The Letters (5 page)

Galen’s dark eyebrows lifted in surprise. “Wammer eppes oft dutt, waert mer’s gewehnt.”
Do a thing often and it becomes a habit.

She gave him a sharp look. Was that Galen’s way of commenting on Dean’s character? Or lack of. He had known Dean for many years, but Rose didn’t realize that he understood his nature too. One more thing she had underestimated about Galen.

He kept his eyes fixed on her. “I find it hard to believe that Vera would go along with this idea.”

“I haven’t quite . . . told her yet.” Galen opened his mouth to say something, but Rose beat him to the punch. “I know. I know. I will tell her. I just wanted to sort a few things out first.”

Galen let out a puff of air. “Good luck with that.”

3

B
ethany rolled up her spare clothes and stuffed them in her cubby, pinned her prayer cap into place, then slipped out the kitchen door of the Stoney Ridge Bar & Grill. She had to hurry. She needed to get to the post office before the mail went out at three. She had received a letter from Jake Hertzler yesterday and wrote one back, immediately.

Jake wrote, regularly at first, then with less frequency. Sometimes, when weeks had gone by with no word from him, Bethany would get angry and tell herself that she was going to end it and move on with her life. After all, they were only about an hour apart and he had never come to visit her, not once, despite her many invitations. But about the time she told herself it was over, a letter from Jake would arrive full of apologies, explanations, and the endearments she longed to hear, and she would forgive him yet again. She let out a sigh. Jake was lucky to have her. Not many girls would be as patient and understanding as she was.

She needed to drop by the farmers’ market and pick up a bag of Brussels sprouts from the Salad Stall to take home later today. She paid the young man, Chris Yoder—whom she
happened to know was courting her friend, M.K. Lapp—for the Brussels sprouts and retrieved the scooter she hid behind the market dumpster each morning. Her sister, Mim, didn’t like any green vegetables, but lately she was willing to try Brussels sprouts, if smothered in fried bacon. Two weeks ago, it was broccoli. Mim’s finicky eating habits were beneficial to Bethany. Bringing things home from the farmers’ market served as a beneficial decoy.

Rose was under the impression that Bethany worked at the farmers’ market five days a week, and Bethany didn’t feel any compulsion to correct that impression. She couldn’t remember how that impression got started—maybe, when she told Rose that she had
applied
for a job at the farmers’ market. But the only job Bethany was
offered
came from the Stoney Ridge Bar & Grill. So she took it. And on a dare one day from another waitress, Ivy, she wore English clothing. Her tips doubled that day. Tripled the next. Since then, Bethany kept spare English clothing in her cubby and changed into them each day. The good thing was that no Amish ever came into the Stoney Ridge Bar & Grill.

Too expensive. Too worldly. In that order.

The bad thing was, she was living a whopper of a lie. But that was a worry for another day. A person shouldn’t worry about too much at one time. Women were prone to worry and men didn’t like women who worried too much. She had read that very thing in
A Young Woman’s Guide to Virtue
, published in 1948, one of the few books allowed in her grandmother’s house besides the Holy Bible and the
Ausbund
and the
Martyrs Mirror
. All very serious stuff for a nineteen-year-old girl.

She had retrieved her hidden scooter from behind the dumpster when she heard someone call out her name—a young
Amish fellow from her church. She had never noticed him. Maybe once or twice. His name was Jimmy Fisher, he was dangerously good-looking, and anyone could see that he thought he was something special. All the girls at church talked about him as if he could charm the daylight out of the sky.

She had to walk the scooter through the farmers’ market to reach the road, but she kept up a quick pace, ignoring Jimmy Fisher.

“Hey! Hey, Bethany! Bethany Schrock!”

Too late.

Bethany didn’t slow down but turned her chin slightly, just to acknowledge his existence. Just to be polite. Not so that he would think she had any idea who he was.

Jimmy jogged to catch up to her. “I don’t think we’ve formally been introduced. Aren’t you a friend of M.K. Lapp’s?”

She slowed to a stop. Just to be polite. “Maybe,” she said coolly. So, she was face-to-face with the famous Mr. Irresistible.
A Young Woman’s Guide to Virtue
warned of forward and bold young men. They were to be avoided. She started walking on her way.

Jimmy followed behind. “Couldn’t you slow down for a moment. Be sociable?”

Bethany turned to face him. It occurred to her that he might just be friendly.

Jimmy took off his hat, held it to his chest, and grinned. “I’m James Fisher, proprietor of Fisher Hatchery. Friends call me Jimmy.” He thumped his heart.
Thump, thump, thump.
“My heart leaps to make your acquaintance.”

She tried not to roll her eyes. “Well, James, I am in a hurry.”

“You’re always in a hurry. I see you zooming in and out of here each day. But I can’t quite figure out what the big hurry
is.” Jimmy stroked his chin, deep in thought. “That scooter gets stashed behind the dumpster and you seem to disappear. Makes a fellow wonder where a girl spends her day.” His blue eyes sparkled with mischief.

M.K. Lapp had warned her to stay clear of Jimmy Fisher—that he was crazier than a loon. Right now, he didn’t strike her as unhinged—more like a fellow who was too clever for his own good. His was a charming scalawag’s smile, and she trusted it for about as long as it took to blink.

Jimmy took a step closer to her. “Maybe if you let me take you home in my buggy, we could get to know each other.” He took another step toward her. “I can keep secrets.”

In such situations,
A Young Woman’s Guide to Virtue
recommended that a young woman hold up her head, ignore such ungentlemanly behavior, and quietly remove herself. Remain pious and ladylike at all times, the book said. Unflappable. Imperturbable.

He wiggled his eyebrows in an outrageously flirtatious manner. “What do you say, good-looking?”

Shootfire!
The arrogance of this fellow really ground Bethany’s grits. She narrowed her eyes and planted her fists on her hips. “You, Mr. Irresistible, can just take your buggy and—”

“Bethany! Mom’s looking for you!” Luke and Sammy ran up to her, red-faced and panting. “Mammi Vera’s having a sinking spell!”

Rose had waited for just the right moment to speak to Vera about turning the basement into an inn. The right moment had yet to come, but she couldn’t wait any longer. She had stopped by the phone shanty to pick up her messages
and discovered a paying guest wanted to arrive tomorrow. He said his cousin Tony had recommended the place to him after learning he had a business trip in Lancaster County. Rose’s first reaction was sheer panic. This was all happening too fast! She wasn’t in a position to have people stay at the farm yet—the basement would take time and work to get into shape. That meant a guest would have to stay in the house . . . and this particular guest happened to be a
man
. A stranger. This was a bad idea. A very bad idea.

But on the heels of that thought came another one. Maybe this turn of events was from God. After all, the entire idea came about because she had opened the conversation with God. At Galen’s urging, she had gathered her courage one afternoon and driven over to Bishop Elmo’s. He met her out by her buggy and listened, without any hint of expression, as she explained about the inn. A thoughtful, kindly man, he stroked his scraggly white beard for a moment, then his face brightened and he clapped his hands together in delight—as if he had only wished he’d thought of it himself. She left with his blessing and a lightness in her heart.

Maybe God was encouraging her to step out in faith and trust that it would all work out. This man wasn’t entirely a stranger—he was a cousin of Tony’s, who seemed like a good man. She remembered that one-hundred-dollar bill Tony had slipped into her palm. Think how nice it would be to have some steady income right now.

Rose picked up the phone and called Tony’s cousin. She tried to sound as if she did this every day of her life—took reservations and gave directions to find the farm. As she hung up the phone, she blew out a puff of air. She had to face Dean’s mother about this . . . new venture. She couldn’t keep hiding guests in the house.

She rubbed her face. How often must Vera rue the fact that she was the one who encouraged Dean to move his family to Stoney Ridge?

While Rose had been grateful for her mother-in-law’s provision of a home, especially after Dean had passed, she knew Vera well enough to know she had an ulterior motive to such a generous offer. Not long after Dean’s funeral, Vera spelled out her expectations: return to the Old Order Amish church and all that went with it—school, clothing, no car, no electricity.

“Those are my rules,” Vera told Rose firmly. To Vera’s way of thinking, this was the chance to bring her grandchildren back to their roots, back to where she felt they belonged.

“Fine,” Rose said without any objection, which shocked Vera. Rose had never minded standing up to Vera, but she was prepared for this. She had been raised Old Order but left the church, long ago, before she had been baptized. She sensed that she needed to keep the family intact and united, so she went through the instruction classes, confessed her sins, renounced the world, and joined the church. That vow wasn’t made to a group of people, but to God. She felt joined, like a limb to a tree, to the church and to her family and to God.

The children went along with it—switching schools, adjusting their clothing, selling the old minivan. Even Bethany was accommodating, though she said she wasn’t ready to attend instruction classes with Rose.

Aside from missing the convenience of her minivan, Rose and the children adapted surprisingly well to the lifestyle change. They had always spoken the Penn Dutch language in their home, and they were familiar with Old Order ways from visits to Vera’s home. In so many areas, they were making adjustments and weathering the storm.

But another storm started to brew. Vera had become forgetful. She misplaced objects, forgot dates right after she looked at the calendar, couldn’t remember little words like “hat” or “horse,” or she would say another word in its place. She had weakness in her right side. The doctor diagnosed it as a series of mini-strokes, brought on by stress. This doctor put her on a blood thinner and gave her daily exercises.

Even if Rose wanted to leave (and to be entirely truthful, she often did), how could she ever justify it? Dean had been Vera’s only son.

Rose pulled open the curtains to let the natural light into the room. “It’s a beautiful day today. Spring will be here soon.”

Vera blinked her eyes. “Where’s Bethany? I only want Bethany.”

Rose sighed. “Bethany works each day at the farmers’ market. She’ll be home after three. I have time now to help you with your exercises.”

“I’ll do them later. With Bethany.”

“We need to do these every morning and every afternoon. The doctor explained that to you.”

“Women shouldn’t be doctors.”

And thus began the morning routine with her mother-in-law. Rose slowly coaxed Vera’s right hand open, rubbed lotion into each little nook and cranny. “The doctor said that hands often curl up tight when someone suffers apoplexy.”

“She was a quack.”

“She wasn’t a quack. She said your strokes are causing this weakness, but in time you’ll regain some of these skills. She said these exercises will help keep your fingers limber.”

“That’s enough for now.”

“Each one needs to be bent and straightened half a dozen times, and your wrist needs to be rotated.” A routine of exercises needed to be done twice a day, morning and night, and Rose or Bethany did them faithfully. While Rose patiently started working Vera’s fingers in her lifeless right arm, Vera kept a steady stream of rebukes, complaints, and criticism flowing. No amount of soothing calmed her.