The Preacher's Daughter (11 page)

But, no, she had some confidence that young Zach would be aware, sharing the same bed, and come to get her help. On the other hand, her husband, once asleep for the night, was out so soundly that not even a lightning strike could shake him awake. She knew this to be true, as he'd slept through a deafening thunderstorm not so many years back, their barn hit by lightning in the night. In some ways, her husband's unusually deep slumber was a blessing, but in the case of their youngest, it was a tremendous point of ongoing concern.

She walked to the window and sat on the small cane chair, one her father had made for her hope chest the year before she met Zeke.
I miss you, Pop,
she thought, wishing her father might have lived to see the births of Zach and John, and the new little life she was now carrying. She had never forgotten his grandfatherly delight over Laura, as a brand-new babe, despite the fact Esther knew he suspected baby Laura too hearty an infant to be called premature. But he and Mamma had never questioned that, were never outwardly skeptical.

She had yet another reason to wish Pop had survived his heart attack. A terribly selfish one. Even so, had he lived, she wondered if even he would have seen fit to help her, since all men were considered ordained of God, the sovereign head of their families. And, invariably, what they wanted they got, no questions asked. She'd never had the nerve to ask another married woman, not even Mamma, only silently observing those whose expressions were consistently cheerful and those who were merely marking time, as she was.

Waiting for my number to be called,
she thought woefully, staring at the woodshed and the outhouse beyond.
Why was I born a woman?
She was convinced if she were a man she would not treat anyone—human or beast—the way Zeke treated her. But, of course, that was a futile thing to ponder. Truth was, the Creator-God had seen fit to make her a woman. A woman whose needs were ignored by a man who did lip service to cherishing her but who never once considered her hopes and wishes. Such thoughts made her feel terribly guilty, as though she were going against everything she knew she was called to do—under God and man.
Submission is my only choice
.

Since childhood, she had been taught compliance, observing it in action. It spilled into all areas of their lives, including acquiescence to the ministers, who ruled as they deemed best. So the façade of peace saturated the community, but she knew better.

Hearing John's sudden cries, she rose and went to him. As if by some punishment for her lamentable contemplation, her time of rest had been cut short.

Not to awaken Zach, she went around the side of the bed nearest the wall and picked up whimpering John. She carried him to her room and closed the door.

Walking the length of the room, she felt too weary to calm him. ‘‘Shh, I've got ya . . . Mamma's right here,'' she said, fighting her sad little tears as she held him near.

Chapter 11

Saturday morning, Nov. 5

Dear Louisa,

I'm so excited!

Oh, before I get carried away with my news—how are you? I hope you're doing all right and not second-guessing your decision to back away from your marriage plans. Honestly, though, I've been doing some of that here, but for different reasons, of course.

Well, here's why I'm so happy. My family wants you to feel free to stay with us for as long as you wish. My brother Yonie is going off hunting, so he'll give up his room for the time being. If you decide to stay for longer, there are two empty bedrooms in our Dawdi Haus, if you don't mind my grandparents. That's entirely up to you. Just let me know so we can have everything shiny and clean for you!

I must hurry off to a quilting bee. We're making a wedding quilt for my eldest brother's niece (his wife's niece, that is, but here we're all family, no matter by marriage or just what).

I'm looking forward to seeing you, face-to-face!

With love, Annie

She was thrilled to be able to send the written welcome to Louisa, indeed. She pushed the stamp onto the envelope and then quickly wrote the address.

She headed down the stairs and out the front door to the mailbox at the end of the lawn. Daed had been as agreeable as she'd ever known him to be, which seemed to delight Mamm no end.

‘‘That's good . . . keep everybody happy,'' Annie said, pulling up the little red flag on the hefty mailbox. ‘‘Not the easiest thing in the world.''

By the following Tuesday, on her early morning walk to Cousin Julia's, Annie had what she guessed might be a brain wave, as Yonie liked to say of a sudden—and terrific—idea. And when Julia agreed that she most definitely could eat her lunch in the attic, Annie took advantage of her time to paint.

Studying the canvas, which was still resting on the easel, she knew exactly what she must add to the picture.
The final touch . . .

The account of the small boy's disappearance was quite clear in her mind, and she was convinced the tale was incomplete without the peach stone. A boyish token, of sorts. As a young girl, she'd heard other children talk of squeezing a peach pit hard enough and long enough, till it would eventually sprout. A made-up story, most likely. But little Isaac, long presumed dead, had carried the stone with him everywhere, as she recalled from hearing the details of his kidnapping time and again. She'd known this firsthand, as well, from having spent many happy hours in the company of the imaginative boy.

Isaac, my little friend . . . lost forever
. The thought never ceased to put a grind in her teeth, this fiery anger she'd never voiced.

So solemnly, even crossly, she painted a tiny oval-shaped peach pit on the board of the long tree swing. Hard as it was to spot in the picture, she impulsively brush-stroked a pale yellow ray of sunshine falling on it.

Now the painting's complete,
she thought.

Minutes later when Julia brought up a big slice of apple pie, she was so taken by the image on the canvas, she stood there and stared.

‘‘Is something the matter?'' Annie asked.

‘‘My word, no . . . this is beautiful. I never would've guessed you could paint such splendor.'' Julia's smile was as radiant as the sunbeams shining on the locust trees and the stream. ‘‘Wait here just a minute . . . I have an idea.'' With that, she turned and hurried back down the stairs.

Where's she going?

But Annie wasn't worried what Julia was up to, for the woman was as keyed up as anyone she knew. She could burst out laughing at the most unpredictable thing, and Annie believed because of this, young James and Molly were the most contented and carefree children. Even more so than her own nieces and nephews. No, there was truly something remarkable about spontaneous laughter in the home, and Julia had a corner on that happiness, for sure. She was also quite eager to extend herself to others—taking meals to sick neighbors and driving elderly folk to doctor appointments. A true friend, indeed.

In no time, Julia was back and waving a paper that looked to be clipped out of a magazine. ‘‘Here now, and don't say no till you hear me out,'' she said. ‘‘In fact, why don't you sit right down a minute and I'll read it to you.''

Annie did so, listening as Julia read about an ‘‘artistic opportunity,'' where the first-place winner would receive some classes with an experienced artist.

‘‘Now what do you think of that?''

Annie had no idea what she was getting at. ‘‘I just don't know. . . .''

‘‘I'll take a digital picture of your painting and submit it for the contest.''

She could see Julia was convinced. ‘‘Then what? If I should win—which I know I won't—what then?''

‘‘Well, it says here the first-place winner will be featured on the January cover of
Farm and Home Journal
and will receive three art lessons by a master artist. Oh, Annie, you'd finally have the chance to study art.''

Annie shook her head. ‘‘No, no, this is a bad idea.''
Such education smacks of headiness and high-mindedness . . . frowned on by the People.
‘‘I don't have a scholarly bone in my body.''

‘‘That's where I think you're wrong. You know I believe in your work. This is a wonderful opportunity for you. It's a fine magazine; Irvin and I have read it for years.''

‘‘Well, it may be good 'n' all, but that's not what I'm concerned 'bout.''

Julia's face grew more serious. ‘‘What, then?''

Annie gritted her teeth, but she felt sure Julia knew already. ‘‘Bein' found out—this place here where I work and all. I wouldn't want anything to change, wouldn't want my father to know what I'm doin'.''

‘‘Honestly, Annie, you're taking a risk every time you come up here. But you haven't joined the church yet, so why's this such a concern?''

Julia had a point. ‘‘Still, I haven't made my decision on that.''

Julia reached out a hand. ‘‘In your heart you're just not sure, Annie. . . .'' She paused, tears welling up. ‘‘Maybe the Lord has something more for you.''

Annie inhaled slowly. She knew what Julia believed—that a person could know the Lord in
an intimate way,
as she liked to say. Annie sighed. ‘‘I've never said I wasn't going to make my church vow. If it weren't for my art it would be ever so easy . . . I might have already. But my first love tends to get in the way.''

Julia nodded. ‘‘I know you want to improve and keep working on your craft, getting better with each painting, just as Irvin and I see you doing every time you come here.''

She offered her thanks, grateful Julia hadn't pushed with all her talk of salvation, as she had in the past. ‘‘You've been so kind to me, and I appreciate it. Really I do.''

Julia's bright eyes held Annie's gaze. ‘‘What's to lose if you let me submit your painting to the contest? I'll even pay for the fee.''

I'll never win anyway,
thought Annie.

‘‘Pretty please let me do this for you?'' Julia entreated. ‘‘At least for a chance to have a few pointers from an instructor.''

Annie suddenly thought of Louisa. ‘‘My pen pal is comin' to visit, and she's an instructor, but that'll have to be kept quiet, I'm thinkin'.'' She went on to say how Louisa even held exhibits for her students and was doing so this very week.

‘‘Well then, if you should happen to win the prize, your artist friend could go along with you to the classes. Maybe so?''

‘‘I don't know. . . . I can't see myself taking classes out in public. Besides, as I said, there's no way on earth my painting can possibly win.''

Knowing Julia as she did, she would be trapped right here in the attic today unless she agreed. Even if she didn't, Julia might simply snap the picture with her fancy camera and send it off on her computer—by something called email, which both she and Louisa knew all about—and submit her painting anyway.

She rose and went to look at the image once again. Closing her eyes, she cleared her vision. Then, opening them, she attempted to look at her own work through different eyes. She had in mind that her paintings should have a purpose, but just what she didn't know. Surely it was not to vent her anger over Isaac's long-ago disappearance?
I must forgive whoever took Isaac away. . . .

‘‘All right, dear cousin,'' she whispered, ‘‘if you must. But I'll be payin' the fee.''

Julia hurried to her side. ‘‘Oh, this makes me so happy! Wait till I tell Irvin. He'll set up some lights in here and we'll use the digital camera until we get it just right.''

‘‘Best not let the word slip out,'' she reminded her. Constantly she felt she was repeating herself about this secret . . . this beloved place. ‘‘Promise?''

Julia nodded, pushing the paper in front of Annie's nose once again so she could sign her name. Once that was done, she grinned at her. ‘‘You won't be sorry. I just know you have a very good chance!'' Then she disappeared down the steps.

Annie leaned against the far wall, looking at the painting, at the swing hanging from the tree. She stared so hard at it, for a split second she thought it had moved slightly, but that was impossible. The painting was as real to her as her memories of her childish bond with the missing boy.

She hoped Louisa might not be troubled if ever she were to hear what had happened. But Annie knew she would not be able to keep the tragic story from her good friend, especially when she showed Louisa this painting.
We won't visit this spot right away,
she thought.
No sense starting things out on the wrong foot!

Chapter 12

L
ouisa wondered when she might have the opportunity to recharge her smart phone, since Annie's family lived without electricity. She took her time going over her address book and calendar, making note of the date, Saturday, November 12, and checking on the weather forecast while riding in a cab from the Harrisburg airport to Lancaster County.

A red letter day. Paradise, here I come!

She called home to let her mom know she had arrived safely and then put her cell phone away. Glancing at her laptop in its case, she wondered how often she would get to use it, wanting to keep in touch with her art students by email. Some by instant messaging. She longed for a less complicated life, but she could not leave behind her ability to communicate, which was essential to her work—even if Mother's voice
had
been cold when Louisa let her know she had arrived safely. At least she hadn't pulled the martyr routine . . . yet.

Louisa wished now she hadn't given out Annie's mailing address.
Too easy for letters from home to reach me. . . .

Looking out at the farmland whizzing by, she replayed Michael's outrage at her supposedly ‘‘playing runaway bride for effect . . . nothing more,'' as he so angrily had said. Mother, of course, had had her say, as well. Interestingly, though, her dad had not voiced displeasure, but his squinted eyes had exposed his annoyance.