The Amish Seamstress (27 page)

I picked up the folder and returned to the couch, wondering if he had pulled the file from his backpack after he ended his phone call last night, wanting to give it to me. I pictured him searching the house and then leaving it on the desk.

I opened the file. Inside was a photocopied article—it looked as if it came from a scholarly magazine—with another sticky note on it that read:
Thought you'd like to see this. Not sure which version of the story is the true one, but it's something to consider as we're plotting out the film
.

I couldn't help but feel pleased he wanted to include me in the process and even felt a little guilty for running off with Tom. The title of the article was “Evaluating Subjective Histories.” The subheading read, “Oral accounts are a valuable resource for historians but need to be presented in context and not as fact.”

I wasn't sure why Zed wanted me to read the article. We weren't working with any oral accounts except for the little Verna had been told. I kept reading.

The author began with the statement that oral histories could not be discounted, especially in cultures with strong storytelling traditions.
For example, in the case of the Conestoga Indian massacre…

I gasped. Oh, my goodness. What had Zed found?

I read as fast as I could. The author cited an oral history that had been passed down through generations of a Native American family that had an ancestor who claimed to have escaped the massacre as a boy.

That differs from the written record
, the author stated,
which claimed all the Conestoga had been murdered. The account also differs on one other important detail
.

I practically held my breath as I read.

Instead of being massacred at the Workhouse in Lancaster as the written record states, according to the oral tradition the Indians were worshipping in a church when the Paxton Boys attacked them on December 27, murdering them as they recited the Lord's Prayer
.

I gasped again, this time in pain.
There's no way to know which account is accurate
, the author of the article summarized.
But this account
does corroborate the written record that the Conestoga Indians had been Christianized
.

The author continued to evaluate the value of oral histories but I stopped reading. Feeling sick to my stomach, I closed the file.

I couldn't help but be a little embarrassed by my panic the night before about my own problems. A deep sense of shame overtook me at the thought of Abigail or Gorg or Bernard supporting the persecution of the Conestoga, anywhere—let alone a church. A renewed desire to finish tracking down the truth, knowing Verna would have wanted me to, overtook me. As soon as I returned home, I would go over to Rod Westler's and ask for the remaining boxes. I would go through them piece by piece, even if it hurt to be doing so without Verna.

For now, instead of reading more, I sat on the couch and rested, praying too, until I was interrupted by a knock on the back door. I hurried down the hall to the kitchen, not wanting Rosalee to wake before she was ready.

Tom stood on the back stoop, a smile on his face as I swung open the door. “Want to go for another walk?”

“No, thank you,” I answered and then covered my mouth as I yawned.

“Tired?” he asked.

I nodded. “And resting.”

I hoped he would get the hint that I wasn't interested in him, but he seemed undeterred as he said, “Next time, then,” and flashed me a broad wink before turning to walk away.

The cold hung on for several more days. On Wednesday Luke hired a driver and went with Rosalee to the doctor, who removed the cast and put her in a walking boot. I should have done the wash while they were gone, but the north wind blew extra strong that afternoon and I opted to stay by the woodstove and do handwork instead. By Thursday I couldn't put off doing the laundry. After running it through the gas-powered wringer washer in the basement, I hung the clothes piece by piece, standing on the snow-packed lawn.

As I worked outside, Rosalee was busy with the physical therapist inside, a visit that was probably going quite well. She'd had an excellent week, progressing from the wheelchair to a walker with almost no trouble
at all. Within a few more days, she would be on her own and my services would no longer be required. I wasn't sure how I felt about that. While I had missed my parents somewhat, I wasn't exactly eager to go, as leaving Indiana meant leaving Zed behind.

When I was only half finished with hanging the wash, Tom stopped by again. I turned toward him, shading my eyes from the morning sun.

“I have something for you,” he said, trying to sound mysterious.

“Oh?” I wondered what it could be, hoping it wasn't anything special or romantic. Was he never going to take the hint and realize I wasn't interested in him that way?

Tom held out two fists side by side. “Choose one,” he said.

Wishing I could just ignore him, I tapped his right hand. He opened both up, revealing a small snowman pincushion. “So you'll remember our walk in the snow,” he said. “And so you'll forgive me for the snowball down your back. I was only kidding around.”

“
Danke
,” I answered, taking it from him. I had to admit it was a sweet gesture.

“Seems like I keep having to apologize to you for my behavior,” he said with a shrug. I didn't know how to respond to that, so I simply studied the pin cushion more closely for a moment. Then I slipped it under my cape, finding the pocket of my apron. He leaned against the metal post that supported the clothesline and launched into conversation, not even offering to help. I was polite and nothing more—yet he just kept talking. Soon, he was telling me all sorts of personal things.

“We're refinancing one of the loans on our dairy.
Daed
and I went into town first thing this morning. We have a better rate now.”

I didn't answer, though my mind was racing as he continued.

“We'll be able to pay it off sooner, not to mention the lower payments will mean we can afford to go ahead and build another house on the property.”

As he kept going on about his plans for the future, it finally struck me what was happening. This was no casual conversation.

Tom Kline was declaring his intention to court me.

“Anyway,” he said before I could stop him, “I was hoping I could talk
you into staying longer. I think you and I really have something special, Izzy, and, well, you know…”

I froze, my mind reeling. I had to tell him I wasn't interested, but as I tried to figure out how, anger began to rise in my throat. This was absurd. Was he really that arrogant, that self-assured? Was he so used to women falling at his feet that he expected me jump at this chance? I had given him zero encouragement since the day we met.

I felt like telling him exactly what I thought of him and his presumptuous ways, but I held my tongue, knowing it wouldn't do to create problems with Luke's brother. Instead, I was trying to form a kinder reply when he suddenly winked at me and said, “I'll take that as a yes.”

Then, without another word, he turned and headed toward the woods, whistling as he went. For a moment, I thought about calling after him, but what would I say?

You're out of your mind?

You hold about as much attraction for me as a slop bucket?

You are blind and clueless and so full of yourself that you don't even realize how ridiculous this is?

Of course I didn't say any of that, sure it would come out all wrong. Better to calm down first and take the time to come up with the right words later.

F
IFTEEN

D
essert that night was a blueberry pie that Ella had brought up with her at the end of the day. As I dished out ice cream to go with it, she told me she had a message for me.

“Zed called the bakery earlier and asked me to pass on an invitation for you to visit Goshen tomorrow to see a documentary that's being shown on campus.”

I stiffened, dripping ice cream from the scoop onto the table.

“Ordinarily I wouldn't encourage such a thing,” she added as I reached for a towel to wipe it up. “But he said the film is about the history of the Amish. As far as movies go, I suppose, this one doesn't sound too bad, at least for a girl still on her
rumspringa
.”

I was astounded—and apprehensive—but also deeply pleased. Even if we were just to be friends, I longed to spend as much time with Zed as I possibly could. I was leaving early next week, and considering that today was already Thursday, we were nearly out of time. The thought of getting tomorrow with him filled me with joy.

“What did you tell him?” I asked, passing out the plates of pie à la mode to the others at the table like playing cards.

“That you would go unless he heard otherwise.”

“Thanks, Ella,” I said, wondering what the school would be like and hoping that once we got there I wouldn't stick out like a sore thumb and make him sorry he'd brought me.

That night a warm wind blew through, and the snow began to melt. I awoke the next morning to a constant drip falling from the eaves, and by the time Zed picked me up at one, slush covered the lawn and field.

We immediately headed back to his school.

“Too bad we can't make a whole evening of things,” he said as we zipped past a large dairy farm. “I have to work.”

“Oh? Where?” This was the first I'd heard of him having a job.

“In the library. It's only a few hours a week, but as luck would have it, this week I pulled Friday night and Saturday morning.”

“Tonight and tomorrow,” I echoed.

“Figures, huh? Otherwise, you could have stuck around after the film and maybe even met my roommate. As it is, I'll have to bring you home as soon as it's over. Sorry.”

“That's okay. I understand.”

We rode along in silence after that, passing more farms, then a cemetery, and then a lake that Zed explained was actually a pond. Its surface was covered with large slabs of ice, though I felt sure they were starting to melt on this unseasonably warm day. As we neared Goshen, we bumped over the railroad tracks, creating an odd squeal somewhere under the hood. I looked at Zed in alarm, but he just shrugged and told me that sound had been coming and going for days.

Eventually we reached our destination, and he slowed and pulled into a parking space along the street.

“Is this it?” I asked, craning my neck to see the campus to our right.

He nodded proudly, and then, after he turned off the car, he surprised me by reaching out and taking my hand. “I've wanted to show you this place since the first day I came here.”

Our eyes met, and my pulse surged. He looked so excited and happy. Zed gave my hand a squeeze and then climbed from the car. I climbed out as well, the heat from his hand still warming my skin.

“We'll walk onto campus,” he said, sounding like a tour guide. After locking up the car, we started down a sidewalk and then passed under an archway with a wrought iron sign that read “Goshen College.”

Right away I could see that the place was beautiful. Trees lined the sidewalks, and between large brick buildings acres of open space spread across the campus. We walked along, side by side, with Zed pointing out various structures as we went. The dining hall. The administration building. I took it all in, after a while deciding that the century-old trees and the light posts with glass globes reminded me of the Narnia stories.

I'd been so curious to see Zed's school that it was a thrill to be here in person at last. I had also been curious to see the students as well. Were they Plain? Fancy? A mix of both? One woman with brightly dyed red hair passed us, and then a young man zipped by on a bike. Off to our right, a group of girls in matching purple-and-white long-sleeved T-shirts approached. This was the warmest it had been all week, but I was still surprised when I saw they wore no coats—and were all in shorts. It wasn't until I spotted their mesh bags filled with balls and other pieces of equipment that I realized they must be members of some kind of sports team.