SummerHill Secrets, Volume 2 (10 page)

“Let’s show Merry our puppies,” little Susie said, coming into the kitchen. Her eyes sparkled as she pulled on my hand, leading me out the back door and across the wide yard to the barn.

Rachel, Nancy, and Ella Mae followed exuberantly. Inside the hayloft, on a warm bed of hay, Levi’s silky gold cocker spaniel lay sleeping next to her pups.

“Oh, they’re beautiful.” I crouched down for a closer look at the four golden-haired darlings.

“Wanna take one home?” Susie offered. “Pick out the puppy ya want.”

I shook my head reluctantly. “Mom would never stand for it,” I confessed. “It would be a waste of time to even try to talk her into it.”

Rachel leaned down and picked up one with a hint of a wave in his coat. “This one’s my favorite,” she said, “but Dat says we hafta give them all away.”

Susie poked out her bottom lip. “I wish we could raise puppies. Levi and I were gonna have us a fine pup ranch. But he went away.”

Rachel put her hand on Susie’s head. “Don’t fuss over what might’ve been. We’ll find good homes for the pups like Dat says. That’s all ya need to think about now.”

Soon it was time for the afternoon milking. Since I was already here, I decided to don Levi’s old work boots and help out. It felt mighty strange clumping around in the mud and manure wearing my former boyfriend’s boots. Memories of last summer filled my mind with warm, cheerful thoughts as I washed down the cows’ udders in preparation for milking. Funny, but it was a job I used to dislike.

Levi and I had pretty much turned things upside down this past summer. My own parents had more than raised an eyebrow when I’d consented to spend time with an Amish boy. Mom’s concern was that Plain folk often marry young.
“Next thing, Levi will be looking for a wife,”
Mom had said.

Dad, on the other hand, was more nonchalant about Levi’s interest in me.
“It’s not like Merry’s going out with some stranger,”
he’d said, laughing.

Dad was right. Levi and I were family in a very distant sort of way. One of my great-great grandfathers was one of Levi’s ancestors, too.

After nearly two hours of rolling the metal milk cans back and forth to the milk house, I was quite exhausted. The Zook kids set high standards for themselves, however, and kept going. They were used to it, though, up at four-thirty each morning milking and hauling the fresh milk out to the end of their lane for the milk truck.

“I’ll come see you again soon,” I called to Rachel as her father shuffled into the barn. Now was a good time to exit since Abe would help finish up. I removed the familiar work boots and waved good-bye, wondering how long before Levi would miss the old home place. Or if he would at all.

Right before supper, Chelsea called. I was in no mood for more bad news, so I took the phone somewhat reluctantly. “Hi, Chelsea,” I said. “What’s up?”

“You’ll never believe this,” she began. “The police have already found evidence to prove there are other members of a satanic group in the area. It is a definite cult group—could be the one my mom’s hooked up with.”

“Wow, fast work. Now, if they can just find your mom and get her out of there.”

“I know,” she said. “Hey, my dad’s coming around—finally! He’s been talking to the police. Officer Vyner’s been incredible. He told Daddy that they were able to track down several information files in the Lancaster newspapers. The media might be able to help us, too.”

Chelsea sounded upbeat and excited. “I guess sometimes bad stuff can turn out to be good—in a way,” she added.

“You’re right,” I replied, hoping this was one of those good times.

“And, Merry, I think you might be the reason for it.”

“Me?”

“Your prayer that day, remember?” She said it softly. “You got me thinking about God—angels too—especially when I was scared spitless out there in the woods.”

I hardly knew what to say. Chelsea had never shown any interest in God or His angels.

She changed the subject and chattered about school and boys, and even her algebra homework. Eventually, we said good-bye and hung up.

I dashed back into the kitchen with the phone cord dancing behind me. “Things are looking up for Chelsea and her family,” I informed everyone.

“Prayer makes a difference,” Dad was quick to say.

“Sure does,” Skip said.

My head jerked up as I looked at him across the table. “You’re praying, too?” I asked Skip, who’d heard about Chelsea’s mom in only the past few hours.

“Mrs. Davis can’t begin to know what she’s up against with all of us praying,” Skip said. It was the one serious comment he’d made all weekend.

Odd, but my brother didn’t pick a single fight at this meal. Not one.

I didn’t purposely save a seat for Ashley Horton in Sunday school the next day. At least, I didn’t go out of my way to. But there it was, a vacant seat next to me just the same, and she spied it when she arrived.

Ashley made quite a production out of getting from the doorway to her seat. “Oh, Merry, you remembered,” she acknowledged, prancing over to me. “Thank you so much.” She sat beside me, smoothing out her dress and looking down at her nylons—I don’t know why—maybe to make sure there were no runs, heaven forbid.

She certainly accomplished what she’d set out to do. There wasn’t a single set of male eyeballs in the classroom that had missed her entrance. Jon Klein’s included.

“I heard about Chelsea’s mom on the news last night,” she said.

By now, several other kids had come over to discuss the horrendous situation. Lissa too.

“What was all that about Chelsea’s mom being involved in a cult?” Lissa asked.

“It’s a frightening thing,” I said, trying to explain everything quickly before the teacher arrived. “But I believe God will take care of Mrs. Davis.”

Jon came over and sat in front of us. Ashley nearly died on the spot. I, however, remained cool and calm. Collected? Not on the inside!

Fortunately, the Alliteration Wizard didn’t spring something on me right there in front of everyone. I probably wouldn’t have been able to think fast enough. Besides, I loved the fact he was keeping our word game hush-hush.

After all the talk about Chelsea’s mom and her disappearance tapered off, Ashley asked me quietly about the photography contest. Again.

“So…have you decided anything yet?” she asked.

Jon had turned around in his seat and was grinning at me. I smiled back. “Oh, that…the contest.”

“Well,” she huffed, “isn’t it about time to make some sort of decision?”

“Probably.” I was being evasive and she knew it, but I didn’t dare share my photography idea with anyone. Especially not with Ashley Horton. Next thing, she’d be out tramping around in the woods near Chelsea’s house, searching for an old shanty with a beam of light pouring down on it from out of the sky.

Jon turned around, and I opened my Bible, looking for my notes. I’d actually written some on the lesson for today. Not something I often did, but the trauma of the weekend had served to put my mind on the things of God. Tragedy has a way of doing that. Besides, today’s lesson was about angels.

Mr. Burg showed up right on time. His blond hair was accentuated by his gold and blue paisley tie. “Good morning, class.” He smiled warmly. “Today we’re going to discuss God’s unseen protectors.”

I opened my Sunday school lesson book so I could follow along. Mr. Burg started the class with prayer and then recited various documented stories about intervention by angels. I was fascinated, remembering how the Lord had dropped the verse from Psalm ninety-one into my heart last Friday. In that chilling moment, I’d prayed on my knees—in front of Chelsea, the self-declared atheist.

What made me do such a thing? Thinking back, I knew I’d done a wise thing.

Ashley’s Sunday school lesson slid off her lap, startling me back to the discussion at hand. The book conveniently landed under Jon’s chair. Not surprisingly, he leaned over and reached back to pick it up. Ashley literally gushed her whispered thanks, and I felt embarrassed to be sitting next to her. The girl was obviously determined to get Jon’s attention. No matter what.

I could only hope he would remember who his equal was in the world of words. Merry, mistress of mirth, made the maddening maiden Ashley seem meaningless by a major margin. Or so I hoped.

Monday morning before school, I dropped off my precious roll of film at the photo lab. Skip had decided to stay an extra day before heading back to college, and I was shocked when he offered to drive me to school. I was ages from having a car of my own, and it was nice having him behave so brotherly.

I knew he would be gone by the time I arrived home that afternoon. “I hope things go okay for you at school,” I ventured, tiptoeing around the fact of his former homesickness.

His smile reassured me. “Dad talked to me—said I could come home any old weekend I wanted.” He waited for the red light two blocks from Buchanan High, turning in the driver’s seat to look at me. “I’ll be praying for your girl friend’s mother,” he said softly.

“Sounds to me like she needs all the prayers she can get,” I replied.

Skip continued. “Well, I’m glad Chelsea has a friend like my little Merry.”

He’d called me that ever since I could remember. At least today he’d abandoned “cat breath”—the nerdy nickname he often called me.

Grinning, Skip pulled up to the curb. “Well, here you are.”

“Thanks for the ride.”

He poked my arm playfully. “See ya at Thanksgiving.”

“Yeah, see ya. ’Bye!” I jumped out of the car and watched him drive away. Thank goodness he’d begun to show signs of actual reform. Could it be that my brother and I might someday enjoy a decent sibling relationship?

I hurried up the steps to the school, anxious to turn in my application for the photography contest. Even before stopping at my locker, I dashed down the hall to Mrs. Fields’s homeroom. No one was there, but I noticed that someone had already returned an application. I leaned over, studying the paper on the desk. Lissa Vyner’s name was at the top. I wondered if Ashley Horton would be turning in her application early, too. Since she was in another homeroom, I had no way of knowing.

Later, right before Mr. Eastman came over the intercom with his usual boring remarks about the day, I passed a note to Lissa.

Hey!

I see you turned in your photo contest stuff early—just like me. Any idea what Ashley’s up to?

—Mer

Lissa wrote right back during the long verses of the national anthem. I remembered what Mom had said about Mr. Eastman, our principal and hers, crooning “The Star-Spangled Banner” way back when.

Mer,

You’ve been snooping on me, huh? Personally, I don’t know what’s with Ashley these days. I suspect she’s planning to get some ideas from Stiggy Eastman—you know, last year’s winner?

Let’s eat lunch with her today and check it out.

Later,

Lissa

It didn’t take long to figure out Ashley’s next move. She spelled it right out for us over hamburgers.

“Stiggy’s been so helpful,” she announced to Lissa, Chelsea, and me. “You should hear him talk about things like the composition of the shot, and—oh yes, the most striking element of a scene. I’m really impressed, though I won’t be viewing the winning photograph until Wednesday.”