“Can I offer you a ride?” He pulled back on the reins and came to a complete halt, as did the small-framed woman. When she turned, he was met by radiant green eyes in a delicate face. Delicate, that is, until she grimaced and blew a tendril of hair out of her face.
Then she smiled, and her face transformed, lighting up like the morning sun. He was momentarily struck dumb.
It didn’t matter. The woman was focused on his horse. Deserting her suitcase on the side of the road, she stumbled over to Pete and reached out to stroke his nose without so much as a “May I?” Thankfully, Pete was a gentle giant.
“He’s beautiful,” she said, glancing briefly in Samuel’s direction, eyes sparkling.
He cleared his throat. “Ya. And a fine work horse too.”
What an interesting woman this was. Unafraid. And beautiful, he had to admit. He watched as her long brown hair danced in the wind, framing her face in layers. She wore no makeup and seemed lacking in the traditional Englisch look, although her brightly colored blouse and calf-length breeches certainly gave her away. A tourist, most likely. But a tourist walking alone down Blackhorse Road?
The woman’s mouth curved upward in delight as she cooed over Pete. The horse gently snorted, nudged her, and she laughed heartily, her head thrown back. It was a thoroughly enchanting scene.
Suddenly uncomfortable at his thoughts, he straightened and coughed. It was enough to bring the woman’s attention back to him.
“I would love a ride!” With a final kiss on the old horse’s muzzle, she went back for her suitcase. “Where should I put this?”
“Ach, my manners.” Samuel jumped out of the buggy and made his way to the woman. “Let me.” He took the suitcase from her, quite surprised at how heavy the small bundle was. After stowing it behind the double seat, he offered his hand to assist her into the buggy.
“Thank you.” Now she was studying him . . . seemingly from head to toe. At her open glance, he felt a flush tint his cheeks.
“I’m Samuel Stoltzfus,” he said, extending his hand but avoiding her questioning eyes.
“I’m Lillian Miller.”
Her hands were certainly that of an Englisch woman, soft and void of a hard day’s work. The Plain women in Lancaster County tilled gardens, shelled peas, kneaded bread, and a host of other necessary chores uncommon to Englisch women from the city. City women’s hands were not only smooth and manicured, but pleasing to the touch.
Returning to his seat, he started up the buggy again. The woman was obviously tired and happy to be resting; with a slight groan she stretched her legs out. He found his eyes wandering her way and silently remonstrated himself.
“Where are you from, Lillian? Or, more important, where are you going?”
“I’m from Houston.”
“Ya, Texas,” he said, slightly surprised. They didn’t usually get Texans walking the roads out here. “Lots of farms in Texas. What brings you to Lancaster County, Pennsylvania?”
“I’m coming to stay with my grandparents for a while.” She smiled. “They’re Amish.”
Amish? He was once more at a loss for words. Not to worry— the Englisch woman wasn’t.
“Actually, I guess I’m Amish too,” she added.
Discreetly glancing at her Englisch clothes, he wondered how that could be so.
“My grandparents are Irma Rose and Jonas Miller. I’ll be staying with them for a while.” She looked his way as if waiting for a response that never came. “I’d like to adapt myself to the Amish ways. I need a peaceful, calm lifestyle away from the city. Anyway, I’ve decided to be Amish for a while.”
Samuel had been trying to connect this vivacious outsider with the staunch Irma Rose and Jonas he knew, but these words jostled him out of his musings. “You’d like to be Amish for a while?”
“Yes. Although I don’t plan to wear one of those dark-colored dresses or white caps like the women I saw strolling by earlier.”
In spite of himself, Samuel chuckled. “Do you even know what being Amish means?” He didn’t mean the remark as harshly as it sounded.
Lillian slanted her eyes in his direction, as if slightly offended.
Unexpectedly, the buggy wheel hit a rut. With an oomph, his new friend bounced in her seat. She was a tiny little thing. Luckily, she didn’t catapult right off the seat and onto the pavement.
“Yikes!” she said when her behind returned to the seat. And then she giggled. As Pete’s ears swiveled back to catch the commotion, Samuel couldn’t help but grin. The woman’s enthusiasm was contagious.
He decided to drop the subject. He knew Irma Rose and Jonas well enough to figure they’d set her right about being Amish and what it really meant. Samuel reckoned they’d have their hands full with their granddaughter.
As Samuel righted the buggy, he asked, “When is the last time you saw your grandparents?” He hadn’t even known Irma Rose and Jonas had a granddaughter.
“When I was ten. Seventeen years ago. It was the first time I saw snow. Real snow.” Her eyes twinkled from the memory. “Anyway, I know things will be different from what I’m used to. But I can live without television. There’s too much bad news on TV anyway. And I know Amish women cook a lot. I’m a great cook.” She shrugged. “I’m a hard worker in general. I know Amish get up early and go to bed early. I know they work hard during the day. And if that’s what it takes to feel peaceful and calm . . . I’m in!”
Samuel found her enthusiasm charming, no matter how misdirected it was. “Lillian, I’m sure Irma Rose and Jonas will appreciate you helping with household duties, but it will take more than chores and giving up worldly things to provide you with the peacefulness you’re lookin’ for.”
“Well, it’s a start,” she said, sounding optimistic.
As for that . . . who was he to argue?
Lillian remembered the Christmas visit with her grandparents at their farm, especially the snow. Unlike the icy mix of sludge found rarely in her hometown state, snow in Lancaster County glistened with a tranquil purity. Almost two decades later, she could still recall the towering cedar trees blanketed in white and ice skating on the crystalline pond in her mother’s old ice skates.
There were few presents. She remembered that. And while she recollected her grandparents as warm and loving, she also remembered the tension between them and her mother. Her grandfather had kept the mood festive, suggested the ice-skating, and seemed to make it his mission for Lillian to have a good time—even carting her to town and back in his gray, horse-drawn buggy. It had been the highlight of her trip.
“I remember liking the way my grandparents talked,” she recalled to Samuel. “I didn’t understand a lot of things they said. Things like ‘Outen the lights until sunrise when we’ll redd-up the house.’ And ‘It wonders me if it will make wet tomorrow.’ Mom translated those to mean ‘Turn out the lights until in the morning when we’ll clean up the house’ and ‘I wonder if it will rain tomorrow.’ ”
“That would be right,” Samuel said.
Grandma and Grandpa both spoke another language she’d later found out was Pennsylvania Deitsch. Lots of times they would comingle their language with English. “Danki, Sarah Jane, for bringing our little kinskind for a visit,” her grandfather told her mother that Christmas. To which Sarah Jane Miller forced a smile and nodded.
“Grandma, why are you and Grandpa wearing those costumes? ” Lillian recalled asking her grandparents.
Grandpa had just laughed and said, “It is our faith, my kinskind. We wear these plain clothes to encourage humility and separation from the world.”
At ten, Lillian had little understanding of what that signified. Except somewhere in the translation she knew it meant they couldn’t have a television or a phone. Several times after their one and only trip, Lillian had asked her mother if she could call her grandparents. Mom reminded her that Grandpa and Grandma did not allow phones at their house.
“Evidently, my grandparents came to Houston a couple of times before our visit
at Christmas, but I don’t remember,” she told Samuel. “That Christmas was my last trip to Lancaster County and the last time I saw my grandparents. Until now.”
“I reckon Irma Rose and Jonas are really looking forward to seeing you.”
“I hope so.”
Lillian tried to keep her gaze focused on the road in front of her. But her eyes kept involuntarily trailing to her left. Samuel Stoltzfus was as handsome a man as she had ever seen in the city. His plain clothes did little to mask his solid build and appealing smile each time she glanced in his direction. But it was his piercing blue eyes Lillian couldn’t seem to draw away from.
“So, how long have you been married?” Nosy, nosy. The astonished look on his face confirmed her worry. She was crossing the line. “I’m sorry. I just noticed that you have the customary beard following marriage.” She’d done her research before arriving here. “And . . . I was just . . . curious.” And curious why? He’s Amish, for heaven’s sake.
“I’m not married. I’m widowed.”
“Oh,” she said softly, thinking how young his wife must have been when she died. “ I’m so sorry. When did your wife die?”
“Mei fraa, Rachel, passed almost two years ago,” he answered without looking her way.
“Again, I’m so sorry.”
Samuel continued to stare at the road ahead. “It was God’s will.”
There was no sadness or regret in his tone. Just fact. Lillian knew she should leave it alone, but . . . “I’m sure you miss her very much.”
He didn’t glance her way. “There’s Irma Rose and Jonas’s farm,” he said, pointing to their right. “I better take you right up to the house.” He coaxed Pete down a long dirt drive leading from the road to the white farmhouse.
“Oh, you don’t have to do that. I can walk.” She wondered if Samuel Stoltzfus was ready to be rid of her.
His eyebrows edged upward beneath his dark bangs and he glanced at her shoeless foot.
Point taken. “A ride to the house would be great.”
As Pete trotted down the dirt driveway toward the farmhouse, reality sank in. This would be her new home for the summer—or however long it took to accomplish her goal. At first glance, everything seemed lovely. Neatly mowed, prodigious fields were on either side of the lane, and the white fencing in good repair. But unlike the farms she passed on the way, there were no signs of new life planted. It wasn’t until they drew closer to the farmhouse that she spotted a small garden off to her left enclosed by a wire-mesh fence. Parallel rows of greenery indicated vegetables would be forthcoming.
There was a large barn off to her left, the paint weathered and chipping. Another smaller barn to her right also was in need of a fresh paint job. She recalled the barns they had passed on her journey down Black Horse Road. Most were a bright crimson color.
The white farmhouse appeared freshly painted, but with flowerbeds absent of flowers or shrubs. They must have been beautiful at one time. But now they—and the rest of the yard— lent an air of neglect to the farm.
A wraparound porch with two rockers looked inviting. But while the idea of curling up with a good book in one of the rockers was appealing, Lillian knew it was the inside of the house and its inhabitants she feared most. Her grandma had seemed pleasant enough on the phone, but what if she and her grandfather were too set in their ways to make room for her? And what if she couldn’t adjust to their ways? No electricity meant no hair dryer, curling iron, or other modern conveniences she considered necessities. How would she charge her cell phone? And she couldn’t imagine a summer without air conditioning.
Grimacing as the thoughts rattled around her head, she reminded herself why she’d come. She’d had a month to consider all of these factors. She thought she had. But as her fantasy of leaving everything behind for this became absolute, her tummy twirled with uncertainty.
She was still attempting to envision her new way of life when Samuel brought Pete up next to a gray buggy parked on one side of the house. Samuel moved quickly to get her suitcase from behind the seat and extended his hand to help her out of the buggy. Towering over her, he promptly released her fingers.
“Thank you for the ride. Maybe I will see you again.” She could only hope. But his lack of response as he quickly jumped back in the carriage left her wondering.
Lillian waved good-bye and watched until horse, buggy, and man were back on the paved road. She knew she was stalling. Her grandparents would be strangers to her, and she would be a stranger to them. Yet they had encouraged her to come and stay with them. “For as long as you like,” her grandmother had said.
Striving to cast her worries aside, she turned around, picked up her suitcase, and headed up the walk toward what would be her new home . . . for a while.
2
“THE BOPPLI IS HERE!” JONAS EXCLAIMED. HE CLOSED THE window blinds and staggered to the door to welcome their granddaughter.
“She’s hardly a baby, Jonas. She’s a grown woman.” Despite her confident tone, Irma Rose fiddled with her apron strings as she followed her husband.
“Irma Rose, there’s no need to look so naerfich. I reckon things will be just fine. The Good Lord will see to it.” Jonas winked at her as he reached for the doorknob.
“I can’t help but be nervous, Jonas. We don’t know this girl,” she whispered.
Jonas flung the door open and walked onto the front porch. Irma Rose followed her husband and noticed immediately that the young woman before them looked nervous as well. But, as was his way, Jonas plowed through the tension by making a joke.
“Irma Rose, this poor girl must have walked here all the way from Houston, Texas,” he teased, his eyes narrowing in on his granddaughter’s shoeless foot. “First thing to do is get her some proper walking shoes.”
Irma Rose shook her head at Jonas as she scooted past him and toward the stranger in her front yard. Jonas didn’t move. Hunched over, he kept his hands on his hips and continued studying the girl’s feet with a wide smile.
“Welcome, Lilly,” Irma Rose said. She embraced her granddaughter for the first time in seventeen years.
“Lillian,” the young woman said as she awkwardly returned the hug. “I go by Lillian now.”
“Oh, I’m sorry. We called you Lilly when you were young and assumed . . .”
“It’s okay. I just grew out of ‘Lilly.’ ”
“Well, Lillian—” Irma Rose began. Jonas interrupted her.
“I like Lilly. I am going to call you Lilly,” he said firmly, with a boyish grin still plastered from ear to ear.
“Now, Jonas, if she prefers to be called Lillian . . . ”
“No. I like Lilly better,” her husband insisted. “Now, Lilly, let’s get you into the house. We’ve got warm brownies and lemonade ready for you.”
“Jonas!” Irma Rose tried to intercede. She often wondered if her husband’s various medications had caused his already strong personality to escalate over the past few months. Sometimes he seemed to swing whatever way the wind was blowing and other days . . . Well, it was either his way or nobody’s way. Today was clearly the latter.
“Brownies and lemonade sound great,” Lillian said. She shot Irma Rose a soft look, assuring her Jonas’s persistent ways didn’t offend her.
Irma Rose watched Jonas struggle to tote the bright-red suitcase up the porch steps. She knew better than to assist him. His determined look left no question that he wanted to appear as much a man as he had ever been to his granddaughter. Irma Rose knew he’d pay for it later.
“Whatcha got in this thing . . . bricks?” he asked as he maneuvered through the front door ahead of the women.
Irma Rose studied the suitcase with curiosity.
“Mostly books,” Lillian said, grabbing the suitcase from Jonas. “I like to read. I was an English teacher for several years . . . until recently.”
Irma Rose considered asking Lillian what “until recently” meant, but stopped short, sensing regret in her granddaughter’s tone. Perhaps Lilli
an had been fired from her job and had nowhere else to go. Or some other such embarrassing situation.
Lillian took in her surroundings and was pleasantly surprised. Not remembering much from her last visit, she’d built up an image in her mind. But the room was not as sparse as she’d envisioned. Dark-green blinds that were drawn halfway up covered the windows, and the whitewash walls were bare. But lovely furniture was placed throughout the room, including two high-back rockers with blue cushions, an oak sideboard and matching hutch, and a shelf that held four lanterns. Intertwined between the lanterns was a leafy ivy plant that was draped across the length of the shelf. There was even a worn brown recliner in the corner. No television, of course. The aroma of freshly baked goods lent even more warmth to the room.
Following her grandparents into the kitchen, she noticed the same dark-green blinds covering the windows. Unlike the den, there was definitely a focal point in this room: the wood-burning stove nestled against the far wall, the keeper of the fabulous smells permeating throughout the house. This room was more of a step back in time.
“Welcome to our home, Lilly,” her grandfather said, beaming. She couldn’t help but smile at his gleeful energy. Her grandmother was another story. Irma Rose seemed guarded and hesitant. Even her hug felt strained. Lillian knew she herself was partly to blame for the tension.
“Thank you for having me.” She glanced at the pan of brownies atop the stove. Normally, she would shy away from such caloric luxuries, especially since she’d already blown it for the day with the big cinnamon roll she wolfed down earlier. But her grandmother offered her the biggest brownie in the pan. She accepted, deciding the walk had evened out the caloric playing field again.
“Lillian, Jonas and I already ate supper. We eat at four-thirty. But I saved you some chicken and mashed potatoes.”
Plain Perfect & Quaker Summer 2 in 1 Page 2
