When Grace Sings (5 page)

Pride swelled at Grandmother’s compliment, but Alexa formed a modest rejoinder. “Without Mr. Aldrich’s know-how, I would never have been able to transform the old summer kitchen into a guest cottage. I’m glad he had time in his schedule to get it done for me.”

“Amazing how much things have changed in such a short amount of time.” Grandmother’s tone turned reflective. “Six months ago my house wasn’t handicap accessible, I was living here alone, you were living in Indiana, and I didn’t even know I had a granddaughter named Alexa.” A smile trembled on her lips. She reached across the table, took Alexa’s hands, and squeezed tight. “You’re such a blessing to me.”

“You are my gift.”
Mom’s voice echoed in Alexa’s memory. Tears stung. She missed Mom so much. All her childhood, it was just her and Mom. How strange to be so far away from her, yet Alexa knew she was where she was supposed to be. Even so, she couldn’t wait until Thanksgiving when Mom would visit and see everything Alexa had accomplished in the past few months.

“And I think having a long-term guest is a blessing, too.” Grandmother released Alexa’s hands to scoop up the last rolls of silverware and plop them into the basket. “I wondered if you’d have any business at all in the fall and winter months.”

Alexa had wondered the same thing, especially since the representative from the Kansas Bed-and-Breakfast Inns Association had indicated many inns closed during the winter. But she’d gone ahead and spent the money to advertise anyway, wanting to get her B and B listed on Internet search engines. And that’s how the newspaper man from Chicago had found her. So it all worked out well in spite of Uncle Clete and Aunt Shelley’s dismal predictions. She wanted to succeed. Not to prove Clete and Shelley wrong, but to prove to them she could do something worthwhile. She needed their approval. Maybe too much.

Rising, she grabbed the basket of silverware and then carried it to the antique sideboard where she stored the plates, mugs, and glassware for guests. She wasn’t allowed to keep the guests’ dishes in the kitchen with those she and Grandmother used. Being an innkeeper required her to know and follow state guidelines as well as be a good cook, a maid, a greeter, and a bookkeeper. What a challenge! But she could handle it. Her mother had taught her she could do anything through Christ, who gave her strength.

Grandmother rolled her wheelchair around the end of the table toward the living room. “If you need to prepare anything for tomorrow’s breakfast, I’ll be happy to watch the road for the next arrivals.”

“I don’t really have anything to do tonight, but thanks.” Alexa intended to stir up a sausage-and-hash-brown casserole and bake cranberry-and-walnut-filled apples for breakfast. With all male guests expected, she decided she should avoid making strawberry crepes or miniature spinach-mushroom quiches. She looked forward to preparing the fun dishes for couples next spring and summer.

She helped her grandmother transfer from her wheelchair to the sofa, then retrieved her basket of crocheting hooks and yarn. Once Grandmother was occupied, Alexa crossed to the window and looked out. The bright-red sports car—an unusual sight in little Arborville—caught her eye. Such a pretentious vehicle, one guaranteed to garner attention. The same way Briley Forrester’s movie-star appearance captured attention. Alexa folded her arms across her
waist as fingers of awareness tiptoed up her spine. As Grandmother had said, she’d need to watch herself. Given his unbelievable good looks and easy means of flattery, the man had probably left a trail of broken hearts in his wake. She didn’t want to add hers to the number.

She turned and sent a slight frown toward her grandmother. “The man who’s coming with his son … the Brungardts? Did you say they have ties to Arborville?”

Grandmother lowered the hall-finished doily. “That’s right. Mr. Brungardt’s wife, Claudia, was a Meiers. She grew up on the farm next to ours. My Cecil started renting their land when old Mr. Meiers passed away, then Clete took up farming the acreage after Cecil died.” Her brows pulled low. “Clete said the Brungardts asked to meet him at the farmstead tomorrow afternoon. I hope there isn’t a problem.”

“I guess we’ll know when—” The sound of a car’s approach pulled Alexa’s attention to the window again. A solid gray sedan with black spray-painted bumpers, obviously a vehicle driven by a member of an Old Order sect, inched up the lane. She shrugged. “I was going to say ‘when they get here.’ And I’m pretty sure that’s now.”

Steven

“Whew.” Steven shook his head and stared at the house through the car’s windshield. Dusk was falling, but there was enough remaining light to see that the farmhouse was painted like a circus tent. “Anna—Grace told me her great-aunt’s house had a new paint job, but I didn’t expect anything so …” He wasn’t sure how to describe it.

Dad pulled his sedan next to a red sports car and turned off the engine. He frowned first at the car and then at the house. “I don’t know what to think. A fancy car beside the barn. A fancy house. Your mother would be shocked. It wasn’t like this when she lived next door.”

Steven wasn’t shocked. He was intrigued. But he wouldn’t say so.

Dad went on, his expression dour and tone forbidding. “It must be the influence of that granddaughter of Abigail Zimmerman’s. She was raised in the world, you know.”

Steven vaguely recalled the Brauns talking at a Sunday fellowship dinner about the return of one of the Zimmerman daughters, who brought a grownup daughter home with her. Mom had been encouraged by the story, saying it meant there was hope Kevin would come back, too, someday, but Steven hadn’t paid much attention. What did he care about some family he’d never met? Now he wished he’d listened more closely.

Dad tapped his chin with his finger, his scowl deep. “Maybe we should have waited and come over in the morning instead. Maybe it’s not such a good idea for us to give our money to someone who isn’t of our sect.”

Steven didn’t think it would be any different than buying groceries from one of the big chains or a car from the dealer in Salina. Plus, in his opinion, it wasn’t right to make a reservation and then not honor it. Obviously the innkeeper was waiting for them—yellow porch lights glowed a warm welcome. But it was useless to argue with his father. So he waited in silence for Dad to decide what to do.

After several long minutes, Dad huffed a breath, got out, and headed for the house. Even though he hadn’t invited Steven to go with him, he followed anyway. The pathway was lined by glass balls that flickered first red, then blue, then green, reminding Steven of tiny fireworks. Color everywhere he looked. So unlike home. A thread of eagerness to see what else was different here sped his steps.

The front door opened and a smiling girl stepped onto the porch. She moved to its edge and waved. Although not attired like an Old Order Mennonite, her clothes were modest, her hairstyle simple, and she hadn’t slathered her face with makeup. After getting a look at her car and the way the house was painted, Steven had expected something different. Something more. He couldn’t decide whether he was disappointed or relieved by her humble appearance.

“Good evening,” the girl called. “Are you the Brungardts?”

Dad stopped at the bottom of the porch stairs. “That’s right.”

The girl’s smile widened. “It’s so nice to meet you. I’m Alexa Zimmerman. Welcome to Grace Notes.”

Steven wanted to climb the steps and go right inside, but Dad didn’t move.

“Is your grandmother here?”

Alexa Zimmerman didn’t seem put off by Dad’s brusqueness. Her smile remained in place and she gave a nod, linking her hands and laying them against her skirt front. “Yes, she is. She’s been watching for you. I think she’s eager to visit with someone from Sommerfeld since her nephews live there.”

His face set in an uncertain frown, Dad stared at the girl for a few seconds. Then he gave a nod and turned to Steven. “Go get our case.”

Steven swallowed a smile. He guessed they were staying.

Briley

Briley carried one of the ancient chairs—the one that appeared the sturdiest—from the table to the front stoop and settled his frame into it. Had it been up to him, pretty much every piece of furniture in the cottage would have been hauled to the dump a long time ago, but he could make do for three months. He had a lifetime’s worth of experience of making do.

He eased into the chair, cringing when its joints complained, and opened the cover on his electronic notebook. As he hit the On button, a movement to his right caught his attention. A dog with shaggy black-and-white fur trotted toward him. For a moment he tensed. Would the thing attack? But then he saw the dog’s tongue lolling from its open mouth and its flag-like tail wagging in a friendly swish.

“Well, hi there.” Briley stuck out his hand and let the dog sniff it over. “You live around here?” Of course, the creature didn’t reply, but it gave his hand a swipe with its warm, velvety tongue, then flopped down on the stoop next to Briley’s chair and rested its head on its paws. Briley laughed, pleased more than he could explain by the dog’s presence. He gave its soft ears a quick scratch. “Sorry, fella, but I have work to do. You can stick around, though, if you want to.”

The dog rhythmically
thump-thumped
its tail against the stoop as Briley propped the notebook on his knee. The evening air was cool but not overly so,
sufficiently blocked by his leather bomber jacket. A single lantern mounted next to the door gave off enough light for him to see. He began typing, his process slow and deliberate as he chose the little squares representing letters.

He typed a lengthy description of the businesses and of what he’d glimpsed through the windows. Len would laugh about all those oil lamps. Then he turned his attention to the farm that would be his temporary home.

The third descriptor stilled his fingers.
Peaceful
wasn’t something he’d experienced much. Not as a child being shuffled from foster home to foster home, and not as an adult living in the middle of a big, bustling city.

He lifted his head and gave his current surroundings a slow examination. A long clothesline stretched from one end of the yard to the other, the wire shining in the moonlight. No trash blew across the ground or gathered along the house’s foundation. Lights burned behind windows in the farmhouse, several on the first floor and two on the second. The glow became a beacon as darkness crept across the landscape. The insistent chirp of a cricket—or maybe a herd of them—combined with the soft whistle of the wind. Scents he couldn’t recognize filled his nostrils. Earthy scents. Not unpleasant.

Using the hunt-and-peck method, he tapped out
fresh-smelling
, then glanced at his list and chuckled. So far everything he’d recorded about the locale was exactly what Len said everyone wanted to believe.
“There’s gotta be dirt there, Briley,”
Len had told him during his last morning in the office, his
expression earnest as he slipped into what Briley called his reporter mode.
“Find the dirt. Disprove all that peaceful, smiley, turn-the-other-cheek nonsense that makes people want to visit their communities and bow down in admiration. Let’s show the real truth of being trapped in the Plain lifestyle.”

Sitting there with his new furry pal, drinking in the pleasant quiet, Briley wondered if Len might be wrong. He hoped not, because if he couldn’t uncover dirt, he wouldn’t have a story. And he desperately wanted the story. His first major byline. The teachers who shook their heads in dismay at his struggle to read, the foster parents who declared he’d never amount to anything, the class bullies who called him “big dummy”—wouldn’t all of them be shocked to discover how wrong they’d been about him when Briley Forrester’s name appeared under a lead story? And the
Real Scoop
needed a story that would capture the public’s eye before it collapsed like so many other periodicals.

He’d keep his ears and eyes wide open. He’d peek beneath the surface of these people. He’d find dirt. One way or another, he’d find it and expose it for all the world to see.

No rooster announced the dawn, but Briley’s cell phone alarm blared out the theme from
Star Wars
and brought him fully awake at seven o’clock. He groaned as he rolled off the mattress of the strangest bed he’d ever seen. Before crawling into it last night, he’d given it a careful look-over. Home built of sturdy wood and with a jointed metal frame, it actually folded up against the wall when it wasn’t in use. If Alexa—he might have to call her
Miss Zimmerman
, but he wouldn’t think of her as anything but Alexa—hadn’t already had it down and made up for him, he might not have even found it. The contraption squeaked every time he moved, but he had to admit the mattress was of good quality. Once he’d put in earplugs—something he always used at home but hadn’t thought would be necessary in these
peaceful
surroundings—he slept fairly well.