The Postcard (19 page)

“May I help you, sir?”

He turned to see a short little man with an eager smile. “Yes, I hope you can,” Philip said. “I noticed your antiques . . . are any of them for sale?”

“I’m sorry, but no. They’re just to give the old place some atmosphere, you know.”

Philip glanced at the wide plank floors.
As if it needs atmosphere
, he thought, returning the man’s smile.

They talked about the weather, how mild and warm it was for this late in the season—a real plus for the tourist business. “We have lots of tourist trade around here. This store’s always busy in the summer and fall. Folks like to come to Lancaster to see the leaves turn colors, you know, especially on toward October.”

Philip asked where he might find an antique desk. “Something on the order of a rolltop. Know of anything like that?”

The clerk scratched the back of his neck, wrinkling up his face. “Seems to me Emma had an old piece like that back a few years ago. Wouldn’t have any idea who bought it, though. You could check with her about it.”

“Emma, you say?”

“She’s down just a piece, off the pike here”—he was pointing east—“then south on Harvest Road. You’ll see her sign . . . says Emma’s Antique Store.”

“Thanks, I’ll check there,” said Philip. “By the way, you wouldn’t happen to know of any Amish folk named Esh around here, would you? I’m looking for one of Gabriel Esh’s sisters. I understand he had seven—two were twins. Ring a bell?”

The man grinned from ear to ear. “Asking for Plain folk named Esh is like lookin’ for a needle in a haystack, so to say.”

Philip nodded. “This man, Gabe Esh, was only twenty-seven when he died—nearly forty years ago. Supposedly, he was a renegade preacher.” Philip was so eager it was all he could do to restrain the flood of questions he wished to ask. The clerk held up his finger, glancing over his shoulder. “Hold on there, just a second. Let me ask someone who might know better about this.”

Hope fading, Philip idly picked up a tiny gadget for curtain rods, hoping to blend in with the other customers. Still, dressed in slacks and sports coat, he looked every whit the part of a New York reporter. What
had
he been thinking to make himself so conspicuous?

When the clerk returned, he had a thin, gray-haired woman with him. She was cheerful enough—seemed to want to help, too. “Joe, here, tells me you’re looking for the Esh sisters?”

“Why, yes, I am.” Philip realized she was waiting for something more from him, some reason for her to offer information to a total stranger. “I’d like to talk with someone related to the late Gabriel Esh. Someone who might’ve known of his love interest, a Miss Adele Herr.”

The woman’s eyebrows arched over her inquisitive blue eyes. “Well, in that case, I suppose you should go on over to see Martha Stoltzfus. She runs a quilting barn down off Lynwood Road. There’s a big white tourist sign out front. You can’t miss it.”

“This Martha Stoltzfus—is she Amish?”

“Old Order through and through. She’s one of the twins, Gabe’s youngest siblings, ’cept Mary’s gone now, like all the others.”

“Thanks for your help,” he said. “I appreciate it very much.”

“I’ll call Martha and let her know you’ll be stopping by sometime. She doesn’t take too well to non-Amish men, though. Just be sure and take a close look at those quilts of hers—some of the finest around Lancaster. And tell her Bertha Denlinger sent you.”

He thanked both the woman and her short male sidekick and headed out the door, stopping to buy a can of soda on the front porch of the store. “Too easy,” he said, pulling open the can and having a long swig in celebration.

When he returned to the car, he discovered that Stephen Flory had left a message on his cell phone’s voice mail. “How goes the investigation?” The recording revealed a strong interest in Philip’s work.

He phoned Stephen back before pulling out of the parking space. “I’m heading off later to an Amish quilt barn to chat with one of Gabe Esh’s sisters.”

“So . . . you’re hot on his trail,” Stephen remarked with a slight chuckle.

“After that puzzling postcard message, I had to know more of the story. I’ve arranged to keep my room at the B&B through Saturday.”

“Sounds interesting, your visit with Gabe’s sister. Maybe you can fill me in sometime.” The man was more than eager to be included, and rightly so. After all, he had gone out of his way to introduce Philip to Abram Beiler yesterday afternoon— with the appropriate pay, of course—but the matter had become more than an extension of his job, it seemed. Stephen Flory was hooked.

But Philip preferred not to be put on the spot, having to invite Stephen along to meet Martha Esh Stoltzfus, though the man was cordial enough—and fine company. He just didn’t see the need to alarm the Amishwoman needlessly with
two
strange men showing up at her place of business. That was one sensible excuse, at any rate. “I’ll give you a complete report, if you’d like.” It was his awkward, yet effective way of sidestepping the issue.

Stephen seemed reluctant to hang up, and when he pressed for more details, Philip finally mentioned having been to the library, “where I discovered some interesting facts.”

Admitting that he, too, had read and copied the obituary that morning at his place of work, Stephen demonstrated far more than a passing interest in the story behind the postcard. “Turns out one of my colleagues knows something of Gabe Esh and his precarious relationship with his family and the Old Order community. From what my friend says, the young man was more than a rebel in the community. He was outcast among his people. They out-and-out shunned him . . . and he wasn’t even a church member. How do you figure that?”

It was Philip’s turn to be curious. “So you
do
have something on him?” he joked.

“Maybe we should pool our resources.”

“Tomorrow . . . you name the place.”

“The Bird-in-Hand Family Restaurant has a good menu. I’ll meet you there for supper.” So it was set. The two would attempt to piece together the puzzle of Gabriel Esh’s life.

Meanwhile, Philip needed some fresh air and a change of clothes—something casual that would give him the appearance of a relaxed sightseer instead of a journalist. He drove down the road, drinking his soda as he headed back toward the turnoff to Beechdale Road. Noticing how clear and blue the sky was, he thought it a good idea to get out and enjoy the morning. Susanna had kindly suggested the walking path through the orchard a number of times since he’d checked in. Now would be as good a time as any.

Pulling into the lane at the Orchard Guest House, he parked the rental car on the far north side, in front of the Gift Nook just off the main house. He wondered if the boutique had been a
Dawdi Haus
at one time—an addition built to house aging Amish grandparents, so he’d learned.

He turned off the ignition and shed his sports coat, heading around the side of the house, past lavender and rose-pink asters standing sentry along a path of old bricks. He was able to put a name to the large flowers because he’d heard his grandmother mention their names more than once as a boy. “Asters are as showy as can be,” she would say of her favorite annuals.

Philip paused to take in the well-manicured back lawn, noticing an antique-style wooden wheelbarrow overflowing with red geraniums and white nasturtiums. His gaze lingered on an oval gazebo with its crested roof and vines trailing up its lathed posts in the front. Something out of
Better Homes and Gardens
.

Beyond the gazebo, east of the yard, the gravel footpath beckoned to him by way of colorful pots of hybrid fuchsias— deep pinks, reds, and purples—their bright heads nodding in a row. He strolled past a white resin birdbath and decided he wouldn’t take time to change clothes before his walk. The breezes were warm and tantalizing, and he knew from having stared out the second-story bedroom window that far beyond the orchard a creek awaited him. He wanted to sit beside its banks, the way he and Grandpap had often sat when he was a young boy. Wanted to contemplate the remarkable morning, to collect his thoughts before the visit with Gabe’s sister.

Just southeast of the B&B, farmers were cutting tobacco. Rachel didn’t have to see it to know. The smell was fondly familiar, pungent with memories of playing near the tobacco shed with Esther while their fathers and brothers worked hard to cut and store the moneymaking crop come September and October every year.

She wanted to go walking out to Mill Creek while Mam was out visiting Aunt Leah. The creek, which ran diagonally across her father’s property, was running full due to recent rains, Dat had said at breakfast. She had never gone so far on the property and decided today was the day for some adventure.

“Wanna go for a gut long walk?” she asked Annie, finding her cane in the umbrella stand just inside the back door.

“Mamma? Are ya sure?”

“I’m sure.”

“But you usually say you’d rather stay inside.”

“I know, but it’s high time I got out more,” she admitted. “Besides it’s a perfect day for a walk, ain’t so?”

“Can we take Copper along?” Annie asked, scurrying about.

“Not such a rowdy dog. He might lead us astray.” She laughed but meant every word.

She heard Annie’s feet slide against the floor. “You can’t be comin’ along with us this time,” Annie was telling the dog. “You best wait till Mammi Susanna gets back. Maybe then I’ll take ya for a walk.”

“That shouldn’t be too long now,” added Rachel. “So are we ready?”

They headed outside, past the flagstone patio, making their way through the wide backyard toward the direction of the orchard. The grass felt cool on her bare feet, and she thrilled to the buzzing of bees and the intermittent chirping of birds, some close in trees, others farther away. “Tell me what you see, Annie.”

“Well, there’s hardly any clouds . . . except for one tiny little one at two o’clock.”

Rachel chuckled at her daughter’s use of the traditional time positioning to describe the cloud’s location. “Tell me what it looks like. Is it a double dip of ice cream or puffs of cotton batting?”

Annie was laughing now. “It’s none of those things, Mamma. It’s like an upside-down tooth. Just like the tiny little tooth I lost last month. Remember?”

“Jah, I remember.” She thought about Annie’s tooth, how easily it had come out while Annie bit into a Macintosh apple—their very own. “Now, what else do you see?”

“Birds. There’s a robin over near the creek. Oh, we hafta be quiet . . . I think he’s taking an air bath.” She was silent, then—“Jah, that’s what he’s doing, picking away at his feathers.”

“That’s how they clean themselves,” Rachel said, recalling her own fascination with birds, especially baby birds in the spring.

“Hold my hand tight now, Mamma. We’re gonna cross the footbridge.”

“Is the bridge very plain?” she asked.

“Not so plain, really. There’s a nice wide place to walk. It’s all wooden, not painted any color—just the wood color, you know. But the best part of all is two people can walk side-by-side on this little bridge.”

Rachel’s heart sang as she tapped her cane with one hand and gripped Annie’s hand with the other. “Can we stop in the middle?”

“Two more steps to go . . . there.” Annie led her to the wooden railing.

“Tell me about the creek. What’s it look like today? What color is it?” Rachel leaned on the railing, then placed her hand on her daughter’s back, feeling the restless muscles between the child’s shoulder blades.

“It’s blue from the sky and brown from the dead leaves on either side—and it’s purple, too, all mixed up together. And there’s dancing pennies on the water, just a-floatin’ downstream. Oh, Mamma, we’d have lotsa money if I could take a bucket down there and dip it up.”

“The pennies are really the sunshine twinkling on the creek, ain’t so?” Rachel said.

“No . . . no. You mustn’t spoil the picture.” Annie threw her arms around her mother. “There’s pennies in there, Mamma. You should see ’em.”

“Jah, pennies . . .” Rachel smiled. “I don’t know ’bout you today.” They stood there silently, listening to all the sounds around them.

“Think of the prettiest place you ever saw before you couldn’t see anymore,” Annie whispered.

“I’ve got a right gut place in mind.” Rachel thought of the time she and Esther had gone wading in the Atlantic Ocean.

“Tell me about it,” Annie said, giggling. “I wanna know.”

Rachel described the cold sting of the water on her bare feet, the foamy white edges of the tide as it rolled up toward her and Esther, splashing over their ankles. “It was prob’ly the pertiest place in the whole world.”

“I wanna go to the shore someday. Do you think we could?”

“Maybe . . .” She had no idea when that might be—if ever again—but she didn’t want to discourage her little one. The girl was filled up with a love for God’s creation.

“Now it’s your turn. Tell me about the pertiest place you’ve ever seen.” She tickled Annie’s neck.

But Annie stiffened just then. “Ach, there’s someone sittin’ over yonder,” she said softly. “Oh, never mind, it’s just that tall Mr. Philip. He’s over there near the creek bank, throwing twigs into the water.” Before Rachel could tell her daughter not to call to him, Annie did just that. “Hullo, there, Mr. Philip!”