Not one breath of air came through the open windows or screen door.
Still. Dry. Unmoving.
Exactly like her life.
He’d left.
Not only the faith. And his friends. And his mother, Ada.
But her.
Three months ago. Some days she could feel beyond the blackness and laugh again. But now was not one of them, not after receiving a note from him in today’s mail. He hadn’t actually written to her as much as sent money along with a scribbled apology. His admission of regret only stirred hurt and anger. He wasn’t coming back. She wanted to burn the cash he’d sent. But how could she? She and his mother needed money. Badly.
The Amish community would help her and Ada if they knew of their plight. She and Ada had discussed telling their people, but now they couldn’t accept anyone’s hard-earned money since Mahlon had sent cash. She might not be able to make herself burn it, but she wouldn’t use it. And when she told Ada about the gift, Ada would agree that they couldn’t use it. They were on their own now. Truth was, in ways they’d not realized until after Mahlon left, they’d been on their own for a really long time.
She slid her hand inside her hidden pocket, feeling the envelope thick with twenties. Once again, Mahlon had made life harder for her and his mother.
Drawing a deep breath, she opened her eyes, grabbed the bowl of frosting, and scraped up the last dollop of it and dropped it onto the cake.
The kitchen door swung open, and Cara waltzed into the room, her Amish dress spattered with paint and much of her short hair coming loose from its stubby ponytail and sticking out around her prayer Kapp. The young woman carried the confidence of being happy and loved, making Deborah wonder if she’d ever feel that way again. Deborah’s brother Ephraim was thirty-two when he found love for the first time in his life. And even though he broke up with Deborah’s closest friend in order to pursue the Englischer girl, Deborah had grown to love Cara too.
Cara glanced through the screen door, and Deborah knew she was checking on her daughter. “You about done?” She grabbed an apple out of the refrigerator, walking and talking much like the Bronx-raised Englischer she was. Or rather was until recently.
Deborah motioned at the load of dishes in the sink. “No. You?”
“For the day, yes. Though I’ll never be done painting as long as the little elves keep building onto this old house each night while we sleep. Do you know how long it takes to paint the inside of a two-foot-wide, nine-foot-deep space? What did they do with a room like that in the eighteen hundreds? Show it to relatives as a guest bedroom? It’d keep down on guests, right?”
Cara’s nonsense made Deborah smile, and she longed to be free to enjoy her days again.
Cara took a bite of apple and sat on the countertop. “Is Ada out purchasing ingredients for tomorrow’s baking orders?”
“Ya.”
“If I help you finish up, will you go to Dry Lake with me?”
Wondering whether to tell Cara she’d received a note from Mahlon, Deborah continued smoothing the frosting over the cake.
Cara finished her apple and then tossed it across the room and into the trash can. “Hellooooo?” She dipped her finger into the bowl and scraped some frosting off the side.
“Hmm?”
Cara licked her finger, hopped off the counter, and fixed herself a glass of water. “You made two of those cakes?”
“Ya. It’s a new recipe, and I’m taking one by Select Bakery and one by Sweet Delights as a sample of a new item on our list.”
Cara moved next to Deborah and nudged her shoulder against Deborah’s. “It’s one of those really bad days, huh?”
Deborah’s eyes stung with tears, but she didn’t respond.
“I expect grief will come and go for a while, but any idea why you’re feeling smothered by it today?”
Deborah pulled the envelope from her pocket and held it up. “Mahlon,” she whispered.
Cara’s eyes grew large with concern. “Oh no.” Her words came out slowly. “Deborah, I … I’m sorry.” Cara pulled Deborah into a hug. The tone of Cara’s voice and the warmth of her understanding surrounded her like no one else’s could. Cara knew loss and imprisonment of circumstances a thousand times greater than Deborah did. Cara placed her hands on Deborah’s shoulders. “Do you want to share what he said?”
It seemed a little odd how careful Cara was being with her words. Then again, maybe she thought Mahlon wrote to say he was coming back so she was withholding what she’d like to call him. Deborah passed her the envelope.
Cara pulled out the note and cash. She ignored the money and read the message. “Dearest Deborah, I hope you are well. I’m so very, very sorry for the pain I’ve caused you and Mamm. Please allow me to ease my guilt by helping you financially. Mahlon.” Cara rolled her eyes, but she said nothing.
The note sounded just as detached as Mahlon had been in the weeks leading up to his disappearance. Hearing it aloud brought back so many memories, and Deborah felt stupid for not seeing the obvious until he humiliated her in front of everyone.
Cara replaced the money and note in the envelope. She again hugged Deborah and stayed there. The pain didn’t ease, but hope trickled in. “Patience, Deb,” Cara whispered. “Just keep muddling through. The pain always fades at some point.”
Deborah swallowed and tried to pull strength from somewhere inside her. She took a step back. “Denki.”
The back door swung open, and Lori ran inside with muddy hands and an even muddier dog. “Better Days!” Cara grabbed the dog by the collar. “Out.”
“Mom, you’ll hurt his feelings.”
“He’ll survive.” She shoved the dog outside and closed the screen door. “Although you may not. What have you been doing?”
“Mississippi mud cakes. Want to try one?”
Cara glanced apologetically to Deborah and shrugged. “It’s probably as good as the frosting Deborah just made.”
“Really, Mom?” Lori’s dark brown eyes reflected excitement.
“Afraid so.”
“What?” Deborah scraped frosting off the knife with her finger and tasted the fluffy stuff. “Oh, yuck!” She snatched the cake off the counter and slammed it into the trash can. “What on earth happened?” She grabbed the second cake stand and headed for the can.
Cara took hold of the sides of the stand. “What are you doing?”
“Tossing it out.”
“You’re going to let a perfectly gorgeous cake go to waste when we could use it to trick someone?”
As if rust had broken from Deborah’s face, she smiled freely and released the stand.
Cara set it on the counter. “I vote we give it to Ephraim.”
“Maybe. Did you know that my good friend Lena has long been considered the queen of pranks?”
“The schoolteacher in Dry Lake?”
Deborah nodded. “Remember the van wreck Ephraim told you about? The one our mother died in?”
“Yeah.”
“Lena’s mother was killed too, and Ada’s husband, and seven others from the community, including your Daadi—your grandfather. It was awful for months. Anyway, Lena—who was about eleven by then, I think—had been looking for some way to make people smile again, especially her Daed. While in Philadelphia with an aunt, she found a plastic thing that looked just like a little pat of butter at a gag store. Her Daed never ate his biscuit or peas until the butter he’d put on them had melted. According to Lena, she put two hot buttered biscuits on his plate. He opened a biscuit and saw the little pat of butter, closed it, and waited for it to melt. Between getting other foods, sipping on his drink, and chatting, he checked the biscuit several times over the next five or six minutes. Finally he poked the butter, asking why it hadn’t melted. When he touched it and realized it was plastic, he broke into an uproar of laughter. She said he laughed until tears rolled down his cheeks. There’s been no stopping her since … except she hasn’t pulled anything on me since Mahlon left.”
&nbs
p; “Then Lena it is.”
“She hasn’t been stumped or tricked in years. I’m not sure she’ll fall for it.”
“She might this time. It won’t be expected.” Cara dusted flour from Deborah’s black apron. “An unspoken truce was called the day Mahlon left. She wouldn’t dream of you pulling this on purpose. If we handle it right and slice a piece for her while we visit, she’ll probably eat nearly a whole slice, just to be nice.”
“You know, I fear for my brother sometimes.” Deborah giggled, feeling sadness loosen its death grip.
Cara’s laughter came from a spring of contentment within her, and Deborah enjoyed a refreshing sip. Cara wasn’t even close to being someone Deborah would have chosen for her brother. She’d been raised as an Englischer in foster care and often struggled to accept the Plain ways. She behaved like a sharp-tongued heathen sometimes without even realizing it, but as odd as it seemed, Ephraim respected her deeply. The longer Deborah knew her, the more she understood why her brother had finally fallen in love.
Deborah smoothed Cara’s hair back and tried to pin the short strands where they’d stay under the prayer Kapp. It was no use.
Cara tucked a strand behind her ear. “Since no one’s pulled a prank since Jerk Face left, I say it’s time to end the truce.”
“Mom, Ephraim won’t like that you’re calling names. Who’s Jerk Face, anyway?”
“It doesn’t matter.” Cara turned to Deborah. “Does it?”
Deborah took a cleansing breath. “No, it … he doesn’t.”
They both knew it wasn’t true. Not yet. Maybe not ever.
Cara mocked a frown. “What’d you do wrong to make that frosting taste so bad?”
“I don’t know. Is the cake itself just as bad?”
They moved to the tossed-out cake. Cara jabbed a fork in the very center of it, where it hadn’t touched any part of the trash can. She took a tiny nibble and shuddered. “It’s both frosting and cake.”
“So what’d I do?”
Cara made a face. “Salt.”
“Too much salt?” Deborah glanced to her work station. “How did I manage that?”
Cara shrugged.
Trying to recall what she’d done, Deborah went to the canisters and opened the one that said sugar. If she’d been paying any attention, she’d have realized that it held salt. Lori had filled them for her earlier today, but when? How many items had she made using salt instead of sugar?
“Lori,” Deborah spoke softly, “when did you refill these canisters?”
“Today.”
“No, honey, I mean when today?”
Cara put her finger into the canister and then licked it. “Yep, that’s salt.”
Lori shrugged. “Did I do something wrong?”
Cara placed her hand on Lori’s head. “Nothing that another lesson with Ada about being a good kitchen helper won’t fix. Besides, seven-year-olds are supposed to make cute mistakes. It’s part of your job description. Did you fill the canisters before or after school?”
“After. I did it when Deborah left to get the mail.”
Deborah sighed. “And then Deborah read her note and sank onto the porch steps in a state of depression before eventually making her way back into the kitchen in a complete cloud of confusion.”
“And she began talking about herself in third person too.” Cara winked at her. “Lori, honey, why don’t you go upstairs and get cleaned up while Deborah and I tackle this kitchen mess and start making a quick supper? Ada will be back soon, and then we’ll eat.”
Lori headed out of the kitchen, and soon the sound of her tromping up the steps echoed through the quiet home.
Deborah grabbed a few dirty utensils off the cabinet and tossed them into the sink. “Ingredients in the wrong canister or not, I should have recognized the difference between salt and sugar.”
“It’s not a big deal, Deb.”
She rinsed her hands and dried them. “Ya, it is. Money’s even tighter than you know. Ada doesn’t want to talk about it, but she’s making deliveries to all three bakeries because we can’t afford to hire a driver. Hitching and unhitching the horse and wagon, along with her making the deliveries every day, cuts into our baking time, so our workday is getting longer and longer, but we’ve got fewer goods to sell.”
“I thought the bakeries paid for the courier.”
“They did … sort of. I mean they were taking money out of our profit to pay for them, so Ada’s getting that money, and we’re making the deliveries ourselves. Lately she has to wait until we make a few bucks off what we sold in order to buy supplies for the next round of baking.”
“So”—Cara shrugged—“Jerk Face sent you money today. Use it.”
“I’ll starve first.” Deborah couldn’t believe her own tone as she spoke—or the determination she felt.
“Your brother wouldn’t like that plan.”
“You cannot tell Ephraim.” She motioned to the six-foot stainless steel commercial oven. “He’s already done too much for us. This place was unlivable until he gave so generously.”
“I … I didn’t realize he was the one …”
“Well he was. A few others pitched in a little, but in this economy there are too many in our community who are hurting. I can’t ask them for help when Mahlon sent us money. Ada and I will have to succeed … or fail … on our own.”
Three
Lena climbed the wooden steps of her home and walked inside. Quietness greeted her. As she set her grading book and student papers on the table, a nearby mirror caught her eye. She moved to the wall hatrack with the oval mirror and looked at herself. Tears stung as she studied the bluish-purple stain that began halfway down her right cheek and continued down the side of her neck. She placed her hand over her birthmark. The width of her fingers all pressed together covered it with a little room to spare.
Was the birthmark all people saw?
Vivid memories of overhearing her brother’s friends saying they felt sorry for her added to the hurt. In her teen years and before she joined the faith, she’d tried covering up the stain with different shades of concealer and foundation makeup. She’d never found one that could cover the blotch, only ones that streaked or made it look orange rather than blue. She wondered if Peter had seen how deeply he’d cut her today or if her well-rehearsed poker face hid the truth like she hoped.
The back door opened. “Lena, you home?” her Daed called out.
Studying herself, she removed her hand and angled her head a little one way and then the other. “Ya.”
She could tell by his footsteps that he’d headed straight for the mud sink near the back door.
The sound of water coming on and his scrubbing up barely registered as she traced the mark. Thoughts of her mother came to her. She’d died a long time ago, but the memory of standing in the flower garden, crying in her Mamm’s arms, played out in front of her. Lena hadn’t been more than nine years old, and some of the boys at school had taunted her about her looks. They’d said she’d die an Alt Maedel—an old maid. Even now Lena could feel the warmth of her mother’s love as she’d placed a rose in Lena’s hand. When the time is right, you’ll be drawn to the right man. And he’ll be drawn to you. He’ll see beyond the mark, and he’ll love you deeper and higher than most men are capable of. I promise you that.
It wasn’t like Lena wanted just any man, but oh how she dreamed of finding a good man, of having sons and daughters fill their home. The love stored inside her longed for him to show up. But not one man had even looked her way. How would she find the right one if none gave her a chance? She wanted to be under the wisdom and strength and leadership of a good husband, just like her people believed was right. She believed it too, but had God marked her for a different life yet not removed her desire for a husband?
Upstairs, hidden inside her hope chest, she had a very old but still well-loved list of her favorite children’s names. The idea of never having a family of her own scared her.
“You didn’t com
e out to the shop to see me when you got home.” Her Daed came into the room, drying his face on a guest towel. He scrubbed the towel over his mostly brown beard with a few gray hairs peeping through. It didn’t matter that he’d been widowed for thirteen years; once married, a man grew a beard and kept it the rest of his life. “At least greet your poor dog. She is begging for a little attention.” He pointed at Nicky, who had managed to come into the room without her noticing. Nicky watched Lena’s every move while her whole body wriggled in hopes of being petted.
She patted Nicky’s head. Her dog stood and slowly turned in circles as if chasing her tail, making it easy for Lena to stroke her from head to tail without moving her hand.
Daed dried his hands. “I was hoping for a fresh cup of coffee between now and dinner.”
Lena tried to shake the sickening feeling in the pit of her stomach. “Sure thing, Daed. Do you need a little something else to hold you until dinner is ready?”
“Nope, just a cup of coffee with you.” He tossed her the dishtowel. “Then I need to get back to the shop before and again after dinner. The owners of Bissett’s would like the kitchen table and chairs done by tomorrow if possible.” He paused. “You look a little pale. You feeling okay?”
“Ya.” She wouldn’t tell him, or anyone else, what weighed heavy on her. He and others would try to assure her she was beautiful and the mark wasn’t all that noticeable. Why bother? She wouldn’t feel any better by people saying things they felt obligated to say.
Suddenly ready for time in her flower garden, she tossed the towel back at him. “I have things I’d like to do tonight too, as well as things I must do, so I’ll get dinner started now.”
With the harness in one hand and a cube of sugar in the other, Cara eased toward Rosie, talking to her as she drew closer. But Rosie kept moving just out of reach. This reminded her of trying to catch a cab in New York on a Saturday night. She could see them, but they wouldn’t stop for her. She knew so little about horses. Maybe the old girl didn’t want to work on such a beautiful fall day. Cara sang softly while holding out her palm. Finally Rosie grew more interested in getting the sugar than in avoiding Cara. A moment after the horse’s soft lips grasped the sugar from Cara’s palm, she slid the rope harness on her.
The Bridge of Peace Page 2
