Reflection (8 page)

She was packing when Michael came into her cinderblock house. Her suitcase was on her bed, her back to the door, and she didn't realize he was there until she felt his arms circle her from behind. She didn't even start, as though she'd been expecting him to come, to embrace her this way. He buried his lips against her neck, and she leaned back against him. His hands pressed flat against her rib cage, just below her breasts, and she closed her eyes when he moved one hand underneath the hem of her shirt. He slipped his hand up to her bare breast. She held her breath as he pressed his palm against her, running his thumb across her erect nipple, and she knew that if she didn't stop what was happening right that minute, it would be too late for both of them.

“Michael.” She drew his hand away gently and pulled herself from his arms. “We can't.”

Michael sat down on her bed and looked at his hand as if he could still feel the weight of her breast on his fingers. He shook his head, raising his face to her. “We've been saints, Rachel,” he said. “They should canonize us.”

“I'm really proud of how we've handled this whole situation,” she said. “We don't have anything to be ashamed of.” But she did feel ashamed. Not for what had just happened, but for the thoughts of Michael that were always with her, for those moments in her bed at night when she would stroke her own body, imagining her hands were his. Never Luke's. She would try to conjure up images of her husband, but he remained an elusive stranger in her fantasies.

Michael's eyes were red. “I don't want you to leave,” he said.

She sat down next to him, pulling him into a quiet, pained embrace.

“I love you,” he said finally.

“I love you, too,” she whispered.

“I don't think I'll ever feel this way about anyone else. Maybe it's wrong for me to say that, but I want you to know it.” He straightened his shoulders, seeming to get a grip on himself. “And I want you to go home and be a terrific wife to Luke. Make him happy, ‘cause he's been through some shit over there, all right?”

“Yes, okay,” she said. “I guess it's good you'll still be here, and that we won't get to see each other for a year.”

“Uh-huh.” He didn't sound any more convinced than she did.

“And that Katy's coming.”

He nodded. “Right. And by the time I get home, we'll all be back to normal and you'll look at me and say to yourself, ‘What the hell did I see in him?'”

RACHEL CLOSED THE WEDDING
album and leaned against the bare attic wall, wiping her damp cheeks with her fingers. She had not seen Michael again after that night. He had taught the following day, and someone else had taken her on the long drive to the airport.

She had desperately wanted things to work out with Luke, but everything was against her. She was in love with a man she could not have, while her husband had turned into someone she could never love again.

MICHAEL STOLTZ DROVE THROUGH
the falling darkness. He had one last stop to make before he'd be through for the night. He checked his watch in the overhead light of the car. He had less than an hour before he was to meet Drew back at his house. He hoped Amos Blank would not be a tough sell.

He'd collected thirty-one signatures since noon, stopping at farms and Amish-run shops. The petition was straightforward. It asked the board of supervisors to deny Marielle Hostetter's proposal to develop her land. The shortsighted planning commission had already approved the proposal, despite the impact study, which showed—in his opinion, anyway—the variety of ways in which the town would suffer because of the development. So the petitions were important. Michael already had two hundred signatures on the petition he'd passed among other residents of Reflection, but getting the plain sects to sign was a different matter.

He turned into the long driveway of the Blanks' farm. The stretch of macadam bisected a wide expanse of moonlit pasture, and the white farmhouse itself was bathed in a welcoming glow. Michael parked close to the house and got out of his car.

A dog, a mixture of collie and shepherd, barked from the porch, and a child peeked out from behind the dark shades in one of the front windows. Michael waved, laughing as the shade quickly dropped back into place.

The dog ran down the steps, its barking intensifying as Michael walked toward the house.

“Hush,” he said, and the dog's tail began to wag. He sniffed the back of Michael's hand and trotted along next to him to the front steps.

Michael didn't have to knock before Amos opened the door for him.

“Come in, Michael.” Amos sounded as if he'd been expecting him.

“Thanks.” Michael stepped into the wide, open living room. It was lit by a propane-gas lantern on the mantel, tinting everything in the room with a warm gold hue.

Michael held up the tablet. “I have a petition with me—”

“I know what you have,” Amos said. “I've heard. Sit.”

Michael heard the clatter of dishes from the kitchen as he took a seat on the sofa. He could smell cabbage and something else. Ham, probably. Biscuits. He hoped he was not interrupting the Blanks' supper. The little girl he'd seen at the window peered around the frame of the living room door. She was big-eyed, and her hair was parted in the middle and pinned tightly back from her face. Amos said something to her in German, and she disappeared, giggling.

Michael turned his attention back to his host. “The petition simply states our concerns about allowing the Hostetter development to take place.” He attempted to hand the tablet over to Amos, but the other man made no move to take it.

“I don't know that it's something we should get involved with,” Amos stroked his long graying beard. He was probably no more than forty-four, Michael's age, but he looked at least ten years older.

“Well, you can look at the other signatures. Thirty-one of them just today.” He named some of Amos's neighbors. He didn't tell him about those who would not sign. The Amish were divided on this—not in the sentiment that the land should remain as it was but on how strong a stance they should take. Nonresistance was a fundamental tenet both of their church and his own. Still, it was important to let those in power know their objections. It was important to be counted.

“I'll tell you something I don't understand,” Amos said.

“What's that?”

“I've heard that Drew Albrecht is doing this with you—getting names and such.” He motioned toward the petition.

Michael knew where this was going. Drew himself was a builder. It was hard for people to believe he could have any sincere concern about rampant growth taking over Reflection, but Michael trusted Drew's sense of loyalty to the town. More important, Drew was able to connect to the business community in a way he himself could not. Similarly, his being a minister gave him the sort of credibility among the Amish and Old Order Mennonites that Drew could never hope to achieve. Whether or not a farmer chose to sign the petition, Michael knew he had the man's trust.

“That's right,” he said. “And it's true Drew's a builder himself. But I can assure you he has Reflection's best interest at heart.”

Amos narrowed his eyes at Michael. “And your cousin? What's she make of this work you're doing?”

Michael smiled. “I don't know,” he answered honestly, although he could certainly guess. His cousin was Ursula Torwig, the growth-oriented mayor of Reflection. “Ursula and I have never agreed on much.”

Amos tightened his lips, then reached for the tablet with a sigh. He held it toward the light to read the names, nodding his head. The lantern hissed softly from the mantel as he read, and the tablet cast a shadow across his white shirt and black suspenders. Finally, he accepted the pen Michael offered him and signed his own name at the bottom of the list.

“There's going to be an extremely important public hearing on September sixth at the Starr and Lieber Bank building.” Michael took the tablet back and stood up. “It will give people an opportunity to voice their concerns before the board makes its final decision. We can arrange rides for any Amish who want to go.”

“We'll see,” Amos said as he walked Michael to the door.

Once in his car, Michael set the petition on the passenger seat and drove slowly up the long driveway to the road. He cut through the heart of town to his own neighborhood. Drew's car was parked in front of the house, but no one was in it. Jason must have let him in.

He found his friend in Jason's bedroom, engrossed in a game of chess.

Jason looked up at his father. “Just a couple minutes, Dad,” he said. “I've almost got him.”

Michael stood behind his son's chair and rested his hand on Jason's shoulder. The boy tolerated the fatherly gesture for close to ten seconds before shrugging his hand away, and Michael sat down on the edge of the twin bed.

Drew wore a weak grin as he ran a hand through his thinning, pale hair. He had on one of his many Hawaiian shirts, this one red and blue, and he leaned his elbows on the table as he studied the board. Only a few white pawns rested near his elbow, but Jason had amassed a small army of black pieces on the other side of the board. They were reflected in the boy's glasses, a shifting black blur when he moved his head. For the first time Michael noticed the unruly length of his son's dirty blond hair. Katy would have a fit if she could see it.

Drew pursed his lips at the board as he hesitantly moved one of the black rooks toward Jason's white battalion. “I want you to know, Jace,” he said, “that I used to let you win at this game to boost your confidence.”

“Nah.” Jason slipped his queen into position. “Checkmate.”

“Drat.” Drew sat back in his chair, shaking his head at Michael. “Your kid has no mercy.”

“Wanna play again?” Jason asked him.

“I'm sure he'd love to, Jace.” Michael stood up and squeezed his son's shoulder. “But we've got work to do.”

Jason put on the lonely, hangdog expression he'd been wearing since Katy left for Russia and began putting away the chessmen.

“I'll get you next time,” Drew warned as he left Jason's room. He followed Michael into the family room, where he picked up his own stack of petitions and sat down on the sofa. “Is Jace making any friends at computer camp?”

Michael shook his head. “None that I hear about. He complains nearly every morning about not wanting to go.” He wondered if the camp had been a mistake, if he should give in to his son's pleas to stay home. It hurt him to see Jason's isolation; he remembered his own too well. Jason had the same skinny, four-eyed look to him that he'd had, that same nerdy intelligence that set him apart from other kids his age. Michael had told Jason that he'd been the same way and that he understood how it felt, but the boy only responded with an indignant, I-don't-know-what-you're-talking-about look.

Katy regularly fed into her son's denial. “You're making a problem where there isn't one,” she'd tell Michael. But Katy was wrong. He knew the pain of an isolated child when he saw it.

“I got thirty-two signatures,” Michael said

“Hey, that's great!” Drew looked surprised. He hadn't thought any of the Amish would sign. “I got fifty-seven. I'll tell you, though, there's a fair amount of support for the other side among business owners.”

“Well, you were talking to people who stand to profit. Any signatures we get from them are a bonus.”

“True, but we still have to face the fact that there are a lot of people who are honestly convinced that Ursula's right. They think the economy needs the boost.”

“Dad?” Jason appeared in the doorway.

“Yes?”

“Please, could we get cable, Dad? Everybody else has it, and they're always talking about stuff that's on it, and I don't know what they're talking about.”

Michael sighed. This was Jason's new ruse. When he wanted something these days, he acted as though his lack of it was the cause of his social problems. “Sorry, Jace,” he said. “Cable's out.” Just what they needed. A few dozen more mind-numbing television programs in the house.

Jason made a sound of exasperation as he trod back down the hallway to his room.

“He's been like this ever since Katy left,” Michael said. “He misses her a lot. Needs a ton of attention. Thanks for playing chess with him.” He straightened the papers on his lap.

“My pleasure.” Drew grinned. “Only wish I could beat the kid.”

“You want something to drink?” Michael offered, and Drew nodded.

He was taking two bottles of club soda from the refrigerator when the phone rang. He picked up the receiver.

“Michael?” It was a female voice, and he struggled unsuccessfully to place it.

“Yes?”

“This is Rachel Huber, Michael.”

Michael set the bottles on the counter. This was the one voice he had never expected to hear again. He could barely find his own.

“Rachel,” he said. “I don't believe it.”

She laughed, and although her laughter was deeper now, richer, the familiarity of the sound made him smile. “I'm at my grandmother's,” she said. “She had an accident and—”

“Yes, I heard. How is she doing?”

“All right. She's not much of a complainer. I'm just here to help her out while she's laid up.”

Michael's thoughts were so wild and jumbled he couldn't put them into words. Rachel was here, a few miles from where he stood. He thought about kicking Drew out of the house, getting in the car, and driving over to Helen's. How good it would be to see her.

“Michael?” Rachel asked. “Are you tongue-tied?”

“I can't believe you're here,” he said. “I want to see you. Right now.” He grimaced.
Get a grip
.

Rachel laughed again. “Well, how about tomorrow? Maybe I can drop ten pounds by then.”