Forever Amish (9 page)

CHAPTER 9

I awoke with a jolt to a clacking sound. A rock hitting my window? How long had I been asleep? I guessed over an hour by the heaviness of my limbs and my mental confusion. Was someone stealing the Mustang?

No, a thief wouldn't throw a pebble at a window. I swung my legs over the side of the bed and landed on the wooden floor; chill air traveled up my gown. In darkness I peeked around the window shade and saw a male figure and a flashlight's beam.

The rain and wind had eased up; the trees no longer swished like hula dancers, nor were droplets pounding the ground. The moon—with crepe-paper–thin clouds dashing by it—illuminated the property like a fifteen-watt lightbulb, giving the world an eerie appearance.

The young man stood gazing up at the house for a moment, then receded to the base of a tree.

Armin? I wondered, then noticed the guy was hatless, his pale hair short—to his disadvantage if he wished to stay hidden. On closer inspection, this fellow was not as tall as Armin—about Pops's height, but his torso was stocky. No beard. In my foggy half-asleep state, my brain struggled for clarity.

I heard the rustle of fabric in the hallway, then the pitter-patter of movement on the staircase. Below me in the front room and kitchen, the air lay still, but a door creaked open and closed. My nose against the windowpane, I saw Lizzie in a black coat and hat descending the stoop. She looked over her shoulder, then rushed toward the young man, who turned off his flashlight. Together, they disappeared from sight.

The bedroom's icy air spurred me to either get dressed or pounce back into bed. But would I fall asleep again? I reminded myself: I had no control over Lizzie's actions. Obviously. I'd delayed her attempt to leave earlier, so she'd waited until I was in bed. I checked the hands on the battery-run clock on the bureau. Who in their right mind would leave the house at midnight?

Minutes later, a motor started up, but it carried little heft, unlike the Mustang's 390 engine's robust growl. I'd recognize it. I couldn't see the Mustang from this window; the shed stood between us. Other automobiles passed by every now and then on the main road out front. Maybe I'd heard one of them.

If only Pops were here. At home, he always sailed in to save the day. Tonight's phone call infested my mind. I doubted I'd get back to sleep until I checked on the Mustang. I felt foolish for not bringing its key upstairs with me, not that a thief couldn't break in. Even I could, using a coat hanger. And a carjacker could bring the engine to life in a snap.

I flicked on the flashlight Rhoda had left on the bed table, then wriggled into my sweatpants, a long-sleeved T-shirt, and a hoodie. Cracking open the door, I was relieved not to run into Reuben. Lizzie's door was closed tight, but I knew she wasn't in bed. Unless Rhoda had been the woman leaving earlier. No, the female figure I'd witnessed was petite, her movements spritely. Yet the night was dark; I could have made a mistake.

I made my way through the living room and into the kitchen. I opted to borrow a black woolen coat hanging alongside my jacket. It was long enough to cover my legs and appeared warm. I also grabbed a black hat, the same type Lizzie had worn. I didn't think Rhoda would mind. I'd be back in a few minutes.

I took the liberty of stepping into a pair of work boots, thinking they were Peter's—too small for Reuben and Jeremy—and headed outside. The rain had stopped. Clouds still streaked across the sky, but enough light reflected from the moon's porcelain surface to assist me down the steps and around the corner. The flashlight's beam illuminated the Mustang's sleek fastback and its mag wheels. All my fretting for nothing, I chided myself. I let out a lungful of air. Lizzie might be gallivanting about the county, but she wasn't in Pops's vehicle. Nor were a swarm of teenagers on a joyride at our expense. Pops's words nagged at me. I should have stayed home to look after him.

I breathed in the perfume of moist earth, manure, hay, and a trace of burning wood. I noticed a ribbon of smoke curling from a chimney on the other side of the Mustang. Armin's abode? I stepped around to see a rustic, quaint clapboard cabin with two windows and several steps leading up to a covered porch. Two rocking chairs lounged by a front door that appeared to be newly painted.

Armin was most likely asleep in preparation for tomorrow morning's chores. Or perhaps reading by the fire. Did he even know how to read? I realized I was being a snob.

Years ago, I'd overheard Pops mention to someone that the Pennsylvania Dutch only went through the eighth grade, but were well educated, intelligent, and industrious. I figured he'd gleaned the information from a magazine, since I'd never seen a book about the Amish in our house. Just the opposite.
Road and Track
was Pops's style. And he never uttered the word
Amish
. Pennsylvania Dutch was what he called them on the rare occasions they came up in conversation.

As I turned to go back to the house, I admired the lofty barn and silo under the stippled moonlight. Beside the barn stood a smaller building with what looked like electric wires running to it. The white structure, dwarfed by the barn, appeared recently built. Reuben's workshop, I assumed, and wondered if Armin had remembered to plug in my phone. By now, it might be charged. Had Pops or Donald called and left a message or texted? I was used to keeping my phone close by, and admit I was curious what I'd find in Reuben's shop. I wouldn't be breaking in, because Armin told me they never locked their doors.

As I approached, a dark form scampered past my ankles. A rat! I let out a scream. I hated rats.

In a flash, a cat bolted after it, brushing my shin. I yelped and spun around to retreat to the safety of the house, but I stood for a moment to see if I'd woken anyone, if lights were coming on. I saw none. Not that someone couldn't be watching me from a window.

In my mind, I improvised an explanation should Reuben trundle outside to scold me. The truth: I'd come to check on the car and get my phone. No one told me Reuben's office was off-limits. All very logical. Then why was I trembling?

That stupid rat.

Close up, the building was larger than I'd first thought. Desire to retrieve my phone spurred me forward. My flashlight's beam leading me, I inched toward the door. My free hand went out to grasp the knob.

“Was is letz?”
Armin said, and I twirled around to face him. “What's wrong?” he said. “I heard a woman scream.”

“Sorry.” I steeled myself. I wasn't about to admit I was afraid of crawly, furry rodents. “A cat ran across my path and startled me. I apologize for waking you.” In the dim light, I noticed he'd dashed outside wearing a long work jacket and was carrying his hat and a flashlight. I felt a flush of gratitude for his presence, the aura of confidence he exuded.

He positioned his hat on his mussed hair. “Even when asleep, I keep an ear open. Sometimes a dog or coyote gets into the chicken coop.”

But Lizzie had escaped without his notice?

I wished Ginger stood at my side. Small in stature but fearless, my corgi could see in the dark far better than I could. No rat would dare dash past her.

“Why doesn't Reuben keep a dog?” I said, stalling, because I didn't want to admit I was sneaking into the man's workshop.

“Reuben doesn't much care for them.”

I felt my hackles rising. “Dogs are man's best friend.” Mine had been loyal; they'd never have abandoned me like my mother had.

He let out a sigh. “I once had a big collie mix—the prettiest dog you've ever seen—but he took off one day and never returned.”

“Sorry for your loss.”

“Yah. I haven't had the heart to replace my Rascal.” He buttoned his long work jacket. “Rhoda and Lizzie keep telling me I should get another, but I'm not ready. Rascal just might return on his own.” He fell silent for a moment, then added, “Only I was living next door when he left.”

An idea that would explain Lizzie's emails sprouted like an acorn and took root. Perhaps she was planning to buy him a new dog. A Pembroke Welsh corgi that even Reuben couldn't help but fall in love with. Did Armin have a birthday coming up? Maybe Lizzie had been telling me the truth the whole time.

“My Rascal more or less found me when I was up in New York State,” he said glumly. “He might have headed back north to where we used to live.”

“I've heard stories of dogs finding their way home.”

“I guess I should write the woman—”

“A girlfriend?”

“Yah, but we split up when I didn't join the church and she married another. I feel foolish even mentioning it.”

“Lizzie said several women have their eyes set on you.” My turn to interrogate him. “In these parts I hear you're quite a catch.” I could understand why, but I wouldn't let him know I was attracted in spite of his Beatles haircut. I reminded myself he couldn't compare to suave and sophisticated Donald. But where was Donald tonight? Not pining over me.

Armin gave a one-shouldered shrug. “I'm in my late thirties. I should settle down and start a family of my own. In fact, Rhoda invited a young lady over for dinner next week—some phony excuse. Rhoda likes playing matchmaker.”

“Really? I figured she'd want you and Lizzie paired up.”

“Nee, Lizzie and I are like sister and brother.”

For no reason, I felt a sense of relief, like removing a small pebble from my running shoe.

“Do you know this young woman who's coming over?” I wondered if she were beautiful and clever. I hoped she wasn't. But why? Because I wanted him to remain a bachelor and die childless like I would if I didn't get back with Donald or find someone new? My biological clock was ticking and couldn't be rewound, but men possessed decades of opportunities.

Armin straightened his hat. “I've driven Marjorie home from Sunday Singing a couple of times. But so have other fellas.” He scrutinized my borrowed jacket. “What are you doing out here anyway?”

“I came to check my phone. You did plug the charger in, didn't you?”

“Just like I said I would. I was planning to put it in the kitchen when I got up.” He was talking down at me, like Reuben had earlier. I felt icy air traveling up my pant legs. The temperature was dipping as quickly as Armin's mood.

“Since I'm here, do you mind if I check on it right now?” I tried to sound nonchalant but heard the tremor in my voice. “My father might have called again.”

“Reuben doesn't like strangers in his workshop.”

“But you'd be with me.” On Pops's car lot I'd learned never to take a customer's first no as their final answer.

“I suppose it's okay.” He strode ahead of me, opened the door, and lit a gaslight, illuminating the one-story space, the size of a double-car garage. I shut off my flashlight and followed him inside. The unctuous smell of turpentine and wood stain assaulted my nose. Ahead lay a room jam-packed with tools, plywood, and two-by-fours. Sawdust and scraps of metal and wood littered the floor. Jars of nails, screws and bolts, and a stew of hammers, screwdrivers, and paintbrushes lay scattered across a counter. The opposite of the main house's interior. The word
slovenly
came to mind, but I had no right to be judgmental; Pops's tool bench in his garage wasn't any neater. Still, I bet Rhoda never set foot in here.

I slipped my flashlight in a jacket pocket and zeroed in on my plugged-in phone sitting atop a desk covered with a mishmash of diagrams, papers, pencils, and an old-fashioned typewriter.

My phone was charged, but no messages or texts awaited me. I told myself I didn't care. But I did. Sadness weighed upon my chest as if I were submerged in water. I tried not to let my disappointment show but felt my shoulders slump.

“What does Reuben make here?” I turned the phone's ringer back on, then stuffed it and the charger in my pocket.

“Mostly small wooden items like quilt racks. When he has time. A big farm like this keeps a man working all day spring, summer, and fall. But Reuben likes to keep busy in the winter, too.”

I scanned the room searching for anything that might bring a bishop's disapproval. “Where does he sell his merchandise?”

“At a roadside stand, until he runs out of stock.”

“What are these?” I pointed to a stack of what appeared to be mahogany boxes with ornate brass hinges cloistered in a corner.

“Well, now, they're jewelry boxes, if you must know. Reuben made them for tourists.”

“May I?” I set one on the corner of the desk and admired the cover: an inlaid stem of red roses and fern-colored leaves as lovely as I'd ever seen. “Maybe I could take one home as a souvenir if they're not too expensive.”

“They're not for sale.” Armin hovered over me as I lifted the cover. A burst of music filled my ears, notes sprinkling around the room. My surprised reflection stared back through a mirror affixed to the inside of the opened lid. Scarlet-red crushed velvet lined the rest of the container. I removed a shallow, partitioned shelf—I assumed for storing earrings—to see more lush red velvet.

“What an exquisite jewelry box.” The last thing I expected to find. “And Reuben made it?”

“Yah, he's color-blind,” Armin said, flatly.

“There's a problem with the color?”

“He thought he'd bought green fabric. And he sent away for the music box mechanisms not knowing what they played. He'd never heard of the tune before.”

“It sounds vaguely familiar.”

“The bishop's wife says an Englisch woman told her it's the theme song for a black-and-white TV show named
M*A*S*H
. It elevates war and makes a wicked life seem funny and appealing.”

“Oh, yeah, I've seen it on Pops's favorite oldie channel. The show took place during the Korean War.” I lowered the lid and the music ceased. “Has Reuben been selling them?”