The Redemption of Sarah Cain (17 page)
‘‘Well, then, how would you like to ride along with me?’’
Lydia shook her head. ‘‘I really can’t think of one thing I need just now.’’
‘‘You could get out of the house for a few hours,’’ Aunt Sarah persisted.
Lydia wondered if her aunt just assumed she was housebound most of the time. ‘‘Oh, I get out plenty.’’
Aunt Sarah was thumbing through the
Official Map and Visitors’
Guide of Lancaster County and Pennsylvania Dutch Country
, not payin’ much mind to what Lydia had said. ‘‘What do you know about Rockvale Square Outlets?’’ she asked.
‘‘I’ve heard there are over a hundred and twenty stores. Are you lookin’ for something special?’’
‘‘I just thought it might be fun to do some shopping. I
love
outlet shops.’’ Sarah’s eyes were shining just now. ‘‘I can’t come all this way and not cash in on some brand-name bargains.’’
‘‘Jah, and I s’pose if I weren’t Plain, I might go hog wild in a place like Rockvale Square,’’ she replied.
Her mamma’s sister opened the map in the center of the visitors’ guide, studying it further. ‘‘How far is it to the intersection of Routes 30 and 896?’’
‘‘Well, I have to say that we don’t normally take our team that far north of Strasburg. Reason bein’ it gets awful busy with cars on most of the main roads. Isn’t safe anymore, really.’’
‘‘By ‘team,’ do you mean your horse and buggy?’’
‘‘That’s right.’’
Sarah’s eyes seemed to bore a hole through Lydia. ‘‘I don’t mean to sound rude, but are you even allowed to ride in a car?’’
‘‘We can ride, just can’t own.’’ The words jumped off her tongue. She’d heard the expression many times growin’ up.
‘‘Are you sure you won’t come with me?’’ Aunt Sarah asked, almost as if she hoped to purchase a new wardrobe for Lydia. A kind of make-over.
‘‘That’s all right, really. I have more bread to make and cleaning to do, but you go and have yourself a gut time.’’
For Lydia, makin’ so many choices at a store for Englischers would make her head all but spin anyways. For sure and for certain. Besides, she was ever so grateful to have some time to herself, gettin’ caught up on chores and whatnot.
‘‘Watch closely the hermit crab,’’
Grandpa Cain’s words whispered in her memory.
‘‘See how little he gets by with?’’
Truth be told, she was mighty glad Aunt Sarah was goin’ away for the afternoon.
T
hank you for coming, Ms. Cain.’’ Charles Eberley motioned for her to sit across from his wide desk.
She noted the many framed documents heralding Mr. Eberley a state-certified attorney. Along with certificates there were family portraits as well, smiling and rather plain-looking children and grandchildren.
Opening the Estate Document Portfolio, the attorney thumbed through several papers. ‘‘As I relayed to you during our last phone conversation, your sister has selected you for the guardianship of her minor children.’’
Sarah nodded.
‘‘First, allow me to read Ivy’s will to you, as required by the state of Pennsylvania.’’ Eberley pushed his reading glasses up toward the bridge of his nose and began. ‘‘ ‘I, Ivy Cain Cottrell of Lancaster County, Pennsylvania, mindful of the brevity of this life, having placed my faith and hope in Jesus Christ, my Savior and Lord, who redeemed my soul through His shed blood and death upon Calvary’s Cross for my sins and who thus promises me Eternal Life, do make, publish, and declare this to be my Last Will and Testament, hereby revoking any and all other Wills and Codicils by me at any time heretofore made. . . .’ ’’
After the attorney finished reading Ivy’s will, he set the papers down and removed his reading glasses. ‘‘Before we proceed, do you have any questions, Ms. Cain?’’
Sarah shifted in the chair, crossing her legs at the ankles. She had one question. ‘‘How do we legally transfer my guardianship to someone in the Amish community?’’
Charles Eberley sighed. ‘‘If you must, I can handle the arrangements. Once you’ve become legal guardian, we’ll have to petition the court, but I don’t foresee any problems.’’
That was good news for Sarah. She signed the necessary documents, and they rose to shake hands.
‘‘I understand the awkwardness of this situation, Ms. Cain. Surely anyone would have expected Mrs. Cottrell to select an Amish family to care for her children. But there must be a very good reason behind Ivy’s decision.’’
‘‘That remains to be seen, Mr. Eberley.’’ She turned toward the door, then remembered her manners. ‘‘Thank you for your time.’’
‘‘Very well,’’ he replied.
The nip in the air refreshed her as she crossed the parking lot to her rental car. Now on to her shopping spree.
What’s keepin’ Aunt Sarah?
Lydia glanced at the day clock high on the kitchen wall. Her aunt had left for Lancaster hours ago. Here it was comin’ up on time for the children to return home from school, and still their aunt had not made it back.
Deciding not to fret but to make wise use of her time, ’specially with all her chores done, Lydia wrote in her journal.
Monday, January 24
I think Aunt Sarah must surely be caught in the grip of the
world and its pleasures. When she began talking about her shopping
trip, this became clear to me. Well, her eyes lit up near like
Wal-Mart come nighttime. I’ve never seen someone so eager to
accumulate things as Mamma’s sister is.
Her life—even the clothes she wears—seems so complicated.
And all that jewelry and makeup. Why, it must take her hours to
dress of a morning. Does she ever think to wonder that she’s missing
out on a whole lot of peace, running to and fro? Could it be
she ever yearns for a simple life the way Mamma and Dat did
before moving here to Lancaster?
How on earth could two sisters be so awful different? It wonders
me. . . .
Closing the diary, Lydia slipped out of her bedroom and hurried to the room Aunt Sarah had claimed as her own, for the time being. Once inside her mother’s former bedroom, she made a beeline for the walnut highboy. Knowin’ now what she thought she knew ’bout Sarah Cain, she decided the sin she’d committed yesterday was somewhat justifiable.
She wasted no time diggin’ through the wide drawer at the very bottom of the dresser. Scooping up some letters and several journals, she repeated the action till the drawer was completely empty, including Mamma’s cherished box of seashells.
Back in her bedroom, she ordered the letters according to postmark dates and made room for them in the pine chest at the foot of her own bed. Dat had made the hope chest for her thirteenth birthday, and it was full of dozens of handmade things— crocheted doilies and pillow slips. Beautiful things she had made over the years with Mamma’s help. One day, these perty things would grace her own home. Her and Levi’s home—together— Lord willing.
But she dared not think of Levi just now. He might question her deed if he was privy to it. For now, though, her secret was safe. Truly, she hoped God would forgive her in spite of her willfulness.
Closing the heavy lid on the pine chest, she sighed momentarily, then scurried back downstairs. With the letters from Aunt Sarah hidden, along with Mamma’s journals, she could take her time reading through the whole lot of them, late at night when no one was up to disturb her or discover what she had done.
And Aunt Sarah would be none the wiser.
The drive back to Grasshopper Level from the Rockvale Square Outlets encompassed snowscapes Sarah did not recall having seen yesterday upon first arriving in Lancaster County. Random drifts of snow bunched up the landscape, and ice clung to trees and barn roofs. A covey of crows flew en masse over a nearby silo, heading west. The panorama offered her a respite from the bustling atmosphere of discount shopping.
Reaching for the CDs she had taken time to pack, she chose the Chopin waltzes, eager for a reminder of home. Yet as she drove over freshly plowed Route 896, she noticed the Amish village, Ed’s Buggy Rides, and a classy-looking craft shop— Country Creations—where Plain folk, no doubt, capitalized on their homespun life-style.
Perhaps it was the confusion caused by snow-shrouded route signs as she arrived in the village of Strasburg, but somehow she got off track and made a wrong turn. More than likely, it was the fact that she was still preoccupied with the lengthy paragraph at the beginning of Ivy’s last will and testament—a declaration of faith, or so it seemed—that caused Sarah to lose her way.
Having placed my faith and hope in Jesus Christ, my Savior and
Lord . . .
She found herself on the outskirts of town, heading south on Esbenshade Road. The countryside was curiously dotted with occasional multisided birdhouses, which protruded out of the frozen ground, thrust high into a pristine sky.
As she drove in the general direction of Grasshopper Level, she passed one farmhouse after another, most with two or three additions built onto one side.
Amish dwellings
, she thought, recalling several letters Ivy had written over the years with reference to the
Grossdawdi Haus
—Grandfather House—concept. She was well aware that such extensions to a dwelling meant several generations of families resided there.
Just ahead, off to the right, a one-room schoolhouse came into view, its white picket fence providing a stark, yet protective barrier against the world. A dozen or more snow sleds were lined up in a row alongside the school.
Checking her watch, she was surprised that it was already nearly three o’clock. Schoolchildren would soon come pouring out the door, was her guess—by the presence of so many waiting carriages.
Slowing the rental car, she pulled off the road and onto the shoulder and braked, staring in wonderment.
In a moment, children came by twos and threes, Plain students emerging from the tiny school. She was a magnet to the scene. Was this the school her nieces and nephews attended? And if so, would she be able to spot them amidst the crowd of Amish youngsters? Old and young children alike—girls in long dark dresses and woolen capes, black candle-snuffer bonnets, and black high-topped shoes or boots; boys wearing black felt hats and what looked like heavy winter coats over wide-legged black pants and snow boots—swarmed out of the building, all smiles.
She flinched in the comfort of her car. The sight was unbearable, and not because the scene was so wonderfully quaint. No. She was unnerved by this glimpse of so many merry children.
Megan Holmes, darling girl, was no more. Gone forever. Her little body buried in a Connecticut cemetery plot. Sarah’s young student could no longer laugh and sing or do any of the things the girl had once loved.
Sarah simply could not bear to watch these Plain children, carefree and seemingly happy. What sort of teacher instructed them daily? Was she kind and patient, always vigilant for possible danger? Was she eager to succeed as a teacher, preoccupied with her achievement?
Leaning her arms across the top of the steering wheel, Sarah buried her face in the folds of her jacket. ‘‘Oh, Meggie . . . Meggie, how can I ever forgive myself?’’ she whispered.