SummerHill Secrets, Volume 2 (14 page)

Her eyes burst open. “Really? That’s the place Stiggy recommended to me. He said he’s always gone there.”

“Well, do what you want,” I said, going to find Chelsea. “But don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

Ashley cocked her head suspiciously. “Did something happen?”

I wasn’t going to tell her my photographs were missing. Not in a million-trazillion years!

“Excuse me,” I said, flouncing off to get Chelsea.

Mr. Burg was showing her a scripture, and she asked to write it down. Tickled at her genuine interest, I waited patiently.

It was after the morning worship service, when people were milling around, that I ran into Jon. Actually, he ran into me. Not literally, but he was there in the lobby, smiling his wonderful grin.

I included Chelsea in our conversation, never regretting for one minute that Jon and I wouldn’t be speaking alliteration-eze this time around. There were more important things in life than silly word games.

“Everyone’s talking about the photography contest,” Jon said with a quizzical expression on his handsome face.

I didn’t volunteer any information about my lost photos, and I knew I could trust Chelsea not to mention anything, either.

Jon started to alliterate a couple of times, probably out of habit. Chelsea brought up the angel discussion from Sunday school, and Jon listened, apparently pleased to see Chelsea taking interest in such things.

Monday morning, Mr. Eastman missed his daily date with the intercom. Mrs. Fields, my homeroom teacher, explained that our principal had seemed mighty upset about a roll of film. “Evidently, some prized pictures he took have become misplaced,” she said before the opening announcements.

Had Mr. Eastman taken his film to the same photo lab as I had? I decided to stop by his office later—maybe during lunch.

The school secretary ended up doing his beloved duty. “Good morning, students,” her sweet voice rang through the classrooms—a delightful change. “Today is Monday, October fourteenth. We will have schedule A. Faculty and students, please make a note of this.”

Next came the national anthem. I leaped out of my seat, the first student standing as the warbled tape began to play. I felt truly terrific.

The past eleven days had brought traumatic ups and downs for all of us on SummerHill Lane. But the worst was behind us. Mr. Davis, with the help of my dad and several other men, was able to snatch Chelsea’s mom away from the cult group after her evening workout at a fitness center. From what Dad says, Chelsea was right—her mom did resist the “rescue.” The good news is that Berta Jean Davis will be coming home someday. Not soon, but someday.

Levi Zook? He’ll be getting a letter with my picture enclosed sometime this week. I mailed it off this morning before catching the school bus. I’m glad he’s listening to God’s call. Still, things are going to be very different on SummerHill with Levi off at college—and overseas, too.

As for Jon Klein, he’s starting to wake up and realize I’m a girl, not just a buddy—at least I think so. We don’t have many classes together this semester, but today he wandered over and sat with Chelsea, Lissa, and me during lunch. Ashley scrutinized the situation from three tables away. If I had my wish, she’d back off entirely. We’ll see….

Miracle of miracles! My photographs were finally located. It seems that the owner’s wife took them with her to New York by pure accident. And Mr. Eastman found his, too. They were the photos of antique furnishings—some that had been in his family for several generations.

Meanwhile, I guess it doesn’t matter much who wins first prize in the photography contest this year. I suppose it would if that’s all a girl had to look forward to. But things like hoping to lead a friend to Jesus; writing and receiving letters from a young, handsome preacher-to-be; and oh yes…working to improve a sagging relationship with a big brother, now those are higher goals.

The photos of the shed
are
truly incredible, however. Not because of any genius photography on my part. Serene—almost heavenly—are probably the best words to describe the one I’m going to submit for the contest. It’s uncanny the way an ethereal white mist showers down over the dark house of secrets.

When I showed it to Chelsea, she got all charged up about it. “I’m telling you, Mer,” she declared, “if you stare just right at the shaft of light, you’d think there was a very tall angel hovering over the place.”

“A what?” I studied the photo.

“Right there. See that?” She pointed, tracing the outline. “Check out that long, flowing gown. And there…I see wings. I do!”

“But it doesn’t make sense,” I argued. “Why would God’s messenger be
there
?”

“Merry,” she said, looking at me as if thoroughly aghast. “You prayed, don’t you remember?”

I nodded, a smile bursting across my face.

Chelsea was right. I’d asked God to send His angels to watch over us. Maybe there
was
an angel in the photo, but maybe there wasn’t. Someday in heaven, I would know for sure.

I thought of my twin sister. “Hey, Faithie already knows,” I said, perched on Chelsea’s window seat, facing out toward the dusk.

Chelsea sat cross-legged next to me. We gazed at the first star of the evening. Its light shown against the navy blue darkness, topping off our day. “Are you sure she knows?” she asked softly.

I leaned back against the wall and smiled at my friend.

“One-hundred-percent-amen sure.”

For Christine Dennis,
my young writer/friend,
who has much in common
with Merry Hanson.

And…
for Becky Byler,
my little Amish friend,
who has more in common
with Rachel Zook.

Friendships multiply joys….
                                   —H
ANDBOOK OF PROVERBS
, 1855

“If I die before my mom gets to come home,” Chelsea Davis said one wintry afternoon, “will you tell her how much I loved her?”

I stopped playing with my kitten, Lily White, and stared at my longtime friend. “You’re
not
dying, and your mom’ll be home soon. You’ll see.”

“But it’s taking forever to get her well again.” She scooted over the living room floor, going to sit cross-legged in front of our stone fireplace. Her auburn hair fell halfway down her back as she stared into the flames. Turning, she motioned for me to join her.

I abandoned Lily White, who had succumbed to a catnap, and went to sit on the rug next to Chelsea. The warmth from the fire made my face all warm and rosy.

We fell silent, becoming almost drowsy as the blaze crackled and snapped before us. It was the coldest December day in twenty years, or so the noon weatherman had just announced. And I was absolutely thrilled that my friend had come to stay for the weekend. Because, for more than one reason, I was worried about her.

Recently, Chelsea and I had become close friends. Probably because we’d lived through a real-life trauma—the nightmarish event of her mother’s running away to join a cult group.

Back in October, Mrs. Davis had made friends with an outgoing couple and, unknowingly, had fallen under their spell and that of their leader. She’d even taken some sort of oath and gone away to live at a compound, leaving Chelsea and her dad alone—and terribly hurt and confused. Now Mrs. Davis was being rehabilitated, and the family hoped she’d be released in time for the holidays.

“When was the last time you heard from your mom?” I asked.

“Last week.” Her eyes grew serious. “But she didn’t wanna talk much. I don’t think she likes the phone—one of her new phobias, maybe.”

“So why don’t you tell her how you feel in a letter?”

“That I love her?” She seemed surprised.

“Or send a card that says it for you.”

Chelsea turned back to watch the fire. “I don’t know.”

“It’s only a suggestion.”

Nodding, she continued. “How would
you
feel if your mom went off and lost her mind?”

I took a deep breath. “I really don’t know.”

Truth was, Chelsea’s mom was as sane as anyone in the Lancaster County area. She’d been brainwashed, though, and as my doctor dad had explained to me,
sometimes these things take a long time
.

Not wanting to stir up more sorrow in my friend, I steered the conversation to other things. “Did I tell you? Levi Zook is coming home.”

“For Christmas?” Her sea-green eyes brightened. “Since when?”

“Well, he’s back from his overseas mission. I know that much.”

“Hey, I think you’ve been holding out on me,” she insisted. “Did he write or something?”

I tried not to grin.

“Well, what are we waiting for? Let’s have a look at the letter.” She was getting pushy now. First morbid…now bossy. Which was worse?

“You don’t
really
want to read it, do you?” I said.

But she saw through me. “Okay, Mer, if that’s the way you wanna play it, fine.” And with that, she got up and ran for the stairs.

Of course I was trailing close behind. I didn’t want Chelsea to actually find Levi’s letter—let alone read what the former Amish boy had written.

Levi Zook was probably the most sincere and loyal seventeen-year-old guy I’d ever known. But then, I hadn’t really known many guys his age, except for my brother, Skip, who was a year older than Levi and also in his first year of college.

Actually, Levi and I—and the other Zook children—had grown up together. Our properties shared the same boundary—a thick grove of willow trees. Having grown up in an Old Order Amish family, Levi was fun loving and hardworking. He was also very persistent. Seemed to know exactly what he wanted out of life.

“So where’s the letter?” Chelsea demanded, sporting a grin.

I closed the door to my bedroom. “How about if I just summarize it for you?”

“Forget it! I want details—the latest in the ongoing romantic saga between—”

“Romantic? Levi and I aren’t…uh, together or anything.”

“Could’ve fooled me.” She sat at my desk, flashing a sneaky smile as, slowly, she pulled out the narrow drawer. “Is this it? Is this your hiding place?”

I folded my arms and watched, refusing her a single clue. Leaning against the door, I waited.

Naturally, she wasn’t anywhere near the spot where I kept private letters and things. But I was surprised to see that she had found something. Something I’d completely forgotten about.

“Well, what do we have here?” She held up a note from Jonathan Klein. It was the one he’d passed to me during math class on Thursday, two days ago.

I knew if I didn’t respond, Chelsea would think she’d discovered a gold mine. “Oh that.” I pushed my hair back over my shoulder nonchalantly. “Go ahead, have a look.”

She moved her lips, probably trying to decipher his alliterated words, then frowned, apparently puzzled. “Does he always write like this?”

I wasn’t about to divulge Jon’s and my big secret—our ongoing word game. Frequently, we talked to each other in what we called alliteration-eze, trying to see who could think faster off the top of the head. Usually, it was Jon, and for that, I’d secretly named him the Alliteration Wizard.

“Oh, you know Jon,” I said, hoping she’d drop the subject.

She glanced at the note again and then waved it in a mocking manner. “Seems to me the next few weeks could be
very
interesting around here.”