The Imposter (11 page)

Oh
that
. She had heard her father talk about the Bible in that way. “My dad is always telling people to read their Bibles.”

“And then that part about the Bible being a conversation, between a Creator and the ones he created, that it should be a conversation someone has firsthand, not filtered through the hearsay of others.” He tilted his head amazed. “That's not the kind of sermon that would've been preached in my church.”

“How so?”

“The bishop didn't want people to read their Bible much, or even to pray much. He said that hearing it once a week in church was plenty. When I was a teenager, he caught me reading my Bible.” A sneer came over his face. “He told me that I must be thinking of myself as godlike, to be so proud as to interpret Scripture for myself.”

“Sounds pretty proud himself, that bishop.”

“Oh yeah, he was tough, all right.” He kept his eyes facing forward. “He was my grandfather. He'd made himself a bundle of money, but he didn't want anybody to know. We didn't even have indoor plumbing, though most everyone else did in our church. My grandfather would boast to his friends that he didn't need it because he already had running water. I can hear him like it was yesterday: ‘Andy runs down to the lake with a bucket and runs back up the hill with the water.' He thought that was hilarious.” He was quiet for a minute. “Funny how we rise and fall to the assumptions of others.”

“What do you mean?”

“We become what others expect us to be.”

She waited to see if he would say more. She thought he probably hadn't meant to reveal even that much about himself. “Did you grow up on a farm?” She had a funny feeling the past years hadn't been filled with happy moments for him.

“Yes. And hated it. So when I was eighteen, I ran off and I joined the army.”

He gave her a look as if he dared her to say something, to look shocked, to hop out of the buggy in fear or disgust. Both, maybe. But she wasn't shocked or disgusted. She might be only nineteen, but she'd had enough experience to know that life takes a turn here and there, and you could find yourself mired in circumstances you'd never believed you could
get yourself into. “Did you find what you were looking for in the army?”

“Not hardly. Three tours of duty—two in Afghanistan, one in Iraq.” He glanced at her. “One thing I learned in the army—you can't undo a thing once it's done.” He glanced in the rearview mirror. “Much as I'd like to.”

Katrina nodded. “I do know that.” She felt a nervous quiver in her belly and she unconsciously smoothed her apron. “So now you're back on a farm. A moss farm.”

“It's better to grow things than to destroy them.”

Something about the slant of his jaw, the set of his shoulders, told her there was much more there than that. She used a trick she'd learned long ago with her sisters—especially effective with Ruthie, who could be tight-lipped—of simply being quiet to let someone talk. After a few more blocks of silence, and as he turned up the hilly driveway that led to Moss Hill, she realized he might be the first who could out-quiet her. “I'm a good listener,” she finally said.

“I don't talk about it that much.”

She gave him a sideways grin. “Still, I
am
a good listener.”

He glanced at her, then had to focus on the road. “Yeah? Why is that?”

She shifted, wiggled a foot, crossed her arms. “Everyone has a story to tell. Everyone.”

Andy pulled the horse to a stop at the hitching post by the barn. He turned to face Katrina and said, “You know what I can't stop thinking about? What really got to me was that last thing your dad said: ‘Awake my soul. That wakefulness is the first thing.' He was looking right at me when he said that, like he meant it just for me.” He tilted his head. “What do you think he meant by that?”

“I guess . . . I don't know.”

He propped his elbow on the window ledge and started talking then, telling her about his tours of duty, how he was given specialized training to find deposits of natural gas and petroleum and how, once, he barely escaped death in a flaring accident.

She told him about the accident that took her mother's life, and very nearly hers. Rain kept falling and they kept talking. When she talked, Andy's attention was quiet, his face turned toward hers as he listened. It was almost an hour later that Katrina spied the time on the little battery-operated buggy clock. The poor horse! Standing in the rain all that time. “Oh, wow. You'd better get back to Windmill Farm to fetch Thelma before she wonders what happened to you. And I'd better get supper started.”

“Would you let Keeper out to relieve? He's in my room, curled up on the bed, no doubt.”

She nodded as she closed the buggy door and hurried away, though she couldn't resist looking over her shoulder as she ran toward the barn to let poor Keeper out. Andy waved, watching her.

She waved back.

Resting an elbow on the dresser top in his daughters' room that night, David smiled softly, listening to the twins' rationale about why they needed to keep a light on throughout the night. Lydie said that she needed it on to find the bathroom. Emily said she needed it on in case she woke up and needed to read.

“What's the real reason?”

Lydie and Emily looked at each other and said, in unison as if they had rehearsed it, “We're afraid of the dark.”

“Ah, I see.” He decided to leave the light on for now. “Don't forget that God made the night as well as the day. There is no dark so deep that you can't still see God, if you try.”

He went downstairs to the living room to read. Ruthie was curled up by the fireplace, her nose in a book. Loving books was one of the things they had in common, and he gave her permission to go to the library as often as she liked. Unlike Anna had done, he never censored anything she read. Ruthie, he'd observed, had enough sense of her own to know what was worth filling her mind with and what wasn't.

The kitchen door squeaked open, fell shut. Jesse was home from the youth gathering. He popped his head around the corner to say hello and good night, then went straight up to his room. The rain that had let up during supper began again, softly against the roof at first, and then a steady drumming. When the grandfather clock in the hallway struck nine, David put his book away and locked the house. Upstairs, he paused to check on the twins and noticed that the light was still on. He went in to turn it off.

In these moments his love for his children swelled. Emily's skin was warm and damp; she stirred and opened her eyes, then settled back into her dreams. “Sweet girl,” David whispered, and covered her.

“Dad?” Lydie whispered from across the room. “I tried to see God in the dark but it didn't work.”

He knelt down beside her bed and looked into her big hazel eyes. “You don't have to see a visible face. You can feel God's presence, a feeling that everything is going to be all right.” He stroked Lydie's hair until her eyes closed and he knew she
had drifted off to sleep. He went across the hallway to check on Molly and found her sound asleep with her flashlight still on. He turned it off and set it on her night table. In the hallway, he closed Molly's door gently.

“Whatcha doing?” Ruthie asked, wandering upstairs from the living room. She had her finger in a book and that sleepy look that came from reading.

“Just listening to the rain.”

Ruthie padded down the hallway to her room and shut the door behind her. David stood for a minute in the rain-echoing hallway, moved by the great responsibility he felt for his children. He searched for a way to express the fullness in his heart but couldn't find the words for the overwhelming love he felt for these six blessings. Surely for the ten thousandth time, he silently thanked God for the gift of fatherhood.

And on the heels of that prayer came the yearning for things David missed—sharing a moment like this with a partner. A wife.

The spring was gone in Hank Lapp's step. He hunched over to where Jesse was working on a buggy—the first time Hank had actually stuck around long enough at the buggy shop to teach Jesse something about buggies, but he was distracted and irritable and moody. More than usual. “What's got you so discombobulated?”

“What's that supposed to mean?” Hank said, his wide forehead crinkling in confusion.

“Agitated. Disquieted. In a dither.”

Hank nodded, but he still looked confused. “The weather. Thought it was going to rain.” He peered at the gray clouds in the sky. “Always promising, never delivering. That's what I keep telling Edith.” He spun around to frown at Jesse. “She doesn't want to get married.”

“To you?” Jesse was incredulous.

“YES. Me.”

“Did she give her reasons as to why she's refusing you?” Jesse could think of dozens. Hundreds.

Hank tugged his ear thoughtfully. “She says things are just
fine the way they are. And if I keep pestering her about it, she says she'll have to break things off with me. She's done it before.” He shook his head mournfully. “I might've poked a hornet's nest.” He whistled softly, as he sometimes did in moments of crisis. “This is very bad, very bad.” He frowned. “I must seem like a crazy old codger.”

“Nonsense! You had perfectly sound sense to hire me.”

“So what am I going to do?”

“Hank, I have had considerable experience in matters of the heart.” Jesse leaned forward. “Ignore Edith. Give her the cold shoulder. Drives women crazy. It works every time.”

Fern snorted and Jesse jumped. That woman had a terrifying habit of materializing out of nowhere. “As if you should be the one giving advice to the lovelorn. Mim Schrock won't give you the time of day.”

How insulting! And what could Fern Lapp possibly know of Jesse's temporary setback with Miriam Schrock? Were a man's private affairs of the heart not sacred in this town? Mindful of his manners, Jesse stifled his outrage and politely asked her what she might recommend.

“Yes, what
do
you suggest, Fern?” Hank asked. “I'm listening.”

She had her answer ready, along with a slight smile. “Women like kindness. Sweet gestures.”

The two watched her trail away, considering her words. Hank looked at Jesse. “Could be a trick.”

Freeman, Levi, Deacon Abraham, and David met together at the store on Monday morning, after Sunday's church service at Windmill Farm. They had about an hour before
the store opened. David made fresh-brewed coffee and poured himself and Abraham a cup, waiting to hear why Freeman felt such an urgency for a meeting today.

“David, you've complained that you're not involved in decisions, so I wanted to get you up to speed on something.”

Abraham and David exchanged a glance of words: Brace yourself.

“Two more families are leaving Stoney Ridge for greener pastures: the Hochstetlers and the Nisleys.” He announced the names with a long look at David.
This is your fault
, it said.

David knew the Hochstetlers, a family of nine, had scouted out land in Montana last summer. But the Nisleys? That was news to him. “Where are the Nisleys going?”

“With the Hochstetlers. They can sell their land here and buy three times as much out west. They've got four sons, you know.” Freeman stroked his long white beard. “Something must be done.”

“Must be done soon,” Levi echoed.

“The church of Stoney Ridge will soon dwindle down to fifty baptized adults.”

“Fifty faithful,” David pointed out.

Freeman ignored that. It was a perilously small number, because the chance of the trend reversing itself was remote.

“I have found a solution that works for everyone,” Freeman said. “Even you, David, won't find something to object to.” He leaned back in his chair and settled more deeply, one heel resting on one knee. “Tractors.”

“Tractors?”

“Yes. I spoke to my cousin in Somerset. The oldest Amish
settlement. They allow tractors in the field. It'll double farmers' yields. Maybe more.”

A shortcut. Another path toward a quick turnover. Always, always about money. “Freeman, have you given any thought to the long-term effects of a tractor?”

“Of course I have! And the benefits outweigh the negatives.”

“What about soil compaction?”

“That can be fixed with a better plow.” He stomped his feet down and leaned forward in his chair. “It's done. I've bought a tractor with church funds and am allowing any farmers who want to use it to do so.”

“Church funds? You used church funds for a tractor? Without discussing it with anyone? Without getting a vote from the church?”

“He discussed it with me,” Levi said. “And I think it's a grand idea. Positively inspired.”

“What about those who object to tractor use?” Abraham said, the words so soft they sounded as if they came out of his short collar rather than his mouth.

Freeman waved a hand in the air. “If there are some who prefer a horse and plow, then they have that choice. But with all the rain we've been getting lately, a tractor will help farmers bring in the hay in half the time.”

“Maybe a quarter of the time,” Levi said.

“You've used church funds,” David repeated. “While Ephraim Yoder lies in a hospital bed, you used church funds to buy a tractor.” He was amazed. “Freeman, this is the kind of thing that causes a church to split in two. Once you do something like this, you can't undo it. You can't take it back.”

“I have no intention to take it back. Thunderation, David. Sometimes you make me sound like someone who flagrantly
disregards all that we hold dear. Do you think I haven't laid awake for nights, wondering if accepting some new ways might be the best way to ensure our church's survival?”

How could David make them understand what was at stake? “There's a story of a woodsman who, at eighty-five years of age, was still using the same ax. Sometimes the blade would wear out and he would replace it. Sometimes the helve would wear out and he would replace that. But it was always the same ax.”

“That's it exactly!” Freeman said. “Think of it as the blade wearing out, and it's time to replace it.”

David shook his head. “You're missing the whole point of the story.”

Freeman gave him a probing look, one he couldn't read. “Maybe you're the one missing the point.”

Levi snickered.

David ignored Levi. He usually did. “The church will survive, and its survival has nothing to do with us.”

“It has
something
to do with us,” Freeman insisted.

“Well, if anyone asks me,” David said, “I will discourage them from using a tractor.”

Later that night, after the girls were tucked in bed, David went outside and sat on the porch stairs. He didn't know what to do, and whenever he felt that way, he liked to gaze at the stars, pinned to the evening sky. At times, it worked better than a prayer.

Sometimes, it
is
a prayer.

Rain had started this afternoon, right after Fern Lapp had picked Thelma up in her buggy to head to the hospital to
visit Ephraim Yoder. Katrina peered through the windows at the rain obscuring everything with a blurry gray.

Restless and bored, she thought about going down to the greenhouse to see if she could find something to do, but then she saw Andy head into it and changed her mind. After the long talk they'd had in the buggy on Sunday, she had tried to avoid being alone with him. She could tell he was drawn to her, and she had to admit that she found him quite appealing. His thoughts made her think more deeply than she was used to. In fact, she couldn't remember ever having such a meaningful discussion with a man, other than her father. Far more meaningful conversations than she'd ever had with John. Still, her life could not handle another complication.

She decided to start dinner while the house was quiet and settled on chicken pot pie—one recipe she knew by heart and never failed. On the counter, she lined up her ingredients: onions and garlic, a bunch of flat leaf parsley culled from the garden, carrots and celery, a good boxed chicken broth since time was too short to make her own. She decided to poach the chicken rather than roast it, though roasting, bone-in, made a big difference in the depth of flavor. She smashed garlic cloves and minced them, slid the wrapper from an onion and set it aside.

If Katrina had her way, she would tear out a wall in Thelma's tiny kitchen to expand the space. It was so small that only one person could move around comfortably. She didn't know how Thelma and Elmo and their son had managed, but she supposed that those two males rarely ventured into it. In that way, her dad was different than most Amish men. He was a pretty good cook and didn't mind doing dishes. He
could make a grilled cheese sandwich exactly right, with the bread turned just barely crisp, light golden brown.

She wondered how her family was doing without her. Since her mother had died, she'd been the one who'd made school lunches, pinned hair for her sisters, kept the laundry rotation moving from washing machine to clothesline to closet. Did they miss her? She hoped so, but to her surprise, she didn't miss them. Maybe a little twinge, now and then, but mostly she was relishing the time she had to herself. The quiet. The peace. The freedom to not be responsible for everyone. Always, always, there were obligations.

For the first time in a long time, she had time to think. And feel.

That was a good and a not-so-good thing. But she knew it was an essential thing.

She heard a bark, then an urgent knocking at the door. “It's me, Katrina,” Andy called. “It's raining out here, you know?”

She yanked open the door. “Sorry! I'm in the middle of cooking.”

Andy leaped up the steps, bringing the storm with him. Rain slicked him from head to toe, the damp ends of his hair curling at his shirt collar. She gave him a dish towel as Keeper scooted behind him and shook, sending water all over them both.

Katrina shrieked and covered her face. “Oh no! Stop him, stop!”

Andy bent down and swiped the wet floor with the dish towel. Satisfied, Keeper curled up by the woodstove, pleased with himself.

“It's raining so hard that I can't get any work done. That
old greenhouse is leaking like a sieve. Does it always rain like this?”

“Seems like we're getting more than our usual share this fall. Very bad news for the farmers who are trying to bring in hay.”

“Very good news for moss on a hillside, where the water drains quickly,” Andy said with a grin. “It's cold out there.” He glanced at the teakettle whistling on the stove top. “Thought I could come up for a cup of tea.”

Katrina put a tea bag into a mug and poured in the water. “This will take the chill away, and then you can go back to the barn.”

He ignored her hint and lifted his chin at the chopping board with onions, carrots, and celery lined up in a row. “You're cooking? How about if I help?