A Simple Winter: A Seasons of Lancaster Novel (23 page)

“Ketchup?” Arlene interrupted. “Ketchup is a condiment. I’m talking about an interview. Did you get it or not?”

“Not.” The room was so silent Remy could hear the blood drumming through her ears. “Not exactly.”

Arlene threw up her hands in disgust, but Miles extended a sliver of patience. “Explain,” he said.

“While I didn’t get a formal interview with Adam King, I did meet the family. I even got to talk with the little boy—Simon King—who was in the buggy with his parents the night they were killed.”

“Ooh. How old is this kid?” Arlene asked.

“He’s nine now, but he was only eight when it happened.”

“A nine-year-old boy.” Miles’s forehead was pleated with creases. “Did you get a signed release from his guardian?”

“No, it wasn’t like that. We were just talking, and I didn’t introduce myself as a journalist. I don’t think they knew I was a writer.” Remy struggled to make her point. “The family opened up to me, and I’m not sure I feel comfortable going public with everything I’ve learned.”

“So you were undercover, so to speak?” Arlene squinted. “Slimy, but I could deal with it if you got your information from Adam King or someone else over twenty-one. But the kid …”

“Out of the question.” Miles wiped the idea away with one arm. “We can’t have our reporters preying on minors, no matter how interesting your notes or recordings.”

Remy bit her lower lip, afraid to tell them she didn’t have actual quotes or notes. In fact, her journal had been locked in her car; it was still there, as far as she knew. Herb had hired a driver to bring the car back from Lancaster County today.

“But I do like this story.” Arlene’s red-lacquered fingers waggled over her chin as she considered the ultimate prize. “We could do something with this, as long as you go on the record with Adam King.”

“Definitely on the record,” Miles agreed.

“Can you do that?” Arlene prodded.

Remy opened her mouth, then bit her lips together. After everything that had happened this weekend, the idea of actually pursuing an interview for the sake of a story seemed wrong, especially in the face of Simon’s post-traumatic stress, Sadie’s battle for independence, and Adam’s worry that media exposure might threaten the safety of his family. Remy would not do anything to hurt the family that had stolen her heart.

Still … their story was compelling. She couldn’t stop worrying about Simon’s recovery from the trauma and wondering about the murder investigation itself. And she couldn’t keep her thoughts from returning to Adam. Those dark eyes haunted her as if he were part of her conscience.

Remy looked from the table and realized the seven editors facing her were waiting for an answer.

“Feel free to jump in anytime,” Arlene said. “But whatever you decide, I’m not giving up this story.”

Did that mean she would put another writer on it? Someone swift and ruthless?

Remy couldn’t give up the Kings. She couldn’t walk away and leave them prey to a reporter who didn’t care.

“I’ll talk to Adam King again,” Remy said. “I’ll give the story my best shot.”

“Please!” Arlene rolled her eyes. “When are you going to learn to answer yes or no? No one ever conquered a kingdom saying ‘maybe’ or ‘I’ll try.’ ”

or the first time ever, Adam was glad to have market duty in Philadelphia. In his mind, he equated Philadelphia with Remy McCallister, the girl who had dogged his thoughts for the past few days, and though he didn’t understand why, he needed to be here. She had haunted his dreams, her voice a low glaze over images of her sitting at their kitchen table, watching the horses in the paddock, and stomping around in Mary’s rubber boots.

Things had ended badly between them, and he kicked himself mostly for losing control and letting himself get close. Just the touch of her hands, the proximity … It had been too much to fight.

He would never forget the sight of her wild red hair being tossed by the wind as they stood out by the corral. Her coppery hair and radiant green eyes had burned a brand on Adam’s heart. Because of her, he couldn’t think straight. Because of her, he lay awake at night. Because of her, he’d looked forward to coming to the city with its honking horns and sirens, its exploding lights and colorful signs, and its food scents mingled with exhaust fumes. Just
being in her city, knowing she was near, settled his mind for the moment.

For most of the last hundred years, the King family had been leasing a stall at the Reading Terminal Market in Philadelphia. Founded in 1892, the market had gone through some dismal periods and major renovations to become the current bustling marketplace of colorful wares and fresh produce.

Today was Adam’s turn to make deliveries for the King Family Dairy, a weekly duty that rotated through the family. The task entailed hiring a driver, packing a van with cheese from the dairy and quilts recently sewn by the women, many based on special orders, and transporting it all into Philadelphia, where Adam’s cousin and his wife managed the stand six days a week. Joseph King, known as Market Joe, had run the market stall with his father since he’d graduated from eighth grade. When Joe and Lizzy wed, Joe’s father, Perry, bowed out of the marketplace to focus more on his harness business back in Halfway.

“You have four new quilts for us?” Market Joe hitched his black-framed glasses up his nose and hoisted a box of cheese from the cart. “The women have been working hard.”

“They get a lot more quilting done when the weather is cold,” Lizzy observed as she unfolded a Basket quilt in bold navy blue, yellow, and red. Five rows of five small basket patches made up the cheerful pattern. “Such nice warm tones for winter. Perfect for curling up by the fire.”

“If the person who buys it even uses it,” Adam said. “The last two quilts I sold went to collectors, who said they were going to frame the quilts and put them under glass.”

“Funny, isn’t it?” Lizzy hung the quilt over a wire strung behind the booth, and then smoothed it out to show off the craftsmanship and colors. “An item as basic as a blanket to keep you warm in the winter, and it becomes a showpiece, never to be touched.”

Adam loaded the last of the cheese into the refrigerator as Market Joe greeted a customer at the counter.

“How’s your sister Mary faring with those little ones?” Lizzie asked as she handed him a plastic carton.

“She’s fine. Sam has started doing small chores and Katie is talking more and more.”

“Your mamm taught Mary well. It won’t be long until all of us have young ones of our own. Of course, you will have to wed first. And from what I’ve been hearing, that won’t come easily.”

“I’ve been reminded of that lately.” The meeting with his bishop, preacher, and uncle was still fresh in Adam’s mind, though when it came to finding a wife, he really didn’t know where to begin. The idea of attending a singing always brought Annie Stoltzfus’s berry-red smile to mind. And now there was talk of interest from Emma Lapp, the schoolteacher. A nice girl, but a girl, a child really.

God, I know you’ve got someone in mind for me
, he prayed.
And I’m hoping she’s not ten years younger than I am
. As he prayed that God would lead him to a suitable wife, his thoughts returned to Remy, and he pictured her sitting at his right hand during breakfast. He could hear her laughing over the milking story, and he imagined her learning to milk a cow, easy as one, two, three.… What crazy thinking. Verhuddelt thoughts.

He was stacking crates when she caught his eye from across the marketplace. A flash of coppery hair, shining like a new penny against her stark black leather jacket.

Remy … as if she had materialized from his thoughts, there she was.

He froze in his tracks, surprised to see her and shocked by his reaction, the way his heart lifted at the sight of her, as if God had shown him the path to heaven.

Adam lifted his black hat to rake back his hair.

An Englisher girl. This could not be.

He had fallen for an Englisher girl once, and though the relationship had ended amicably, his time in the fancy world had turned him inside out. Although Jane had stayed with him for less than a year, during that time he had met other people who shared his interests: a greengrocer interested in building a city garden, a carpenter who designed and built crates for shipping artwork, a retired sea merchant who built precision chests.

The Englishers had admired Adam’s skills with a hammer and nail, as well as his honesty and determination to get a job done. In his second year he had started a business with Cap, the retired seaman, designing and building furniture by hand. Old Cap, cranky with people, patient with wood. Cap Sawicki had taught Adam how to make woodworking a craft. In turn Adam organized Cap’s shop and worked with his clients, building up the business.

Thinking of Cap, Adam wheeled the cart of crates from behind the counter. Although some might call his pride in the old carpentry business hochmut, Adam had felt good about leaving the profitable business in the hands of a man who’d once been destitute. Sometimes he wondered how Cap was doing, though the old man had promised him he would absolutely not be writing any letters, and Adam had told Cap that it was highly unlikely he’d be calling.

Strange, saying good-bye to a friend, realizing you would probably never see him again on this earth.

But when he’d been visited by a police officer with the sickening news about his parents, Adam had known that his time in the Englisher world was over.

In a flash of youthful independence he had left home, left the Amish community and his family behind.

A foolish move.

But never again.

He was a baptized member of the community now. He made
his choice, and there was no room for a girl like Remy in the life he had chosen.

Across the marketplace, she seemed to sense him. In the light of the terminal, her hair looked redder than he remembered. Red and vibrant like the coals of the fire after they’ve been stoked.

She caught him looking and a sunny smile lit her face as she waved from beyond a spray of flowers. How did she know he was watching her?

He nodded and turned back to Lizzy, who followed his gaze.

“What’s the matter?” Lizzy asked, squinting into the distance. “Oh, there’s Remy.”

“Wait. Do you know her?”

“Joe and I met her earlier this week. She stopped by looking for you, and I told her to come back today, as you happened to have the delivery.”

“Really?” She’d come looking for him.… Why did the thought of her seeking him out make his day?

“She said you knew each other, but there was something about business.” Lizzy spoke quickly as a customer stopped at the counter. “Can I help you, sir?”

Adam was glad to have Lizzy and Joe busy when Remy approached.

“Hi. I bet you didn’t expect to see me again so soon.” She looked like a healthier version of herself, with a blush of pink on her cheeks that reminded him of a sun-warmed peach.

“You look good … healthy,” he corrected, annoyed with himself. Why was he so happy to see her? It was as if the energy in the cavernous market was buzzing now, its warm center a halo around the two of them. “Are you feeling better?”

“Much better. But I really appreciate everything your family did for me. You guys were there for me when I needed it most.”

“It was nothing.”

“I am planning a trip back to Halfway. I promised Sadie we would hang out again.” She stepped over to the side table where the new quilts hung, diamonds and zigzags of color. “But I wanted to talk with you first.”

Again, he felt a mixture of excitement and alarm. “Why me?”

“You’re the head of the family, right? It’s about getting permission from you.”

“Permission? My sister doesn’t need permission to have a fancy friend. It’s not encouraged, but … she’s in her rumspringa.”

“I know, but I wanted to ask you about something else.”

He could barely decipher her language for the distraction of her emerald eyes; every time he looked her way, he lost track of the conversation.

“What was your question?” he asked, realizing his short responses probably seemed cold.

“Did I tell you I worked for my father? I wanted to—”

“Is he an antiques dealer?”

She shook her head.

“A designer?”

“No, he’s … Herb McCallister. Do you know the name?”

“It doesn’t ring a bell. Is he interested in the quilts?”

“Oh, no, not Herb. But I’m interested. I love this Sunshine and Shadow quilt. But that’s not why I wanted to talk to you. I …” As if she’d run out of breath, she let her gaze drop to the quilt. Her fingers ran over the small patches of turquoise surrounded by navy, then orange, then peach.

Was she talking about buying quilts or was something else going on here?

Sometimes women made no sense. He often felt this way around Mary and Sadie; that they were not saying what they meant, or that there was some special meaning to be coaxed from their words. As if they were speaking in their own language, a strange dialect.

He noticed the pink gleam of her fingernails. Her hands seemed smooth and delicate, not the hands of a woman who ran clothes through a wringer or tended a garden.