The Middlefield Family Collection

by Kathleen Fuller

  Clara nodded. “I am.”

  “Then it’s settled.” Grossmammi smiled. “I think your grossvadder would be happy with the decision.”

  “I just wish we hadn’t sold all of his tools,” Clara said.

  “We didn’t,” Peter said.

  “What?”

  “I saved a few things.” He glanced at Clara. “There were some items I didn’t want to part with. I thought we could hand them down to the buwe.”

  “You didn’t tell me,” Clara murmured.

  “I didn’t want to upset you. You were so set on raising money to build the fabric store. I didn’t want you to think I wasn’t helping.”

  She pressed her lips together before she spoke, her voice soft.

  “I’m glad Junior and Melvin will have something from him.”

  A short while later, Clara and Peter prepared to leave. Emma stepped out on the porch with Clara while Peter went to the buggy.

  “What made you change your mind?” Emma asked her sister.

  Clara shivered. Her thin legs were covered with black stockings, but they seemed to offer her little protection from the evening chill. “I realized that I was only thinking about money.

  Not about what you really wanted.”

  “But I know you were worried about me and Grossmammi surviving after Mammi’s death. I understood.”

  Clara snuggled deeper into her jacket. “It wasn’t just that. I was mad at Peter for not having a job. I worried too much about paying the bills. But we always had enough. God never let us geh without.” She swallowed. “Peter didn’t deserve the way I treated him.”

  “He loves you, Clara.”

  “I am lucky to have him.” The horse whinnied. “I don’t want to keep him waiting.”

  “All right. See you at church, then.”

  “Ya. We’ll be there.”

  Emma watched them drive away. She smiled. After years of strife, she and her sister were finally on solid ground.

  Reluctantly, Laura put on her Sunday dress and adjusted her prayer kapp. She had finally agreed to go to church, not because she longed to worship, but to get the public humiliation out of the way. She couldn’t hide forever. Might as well get it over with. Yet how could she face these people with her skin marked by scars?

  She rode with Adam, Emma, and Leona. The three of them talked almost continuously. Laura kept her mouth shut.

  With each roll of the buggy’s wheels, the knot in her stomach hardened. Her skin itched. She longed to scratch the scar on her chin. Instead, she pulled the sides of her black bonnet forward, obscuring her face as much as she could.

  “Everything all right?”

  She turned and looked at Leona. Nodded. “Ya.”

  “Gut.” Leona smiled but didn’t say anything else. Laura was gaining an appreciation for the old woman, who seemed to know exactly what and how much to say.

  They arrived at the home of Aaron and Elisabeth Detweiler.

  Instead of having church in the barn, the way they usually did at home, Emma led Laura to the Detweilers’ spacious basement. She pointed out a few people, explaining who was related to whom.

  “I’m sure you won’t remember all this,” Emma said as they sat down on a wooden bench. “But eventually you’ll learn who everyone is.”

  Laura remained silent. She didn’t plan to be here that long.

  During the three-hour service, her thoughts ran rampant.

  She clenched her teeth so hard that pain sliced her jaw, and tension squeezed her shoulders like a vise. The preacher spoke about forgiveness. The word burned her ears.

  When the service was over, the entire group of worshippers made their way upstairs for fellowship and the communal meal.

  Laura stood apart from the rest of the crowd as they milled about in the large living room and spilled over into the kitchen and dining areas. A long table filled with food stood against the wall. Cold cut platters, bowls of potato and macaroni salad, pickles, cookies, and plenty of fresh sliced bread and homemade butter. People were already lining up to eat.

  Laura stayed put, her desire for fellowship as nonexistent as her appetite. Several kids walked past her. By the girls’ black kapps she knew they were under twelve years old. She couldn’t blame them for their curiosity, or their revulsion. Still, she squirmed beneath their attempts to get a look at her scars without staring at her.

  “I’m glad to see you at church today.”

  Laura turned to see a red-haired woman close to her own age. “Have we met?”

  “Nee. Not yet, anyway. But we’re meeting now.”

  Laura frowned. The woman had a sweet voice and lovely blue eyes. But what she said made little sense.

  She giggled as if she’d read Laura’s uncharitable thoughts but wasn’t bothered by them. “I’m Katherine Yoder.” She held out her hand. “I was hoping I would see you today.”

  Laura paused before giving Katherine’s hand a quick shake.

  “Laura Stutzman.”

  “I know. You have a pretty accent. I’ve never heard anyone talk so slowly before.”

  “I didn’t realize I was.”

  “I have something for you,” Katherine said, holding up one finger. “Can you wait a minute? It’s in mei buggy. I’ll geh get it.”

  She disappeared.

  Confused, Laura remained in the corner of the room and watched as people around her talked, laughed, and ate. Everyone seemed relaxed and friendly.

  Middlefield was different from her small district back home. Everything in Etheridge was stricter. Outsiders weren’t particularly welcomed, as Mark had discovered when he first arrived. Still, it hadn’t taken long for his charm and lies to win everyone over, including her parents. Now the district would be even more closed than before.

  She caught a glimpse of Adam and Emma on the opposite side of the room. He stood close to Emma, claiming her as his, deep in conversation. Laura had known that heady feeling of love, even if it was illusory and short-lived. But after her experience with Mark, she doubted she would ever trust any man enough to fall in love again.

  Katherine reappeared at her side. “Here it is.”

  She held out a folded quilt. The colors were stunning: teals, golds, rusty oranges, arranged in long rectangles. It reminded Laura of fall. Of warmth. “Is this for me?”

  “Ya. It’s a prayer quilt. When I heard what happened to you and Adam, I started this quilt. With each stitch, I said a prayer.”

  Laura ran her hand across the fabric. She swallowed. “But why would you do such a thing? You don’t know me.”

  “You needed prayer, ya? That’s reason enough. I hope you like it.”

  “I do. It’s beautiful.”

  “It’s only a lap quilt. I wanted to get it to you before you went back to Tennessee.”

  “I don’t plan on leaving y’all just yet.”

  Katherine let out a little giggle. “Lea-vin’ ya’ll just yet. See?

  That’s so cute.” Her smile widened, revealing two dimpled cheeks. “It’s gut you’re not going right away. Then we can get to know each other better.”

  Laura shrank from the offer. She couldn’t afford friendships. Yet she wouldn’t be rude either. “Danki.”

  Katherine nodded. “I hope the prayers are working.”

  She was saved from answering by Emma’s arrival. “Adam has to get back home.” Her gaze went to the quilt. “Katherine, did you make this?”

  “Ya.”

  “It’s so schee. You have such a talent.”

  Katherine’s cheeks turned pink. “It’s something I like to do.”

  Emma smiled, then turned to Laura. “Are you ready to geh?”

  Laura nodded. She looked at Katherine. “Thank you. This is a wonderful gift.”

  “Enjoy it.”

  As she climbed into the back of the buggy with Leona, Laura clung to the quilt. She marveled at Katherine’s generosity, to make something so lovely for a person she didn’t even know.

  So many stitches.


  So many prayers . . .

  Not that they would make any difference. All the prayers in the world couldn’t change what had happened.

  She fingered the quilt, and her mind drifted back to the service. All the preacher’s fine words about God’s plan concerning forgiveness.

  Forgiveness was the Amish way, no matter what the offense.

  She was expected to forgive. Required to forgive.

  But how could she ever forgive Mark King? He had taken everything from her—her trust, her heart, her parents’ life savings. The life she had known. All gone.

  And he got away with it.

  “God’s justice is not our own,” the preacher had said.

  That was clear enough. God was nowhere to be found when Mark King robbed her. When he permanently scarred her. Where was the justice in that? God allowed it to happen and let Mark get away unscathed.

  And she was supposed to accept and forgive?

  When they arrived home, she went upstairs to her bedroom.

  She laid the quilt on the bed, running her hand over the soft fabric again. But if the prayers Katherine said while she stitched the quilt were supposed to calm her, they didn’t. She felt more agitated than ever.

  She walked to the window and looked outside. She couldn’t spend her life like this, isolating herself from everyone. Yet she couldn’t go back to Tennessee. Not yet.

  What she needed was money, and God wouldn’t drop dollars out of the sky. She had to get a job. Working was the only way she could earn back the money Mark stole.

  She ran her hand over her chin and felt the scar. Who would hire her looking like this?

  Laura turned and looked at the quilt again. “I have to finish what I came here to do,” she whispered. She wouldn’t let her scars hinder her. She would find work. And once she had enough to pay back everyone she owed—her parents, Leona, and Emma—then she would search for Mark. And she would have her revenge.

  Because revenge was all she had left.

  CHAPTER 4

  “Did you enjoy your supper, Señora Easely?”

  “Yes, Manuela. Thank you.” Cora dabbed at the corner of her lips with a fine linen napkin. She had ordered cordon bleu from her favorite restaurant, a five-star establishment with a waiting list months long. Cora had the chef’s personal cell number on her speed dial.

  But she had little appetite. Manuela cleared Cora’s full plate and left the dining room.

  Cora took a sip of her wine and looked at the nine empty chairs around the glossy, rectangular dining room table. She’d purchased the antique set years ago, anticipating family dinners and parties and holiday feasts. Little did she know that she would be the only one to use it.

  She picked up her glass of white wine and went to the living room. Six months of this new décor, and she was already sick of it.

  It looked like a cross between Out of Africa and a Moroccan marketplace. She made a mental note to hire another designer next week.

  Her kitten-heeled slippers sank into the rust-colored carpet as she stood at the huge window overlooking New York City.

  She’d lived her entire life here. From the penthouse view she could see the tops of apartment buildings, the maze of alleyways and streets that ran vertically and horizontally between the buildings, the masses of people who seemed little bigger than ants scurrying to their destinations. During the day, the noise and activity energized and inspired her.

  But at night the loneliness returned.

  She perched on the edge of the zebra-striped club chair and clicked on the fireplace remote. Flames appeared behind the clear glass. Her diamond bracelet jiggled on her thin wrist, the stones sparkling in the firelight. Normally she was mesmerized by the refracting colors. Tonight she was too restless to care.

  Manuela appeared in the doorway. “Do you need anything else, Señora Easely?”

  Cora looked up at her live-in maid. “Would you like to play a game of cards?”

  Manuela’s eyes widened. Cora had never asked her to play cards or to interact on any personal level. She firmly believed in professional distance between an employer and the help. Yet tonight the lonely ache spurred her to cross that line.

  “I—I would like to, señora. But you said I could have tonight off.” Manuela folded her hands against the crisp white apron of her uniform. “Mi nieto—my grandson. His school play is tonight.”

  “Oh yes. I remember.” Cora waved her hand. “Of course you may go. Have a good evening.”

  “Gracias.” Manuela hurried away.

  Cora stared at the fireplace and took another sip of wine. She thought about inviting someone over. But as she mentally went through her contact list, she realized anyone worth spending the evening with already had plans. Some were attending the theater.

  One had a gala she was sponsoring. Cora had been invited but wasn’t interested in going. Maybe she should have. But it would be in poor taste to show up after she’d sent in her RSVP.

  “I’m leaving, señora,” Manuela called from the foyer. “Do you need anything before I go?”

  “I said I didn’t.” Her tone was sharper than she’d intended.

  She didn’t apologize.

  Cora drank the last gulp of wine as the latch on the front door closed. She looked at her empty glass. She hated drinking alone.

  Tonight, however, she didn’t seem to have much of a choice.

  Her emerald ring clinked against the crystal glass. On her way to the kitchen, she passed by the maid’s room. Manuela had left the door open.

  Cora stopped. She rarely gave a second thought to Manuela’s living quarters, but tonight curiosity—and boredom—drew her inside.

  The room was neat and sparse. Just as Cora expected—and demanded. She couldn’t abide untidiness. A crucifix hung on one wall. A colorful wool blanket lay at the end of the bed. But those weren’t the two items that captured her attention. Cora stepped toward Manuela’s small dresser. The top of it was covered with framed pictures.

  Manuela and her late husband, Juan. A cheap studio portrait of the couple and their four kids, taken more than a decade ago.

  Photos of young children—Manuela’s granddaughters and grandsons. All smiling. All happy.

  Next to one of the picture frames lay a crayon drawing, a bright rainbow arched over the childishly lettered words: Happy Birthday, Abuela. She opened the crude card.

  I love you, Grandma.

  Cora closed the card and replaced it on the dresser, careful not to disturb anything.

  Maybe she’d have that drink after all.

  Cora poured another glass of wine and went back into the living room. Thousands of dollars worth of expensive furniture, knick-knacks, and original paintings filled the vast space.

  But not a single family photo. No child’s artwork to post on her state-of-the-art refrigerator. No handmade cards tucked away in a scrapbook.

  She went back to the kitchen and dumped the glass of wine down the sink. The bottle of Valium in her medicine cabinet beckoned. One pill and she wouldn’t be lonely. She wouldn’t remember the past, what it had felt like years ago, when she had a family of her own.

  Two days later, Cora sat in her living room, staring at the news clipping in her hand. She looked up at the private investigator and crossed one slender leg over the other, ignoring the sharp twinge of arthritis in her hip.

  “Are you sure this is authentic, and not another ruse?”

  Detective Peters nodded. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Easley. The obituary is valid.”

  Cora’s hand shook. She placed it on top of her leg and clutched her kneecap. The expensive linen pants wrinkled beneath her grip. “Thank you for your diligence.” She glanced at the antique silver tea service Manuela had brought out. The burly detective had refused his cup. She didn’t dare touch hers.

  “My accountant will send you a check. With a bonus.”

  He cleared his throat. “That won’t be necessary, ma’am.

  Just doing my job.” He paused. “I’m s
orry for your loss.”

  “I expected it, after not hearing from her for all these years.” The lie twisted inside her. When the detective arrived a few minutes ago, she’d hoped he’d have some good news.

  Instead, he brought a new nightmare, one printed on smeared, gray newspaper.

  She looked at the obituary again. Her only daughter, and the man Cora had never approved of. Both dead. And she couldn’t do anything about it.

  Cora Easley, one of the richest women in the country, a woman who held the elite of New York society in the palm of her hand, was at this moment completely powerless. For the first time in over two decades, all her wealth, authority, and influence could do nothing to alter her circumstances.

  The pain of loss drove its spike into her. Then she gathered herself and did what she’d always done when emotions threatened to consume her: she ignored them, lifted her chin, and stood. She looked at the detective, and when she spoke, her tone was cool as the autumn wind. “I’ll have Manuela show you out.”

  But the detective made no move to leave. “Ma’am that’s not all the news I have for you.”

  “And what else might there be?”

  He fingered his mustache. “There was a child. A son.”

  Cora held in a gasp. Kerry had a son? She had a grandson? “Are you sure?”

  “Yes, ma’am. Once I found out where your daughter lived, I did a little more digging.”

  “Where is he? What’s his name?” She turned away. “I have to bring him back home as soon as possible.”

  “That might be difficult, ma’am. When no relative came forward, he was placed in foster care in Ohio.”

  She spun around. “How could I come forward when I didn’t even know he existed?” Anger rose inside her, but she tamped it down. “I’m coming forward now. I will claim my grandson and bring him back here. Where he should have been all along.”

  The detective tilted his head. The look of sympathy he gave her felt like a slap in her face. “Like I said, that could be difficult. He’s not a child. He’s twenty-one years old, and from all accounts well settled in Ohio.”

  He would be more settled in New York. She would see to it.