The Preacher's Daughter (6 page)

Jesse had not made a practice of knowing who was seeing his daughter and who wasn't. He wouldn't start speculating now . . . unlike some fathers who required a report from their sons of the scallywags who drove younger sisters home from barn singings and other church-sanctioned activities. Never had he cared to interfere that way with Annie's courting years. She was a levelheaded sort and downright determined, too.
His
daughter would have no trouble attracting a fine man to marry, but only when she was good and ready to settle down.

‘‘Rudy is makin' a big mistake, the way I see it,'' Caleb continued.

Sighing, Jesse removed his hat and inhaled his tobacco deeply. He contemplated the field work to be done yet, and here they were wasting time. ‘‘Well, I have to ask ya, just what's your concern in this?''

‘‘Only that Rudy was in love with Annie. Sure as my name's Esh.''

‘‘But you say
he
broke off with her?''

‘‘That he did.''

Now Jesse was confused
and
perturbed. Seemed Caleb wasn't making much sense for a man nearly thirty-five years old, married, and the father of nine children, last count. This here Caleb had also been talked about as a possible preacher nomination back last fall after council meeting, amongst some of the brethren.

A busybody, to be sure . . .

‘‘Is all your plowin' done, Caleb?'' he asked right quick.

‘‘Well . . . almost.''

Jesse shook his head a bit, looked down at his straw hat, and then placed it back on his head. ‘‘Why not let nature take her course where courtin's concerned. Seems the Good Lord works all that out just right fine, given the chance.''

Caleb nodded his head quick like and said, ‘‘Afternoon, Preacher Zook.'' Then he sauntered over to his horse and carriage, where he'd left them smack dab in the middle of the lane.

‘‘Be seein' ya at Preaching service come Sunday,'' Jesse called to him, attempting to keep a grin in check.

Louisa lit each of four candles on the table, two tall tapers and two votives. She softly blew out the match and returned to the kitchen, where Michael was putting the finishing touches on his organic dressing ‘‘experiment,'' as he called it: extra-virgin olive oil, French sea salt, freshly-squeezed lemon juice, dry Italian basil, fresh garlic, ground black pepper, and Greek oregano— leaves only, all mixed into one dressing bottle.

‘‘Looks exotic,'' she said, smiling. ‘‘And the steaks await.''

He carried the wooden salad bowl, tongs, and dressing to the table. ‘‘How about some dinner music?''

‘‘Sure. What are you in the mood for?''

He winked at her in response, and she felt her face blush.

‘‘You pick.''

She went to the sitting area of the small living room and scanned the CD tower. This was not a night for anything heavy.
Keep it mellow,
she decided, thinking ahead to the topic of conversation, which must wait until they had enjoyed the jointly made candlelight dinner.

She reached for her old favorite, legendary Stan Getz—cool tenor sax—and slipped the disk into the CD player. Smooth jazz filled up all the spaces of silence, and she sat down across from Michael.

‘‘Hold your plate,'' he said and forked one of the steaks.

She watched him place the medium-rare piece of meat onto her plate. She was aware of his hands, his well-manicured nails . . . and immediately she thought of her mother's plans to do an all-day manicure, pedicure, and facial with all the bridesmaids. Then, they were all supposed to go to a glitzy tearoom Mother had booked, where Louisa was to present the gold bracelets.

But here she was having a really terrific dinner with Michael, who was making nice remarks about the steaks she'd grilled. Saying other complimentary things with his eyes, as well.

Oh,
she groaned inwardly.
Wrong timing
.

But later, during a dessert of peach sorbet and gourmet butter cookies, it was Michael who mentioned that his mother was asking about ‘‘all those groomsmen.''

‘‘Did you tell her it was
my
mother's idea to have a million bridesmaids, which meant you
had
to scrounge up that many groomsmen?''

He shook his head. ‘‘Moi?''

‘‘Well, it's excessive, and it seems Mother has decided this wedding is to be the most costly, the most lavish of any in Denver's recent history.''

‘‘Hmm . . .'' Michael frowned. ‘‘I take it you're not happy.''

‘‘It's just that . . .'' She spooned up a small amount of sorbet and stared at it. ‘‘I was hoping our wedding might reflect something of the two of
us
.''

‘‘Doesn't it? Our families aren't exactly collecting food stamps. Why not have a good time?''

This wasn't going as she had imagined. She looked at him. ‘‘It's gotten so out of hand, and Mother's calling all the shots.''

He reached across the table for her hand but she stiffened. ‘‘What's
really
wrong?''

‘‘Don't you get it, Michael? It's not a wedding anymore, it's a Las Vegas show!'' She thought she might cry.

‘‘Do your parents know how you feel?''

‘‘It's not me they're trying to please. It's all about making impressions . . . Mother's society sisters, for one. And everyone else on the guest list.''

Michael shrugged. ‘‘So? My mom's one of the society girls, too, remember? She's equally anxious to see a gala wedding for us. Everyone, both families, all of our friends, are on board.''

‘‘Except me.'' Her words came out like a thud, and Michael's eyebrows shot up. Until this moment, she hadn't realized how terribly disillusioned she had become. What had changed? Was it Annie Zook's friendship over the years, an Amish girl's influence from afar? No, it was more than that. Had to be.

She swallowed hard. ‘‘A quarter-of-a-million-dollar wedding won't make our day more special or meaningful, will it?'' She had to hear him refute it. Instead, he pushed his chair back and reached for her salad plate, as well as his own, and carried them to the kitchen sink.

Returning, he brought along a bottle of champagne and two glasses. ‘‘Look, babe, who cares how much money our parents throw at this wedding? It's how we were raised. Our parents have more money than they know what to do with, so what's the harm?''

She shook her head. Either he hadn't heard a word she'd said or he simply didn't care. Or worse, he didn't understand.

Wealth is all he knows . . . it's all I know. Of course he doesn't understand
.

‘‘I'm tired of this life,'' she said softly.

He leaned forward, frowning. ‘‘I don't think I heard you. You said what?''

She was so frustrated, it was all she could do to measure her words, to keep from simply bursting. ‘‘I have no intention of living the way my parents—or yours—do. Look around here . . . at my apartment. This is the
real
me. I crave secondhand furniture and flea market treasures. Old stuff. Things with class but inexpensive, worn, and scuffed up . . . things that exude character.'' She paused. ‘‘I thought you knew.''

Michael grimaced. ‘‘Isn't this merely a phase, your latest artistic flair? I didn't think you were serious.'' Casually he unwound the wire fastener from the bottle. ‘‘You want the look of poverty, well fine. That's cool.''

She sighed.
He doesn't get it
.

‘‘What does it matter about the wedding?'' he continued. ‘‘Why not go along with the plans? You know your parents always get their way. Like they did with you and me.''

His words slammed into her heart. ‘‘What are you talking about?''

He gripped the bottle and pulled up, grimacing slightly. ‘‘You know. The long-range plan.'' He popped the cork for effect.

She blew out a breath. ‘‘What?''

Their eyes met, and Michael flashed a smile. ‘‘Surely you remember how we met.''

A blind date
. ‘‘My dad ran into your dad. . . .'' She struggled to remember.
Where?
‘‘And they began talking, and one thing led to another, and then . . .''

He chuckled. ‘‘Well, yeah, but there's way more to it.''

‘‘More to what?''

‘‘Oh, come on, Louisa. You can't tell me you didn't know.''

She was unable to breathe.
It's so warm in here
.

He poured champagne into her glass first, then his own. He set the bottle to the side and raised his glass, proposing a toast, waiting for her. But she could only stare at him, too flustered to reach for her glass.

‘‘Nothing changes the fact that we belong together, Louisa. Does it really matter how it happened?'' He gestured toward her champagne. ‘‘I say we make a toast to the future—yours and mine, as well as to my partnership with your father's law firm . . . eventually, but certain.''

She glared at him. ‘‘So that's what this is? An arrangement?''

‘‘Louisa, don't play the drama queen.''

‘‘I thought we had something special.''

‘‘We do. Someone simply got the ball rolling, that's all.''

She searched his eyes for some hint of insincerity, some indication he was teasing her. But he was incredibly earnest and more than eager to make the toast.

He winked at her, as though hoping to humor her. ‘‘To the Berkeley-Stratford merger.''

Her mind whirled.
Surely we weren't merely pawns in our fathers' hands!

He was smiling at her, attempting to charm her, still holding his glass high. ‘‘Our future is secure and rather limitless. Won't our children be perfect?''

She had not fallen for him for any of those reasons. She had been totally in the dark. ‘‘No . . . don't you see? Our beginning was a fraud,'' she whispered, blinking back tears.

He set down his glass. ‘‘What's the difference how it started? What matters is how it ends.'' His tone was one of impatience now.

How it ends
. The words rang hollow and prophetic.

‘‘It matters to
me,
'' she said.

‘‘You're making too much of this.''

She couldn't help it . . . she thought of her first boyfriend, a man a few years older whom she'd met at the start of her junior year—an art fanatic like her. Trey Douglas had loved her for who she was. But the timing was all off for them. She should have followed him to London. Instead, she'd fallen prey to her own father's misguided scheme.

She shook her head. ‘‘No, Michael! I don't want any part of this. I thought you loved
me,
no strings attached. I had no idea this was part of someone's plan to manipulate us. The whole thing is messed up.'' She rose and hurried down the short hall to her bedroom and closed the door.

‘‘Louisa, baby . . . wait! Let's talk this out.''

‘‘I've heard enough.'' She locked the door, leaning her head against it, clutching her aching throat.

Even in spite of his repeated knocking and calling to her, she simply could not bring herself to open the door. It would break her heart even more to look into his face.

All a charade!

Chapter 5

S
aturday's corn-husking bee at Deacon Byler's farm was off to a grand start, even though neither the shucking of ears of corn nor the stacking of stalks had begun. Young people, and a few married chaperones, were arriving, and already dozens of buggies were lined up in a row, parked along the side yard.

Annie and her sister-in-law Sarah Mae worked together, straining their fingers to unhitch Dolly from the enclosed family carriage. Pretty soon, Obed, one of Deacon Byler's sons, walked over and helped finish the task. That done, he led the horse up to the barn, where he would water and feed each of the driving horses stabled there.

‘‘Denki, Obie,'' called Annie.

Suddenly she spotted Rudy Esh and several other fellows standing near the woodshed.
Ach, he's here!
She quickly looked away. Her hands grew clammy, and a sickening lump formed in the pit of her stomach.

I should've stayed home!

If he happened to take Susie Yoder home in his buggy later, it would do her in but good. She'd never actually seen them sitting side-by-side in Rudy's open carriage, and she didn't want to start now.

Rejecting the urge to wallow in self-pity, she found the courage to walk with her head high.
I'm not ashamed. I've done nothing wrong
. But she knew for certain she had, for her fondness for art had come between her and Rudy. Her paintings and drawings were a result of doing what she believed the Lord God had somehow implanted in her heart.
I paint the beauty I see around me. How can that be wrong?
Yet it was, according to the rules of their
Ordnung,
which governed much of their lives.

When she got to the house, she discovered a whole group of girls—mostly courting age—gathered in the kitchen. Some were pouring cold apple cider into paper cups; others were arranging cups on large trays.

‘‘Hullo, Annie!'' Deacon Byler's wife, Kate, called to her. ‘‘I heard tell your wailin' peacocks kept your neighbor, David Lapp, up all hours last night.''

‘‘Well, I heard nothing once I fell asleep,'' Annie replied.

This brought a wave of laughter.

‘‘Must be mating season, jah?'' one of the older girls said, and they fell silent, followed by a few snickers. ‘‘Them peacocks can yowl worse than an infuriated cat, I daresay.''

‘‘And they get awful lonely,'' Annie explained, as if the girls had never heard this about the bevy of beautiful birds she and her brothers raised. ‘‘They like bein' close to each other.''