Kingdom Come (15 page)

“You're not going to be able to do any house calls in this weather. Go home before the roads get crazy. You've been hitting it hard for a long time, Harris. Take a break,” Grady told me.

I leaned back in my chair and stretched my shoulders, which ached from too many hours hunched over either a computer or a steering wheel. The thought of going home while it was still daylight—or at least overcast storm light—and having a long hot bath, maybe a relaxing, self-administered pedicure while watching bad TV . . . It sounded like heaven.

“Let's pretend I argued with you vehemently, but in the end you convinced me,” I sighed.

“Done,” Grady said with a chuckle. “Now, stop wasting my time with your hardheaded arguments and go home. That's an order.”

“Yes, boss.”

I thought there might have been an insult in there somewhere, but who cared?

—

By the time I got out of the bath, it had started snowing in earnest. I peeked out the curtains I hardly ever bothered to draw and saw big, fat flakes and a leaden gray sky. I found a flashlight in a kitchen cupboard, brought it into the living room, and plopped it on the coffee table in case the power went out. Wearing flannel
pj's, I put on
Four Weddings and a Funeral
and started taking the old paint off my toes.

I wasn't fussy by nature. I didn't do a lot of things my girlfriends in New York had considered high living, but once in a while a pedicure was a wonderful thing. Even though no one ever saw my feet, it was a nice feeling when I remembered the red polish on them while I was at work, and I liked seeing them propped up like a rising fleet of tiny dragons from the other end of the tub.

Of course, just as I got settled in, the doorbell rang.

Grumbling, I got up and peeked out the security hole. Ezra Beiler stood on my doorstep.

“Oh shit!” I muttered to myself, suddenly painfully aware of my pink flannel pajamas with little white sheep on them. How embarrassing.

“Just a minute!” I hollered through the door. And then, for good measure, “Hang on, I need to change.”

I turned off the TV and raced into my bedroom. I frantically pulled on a pair of jeans and a slouchy old boatneck sweater that I'd always thought was flattering. Its light cocoa color went well with my dark hair and pale skin.

Why was I thinking about that?

My hair was still up in a dry bun from the bath, and I pulled out the clamp and fluffed it ruthlessly. It would have to do. I wore no makeup, but then Ezra was used to women without it, so maybe less was more. I opened the door.

Ezra seemed happy to see me, but he was pink-cheeked with shyness or embarrassment. “Hullo, Elizabeth.”

“Hi! It's nice to see you,” I said, which was a monumental
understatement. He looked gorgeous and solid and real standing there on my doorstep, and warm despite the swirls of snow behind him, like he had the sun in his chest and it just radiated out. The mere sight of him relieved some ugly tension I'd been carrying around for days without realizing it.

He was staring at me too. He blinked and looked away. “Brought you some things.” He held up a wicker basket that had flaps, picnic basket–style.

“Oh? 'Tis so?” I teased, but my stomach rumbled in anticipation. I hoped it was edible, whatever it was.

“'Tis so,” he replied in a bone-dry voice. He studied the front of my house, perhaps for construction ideas.

I bit back a smile. Then I noticed there was a car idling in my driveway, an old Ford sedan with an equally old man behind the wheel. “Did you get a ride?”

“Ja. I called a driver. Didn't know if it would be a good idea to bring Horse to your neighborhood.”

“Probably for the best. I'm still waiting on that hitching post I ordered online.”

He gave me a strange look, like he wasn't sure if I was making fun of him. I hurried to say something nice to assure him I was not.

“So . . . can you come in for a bit?”

He glanced behind him at the driver. “I wouldn't mind a visit if you're up for it. I can call Ben when I'm ready to go, 'n' he'll come back.”

I frowned. “Well, with the snow—” I cut myself off abruptly. Ezra studied his shoes.

Stupid mouth. If I pointed out the incipient blizzard, he might
feel obliged to leave right away because it would be hard for the driver to get back.

Ezra looked up at the sky. “Not so bad,” he lied as the sky fell on his head.

I was pretty sure I didn't have to tell an Amish man, a local, about the fact that this snow would soon make the roads impassable. The idea that Ezra might get stuck here for hours,
that he knew that and didn't mind
, made my insides turn into hot jelly. My knees suddenly felt weak. I clutched at the handle of the door.

“Yeah, it's fine. Call him later,” I said without a trace of facetiousness. I grabbed the wrist that wasn't holding the basket and, with a breezy wave at the driver, pulled Ezra into the house and shut the door.

—

The basket contained the food of the gods. That was a large jar of Martha's blueberry preserves, a loaf of fresh-baked bread, a container of homemade butter, a glass bottle of cream, and a quart of potato salad.

“I love you,” I said with wide eyes as I unpacked the box and placed the treasures carefully on the kitchen counter.

Ezra snorted, but he blushed a little too. “You seemed to like them—those things. So I figured I'd bring some by.”

“My hero.” I gave him a big smile. “Can I make you some coffee? I'm afraid mine will be a pathetic specimen compared to yours, but the fresh cream will help.”

“I'd like that,” Ezra said.

I fumbled around with the coffeepot, grounds, and filters, feeling thoroughly discombobulated. Ezra freaking Beiler was
standing in my kitchen. He'd called a driver to bring him over here. In a snowstorm. And he'd brought me a basket of homemade food. That was like courting, wasn't it? The girlish butterflies in my stomach flipped out, doing a victory dance. Some small voice in my head reminded me that I had reasons to avoid Ezra—professional reasons. I shut that bitch down.

I managed to start the coffee percolating with half a brain.

“I heard what happened,” Ezra said seriously. “'Bout the elders goin' to the police station and askin' that you stop talkin' to us. So I figured I wouldn't see you over at my farm again.”

“No. I—” Damn. “I didn't want to get you in trouble with your deacon. And I've been busy with work.” I shrugged like it was no big deal. But the idea of Ezra having heard about that scene in the police station made me feel a little humiliated. That had not been one of my career highlights.

I looked out the window at the snow while the coffeemaker went through its groans of despair. The snow was thick and heavy enough that I could see only a few feet from the window. The little bird feeder hanging right outside was topped with a few inches of fluff and getting fluffier by the minute. Ezra would not be going anywhere soon. I felt way happier about that than I should have.

I made some toast to go with the coffee—mainly because I was dying to try the goodies Ezra had brought. I asked after Martha and Horse while I fiddled—they were “gut” according to Ezra. By the time we were seated at the kitchen table with our coffee, plates, toast, butter, and jam, I'd run out of small talk.

I finally asked the question I'd been dying to ask. “So. When did you decide to leave the Amish?”

Ezra's jaw clenched and he looked down into his coffee. After
doing countless interviews, I knew the signs. He was struggling with himself about what to tell me. I hadn't meant to turn the conversation to such a heavy topic, but I kept my mouth shut and let him work out what he wanted to say.

He spoke haltingly. “My wife lost our son when she was six months along. He was so small. . . .” Ezra held up both his palms together. It was only for a moment before he dropped them, but I knew he was seeing the baby there. “They said it was God's will. And when my wife . . . died. They said that too was God's will. I knew then that the trust I had, the way I'd tried so hard to fit in . . . it was over. I made up my mind to go. And I had nothing to keep me there no more.”

“I'm sorry.”

“I'm sorry” is a funny phrase. Whenever those words are really needed, they're useless, and yet, they have to be said. I slid my hand over and put it on his larger one on the table. I squeezed and he squeezed my hand back. But then he frowned and pulled away.

“Don't deserve your pity.”

“Why not?”

He glanced up at me, his eyes haunted. “I wasn't without blame in it all.”

I waited, but he just stared at me, as if he wanted to say more but was afraid to.

“Tell me,” I said quietly.

He took a long drink of coffee and looked out the window.

“I hadn't joined the church yet. Had it in my mind I wasn't gonna. I had plans, plans to go live somewheres else. Always knew I didn't have it in me to be a good Amish. I'm the one who
always has to ask ‘why.' Then I started seein' a girl. Her name was Mary. I tried not to get in too deep, cause I knew I was leavin', but . . . she wanted to, and . . . I didn't stop her. Next thing I knew, her da was at my house tellin' everyone I'd ruined her.”

He swallowed hard, still staring out the window.

Crap. That sucked. “How old were you?”

“Seventeen.”

“Was she pregnant?”

He shook his head once, his mouth pursed. “Didn't know for sure at the time 'cause it had just happened, but no. Didn't matter though. Her da spoke so loud about it, her reputation was broke.”

“So you got married?”

He nodded and looked at me as if pleading for me to understand. “When it was in front of me, when I had to make a choice to either do what everyone thought was right, or walk away from the Amish
right then
, from my family and . . . and everything I'd worked for, everything I knew . . . I couldn't do it. I was afraid to make a mistake I could never take back. And then there was another person who would be hurt by it too. Mary. Didn't think I could live with that. So I joined the church after all. Had to, to get married.”

The emotion in his voice was raw. I'd never heard such a painful speech. I thought I got a glimpse of what that had been like for him at the time—agreeing to a life sentence of being tied to a church he didn't believe in, of being married to a woman he didn't love. And why?

She wanted to, and I didn't stop her
. Ezra's voice was loaded with self-recrimination, but how many seventeen-year-old boys would stop a girl if she really wanted sex? Ezra was a seriously
good-looking man. And it struck me as odd that Mary's father found out immediately what had happened if he hadn't caught them at it. I smelled entrapment. Maybe Mary had been madly in love. Maybe she had a sense Ezra was going to leave and she was desperate to hang on to him. That didn't excuse the manipulation.

“What happened to Mary?” I asked, avoiding adding in my opinion of her.

Ezra stood up and went to the window over the sink. He stared out at the snow. “Didn't know her all that well before we married. After, I found out she had problems. She was so low all the time, down on herself. Some days she couldn't even get out of bed. I guess her family thought gettin' married would make her feel better, just like I thought having a baby would make her happy. But then she lost him.”

“That must have been awful.”

“About a month after she lost the baby, Mary was hit by a car while fetchin' the mail out to the road. The driver told me . . .” Ezra put both hands on the edge of the sink and closed his eyes. The last of it came out as a whisper. “He said she looked right at him.”

“Oh my God.”

I couldn't stand it. I got up and went to him and wrapped my arms around him from behind. I had been as tall as many of the men I'd dated, including Terry, but Ezra was a good head taller. With his broader shoulders he was so much bigger than me, it felt a bit silly trying to comfort him. Silly in a wonderful way. I pressed my face into his shoulders. The core of him was solid muscle. He didn't touch me back but he didn't pull away. His voice was muffled and thick as he went on.

“I like to think she didn't plan it, that it was just . . . she went out for the mail, the car was there, and she was feeling real low. She thought it was her fault, you know? That the baby was born too soon. Said she couldn't even have a baby right. She never thought she was worth anythin' no matter how much I told her elsewise. She could tell that I didn't . . . sometimes I resented bein' there.”

“I'm sure you did the best you could,” I murmured.

He pulled away and faced me, still upset. “No. I won't lie. I didn't do all I should have. I should have gotten her help. They come to see her every week, her family and mine and the deacon and others in the church. We all prayed, but it didn't help. I should have taken her to a doctor. I let her down. I felt sorry for her, but I didn't want to be married. A lot of times I just escaped into my work and ignored what was goin' on. And that's the truth.”

His guilt was palpable. I knew there was no easy way to take that from him, though I wished to God I could. “Listen, Ezra. You were so young. You were forced into a marriage you didn't want—”

“I wasn't forced,” he insisted, unwilling to avoid the blame.

“Okay, you were
goaded
into a marriage you didn't want. You did the best you could. It sounds like Mary was severely depressed,
clinically
depressed. I was a cop in the city. I saw what depression can do. Lots of times the person can hide it—the family has no idea how bad it is until it's too late. Add in losing a baby . . .”

“They said—” He swallowed. “They said it was God's will that the baby died. And I think . . . they never said it, but I think some of the men—my father, Deacon Lapp—thought it was punishment for our sins. That the baby died because we had sex
before we were married or because I didn't have the faith I should. I know it's wrong to hate, but I hated them for that. I done everything they asked but it wasn't enough. I guess that was the last straw that broke me, when I stopped caring what they said. When Mary died I shaved my beard. That was my promise to myself that I was leavin' as soon as I could, and this time, nothin' would stop me.”