by Gayle Roper
“So?” I said.
“So what?”
“Did you have fun?”
He snorted and gave me a look of imperious scorn.
“You are such a phony,” I said.
“And you’re bossy,” he said.
“Quid pro quo,” I said.
“Exactly.”
We rode in companionable silence to and past the restaurant.
“Hey, where are we going?” I said, twisting to look back over my shoulder. “Don’t you have to get your car? Or do you like mine better, and you’re planning to keep it?”
“My car’s not there,” he said. “I walked.”
We turned off 340 and drove for a bit, made another turn, and then pulled into a drive before a brick Cape Cod with white clapboard dormers, a red door, and white shutters. A split rail fence separated a yard about an acre in size from the press of cornfields on three sides.
“You live here?” I asked.
He nodded. “Yep. This is my house.”
“I thought you didn’t like farms. There’s nothing around you but farms.”
“I don’t like manure, and I’ll admit that February and March are a bit fragrant when my neighbors are putting down their homemade fertilizer. But I love the privacy and peace. For them I’ll overlook the other.”
“Compromise,” I said, smiling. “The Amish aren’t the only ones.”
We sat in the car with the windows down, enjoying the warm magic of dusk. Neither of us seemed to want to move. We listened to the crickets’ symphony and watched the lightning bugs flash in the shrubs as sunset faded from lavender and peach to pearl-gray velvet to deep night lit by a full moon.
“Smell the honeysuckle?” I think nothing means peace and summer like that scent.
“Come with me,” Todd said.
He got out of the car and walked to the edge of the lawn where a vine grew up a fence post. I followed willingly. He broke off a sprig from the vine and handed it to me. I held it to my nose and inhaled deeply. Sweet, sweet honeysuckle.
“Ever draw the nectar from the flower?” he asked, pulling a blossom free.
“Sure,” I said. “We Maryland girls love honeysuckle.”
I watched as he pinched the base of the flower and slowly pulled the long stamen free. He put it into his mouth and, closing his lips over most of it, slowly withdrew it, obviously savoring the sweetness.
“That’s one way to do it,” I said.
“You’ve got a better way, I suppose.”
“Sure.” I plucked a blossom and, putting the end in my mouth, bit it off. Then I inhaled the sweet trace of nectar. “Simple, easy, and quick.”
We pulled every flower off the sprig and several off the vine on the post, Todd carefully pulling the stamen free, me biting the tip and sucking in the nectar.
Finally we wandered back to my car, and Todd handed me my keys.
“I’ll see you tomorrow morning,” he said. “How about if I bring us some breakfast? Egg McMuffins?”
“With orange juice and a large coffee. We can eat out by the pool.”
I climbed in and Todd shut my door. He leaned in the open window.
“I’m glad we met this evening.” Then he grinned. “I had a good time.”
I grinned back. “And I’m supposed to believe that?”
He stood up. “Yep. It’s the truth.”
As I backed out of the driveway, I couldn’t wait for tomorrow morning.
“Cara, I’d like you to meet some friends,” Todd said after the service Sunday morning. We were standing in the parking lot. “This is Clarke and Kristie Griffin.”
I smiled at the couple. He was tall with very dark brows under sandy-colored hair; she was slim and somehow lovely despite being dressed in swirls of ruby, emerald, sapphire, with shiny gold dots all over.
“This is Cara Bentley, a client of mine,” Todd said. “I’m taking her out to the Zooks’ place to see about her renting your old rooms, Kristie.”
Kristie’s eyes lit up. “Oh, Cara, you’ll love it! I had the most wonderful year there.”
“Sure you did.” Clarke grinned at her. “You met me.”
Kristie leaned into his side and gave him a gentle elbow to the ribs. I remembered Todd saying that the woman who had rented the rooms before me had just gotten married. It showed in the way she looked at Clarke and the way he smiled back.
“You’ll love the Zook family,” Kristie assured me when she pulled her gaze reluctantly from her husband. “Mary and John are so pleasant and nice and hospitable.”
“And Mary is a great cook,” Clarke said. “Don’t overlook that very important fact.”
“And she’s an artist.” Kristie obviously thought this a great thing. “We’ve just begun selling some of her landscapes and quilt pictures. In fact, if you’re a client of Todd’s, you’ve probably seen one in his office.”
I nodded. “There are two beautiful paintings on his wall.”
“One of them is Mary’s,” Kristie said.
“And the other is Kristie’s,” her proud husband said as he gave her shoulders a squeeze.
Before I had a chance to ooh and aah, Kristie continued talking about Mary. “I still go out to the farm to take Mary on drives so she can pick scenes she wants to paint. Then I take pictures of the scenes with my camera and have them printed for her to paint from.”
I was fascinated. Apparently cameras weren’t allowed in Amish culture. I couldn’t imagine life without pictures, especially now because they served as reminders of the wonderful life Mom and Pop had given Ward and me. But if photos weren’t allowed, why were paintings?
I asked that question.
Kristie shrugged. “They’re not really. Icons. False representations.”
“Then there can’t be many Amish artists. At least not the ‘good’ Amish people, the obedient Amish people.”
“You’re right, there aren’t many. Mary and an artist named Susie Riehl are the only two I know or at least the only two in this area I know who are selling their work to the outside world. Both of them are good Amish women. Of course, there may be others who, like Mary until recently, paint in secret.”
“It puts a terrible strain on someone to be gifted in the arts and not be allowed an outlet,” Clarke said. “I think that’s one reason there are so many beautiful quilts coming out of the Amish community. It’s an accepted way to create something of color and beauty.”
“But…” Kristie raised her finger as she made another point. “If you’re gifted, even driven, in a specific area, any old outlet won’t do. If you must paint, quilts won’t fulfill that need. It’d be like telling a novelist to be happy writing articles. After all, both are words. Or telling a dancer to be satisfied with running. Both are movement.”
I understood her point. Telling stories was what I was compelled to do. Even narrower in focus, I was driven to tell stories of romance and faith. Any other kind of writing, no matter how noble, no matter how helpful, wouldn’t be as satisfying or wouldn’t satisfy at all.
“Cara’s a writer,” Todd told Kristie and Clarke. He looked at me. “So you’d be okay. If you were Amish, I mean.”
“Writing’s good,” Clarke agreed. “You can make it spiritual, talk about the Lord, discuss the tenets of the church, present ideas on family and child-rearing. But art isn’t nearly so practical, so pointed, so didactic.”
I had to smile. “I write inspirational romances, about as nondidactic as it gets, so I don’t know how they’d look on that.”
“A lot of the women read for pleasure,” Kristie said. “You might be surprised to find them reading your books.”
I tried to picture an Amish woman, a kapp over her slicked-back hair, dress and apron pinned neatly together, sitting on the porch reading As the Deer. It was a hard image to conjure.
“One thing we need to warn you about, Cara,” Clarke said. “When you meet Jake, don’t let him throw you.”
Kristie nodded. “He can a bit touchy at times. In
fact, he scared me to death at first. But his social skills are improving daily. Just don’t mention Rose Martin to him.”
“Who’s she?”
“The woman who called 911 the night of his accident and then sat with him until the emergency techs and the ambulance came. She may have saved his life by holding shock at bay.”
“So why can’t I mention her?”
“She wants to meet Jake—for a long time she thought he had died. He doesn’t want to meet her.” Kristie shrugged. “Don’t try to understand. It’s a control thing of some kind. She saw him when he was completely helpless, and it bothers him quite a bit.”
I must have looked like I didn’t see much sense in Jake’s position because she laughed. “I don’t understand either. That’s just the way it is.”
“Jake’s really a nice guy,” Clarke said. “He and I’ve been friends for a long time. And getting approval to take those classes at Millersville has been great for him.”
“First class tomorrow,” Todd said.
“That’s all your doing, Todd,” Clarke said. “If it weren’t for your pushing, I don’t think he’d have gotten that high school equivalency degree.”
Todd shook his head dismissively. “I’m just concerned he do well in these summer classes. He has to if he wants to gain full admission.”
When Clarke and Kristie said goodbye, I watched them walk to their car hand-in-hand. I turned to Todd to make an undoubtedly snide remark about their obvious affection and was surprised by the expression of deep longing on his face.
An unexpected and intense shaft of pain shot through me. I swallowed hard to tamp down the hurt.
“She’s very pretty,” I said, my eyes again following her. I tried to keep my voice neutral, though I wasn’t completely successful. A faint misting of melancholy hung over the words.
He looked at me with one eyebrow raised and said carefully, “Yes, she is.”
“Colorful,” I said.
He nodded. “Very.”
I felt the beginnings of a headache, the special one reserved for sufferers of vain imaginings. It didn’t matter that I knew I was foolish; the pain still attacked behind my left eye.
“But then beige is nice too,” he added politely, looking me up and down. “Restful.”
It was the third day I’d known him and the third beige outfit. Who cared that it was a pricey, raw silk pantsuit? It was beige! Suddenly I felt as boring as Wonder Bread.
“You used to go with her, didn’t you?” I asked, my eyes still on the lovely, multi-hued Kristie. I already knew the answer.
“For a couple of years.”
“What happened?”
“We broke up.”
“Your idea or hers?” I wanted it to be his, but I knew it was hers.
“Hers. She told me I wanted to remake her, and she didn’t want to be remade.”
I thought about that for a few seconds. “Did you?”
“Want to remake her? Probably. All her quirks that Clarke thinks are enchanting I thought were idiotic.”
“Not a good sign for a relationship.”
He nodded agreeably.
“Do you miss her?”
He looked at me with a funny half smile. “Do you pick at scabs often?” he asked.
I sighed. I was so obvious, poking where I had no business poking. “Only when the—”
“I know. Only when the outcome matters.” He continued to stare at me. “And it matters in this case?”
I blushed and looked at my shoes. They were bone-colored. Boring. “I think I’d like a piece of shoofly pie, wouldn’t you?” I managed to raise my gaze to his shirt button, but I couldn’t bring myself to meet his gaze. “Where do you think we should eat?”
He put a finger under my chin and lifted, forcing my eyes to his. “I’m over her, Cara,” he said softly. “I’ve been over her for some time. She was right in her analysis of how I felt about her. I liked who I wanted her to be, not who she was.”
I refused to be comforted. “Yeah, but you didn’t see your face just now. I did.”
“My face?” he repeated, looking alarmed and confused.
“Watching her walk away.”
He cocked his head. “I’m sorry. I’m not following you.”
“You looked like you were dying inside.”
He pulled back. “Nuh uh. No way. I don’t know what you think you saw, but it wasn’t that.”
“Deep longing,” I said stubbornly. He was right. I did like to pick scabs.
“Not for her,” Todd said. Perplexed, he ran his hands through his hair, disturbing his curls. One fell over his forehead just like Superman, and I itched to push it back. I watched him try to figure out what I was talking about and thought he was treating my paranoia more kindly than it deserved.
“Let’s forget I said anything,” I said, turning toward the car. “I was out of line. What you felt or feel for her is really none of my business, is it? I spoke out of turn.”
Todd put a restraining hand on my arm. “Stay here. We need to figure this out.”
“No, we don’t.” But I waited as he stared off into space.
Finally he looked at me. “When I think of Clarke and Kristie, mostly I think of how suited they are for each other and how great it was that the Lord brought them together. That’s what accounts for any look of longing you saw on my face. I only hope that someday I’ll have what they’ve found. I haven’t seen it all that much in my life, but it’s what I want and pray I’ll find.”
I stared at him, overwhelmed and terrified. I couldn’t think of a single thing to say except hallelujah, and I didn’t think that was quite appropriate right now.
Dear God, it’s too good to be true. He’s too good to be true. I’m scared to death! But I’m going to enjoy every moment I get before he disappears.
“Come on,” he said, ignoring the sudden onset of my being struck dumb…or perhaps he was enjoying it. He guided me toward the car, his hand on the small of my back. “Let’s eat so I can get you to the farm.”
When Todd drove me back to the Horse and Buggy after I met Jake and saw the farm, I thanked him earnestly for telling me about the rooms.
“It will be so wonderful living there,” I said as we pulled up in front of my motel room.
Todd looked at me and grinned. “You’re vibrating again.”
“I am not.”
“Vibrating,” he said.
“I do not vibrate. I’m quiet and reserved.”
“You don’t know yourself very well, do you?”
“I do not vibrate.”
“Just like you don’t ask impertinent questions?”
“Oh, I do that. It’s a Bentley curse. I just don’t vibrate.”
I climbed out of the car with great dignity. I took my key from my purse with ladylike grace. I lifted my hand in a slow-motion farewell.
“Phony!” Todd called.
“Critic!” I responded.
He threw his car in reverse. As he looked over his shoulder to back out, I gave in to my excitement about the farm and bounced a couple of times on my toes.
“I saw that!” Todd called out his window as he straightened the car out. “Definitely vibrating.”
I was all smiles as I collected my things. I was downright giddy when I turned in my key and left the Horse and Buggy.
“Wait till you see it, Rainbow,” I told the unhappy animal as she lay in her travel cage yelling for help. “You’ll love it! Lots of yard to romp in, and lots of barn cats to give you a run for your money. In fact, you almost soured the deal, my friend. These farm folk aren’t used to house cats. I had to promise that you’d be the best cat in the world, that when you’re in our rooms, you’d use the litter box with never an accident.”
“Elp!” pleaded Rainbow.
“Yeah,” I agreed. “Help is right, given your feelings about a litter box. Just do your best, okay?”
I loved the Zook farmhouse. It was white with green trim and had a great front porch with a
blooming wisteria climbing one end, dripping fragrant lavender clusters like soft bunches of grapes among the gray-green leaves. A great maple tree shaded much of the front yard, and the side yard was filled with a large vegetable garden edged with cyclamen petunias.
“Their smell helps keep the rabbits out,” Jake explained.
My rooms were on the second floor, and I had to walk through the Zooks’ living room to get to the stairs. Jake shared the ability to get to his rooms via the living room, but he also had a separate entrance to his apartment with a ramp for his wheelchair.
My rooms weren’t large, but they were airy and open. The living room had a motley collection of secondhand furniture that somehow looked just right. A large blond-colored desk sat by a window. I put my laptop on it, and knew I’d enjoy sitting there to write, provided I didn’t keep staring at the pastoral scene before me.
Fields of tilled brown and verdant green swept to the horizon over gentle swells of land. A white farmhouse, barn, and silo lay in the humid-hazy distance to my right. To my left was a farm pond fed by a stream that flowed briskly from a small, dense wood. Around the pond stood several black-and-white speckled cows, but I liked best the one that stood knee deep in the water mooing. If I were a painter like Kristie or the as-yet-unmet Mary, I’d paint her.
The vegetable garden was directly below me with beans and peas scaling stakes, celadon lettuce waving vitamin-laden fronds, and carrots fluttering delicate and ferny leaves.
My bedroom had an ancient sleigh bed with great curved head and foot boards and wore a beautiful handmade quilt in calico prints of royal blue, cream, and crimson. A handmade braided rug covered the floor by the bed. There was no closet in the room, but wall pegs were available for my clothes. I hung my beige silk pantsuit on a peg beside the door to the new bathroom, which was small but complete, every surface in it a blinding white. I put Rainbow’s litter box in the space between the pedestal sink and the toilet. I put her in the box several times as I unpacked my meager belongings.
“You get the idea?” I asked as I held her in the litter, petting her and telling her how wonderful she was. She murped and jumped out, shaking her feet fastidiously to get rid of any granules caught in her pads. She stalked to the bedroom window and, in that marvelous liquid motion cats have, leapt to the windowsill. She settled down to chatter through the screen at the barn swallows that dipped and soared after the late-afternoon insects and at the purple martins that lived in the miniature white apartment on a pole in the middle of the garden.