At Home in Pleasant Valley (47 page)

“Myra's expecting again. I suppose you know that.” He raised an eyebrow in her direction, not sure how closely in touch she'd stayed with the family.

“No.” A faint flush stained her cheeks. “I didn't know.”

“The doctor wanted her to have some special blood tests done at the clinic over in Fostertown, so naturally Joseph wanted to go with her. Your sister Leah is watching little Sarah.”

“There's nothing wrong with Myra or the baby, is there?”

“Nothing I know about.”

He'd seen the worry on Joseph's face lately when he looked at his wife, but if there was a problem, it would be Joseph's decision whether to tell his sister or not.

“How is Leah? And her family?” Anna put the question carefully, not meeting his eyes.

“They're well, as far as I know.” He hesitated. How much had Anna been in contact during these past three years? “Your mamm . . .”

She stiffened. “I know about my mother's death.”

“I wasn't sure.” He picked up the chain and slung it over his shoulder.

“Because I didn't come back for the funeral?” She shot the question at him, hands on her hips.

Defensive, that's what she was.

“It's not my business,” he said quietly, and began to lead the mare out of the barn, leaving her to follow.

Anna caught up with him in a few steps. “I'm sorry.” She bit off the words.

He shrugged, a little uncomfortable. “It makes no matter. I'm sorry for your loss.”

They headed for the car parked in the lane by the kitchen door. “I'm sure Joseph wouldn't mind if you left the car where it is for a bit,” he ventured.

“I can't. I don't want to.”

Which is it, Anna? Can't or don't want to?

He wouldn't ask the question, because it wasn't his business and she wouldn't tell him, but he did wonder. Something was going on here besides the obvious fact of Anna's return.

“What about you?” Anna glanced at him, maybe wanting to change the subject. “You fence-jumped before I left. When did you come back?”

“I wasn't gone long. Less than a year.”

He had a feeling she wouldn't press him on it, not that he couldn't have evaded questions if he'd had to. He'd had plenty of practice.

But Anna wasn't really interested in him—not in what had taken him away or in what had driven him back. She was preoccupied with her own worries, only talking to fill the silence.

“You work with Joseph, you said?” She made it a question.

“Ja, he took me on as partner two years ago. That's my place over there.” He jerked his head toward the neighboring house, surrounded by fenced pastures for his horses.

She followed the direction of his nod, staring at the two-story frame house. “That place was owned by an English couple, I thought.”

“They sold up and moved south, to get away from the winters, they said. I'm still taking out the electric and such.”

It was a big job, but he could take his time about doing it. He had only himself to please. He could do it as he wanted.

Anna shot another glance at him, maybe wondering why he was clean-shaven like a boy. “You're not married?”

“No.” It was his turn to be short. He'd had practice evading that question, too, and it surely wasn't Anna's business.

They'd reached the car, and he spoke soothingly to the mare as he backed her up. Betsy was inclined to be a little skittish about anything strange, but he could talk her into doing this.

“Wait a second.”

He stopped the horse where she was. Anna darted to the back door of the car and ducked inside. He heard the soft murmur of her voice.

And then she was out again, holding a baby in her arms.

He took his time absorbing that. Anna wouldn't be surprised that he didn't immediately respond. After all, she'd always thought him tediously slow, maybe even stupid, as he recalled.

So, Anna had come back with a child. The little girl looked to be about a year old, with rosy cheeks that hinted she'd just woken up.

Anna had no husband, it seemed. Her ring finger was bare.

Ach, this would set folks talking, for sure, the news flying around the valley faster than fast. As to how her family would take it—well, that he couldn't guess.

“This is my daughter. Her name is Grace. Gracie.” Her chin lifted as she spoke, and he saw in her blue eyes a spark of the defiance that the old Anna had had in such abundance.

The child had blue eyes, too, round and wondering as he approached and held out his hand to her. Her hair was silky and as white-blond as corn silk. She considered him for a long moment, her face solemn, and then grabbed at his fingers and giggled.

He broke into a smile. “You're a fine little girl, you are, Gracie.” He glanced at Anna and found her looking at the child, her face alight with a fierce, possessive love. “You look a bit like your mammi.”

Anna's eyes met his then, wide and unguarded just for a moment. That look, with all her defenses down, went straight to his heart and stuck there like an axe biting into wood.

“Denke,” she said softly. “Thank you. Just let me find a safe place to put her, and I'll help you move the car. Gracie crawls like greased lightning.”

“Ach, you don't need to be helping me. I'll take care of it.” He jerked a nod toward the back door of the house. “The key is on top of the door frame. Go on inside with the boppli.”

She looked as if she'd like to argue the point. Probably didn't want to be beholden to him if she could help it. But instead she nodded, took a bag from the car, and headed for the house.

He watched as she disappeared inside. Then he turned to the horse, patting her absently, his mind struggling to absorb everything that had just happened. Little Anna was back, and she had a boppli.

Small wonder she wore that look of strain. Her situation was difficult for sure. As for her future—that was beyond his imagination.

•   •   •

Relief
swept over Anna when she closed the door behind her. At least now she was safe from the chance of being seen, to say nothing of getting away from Samuel's cool gaze.

Had he been judging her? She couldn't be sure, but the idea made her seethe. She'd thought she'd wiped out her quick temper during the difficult years away. Maybe she'd been wrong.

Or maybe it was being back that had her reverting to the old, rebellious Anna. That wasn't a pleasant thought. She'd need all the maturity she'd gained to negotiate the coming weeks, maybe months.

How long? How long until she felt it was safe to stop hiding?

Grace wiggled, fussing a little and reaching toward the floor.

“Down?” She took a quick glance around the kitchen, but of course Myra's kitchen, including the floor, was spotless.

She put Gracie down, smiling as she crawled quickly to the table and, using its leg for support, pulled to her feet, wobbling there. Gracie seemed ready to take a step, but she wasn't quite brave enough yet.

The smile faded quickly. In her bright pink romper and tiny sneakers, Gracie could not be mistaken for an Amish child, any more than anyone would think Anna Amish in her jeans. If she were to succeed in blending in here, that was the first thing that had to change.

“We'll make it,” she promised, scooping Gracie up again and kissing the downy hair that curled around her ears. “We will. I promise. I love you, little girl.”

Gracie giggled at the kiss and squirmed to be set down again.

“In a minute you can crawl. Right now, let's find something suitable to wear, for both of us.”

She walked through the hallway, memory coming back as she did so. Joseph and Myra had been fortunate to be able to buy this house when they first married, thanks to the success of Joseph's machine shop. Her brother was clever with machines, adapting English technology to work in ways the Amish could accept. She felt a familiar impatience with the endless adjustments Amish people made to live in a modern world.

Upstairs, she found Joseph and Myra's bedroom without difficulty but hesitated, not liking to touch Myra's things without permission.

Still, if she knew her sweet, shy sister-in-law as well as she thought she did, Myra would be delighted to lend anything she owned. She'd also probably be vastly relieved to see Anna in traditional garb rather than English clothes.

Anna put Gracie down on the rag rug beside the bed and rummaged in the diaper bag for her favorite ball. “There you are. Be good while Mammi gets dressed.”

Quickly, before her qualms overcame her, she looked through Myra's things. Luckily they were about the same size, so that shouldn't be much of a problem.

She found a dress and apron combination in a deep forest green hanging from a hook.

“This will work,” she said to Gracie, who was picking at a dark red color in the rug with one tiny finger. “You'll be surprised when you see how I look.”

She peeled off her jeans and T-shirt and pulled on a plain white slip. Next she slid the dress over her head. Funny, to feel it flutter around her legs. She frowned for a moment, trying to remember the knack of fastening the bodice with the seven straight pins, but it came back to her almost at once.

Now the apron, and the black stockings. Her sneakers would be acceptable, so she wouldn't have to raid Myra's shoes.

She stood for a moment when she'd finished, rubbing her palms on the skirt of the dress, until she realized that her hair was still pulled back in an elastic.

Again, her fingers seemed to remember what to do as she twisted her hair into a bun. She had cut her hair first thing when she'd decided to leave, as a gesture of independence, but she'd soon found it hard to deal with and let it grow again. It wasn't as long as most Amish women's, but the bun and kapp would hide that. She settled one of Myra's white prayer kapps into place.

Prayer. She'd done a great deal of that in the past year, struggling to find her way, struggling to hear God's comfort and guidance.

But often her frantic pleadings seemed to fall on deaf ears. Maybe she'd neglected God for so long that He had forgotten her.

She looked at Gracie. No, she hadn't been forgotten, or she wouldn't have this beautiful, precious child.

Denke,
she whispered silently.
Thank You
.

It took her a few more minutes to find something of her little niece's
that Gracie could wear, but finally she was satisfied. They would pass for any Amish mother and daughter. She could probably walk right past someone who'd known her in Chicago. Most of them would only turn to stare at the clothing, not noticing the woman who wore it.

That was the idea, she reminded herself, carrying Gracie back down to the kitchen. Dress humbly, modestly, so that you don't stand out or draw attention to yourself. It was the community of believers that was important, not any single individual.

She'd rejected that when she left, but now she needed it, would rely on it.

Once in the kitchen she put Gracie in the wooden high chair next to the table. “Let's find you something to eat. You must be hungry, ain't so?”

She blinked, a little surprised at herself. Would it be that easy for her to go back to talking Amish, thinking Amish?

And being Amish?
The voice of her conscience questioned.
Are you ready for that? Or are you playing a part?

She pushed the thought away. Get something for Gracie to eat—

The back door opened. Samuel stood there, filling the doorway, his mouth agape. This must be the first time she'd actually disturbed that stolid countenance of his.

“Do I look Amish again?” Sure of herself on this, at least, she watched him.

He lifted those level eyebrows that gave him such a serious expression. “You forgot something.”

“What?”

He pulled a paper towel from the rack and handed it to her. “Amish women don't wear stuff on their lips.”

The lack of mirrors had done her in. She'd forgotten the lipstick. Quickly she scrubbed her lips with the towel until it no longer came away with the slightest tinge of color.

“Better?”

“Ja. You don't need that stuff anyway.”

“That might almost be a compliment, Samuel. If it weren't for your disapproving frown.” She let her irritation show in her voice. “I should think you'd be a little more understanding than most people.”

Her tart words didn't make a dent in his composure.

“Ja, I was a fence-jumper, too.” The words seemed heavy, as if laden with something. Guilt, maybe? “That's how I know it's not easy to come back. Do you think you can be again the girl you were?”

“I don't want to be.” The words came out quickly, before she had a chance to think that she didn't want to have this conversation with him. She shrugged. “I'm three years older. Maybe a little wiser, I hope.”

“And you're certain-sure you're ready to be Amish again?”

The question pricked at her, sending her tension soaring. Did he see through her so easily? No, he couldn't possibly know why she'd returned. No one could.

She squared her shoulders, facing him. “My readiness will be a question for my family to answer.”
Not you
.

“True enough.” He glanced out the door at the sound of buggy wheels. “I suppose you'll know that soon. Here they are.”

M
yra
passed another plate for Anna to dry. She gave her a shy smile, as if still getting used to having this unexpected guest in her house.

“You didn't have to help. I'm used to doing the supper dishes by myself, I am.”

“I'm glad to do it.” Besides, it might keep her from thinking too much.

Myra glanced across the kitchen to where almost-three-year-old Sarah played on the floor with her new little cousin, as if checking to be sure they were all right. So far, at least, the girls seemed happy to share the blocks, but who knew how long that would last?

Myra turned back to the sink, plunging her hands into the sudsy water. “It's wonderful gut to have someone to talk to over the dishes. To tell the truth, I missed this time with my sister once I was married.” She flushed a little. “Not that I'd want Joseph to think I had any regrets. But we used to have the best talks while we were doing the dishes. I'll bet you and Leah did, too.”

“Ja, that we did.”

At the thought of her older sister, Anna's throat muscles contracted. Even with the ten years' difference in their ages, she and Leah had always been close. When she left, Leah had been the only one who seemed to understand.

She'd promised Leah that she'd stay in touch. She hadn't kept that promise. She hadn't been here for Leah's wedding or the birth of her little girl or when Mamm had died. Could Leah forgive that?

She cleared her throat, trying to evade those thoughts. Things she'd
been able to banish to the back of her mind when she was far away were loud and insistent here, demanding answers.

“I want to thank you again for the use of the clothes.” She brushed at a tiny soap bubble that had landed on her sleeve. “It's kind of you.”

“Ach, it's nothing at all.” Myra might not know just how to react to her sister-in-law's return, but she followed her generous heart. “I'm happy to share them. I'm not sure I have the black covering for church for a single woman . . .” She stopped, a flush mounting her cheeks. “I mean . . .”

“I'm not married.” Anna pushed the words out, steeling herself for the response. This was how it would be, trying to explain herself to the family and the community. She'd better get used to saying those words. “But the white one is fine.”

After all, how silly would that feel, to be wearing the single woman's black kapp with a baby sitting on her lap? She hadn't even thought of what it would be like to go to worship here again, to feel all those people watching her.

Myra, at least, had no condemnation in her eyes. “I'll get out another dress or two for you,” she said, avoiding the subject of whether Anna would wear the black kapp expected of a single woman at worship.

“Denke,” she said softly. Unexpected tears stung her eyes, and she blinked them away. She must be tired. She never cried.

It had been a very long day. She could only be thankful that Gracie had slept so much in the car. Of course that meant that now she was full of energy. The baby banged a block on the floor, getting a quick smile from Myra.

“Ach, your Gracie is such a bright little one. So active, too. She must keep you busy.”

“She does that.” Of course, back in Chicago, other people had cared for Gracie while she worked double shifts, trying to bring in enough money to support the two of them. That would seem strange to someone like Myra.

It wouldn't be necessary here, she realized. At least, not if the family welcomed her back.

She concentrated on the plate she was drying. If she looked at Myra, Myra might see the fear in her eyes.

Her heart filled with a longing she hadn't anticipated. If only the others reacted as Joseph had . . . with concern, yes, but also with immediate love and support.

It all depended on Daadi; all three of them realized that. Even as they'd talked over the supper table, she'd known that was what lurked in Joseph's mind, behind his words.

Samuel hadn't been there, though he apparently usually took his lunch and supper with Joseph and Myra. He'd made an excuse to leave so that they could talk, showing more consideration than she'd expected.

The moment the meal was over and the silent prayer after the meal had been said, Joseph had pushed back his chair.

“I'll go over and tell Daad you're here.” His smile had tried to reassure her. “That's the first thing, ain't so?”

It was what she had intended, if only the car had cooperated. Instead she'd landed here, putting her problems onto Joseph and Myra.

She rubbed the plate with the towel, trying not to think beyond the action of the moment, but she couldn't stop her churning thoughts.

“Joseph should be back soon.” Myra probably meant the words to be reassuring.

She nodded. What was happening with Daadi? How was he reacting?

He'd always been fair. That was the first thing people said about Elias Beiler; he was fair.

But he'd babied her, just a bit, she saw now. The last of the family, the girl who'd finally come along nearly ten years after Leah—yes, Daadi had been easier on her, and she'd tried his patience sorely.

And now she was doing it again. Returning after all these years without a word, an unmarried woman with a baby . . .

She hadn't even come when Mamm died. It was all very well to justify it in her mind—happening as it did just when Gracie was born, when Jannie was dying. But Daad might not . . .

Myra touched her hand gently. “Don't worry so.”

She tried to smile, but the effort failed. “I can't help it. If only Daad will see me, I'll tell him how sorry I am. I'll tell him—”

But what could she say? Back in Chicago, coming here had seemed a simple solution to the nightmare that surrounded her. She would
come home and disappear into the tightly knit Amish community where Gracie would be safe. She hadn't thought enough about what it would mean both to her and to the family.

“Joseph will do a gut job of telling him.” Myra patted her hand. “You can count on him.”

Myra had always thought the sun rose and set on her young husband. Anna loved him, too, but she had a more realistic picture of Joseph's ability to communicate such difficult news.

She heard the clop of the horse's hooves in the lane, the creak of the buggy. Drying her hands twice over, she tried to swallow the lump in her throat. Joseph would have done his best, but what if it wasn't enough? What if Daad wouldn't see her?

The door opened. Joseph came in, his face impassive, and she took an impulsive step toward him.

“What did he say?” Her heart was in her throat.

“Ask him yourself.” He stepped aside, and she saw that Daadi was behind him.

“Daadi . . .” Her voice caught on the words, her mouth dry. “I'm sorry . . .”

Before she could get anything else out, her father had crossed the kitchen in a few long strides and swept her into his arms.

She couldn't have spoken then, not for anything. Her tears spilled over, wetting the soft cotton of his shirt, and she let them fall.

Strong arms around her, comforting her, just as Daadi had held her the time she'd fallen from the apple tree when one of the boys had dared her to climb higher. She'd broken her arm, and her next older brother, Mahlon, had earned a whipping for such a foolish dare.

Daadi had held her then, letting her cry, while Mammi ran for something to immobilize the arm. His shirt had felt as it did now—soft and warm against her cheek, smelling of the clean fresh air that had dried it.

She wasn't six any longer. She shouldn't weep on her father's chest. But it was so comforting to feel the safety and security of that embrace that she didn't want to let go.

“Ach, it's all right.” His voice was husky. “Don't cry anymore, little one. It's wonderful gut to have you here again at last.”

The love and forgiveness in his voice threatened to bring on another bout of crying, but she stifled it. She drew back, wiping her eyes with her hands.

“I'm sorry—” she began again, but he silenced her with a shake of his head.

“Enough of that,” he said. “I must meet my new little grandchild.”

Fighting for control, she nodded to where Gracie sat on the floor. Daad's eyes misted, his mouth trembling just a little above the beard that was nearly all white now. He moved to the children, squatted down.

Sarah threw herself at him, of course, and he hugged and kissed her, greeting her gently.

“So,” he said, once Sarah was satisfied with her share of attention. He extended a hand to Gracie. “This is little Gracie, ja? Wie bist du heit. It's gut to meet you.”

Gracie stared at him for a moment, her blue eyes round. She reached a chubby baby hand and grasped his white beard.

He chuckled. “Ja, that is real, it is.” He held out his hands to her. “Will you come to me, Gracie?”

She studied him for another moment, as if trying to make a decision. Then she smiled and reached for him. Murmuring something so soft only the baby could hear, Daadi lifted her in his arms, holding her as close as he'd held Anna.

Anna blinked back tears that threatened to overflow again.
Now was the moment
. She should tell Daadi the whole story now. She should trust that when he knew, he'd help her.

But he was bouncing Gracie in his arms, his face filled with love. Joseph and Myra were smiling, arms around each other's waist as if they had to touch at this moment, too. And emotion she hadn't anticipated had a stranglehold on her throat.

“We must have some cake and coffee, for soon it will be time to put these little ones to bed.” Myra wiped away a tear and hustled to the stove, lifting the coffeepot. “Komm, Joseph, fetch the applesauce cake from the pantry for me.”

Joseph, with a quick wink at Anna, did as he was told. The moment when she might have spoken was gone.

Maybe that was just as well. She took the plates and forks Myra handed her and began to put them on the table, as swift and smooth as if she were back working in the restaurant again. Sooner or later she must tell Daadi, at least, everything about Gracie.

But later would be better, wouldn't it, when he'd had a chance to get used to having her here again?

And could she—should she—really tell him everything? Gracie was the important thing. Anna had to be sure of keeping Gracie safe above all, even if it meant putting a barrier between herself and her family.

“Now,” her father said a few minutes later, feeding Gracie a small crumb of applesauce cake, “we must decide where you and the little one are going to live. Joseph, what do you think?”

He was consulting her brother, not her, and making the decision for her as automatically as he'd always done. Once that would have provoked an angry outburst. But she'd learned control during her time away. She couldn't afford to indulge in emotion now.

Joseph folded his hands and looked at Myra, and she gave a tiny nod. “Anna can stay here.”

“That's gut of you both.” Daad nodded, as if it was no more than he'd expected. “But Anna and her baby should have the right to move back into her old room at the farm, if she wants.”

Now it was her turn to exchange glances with Joseph. Levi, their oldest brother, and his wife, Barbara, ran the farm with their growing family, while Daadi had moved into the small daadi haus. Living with Levi and Barbara would be like stepping onto a whirling carousel. Dizzying at best, even if she could contrive to keep from getting annoyed with Barbara's well-meant meddling twenty-five times a day.

“Denke, Daadi, but I think that would make things too crowded for Levi and Barbara.” She glanced at Myra. “If you're sure . . . With another baby on the way, you might rather have your privacy.”

Something, some faint shadow, crossed Myra's face, but then she was smiling. “Ja, we're sure. We have plenty of room.” She reached across the table to squeeze Anna's hand. “And besides, it will be gut to have a sister in the house again.”

Anna couldn't speak for the emotion that welled in her. She could
only look at the faces around the table, reflected in the mellow glow of the gas lamp above them. Plain faces, filled with love for her.

And she sat here accepting their love, their help, and all the while she was hiding the truth from them.

•   •   •

The
sun had barely finished drying the grass, but Samuel wanted to get in a few minutes' worth of working the new bay gelding on the lunge line before he started at the machine shop. With the line in one hand and a buggy whip in the other, he started the animal trotting in a wide circle around him.

The field next to the lane gave him a near view of Joseph's house, making it impossible not to think about Anna's arrival. And to wonder what had happened when the family found out.

The young horse, distracted by a car going past out on the blacktop road, broke gait, and began to canter. Samuel stopped it and started it again. Patience and repetition—that was what it took to make a gut driving horse.

The screen door banged as Joseph came out on the back porch, saw him, and waved. With both hands occupied, all Samuel could do was nod.

Joseph had certainly been wonderful happy to see his baby sister again. He wasn't one to hold grudges or dwell on problems. Quick to forgive, forget, and move on. He was sometimes too quick to want unpleasantness over, maybe. Joseph would sure never be the one to ask hard questions.

Forgiveness was part and parcel of Amish life, and usually in a case like this, families welcomed the penitent home with joy. Anna's situation was more complicated than most, though. She'd come home with a baby.

He frowned, narrowing his eyes against the sun. Something else bothered him about Anna's attitude. He couldn't quite put his finger on it, but he'd sensed something. If you'd been through a challenging situation yourself, it seemed to give you an extra measure of understanding and maybe an obligation to help someone else going through it.