about better than we can keep up with. Rather than writing about it, I thought I’d show you the additions to the old shop after dinner.”

She gave a sullen nod. “Seems like you would’ve told me …”

He pointed to the counter where the camera sat hidden inside the sheet, letting her know she hadn’t shared everything going on in her life either.

She smiled. “I was waiting till I saw you in person.”

“Yep. Me too.” He returned her smile. “So how about a buggy ride after dinner?”

“All the way to your place? No way. I’ll drive.”

“Drive?” He glanced out the window. “I didn’t see a car.”

“That’s because I hid it behind the barn.” She giggled. “Worked too, ya?”

He nodded. “So you have your license now?”

“Oh, good grief, yes. Do you know how difficult it’d be to get to DC’s School of Photography regularly without being able to drive myself?”

Each person froze, staring at Elle.

She blinked. “What?” Somewhere between staring at them and thinking about what she’d said, it dawned on her. “Oh.” She lowered her head. “I was going to talk to you about that, Matthew, when we had time alone.” She shrugged. “Had planned for us to go for a drive.”

The meal wrapped up in silence, and Abigail shooed them out the door, saying she’d clean up without their help.

Elle grabbed her camera, its case, and a large black bag of some sort. She pulled a set of keys out. “Why don’t you put the horse to pasture, and I’ll drive.”

That wasn’t the way he’d pictured tonight at all, but he led the mare into the barn, unhitched her from the buggy, and put her in the field. Elle slid behind the wheel, and he got in on the passenger’s side, feeling a complete lack of dignity.

Over the next hour, as they drove everywhere and nowhere at the same time, she told him all about living with Sid, helping to run his bakery, and taking photography classes. “See, the school teaches classes two ways, through sessions—which is what I’ve been taking. Or through an actual professional program—which is what I’d like to take.” She paused.

Matthew nodded, feeling rather foggy about what she’d rattled off.

She adjusted the rearview mirror. “Well? What do you think?”