by Marta Perry
“The bidding goes pretty fast,” he said, pulling into the space the boy indicated. “If you don’t want to own a butter churn or a snow shovel, don’t wave to your friends.”
“Since I don’t know very many people here, that shouldn’t be an issue.” She slid out, joining his mother. “Except you and the Millers and Bishop Amos, of course. He stopped by to see me yesterday.”
“You didn’t tell me that.” The words sounded as if he expected her to confide in him, and he could have bitten his tongue.
“I haven’t seen much of you,” Marisa said.
True enough. He’d managed to find a reason not to be at the house yesterday morning when she’d continued the search in the book room. Given what happened when they were alone, that seemed safer.
“Was Bishop Amos able to help?” Mom touched Marisa’s arm lightly.
“He said he’d introduce me to a few people today who might remember my mother. Unfortunately, my mother’s cousin, William Zook, doesn’t want to meet me.”
He thought she was trying not to sound bitter and not entirely succeeding. He’d say something encouraging, but he couldn’t come up with anything.
“You must be disappointed.” Mom’s voice was warm with sympathy. “I’m afraid they were hurt when she left that way. They’d have felt responsible, too, since she was their guest.”
“I’d think they could have gotten over that by now.” Marisa slung the strap of her bag over her shoulder. He spotted the ever-present sketch pad peeping out of it.
“Family disagreements can be the most painful and long-lasting.” His mother seemed to be gazing into the past. “I suppose William might feel it better not to open it up again.”
“I suppose.” Marisa didn’t look especially satisfied with that, but she didn’t say anything more as they joined the crowd moving toward the fire hall and the tents and stands that were set up around it.
His mother slipped her arm through his as they crossed the rough ground at the edge of the field, and he wondered if he was supposed to be helping her or the other way around. Nothing would convince Mom that he didn’t need babying.
“Oh, Link, did you tell Marisa about meeting with Tom Sylvester tomorrow afternoon?”
“Sylvester?” Marisa echoed the name.
“The person in charge of the construction project on Allen’s house when your mother…” Mom let that trail off.
“Not yet.” Actually, he’d been wondering if he could avoid telling her so he could talk to the man alone.
Judging by Marisa’s expression, she knew exactly what was in his mind. “That’s good. I’ve been hoping we’d be able to talk to him soon.” There was a faint underline on the word we.
“I’m not sure how much he’ll be able to tell us, but he says he has some old job notes in a file at home. He promised to look through them before then.”
“Good.” She clamped her lips shut, as if to hold back something she’d rather have said. She glanced up, and he saw her face turn pale.
“Preston Connelly.” Mom didn’t sound especially welcoming at the sight of the district attorney. She’d had a grudge against the man since he’d prosecuted Thomas Esch.
“Geneva, how nice to see you.” Connelly, florid and hearty, either didn’t notice or chose to ignore the lack of welcome in her face. “And Link.” He shook hands. “Glad to see you back safe and sound.”
Link muttered something noncommittal. Marisa’s tension was strong enough to feel even though they weren’t touching.
“And Ms. Angelo.” Was it Link’s imagination, or did Connelly’s gaze sharpen when it rested on Marisa? “I take it you haven’t heard anything from your father yet?”
“No.” Marisa’s lips moved just enough to let out the one word.
So that was Connelly’s interest in her. She didn’t like it, obviously, but it was only natural, wasn’t it? Why hadn’t her father been in touch yet? For Marisa’s sake, he had to hope there was some logical explanation.
“Too bad.” Connelly’s words sounded speculative. The way his gaze lingered on her face seemed an invitation to her to say more.
But she didn’t. She just stood, a meaningless smile on her face, like a rabbit freezing into immobility at the sight of a hawk’s shadow.
“It was nice to see you, Preston.” His mother’s social sense came to the rescue. “We must get on to the auction, or the pieces I’m interested in will be gone.”
“Yes, of course.” Connelly nodded politely and walked away, greeting another one of his constituents with a practiced air.
“Jessica says he was only doing his job.” His mother sounded disbelieving. “But I still haven’t forgiven him for the things he said about Thomas.”
“He’s up for reelection in November,” he reminded her. “He can’t afford to offend the electorate.”
“That doesn’t give him an excuse…” Mom’s voice trailed off as she spotted one of her friends. “There’s Edna Pollard. I really have to talk to her about helping with the fall rummage sale at the church.”
His mother scurried off before her victim could escape, and he caught Marisa’s arm before she could follow.
“Don’t let Connelly upset you.”
“I’m not upset about him.” Her level gaze met his. “Let’s talk about the construction boss.”
He might have known she’d seize on that. “Look, I intended to tell you about talking with Tom.”
“You mean you intended to do so after the fact.”
His jaw tightened. “I thought he might be more forthcoming without you there.”
“Did you? Or are you trying to control what I find out?”
They’d been plunged into the middle of a quarrel in the worst possible place. The trouble was that he couldn’t entirely deny her accusation.
“Do you blame me? When this is over, you’re going to go back to Baltimore with whatever answers you have. But my mother, my brother…they’ll go on living here. I don’t want them to end up dealing with a lot of talk over something that’s not their fault.”
“I’m not out to cause trouble or start rumors.” Her face had paled, but her determination didn’t falter. “I’m after the truth, plain and simple. And I won’t be satisfied with less.”
She turned and walked away, leaving him standing there wondering how much of Spring Township had just overheard her.
SHE SHOULDN’T HAVE let Link’s response get to her. Marisa paused, not sure where she was going, except away from him. Geneva seemed deep in conversation with several other women, so she moved to the nearest booth, staring blankly at a display of crocheted pot holders.
Link’s first loyalty was to his family. She couldn’t let herself forget that, no matter how she felt about him.
She’d been looking too long at the pot holders…the Amish woman behind the counter would be expecting her to buy. Marisa smiled at her and moved on.
The firehouse itself was an uncompromising cement-block rectangle, the bay doors open to reveal two fire trucks. Next to the building a huge white canopy stretched over folding chairs. The patter of an auctioneer, amplified by a loudspeaker, floated out. Obviously the auction had begun.
People, many in Amish dress, wandered through the rows of items spread out across the field next to the tent. They must be picking out the objects they wanted to bid on. She noticed a couple of men jotting down information in notebooks. Dealers, maybe, out for a good buy that they could resell.
Booths of various sizes, shapes and construction circled the auction tent…everything from a commercial-type trailer selling cotton candy to a card table with yet more pot holders, sheltered from the sun by a beach umbrella whose bright stripes were a startling contrast to the dark dresses of the women fingering the pot holders.
She moved toward the next booth. An eddy in the crowds whirled around her, and she found she was in the midst of a throng of Amish. For a second their dark clothing seemed vaguely menacing on such a bright day, and she was carried along with th
em, all talking in a language she couldn’t understand.
About her? Some sidelong glimpses made her wonder if that might be true.
She stopped, letting them flow past her. Two men stopped by the next booth…heads together, glancing at her as they carried on a low-voiced conversation. She recognized one of them. It was Ezra Weis. He spoke, vehemently it seemed, to the other man. They both turned to stare at her, their faces bleak.
She might be imagining some things, but she didn’t imagine that. She turned away. If she could just find Geneva… She’d even settle for Link right now. At least she understood his occasional antagonism.
Instead, Bishop Amos’s smiling face bobbed up from the crowd.
“Marisa, I have been looking for you. I saw Link and Geneva, so I knew you must be here someplace.”
“I was checking out some of the stands.” She didn’t glance back toward Ezra and the other man. Were they still watching? If so, they’d see her on good terms with their bishop.
“Ach, today we have anything you could want. And probably much that you don’t.” He chuckled. “But here is someone I want you to meet.” He gestured to a nearby stand stocked with dozens of jars of jam and preserves, their colors sparkling like gems in the sunshine, and led her to the counter. “This is Doris Yost. Doris, here is Barbara Zook’s daughter, Marisa, come back after all this time.”
“Wie bist du heit.” The woman nodded, a smile creasing her broad cheeks. “You have a look of Barbara about you, ain’t so?”
“Ach, that is what I said, too.” Bishop Amos’s eyes twinkled. “Doris and your mamm were girls together once, Marisa. I will leave you two to talk for now.”
He moved away, his attention claimed almost immediately by a cluster of small children chattering in Pennsylvania Dutch.
“The kinder all love Bishop Amos,” Doris said, watching him fondly.
Marisa could see why. Kindliness radiated from his face. “So, you knew my mother?”
“Ach, for sure. We were running-around friends when she came to visit the Zooks…me and Barbara and Barbara’s cousin, Elizabeth. I lived next door to the Zooks back then.”
“I’m so glad you’re willing to talk with me.”
“Ja, for sure.” Doris’s face sobered a bit. “I hear tell that William Zook doesn’t want his cousin mentioned, but that is foolishness, it is. Barbara has been gone a long time.” A shadow of sorrow crossed her eyes.
“You think my mother is dead, don’t you?” The question was out before she realized that probably wasn’t the best way to start.
Concern set wrinkles between her brows. “I suppose…well, ja, I do. I’m sorry. Maybe I shouldn’t say that to you.”
“I’d rather hear the truth.” She would, wouldn’t she? “Bishop Amos said the same. I don’t understand, though. My father, the police—they don’t seem convinced of that. I was always told that my mother ran away.”
Doris was already shaking her head. “That I don’t believe. Even if she had reason to go away, Barbara would not leave you behind.”
Those were the words she’d always longed to hear. But could she believe them?
“If she went back to her family in Indiana…”
“No, that she did not. If she had, we would have heard.” Doris sounded sure. And looking at her plain, sincere face, it was impossible to believe she would lie about it.
She could still be wrong, of course. Barbara might have gone somewhere else.
Without her suitcase? The voice of reason would not be silent.
Marisa took a breath, trying to steady herself. This was her opportunity to find out more about her mother. She couldn’t let it slip away.
“Will you tell me about her? What she was like? I don’t remember her very well.”
Doris clasped her hand where it lay on the countertop. “Ach, for sure. She was like sunshine, Barbara was. Always lively and happy. She loved coming here to visit, especially that last summer. She and Ezra Weis were courting.” She paused. “You maybe knew that?”
“Yes. Bishop Amos told me. And I’ve talked to Mr. Weis.” Unsuccessfully. An image of that futile conversation in the middle of the night came back to her.
“Well, to tell the truth, I always thought she was too lively for Ezra.” Doris looked reminiscently back through the years, a small smile playing about her lips. “Maybe that’s why she loved to come here. From what she said about her folks back in Indiana, they were pretty conservative.”
It took a stretch to imagine anyone more conservative than the Amish she’d met. “I see.”
Doris chuckled. “No, you are thinking that I’m a fine one to talk about someone else being conservative, but it’s true, all the same. Some Amish are much stricter than others. Here, she could go to singings with our gang, or even to Englisch parties if she wanted, so long as her aunt and uncle didn’t know about it. And William, he was ripe for any mischief.”
Now William was so strict that he wouldn’t even talk to her. The two things didn’t seem to fit together.
“Is that how my mother met my father? Going to an Englisch party?” She repeated the woman’s expression, wondering if that meant a beer bash, thrown by the local teenagers.
“She didn’t tell me about your daadi. If she had, maybe I’d have talked her out of seeing him. So maybe that’s why she didn’t tell me.” Doris shrugged. “No sense in thinking about what didn’t happen, and I can’t tell you about your mamm and daad because I never knew about them being together, not until it was too late and she’d left the church.”
“Did you see her afterward? I mean, they settled right in Springville.”
“Once in a while I’d see her. We’d speak. I remember seeing her pushing you in a buggy. She stopped, and we had a chat, comparing babies, you know. She was so proud of you.”
Marisa wanted to hang on to the image of her mother showing off her baby.
“Did she seem happy with the decision she’d made?”
Doris hesitated. “Happy? Well, she had regrets about her parents. They were so strict, like I said. She said she wrote to them, to tell them about you, but they never answered.”
That rejection must have been an arrow in her heart. “I don’t see how they could do that to their own daughter.”
Doris shook her head. “It’s hard to explain. The bann is meant to show a person that he or she is wrong. Turn them back to the church. If that doesn’t happen…well, most folks adjust after a while. They can still stay close to relatives who left. Maybe her parents would have come around in time.”
But time was one thing her mother hadn’t had. “What about her cousins? Did they adjust?”
Doris frowned. “I’m not so sure I can answer that. Elizabeth married, and she went to live over toward Paradise, so she wasn’t here, but I seem to remember she and Barbara wrote. As for William…” She shrugged. “William keeps his own counsel. And Barbara never mentioned him to me, the times we talked.” Doris glanced over her shoulder. “Ach, we were just speaking of you. Marisa, here is your cousin, Elizabeth Yoder. Elizabeth Zook, she was, before she married.”
The woman who stood smiling at her looked so like Marisa’s memory of her mother that for a moment her heart seemed to stop. Elizabeth Yoder’s light brown hair was pulled smoothly back under her kapp, of course, so it was impossible to tell if it had the slight curl her mother’s hair had had. But she had the same golden brown eyes, the same pointed chin that Marisa remembered.
“You look so much like my mother.” She’d been staring, she realized.
“People always did say we looked more like sisters than cousins.” Elizabeth’s smile showed a dimple at the corner of her mouth. She had to be in her mid-forties, but her skin was as clear and unlined as a girl’s. “Ach, we loved being together.” A shadow touched her eyes, and she reached out impulsively to take Marisa’s hand. “I am so sorry I didn’t get to see you grow up.”
Marisa nodded, her throat tight. Here at least was someone who mourned for Barbara a
nd was glad to see Barbara’s daughter.
“I’d love to talk to you about my mother. Maybe not here…”
“No, not here.” She spoke quickly. “This is not the place or time.” She pushed a paper into Marisa’s hand. “That is my address. It’s not hard to find. Come any day next week.”
Marisa nodded, a little perplexed by the urgency in her voice. “I’ll come. Thank you.”
“I must go—”
Someone spoke suddenly behind her, a quick, harsh rattle of Pennsylvania Dutch.
Doris, with the air of someone hoping to keep the peace, touched Marisa’s arm. “Marisa, here is your cousin, William Zook. William, this is your cousin, Marisa.”
Marisa swung around. Somehow she wasn’t surprised that her mother’s cousin was the man she’d seen talking to Ezra Weis.
He didn’t acknowledge Doris and didn’t seem to notice when his sister slipped away with a regretful glance at Marisa. Instead he stared at Marisa, his face a stern mask above his dark beard.
She managed a smile that she hoped didn’t look as false as it felt. “I’m pleased to meet you. I was hoping to talk to you about my mother.”
“No.” The word was flat, harsh with some emotion she couldn’t identify.
Doris made a faint murmur of dismay. “William, you can’t—
“I have only one thing to say to you.” He swept on as if he hadn’t heard Doris. “You must go. Go home. You can do no good here. Listen to me. Leave Springville now or you will be sorry.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
IF MARISA HAD DRIVEN herself, she would have gone straight back to the inn after that encounter with her cousin, but that just showed what a coward she was, she’d decided. As it was, she had to endure several more hours of the auction, smiling and nodding to all the people Geneva wanted her to meet, until finally, the trunk loaded with her purchases, Geneva had been ready to go home.
Turning down a dinner invitation on the grounds that she had work to do, Marisa had made it back to her new room at last. A shower helped to wipe away the remaining unpleasantness that had lingered throughout the day.
