A Simple Winter: A Seasons of Lancaster Novel (5 page)

Sometimes she needed to reconnect with the only true home she’d ever had—even if that meant gazing from the curbside.

Turning in the driver’s seat, Remy hugged herself at the notion that the old house was grinning at her, its two porch columns goofy white fangs hanging over the grin of the wide double doors. This was the home of her youth, the house where her mother had sung her to sleep with lullabies, served her hot corn bread dripping with honey, helped her capture fireflies on summer nights. Just sitting here, staring at the brick façade, brought her back to those
days, a halcyon period when she’d thrived in her mother’s embrace, wrapped in boundless love.

At the time she had not thought it possible that those sweet days could end so abruptly. How could she have known … a seven-year-old girl who’d lost her mother overnight from heart failure? In her grief and confusion Remy could not imagine how her life would change after her mom’s death. She had not expected to lose her father to another woman, her home to a larger mansion in a tonier neighborhood, a cold box of high ceilings and wrought-iron grillwork that reminded her of prison bars.

A house where loneliness echoed in the spacious corridors.

Pulling the collar of her jacket up to cover her neck, Remy shook her head at the idea that Herb’s second wife, Sonja Allen, had chosen the house in Wynnewood over this. Maybe it was about helping Herb move on. More likely Sonja had been looking for a home that would boost their social status. Either way, the house and the marriage had been history before the year’s end.

Remy’s search for a home had almost been fulfilled during her time in New York, when she and her friends had set up housekeeping in a Greenwich Village apartment. During college Kiara and Dakota had become the sisters she’d always longed for. The arrangement had been so copacetic that, despite the fact that Remy knew the end was inevitable, she had been crestfallen when her friends finished their degrees and moved on.

Although Remy had moved back to Herb’s Drexel Hill townhouse, which was walking distance from the newspaper offices, the arrangement had lasted less than a month. Remy had felt like she was imposing on strangers, and Herb’s third wife had done nothing to allay her discomfort. It was no surprise that Loretta did not object when Remy asked Herb to fund a small apartment for her until she got on solid financial footing.

The apartment, Remy’s current home, was small and sleek, a lonely island in a fabulous location near the Museum District. Was it home? She shook her head as she let her eyes blur over the brick house that seemed to be wrapped in a halo of light. No, the apartment wasn’t home. More like a safe resting place.

She wondered if Herb ever missed this house, this place chock-full of heart and memories. Having lasted more than ten years now, wife number three—and the townhouse—seemed to be working out for her father. Herb had his family, though it didn’t really include Remy. Having just come from dinner at Herb’s, she felt her outsider status acutely. Loretta and her teenaged daughter, Heather, had been conspicuously absent from the meal of gourmet take-out food.

“They’re at the nail salon,” Herb had explained, “doing that mother-daughter thing.”

Although Remy had shrugged it off as if it didn’t matter, it hurt to be ignored. Would it have killed Loretta and Heather to join them, sit at the dinner table and pretend for just one night that they cared? She knew Loretta didn’t like her. Did Loretta think of her as Herb’s grown daughter who occasionally came around to hit up her father for rent money?

In the year that she’d been back in Philadelphia, things between Remy and her father had improved. She had learned how to express herself without making him angry, and Herb had figured out that, occasionally, he needed to shut up and listen to his daughter. They had taken baby steps, but Herb still had a long way to go, and Remy sensed that Loretta felt threatened by any hint of a relationship between father and daughter.

Herb’s gift twinkled on the passenger seat, and Remy picked up the cellophane-wrapped treat that her father had given her—a glazed marzipan heart for Valentine’s Day. An early gift, he’d said. It
was a nice gesture, a concoction pretty as an ornament or brooch, but she knew it would be a ball of sugar in her mouth, cloying and overly sweet.

Okay, Herb was trying. She had to give him that. Still …

She dropped the cellophane bag on the floor and leaned toward the friendly house framed by her car window. How she longed to wrap her arms around those porch columns, check the backyard for the tree swing, and peer between the balusters along the stairs for lingering traces of the love and joy that once blossomed there. Her heart ached for the lilac bushes that once hid her in hide-and-seek, the lawn where she’d made snowmen and snow angels, the room beyond that second-story window on the left that had once held her bed and books and stuffed animals. Stretched out on the bed, Mom by her side, she had traveled to story lands of friendly monsters and bulls, purple crayons and green eggs.

How her heart ached to visit that world one last time.

If only she could go home …

Her eyes were fixed on her old bedroom window when she caught a flicker of movement that made her pulse quicken. Was it just the reflection of a wavering tree branch? Or was someone watching from the window?

She would have to leave soon. She wasn’t exactly trespassing, but she didn’t want to disturb anyone in the neighborhood.

Wind whipped around the car, bringing down the temperature inside. Barren branches danced in front of her old bedroom window, like fingers wagging away the past.

You can’t go back.

You cannot return to the past.

You can’t go home again.

ears were everywhere.

Round black bears walking two by two. They meandered down the road in small packs. They forged ahead, flattening winter grass under their heavy paws.

They didn’t seem angry now, but he knew that could change in a heartbeat. With one flash of anger, he could be dead.

On his knees so that he could peer out of their moving carriage, Simon shivered. “The bears are following us,” he said aloud. When one of the bears nodded its black head at him, he ducked down, his heart hammering in his chest.

Simon squeezed his eyes shut and waited for the pounding in his chest to stop. He shouldn’t have told Mammi what he saw. The grown-ups didn’t like to hear about bears. Whenever he talked about it, they got mad. So he tried not to talk about it.

“Sit down on the seat, right and proper,” his grandmother said. “You’ve nothing to fear out there.” Mammi turned her head, casting
a look at the country road. “See that? Just folk making their way to Sunday worship.”

A quick peek told him Mammi was right. No bears. Just Amish families walking to the service, two by two and in groups of three, kids straggling behind their mamms and dats.

Still, his heart drummed in his chest. Sometimes the rattling fear lingered there. “They looked like bears for a minute,” he said, trying to explain so his grandmother wouldn’t be cross. In their dress-up clothes, women bundled in dark shawls and kapps, men in black broadfall trousers, coats, and hats, they could have been bears. Dark figures against the pale glaze of snow.

Ruthless creatures who killed without warning.

You had to watch for bears. He knew because he’d seen it. He knew. Mammi knew a lot of things. She was a wise woman. But she didn’t have much experience with bears.

“You’d be better served practicing your prayers than staring out at the road.” His grandmother’s dark eyes were as shiny as glass, and the lines formed by the crinkles at the edge of each eye forked and spread like the veins of a leaf. “Have you learned the Lord’s Prayer yet?”

“Ya, Mammi.”

“And the Loblied?”

“I’ve been practicing,” he said.

“Gut.” Mammi Nell patted his arm, her touch firm but loving. “Keep practicing so you can walk into preaching service with the boys. Your mamm wanted all her boys to know the Loblied first.”

He nodded, knowing that Mammi was right. His mother had started him learning the hymn when he was seven. Sunday was an important day for his mamm. On days when they had church service the buzz of activity started right after the morning milking. Breakfast would be quick—scrapple with some raisin bread or
sweet rolls. Then Mamm shooed them to their rooms, where their special Sunday clothes were laid out on their beds.

Simon still wore the Sunday trousers Mamm had sewn. They were now too tight, but he wasn’t ready to give them up to be put away for Sam to wear one day. Simon shifted on the leather seat of the carriage, wincing at the way the pants gripped his waist. Surely Mary would sew him a new pair if he told her they were too small. Just like she’d replaced his work clothes when he’d grown out of ’em. But he hadn’t gotten around to saying anything just yet. These were the clothes Mamm had made with her own hands. These were the trousers she washed and ironed for him. Preacher David had warned against becoming attached to material things, but Simon didn’t think a pair of pants could matter to God. It wasn’t so much the trousers themselves as the love that went into them. All those times Mamm washed ’em and fed ’em through the wringer …

That was a lot of love.

And it helped to think of the love instead of the terrible thing that had happened to Mamm and Dat. Just thinking about it brought night to his insides.

So what if his Sunday pants were snug?

Ruthie had told him he was
verhuddelt
, that Mamm and Dat were in heaven with God and it was a sin to pretend any other way. “When God calls someone to heaven, they go,” she’d told him, her amber eyes stern as Mammi Nell’s.

Maybe Ruthie was right. He ought to tell Mary he needed a new pair of Sunday pants. One of these days.

“Whoa, there,” Adam called from the front, and the carriage rolled to a stop. “Let’s lighten Thunder’s load on this last hill. Who’s going to walk?”

Before Adam finished the question, Simon’s brothers and sisters were disembarking from the seats in front of him. Jonah and Gabriel were the first ones out. They turned to help the girls disembark.

No, don’t get out. It’s not safe to stop.…

Simon felt frozen with panic as he watched the girls drop down to the road … Leah, Susie, and Sadie. Mary’s hands went up to check her dark bonnet as Ruthie called to Simon.

“What are you waiting for?” She stood, hands on her hips, at the far end of the rear seat. “It’s time to walk.”

“I’m going to stay in the carriage,” he muttered.

“Oh, Simon, you do this every time.” Ruthie glared at him, looking stern for her eleven years as she climbed down from the carriage.

His eyes darted to Katie and Sam, who sat like little dolls bundled next to Mammi. “I’ll help with the little ones.”

“I can manage,” Mammi insisted. “Go on now, Simon.”

Stay here
, his mother’s voice entreated.
You’ll be safe in the buggy
.

“But I can help,” Simon pleaded. “I’ll help Adam unhitch the horses.”

“Your brother wants you to walk.” Mammi’s brows lifted in disapproval. “It’s too much for the horse to take all of us.”

Just then Jonah poked his head into the backseat of the carriage. “What’s the holdup here?”

Mammi said with gentle reproof, “ ’Tis Simon, wanting to ride with the little ones again.”

“Kumm.” With pursed lips, Jonah reached in and lifted Simon to the ground. He signaled to Adam, and the carriage rolled off.

Crestfallen, Simon buried his face in his hands and sucked the insides of his cheeks, trying to keep from crying at the injustice of it all. Mamm had told him to stay with the buggy. She had promised to hide him there, and he’d stayed safe.

But no one else understood that.

They listened, but they didn’t understand.

They didn’t know what bears could do.

“Simon? Are you sick?” Jonah’s voice was gentle.

Through the slits in his fingers Simon saw another carriage roll to a stop to discharge passengers.

No bears. Just the Zook family.

Sniffing back tears, Simon stepped into Jonah’s shadow. “If Eli Zook sees me crying, he’ll tell everyone and all the boys will think I’m a baby.”

“We can’t have that.” Jonah produced a handkerchief, and Simon quickly wiped his eyes. “There you go. Want to join the boys?”

With a deep breath of resolve, Simon gave back the handkerchief. “Let’s just start walking. I’ll be happy if they stay ahead of us.” They were really not friends to Simon, but since they were his age, people expected Simon to spend time with them.

Jonah touched Simon on the shoulder, and they headed up the hill. It was getting close to the time when the service would be starting, and now plenty of Amish people climbed the hill. If Simon squinted they were rectangles of dark color, blue or purple or green. He felt foolish for thinking they were bears before. How could he think that of Marian Yoder or Abe Zook or the Lapp family?

Up ahead, he noticed Eli and John Zook waiting along the road, tossing pebbles at something on the side.