by Marta Perry
“I’ve thought of nothing else. But I have to know.” Her mind flickered to her father, and she forced herself to concentrate on this moment, on this man who might be able to help her. “I’ve spent my life wondering. Whatever the answer is, knowing has to be better than this.”
He sucked in a breath so deep that his chest heaved. “All right.” He nodded toward a bench set under the hospital’s portico. “I’ll wait for you there while you have the test. Then we’ll talk about my uncle. I’ll answer as many questions as you want. But I’m afraid it’s not going to lead you anywhere at all.”
LINK SAT ON THE bench, outwardly relaxed, trying to watch the world go by. Or at least, that portion of the world that had reason to be at the hospital on this sunny fall day—an extremely pregnant woman with a nervous husband in tow, an elderly woman carrying a handful of mums, an Amish couple with a young child.
People were sometimes surprised that the Amish availed themselves of modern medical facilities, but the Amish had no quarrel with the medical profession. They didn’t believe in insurance, however, so if someone needed expensive care, the whole Amish community would pitch in to help.
He nodded as the couple came closer—they lived in Spring Township, although he couldn’t call their names to mind at the moment. The two adults nodded back, and the little boy gave him a wide grin. Whatever brought them here today, it didn’t seem to bother the child.
Unfortunately, focusing on the passersby didn’t really resolve the dilemma he faced. Why had he agreed to talk to Marisa about Uncle Allen? For that matter, why had he brought her to the hospital to begin with?
The second question was easier to answer. She’d looked so flattened by Adam’s revelation that Link couldn’t help himself. His parents’ training ran too deeply to be ignored, especially when he was here in Lancaster County.
It is our duty to help those who need it.
He could almost hear his father’s voice saying the words. They’d come in answer to his whining about the fact that they’d stopped to help an Amish couple whose buggy had been run off the road by a speeding car, making him late for a baseball game. He could still remember the mix of fear and pride he’d felt watching Dad lead the frightened horse out of the twisted buggy shafts.
Pride. He’d always been proud of Dad, even during that terrible time when everyone thought he’d committed suicide. Link’s chest tightened. Mostly he’d felt guilt then, that he hadn’t been around when Dad needed him.
Even when they learned Dad had been killed by an employee who’d been ripping off the company, he’d still felt that somehow he’d failed by not being here.
His father had taken responsibility for others as a matter of course, and Trey was just like him. As for Link… He’d never forget what happened when he’d tried to follow suit.
He forced his thoughts back to Marisa. If he didn’t talk to her about his uncle, she’d go to other people for her answers. He could imagine the talk that would generate, and there had been enough talk already.
So he’d answer her questions, drive her back to Springville and that would be an end to it. As for that sizzle of attraction when he’d gotten too close to her in the car…well, that was best ignored. He didn’t need anything else tangling him up with Marisa Angelo’s problems.
He tilted his head back, letting the slanting autumn sunlight touch his face. Gentle sunlight, a far cry from the blazing sun that dazzled the eye and made a man see things that weren’t there—
A shadow bisected the light, visible even with his eyes closed.
“Link? You look as if you’re going to sleep.”
He hadn’t seen Marisa approach, but she was there. She sat down on the bench, a careful foot away from him, which might mean that she’d felt exactly what he had in the car and was inclined to be just as cautious.
“That was fast,” he said.
“It’s an awfully simple process, given what’s riding on it.” Her eyes were shadowed for a moment, but then she focused on his face. “You haven’t changed your mind, have you?”
“Nope. Ask me anything you want about Uncle Allen. I’ll try to answer.”
She studied him, those golden brown eyes seeming to weigh the sincerity of his words. Or maybe his motives.
“What did your uncle do? For a living, I mean.”
“As little as possible,” he said, his tone wry. “He always said that my father inherited the family work ethic. Allen had a teaching degree, but I don’t think he ever taught.”
“He could afford to do nothing, in other words.” She sounded as if she didn’t approve.
Come to think of it, he wasn’t sure he did, either.
“Uncle Allen had a nominal title in the family corporation, and he made a token appearance at the office once in a while.”
“Corporation?” Her eyebrows lifted.
He shrugged. “That makes it sound more important than it is. Morgans have been here a long time. They acquired things—land, businesses, rental properties.”
“You help to run those?” She was probably trying to equate that with the manual labor she’d caught him doing.
“Trey’s in charge since Dad died. I was in the military by then, so I let him.” He’d taken as little responsibility as Allen had, in fact.
“I see.” She was frowning, as if trying to figure him out.
He’d do better to keep this on Allen, not on him self. “Anyway, Allen’s main interest was local history. He wrote some articles, did a little dealing in Pennsylvania Dutch folk art and furniture. Ostensibly that was his business, but he didn’t have a shop—just bought and sold out of his home.”
“He never married?”
“No. I suspect my mother tried to play matchmaker a few times, but nothing ever came of it. Allan was just…a loner, I guess. He never seemed to need anyone else’s company.”
She was silent, as if absorbing his impressions. Or maybe now that she had her opportunity, she didn’t know what to ask.
“You don’t remember my mother working for him?”
The question was the one he’d expected her to start with. “I don’t think so. I didn’t spend all that much time at Uncle Allen’s place.”
“So you don’t know if she was working there the summer she disappeared.” Her voice flattened on the last word.
He hesitated, but she had a right to know. “My mother says she’s relatively sure she was.”
“Relatively sure,” she repeated.
“There’s no reason my mother should remember. It wasn’t her house. Or her spouse. Your father—”
“Yes, I know. It’s another thing to ask Dad when he calls.” Her lips tightened. “I’m sure the police chief would find this very suspicious, but just because my father doesn’t like to talk about his wife leaving him, that doesn’t mean anything sinister.”
“I know.” He lifted his hand in a placating gesture. “I mean it. There are plenty of things adults don’t talk to kids about. Your questions about my uncle make me realize how little I really knew about him. It’s odd, but when you’re a kid, you just accept things as they are. Probably a lot of people never have reason to question those assumptions.”
She nodded. “You’re right. I simply accepted the fact that Dad didn’t talk about my mother, and that if I wanted to know something, I had to go to Gran.”
That brought up something he’d wondered about. “How did she know?”
Marisa blinked. “What do you mean?”
“She didn’t live with you until after your mother left, did she? So how did she know the things she told you?”
“I suppose my dad must have talked to her.” She frowned. “That’s true. She didn’t live with us. I remember her coming. It must have been a few days after…after I realized my mother was gone. But I suppose my dad talked to her about it. Why? Do you doubt what she said?”
He shrugged. “The idea that the Amish kept after Barbara, trying to get her to leave…well, that doesn’t sound right to me. That’
s not the way the Amish behave toward someone who’s decided to leave the church.”
That soft mouth of Marisa’s could look remarkably stubborn. “Are you an expert?”
“No, but I grew up with Amish neighbors. I think I know a bit more about them than you do.”
“Oh, yes. You’re the one who suggested enlisting the Miller family’s help.” Her tone was laced with sarcasm. “They admitted that they remembered my mother. But they wouldn’t tell me a thing. Just said I’d have to talk to the bishop.”
He had to be honest with himself, at least. He hadn’t expected that response.
“Well, maybe you should start with Bishop Amos. It’s possible that Rhoda and her husband felt it would be gossiping if they talked about the Zook family. I’m sure they didn’t mean anything else by it.”
“According to you, the Amish can do no wrong, it seems.”
“I didn’t say that.” She’d succeeded in getting under his skin. “I just think you’re misjudging them.”
“Really. Like the Amish man who was out in the yard last night—” Marisa clamped her lips shut, as if she hadn’t intended to say that.
He frowned. “What are you talking about? What Amish man?”
“Nothing. It doesn’t matter.” Her gaze evaded his.
“If you think someone is spying on you, it does matter. What happened?” He clasped her wrist firmly, determined to get an answer, and felt her pulse against his fingers.
She jerked her hand away. “I was awake sometime in the night. I looked out the window. A man was standing in the side yard. He seemed to be looking up at my window.”
There were a lot of things he could say to that, including the suggestion that she’d been dreaming. Or was paranoid.
“What makes you think he was Amish?” And are you sure someone was there?
“The hat. The beard. The dark clothes.” Color came up in her cheeks. “I know. You think I was dreaming or imagining things. I wasn’t.”
“Dreams can seem very real.” He ought to know. He’d dreamed that explosion in Afghanistan enough times, waking up covered in sweat, a cry strangled in his throat.
“I wasn’t dreaming.” She rose suddenly. “Forget it. Let’s get back.”
He stood, not sure what to say. “Maybe you ought to tell Adam about this.”
“So he can suggest I dreamt it, too?” She started toward the car.
He fell into step with her, still bothered. If Marisa was talking about something that really happened, that was troubling. And if she was imagining it, maybe that was even worse.
Marisa was wrong. She had to be. This figure in the night was a product of all the upsetting news she’d had to face in the past few days. The Amish people he knew just didn’t behave that way.
The Amish couple he’d seen earlier came out of the clinic door, their little boy skipping between them. They started toward the main walk. The man looked up, his gaze going from Link to Marisa. Then he took his wife’s arm, clasped his son’s hand and deliberately walked back the other way.
CHAPTER FIVE
MARISA FELT QUITE sure that if Link knew what she was doing, he would not approve. In fact, he’d probably try to stop her.
Still, Geneva Morgan was a grown woman, well able to decide for herself what she wanted to do. All it had taken was a thank-you phone call for the dinner, a little gentle steering of the conversation, and Geneva had suggested meeting her for coffee.
Geneva had wanted Marisa to come to the house, but she’d managed to avoid that. She didn’t want this conversation taking place where any of Geneva’s protective family was likely to interrupt.
They were getting together at a place called Emma’s Teashop at two. Marisa glanced at her watch. She was early, and she’d been walking down Springville’s main street as if she were in the city. She forced her pace to slow. People didn’t walk that way here. They didn’t avoid eye contact.
Except, of course, for that Amish couple at the hospital, who seemed to go far out of their way to avoid coming near her. Link had noticed that. She’d been sure he had, even though he hadn’t spoken of it.
There wasn’t really much to Springville—one main street that became a state road at the end of town and several side streets lined with shade trees and well-kept houses. A brick bank rubbed shoulders with a Victorian house whose decorative carving was freshly painted. The township library was housed in a two-story brick building whose historic plaque indicated it had been built in 1740 as the home of a wealthy merchant.
Straus’s Hardware seemed to be doing as much business as any establishment, and in addition to parking spaces for cars along the street, it had hitching rails for buggies along the alley. Three Amish buggies stood there at the moment, the horses seeming to wait patiently.
As she passed the front window, she could see several bearded men inside who were deep in conversation. One glanced at her, and she forced down the suspicion that they talked about her. That was paranoid.
Geneva had been right about the tea shop; it was virtually empty at this time of day. Even though she was early, Geneva herself was already seated at a small glass-topped table in the back of the room, shielded from view of the street by a white latticework screen. She waved, a silver bangle sliding on her arm, and Marisa went quickly to join her.
“This is a lovely place to chat.” Geneva smiled as warmly as if meeting Marisa was exactly what she’d most wanted to do with herself this afternoon. “I’ve ordered tea and sticky buns, because that’s Emma’s specialty, but if you’d rather have coffee…”
Marisa slipped into the chair across from her, hanging her bag from the back. “Not at all. That sounds lovely.” She’d have happily consumed whatever Geneva wanted to order for the chance to talk with her.
Geneva had been a contemporary of Allen Morgan—his sister-in-law—living in the same small area. She must surely know more about him than Link did. There had to be some fact, no matter how small, that would lead Marisa to understanding.
“You look tired, dear.” Geneva spoke as if Marisa were one of her children. “Link told me you had a bad night last night.”
She hadn’t expected that, and it took a moment to regroup. “He probably told you I have a too-vivid imagination.”
“Don’t mind him. Both my boys focus too much on what can be proved and not enough on intuition. Just because Link couldn’t imagine someone watching your room, that doesn’t mean it didn’t happen.” Geneva’s eyes sparkled at the thought, and her silver and turquoise earrings seemed to sparkle, too.
Marisa felt a momentary qualm. Geneva looked a little too enthusiastic, bright blue eyes snapping, cheeks rosy with excitement. All she wanted from the woman was information, not a partner.
“I could have been wrong, I guess. That’s part of being an illustrator—responding to everything in visual terms. Sometimes my imagination gives me images that aren’t real.”
Like the recurring image of her mother that haunted her dreams, walking away from her, disappearing into the dark woods where Marisa couldn’t reach her.
“Well, naturally. You’re an artist. I’m sure it must be fascinating to illustrate children’s books. Some of them are so beautiful that I can’t resist buying them even though I don’t have any children in the house any longer.”
Geneva wore such a wistful expression at the thought that Marisa found herself hoping Jessica and Trey planned to provide grandchildren for her. Geneva would throw herself into that role with enthusiasm.
“The books are lovely, aren’t they? I buy them, too, and then rationalize that I have to keep up with what’s happening in my—”
Marisa broke off as a woman came through what must be the door to the kitchen. Round and smiling, she carried an enormous tray laden with teapot and cups and a platter piled high with baked goods. She was also, to judge by her clothing, Amish.
“Ach, here we are.” The woman set the tray on the edge of the table and began to unload it. “I brought some apple kuchen fresh
from the oven, as well as the sticky buns. You’ll want a taste of that, for sure.”
Geneva smiled. “If we have a taste of everything, you’ll have to roll us out of here. Emma, this is a friend, Marisa Angelo. Marisa, Emma Weaver, best baker in the township.”
“Ach, I am not that.” Emma responded to Geneva warmly, but there was a reservation in her face as she glanced toward Marisa and as quickly looked away again.
So, Emma already knew who she was, obviously. And probably, like Rhoda Miller, she would be unwilling to talk.
“You will tell me if you need anything else.” She spoke to Geneva, turned and scuttled back to the kitchen.
Geneva looked after her, seeming perplexed at the woman’s rapid retreat.
“I’m afraid it’s me,” Marisa said, answering her expression. “That’s the effect I have on the local Amish. Nobody wants to talk to me.”
Geneva transferred her gaze to Marisa. “Are you sure? That seems odd.”
Marisa shrugged, pouring tea from the pot into her cup. “I tried to talk to Rhoda Miller, but her husband clearly didn’t want her to discuss my mother.” She seemed to hear again that rapid-fire patter of dialect that she couldn’t understand. “All they could say was that I should go to my mother’s cousins. Or to the bishop.”
“That’s the answer.” Geneva’s face cleared. “Bishop Amos is a dear man. He’ll know just what the problem is and how to deal with it. He’s so wise and kind.”
Maybe, like his parishioners, he’d want her to go away and stop asking questions. “I’m not sure that’s a good idea.”
“Of course it is. If you like, I’ll set up a meeting for you.”
She hesitated, but it was an obvious answer. She could search out the man on her own, using Rhoda Miller’s directions, but Geneva’s intercession might be the one thing that would ensure he talked with her.
“I’d be very grateful.”
“Not at all. It’s the least I can do.” Geneva paused for a moment, staring down at the tea she was stirring. The spoon made a delicate clinking noise, the only sound in the room. Finally she sighed.
