The Imposter (27 page)

One morning, after they had finished their walk around the property, Katrina and Thelma sat down for a cup of peppermint tea. “I'm so disappointed that Mary Mast and my father's romance fizzled. It seemed to be going so well, and then—” Katrina snapped her fingers—“it was over. Done.”

“It's just as well. She didn't have the hardiness to be a minister's wife. It takes a very special woman, after all this.” She waved her twig-like hand in the air.

“Don't I know it.” Katrina sighed. “Back to the drawing board.”

“Hardly necessary. Your father only has eyes for Birdy.”

Katrina looked at her in surprise. “What?”

“Yes. And she for him. I don't know how you keep failing to notice.”

Katrina considered Thelma's observation. On one hand, she was relieved to think that her father might have set his sights on someone, but she was shocked by the thought of Birdy.
Birdy Glick?
Like everyone else, she considered Birdy, in her early thirties, to be on the shelf and there to stay.

How curious!

“Speaking of fizzled romances, what's going on with Andy?”

Katrina ignored Thelma's insinuation about a fizzled romance, but she had no explanation for the sudden change in Andy's demeanor. It started on Sunday afternoon, on the buggy ride back to Moss Hill after the Members' Meeting. Andy seemed preoccupied and withdrawn.

Over the next few days, he barely said a word to her and Thelma. He ate his meals up at the house, like he'd always done, but otherwise kept to himself. Usually, he would disappear off to the moss fields for large chunks of time, but he was sticking close to the house.

Katrina saw him drive himself hard all day long, tackling all the hard, dirty jobs that no one ever wanted. He mucked out the horse stall, tarred the roof of the chicken coop. He replaced the broken windows in the old greenhouse and set the foundation in place for the new one. He replaced rotten gateposts in the paddock and repaired the loose shingles on the barn roof. He mended all the fences, dug postholes by hand, and brought in an additional supply of feed and hay. The barn loft was as full as it possibly could be.

Katrina's chair made a loud grating noise in the quiet room as she pushed away from the table. She picked up the empty teacups. On the way to the kitchen, she paused at the window and watched Andy stride from barn to mossery, Keeper trailing behind him. She stood so close that her breath fogged the glass and she had to set down a teacup to wipe it clear. Andy stopped for a moment, his head up and slightly tilted, as his gaze took in the entire hillside, and something about him in that moment pierced Katrina's heart.

“He's battening down the hatches like we're about to face a hurricane. Guess he senses that winter's on its way.” She hadn't heard Thelma come up behind her; she jumped at the sound of her voice so close to her ear.

“Maybe so,” Katrina admitted.
Or maybe he's planning
to leave.

The next morning, Andy didn't come up to the house for breakfast. Through the window, Katrina didn't see any sign of him or Keeper, so after Birdy left for school, she walked down to the barn and paused outside Andy's door in the back of the barn. Steeling herself, she knocked briskly. She waited, but no one answered. She placed her hand on the door and opened it a few inches. Through the crack she glimpsed the made-up bed. She opened the door and walked inside. Andy's shaving brush was gone, so was the little mirror hanging on the wall hook. She crouched down to look under the bed. No locked trunk.

There was no note. No nothing. He was gone.

She let out a sigh of utter disappointment. What a fool she'd been to let herself start liking him, even to think he was something more than he appeared to be. It was all because of his dazzling smile and teasing manner. And because he'd reminded her, in some strange way, of her own father. She felt more disappointed than she could've imagined. And angry
too. Angry at him, angry at John, angry at Elmo, angry at Freeman, angry at most men in general.

She felt like a teapot that was starting to whistle. Steamed up, under pressure.

She drove over to Windmill Farm and found Jesse propped up against a buggy without any wheels, reading a book called
The Idiot's Guide to Buggy Repairs
. “Where do you think Andy would be?”

“Andy?”

“Yes. I need to find him. Quickly. Where would he go?”

“He's been known to frequent The Chicken Box.”

“What's that?”

“It's a dive bar.”

She put her hands on her hips. “And how, Jesse Stoltzfus, do you happen to know that?”

Jesse shrugged. “Word gets around.” He put down his book. “I'd better go with you.”

“Then hurry it up.”

A light rain started as Katrina and Jesse drove to The Chicken Box at the edge of Stoney Ridge. Keeper was under the porch, his leash tied to a pole, and barked when he saw the horse. The horse pricked its ears and tossed its head, as if it knew that dog. She told Jesse to stay in the buggy, hitched the horse to a porch railing, and went over to pat Keeper. After the dog settled down, she smoothed down her apron, tucked the stray hairs beneath her prayer cap, adjusted her bonnet, took a deep breath, and went inside. She'd never been in such a place before, never even looked inside one.

She pulled open the door and stopped on the threshold, blinking against the sudden darkness after being outside. It
took awhile for her eyes to adjust to the dimness. There were large television sets placed on every wall, a visual bombardment. Rank smells assaulted her: stale sweat, beer-soaked floorboards, the musty smell of peanuts. A huge mirror on the far wall caught and reflected Katrina's image. In front of the mirror was a long, high, narrow wooden bar polished to a glossy sheen. Two men sat before the bar: Andy and an English man. A hush fell over the noisy room as she walked over to him. She felt the eyes of everyone on her.

Near Andy, she coughed politely until he glanced up at the mirror and saw her standing there. He whirled around when he recognized her, his eyes widened in disbelief. She could hear his breath scraping in his throat. “Katrina! What are you doing here?” He steered her outside into the daylight.

Outside, she jerked his hand off her shoulder, took a deep breath, rose to her feet, squared her shoulders, and said, “You left Thelma's without so much as a by-your-leave. Why?” She was surprised her words sounded so everyday, as if she were discussing a new customer order for moss or what she was going to fix for supper, when underneath her words, she was seething.

Katrina's question hung in the air. He had yet to take his eyes off her. He didn't seem to be breathing. “I didn't know how to tell you goodbye. Either of you.”

She rolled her eyes, disgusted. “I thought you were different. You're just like John. You think you can do whatever you want to do and waltz off without a thought for those you leave behind.”

She saw him swallow hard. “I had plenty of thoughts about those I left behind.”

“Then, you've got some explaining to do.”

He rubbed his hand through his hair, as if wondering where to begin. He put his black felt hat on his head, all business. “Have you ever heard of doodlebugs?”

“It's a divining rod. Hank Lapp has one he uses to find water, though I don't think it's ever worked.”

“That's one kind of doodlebug. But it's also used to describe oil prospectors.”

“Oil?”

“Yes. It's kind of an old-fashioned term. My grandfather used to doodlebug. He taught me how to look for oil traps. Geochemists use much more sophisticated equipment today, but it's the same principle of using sound waves to discover if there might be a structural trap below the surface.”

“A trap?”

“A large oil pool.”

“So
that's
what you've been doing on Thelma's property? When we thought you were gathering moss to transplant, you were . . . doodlebugging?”

“Yes. No. I mean, I was gathering moss. But I was also surveying the hill to look for traps.”

“Why here? Why now?”

“A rocky area like Moss Hill is a likely candidate for a discovery.”

“I don't understand why.” As he started to open his mouth, she added, “The short version, please.”

A smile lit his eyes. “Okay. The short version. Geologists have found that moss in high places can mean an abundance of trapped oil or gas beneath the surface. It's a precious commodity. I wanted to get to it before any other oil exploration company got to it.”

“So you preyed on an unsuspecting Amish widow.”

The light faded from his eyes. “No. It was nothing like that. I was contacted to survey the hill.”

“By whom?”

Andy hesitated, waited until a car passed, then quietly said, “Elmo.”

“Elmo?” Elmo Beiler?

“Right before he died. He knew the church was in trouble and he must have had a pretty good idea that he had buried treasure on his property.” He glanced at her, eyebrows raised. “He found me, Katrina. He found
me
. He asked me to keep quiet about what I was doing, to not let his wife know what I was up to when I was drilling on the hill. I promised him I would if he would sign all the paperwork before I even started the work—permits, options to lease the land, royalty agreements. I know the Amish are good for their word, but I also wanted to protect my interests. Elmo couldn't afford to pay me to doodlebug, so he offered me a percentage of whatever the oil trap brought in. That sounded more than fair to me. Then, unexpectedly, he died . . . and I got greedy. If I could find an oil trap on that hill, I would make a fortune for myself. For Thelma. For your church. But I needed a reason to get on that hill. When I saw the ad for a handyman to start the moss business, I knew that was my ticket in.”

“And does it have an oil trap?”

“Yes. A large structural trap. A bonanza.”

“How? How did you find it without anyone noticing? I would think you'd need equipment or machines or computers or . . . I don't know. It just seems crazy that we wouldn't have noticed.”

“Not if you know how to doodlebug. I drilled holes with
an auger about twenty feet down, all over the hill, and then shot bullets down the hole to create sound waves.”

Gunshots. Those were the sounds Katrina heard on Founder's Day. And that's why he was always going to town for new auger bits. And why his boots were caked with mud. He'd been digging holes.

“Kind of a crude way to explore for an oil trap, a slow way, but it's just as effective as modern geophones.”

“So you've done what you came for. That's why you left.” She looked over at The Chicken Box. “That man inside. The one you were talking to, was he the land agent?”

“Yes, he's the land agent. But I told him I couldn't find an oil trap on Moss Hill.”

She lifted her chin, skeptical. “Why? Why would you do that?”

“I've been asking myself that same question. Why would I walk away from a small fortune? Partly, I suppose it's all that time I've spent in church, listening to your father talk about wakefulness.

“When Elmo died, the right thing to do would have been to tell Thelma the truth or rip up all that paperwork. I've done nothing but lie to you, to everyone, for the last few months. I was on that hill for all the wrong reasons. When I heard Thelma call Freeman an imposter last Sunday, I couldn't stomach what I was doing another minute. I've become just like my grandfather—full of lies and hypocrisy. I'm the imposter, Katrina. I'm the pretender.”

A panic gripped her chest so tightly that she was sure her heart had stopped its beating. She didn't know what she had hoped for from this encounter, but she couldn't have imagined this . . . confession. How had she missed this? It
was just like being with John—she saw only what she wanted to see. How naïve. No . . . how stupid! “Were you once even Amish?” She practically spit the words.

“Yes and no. My grandparents were. I lived with them in western Pennsylvania for most of my upbringing—that's where I learned to speak Penn Dutch.” His gaze fell away from hers. “It's late,” he said, barely hearable. “Your brother looks like he's ready to go.”

“Let him wait.” She had to finish this, all the way. She made herself look at him. “So was I just part of this game you were playing?”

“No!” He pushed the word out on a sharp expulsion of breath, and she saw regret in his eyes. “You musn't say that, you mustn't think it.”

She was feeling feverish inside, all shaky and sweat-sticky and cold. “I don't know what to believe about you, Andy. Everything I thought about you seems to be a lie.”

“You've shown me how much more there could be to my life.”

She gave him a look as if she didn't believe a word he said.

“I came to the Beilers' to make some money—it was just another deal. And then I met Thelma. She reminded me so much of my grandmother—she even looks like her—that it . . . it shook me up. Then you arrived. At first, I thought . . . I lucked out. A beautiful girl just showed up, out of the blue.” He gave her a soft grin. “And you wanted nothing to do with me, which only made me more interested, even after you told me why. But I watched you as you were figuring out what to do . . . how you were going to face this. You didn't take the easy way out. You kept surprising me. Shocking me, actually. It was like someone held a mirror up to me, to show me how
far I've strayed from the boy my grandmother believed me to be.” He dipped his head so his hat brim would hide his eyes. “I know life hasn't turned out the way you thought it would. But you're making a life for yourself and the baby. I've seen how much you've grown to love Thelma's farm. I couldn't take it all away from you, from her. From both of you.” He took a step closer to her, but she shook her head, stepping back, moving out of reach of his touch. His eyes glittered with hurt. “I am so very, very sorry, Katrina. More than you could ever imagine.”

“Where are you going? I mean, do you have any idea what you'll be doing . . . ?” She'd nearly said
with the rest
of your life.

His shoulders lifted in a shrug. “I'll get by. I always do.”

“Before you leave town, you need to go to Thelma and explain all of this. She believed in you. She trusted you. And she's grown to love you like family.”

Just barely, he stifled a gasp. “What do you think I'm made of?”

Clay, she thought. Pliable, moldable, soft. Unfinished and unrefined. “Apparently, more than you think of yourself.” She made another decision. “There's one more thing I want you to do—return to Thelma all of the paperwork Elmo signed. And any findings you have about the oil trap on her property. Oh . . . and the name of that land agent.”

He looked confused. “Do you think you'll get oil wells constructed on Moss Hill?”

“All I'm thinking is that Thelma is the one who should be informed about what's on her property, so she can make her own decisions about it.”

His eyes steadied on hers. “Katrina, listen to me. My feelings for you are genuine. It was never my intention to hurt you.”

She felt suddenly depleted, almost faint. “You might not have intended to,” she said, “but it happened anyway.”

She walked back to the buggy and started to climb in, when he was suddenly there to steady her, with his hands grasping both her arms. As she settled in the buggy, he let his arms fall to his side.

Then he turned and walked away in the rain, his head bent, his shoulders hunched and wet.

She let him go.