The Letters (9 page)

Delia Stoltz didn’t know which was worse: the discomfort and soreness from yesterday’s lumpectomy, waiting to hear from the doctor if the margins were clear, or waking up fresh to the knowledge that her husband was gone and he would never come back. Her life would never be all right again.

Her bed felt huge and empty now, and when she slept, she did so with her arm around a pillow. She dreamed of Charles almost every night, sometimes good dreams of happy and joyful times; mostly, terrible dreams of abandonment, loss, and sorrow.

The phone rang and rang. All Delia Stoltz wanted was to be alone. She was sore from the lumpectomy. The only call she wanted was from Dr. Zimmerman’s with the pathology report about the sentinel node biopsy—and don’t expect that for a week or ten days, they had said. Why did it have to take so long? She tried to focus on the good news, that the cancer seemed to have been caught in early stages, and that the initial tests in the hospital looked like the lymph node was clear of cancer cells. But she knew enough to wait for results from the extensive testing before she could allow herself to feel relieved.

Each time the phone rang, she jumped. And each time it turned out to be someone other than the doctor, she became more and more irritable. Like now. Caller ID showed it to be Charles’s office. She hadn’t seen Charles since the day he left. He had called a few times, but she had never picked up
her phone. The messages he left infuriated her—patronizing, with avuncular concern.

Slowly, she got up from the wing chair she’d been sitting in. The pain from the incision made her wince a little as she rose to her feet. In the kitchen, she filled the teakettle and put it on to boil. The phone rang again. Maybe Charles was finally feeling remorse and regret over his impulsive behavior. Maybe he wanted to come home. She hurried to the phone and picked it up without looking at Caller I.D. “Hello?”

“Hello, Mrs. Stoltz, I’m calling for Robyn Dixon.” Robyn Dixon, Charles’s attorney, daughter of Henry Dixon, who handled their living trust. Henry was semi-retired and had passed many of his clients on to Robyn. She was representing Charles in a malpractice suit, the first he had encountered in twenty-five years of neurosurgery. “Ms. Dixon would like you and Dr. Stoltz to meet her at the office tomorrow afternoon to go over some initial paperwork for the—”

“For the what?”
What did Charles want? A divorce?

“Legal separation,” she said. “Two o’clock, tomorrow afternoon. Do you know where the office is? Shall I send a car?”

To make sure I get there?
“No. I can manage just fine.”

Softer now, the assistant added, “Mrs. Stoltz, would you like to have your attorney present? I could call your attorney and set it up.”

Delia swallowed. She thought Robyn Dixon
was
her attorney. “Yes. Please call Henry Dixon and tell him I will require his presence at tomorrow’s meeting.”

She could practically hear the whirl of confusion in the assistant’s mind. “I’m not sure that would be appropriate—”

“My teakettle is whistling.” Delia put the phone down on its cradle and stared at it for a long while.

The next day, just two days after the lumpectomy, it took Delia most of the morning to get ready for the two o’clock meeting. She wanted to look her best, her absolute best, and she was determined to keep Charles from learning of her surgery. She had warned Dr. Zimmerman’s office to keep this private, and even had the surgery done using her maiden name, just to avoid any chance that someone might recognize her name and inform Charles. She had all kinds of feelings about Charles—deep anger, betrayal, even hatred. And love, yes, love. How could you shut that off after twenty-seven years? They had raised a wonderful child together. She didn’t know what she wanted from Charles today, but not pity. Never pity.

She allowed herself an hour to get to Robyn Dixon’s office and was grateful for the extra time when she noticed the fuel warning light for her gas tank. She sighed. She pulled into the gas station and stared at the pumps for a while, trying to figure out which buttons to push. As busy as Charles was, he had always taken care of these little things for her. He didn’t want her to ever pump her own gas.

Suddenly it all seemed too much. Too much to deal with, too much to figure out on her own. She was trying her best to put up a brave front, but it was too hard. Everything was too painful. A tear rolled down her cheek.

Now she knew what she wanted out of this meeting today: she wanted Charles to stop this nonsense and come home. She didn’t want a legal separation or a divorce. Tears came faster now, streaming down her cheeks, one after another after another. Her face would look red and puffy for this meeting. And she had worked so hard to look good today.

“Darlin’, can I help you with something? Are you having trouble with that pump?” A woman fit the gas nozzle into
Delia’s car and pushed the right button to start the fuel. Delia stared at her. She had sprigs of bright red hair jutting up from her head like a firecracker in mid-explosion. “My name’s Lois.”

Embarrassed, Delia swallowed back her tears. “I’m sorry. I’ve just had too much on my plate lately.”

“Oh, I know how that can be. I surely do. About once a month, my Tony and me have to get out of the city and clear the cobwebs. We like to head over to Amish country and breathe some fresh air.” She picked up the squeegee and started to wash down Delia’s window, then squeegee the excess water off of it. Delia wondered if she might work here and if so, should she tip her? How much would be appropriate?

“Just last month,” Lois continued, “we went to a wonderful new place in Stoney Ridge and met this darling Amish family and we just feel so renewed and refreshed. My Tony can’t stop talking about that Amish gal’s blueberry cornbread. We came home feeling like we’d gone to Hawaii. Good as new.” She finished cleaning the window as the gas nozzle clicked. “I’m telling you, sugar. A trip to Lancaster County cures what ails you.” She patted Delia’s arm and turned to go.

Oh!
So Lois was a customer. Delia stared at the gas nozzle as Lois’s words sunk in.

Cured what ailed you? Renewed? Refreshed? Good as new? “Wait. Wait! Lois! Where did you say that Amish hotel was?”

Lois was getting into her car but popped her head back up, over the roof of the car. “Town is called Stoney Ridge, east of Lancaster. Off Route 30. Head to Main Street, turn right at the Sweet Tooth Bakery, drive a mile or so, and you can’t miss it. Big white farmhouse with an even bigger red barn. A goat is in the front pasture and sticks his head over the fence.
Tell that little innkeeper—Rose Schrock is her name—that Tony and Lois sent you. She’ll treat you right.” Lois climbed in the car, then popped her head back up again. “If you get lost, stop at the Sweet Tooth Bakery and ask where Rose lives. Be sure to get a cinnamon roll. Don’t miss that!” She waved goodbye and drove out of the gas station.

Delia got back in her car and glanced at the clock. One thirty. She drove to the attorney’s office, parked under a shade tree, and took a moment to reapply her lipstick in the rearview mirror. Across the parking lot, she saw Charles’s BMW pull in. She decided to wait until he went inside so she wouldn’t appear slow moving as she got out of the car. If she moved too fast, she felt dizzy, or pinched by pain, or both. Delia saw Charles reach over and kiss someone, a passenger in the car, then he jumped out of the car and hurried to the passenger side to open the door for the woman. He was practically skipping, with a lilt in his step that she hadn’t seen in years. When had he last opened her car door? She couldn’t remember.

Out of the car stepped Robyn Dixon. The other woman.

Delia’s heart felt like a jackhammer. She watched the two of them head into the office building, laughing together over something. Delia leaned her forehead against the steering wheel, trying to gather her thoughts, to pull herself together. She couldn’t do it. She couldn’t go to that meeting. She felt as if she might hyperventilate or have a coronary episode or have a seizure. Or all three. She started the car, drove out of the parking lot, stopped by the bank and withdrew as much cash as the ATM would permit, then headed west on I-76 to Lancaster County.

6

F
or a few days, Rose and the children were all a-flurry, setting things right in the basement, turning it into a cozy place. With everyone helping, the basement began to look like a real home. Sammy and Luke tumbled in and out, underfoot, but every time they got near, Rose gave them a chore.

Rose could hardly believe the transformation. It smelled different, looked different. She went around all the windowsills with a wet rag and then . . . it was ready for the first guest. Whenever, whoever, that might be. No one had stayed with them since the fellow who didn’t like the sounds of cows mooing in the morning. Rose felt a spike of worry, that all of this effort to create an inn would be for naught, but then she dismissed those doubts. Already, this venture was bringing the family together. Why, for that matter, the neighborhood too. Galen and Naomi had gone the extra mile for them. Good was coming out of it. God always had a plan, she reminded herself.

After she finished dusting, Rose walked through the rooms. She needed to get sheets on the beds, towels in the bathroom, maybe a few calendars to hang on the walls. She turned in a
circle and felt an inside-out excitement. She said a prayer over each room, asking God to fill it with his chosen guests—those who needed rest and refreshment. In his time.

Rose heard the boys shrieking outside, chasing each other. She was just about to tell them to stop acting like wild Indians when they disappeared. She closed the door to the basement, thinking about how she needed a different name than the basement. What was it Galen called it? A flat? Yes, that was it. She liked that idea, because it was flat. A guest flat.

A car pulled into the driveway and came to a stop. Ever so slowly, a woman opened the door and eased out. Rose stood at the window a minute studying her, wondering if she was lost and needed directions. She was tall and elegant, with pale hair pulled back in a bun. She wore dark sunglasses, but Rose could see that her features were fine, delicate. Suddenly the boys were back, whooping and hollering like they were being chased by a swarm of yellow jackets. Rose went out and shooed the boys away before she turned her attention to the driver of the car.

“By any chance are you Rose Schrock?” the woman asked, pulling her sunglasses off her face.

“Yes. Yes, that’s me.” Rose took a step closer. Something about the abject relief in the woman’s face spiked concern in Rose. “Are you all right?”

“I’d like to book a room at your hotel.”

Oh.
Oh!
A guest. A guest! “Well, I need to get fresh sheets on the bed, but then you would have the entire base—flat—to yourself. How long did you want to stay?”

The woman looked at the setting sun. “I have absolutely no idea.”

As Delia Stoltz got out of the car, she suddenly heard shrieks of laughter, and a little boy flew around the corner of the house, another slightly taller boy in hot pursuit. The boy in the lead ran to one of the sheds between the house and the barn and tried to hide in it, but his brother caught him before he could get inside, and they tusseled and shrieked. The older boy was trying to put something down the younger boy’s shirt and finally succeeded, at which point the smaller boy began to hop up and down while the older one ran off, laughing.

The mother, Rose Schrock, appeared out of the basement to the house. She wore a plum-colored dress and a matching apron and had a stack of sheets in her hands. Clearly out of temper, she yelled something in another language at the two boys, who immediately stopped their shrieking, looked at one another, and slowly approached her. Rose addressed herself to the older boy, who made some excuse, and the younger boy, in his own defense, pointed back toward the shed. She listened a minute and began to talk rapidly in a low voice, too low for Delia to hear. She was giving her sons the what for, Delia supposed.

At first Delia hesitated. If the woman were the quick-tempered type, perhaps she should get back in the car and leave. The last thing she needed right now was a woman out of temper. But as Delia watched her, she found she couldn’t stop looking at her. Her eyes flashed as she lectured her sons, neither of whom was taking the lecture silently—both were trying to talk back, but Rose Schrock didn’t pause to listen. She had abundant brown hair tucked into a bun, covered with
a thin organza cap, though the bun had partly come loose in little ringlets around the nape of her neck. Her eyes were gray and warm, fringed by dark lashes and framed by dark eyebrows. She was quite pretty, without a stitch of makeup.