A Secret Identity (8 page)

“Speaking of being a tourist,” I said, enjoying my nice, creamy, familiar coconut custard, “I’d like to find someplace to live besides a motel. Do you know of a boarding house or an apartment or something that might be available and won’t require a year’s lease be signed?”

He thought for a minute. “You know, I just might.”

I looked at him hopefully.

“What would you think about living on an Amish farm?”

I stared at him. “You’re kidding.”

“I’ve a friend who used to be Amish before his
rumspringa
.”

“His what?”

“His wild-oats sowing. His teenage rebellion.”

“Ah.”

“Anyway, he was in a motorcycle accident and is now a paraplegic. His parents, who are still Old Order Amish, brought him home to the annex on the house and brought in electricity and a phone for him because they realize he’ll never be Amish again. Anyway, he rents the rooms on the second floor of the annex so he can have some income. I happen to know the rooms are newly available because the woman who used to rent them just got married.”

“An Amish farm? Cows and horses and buggies?”

“And don’t forget the smelly barns,” Todd added. “And some of the nicest people you’ll ever meet. And Jake put in a bathroom on the second floor after Kristie moved out.”

I looked at him, startled. “What did Kristie have to use? An outhouse?”

Todd laughed. “Don’t worry. She had indoor plumbing. She just had to share the family bathroom on the first floor. You won’t have to do that, but you can eat dinner with them whenever you want. And you’ll want to often, believe me. Mary’s a great cook.”

I stared at my cup of coffee, its steam rising into the air-conditioned air. An Amish farm. I bet even Pop would consider that getting a life. “If I can make arrangements for, say, three months, I’ll do it.”

Chapter 5

L
et me go call Jake,” Todd said. “I’ll see if he’s got a renter lined up already or whether the place is still free.”

“You’re going to call right
now
?”

“Sure,” he said, sliding out of the booth. “It’ll only take a minute. Just don’t eat my pie while I’m gone.”

“Fat chance of that.” I eyed the repulsive-looking brown thing.

I took a sip of coffee as I watched Todd walk across the dining room to the lobby and pull out his cell. I noticed a table of women watching him too. I felt a sudden delight that he was eating with me.

I looked at the shoofly pie again. I could see three pieces of it sitting on the table of the four women who had eyed Todd with such interest. I watched as our waitress put two pieces on the table across the aisle from me.

Surely if all these people were eating the disgusting thing, it couldn’t be all that bad, could it? I glanced toward the lobby and saw Todd was thoroughly occupied. I looked at Todd’s pie again. I looked at the people across the aisle enthusiastically enjoying their desserts.

One tiny taste. Then I’ll know what all the fuss is about, and he’ll never even notice. Besides, I like whipped cream.

I licked all the coconut custard off my fork and reached across the table. I took a smidgen of crumbs and brown custard. I sniffed it with distrust. I reached back for a bit of whipped cream and stuffed the mess into my mouth. I blinked in surprise.

“Told you you’d like it,” Todd said as he slid into his seat. Then he scowled. “But I also told you not to take any.”

“What makes you think I took any?” I said as I reached across the table for a decent-sized bite. It was either that or be embarrassed out of my mind.

“Do you steal the food off the plates of all your dates?” he asked.

I blinked. This is a date? “Only the ones I like,” I replied placidly.

He pushed the pie to the center of the table, and we took turns taking bites.

“Jake says the rooms are still available, and that if we come out tomorrow afternoon, you can look them over. He says tomorrow is a good day because it’s an off Sunday and the family’s going to visit Ruth and Isaiah.”

I savored the last bite of pie and asked, “What’s an off Sunday, and who are Ruth and Isaiah?”

“The Old Order Amish have church every other Sunday at each other’s homes. When there’s no church, it’s an off Sunday, and they often go visiting. Ruth and Isaiah are the Zooks’ daughter and son-in-law.”

“They only go to church every other Sunday?” That surprised me for such a religious people.

Todd nodded. “So are you free tomorrow afternoon to go out to the farm? I’ll take you if you are.”

“Sure. Sounds good.” It sounded more than good, but I wasn’t going to tell him. “By the way, can you recommend a good church? I’d like to go tomorrow.”

“My church. Why don’t I pick you up? After service we can grab a bite to eat and then go to the farm.”

I shrugged nonchalantly, thinking I should have come to Bird-in-Hand a lot sooner. Silver Spring was never like this. “Sounds like a plan,” I said.

The waitress brought the check.

“I want to pay my part of the bill,” I said.

We split the cost in half and left the restaurant.

“But you should have paid more,” Todd commented as we walked across the parking lot. “After all, you ate half my dinner.”

“Only the brown stuff,” I said as I looked into his amazing brown eyes. “Only the brown stuff.”

We came to my beige Saturn, but instead of saying goodbye, Todd leaned against the fender and asked, “So are you enjoying your time here?”

“I am,” I said. “Last night I went for a drive. No matter where I looked, the view was beautiful. I think it’s the size of the farms—so compact, the fields all bursting with crops, and the barns and houses so picturesque.”

“Is it picturesque?” Todd asked, looking around as if he could see all of Lancaster County from here. “I’ve never gotten as caught up in the whole Amish thing as lots of people do. Maybe living in the area all my life has made it too common.”

I stared at him. “You mean you don’t see the beauty of these farms and the fascination of this unique culture?”

He grinned with one corner of his mouth. “I know. I’ve no depth of soul or appreciation for the finer things. I’m shallow and insensitive. I see the glass half empty instead of half full. But honestly, instead of a sociological paradise, I see a culture that, in order to survive, is fraught with inconsistencies. In fact, there goes one now.” And he pointed to the street.

I looked and saw a van full of Amish people driving by.

“An Amish taxi,” Todd said. “There are lots of retired men—regular men—who have a nice second career as drivers for Amish folks. The Amish take the taxis places they either want or need to get to quickly. Why, I ask you, is it all right to
ride
in a car but not
drive
one? Or why is it okay to take the bus?”

“The Amish use buses?”

Todd nodded. “I used to think they were almost fraudulent in these inconsistencies, but I’ve changed my mind since I’ve come to know the Zooks. I’ve decided they’re just trying to keep their culture alive. My question, I guess, is whether it’s worth keeping alive.”

“Sure it is,” I said, slightly scandalized at his question.

“Yeah? Why?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know enough about them to know. But it must be.”

I watched a pair of Amish boys in straw hats push their way along the road on scooters. How sad it would be to lose something so singular.

“Bikes would be faster,” I said.

“But bikes aren’t allowed, at least in Lancaster County. Too far too fast.”

I looked at him. “I don’t understand.”

“As far as I can figure it out, anything that pushes the parameters of the culture beyond their concept of what family and church should be is bad. Farms are small and picturesque because they are the size an individual family can handle without the use of mechanized farming equipment. Bikes and cars are forbidden because they would take individuals beyond the boundaries of the group. Electricity off utility poles would bring in the questionable world of TV, radio, and computers. So for the sake of guarding their beliefs, they use 12-volt batteries or kerosene-fueled generators for power. The lack of public utilities, the mode of dress, and the horses and buggies are the outward signs of a very exclusive community.”

“Do they proselytize?” I asked, trying to imagine an Amish man on a street corner handing out tracts or standing on a soapbox pleading with a crowd to give up worldliness and come to Jesus.

He shook his head. “They don’t seek converts like most religions do, but they are willing to accept them if folks from outside want to join. Not many who seek stay long. The divide between Plain and fancy is too wide.”

I watched a buggy roll slowly by, a line of cars stacked up behind it.

“Have you ever ridden in a buggy?” I asked.

Todd looked at me like I’d gone crazy. “Of course not.”

“Haven’t you ever wondered what it feels like to sit in one of those things, especially when a tour bus zooms past?”

He stuffed his hands in his jeans pockets and said, “I can honestly say I’ve never pondered that.”

“Never?”

“Never.”

It was obvious from his tone of voice that he thought the idea ridiculous. It was time to disabuse him of that opinion.

“Then let’s go for a buggy ride and find out what it’s like,” I said.

He stared at me, horrified.

“Oh, come on. Where’s your spirit of adventure?”

“Cara, a buggy ride? That’s crazy. Besides it’s too touristy.”

I shrugged. “So what? I’m a tourist.”

“Well, I’m not.” I watched as he hunkered down, all but attaching himself to my car, a limpet clinging to his rock, a barnacle glued to its piling.

“Todd,” I said, smiling as sweetly as I could, “where’s your sense of adventure?”

“I don’t have one, and I don’t want to develop one in an Amish buggy.” He clenched his jaw, clearly convinced he’d made his definitive statement on the issue.

I leaned toward him and narrowed my eyes as I stared directly into his. He leaned back instinctively.

“What?” he said.

“Todd,” I said softly, my index finger aimed at his chest, “when you grow up, do you want to be like your father or like my pop?”

He blinked. Then he clamped his jaw and glared at me through eyes as narrowed as mine. The muscles in his cheeks jumped as he clenched and unclenched his teeth.

Finally he spoke, his words clipped and hard. “That is a very nervy question. Do you always play hardball like that?”

It
was
a nervy question, and I couldn’t believe I’d voiced it. I usually never ask questions that might make the hearer uncomfortable. I was a peacemaker, a kind and comforting person. But I’d seen Todd’s sorrow over dinner and it hurt. I forced my answer around the lump in my throat. “Only when the outcome matters.”

He blinked again. We both knew I wasn’t talking about any buggy ride. We stood frozen, staring at each other, as all around us life flowed on.

My heart pounded to the point of pain, and ribbons of dread unfurled inside. What if he wanted to be his father? Or what if he couldn’t help being his father? I felt like my future was on the line even as I recognized the folly of such a thought. I’d only met the man yesterday.

Dear God, it’s the brown eyes, isn’t it? And the beautiful curls and that jaw. And he shared his shoofly pie with me. And he found a place for me to live. And he’s taking me to church! Oh, Lord, please let him be able to have fun
.

Finally Todd broke the tension. He took a deep breath, twitched his shoulders a bit, and said mildly, “I guess we’d better take a buggy ride, hadn’t we?”

My breath rushed from my lungs, and I realized for the first time that I’d been holding it. Almost giddy with relief I said, “Abe’s Buggy Rides is just down the street.”

He looked slightly pained. “I know Abe’s Buggy Rides.” He peeled himself off my fender and sighed. “Give me your car keys and let’s get this over with.”

“You’re driving my car?”

“Why not? We’re standing right beside it.”

“But it’s my car. I should drive.”

“Don’t push it, Cara. Let me have some semblance of control.”

I understood about control. I gave him the keys and climbed into the passenger side. He backed out of the parking space and pulled onto 340. In a short time we were at Abe’s Buggy Rides. We parked and climbed out our respective sides. When we met at the back of the car, he looked at me with an aggrieved expression.

“I’ve driven past this place for years, always with a great feeling of superiority toward the people who took the rides.” He shuddered so intensely that his slicked-down curls almost shook. “Now I’m about to become one of them.”

I patted his arm. “I don’t know whether it helps or not, but I think you’re brave and wonderful.”

He snorted. “Don’t think I don’t recognize sarcasm when I hear it.”

I grinned and started for the sidewalk where the buggies stood waiting.

He trailed me, still busy carping. “You eat my food, you don’t pay your fair share, you complain when I want to drive your car, and you make me go on a buggy ride.” The horror in his voice was comical. “I’ve never met anyone like you before.”

I turned to him, startled, and he added quickly, “And that’s
not
a compliment.”

Glad for a lifetime of dealing with Pop and Ward, I scowled at him. “’Fraidy cat.”

“What?”

“You heard me. You’re afraid to have fun.”

“I am not.”

“Hah!”

“Hi,” announced a happy teenage voice behind us. “My name’s Angie, and I’ll be your driver for the buggy tour.”

We spun to find a grinning Angie wearing a rose T-shirt and jeans with a knee missing.

“Hi, Angie,” I said. “I’m Cara. And this scowling hulk is—”

“Yeah, I know who he is. We go to the same church. What are you doing going on a buggy ride, Todd?”

He looked pointedly at me. “I got conned.” But I noticed the scowl was gone.

Angie laughed and led the way to a gray buggy with black trim waiting at the edge of the road. She reached in and pulled the front seat aside to give access to the back. Todd stood aside and let me get in first. I put my foot on the round metal step on the side of the buggy and stepped up and in. I sat on a seat covered with burgundy crushed velvet.