“Oh. Claire. I did not know you were here.” Ruth stepped onto her brother’s front porch and quietly pulled the door closed. “I am glad. My brother will not talk to me about whatever is troubling him. Perhaps he will tell you, his friend.”
She fiddled with the zipper pull on her jacket then released it along with a heavy sigh. “I don’t want to intrude if he just wants to be alone.”
Ruth looked left and then right, her gaze sweeping across the patch of gravel roadway that separated her brother’s home from the one she still lived in with her parents. “Benjamin may be smart and strong, but he does not always know what is best for himself. So please, go inside. See if he will talk to you.”
Reaching behind her statuesque frame, Ruth pushed Benjamin’s door open and stepped aside. “Go. Please.”
“I can’t just walk in without knocking, Ruth,” she whispered in protest. “He’s not expecting me.”
Ruth’s blue eyes left Claire’s face long enough to roll ever so slightly. Then, with the faintest hint of a smile, she poked her head into the open doorway. “Benjamin? Claire has come for a visit. She would like me to tell you that she is coming inside to see you.”
Then, with a gentle shove, Ruth pushed Claire through the door and into the utter silence that was Benjamin’s home. Before Claire could argue, before she could resist, the door was closed and there was no turning back.
“I am in the kitchen, Claire.”
She closed her eyes and began a mental count, willing her mind not to read anything into Benjamin’s monotone voice except the same end-of-the-day exhaustion she felt throbbing behind her own temples. This was Benjamin. Benjamin Miller. The same man who’d stepped forward with his wood-crafting ability in order to help keep her in Heavenly—something that transpired after she’d turned down his attempt at a marriage proposal. They were friends, and he was Amish. He didn’t hold ill feelings.
When she reached ten, she opened her eyes and noted her surroundings. The large front room that served as the entryway into the home was sparsely furnished and reminded Claire of a similar room in Esther’s parents’ home. Although not an expert on the Amish by any means, Claire had learned enough from Esther to know the room’s primary function was to accommodate roughly a hundred people for church service two or three times a year. The empty space allowed for the necessary benches to be brought in and utilized during the service and then converted into tables for the lunch and dinner that always followed.
Step-by-step, she crossed the room, picking out a few things as she went—a simple lamp atop a wheeled cabinet, a German songbook, a Bible, and a single pair of boots placed neatly beside the door.
It was hard not to wonder about Elizabeth and her three-week-long stint as Benjamin’s wife. But she also knew such details wouldn’t be visible inside the home. Even if the woman had still been alive, there would be no photographs framed on walls, no knickknacks dotting the mantel. The Amish didn’t take or pose for pictures and they didn’t put their stamp on a room with a certain wall-color choice or a particular prized treasure. If it had function, it was used; if it didn’t, it wasn’t.
She peeked around the open doorway into the kitchen, the sight of Benjamin sitting alone at the large wooden table as dusk slowly claimed any natural light from the room, bringing an unexpected hitch to her breath. So many times Ruth had made reference to her brother’s solitary existence—his lonely nights, his quiet meals, his empty home—but somehow the widower’s reality hadn’t truly sunk in.
Not until that exact moment, anyway.
Suddenly, the sight of the man with the shy smile who’d listened to her babble on about stars and wishes, helped save her shop from financial ruin, and had been willing to leave the only world he’d ever known in order to be with her, was almost more than she could comprehend without bursting into tears.
She took a deep breath, held it a beat, and then let it release slowly through pursed lips. No. Tonight was not about her. It was about Ben . . .
“What are you doing in here all by yourself?” she finally said before crossing to the table and taking a seat on the opposing bench. “It’s starting to get dark and your propane lamp is in the other room.”
“I prefer candlelight. It is enough to read by.”
“Psst . . . you’d need a book in order to read.”
The smile she’d hoped to entice didn’t come; instead Ben simply laid his left hand over his right fist and propped the pair against his mouth.
She cast about for something to say, something to bring the Benjamin she knew out of this uncharacteristic shell. “I would imagine you’re getting close to planting some of your crops. I bet that’ll make your days long again.”
“It will.”
Her gaze fell on a basket on the counter beside the stove and she switched topics once again. “Looks like Ruth brought you some dessert, yes?”
“She brought dinner.”
“Wow. I can only imagine how good her cooking must be if her baking makes my mouth water from across the alley at work.”
Shrugging, Benjamin let his hands fall to the table. “She said it is chicken. You are welcome to have it if you would like.”
“No, I wasn’t hinting for dinner, Ben.”
“I did not think that you were. But it is a shame to see good food go to waste.”
“Then eat it,” she said, not unkindly.
“Tonight, I am not hungry.”
She looked around the room, at the simple propane-powered appliances, the spotless surfaces, and the overall empty feel of the space, any hunger pangs she may have felt upon news of the basket’s contents faded. It was as if the loneliness that emanated from Ben and his surroundings made the prospect of a meal almost painful. The thought that he lived that way night after night made it even worse.
No, tonight would be different. She would see to that . . .
Rising to her feet, she stepped around the bench and walked over to the counter that housed the picnic basket, a quick peek inside confirming Benjamin’s guess and adding homemade rolls, potatoes, and green beans to the mix. “Ruth made this for you and, judging by what I see, there’s plenty for me, too.”
“She does not seem to remember I am one person.”
“Well, tonight, you’re not.” She opened the first cabinet she came to but found only glasses and pitchers. The second cabinet held the plates she needed but in a quantity that was downright agonizing. Benjamin had obviously imagined he’d have a life like his own father’s, with a wife and a half-dozen kids. Instead, thanks to a poorly timed walk, seven of the eight plates went unused.
Night after night after night.
Shaking the mood-altering thought from her head, she set the plates on the counter and filled them with food from Ruth’s basket. Then, armed with a pair of napkins and two glasses of cold milk at the ready, she brought everything to the table.
For a moment, she wasn’t sure if Benjamin was going to stay and eat or get up and leave, the hollowness of his eyes making it difficult to know what, if anything, he was thinking. But when he reached across the table for her hands and bowed his head in prayer, she knew she’d won at least part of the battle.
She, of course, did most of the talking as they ate, his answers to her questions coming in mostly nods and shakes, but that was okay. It was progress, even if only a little.
“Ruth is a great cook. This chicken is delicious.”
He forked a helping of beans into his mouth and nodded.
“I used to like to cook a lot back when I was living in New York City. But, after a while, when I was the only one eating it ninety percent of the time, I lost interest. Diane is trying to help me reclaim that.”
“Is it working?” he asked quietly.
She tried not to show too much surprise at the sound of his voice and his sudden desire to engage in conversation, but it was hard. “I—uh . . . yes, it is. The people who stay at the inn are always so appreciative of the food we make. Knowing someone is not only ea
ting it but also enjoying it, too, helps a lot.”
He nodded slowly and with understanding.
“I imagine you know exactly what I’m talking about after going from your childhood home with your parents and siblings to sharing meals with Elizabeth and . . .” The rest of her sentence disappeared as a spasm of pain ripped across Benjamin’s face.
“Ben, I’m sorry. I didn’t mention your wife to cause you pain.”
He wiped his mouth on the napkin Claire had placed beside his plate and then pushed back from the table, stopping short of actually standing.
“Ben . . . please. Talk to me. I saw the way you reacted to that drawing I did this morning. I saw the way your skin paled. What’s going on? Maybe I can help somehow.”
Seconds turned to minutes as the last of the day’s light disappeared from the room’s only window, bathing them in total darkness save for the lone candle Ben lit without a word. But just as she gave up any hope of him talking, he stood and motioned for Claire to follow him into a tiny sitting room off the back of the house. There, he lit another candle, palmed something small and silver from atop a plain end table into his fist, and then turned, flipping his hand over and slowly opening it in front of Claire.
She leaned forward and waited for her eyes to adjust to the dim light. When they did, she inhaled sharply.
“Ben?” she half whispered, half gasped. “Where did you get that?”
“It was Elizabeth’s.”
She tried to process his words, to make them fit with the familiar bracelet and charm in his hand, but it was hard to do amid the sudden roar in her ears. “But I don’t understand . . . I . . .”
“She and Sadie were good friends. They must have bought bracelets together. On Rumspringa.”
“Where did you find this?”
“It was in her chest. At the foot of my bed.”
“So you knew about it before today?”
He nodded but said nothing.
“And that’s why you reacted the way you did when you saw my drawing? Because you recognized it as being the half that went with Sadie’s bracelet?”
Again, he nodded. Only this time, he followed the barely perceptible motion with background. “Elizabeth was a good woman. She was a fine wife for the short time we had together. But there was a sadness I did not understand. I often wondered if she wished she had made a different choice for her life. One day, just after we were married, I found her crying and I asked if she wished she had gone with her old friend Sadie.”
“What did she say?”
“She did not answer. She just bowed her head and cried more.” Benjamin looked down at the bracelet as if it were toxic. “I did not know what to think. I did not know if I was right. I did not want to start a life with someone who did not want that life, too. But then we went to the Lehmans’ home about three weeks later to receive our wedding gift.”
“Receive your wedding gift?” she echoed.
“Yah. We do not receive gifts at our wedding. They are presented to us in the weeks that follow, as we visit the friends who celebrated our day with us.”
It was her turn to nod. “Okay, I think I understand.”
“Sadie’s mamm and dat were so happy for us. So happy for Elizabeth. Waneta—that is Sadie’s mamm—said she was excited to see the children we would have, that it would be like watching Sadie’s children grow.”
“How did Elizabeth react?”
“She did not speak on the buggy ride home that night. And that is when I knew her sadness was not because she wanted to run off with Sadie, it was because she missed her.” He rocked back on his feet and stared up at the flickering shadow on the ceiling. “The next day I bought her a notebook and pen. I told her to write to Sadie as if she was still in Heavenly. I told her to talk about our wedding and our new home and our plans for the farm.”
“And?”
“She did as I said. Sometimes I would see her sitting on the front porch, writing. At lunch, while I ate, she would sit and write at the table. And at night, when I read, she would write in that chair.” He lowered his chin and pointed at the wooden chair behind Claire.
“Did it help with the sadness?”
“I am not sure. I lost her three days later.”
She felt the lump of emotion working its way up her throat and did her best to try to swallow it back down. What she wouldn’t give to turn back the hands of time and make things different for Ben . . .
“Did you ever read what she had written in those three days leading up to her death?”
A long, low sigh filled the air between them. “No. I put her book in the chest after she was buried. I did not see it again until I took out the bracelet this afternoon.”
“And you still didn’t read it?”
“I did not.”
She looked from Ben to the bracelet and back again, the hurt and anguish on her friend’s face making it difficult to breathe, let alone speak. But still, she tried, her hand finding his in the dark and squeezing them gently. “Maybe it’s time you did.”
Chapter 5
Sitting there, looking out over the moonlit fields that comprised the Amish side of Heavenly, Claire marveled at the absolute serenity. So much of her existence in New York City had been about hurrying and waiting.
First, she’d hurry through her day in anticipation of an evening with her then husband, Peter, only to wait at the table, alone, as their meals grew cold. Next, she’d hurry through the week in the hope the weekend would be different. But it never was. Instead, she spent her Saturdays and Sundays waiting for him to return from whatever golfing or dining engagement he had with yet another important client.
Five years of her life had slipped through her fingers playing that hurry-and-wait game.
Now, though, things were different—as different as New York City was from Heavenly, Pennsylvania, in fact. Here, there was no more hurrying unless she happened to linger over coffee and breakfast with her aunt’s guests a little too long. And as for waiting, that was gone, too, unless she counted silly stuff—like the wait for brownies to be done baking or customers to arrive.
“Claire, dear? Don’t you think you should come inside now? It’s awfully cold out here to be sitting on that porch swing.”
She turned her head toward the hushed voice, the woman’s features difficult to make out in the narrow swath of light streaming onto the porch from the partially opened front door. “I’ll be in soon, Aunt Diane.”
“Is everything okay? You seemed mighty quiet when you got home this evening.”
“I’m fine. Just a little tired is all.”
“Which is why it makes more sense for you to come inside and get some sleep, rather than continue to sit out here by yourself in the cold . . .”
She heard the sigh as it slipped past her lips and hoped her aunt didn’t take it as rude. She loved Diane more than words could ever describe, but sometimes she needed a little space to ponder, even if she wasn’t sure what, exactly, she was pondering. “I’ll be in soon. I promise. I’m just enjoying the last guest-free night for a little while longer.”
“Okay. I’m heading up to bed now, so just make sure to lock up, will you?”
“You’ve got it. Good night, Aunt Diane.”
“Good night, Claire. Sleep well.”
She lowered the side of her cheek back onto her outstretched arm and focused again on the dark fields in the distance, the swing moving ever so slightly with the push of her right foot. Forty-eight hours earlier, the same landscape had been bathed in a fiery glow. Twenty-four hours earlier, it had been peppered with a pulsating mixture of red and white emergency lights atop police cruisers. And now, it was dark again, with all the Amish likely fast asleep.
All except, perhaps, Waneta Lehman and her husband, Zebediah . . .
For years, Sadie’s parents had surely lain in bed wondering about their daughter’s whereabouts.
But tonight, they wondered no more.
She traced the tip of her finger along the
top edge of the swing and tried to imagine what it would be like to get such awful news. To realize that all your years of hope had been for naught . . .
The familiar clip-clop of an approaching horse broke through her reverie and forced her thoughts back to the porch. Rotating her body to the right, she brought her left foot down to the floor and leaned forward, the darkness that enveloped the inn’s driveway making it difficult to see much of anything.
When the sound stopped, she stood and made her way over to the porch railing. “Hello? Who’s there?” she called.
“It is me. Benjamin.” And then he was there, standing at the foot of the steps, peering up at her with a troubled expression. “Can we talk?”
She took a step back and waved him onto the porch. “Of course. Please. Come up. Sit with me.”
Retracing her steps back to the swing, she lowered herself onto the evenly spaced wooden slats and patted the vacant spot to her left. “If you hurry, you can take advantage of any leftover heat from my leg.”
The soft light peeking around the parlor curtain was enough to illuminate the pained expression in the Amish man’s face as he shook his head and remained standing. “I will not keep you. It is late and you must sleep.”
“Aunt Diane said pretty much the same thing not more than ten minutes ago. But I’m not tired.”
“Why?” he asked.
It was such a simple question yet she knew it merited anything but a simple answer. Still, she tried. At least in regard to the part that involved him, anyway . . . “I guess I’ve been worried about you. About the pain that will invariably be stirred up again when you finally read Elizabeth’s journal for the first time.”
“I have read it.”
She drew back, surprised. “Already?”
He gave a slight nod. “I took care of my chores after you left. I even stopped by Mamm and Dat’s house to thank Ruth for our dinner. When I was done, I went upstairs to bed. But when I walked into my room, all I could see was Elizabeth’s chest.”
“So you took out her journal and read it?” she prompted.
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