The Postcard (23 page)

“In Amish country?” She was hooting. “What would Ken say?”

“Just get him here, then we’ll tell him. I’m not kidding— it’s beautiful.”

“Hey, you’re sounding like your old self. What’s happened? Did you meet a girl?”

He snorted. “Like I need one more failed relationship.”

“Don’t get sarcastic with me. You just sound so good . . . well rested or something.”

“I like that—the rested part.”

“Kari misses you,” said Janice. “Maybe you can give her a call when you get home tomorrow.”

“Didn’t I tell you? I’m staying till Saturday . . . rescheduled my flight and everything.”

“How come?”

“I’m on a fast track to solving an old, old mystery. What do you think of that?”

“Doesn’t sound like you, Phil. What’s going on?”

“Hey, that’s interesting—you’re starting to sound worried, more like the old Janice.”

“You’re bad,” she said. “What are you
really
doing there?”

“No joking, I’m playing detective with a forty-year-old postcard as my guide, and if you don’t think this is fascinating, you’ll just have to wait and read the book.”

“Are you sure you’re all right, Phil? You didn’t just say you’re planning to write a book, did you? You can’t sit still long enough to tie your shoes. What is it . . . a novel?”

“I’m toying with the idea, that’s all.” He wouldn’t let her get the best of him.

They talked for a few more minutes, then he hung up to look at the map, glad that Janice hadn’t chosen this phone chat to lecture him about slowing down, getting married, joining a church.

His mind wandered back to the peculiar scene in the entryway of Zooks’ Orchard Guest House. Annie’s beautiful, blind mother had clearly been waiting for him, sitting there on an old deacon’s bench just to the right of the front door. It struck him as odd even now—that she had wanted to ask about Gabe Esh—and the way she had brought up the subject almost seemed as if her mother’s uncle had been kept a deep, dark secret. Martha Stoltzfus had given the same impression.

Something had startled him about seeing Rachel sitting in the foyer, holding silverware in one hand and a white dish towel in the other, so quiet and still—the way he’d seen her in the parlor with Annie that first day. He’d initially shrugged it off, thinking she may have been merely resting, not waiting to speak to him at all. He hadn’t known why a thought like that might cross his mind. Rachel, after all, had not a single reason to speak to him. She was Amish, and from everything he’d gleaned of Plain women, they didn’t go out of their way to talk to outsiders.

So he’d just assumed she was catching her breath. Nothing more. He also had the feeling that Susanna Zook took advantage of her daughter and any and all help she could get around the place. Husband Benjamin included. The man was constantly weeding the garden or trimming the lawn, working the acreage just as he surely must have worked his farm for many years. Farming was probably in the retired man’s blood—couldn’t help but be—and Philip had an inkling he knew what that might feel like, though he’d never had a real chance at plowing or planting sunup to sundown. He would have been happy to have the experience of such a day, though; had even attempted to keep up with his grandpap several summers in a row at the Vermont cottage, there being a good amount of land behind the house.

The Amish B&B family—the Zooks and their daughter and granddaughter—certainly made up a unique nucleus of people. Three generations under one roof. He didn’t know why it bothered him that Rachel was blind. Perhaps it was because her daughter was so vivacious and alive, so outgoing. And where was Rachel’s husband? Dead? Divorced? Hardly, according to Abram Beiler, who had said all the area bishops spoke out severely against divorce. “We turn lemons into lemonade, but no divorcing ’round here,” Abram had said during the interview.

Philip hadn’t realized it until just this moment, but he was indeed interested in knowing more about the entire Zook family. Only two days remained. Could he tend to Gabe Esh and Adele Herr
and
learn more about the Zooks in such a short time?

“Mmm, delicious,” Rachel said, smelling bushels of tart Macintosh apples as they walked through the screened-in porch at Lavina’s. The fresh apple smell covered Lavina’s usual garlic-ridden kitchen odor.

“We’re here—anybody home?” called Mam, guiding Rachel inside.

“Hullo . . . hullo! Smell them apples, Rachel? I’m tellin’ ya they’re the best apples this year, ain’t?” Lavina said as Rachel, Annie, and Mam made their way to the kitchen.

“It’s a gut day for making applesauce, too,” Mam chimed in. “Not so warm as it’s been.”

“How’s Annie?” Lavina asked.

“Wonderful-gut!” replied Annie herself. “And I brought some extra raw sugar. In case we run out.”

Annie’s enthused response was met with laughter, and by that Rachel knew that most of the group had assembled. She didn’t hold out any hope of hearing a hullo from either Molly or Sadie Mae, even though Mam had informed her of Leah’s comment—that the girls were coming.

Rachel was just content to be around Lavina again. It had been a gut long time since she’d worked in the dear woman’s kitchen, soakin’ up some of her unique perspectives on life, love, and family, among other things.

“Here, Mamma, can you hold this for me?” It was Annie pushing the bag of sugar into Rachel’s hand. Applesauce, the way they made it, needed a good dose of sugar to mix with the delicious tartness of the Macintosh. Nothin’ like homemade applesauce, especially made at Lavina’s house. ’Course, her father’s cousin was no ordinary woman. Something didn’t seem quite right about her, though it had never bothered Rachel a bit. Spending time with her all day—canning or quilting—was always pleasant. Lavina had a sweet, giving spirit, and that’s what came shining through, when all was said and done.

Rachel had overheard talk of a mental condition, when first she’d come to make apple butter in late October, years ago. She was only thirteen when one of her cousins remarked that Lavina was one of “God’s special children,” as if she were a product of a marriage of first cousins, but that wasn’t the case. Rachel didn’t understand the label at that time— not where Lavina was concerned—because she’d never had reason to think there was anything wrong with her father’s cousin before then. Sure, Lavina had never married, but that didn’t mean there was something amiss with her mind.

Rachel set about washing a bushel basketful of apples, helping several others while Mam, Aunt Leah, Molly, and Sadie Mae began pulling out stems and quartering the clean ones, preparing to boil them, skin and all. She felt she understood Lavina a lot better these days. Certain of the People had called
her
mental, too, and all because of her reluctance to go to the powwow doctors. She knew what they said behind her back. She may be blind, but she wasn’t stupid.

They were boiling the apples, a whole batch of them at once, when Lavina let slip the most peculiar thing. She said it loud enough so everyone heard. “Martha Stoltzfus had herself an English visitor yesterday afternoon, and you’ll never guess who that stranger was asking ’bout.”

“Who?” Leah spoke up.

“Gabriel Esh, of all people,” Lavina replied. “Nobody’s had the grit to bring up his name in nigh onto forty years.”

Rachel perked up her ears. “Who was the stranger?” she said so softly she didn’t expect to be heard.

“Some fella named Philip Bradley is what I heard,” Lavina replied. “And I got it straight from Martha’s mouth— hers and Bertha Denlinger’s—ya know, up at the hardware store.”

They all knew. Lavina didn’t have to say where Bertha was workin’ these days. Fact was, the women—both Martha and Bertha—had a negative outlook on life, far as Rachel was concerned. Neither one of them ever seemed to look on the bright side of things. Not anything; not ever.

Most amazing was how Mamma kept mum during all the talk at Lavina’s. Rachel was mighty sure if she hadn’t witnessed it for herself—if she hadn’t been present to know how tight-lipped Mam was being about their New York B&B guest—well, she might not have believed it. Truth was, Mam prob’ly wouldn’t be volunteering one thing, wouldn’t want the women to know her guest was nosing around, stirring up something that was best left alone.

But, then again, maybe it would turn out that it was a right gut thing that Philip Bradley had found that postcard and poked around after all.

’Course, all that remained to be seen. . . .

The stone wall surrounding the Reading cemetery reminded Philip of a cemetery he’d visited in England many months before. It was the Old-World setting he recalled— ancient trees with gnarled roots extended and exposed, leaf-filtered sunlight, and the overall serenity of gravestones. Weathered granite markers commingled with tall, stately headstones—some with angels, some with crosses. The day had been much different, however, with drizzle and fog, not like the sunny Pennsylvania morning he was presently enjoying, with temperatures high in the sixties.

He parked the car and got out, not knowing where to begin his actual search. He could walk down each row of markers, he supposed, but that could take all day. Then he spied the groundskeeper, a tall, thin, older gentleman, edging a circular section of lawn just below the crest of a hill.

Eager to make contact with him, Philip quickened his pace. “Excuse me, sir.”

The old man stopped his work and leaned on a medium-sized headstone, mopping his brow. “Hello,” he replied.

“I wonder if you might be able to help me locate the marker for a Gabriel Esh.”

“Gabriel . . . like the angel?”

Nodding, Philip realized he hadn’t thought of the name being linked to the heavenly host. “According to an old obituary, he’s buried in this cemetery.”

The man’s face was tired and drawn. “Yes, I know who you’re talking about. He’s buried seven rows over, in that direction.” He pointed to the north. “It’s quite peculiar, really, when you think of it.”

“What’s that?”

“For all the years I’ve worked here, except the last two, Gabriel’s burial plot was covered with flowers, dozens of them . . . every year on his birthday.”

“January seventh,” Philip said, remembering the birth date on the obit.

“That’s right, in the dead of winter. I tell you it was the strangest thing to be out here plowing snow off the walkways, and there’d be all those flowers, piled up on the grave—like the first crocus of spring when it pushes up through the ice and cold.” He was nodding his head. “The oddest thing you’d ever want to see, but it wasn’t my imagination. Those flowers kept coming every year like clockwork, and then, one year, they stopped.”

“Any idea who was sending them?”

“All I know is, it was the same florist bringing them. A person in my business doesn’t overlook something like that.”

The old gentleman seemed glad to tell the name of the florist, and Philip jotted it down, thanking the man for the information. He hurried back to the car and drove several miles, following the gardener’s specific directions.

The flower shop was tiny, crowded with white flowerfilled buckets. Philip made his way through the maze, heading for the woman behind the cash register.

Except for one shopper, the place was empty. The customer’s transaction took a few minutes and was done. When the florist offered to assist him, Philip found himself studying the woman, ticking off questions in his head.
Could she have been the one taking flowers to Gabe’s grave? What could she tell him about the sender?

“How may I help you, sir?” the middle-aged woman asked.

“I’m here not to purchase flowers but to ask about someone who must have been one of your faithful customers. I’m interested in knowing the name of a particular sender of large amounts of flowers. Every year, for a number of years . . . always on January seventh.”

The woman pushed her long brown hair back away from her face. “Well, I’m the new owner here. I’ve only worked the shop about two and a half years, so I’m probably not the person to help you.”

“Are you saying you have no records for someone purchasing flowers every January? For a Gabriel Esh’s grave?”

Her face brightened with recognition. “You know, that name sounds very familiar to me. If I remember correctly, the sender was a woman. . . .”