The Englisher (4 page)

He dropped a handful of ice into the largest glass mug in the cupboard—a gift he’d received for being a groomsman for his good buddy’s wedding last year.
Back before
everything broke loose. . . .

When he’d finished making the sandwich, he cut it in half diagonally, as his mother always did. He remembered as a boy lifting the lid on his Aladdin lunch box and finding the sandwiches halved. One of Mom’s trademarks. That and the cored whole apple, wrapped in aluminum foil. Why she didn’t quarter it and cut out the seeds like his classmates’ mothers did, he’d never known.

While eating his lunch, he flipped through his mail, spying an overnight letter from his mom, which included his Social Security card.
Finally,
he thought. He was one step closer to acquiring a Pennsylvania driver’s license.

Weeks ago he’d asked her to mail his birth certificate as well, since due to 9/11 Homeland Security measures, two additional forms of ID, along with his Kentucky license, were required. Unfortunately, his mother hadn’t had time to unearth it, having moved important files to the attic when their basement partially flooded during a severe storm in mid-November last year. Although she was rather apologetic, it didn’t seem she was trying all that hard, most likely hoping Ben would give up this nonsense and return home, upsetting as all this had been to her.

Not wanting to wait any longer, and tired of asking for it only to realize he was rubbing salt in the wound of his leaving, he had decided to apply directly to the Office of Vital Statistics in Frankfort, Kentucky, for another official copy.

Finishing off his sandwich, he began to fill out the application, recalling a long-ago exchange between himself and his sisters. And one mouthy cousin.

He had been trying to get his mom to find some baby pictures for his ‘‘Guess Who?’’ project at school. But his mother had been busy cooking and entertaining their relatives from Iowa at the time. One of the cousins and his sisters had ganged up on him, teasing him mercilessly. ‘‘Well, maybe you’re adopted,’’ his cousin had said, sporting a mischievous grin.

‘‘Yeah, ever think of that?’’ said his sister Patrice.

Yet another sister, Sherri, had joined in on the fun at his expense, holding up a mirror to his face. She made a scrutinizing frown. ‘‘Here, take a look and see.’’

He had kidded them back. ‘‘Cool! You’re not really my sisters then, right?’’ He eyed the obnoxious cousin, too. ‘‘And . . . you? Well, figure it out, cuz.’’

‘‘Wait a minute,’’ Patrice had declared with seeming disappointment, still holding the mirror. ‘‘Your eyebrows have the same arch as Dad’s.’’

‘‘Huh?’’

‘‘And you have Mom’s nose.’’

Sherri piped up. ‘‘You inherited Daddy’s funky annoying laugh, too!’’

‘‘Don’t forget Mom’s morning breath,’’ Patrice added.

‘‘Okay, that does it.’’ He began chasing them around the house, catching Patrice and holding her upside down over the toilet, threatening to douse her, head first.

‘‘I’m gonna die . . . and it’ll be . . . your fault,’’ she screamed. ‘‘Mom!’’

Diana, his youngest sister, had sat in the corner, clapping and egging him on that day. He thought of all four of his sisters now, missing them. He wondered what they would think of Annie if they ever had an opportunity to meet her. But that was a slam dunk. They’d like her all right.
A lot
.

He put down his pen and twiddled it between his fingers. ‘‘So . . . have I stumbled onto the girl for me?’’

Putting both destiny and love in the same breath was foolish, wasn’t it?

Annie was not only Amish, but of the strictest order. He knew this from hearing his employer, Irvin Ranck, speak of Preacher Zook and his family, who were cousins to Irvin. Ben had no business seeking out such a girl. How well did he know Annie, anyway? Sure, he’d enjoyed talking with her on the road the other day, and she kept showing up at the same places as he did. But, hey, this wasn’t a metropolis. People were bound to run into each other here.

But love?

He dismissed his mood as relating to homesickness. After all, he sometimes felt disconnected from his family, living here instead of in his native Kentucky, having rarely left his hometown—until recently. He spent hours on email and instant messaging each week, keeping in touch with his family.

Still, there was no denying he was captivated by the Plain culture as a whole and always had been. Even the infrequent times he had bumped into a few ‘‘horse and buggy’’ people in Kentucky.

He leaned his head back and reclined against the exceptionally comfortable chair, pleased to have stumbled onto it at a local estate sale.
A great find
. He congratulated himself once more on having negotiated the price down.
Another
trait I inherited from Dad
. He chuckled, the correlation leading him to think of a whole list of other qualities the two of them shared.

He cut loose with a nervous laugh in the stillness of his living room, but it did not keep him from pondering, for the umpteenth time, the mystery that had brought him here to Pennsylvania’s Amish country.

Daybreak came all too quickly, and Ben stumbled over his boots on his way to the shower.
Too short a night,
he thought, wondering why to this day he wasn’t one to sleep in, even as tired as he felt this quiet Sunday morning.

He took his time shaving, combing through his hair, and dressing, all the while considering Irvin Ranck’s standing invitation to attend church. But Ben had put him off this long—why change his mind today?

He made enough scrambled eggs to satisfy his enormous appetite, recalling Zeke Hochstetler’s recent visit. He, too, had mentioned this Sunday was to be a preaching day.

Does everyone attend church around here?

Ben forked into the souffle
-light eggs on his plate, enjoying his meal, thinking about his growing friendship with Zeke. He was one uptight fellow but seemed to enjoy hanging around the tack shop several times a week. It was from Zeke and a few others like him that Ben had learned a great deal about the Amish in a short amount of time, and it didn’t take much to imagine a whole group of them assembled at a long table for breakfast.

But fleeting images of such a gathering came almost too easily, as if he could taste the eggs, like the ones on his plate, only with diced green peppers, onions, and bits of ham. He shook it off as he had other mental images since arriving here. He wasn’t the only outsider who’d experienced an obsession with these people, strangely set apart, and their staid, family-oriented culture.

He glanced at the digital stove clock.
I’m working too
many hours,
he concluded, forcing himself to switch gears, pondering how to win a yes from Annie on coffee or dinner.

Inhaling deeply, he recalled how silent, even obstinate, she had been at the outset of their first meeting. The second time they’d met, too. Or had she been merely cautious? She must have had a safety antenna up her whole life, around strangers at least.
Englishers,
Irvin said was the name the Amish assigned to the likes of him.

How many Englishers does Annie know?
He thought of Louisa, who was the most mysterious case of all.
What sort
of person dresses Plain when she isn’t?

He used his fork to get every morsel and had the last bite of jellied toast. When he was finished, he carried the plate and coffee mug to the sink.

In no way was he interested in attending church today. But he
was
eager for a drive deep into Amish country. . . .

Chapter 3

L
ouisa had gotten up extra early to help Annie hitch up the team, and before leaving to pick up Courtney and bring her back for breakfast at the Zooks’, she turned on her smart phone—her Palm—to see if she had any messages from London . . . namely, from Trey Douglas.

Sure enough there was one, but as she listened she detected a new urgency in his tone. He said he had ‘‘the perfect idea’’ and wanted to discuss it with her.

After speed-dialing his number, she hurried back to the house to warm up. She stood in the enclosed porch, out of earshot.

‘‘What’s up, Trey?’’ she asked when he answered.

‘‘Hey, Louisa! Great to hear your voice.’’

He sounded eager, almost too confident, and the more he talked, the more she sensed something big was up his sleeve.

‘‘You said you had an idea?’’ she prompted. ‘‘What is it?’’

‘‘Well, for starters, I thought maybe you’d consider flying over to see me. Spend a long weekend here soon . . . I could show you around. It’d be terrific, Louisa.’’ He paused. ‘‘You might even think about staying. . . .’’

‘‘Well, that sounds like fun.’’

Then she swallowed, hard.
Staying?

‘‘So, you ready to pack your bags? Abandon your Amish lifestyle for the glamour of London?’’

I hope he’s kidding,
she thought, feeling oddly resistant. She wasn’t sure why she wasn’t ready to jump at the chance to travel . . . to see Trey again, face-to-face.
Have I changed
so much?

‘‘Louisa?’’

‘‘Yep?’’

‘‘I really hope you’ll think about it.’’

She sighed. Until just this moment, she hadn’t fully come to grips with her feelings. There was no way she could return to their former relationship. Sure, he was nice. Charming . . . and really wonderful, too. He treated her like a lady in public and loved to pick up the tab . . . show her off. But he had no clue about the happiness in something as simple as feeding peacocks or walking beneath a noonday sun, soaking in its warmth on an otherwise brisk day. No, he couldn’t begin to understand how it felt to pull on crusty old work boots—too big, so she stuffed in rolled-up socks—to help clean out the manure ditches, holding her breath but getting a real kick out of the earthiness of country living.

‘‘I’d like to pick up where we left off,’’ she heard Trey saying. ‘‘I should never have walked away. . . .’’

She wrinkled her nose at the thought of getting too intimately involved, especially distasteful after having broken off her engagement to Michael not so long ago.
I wish he
wouldn’t pressure me
.

‘‘I don’t know,’’ she said, suddenly dreading the notion of spending time with Trey. This came as a surprise because she had been enjoying his attention since coming here to Paradise, had even been attracted to him. But now?

His voice was softer now, almost irresistible. ‘‘Sure you know, Louisa. Trust me, you’ll love London.’’

She inhaled, slow and long. ‘‘No, Trey. It’s nice of you to ask, but I’m staying here.’’

He didn’t challenge her but promised to keep in touch. Then, quickly, she said good-bye and hung up.

She smiled to herself when she began to ponder maybe it wasn’t only her love of simplicity that had prompted her to refuse Trey’s invitation. Maybe it had more to do with Sam. . . .

She hadn’t told Annie, but she had exchanged a few
hello
s with one of the young Amish men at the Preaching services recently—Samuel Glick, who went by the nickname Sam. It wasn’t that she had a crush on him in the typical sense of the word. But she found herself strangely intrigued by him.

Heading out the back door, she called to Annie, who came running out of the barn to catch up. Then, raising her skirt, Louisa climbed into the right side of the carriage, still finding it amazing she could get in and out dressed like this . . . not to mention handle a horse.

When she and Annie arrived at the inn on Paradise Lane, they found the front door unlocked, and since it was so early, they simply tiptoed upstairs to Courtney’s room. There they discovered her sound asleep. They stood at the foot of the canopy bed, observing the mound of covers and the beautiful quilt.

‘‘She’s out cold,’’ Louisa whispered. ‘‘No way she’ll be ready now for breakfast or Preaching. . . .’’

‘‘I say we shake her good—that’ll get her up,’’ Annie said jokingly.

Louisa considered Annie’s suggestion. She wished they could let Courtney sleep off her jet lag, but if so, they would not see her again until much later in the day.

Gingerly she sat on the edge of the bed and whispered Courtney’s name.