The Preacher's Daughter (39 page)

The only one.

Andy's jaw was tense, his eyes somber. ‘‘What with his missus on a probationary shun, do you think this is a good idea?''

‘‘I see it as necessary.''
An appeasement . . . a way to keep Zeke happy during this dismal time,
he thought. ‘‘Esther's left Zeke . . . took the children with her.'' He mentioned that the Rancks' place was her chosen safe haven.

‘‘A whole new can of worms,'' Andy said.

‘‘I say we give Zeke something . . . the one thing he wants, truly.''

By his repeated sighs, the bishop seemed to acquiesce. ‘‘If it'll keep him from blabbin' to the police, then maybe so.'' His eyes lit up. ‘‘Jah, that's what you do, Jesse. You give him an either-or. Make him choose not to contact the authorities . . . not to hunt down the killer.''

Jesse was surprised; the decision had been accomplished before he'd even gotten his gloves and scarf removed. ‘‘If this is your behest, I'll go and tell Zeke right away.''

The bishop's wife called to him. ‘‘Who's there, dear?''

‘‘Oh, it's Preacher Zook,'' he said over his shoulder.

‘‘Have him come in for some hot coffee.''

The bishop raised his eyebrows. ‘‘Care for some, Jesse?''

‘‘Denki, but no.''

The hoot of an owl rang out from the trees beyond the barnyard.
Bird of death,
Jesse thought. The cadenced call echoed in his mind as he stared at distant floodlights on an English farm as he made his way through the snow to his waiting horse and sleigh.

Zeke will get his wish,
he thought.
I hope it's the right thing. . . .

Chapter 39

B
en was pleased at Julia's supper invitation, amazed in fact, as she already had a houseful of mouths to feed. But she'd called to urge Ben to join them for a celebration ‘‘at the birth of Esther's baby,'' now that Irvin was home.

He felt she was linking him to the joyous arrival of Essie Ann, and he couldn't take credit . . . wouldn't think of it. But he certainly wouldn't turn down a chance to visit more with Irvin or enjoy Julia's exceptionally good cooking. Not to mention all those cute kids with their contagious smiles.

Annie had not expected to run smack dab into Ben Martin as she was leaving Julia's by way of the side door. ‘‘Oh, goodness . . . I need to watch where I'm goin','' she said, backing up and looking at him full in the face.

‘‘I guess we both do.'' Ben's eyes held her gaze. ‘‘You all right?''

She wasn't . . . not really. It had been months since she'd been that close to a man.

Ben stood there, not budging. And now that she'd stepped back, putting a better distance between them, she wasn't inclined to move, either. She did think it interesting that Louisa had chosen today, of all days, to go off by herself, taking pictures of barns and such with her fancy phone and computer gadget— ‘‘artistic research,'' she'd called it. Which put Annie right here in the Rancks' driveway, talking to Irvin's hired man alone, of all things.

‘‘Would you think I'm forward if I asked you to have coffee with me sometime?'' Ben asked unexpectedly.

‘‘Are you askin' me now . . . or later
sometime
?''

He smiled and she did, too. She'd been much too hard on this fine-looking fellow. Downright difficult.

‘‘Well, I'll ask now,'' he said.

She shied away from his shining eyes, instead staring down at her black high-topped shoes.
Doesn't he mind that I'm Plain?

‘‘I could meet you somewhere if that's easier,'' he offered.

She thought of the other options. ‘‘I doubt you'd want to ride in an Amish buggy. . . .''

He laughed. ‘‘And you wouldn't be caught dead in a car with me, right?''

‘‘Better dead than alive,'' she was quick to say, which brought another chuckle from Ben.

‘‘I didn't expect a Plain girl to have such a good sense of humor. So
is
it against the rules to ride in a car? Would your church fathers frown on it?''

‘‘Well,'' she replied, ‘‘there are both angels and devils in those beards . . . but you never heard this from me.''

Her comment seemed to catch him off guard. He looked at her curiously. ‘‘I'd like to know more about that.''

Just then Julia poked her head out the side door. ‘‘Would you like to stay for supper, Annie?''

How do I squelch my smile? She needs to be more subtle about matchmaking,
Annie thought.

‘‘I can easily set another place,'' Julia persisted.

‘‘Thanks anyway, but Mamm's waitin' supper.''

So Julia approves of Ben. . . .

‘‘I know of a wonderful espresso place,'' Ben said when Julia had disappeared back into the house.

I shook hands with Daed,
she reminded herself.
I can't go out with an Englischer now!

She took a breath. ‘‘Well, it's awful nice of you to ask . . . but I prob'ly shouldn't,'' she said. ‘‘But thanks all the same, Ben.''

His smile slipped a bit. ‘‘I understand,'' he said softly.

Annie gave him a little wave and walked away, already feeling glum.

A dessert of chocolate silk pie was served, and the five youngsters eyed Ben at the table. He had consistently made comical facial gestures at each of them, off and on throughout the meal. He knew he had a way with little kids. His own father had first noticed it years back, when Ben's smile quickly soothed a howling baby on numerous occasions—his colicky nephew, one case in point. His mom and sister often said he would be a ‘‘terrific dad'' someday.
Finding the right woman is the key,
he thought.

While Julia and Irvin worked together in the kitchen, he got down on the floor with Laura, Esther's oldest, and James. Esther had already whisked diaper-laden John and his infant sister back to the bedroom. Molly and Zach sat out in the kitchen playing with extra-large, toddler-safe Legos at the table.

Thinking how to entertain Laura and James, he pulled something from his pocket, keeping it hidden in his closed hand. ‘‘I have a secret hiding here.''

‘‘You do? I want to see it!'' Laura said, moving right over next to him.

‘‘Me too!'' James said, folding his hands under his chin, sitting cross-legged like Ben.

‘‘You have to guess first,'' Ben said.

‘‘Give us a hint,'' said Laura, the older.

‘‘Let's see.'' He closed his eyes, enjoying the tension-filled game. ‘‘I know. . . .'' He opened his eyes.

‘‘What?'' Laura's face lit up.

‘‘Well, you never find it unless you're hungry and start to munch. Then the secret will slowly start to appear. That's the hint.''

James looked discouraged. ‘‘That's too hard.''

Laura's pensive expression changed to a smile. ‘‘I think
I
know.''

‘‘Then tell me.'' He loved playing along.

She leaned over and whispered her answer in his ear.

How could she have guessed?
he wondered.

‘‘What
is
it?'' James asked, his lower lip drooping now.

Ben kept his voice low and a bit mysterious sounding. ‘‘Here, I'll show you.'' He opened his hand to reveal a smooth peach stone. ‘‘Watch closely.'' He flicked the pit, fast as a sneeze, between his thumb and third finger. It stood on its end and spun like a little top.

James said a happy
oh,
while Laura wore a wide-eyed look of glee.

‘‘How'd you do that?'' asked James.

Ben spun it a second time. ‘‘Just . . . like . . . this.''

‘‘Do it again!'' James scooted next to him, too.

He twirled it again and again, followed by the children's sidesplitting laughter each time. At last, when James was called off to his bath, Laura asked to hold the ‘‘little top.''

Ben placed the pit in her hand, and she looked closely at it. ‘‘Ach, it's ever so smooth. Dat's got himself a whole bag of these, but not a single one like this.''

A man who collects peach pits can't be all bad,
Ben thought.

Laura returned the peach stone, and he found himself looking down at it, aware of the overwhelming urge to squeeze hard, and not knowing quite why.

Epilogue

I
t would be downright pointless to deny that I'm waiting on pins and needles for the other shoe to drop, as they say—or as
I've
been saying to Lou: waiting for the next suspender to snap. What with my father eyeing me like I've got the plague, there's plenty on my mind.

I recently attended the quilting at Sarah Mae's with Mamm, while Louisa stayed at the Dawdi Haus with Mammi Zook, most recently intrigued by needlepoint. They talked about many things, Lou confided to me, and I know she and Mammi are becoming fast friends. It's interesting to hear Mammi talking in Dutch to Lou now and then.

Julia's in need of her attic to make room for Esther, little John, and baby Essie Ann. Having an art studio ready and waiting for me would be an awful temptation, I confess, so this is a good thing. It's already been more than a full week since my hand has held either a colored pencil or a brush. I can't say it's easy, but I'm taking one day at a time. For Daed's sake . . . and for the Lord God's. When I get the jitters of withdrawal, which is what Louisa calls it, I go and cut quilting squares and arrange them in unusual patterns on the floor in the front room. Mamm must think I've lost my mind, but if it keeps me from sinning, all for the better.

Louisa's friend, Courtney Engelman, says she misses ‘‘the runaway bride.'' I don't know what my father will say about Lou's fancy friend wanting to visit, too, but it'll just be for a long weekend. I figure if I keep myself away from drawing and painting, just maybe Daed will be in favor of yet another Englischer coming to experience the peace of Paradise. And
I'll
find all the satisfaction I need in the acceptable art of my people, as Louisa encourages me to do.

I don't know how many times I've bumped into Ben Martin recently, and not once has it been at the harness shop, not since the first time. For some odd reason, he keeps showing up where I happen to be—making a purchase at the Gordonville Bookstore and at the post office. Things like that. It's downright uncanny, and I have no idea what to make of it. He smiles real big and says, ‘‘Hey, Annie,'' and I say, ‘‘Hullo, Ben'' back. Secretly, I'm beginning to hope he might ask me out yet again.

Lou's driven me in the buggy over to see Esther and little Essie Ann twice now. Lou's getting quite good at handling a horse, surprisingly so. I keep thinking one of these days she's going to wake up and decide to wear her brand name jeans again, but so far she hasn't. She's careful not to let me see her with her sketchbook and pencils anymore, which makes me kind of sad. There's no reason for her to hide
her
work. But I suppose if she were in the same boat as I am, I'd do the same for her.

Still, I don't know how long I can let her sneak round like that. It doesn't seem fair. She consistently sells her drawings, too. Takes them in for framing every other week. I suspect she misses our little hideaway in Julia's attic, and no wonder. The place was the most delightful location to give our creative minds wings to soar. If Esther decides to live with her widowed mother, the attic studio will become enticing to me once again. And that will be the real test of my will. For now my beautifully framed painting lies hidden there, wrapped up, like my dreams.

Sometimes I can't help but wonder if the Lord God didn't allow all this to happen, in just the way it did, to see what I'm made of. Am I ready to settle down and make my lifelong vow to God and the church? Some days I believe I could be, but then the hankering to draw one of the cow's black and white patterns or to paint the first red sunset of winter tugs hard at me.

Honestly, I'm staying clear away from it. Like an addict who goes cold turkey, Lou says. Nevertheless I
am
mixing paints on the palette of my heart, trying in vain to match the shades of blue in the Creator's ever-changing sky. God's ways, after all, are higher than ours, Cousin Julia says.

These days, my thoughts, even my convictions, seem to shift with the fickle hues of a Pennsylvania sky . . . a blending of what was true for me as the young preacher's daughter with what I now see and know. Is there no way to blend my opposing desires? Will I ever understand all of the shades of goodness, faith, and even someday, love?

Acknowledgments

I
am blessed to have a small glimpse of God on this earth in the efforts and encouragement of some wonderful people. Among them are the following: Carol Johnson, Julie Klassen, David Horton, and Jolene Steffer, my remarkable editors; Dave Lewis, my husband, ‘‘first reader,'' and constant encourager; Hank Hershberger, Monk and Marijane Troyer, Fay Landis, and other faithful, though anonymous, research assistants; Marilyn Stock-wood of London, England; Irmi Knoth and Joe Bohler, internationally acclaimed artists; Iris Stuart of Morton, Mississippi; and the good folk at
The Budget
in Sugarcreek, Ohio.

And, yes, the B & B mentioned in Pine, Colorado, is a very real and lovely place.

It must have seemed to my family as if I disappeared at times while musing, scribbling notes, and typing the pages here. But I was always gently nudged back to reality by their patience and love. Special thanks, especially, to Julie, Janie, and Jonathan . . . and to my darling parents, for steady prayer support. And to one prayer partner, in particular, abundant blessings for your faithfulness in lifting my work to the Lord Jesus.

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