Mim kept her head down. Did Bethany think those concerns hadn’t crossed her mind? They did! But Mrs. Miracle had a life of her own.
Bethany waited another long moment, then let out an exasperated snort. “Fine. I’ve got enough problems of my own.” She spun around and walked down the hallway.
As Mim reread the letter, she could hardly breathe. The editor said he had an offer to syndicate the Mrs. Miracle column. Was she interested? Because he was. Call me! he wrote, underlining it twice.
First, she had no idea what syndication meant. Secondly, whatever it was, she didn’t want it.
She pulled the dictionary off her desk and looked up the word:
syndication | ˌsin-də-ˈkā-shən | noun • publish or broadcast (material) simultaneously in a number of newspapers, television stations, etc.: his reports were syndicated to 200 other papers.
Oh, boy. Mim threw herself on her bed, headfirst.
Geena Spencer had once been a guest at Eagle Hill and liked Stoney Ridge so much she ended up moving here. She became the housemother to the Group Home for wayward girls, and Bethany couldn’t get over the changes there—a person would hardly even recognize it anymore. If a house had a personality, the Group Home used to look sad, neglected, lonely. Now it was smiling, laughing, buzzing with activity.
The very first thing Geena had done as housemother was to get rid of the television. The previous housemother let the television stay on all day and all night. As soon as it had been given away, the wayward girls made noises about being bored and boom! That was the moment Geena implemented change number two: each girl would be required to work or volunteer ten hours a week in addition to attending school. But they had so much time, Geena pointed out as they howled and complained about the new rule, why not use it for good? So they did, and it did do good. Mostly . . . for the wayward girls.
On a rainy afternoon in early April, Geena stopped by Eagle Hill and Bethany invited her in for tea and fresh hot scones with a drizzled maple glaze. They had developed a comfortable friendship. By the time the two women came into the kitchen, Luke and Sammy were reaching for second and third helpings of the scones cooling on the countertop. Luke’s and Sammy’s appetites were a kind of natural calamity. Bethany had watched it with amazement for years and yet it still surprised her how much those boys could eat. Not only did they eat a lot, but they ate it fast. They were appalling.
It was always peaceful when Geena came for a visit; even restless Luke didn’t need to be jumping up and moving about. He would hang around just to hear her stories about the wayward girls. They especially loved to hear about a tough cookie named Rusty who had blossomed like a summer rose at the Group Home. An aunt had emerged out of nowhere and asked Rusty to come live with her; things were going well, Geena said. A success story. Of course Luke and Sammy lapped up Geena’s stories about her work with the Group Home. The boys hadn’t been much of anywhere outside of Stoney Ridge, so it was all romance to them.
“Tell me something you learned at school today,” Geena said to Luke as she took a third scone. Mid-bite, her eyes flickered to Bethany, who was staring at her. “Sorry,” she said with her mouth full. She pushed the basket toward her. “I had a small breakfast.”
Bethany had never seen a woman with an appetite like Geena’s. It was impressive for someone who was barely five feet tall and hardly tipped the scales at one hundred pounds, soaking wet. She fit right in with Luke and Sammy.
Luke cut a grin at his brother. “We learned that Sammy thinks the moon was made of real cheese.”
“It’s a mistake anyone could make,” Sammy said, scowling at Luke.
Luke got a devilish look on his face as he turned to Geena. “I just so happened to see you and that SEC lawyer driving through town last weekend.”
“His name is Allen Turner,” Bethany said, eyes on Geena to see her reaction.
Geena stirred sugar into her tea and held her peace. She never corrected anyone or told anyone he was being childish or immature, but often people seemed to realize it themselves. Not Luke, though. He asked her if she was sweet on Allen Turner, and Geena only sipped her tea, pretending he hadn’t asked.
Soon, Bethany had enough of Luke. “You boys go outside so I can visit with Geena.”
Sammy was no problem and quickly went his own way. He didn’t want to hang around to hear their secrets. Luke needed to be asked twice, as usual.
As soon as the boys were out of hearing, Bethany fixed her gaze on Geena. “Is that true? Did you go on a date with Allen Turner?”
Geena waved that away. “We’re old friends. You know that.” She added another spoonful of sugar to her tea and stirred it, a little nervously, Bethany observed. “I came by to let you know we’re going to set a date to turn the soil for the community garden beds.”
Last summer, Bethany and Geena started the community garden as a way to help the down-and-outers in Stoney Ridge. The Group Home worked a plot, and so did other families who were on government aid. The produce from the gardens helped supplement family groceries. It had been hugely successful; this summer there was a waiting list for the plots.
“Oh,” Bethany said, but her mind was elsewhere, nowhere near the community gardens.
“You’ll help, won’t you?” Geena said, between bites of her fourth scone.
Bethany leaned forward. “Geena, I need your advice. What do you do when a person keeps avoiding something because he is overwhelmed by obstacles?”
“Deal with each obstacle, one by one.”
One by one. Of course! Why hadn’t she thought about that with Jimmy Fisher?
“So, I can count on your help?” Geena said, finishing off her sugary tea.
“Mmm-hmm,” Bethany murmured, concocting a plan to knock down Jimmy’s biggest obstacle to getting married.
The day suited Mim’s mood—wet and cheerless. Earlier today, just after dawn, she was milking Molly only to have the dumb cow shift her big hip and knock Mim right off the milking stool, tipping over the full pail of fresh warm milk. Barn cats, who had been watching the milking from a safe distance, sprang on the spilled milk as if they had conspired with Molly for a free breakfast. When did milking Molly become Mim’s job, anyhow?
She plodded along the road to the schoolhouse through the sodden countryside, alone, because her brothers had overslept and she refused to wait for them and risk being late. She made her way carefully around mud and puddles and drowned worms. Even the birds weren’t singing this morning.
As Mim approached the schoolhouse, she felt a strange sense that something wasn’t right. The schoolhouse was shrouded in mist, cloaked in an oppressive doom. And it was silent. None of the students were outside on the playground, which wasn’t at all typical; even rain couldn’t keep boys inside when they could be outside.
Something had happened.
Could she have mixed up days again? Was it Saturday? She had done that very thing once, at their old school in York County, and Luke still teased her about it.
But then she saw the backs of a few students huddled together at the open door. She walked up the steps of the schoolhouse and stopped abruptly as she crossed the threshold, expecting something horrific. A dead body, perhaps, or a sinkhole in the center of the schoolhouse that was swallowing it in one bite.
It was nothing like that.
The students’ desks and the teacher’s desk had been reversed. Everything was in the same spot but facing the opposite direction, a mirror image. Danny stood in the center of the room, a baffled look on his face.
No one had any idea how it had happened.
Early one morning, while Brooke was still in her pajamas, she heard a knock and opened the door to find Mim Schrock with an empty laundry basket in her arms.
“Today’s the day we wash sheets.”
Mim always had a slightly anxious look, Brooke thought, as she stepped away to let her pass. She enjoyed Mim and tried to detain her with conversation each time she brought breakfast to her. Some might think Mim was
dull because she was quiet and watchful, but Brooke could see there was more going on in her mind than she let others know. And it couldn’t be a bed of roses living with the gloomy Vera Schrock, who probably hadn’t cracked a smile in eons.
Mim headed straight to the bedroom. As she stripped the sheets off the bed, Brooke followed her in and asked, “What would you say, Mim, to a woman who is searching for a new identity? To find herself.”
Mim straightened, blinked, pushed her glasses back on the bridge of her nose. “I’ve actually given this question a great deal of thought lately. What I’ve decided is that wherever she goes, there she’ll be.” She pulled the pillowcases off the pillows, one after the other, and bundled the sheets together. “We only have one set of sheets for your bed, so Mom will put them back on later today.” She hurried out the door like there was a fire.
Brooke spent the rest of the morning pondering the comment made by fourteen-year-old Mim. “Wherever she goes, there she’ll be.” There was some truth in those words.
That afternoon, during her “planned spontaneity time,” she drove to town to walk around Main Street. She passed the Stoney Ridge Wild Bird Rescue Center and saw a young man inside with a big bird on his gloved arm. Brooke stopped and watched him for a while through the large picture-glass window. If she wasn’t mistaken, he was talking to the bird. She had never liked birds, so she moved along. In the air was the scent of bread baking and her tummy rumbled. She couldn’t stop thinking about a certain pastry she’d had for breakfast at Eagle Hill yesterday morning. She noticed the Sweet Tooth Bakery and crossed the street.
Inside the bakery, everything looked so delicious in the glass case that Brooke couldn’t decide what to pick out. “I’m staying at the Inn at Eagle Hill,” she told the clerk, “and the innkeeper made blueberry lemon squares. They were—” Brooke’s eyes went to the ceiling—“just amazing! Any chance you have any?”
“No.” The clerk seemed greatly annoyed that Brooke would mention anyone else’s baking while in her store. She glanced impatiently at the line that was forming behind Brooke.
What to get, what to get . . .
“Try the cinnamon roll,” a man behind her in line whispered. “They’re out of this world.”
Brooke took his advice, bought a coffee to go along with the cinnamon roll, and sat down. She took a bite of the cinnamon roll and froze. It was . . . heavenly. Sweet, flaky, just the right amount of cinnamon.
“Was I right?” The customer who made the suggestion stood by her table.
Brooke swallowed down the bite, nodding, trying not to choke. “So right.” He was possibly the most handsome man she’d ever seen. His dark blue eyes had the kind of lashes women envy, fair curly hair around his ears, his features had flawless symmetry and beauty. He was dazzling, startlingly attractive. Hard to tell how old he was—but she guessed he was in his late twenties.
He smiled at her, she smiled back, and she pointed to the empty chair. “Please, sit down.”
His name was Jon Hoeffner, he said, a scholar, and he was taking a sabbatical from the university to do some research in Lancaster on family ancestry.
“Interesting,” Brooke said. “I’d love to hear more.” Mostly, she’d love to hear more of anything from this gorgeous creature.
“And what about you?” Jon asked. “Did I happen to hear you tell the bakery clerk that you’re staying at the Inn at Eagle Hill?”
Brooke nodded. “Do you know it?”
“I’ve heard good things about it.” He took a sip of his coffee. “So, when you’re not vacationing at a quaint Amish inn, what do you do?”
“I am a professional art restorer.”
Mid-sip, Jon froze. Then he set the coffee cup down and leaned forward, fascinated. “Tell me more,” he said, his smile wide and generous. “Tell me everything.”
If it weren’t for the fact that they were sitting in a bakery in a tiny Amish town, Brooke would have thought he was flirting, being suggestive. “Ask me whatever you want and I’ll answer whatever I want,” she said in exactly the same tone, and their eyes met.
7
Rose reminded the family of Tobe’s mid-April birthday and even organized separate birthday cards from Sammy, Luke, and Mim so that they could each sign them.
This year, Luke was indignant. “Why should I? Tobe never bothers to remember my birthday.”
Rose covered Luke’s hand with hers, marveling at how big it had become this year. He was inching toward thirteen, an unsettled age. “That was last year. I think Tobe will remember this year. He wants to be part of the family again.”
“I’m too old to be sending silly cards to him.” Luke snatched back his hand. “It’s not like he’s my real brother, anyway. He’s only my half brother.”
Rose felt a flash of anger and gave him a sharp look. “Then why don’t you just explain to me what is ‘real’? Was it real that winter when Tobe fished you out of the pond you went skating on without checking first to be sure it was frozen over? Was it real when Tobe carried you home from school because you’d broken your arm after falling out of the tree? Tobe is your real brother and Bethany is your real sister and I won’t hear another word out of you on that subject. Is that clear?” She held a pen out to him.
He signed his name on the card and slunk away.
Luke’s defiant nature wore her out. She feared there would always be a part of him that was drawn to risk, ignoring obvious dangers and warnings. He, more than the other children, was most like his father. So like Dean.
Today she had received a letter from Teacher Danny about Luke’s bold behavior at school—just like the ones she used to receive from Teacher M.K. last year, on a regular basis. She thought he had turned a corner when Will Stoltz moved to town and took him under his wing at the Wild Bird Rescue Center. Luke’s fiery temper was less likely to flare up at small things, his passion for birds motivated him to read and study. But Will had less time for Luke after he found his girlfriend, Jackie. Then Jesse Stoltzfus moved in across the street. Two years behind him in school, Luke admired Jesse’s brash ways and tried to act and sound like him. He had no patience for Sammy anymore. Too much of a baby, he would tell him, when Sammy tried to follow the boys around.
Luke had slipped backward on his bumpy road to maturity.
Sammy picked up the pen after Luke had dropped it and studied the card before solemnly signing it, using his newly acquired third-grade cursive handwriting. He bit the tip of his tongue as he wrote.
Rose looked at Sammy affectionately. He was still a little boy, full of wonder. Everything fascinated him. A speckled bird’s egg. A rainbow sparkling in the sun. He had made a pet out of a raccoon once, and Dean let him keep it for a spell before setting it free.
Sammy was such a funny little thing, quirky and serious but never a moment’s trouble to her. Unlike Luke, who was a source of constant mischief and friction. Luke would argue that a blackbird was white.
“I did it!” he exclaimed jubilantly, smiling up at her. He handed the pen to Mim, who had to stop and think carefully what she wanted to say before she signed the card.
Mim was so timid, so unsure of herself. She had inherited her grandmother’s pessimism, Rose thought regretfully. She seemed to expect the worst from every situation. Well, perhaps it was better than having expected great things and having got so little, the way Dean had viewed the world.
Mim was losing the baby roundness to her face and turning into a young woman. It was funny how you could look at a person every day and not notice how she was changing until something startled you into seeing her with fresh eyes.
Such a gift God had given Rose when these children were born. The ups and downs, the joys and sorrows—motherhood made her life full and rich, to the point of overflowing.
Rose sealed the envelope and put a stamp on the corner. She hurried to put it in the mailbox before the postman came by. As she closed the lid to the mailbox, she watched a car slow and turn into the driveway. As the car sputtered to a st
op, she walked toward it, assuming the driver was lost. Out of the car bounced a young woman, tiny and delicate, with hair the color of spice cake, and a belly bulging with pregnancy. She wore a tight T-shirt with an arrow pointing down toward her abdomen, the words Under Construction printed across her chest.
Rose slowed her steps. The young woman looked up at the farmhouse, blue eyes glittering, as cold as a February fog off Blue Lake Pond, before she settled on Rose.
“Do you need directions?” Rose asked.
“Not if this is the Inn at Eagle Hill.”
“It is.”
Luke’s dog, Micky, came charging up to the young woman and she batted him away. “I don’t like dogs!”
Rose called Micky back to her side.
“You must be Rose. Tobe’s stepmother?”
Rose bristled. She disliked being referred to as a stepmother. She might not have been Tobe’s biological mother, but she was a mother to him in every way that mattered. “I’m Rose Schrock.”
The young woman smiled sweetly. “I’m Paisley. Tobe’s girlfriend. And this,” she patted her enormous belly, “is your stepson’s soon-to-be-born child.”
Rose’s eyes swept down to the girl’s round stomach. Her mouth opened but nothing came out for a full minute. Maybe longer. She was speechless. Paisley didn’t even notice. She just beamed as if she was the happiest person on earth. Rose had no idea what to do or to say. She had never known Tobe to have a girlfriend, not ever, and with a name like Paisley, she was fairly certain she would have remembered.
Paisley waved in the direction of the kitchen. “Let’s go inside so I can meet Mammi Vera. She’s standing at the window looking at us.” Her face lit up even more so, if that was even possible. “Oh! There’s the little boys! They’re pressing their noses to the window. How charming! I can’t wait to meet everyone!” She flounced toward the house, then stopped and spun around. “Rose, be a peach and bring my things.” She pointed to the car. “Backseat. The trunk doesn’t open.”
Revealing, The (The Inn at Eagle Hill Book #3): A Novel Page 7
