Just as he thought he might head downstairs to have another look at the tourist guide before turning in for the night, he tugged on a rather flat, thin drawer. No more than two inches deep, it was ideal for fine stationery or a slim stack of computer paper.
The drawer was entirely stuck. He tried opening it again. It didn’t move one iota. More struggling brought no result. The drawer was simply not going to budge.
“That’s strange,” he said aloud. Then, getting down on his knees, he peered under the desk, trying to see what was causing the drawer to malfunction, if anything.
The ceiling light, along with the several lamps on either side of the desk, cast a dense shadow on the underside of the desk. So much so that he got up and went over to the reading lamp on the table beside the bed and unplugged it. He carried it over and plugged it into the outlet near the desk, then removed the lampshade so that the light bulb was exposed. He felt like a Boy Scout—though he’d never been one—on an adventure of some sort.
Squatting down, he shone the light directly under the desk, into the inner recesses, hoping to see what was jamming the drawer. As he held the light steady, he spied something sticking out beneath a seam in the wood. He reached for it, holding the lamp in the other hand. Just what it was, he couldn’t be sure. But he was determined to find out.
Reaching up, he made a jiggling motion, discovering that the item was heavier than typical writing paper, more like card stock. He peered closer, trying to see how to dislodge it.
Getting up, he placed the lamp carefully beside his computer, then began to work on the narrow drawer again, wiggling it from this angle. “Out with you,” he grumbled impatiently, and carefully, little by little, he coaxed the drawer out of its too-snug spot.
Once free, the drawer was clearly empty. But it was within the far end of the slot that the problem lay. He reached his fingers into the narrow mouth and tugged.
The culprit proved to be a wrinkled plain postcard, slightly torn and yellowing around the edges. The stamp had begun to fade, but the postmark—May 17, 1962—was clear enough. So was the writing, though the message looked to be a foreign language. What it was he did not know, since they were words he’d never seen. Possibly German. Could it be that this was Pennsylvania Dutch, the language of most Old Order Amish?
Philip was curious, but he had more important work to accomplish here than obsessing over a crumpled postcard. “Ach, such awful important work,” he said, mimicking some of the phraseology he’d heard repeatedly during supper.
Then an idea came to him, possibly just the thing to get Susanna Zook talking again. He would produce the postcard tomorrow, sometime prior to breakfast, before the other guests came downstairs. Perhaps in a private encounter, she might even offer to decipher the message, though he would never be so forward as to ask.
More than likely, the postcard belonged to the Zooks. Something they might be quite glad he had uncovered, or perhaps it was worth nothing at all. Yet he wondered how long the card had been lodged in the drawer. Even more fascinating— how had it found its way into the dark confines of the old desk in the first place? In his line of work, he was constantly asking the “Five W’s” of good reporting—Who? What? Why? Where? and When? How was never to be overlooked, either, of course.
Nine
Philip was restless.
Philip The night was exceptionally warm for mid-September, though too early to be classified as Indian summer, since the first frost had not yet occurred. He rolled out of bed to open the window, then switched on the ceiling fan, hoping the night breeze and the whirring sound might help him drift off again. Not accustomed to sleeping in total silence, he searched the room once again for a clock radio, anything for a little background noise—something to soothe his wakefulness.
There was not even an alarm clock, let alone a radio. And no TV. Such were the heralded benefits of a back-roads bed-and-breakfast—peace and tranquillity accompanied by nighttime silence, broken only by a multitude of night insects, including some loud crickets.
Philip lay on the bed, concentrating on the vigorous chirping outside the window. Listening to the rhythm in the crickets’ song, he noticed after a while that the various cadence patterns gradually began to correspond with each other. He’d read of this phenomenon, kindred to clock pendulums on the same wall aligning themselves over a period of time.
For one ridiculous moment, he thought of Lauren Hale. How fortunate for him that they had parted ways. To think that he might have begun to match the ebb and flow of her spirit and general approach to life was appalling and made him roll out of bed again to shake himself. He should’ve known better than to get involved with a stubborn, selfabsorbed young woman.
Thoughts of the ill-fated romance made him more unsettled than before, and he decided to turn on the light, thoroughly disgusted with his insomnia. Perhaps his body was too tired, too wound up to relax; that had occurred on any number of occasions in the past.
Pacing the floor, he caught a glimpse of the postcard on the right side of his laptop, where he’d placed it before retiring. He picked it up, studying the steady hand of the writer. The addressee was a Miss Adele Herr, and though the street number and name were illegibly smudged, the city and state—Reading, Pennsylvania—were remarkably clear. The message was signed simply, Gabe.
Post-office issued, the card seemed in fairly good shape, but then, it may have been kept from the light for who knows how long. Nevertheless, he sat at the desk and scrutinized the handwriting, the unfamiliar prose stirring his interest.
He leaned back in the chair, his long legs sprawled out before him, taking in the country-red apothecary chest on the opposite wall, the wide-plank pine floors scattered with braided oval rugs, and the tall highboy. Even the ceiling fan had the appearance of being bent with age. If he hadn’t known better, he might’ve suspected that he’d been tricked somehow—transported back in time. He wondered if, on some subconscious level, the discovery of the postcard had indeed roused him from slumber—the soul-deep slumber of spirit that had marked him for too long, despite the frenetic rhythm of his days.
Rachel turned in her sleep, aware that a window was being opened in one of the guest quarters at the far end of the house. In her drowsiness, she reached for her daughter, who often slept next to her these lonely nights. Annie had a small single bed across the room but didn’t often start out the night sleeping there. Annie much preferred falling asleep next to her mother, and Rachel didn’t mind at all.
“Annie?” she whispered, sitting up.
“I’m here, Mamma” came the reply from the foot of the bed. “It’s too hot to sleep.”
“Well, let’s open the window, then.”
“Open them all up,” Annie suggested.
“Gut idea.” Getting up, Rachel counted four short steps to the first window. In an instant Annie was next to her, pushing against the wooden panel, helpful as always. “There, that’s better, ain’t so?” she said, breathing in the clean night air.
They stood in the window, enjoying the breeze as it sifted through the screen and caressed their faces. “Sometime I wanna sleep outside all night long. Beside the creek, maybe,” Annie said. “What do ya think of that?”
Rachel chuckled softly. “Well, I must admit that I had the same bee in my bonnet back when I was your age.”
“So then you might let me fall asleep under the sky so I can listen to the hoot owls and the crickets and—”
“Careful not to raise your voice,” she interrupted her daughter. “We have guests in the house tonight.”
“Sorry, Mamma. But we have guests in the house most every night, except come winter, ain’t so?”
“Jah, and it’s a wonderful-gut way for all of us to make a livin’ these days. Besides that, we can be a blessing to tourists.”
“Jah, the tourists,” the girl whispered.
Rachel hoped her little one didn’t resent the neverending flow of B&B guests. “We have much to offer our English friends.”
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“ ’Tis what Dawdi Ben says, too.” Annie reached for Rachel’s hand and led her back to bed. “I’m gettin’ sleepy now.”
“Gut Nacht, dear. See you in the morning.”
Annie was silent for a moment, then she said, “Will ya, Mamma, really? Will ya honestly see me? There ain’t nothin’ wrong with your eyes, is there?”
“Well, where’d you get a silly idea like that?”
“Joshua says.”
She knew well and good young Joshua, Lizzy’s middle son, had probably overheard some adult talk here and there. The boy was too rambunctious for his britches. “What else is Joshua saying?” she asked, nearly in a whisper.
Annie was suddenly quiet.
Rachel felt awkward, pushing for answers from one so young. “Annie? You all right?”
“I surely don’t wanna tell a lie, Mamma.”
“Well, then, we best drop the whole thing right now,” she said, slipping into bed, leaving the sheet and coverlet off for now. ’Least till the breeze from the window cooled things off a bit.
But she was wide awake. Couldn’t sleep a wink, even long after Annie’s breathing became slow and even. Poor, dear child . . . what she’d had to suffer. All because of an unfortunate accident that might easily have been avoided if they hadn’t had to take the shortcut. If only I hadn’t slept through the alarm, she thought.
Lying there in the stillness, Rachel realized that she’d never forgiven herself. She felt sadly responsible for Jacob’s and Aaron’s deaths, and the truth of it bewildered her daily. As for her inability to see, she had rather adapted to her level of blindness these two years, feeling her way around the boundaries of her familiar world—the realm of her lonely existence. Truth be told, she felt right safe in the cocoon she’d spun for herself, but it broke her heart not to see her only child growing up. There were times when she missed roamin’ freely outdoors, taking long walks on deserted roads, strollin’ through orchards and meadows, seein’ the new baby lambs in the spring. On occasion, she actually questioned her resolve not to visit Blue Johnny or other sympathy healers, her desire to see springin’ up in her more and more these days.
A waft of cool air blew in the window, and as she listened to the sounds of the night, she noticed that the crickets’ chorus seemed noisier than usual. Had it not been for the fact that there were several roomers in the house, she might’ve sneaked downstairs and sat out on the back patio, inhaling the rich, spicy fragrance of the humid night. Recently, on two separate occasions—though Mam would’ve been downright surprised—Rachel had slipped out into the night, unable to sleep due to the warm temperatures. And missing Jacob. Tonight she might’ve risked doing so again, but Dat had warned that a New York reporter was snooping around—staying right here under their noses, of all things. Fact was, Dat had gotten wind that a well-respected tour guide in Lancaster had made plans to take the big-city fella to have a confidential chat with a local Amishman, come tomorrow afternoon.
“Best be watchin’ yourself . . . what you say, anyhow,” Dat had informed her before supper.
’Course she agreed to be cautious, though it wouldn’t require much of a change on her part. Occasionally she helped out in the Gift Nook, their gift shop, an addition on the north side of the house. She preferred her role as the silent helper, and Dat and Mam pretty much allowed her to live her life that way. Looking after Annie was her one and only aim.
Turning in bed, she faced the window and wished she might dream of Jacob holding her or whispering adoring words in her ear. Jah, she would like that right nice. But her dreams weren’t always romantic ones. Frequently, there were taunting nightmares in the middle of the night—dreadful visions of things that never, ever could be. Jumbled-up, hideous images that made no sense at all.
She knew that on the other side of those grisly pictures was her sight—her full and clear vision—but she was unwilling to allow herself to walk through the foggy maze to get to the sunlight.
Dozing off, she listened to the night sounds, and they mingled together with her thoughts till the crickets seemed to chirp in unison Jacob . . . Jacob . . .
Ten
Philip rushed through his usual early-morning routine—shaving, showering, dressing—eager to chat with either Susanna or Benjamin before breakfast. He tucked the postcard into his shirt pocket and headed downstairs.
“Good morning,” he said, offering a broad smile as his hostess met him in the common room.
“Didja have a good night’s sleep?” Susanna inquired, not waiting for his reply. Instead, she turned her attention to arranging some croissants and doughnuts on a tray.
“I slept quite well, thanks.” He did not say that he’d lost several hours in the middle of his sleep, however.
She turned and glanced out the window. “Looks like it’ll be a right nice day today.”
“Yes.” Right nice indeed, he thought, wondering if now was a good time to show Susanna the postcard he’d found buried deep inside the old desk.
“Will you be needing anything besides coffee just now?” she asked, clearly in a hurry to get back to the kitchen and breakfast preparations.
“Coffee’s fine, thanks.”
“Would there be anything else, then? There’s sticky buns and things on the table.” She gestured toward the tray behind him.
Before she bolted, Philip decided to plunge in. “I, uh, found something stuck in the desk in my room.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out the postcard. “This was caught behind one of the drawers.”
She took the card, glancing at it casually. “Well, for goodness’ sake.” She pushed her glasses up, tilting her head back, and began to read. “‘My dearest Adele . . .’ ” Her voice trailed off, and though her lips continued to move silently, her eyes began to blink. “Oh . . . uh, that’s all right. You’d better keep it.” She pushed the postcard back into Philip’s hand.
“Is something wrong?” he asked, concerned that her face had grown quite pale.
She shook her head back and forth, muttering something in what he guessed was Pennsylvania Dutch. Her voice had turned raspy. “You’ll hafta excuse me. I’ve got sausage in the oven.” And with that, she left the room.
He stood there, holding the innocuous postcard in his hand, and stared at the handwritten note. My dearest Adele . . . Why would a message that began so beautifully affect someone in such a strange manner? He really didn’t know what to do with the postcard now that she had rejected it. But his curiosity was definitely heightened, and he decided the missive legitimately belonged to him since she’d actually invited him to keep it.
Hurrying back upstairs to his room, he copied the message as best he could, in case Susanna might have second thoughts. He wanted to know more; wanted to know what had disturbed her enough to stop reading and toss the postcard back in his face.
His mind was whirling, and he made a quick call on his cell phone. “Stephen?” he said when his Mennonite contact answered. “Thought I’d let you know I’m in town.”
“When did you get in?”
“Yesterday afternoon. I’m in Bird-in-Hand, at the Orchard Guest House B&B. Do you know the place?”
“Oh yes. Great spot to get away from it all, I hear.”
His gaze dropped to the postcard. “Thought I’d check in, make sure we’re still on for this afternoon.”
Stephen chuckled. “I’ve got a live one for you. You’re going to like Abram Beiler. He’ll answer all your questions.”
“Sounds good. Let’s meet for lunch—on me.”
“I can get away by twelve-thirty or so. You’re not far from Plain and Fancy Farm, just down the road, east on Route 340. You’ll see it on the left side—can’t miss it—just before you get to Intercourse.”
“Good enough.” Then impatient to know, he said, “I was wondering if you happen to understand Pennsylvania Dutch?”
“Well, I don’t speak the language, but Abram does. What do you need?”
He mentioned the postcard briefly.
“Sure, Abram will help you out. And if he can’t, I work with several people who could translate it for you.”
“That’s good to know. See you soon.” Philip put the postcard and his own written copy of it in his briefcase, then went and stood in front of the window, looking out at the expanse of Amish farmland in the distant morning mist. Closer in, toward the area of the backyard, he noticed for the first time since he was a boy that there were water droplets shining atop the grass, some creating tiny rainbows in the early-morning light.
On a sudden impulse, he stooped down and got his nose up next to the screened-in open window, inhaling the pungent smells, a hint of spice in the air. His view encompassed the apple orchard, with a glimpse of the creek beyond. Mill Creek, it was called, according to his map. He would have to go exploring sometime before he checked out. His sister would be surprised to hear that he’d actually taken some time for himself on this trip.
Getting his fill, he left the room and stood out in the hallway, leaning his ear toward the stairway, listening for the other guests. It would be wise to wait until there were plenty of people gathering for breakfast before heading back downstairs.
He thought he probably looked quite peculiar standing there, eavesdropping that way, especially to the little Amish girl who came hurrying toward him.
“Hullo, mister.”
“Hello, Annie.”
Her eyes popped open wide. “How do you know my name?” she asked in an ecstatic whisper.
“Your grandmother told me, that’s how,” he whispered back, just as enthusiastically. “What do you think of that?” He had the urge to reach out and poke her arm playfully, but he resisted, lest he scare her off.
The Postcard Page 8
