A Stranger's Wish (24 page)

“Did you see what he looked like?” I asked.

He shrugged. “Just a man in a Braves cap.”

I stared, mouth suddenly dry. “A Braves cap? He wasn’t wearing one when he talked to me.”

“He slapped it on as he hurried toward his car.”

“That’s what that other man wore,” I managed to whisper.

Jake looked at me, concern all over his face. “The one who pushed you down the stairs?”

I nodded.

To distract myself, I reached to adjust my watercolor as it lay on the floor behind me. The brook pleased me, as did the little waterfall that fed it. “I’m not sure about the reflections,” I said. “Are the colors strong enough?”

Jake looked behind him. “They look great to me, but I’m no expert. I only—”

“—know what I like,” I finished for him.

He laughed. “You’ve got me pegged.”

As we started down the road, my mind glommed on to the man in the Braves cap. Jake glanced at me.

“Kristie, it’s okay. Don’t worry about him.” I felt comforted until he continued, “Though I’m glad we’d made plans for me to pick you up.”

During the drive to White Horse and the farm auction, I forced myself to relax. I was here in the van and the man wasn’t. I was safe. Besides, I couldn’t do anything about him anyway because I couldn’t swear he was the man I’d seen in the house that Sunday. The man today hadn’t touched me, hadn’t been anything but polite. You can’t turn a man in to the authorities because he makes you feel creepy.

By the time Jake became embroiled in the minor traffic jam of cars, buggies, and horse-drawn wagons lining the road or jockeying for position in the barnyard in White Horse, I no longer felt threatened. I was too fascinated by everything around me.

Jake managed to get a parking place near the drive and next to a wagon loaded with a refrigerator, a treadle sewing machine, a double bedstead, a kitchen table, and five mismatched chairs. I watched in fascination as a red-bearded Amishman and his young son maneuvered a bureau and a rocking chair onto the already overloaded wagon and lashed everything into place.

Jake watched them with a cocked eyebrow. “Red Daniel is buying furniture. I wonder which of his girls is getting married? Poor man has six daughters and only Little Daniel.”

“What’s so bad about six daughters?” I challenged.

“A lot in a culture that looks on unmarried women as not fulfilled. A spinster aunt is always treated nicely, and sometimes she even has a little home of her own. She might get a job as a housekeeper or work in a shop or teach and support herself. But unmarried women depend on their fathers. Red Daniel doesn’t want that.”

“Why not?” I asked, grimacing as Red Daniel gave a mighty tug on his rope, shifting the load and almost burying Little Daniel under the bureau.

“You don’t know his girls!” Jake said, laughing.

When Red Daniel and Little Daniel finally departed, we located Elam and Big Nate Stoltzfus. We found the two examining a flatbed wagon.

The old man nodded frostily in our direction. “Chake,” he said, pronouncing Jake’s name with the Dutch
ch
. He nodded briefly to me, eyed my jeans, scarlet shirt, and wildly patterned sweater with a jaundiced eye and then left immediately, his old back straight and proud.

“About one quarter of the Amish are named Stoltzfus,” Jake said as he watched the old man go. “It means ‘proud foot.’ My father says it means the Stoltzfuses have their feet planted firmly and proudly on the faith. I don’t know. It seems too kind an explanation for some people.”

Elam grinned at his brother. “Nasty, nasty, Chake. You know what Mom’d say if she heard you.”

The brothers looked at each other and began chanting in unison, “Let no corrupt communication proceed out of your mouth, but that which is good for the use of edifying, that it may minister grace unto the hearers.” Only they said it in High German, not King James.

After Elam translated for me, Jake said, “Whenever we got mad at each other and started yelling like kids do, Mom ran that by us.”

“And,” Elam said, “if we ever said anything against another in the community, we had to repeat the verse and ask for forgiveness from God.”

“Mom ran a tough shop,” Jake said with admiration. “Great lady.”

Elam shrugged, uncomfortable with the compliment. “She was just doing what was right. Now where’d you hide the van? I got the tools Father wanted and for less than he felt was an acceptable price.”

“Good going,” Jake said. “He’ll like that. No man appreciates a bargain more than Father.”

Wondering how two such different men could come from the same home and training, I watched the brothers put what looked like a collection of rusty antiques in the back of the van.

“What will you do with them?” I asked.

“Make our own repairs on bridles and other equipment,” Elam said. “We have a little blacksmith shop set up in the shed beside the barn. It’s hard to get things repaired these days, especially the hardware on the buggies. It’s a dying art, so we do as much of our own repair work as possible.”

“What about the guys who make the buggies originally? Won’t they do the repairs for you? Sort of like a car dealership?”

Elam shook his head. “There are too few of them, not nearly enough to meet the demand. We ordered a new buggy months ago. I doubt we’ll get it before winter.”

Elam turned to Jake. “By the way, Big Nate told me that he’s noticed a car hanging around our farm recently.”

“How in the world did he notice a car around our farm?” Then Jake grinned broadly as a thought popped into his mind. “Binoculars? He spies on us? Isn’t there a law against that somewhere in the
Ordnung
? There must be!”

Elam smiled and shook his head hopelessly at his brother’s glee. “I didn’t ask how he knew. I just thanked him for the information. He said the car often parks on the wagon road that cuts between our two farms, and it always faces us. Father and I have been working on the other side of the farm baling hay, so I haven’t seen it.”

“Neither have I,” Jake said as he looked thoughtfully at me. “But I’ll certainly be watching from now on.”

I was willing to bet that the driver wore a Braves cap.

When we arrived home, I carried my painting and supplies inside, stopping to show Mary.

She studied it carefully. “Sometimes I look at scenes like this and think that I’ll paint them later. Then I get home, and I can’t remember the details.”

“You can make them up, you know. Painting doesn’t have to be an exact representation.”

Mary looked a little uncomfortable with that thought. Maybe she thought painting as you wished the scene looked instead of as it actually was equal to a form of lying.

“A painting is your vision of something or some place. That’s the primary way it differs from photography, which is an exact reproduction.”

“But the barn is the barn. When you painted it, you made it look like the barn. I made it look like the barn.”

“Only because I wanted to. And because it’s accurate, I could call the picture The Zook Barn. If I’d played with the image, I would just call it Amish Barn.”

She looked thoughtful. “As is,” she finally said.

“Then you need pictures. Maybe a little digital camera?”

She grimaced. “No, no. No cameras. It’s bad enough I paint.”

In other words, you could only push the church authorities so far. I wondered if any of her friends were aware of her art.

“Maybe I could take the pictures for you? Would that be all right?” I knew that’s what Susie Riehl’s English friend Shirley did for Susie. They drove around, and when Susie saw a scene she liked, Shirley photographed it and gave prints to Susie, who then painted from them.

To me that idea sounded a lot like the rule that you couldn’t drive cars but you could ride in them. But every district had its own particular take on the
Ordnung
and what was okay in one district often wasn’t in another.

But Mary liked my idea. I could tell by the light in her eye. “Let me ask John what he thinks,” she said. “I’ll let you know.”

Poor John. He had a lot to think about.

I was smiling as I went upstairs to get ready for a date with Clarke. I had been so pleased when he actually called and asked me to save the evening for him that I’d positively sputtered. I’m sure I did.

At one point in my preparations I glanced at myself in the mirror and was surprised by my sparkling eyes and high color. “What am I going to do with you, woman?” I grinned at myself, and then I stared in disbelief at my cheek.

Where Hawk had gotten me with his fang, I now had a little scar that made a perfect dimple! I smiled again to make certain, and voilà! There was that dimple again.

I’d always wanted a dimple. When I was growing up, I had a friend named Marly who was a beautiful blonde with naturally curly hair. She floated when she walked and wore soft yellows and creams and baby blue. And she had a dimple in each cheek. All the boys swarmed to her, and when she favored them with a smile, the dimples knocked them mute.

And now I had a dimple too! I no longer wanted to be a powder blue blonde—too anemic—but I loved my new dimple. When Clarke showed up, I was careful to smile as broadly as I could. I did not knock him mute.

“How’d you like to see Adam Hurlbert in action?” he asked as we walked to his car.

“You’re taking me to a thousand-dollar-a-plate dinner! How nice! I’m so glad I’m wearing my best jeans and red jacket.”

Clarke had the most gorgeous smile, which he flashed my way. “He’s speaking at a rally at Park City Mall at six. We could listen to him and then go get dinner.”

“Happy days are here again,” I sang. “Sounds good to me.”

We found a large crowd gathered at one end of the parking lot at Park City and joined them.

“Shall we push our way to the front?” Clarke asked.

I looked at the wall of backs we’d have to work our way through and said, “I think I like it right here.”

A raised platform waited for Adam and Irene, its folding chairs, podium, and red, white, and blue bunting looking jaunty.

It wasn’t too long before a helicopter appeared overhead and lowered itself to the ground amid a great rush of wind and gravel. Obviously, Adam and his campaign people had a handle on the effect of that cornerstone of good theater, the entrance.

“Only fifteen minutes late,” Clarke said. “Not bad.”

“Whetting our appetites.”

The door of the helicopter opened and Adam and Irene stepped out, flanked by advisors and security and followed by the detestable Nelson waving as though he was the candidate.

The lead people cut a path through the crowd, much as Moses split the Red Sea. People fell back willingly, standing on tiptoe to catch a glimpse of the celebrities. Cheers of “Yea, Adam!” and “Hurlbert for president!” rang above the high school band that played “God Bless America.”

“Hurlbert for president?” I said.

“A partisan who plans ahead,” Clarke replied.

He reached out to rest a hand on my shoulder just as a very round, very enthusiastic lady pushed between us and stopped there. I looked over her head at Clarke, who shrugged helplessly.

The woman held a handmade sign painted on a yellow pillowcase, waving it vigorously over her head. I had to duck to avoid getting it flung into the side of my head.
Hurlbert today to save the USA
it read.

Suddenly she planted herself firmly about two inches from my shoulder, put her fingers between her teeth and gave the loudest, shrillest whistle I’d ever heard. Everyone nearby looked dazed at the sound coming from this rotund woman. I was certain I was permanently deafened.

I couldn’t help laugh as I watched Clarke, glassy eyed, give an abrupt head shake to clear his unexpected case of tinnitus. The din in my own head gradually lessened, just in time for the next verbal onslaught.

“Come here, Barney!” the woman screamed at a decibel level OSHA would declare required ear protection for anyone within miles. She reached through the crowd to a little old man wearing a scowl of heroic proportions and a parka three sizes too big. I got the distinct impression that he wished he were anywhere but here, especially when she plucked him bodily to stand beside her, separating me farther from Clarke.