The Preacher's Daughter (27 page)

Across the room, Louisa stretched in bed, and Muffin moved from his spot near the double lump that was Louisa's feet and yawned widely before moseying up closer to the pillow. ‘‘This bed is so comfy,'' she said sleepily.

‘‘My first nephew was birthed right there,'' Annie said.

‘‘Argh! That's TMI!''

‘‘What?''

Louisa laughed. ‘‘Too much information, Annie.''

‘‘Well, it's true. Jesse Jr. and Sarah Mae stayed in this room for a while after they were married.'' Annie turned her attention back to the window, peering out. ‘‘Too bad, but I'm afraid your driving lesson will have to wait. We'll have to take the sleigh over to Julia's today . . . one of the boys can drive us.''

‘‘Horses don't have trouble getting around in the snow?''

Annie shook her head.

‘‘So I guess you never had to miss school for bad weather when you were a kid.''

At least she's not asking about the art contest again,
thought Annie.

She slipped into her bathrobe and made her bed. ‘‘I can't remember ever not getting to school, really. 'Least not for a snowstorm.''

‘‘Do you typically get tons of snow in December?'' Louisa asked.

‘‘We have plenty, jah.'' She told how the whole family enjoyed sledding, ‘‘except for my grandparents, of course.''

‘‘Your parents actually go?''

‘‘Well, not every time. But Daed built a toboggan just for the two of them. Mamm squeals all the way down the hill . . . and she loves it.''

Louisa nodded, stretching her arms above her head. ‘‘I can't imagine my mom doing that! But
I'm
all for it.''

‘‘Since Christmas falls on Sunday this year, there should be oodles of fun on both Saturday and Monday. Of course, we'll have Preaching service all morning Christmas, and then the most delicious feast afterward, which will be nothin' like the common meal every other Sunday, with cold cuts and Jell-O, no. It'll be more like a wedding feast with a roast and all the trimmings . . . and lots of candies and cookies.''

‘‘Food and feasting is a big part of your church life, isn't it?''

‘‘Yonie likes to say, ‘the three
f
's—food, fun, and fellowship.' '' She smiled, recalling that. ‘‘As for food, I know of several Amish couples in Lancaster County who make extra money serving seven-course meals to English tourists two or three nights a week. So, I believe we
are
known for wonderful-good home cookin'!''

‘‘I'll probably gain ten pounds while I'm here!''

Annie glanced at Louisa, who was making her own bed now. ‘‘A few extra pounds won't hurt you none.'' She tossed a pillow at her friend, then headed downstairs to heat water for the washbasins.

Julia opened the side door as Annie and Louisa trudged up the steps. ‘‘Hurry inside, girls. Isn't this the most snow we've had in quite a while?''

Annie turned and waved to Yonie, who had been kind enough to bring them. ‘‘Looks like fallin' pigeon feathers it's so thick.'' She spied little Molly, her dress matching the fabric of Julia's, cleaning out a mixing bowl with her fingers, then licking them off.
Cake batter,
Annie guessed and hurried over. ‘‘Don't you look 'specially perty in your new dress.''

Julia told how she'd found a bargain at the fabric shop. ‘‘I guess I really stocked up this time . . . bought enough material to make six or seven dresses. So I made me one, and Molly, too. I'll make dresses for my sisters and their daughters, too, sometime soon.''

Annie smiled. ‘‘Mamm often does that. Why pay more when you can all look alike, jah?''

Just then, she spied the
Farm and Home Journal
lying on the telephone table over by the window. She didn't mean to stare, though she was anxious to see what Yonie had already mentioned to her.

Evidently the magazine was uppermost in Julia's mind, too, because she marched right over and picked it up. She opened the magazine to the first page. ‘‘I'm thrilled to show you something, Annie.'' Her eyes shone with happiness. ‘‘And I can't say I'm one bit surprised, either.''

Annie waited, partly eager to see her name in print but dreading the conversation sure to follow.

‘‘Your lovely painting—‘Obsession'—has won first place.'' Cousin Julia pointed to the page and held the magazine out for both Annie and Louisa to see.

Annie looked hard at her name, seeing it for the first time. The recognition alone was more than enough honor, she felt.

Even though Louisa already knew, she gushed all over the place. Then little Molly came and gave Annie a little squeeze around the legs, congratulating her in her own way.

‘‘Isn't it grand?'' said Julia. ‘‘Here's a letter from the magazine. I imagine it's about the art classes you've won.''

Annie nodded but remained silent. She went and sat down at the table, wishing someone else might've won. ‘‘It's so hard to believe, really.''
Could it be a mistake?
‘‘In the most peculiar way, this is the death of a dream, I'm sad to say.''

Julia's smile turned to a quick frown.

‘‘If my father gets wind of this—and how will he not?—I'll no longer be welcome to sit idly by, not joining church. I'll be a thorn in his side . . . forced to make a choice, one way or the other!''

Louisa pursed her lips, looking concerned.

Julia folded her hands. ‘‘I never wanted to cause trouble for you. I hope you know that.''

Annie contemplated the irony of it all. ‘‘Jah. . . .''

‘‘This might seem strange, but I hope this might open the door for you to have a discussion with your parents . . . especially your preacher-father.''

That's absurd,
Annie thought. But to Julia, she said simply, ‘‘Honestly, I don't know any woman who does such a thing . . . speaking up to a minister, related or not.''

Women are not to speak up to men at all, and especially not to the ministers
. Anyone knew this.

Thinking on it, though, she recalled one time in particular when
she
had not only talked up to her father, but talked back. She had been one week shy of turning fourteen when Daed caught her sitting on a milk can out behind the springhouse, drawing the redbud trees in full bloom with a handful of stubby colored pencils.

When her father happened upon her, he did not have to stop and remind her of her previous disobedience, no. Without a doubt, this was the
second
time she had been in hot water with him, and they both remembered all too well.

Without speaking, he had reached down to take up her colored-pencil picture, deliberately tearing it into small pieces. Her anger soared beyond the limits of her ability to subdue it, and without thinking she uttered words that never should have been spoken to a parent, let alone a preacher. Still, she felt justified in spouting off,
‘‘What right do you have?''

Daed had not merely rebuked her with fiery eyes and his words, but he had also struck her, once, as well. He forbade her to demonstrate such outright rebellion ever again.
‘‘You're not old enough for rumschpringe, and yet you defy me!''
he said, eyes burning with his own fury. It was the first time he had ever raised a hand to her.

That night, all curled up in bed, she felt like a whipped puppy. And in the quietude of her room, with tears falling fast, she made a mental journey, going back to all the times she had drawn or colored little pictures for her pen pal, who seemed to appreciate them each time she slipped one into her letter, Daed none the wiser.

Later that week, when Julia happened to visit, asking Mamm about the possibility of hiring Annie part time, Annie jumped at the chance. But she'd had an ulterior motive from the start— remembering the empty little garret room.
I'll do my drawings there,
she decided before ever consulting with Irvin and Julia. Soon enough the Rancks' attic became the only refuge for her forbidden dream.

‘‘Annie? I hope I haven't offended you,'' Julia was saying.

Offend
was too strong. After all, Annie had given the go-ahead, although reluctantly, to enter her painting. ‘‘No . . . no. You mustn't feel bad.''

Even so, Julia wore a concerned look. ‘‘The next magazine will be out in about a month . . . mid-January, I'd think.''

Annie glanced at Louisa, who had been very quiet, perhaps deliberately keeping her nose out of it. ‘‘Honestly, it's beyond me how my parents
wouldn't
see or hear of this.''

‘‘Well, I happen to believe you could make it outside the Amish community, Annie . . . if it were ever necessary, I mean,'' Julia said.

Annie didn't feel like thinking about a future without the People, nor did she wish to give up her art. What most beginning artists would have longed for, she wished to reject. The glory of winning had scarcely had time to register in her brain, and now it was gone from her altogether.

She could hardly wait to talk to Yonie the following night. Even at supper, Annie kept trying to catch his eye. Finally, she did . . . and her curiosity was piqued even more when he nodded his head toward the door later on while eating Mamm's pecan pie and homemade vanilla ice cream.

What'll he tell me?
She hoped against hope something could be done to thwart the delivery of the January issue of
Farm and Home Journal
to local subscribers. Or, if not, that Yonie would have some idea how to keep their father's anger to a minimum.

Her hands trembled as she washed dishes, passing them off to Louisa to be dried. As much as Louisa already knew, Annie was almost certain she hadn't noticed the exchange of glances between Yonie and herself. At least if Louisa had, she wasn't commenting.
Thank goodness!

When the kitchen was sparkling clean, Annie waited for Louisa to slip over to the Dawdi Haus and then headed for the wooden wall rack out past the cookstove. Pulling on her heaviest jacket and then her boots, she was glad for the peace—no one around to observe her leave by way of the back door. She tromped through the snow to the barn, heart racing.

In the lower level of the barn, she found Yonie rubbing his hands together. ‘‘It's freezin' out here, jah?'' she said.

‘‘So let's make it snappy. I've got good news for ya . . . at least I think you'll agree.''

‘‘What is it, Yonie?''

‘‘There are only three farmers in our church district who get the magazine, and Daed's cousins, the Rancks.''

‘‘Who are these farmers, and do you think they'll be talking to Daed 'bout it?''

‘‘Not till mid-April, prob'ly.''

‘‘What do you mean?''

‘‘Well, one of the farmers is out in Nappanee, Indiana, for the winter, helpin' ailing relatives. The others are down in Florida— snowbirds, ya know?'' He was smiling too much, the usual teasing glint in his eye. ‘‘I doubt you have much to worry 'bout till spring, Annie-kins.''

‘‘You mean it? They won't get their mail for another three months or so?'' Oh, this was beyond her best hope.
So wonderful-good!

‘‘Far as I can tell, no one in our church district, at least, will be notifying Daed.'' He went on to tell her how he'd discovered all this . . . by asking Dory's participation and keeping it quiet from her mother, the mail carrier.

Annie breathed a sigh.
A bit more time to enjoy my art,
she thought.

‘‘I think you need to know you're not out of the woods on this.'' His near-perpetual smile had faded.

‘‘What do you mean? I thought you said—''

‘‘The magazine is based near Marion, Kentucky, but it goes out to farmers and others all over the country. Daed has cousins near and far. 'Specially in Wayne County, Ohio, so who's to say someone might not notice your name in the December issue or see your painting on the next?''

She felt her shoulders droop and was suddenly as fretful as she had been at the thought of the magazine winding up in one of their church members' mailboxes. No longer did she care to know what the cover would look like with her beloved painting plastered on it.

‘‘Be sure your sin will find you out.''
Her father's words from long ago echoed in her mind.

‘‘What will I do, Yonie? What'll happen to me?''

He shook his head. ‘‘I guess you should've thought of that sooner.''

‘‘Well, too late for thinkin'. If I catch it, I'm out.''

‘‘Won't be that cut and dried,'' he said. ‘‘But if I were you I'd walk away from this artist thing you're caught up in. Right away.''

‘‘Easy for you to say. You're being groomed to be a farmer.''

He eyed her. ‘‘Well, it sounds like you think that's not such a grand thing.''

‘‘It's fine, all right . . . for you. What's expected.'' She felt bad now . . . didn't want to say another hurtful word. Not to the brother who had gone to some trouble for her. ‘‘You know what? I'm sorry,'' she said. ‘‘I don't mean to be sassy. I'm grateful for what you and Dory did for me.''

‘‘Good, 'cause I swore her to secrecy, too.''

She looked warily at him. ‘‘You had to tell her?''

‘‘No gettin' around it.''

Puh! Too many folk know. . . .
She shivered with the knowledge, as well as from the cold. ‘‘We ought to head inside lest someone misses us.'' She thanked him again.

‘‘You owe me,'' he said as they hurried back to the warmth of the house.

‘‘I keep my promises. Don't you worry none.''

Chapter 28

L
ouisa had never been involved in making so many cookies of different kinds and shapes in her life. Baking and running errands with Annie and her mother, as well as attending yesterday afternoon's Amish school Christmas program, had taken up much of their time during the past week. Even at the Rancks' there was much to do to help the family prepare for the holiday. There had been little time to be taught to drive a horse and buggy, but she could wait for a better time.