The Keeper (14 page)

“NO. I’M MENNO LAPP. ANNIE’S FRIEND.”

M.K. stepped out of the shadows. “The boy who threw eggs at your buggy windshield was Jimmy Fisher. JIMMY FISHER.” She assumed her most docile expression, the one that had never fooled Fern but seemed to do the trick with Annie’s grandfather.

“M.K.,” Menno scolded. “You’re telling tales again.”

“It’s true! Jimmy bragged about it at school.”

“Daadi?” Another voice floated out from another window. “Who are you talking to?” It was Annie. When she saw Menno, her face broke out in a big smile, matched only by his own.

Annie invited them in for some peach pie, but M.K. wanted to get home. She couldn’t stand another moment of yelling at Annie’s grandfather so he could hear. And why did he yell back? She wasn’t deaf! Menno wanted to stay, so M.K. ran home as fast as she could. Those bear stories gave her vivid imagination too much fodder to chew on. She was sure she was hearing bears at every turn.

She burst into the farmhouse at Windmill Farm, face flushed and breathing hard, and pounded up the stairs two at a time to reach her father’s room. As soon as she could catch her breath, she asked him, “Is Annie’s grandfather poor?”

“Poor in worldly goods but rich in faith,” Amos said.

“But you said they’re Amish.”

“They’re Swartzentruber Amish. Low people.”

“What does that mean?”

“Humble. Humble to a fault, some might say. Ultra-conservative.”

“They have outdoor plumbing. And Annie’s grandfather was smoking. And Menno said they practice bundling.”

Julia walked in the room at that. ”He said
that
?”

M.K. nodded. “What’s bundling?”

Julia paled. Amos frowned.

8

T
he most puzzling thing had just happened. Rome had just mailed off a package to a beekeeper in western Pennsylvania who had heard about his strain of brown bees. In the package was a screened box of sweetly humming bees, including a new queen. It was a lengthy process to ship a living thing like a bee, and the postmaster had been very patient with him. She picked up the package and peered at it with a curious look. “Bet this will move along quickly and get where it needs to be.” Rome turned to leave, but she called him back. “I’m guessing you’re the Bee Man. I got something here that looks like it was sent by pony express.” She took the bee package into the back and returned with a letter.

She slid the letter across the counter to him. It was addressed with a now-familiar spidery handwriting to:
The Bee Man, Windmill Farm, Stoney Ridge.

Dear Roman,

Just imagine—with the money I’m offering you, you could move to Sarasota, Florida. No more cold winters. No more lugging bees from one county to another. My offer stands.

Sincerely,
R.W.

P.S. You can now write to me at the post office in Stoney Ridge, P.O. Box 202.

Who was this R.W.? How did he know Rome was in Stoney Ridge? Rome folded the letter and looked around him. Was R.W. here? Was he watching him, right this minute? Just in case, Rome balled up the letter and tossed it in the garbage can out in front of the post office with a large thud.

Rome pondered the mysterious letters as he drove down Stoneleaf Road, passing by the Fisher farm on his way home. He saw Paul struggling with an overturned wagon filled with hay and pulled the buggy to the side. “Could you use an extra pair of hands?”

Paul gave Rome a sheepish grin. “Got myself into a jam here while I was taking some hay out to feed the cows.” He gave a gentle swat to the mule, who was now tied to a fence post. “This gal decided to take too sharp a turn and the wagon didn’t seem to agree with her way of thinking.”

“I’ll help,” Rome offered. He tied his own horse to the tree. He picked up one side of the wagon and Paul picked up the other. On the count of three, they heaved and uprighted it. Paul tossed Rome a hayfork and they both started to rake hay back into the wagon.

It didn’t take long. When they were finished, Paul placed both hayforks on top of the hay and leaned his back against the wagon. “That’s the Lapp buggy, isn’t it?” He took a jug of water from the front of the wagon and offered it to Rome.

Rome took a swig of water and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He handed the jug back to Paul. “It is. I’m staying in an old cottage on the Lapp farm this summer. Trying to help out when I can. Amos isn’t doing too well.”

Paul nodded. “So I heard.”

Rome took out a handkerchief and wiped sweat off his forehead and neck. “Paul, when I first got here, and we had that talk about getting married, I surely didn’t mean to imply you should call off your wedding to Julia.”

A look of shame covered Paul’s face. “You didn’t. I mean—I was already waffling, and you sort of drove the point home.”

“What point?”

“About how young we were to make a lifetime decision.”

“But Paul—that’s not necessarily a bad thing. I was just saying I admired how you could make a choice about one woman at your age.”

“See—that’s the thing. I haven’t really decided on Julia. Not entirely. In fact, I don’t even remember proposing to her. One time the subject of marriage came up—one time—and suddenly, she was talking about a wedding. The whole thing just got carried away!” He blew a puff of air from his mouth. “I was able to slow it down last year, but then she started up again this spring. Talking again about setting a date in November. I kept waking up in the night in a cold sweat. That was when you rolled into town and convinced me to call it off.”

Rome rolled his eyes. He didn’t try to convince
anybody
to do
anything
. Would he ever live that down? “Are you saying you don’t love her?”

Paul rubbed his face. “There’s the rub. I do. I do love her. But . . . I’m just not settled that Julia is the one and only for me. Julia . . . she just . . . she’s so sure we’re meant for each other. She’s been that way since we were ten. Don’t get me wrong—Julia’s a wonderful girl. But she’s headstrong and opinionated and bossy . . .”

Odd. Those were the very qualities Rome had been admiring in Julia lately. A person knew where he stood with her. He shrugged. “I guess you know her better than I do.”

“. . . well, suddenly I feel as if I’m no longer in charge of my life.”

Now
that
made Rome want to laugh out loud. With a mother like Edith Fisher, when had Paul
ever
been in charge of his life?

“Here’s an example: Julia brings me samples of wedding invitations—she’s kept all of her friends’ invitations. Doesn’t that seem like a crazy thing to do? To save those pieces of paper? Anyway, she asks me which one I like best. I told her they all look alike.
What?
she says. How could I even say such a thing? It was like we weren’t looking at the same things!” He shook his head. “Women tend to confuse me.”

“How much of this doubting has to do with Lizzie?” Rome had heard a rumor or two about Lizzie and Paul.

Paul’s eyes went wide. “But how did you—? When would you have . . .” He sighed, and a look of abject misery covered his face. “Plenty. I think I love Lizzie. I love them both.”

Rome was relieved. Julia’s fizzled engagement wasn’t his fault, after all. “Call me crazy, but I don’t think you love either one.”

“Of course I do,” Paul said. “I definitely love Julia. And with Lizzie—well, Lizzie is special. I love Lizzie. There’s no other word for it, although I feel differently about Julia than I do about Lizzie. But they both feel like love.” He was obviously torn between the two—marrying one meant giving up the other. “The reason it’s a problem is that I don’t know what to do.”

“If you were going to marry Julia, you would have done it already. But you haven’t. And if you were that taken with Lizzie, you would have ended things clean with Julia so you could start courting Lizzie. I stand by my word. You don’t love either one.”

Paul ran a hand through his hair. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe I don’t love either of them.”

But Rome knew Paul was only agreeing with him to be agreeable. That was the thing about Paul. He was a very likable guy. He didn’t make waves. He didn’t offend anyone. Sometimes, Rome thought Paul was like . . . that strange block of tofu that Fern served for dinner last night. Flavorless. Instead, he assumed the flavors of the people closest to him.

Paul Fisher just didn’t know his own mind.

Amos opened one eye and stared out the window. The sun was just rising above the ridge that surrounded the town like an embrace. Shards of pink light pierced the predawn darkness. It was going to be a glorious day, he thought, sliding out from under a quilt his Maggie had made when they were first married. When had he last noticed a sunrise? Why did it take the threat of dying to truly notice how exquisite a sunrise or sunset could be?

No place on earth was as dear to him as Stoney Ridge. He couldn’t imagine living anywhere else. Unlike others—Roman Troyer came to mind—who felt the need to travel, Amos felt no such need. Everything he wanted was already here in this small town he so dearly loved—good friends, caring neighbors, and a land filled with soft rolling hills, gentle streams, and rich soil. Living in Stoney Ridge was one of the many blessings he made sure to thank God for each morning upon rising.

His stomach rumbled again and he glanced at the clock. Breakfast wouldn’t be ready for a while, so he decided to risk venturing downstairs, taking care not to alert Fern. Hers was the only downstairs bedroom and she had ears on her like a bat. He stopped for a moment, winded, trying to suppress that blasted cough. As he moved soundlessly past her door—quiet as a church mouse—into the kitchen, the early-morning sunlight flooded the room, infusing the room with a sense of warmth and serenity. He felt his heart leap with praise and thanksgiving. And there was the coffeepot on the stove top, filled, ready to go.
Thank you, Lord, for favors big and small.

He opened the refrigerator, looking for something delicious to snack on before the family woke up. He spotted a Tupperware bowl, carefully lifted a corner of the lid, and took a sniff. Horrors! It smelled like the compost pile on a hot day. Not much of a chance of his stealing a bite of that or anything else. He hastily patted the lid in place and pushed it aside while yearning for the good old days—chicken potpie, meat loaf, potato salad, cheesecake covered with whipped cream—all of which Fern referred to as “Off Limits to Amos Lapp” food.

That woman had turned into the resident nutritionist.

A few days ago, he had his head in the refrigerator, searching for something worth eating, when Fern caught him red-handed. He thought she was safely off to town on an errand, but no! She had already returned. Her arms were filled with an assortment of cookbooks bearing such titles as
Heart Healthy Food, Eating Your Way to Health,
and
No-Fat Recipes That Taste Great.
Fern dumped them onto the counter with a thud. One slid off and crashed onto the floor on the opposite side, near Amos’s feet.
Fat-free Delights
. That one, Amos thought, was an oxymoron.

He found something that looked more like a loaf of birdseed than a loaf of bread, but it was all he could find. He cut two slices and popped them in the toaster. Then he found butter—real butter!—hidden behind a large bottle of V-8 juice. He hoped Fern didn’t plan to spring that on him today. Last week it had been prune juice. His digestive tract was still off kilter.

He slathered his toast with enough butter to clog several main arteries, filled his coffee mug, and looked around the kitchen to cover his tracks. All clear. Not even a crumb. He picked up his well-worn Bible from his desk and tiptoed slowly upstairs to his room.

Fern was in a hurry to get some new cookbooks at the library one afternoon and didn’t notice as M.K. slipped off toward the magazine and newspaper section. M.K. plopped in a chair and picked up a magazine that boasted a headline:
10 Ways to Get Rich Quick
. She sat down and turned to the article. Someone eased into the chair next to her and she shut the magazine tight and braced herself for a lecture from Stern Fern about the evils of wealth. When the lecture didn’t begin, she opened one eye, then the other. It wasn’t Fern who had sat down. It was the man in the panama hat!