Accidentally Amish

by Olivia Newport

  “Think vintage. And stay on topic.”

  Annie folded the box flaps down. “Rick and I didn’t exactly break up, but the result is the same. He’s history.”

  “And who is the future?”

  “No one.” Annie reached for another box. “You were right about Rick all along, that’s all.”

  “Is he still your lawyer?”

  “Nope.”

  “And you didn’t meet someone else?”

  Annie was slower to answer. “No.”

  “Annalise Friesen, you tell me the truth.”

  “I … met a family. They … befriended me.”

  “And?”

  “And nothing.”

  “You’re not telling me everything.”

  “Okay.” Annie lifted her eyes to her mother’s. “They are Amish.”

  “Amish!”

  “They’re not freaks, Mom. They just have their own way of living and believing.”

  “Of course. I’m just not sure what you would have in common with them.”

  “Circumstances sort of threw us together. I told you I met someone named Beiler.” She paused to spell the name. “It was the Amish family.” It was the Amish family’s son.

  “So you think those Beilers and our Bylers might be connected,” Myra said.

  “It just got me going down an interesting trail. There was a guy in 1737 named Jakob Beyeler.” She paused again to spell the name. “It looks like the Beilers are related to him. Maybe we are, too.”

  “Was he Amish?”

  “Quite likely.” Annie opened another box. “I’m sorting that out still.”

  “I’ve never heard any stories about any Amish ancestors. But you know who might know? Your great-aunt Lennie.”

  “But she lives in Vermont, and she can’t hear on the telephone.”

  “You’re in luck. If you hadn’t stayed incognito for so long, you might have heard the family news. She’s coming for a visit. She’ll be here in a few days, and then she’s off to California to see her new great-grandchild.”

  Rufus cleared the large worktable and wiped wood shavings away before laying out the carefully cut panels. He welcomed a few days in the workshop instead of on a job site. In the morning, his two sometime employees would arrive to help sand and assemble. They had talent—one more than the other—but would require close supervision. At odd moments, he wondered if it was worthwhile to pay for their help at this stage, but how else would they learn?

  Beside Rufus, Jacob perched on a stool with his elbows on the edge of the worktable. “Am I going to be a cabinetmaker when I grow up?”

  “Would you like to be?” Rufus flicked his eyes at his little brother.

  “You make pretty cabinets. It might be too hard for me.”

  “It might be hard now, but I’ll teach you.”

  “Who taught you?”

  “Daed. And his daed taught him.”

  “When can I learn?”

  “I’ll tell you what,” Rufus said. “I have some scraps from this project. I’ll help you make a little box for Mamm‘s birthday. Would you like that?”

  Jacob sat up straight. “Ya! When is Mamm‘s birthday?”

  “In two months. We should have plenty of time.”

  The little boy stilled, his shoulders limp. “I wish Ruth could come for Mamm‘s birthday.”

  “You miss Ruth, don’t you?”

  “Don’t you?”

  “Yes I do,” Rufus answered quietly. “Every day.”

  “I know Mamm misses her.”

  “I’m sure she does.”

  “Do you think Ruth misses us?”

  “Of course.”

  “Then why can’t we see her? If I ask Mamm, she cries. No one will tell me.”

  Rufus put a man’s long arm around a boy’s small shoulders. “Do you remember when Ruth left?”

  “A little bit. But Mamm told me to go to bed, and in the morning Ruth did not come down to breakfast.”

  “Ruth wanted to go, and Mamm wanted her to stay. That’s why Mamm cries.”

  Jacob looked up at Rufus. “That’s not the real story. But I guess I’m too little to hear the real story.”

  “It’s real enough.”

  “Is it against Ordnung for me to still love Ruth?”

  Rufus shook his head. “I don’t think so.”

  “Is it against Ordnung for me to love Annalise, even though she’s English?”

  “Well, God tells us to love everyone.”

  “That sounds hard. But I do love Annalise. I guess she won’t come back, either.”

  “No, I don’t think so.” Rufus was not going to lie to the boy.

  “I wish I knew how to write better. I would write a letter to Ruth, and I would write a letter to Annalise. And I would tell them I love them just like God told me to in the Biewel.”

  Rufus was silent. The chance that Jacob would be allowed to mail such letters was almost nothing. But the moment seemed too tender to offer the boy an explanation that would not satisfy either one of them.

  “It’s almost time for supper,” Rufus finally said. “Why don’t you go see if Mamm needs some help?”

  Rufus watched Jacob scamper across the yard and up the steps to the front porch. His thin form disappeared into the house. That little boy could be the closest thing Rufus ever had to a son of his own.

  Rufus had filled his mind with Annalise, and his mind’s eye saw her again, standing alone in a parking lot, armed with the contents of her denim bag. He said a prayer for her then for himself.

  He turned back to his panels, the sound of Karl Kramer’s steps across the motel lobby reviving in his ears. He almost wished he had a lock on the workshop door.

  Annie’s phone buzzed in her back pocket, and she took her hands out of a box of hand-tatted table linens. She recognized the calling number. Lee Solano.

  “Hello.”

  “I went straight to your man Barrett.”

  “And?” Annie glanced at her mother and shifted to wander to another corner of the basement. Even there, she would be careful about her end of this conversation.

  “He’s backing down. Withdrawing the suit. Your genius is safe.”

  “Did he ask for something?”

  “He still holds a financial stake in the company. He wants you to buy him out.”

  “That seems reasonable.” Speaking calmly, Annie caught her mother’s eye briefly. Her heart pounded.

  “I recommend you sue for damages to reduce the amount.”

  “Oh, I don’t think that’s necessary.” Annie smiled at her mother. “The matter seems to be equitably resolved.”

  “Don’t you want to make him sweat a little more?”

  “Has his representation spoken to the matter?”

  “You mean Mr. Stebbins? I’m sure we’ll hear about it when he finds out.”

  “Thanks for the update,” Annie said lightly. “I’ll speak to you soon.”

  Okay, God, why don’t I feel better about this?

  She shuffled back to her mother, who was still sifting through boxes. “Sorry. Business.”

  “Do you ever get to take time off?” Myra asked. “Were you working the whole time you were gone?”

  “I’m running a company, Mom. That’s a full-time commitment.”

  “But you have a partner. Can’t he carry some of the load?”

  Annie sighed. She would have to tell her parents sooner or later. “Barrett has decided to leave the company.” That much was true. “I’m going to buy him out.” Also true. “And Rick is going to represent Barrett while we sort it out.” Probably true.

  “Wow.” Myra’s countenance sagged. “I thought you and Barrett were getting along great.”

  “We had a good run. I guess he’s ready for something new.”

  “You need some time off, honey.”

  “Maybe when this all gets sorted out.” Annie ran her hands over a pile of old magazines. “Maybe I’ll go back to Westcliffe. Find a front porch. Sit and look at t
he mountains.”

  “I knew it. You did meet someone in Westcliffe.”

  “No, Mom.” Annie flipped open a random National Geographic from 1992.

  “I haven’t seen your face turn that color since the tenth grade.” Myra grinned. “You didn’t know that I knew Travis Carlton kissed you.”

  “Well, nobody has kissed me this time. Can we just look for the book?” Her phone buzzed again. “It’s Jamie. I’d better take it.”

  “A courier just brought a package,” Jamie said when Annie answered. “More legal papers.”

  Rick.

  “Can you tell what it’s about?”

  “Let’s see,” Jamie said. “Something about a patent. In his name, in connection with … it’s all mumbo jumbo.”

  “Thanks, Jamie.” Annie felt her mother’s unspoken questions even as she reassured Jamie.

  “Aren’t you worried?”

  “I’ll take care of it.”

  Annie ended the call and smiled at her mother. “I need to make a quick call. I don’t want to bore you. Maybe I’ll just run upstairs while I do it.”

  “If you don’t come right back, I’m quitting,” Myra said. “You’re the one who wants the book.”

  “I’ll be right back.” Annie had already punched 9. By the time she got to the top of the stairs, Lee answered.

  “It’s bogus,” Lee said after Annie explained what little she knew. “He can’t patent something he had no part in creating. He’s trying to edge in before your partnership legally dissolves so he can have a piece of the action.”

  “So he can’t do this?” Annie paced across her mother’s kitchen, where she used to sit and do homework.

  “I’ll have to see the papers, of course, but it sounds like a sneaky maneuver to me.”

  “Sneaky doesn’t mean unsuccessful,” Annie pointed out. “That’s what lawyers do. No offense.”

  “I’m on your side, Annie. I’ll do my best.”

  “How could he have these papers ready so fast?”

  “Because they were already sitting on the corner of his desk. He’s two steps ahead. Does he play chess?”

  Annie groaned and put her face in one hand. “I never once could beat him.”

  “Well, I will. Just get me the papers.”

  “I’ll take care of it right now.”

  She clicked off.

  “Honey, are you all right?”

  Annie spun to face her mother. “Just … a complication I didn’t foresee. But my new lawyer is not worried.”

  Myra held up a spiral-bound book with a pink cover. “I found it.”

  “Oh, thank you!” Annie took the book in her hands and flipped to random pages. List after list of names, single spaced, filled a hundred pages.

  “I’d better get supper going.” Myra turned to the sink behind her, lifted the faucet handle, and ran water over her hands. “Pork chops in applesauce just the way you like them.”

  Annie grimaced. “I don’t think I can stay after all, Mom. I need to run back to the office.” She held the book against her chest. “Let me know when Aunt Lennie gets here. I promise to come to dinner.”

  Twenty-One

  January 1738

  You must go,” Verona insisted.

  “We’ve only had the warrant two days,” Jakob countered. “There’s plenty of time for the survey.”

  “The weather is clear now.” Verona would not give up easily. “Surveyors will be eager for winter work. If you do the survey now, we’ll have no trouble with the papers come spring.”

  “You can always smell spring in the air.”

  “I don’t smell spring, but I smell enough clear weather for the survey. It is the first day of a new year, Jakob. Celebrate by engaging a surveyor.”

  When Verona’s deep violet eyes lit up in that particular shade, Jakob knew not to argue further.

  So he found a surveyor well recommended for his efficiency and mounted his horse in the middle of winter to visit the land he had already come to think of as his own.

  The next week, the surveyor did his work with Jakob pointing and describing and gesturing. They started at the black oak Jakob and Hans Zimmerman had leaned against together, and the surveyor marked three other trees as well. Jakob’s land had corners now. Assured that the legal description would be filed as soon as possible, Jakob shook the surveyor’s hand and watched the man pack away his brass and oak instruments, mount his horse, and head in the general direction of Philadelphia.

  Jakob decided to stay another day and make his own sketches. The Siebers offered night shelter in their barn, but Jakob spent the daylight hours on his own land along Irish Creek. In winter sun, he dipped a quill and drew ink across thick paper. A great stone fireplace would anchor the house. He would carve the mantel out of black oak—plentiful on the land—with a table to match, both of them sanded and polished to a sheen. He sketched paths to the smokehouse, the icehouse, the barn, the stables. Pastures, crops, orchards, and gardens took form in black on white. Jakob drew a little square and wrote in it, “Maria’s Beets.” The creek bubbled through his drawing in the shade of black and Spanish oaks. A tanyard, farthest from the house in its own clearing, would supplement his income. If he could clear fifty acres of the 168 the surveyor had measured, the family would do well.

  At first light the next day, Jakob closed the Siebers’ barn door behind him and mounted his horse for the ride to Philadelphia. Verona had been right to insist he come, he reflected. Perhaps in as little as two months they would all come back together to Irish Creek.

  “If my calculations are correct,” Christian announced to his sisters, “Daed should be back in no more than two days.”

  Verona smiled as she stirred the stew in the pot hanging in the fireplace. She loved the feeling of having her children gathered in the warm room. Only three of them could sit on crates at the small table at one time, but they had acquired a couple of rickety chairs, and Lisbetli never stayed in one place very long anyway. Christian was rarely without a map anymore. Even Hans Zimmerman said that Christian knew distances and terrain better than most of the men. He had begun marking his maps with the names of Amish families to indicate their future homesteads. To keep up with Christian, Maria was taking more interest in learning to read. Verona was pleased that Barbara, who had more schooling than anyone else in the family, made up lessons for the other children.

  Verona gasped when the pain burst behind her eyes again. The ladle clattered to the floor as she put both hands to her temples. Though she closed her eyes, she felt Barbara and Anna lurch in her direction. Anna picked up the ladle, and Barbara caught her mother’s elbows.

  “I’m fine.” Verona waved her daughters away. “It will pass in a moment.”

  “It’s happening more often.” Barbara did not let go of her grip. “Go lie down.”

  “Supper is almost ready.” Verona reached toward the pot.

  Barbara stopped her. “I will feed the children. Please, Mamm, lie down.”

  Verona feared that if she put her head to the pillow, she might never get up again. She would never get to tell Jakob about the new baby. Perhaps it would be better if he did not know.

  Until the moment the horse buckled under him, Jakob had let his mind wander, dreaming of the homestead and fields rich with buckwheat, rye, and vegetables. By bedtime he would be sharing his sketches with Verona.

  Suddenly his feet left the stirrups and his hands lost their loose touch on the saddle horn as his body flew off the mount. He landed on his back, inches from a tree trunk that could have cracked his skull. The breath went out of him, and for a moment he lay on the ground unsure whether he was capable of inhaling. Eight feet away, the horse neighed in protest and struggled to regain posture. To Jakob’s relief, she did. He could see now the hole she must have stepped in with her left front leg, the soft depression camouflaged with wet leaves and broken branches. The horse limped in a small circle, and Jakob, still flattened, felt a swell of panic. If the horse’s leg was broken,
he did not even have a rifle to put her out of her misery. This was not a hunting trip, after all, and he had no other use to carry a gun through the wilderness. He would never shoot anyone, not even natives on the attack. And he didn’t know how he would pay for another horse if this one turned up lame.

  The immediate question was whether Jakob himself could stand. Pushing up on one elbow, he regretted the decision to take a deep breath. His hand went immediately to his rib cage. Once, years ago, he had broken three ribs. Instantly, he remembered the injury. With his fingers, he gently probed his side. If he was lucky, this time only two had cracked. Controlling his breathing, he managed to sit up and lean against the tree trunk he had come so close to striking. With quick, jagged breaths, he watched the horse.

  Jakob clicked his tongue to call the horse to him, and she came. At first, he limited his evaluation to visual inspection of the fetlock in question. No bone protruded. Mindful of his precarious position, within easy kicking range and barely able to move, Jakob slowly reached for the animal’s leg and ran his hand gently down the line of the bone. He felt no break. She seemed to favor the leg less with each step.

  With a few minutes’ rest, the horse would be fine. Jakob, on the other hand, winced at the thought of trying to mount in his present condition, never mind withstand the motion of riding. He studied the sky. Light would fail soon, and the temperature would plummet. Scanning the immediate vicinity, Jakob determined he could support a fire with deadwood for several hours if only he could manage to strike his flint hard enough to create the required spark.

  Mrs. Zimmerman shook her head. “How long has she been like this?” She touched Verona’s cheek.

  “She only went to bed a few hours ago.” Anna’s face scrunched anxiously. “We asked if she wanted some stew, but she wouldn’t wake up.”

  “She has been ill much longer than a few hours,” Mrs. Zimmerman said.

  “Since the boat.” Christian stood in the doorway watching his mother sleep.

  “She gets tired.” Barbara choked on her words. “I try to help as much as I can so she can rest. Christian should not have bothered you.”

  “She is burning up with fever.” Mrs. Zimmerman dipped a cloth in a bucket of water once again and turned to the boy. “Christian did the right thing to come and get me. Now he must go find my husband.”