by Ruth Reid
His smile faded. “You might have.”
She appreciated his thoughtfulness, but increasing the distance between them was best.
“Can I drive you home?” His smile returned.
“I, ah—It probably wouldn’t be wise to push Bay too hard. You know, the distance to town and back, the extra weight in the buggy.” Stop babbling. Either ask him about Olivia or leave. Faith pivoted and snatched a tin can from the lower shelf. “I should probably feed the chickens and collect the eggs. Catherine will be here soon.” She scooped some chicken feed out of the barrel and left the barn, her heart beating faster than the time the bull chased her in the back pasture.
Gideon peered out the barn window and tracked Faith’s steps as she crossed the lawn and opened the wire door of the chicken pen. Shaking the can of corn, she teased the hens into leaving their nesting boxes. Clucking, adjusting their feathers, the chickens were fully awake with piqued interest in whatever tidbit of food Faith had to offer them.
Gideon stretched as the first light of dawn peaked the horizon. A golden glow illuminated the thin layer of fog, and beads of dew hanging from blades of grass gleamed with morning light, calling for a new day. He didn’t always take time away from chores to admire God’s canvas. His masterpiece. Today was different. Gideon was drawn to the beauty—drawn to the sun’s warm radiance surrounding Faith. He sighed and leaned back against the barn wall as she disappeared inside the coop. Faith was off-limits. The bishop had said so when he lectured about avoiding temptation and being unequally yoked. He wouldn’t go down the road of courting before she committed to the church. Not again. Faith’s baptism wasn’t for several weeks. He could wait, couldn’t he? The rough lumber against his back suddenly pierced his cotton shirt and caused him to adjust his position. More comfortable, his eyelids fluttered. The summer heat would soon absorb the kiss of dew on nature, evaporate the morning haze, and awaken the land. He yawned. Perhaps a mug of strong coffee would wake him up, relieve him of his stupor. Maybe he’d ask Faith to make a pot of coffee and they could share it. That was innocent enough.
Gideon left the barn and strode across the yard to the chicken coop. “Faith, I wanted to tell you about something I heard . . . about Olivia.”
She continued collecting eggs. “What is it?”
“I heard she’s . . .” Suddenly he wished he hadn’t started the conversation. The rumors about Olivia stealing money from the restaurant till would break Faith’s heart. A low groan wedged in his throat.
“Gideon,” she said. “You’re the one who brought this up.”
“And I’m thinking nau it was a bad idea.”
She huffed—and with reason. They’d shared secrets before. He’d told Faith things he hadn’t told anyone.
He massaged the knotted cords in the back of his neck. He didn’t like to keep Faith in the dark, and true, he’d brought it up. “I heard a rumor. Someone—and I’m nett telling you who—said Olivia was taking money from the cash register,” he blurted.
She blinked rapidly several times. “Who said that?”
“Faith.” He cocked his head.
Her peeved expression morphed into sadness as her eyes hooded. “That’s a big accusation. I’m surprised you listen to rumors, Gideon Rohrer.”
He lowered his head. It wasn’t just a rumor. He’d seen Olivia counting the hidden money in the barn loft.
Faith gathered the remaining dozen or more eggs, then darted out of the coop at the same time as Catherine’s buggy pulled into the yard.
Faith climbed into her cousin’s buggy with the basket of eggs. “Guder mariye.”
“Mariye.” Catherine motioned to the basket. “You taking those into work?”
“I might as well. I’d hate for them to go to waste.” She’d collected several dozen and could never eat them all.
“How did you sleep? I thought about you all nacht.” Catherine’s brows creased with worry. “Perhaps you should kumm to mei haus and stay with me until your parents are out of the hospital.”
Three months from turning seventeen, Faith was more than capable of staying on her own. Catherine mothered her like a much older sibling, and normally Faith didn’t mind. After all, Catherine was one of the kindest, gentlest women Faith had ever known. Still, she didn’t want to be shuttled to a relative’s. Not when she was expected to keep up with the household chores, the garden, and the animals.
“We can talk about it later.” Catherine tapped the reins and her horse lunged forward.
Faith turned her gaze out the window as Gideon was leading Bay out of the barn. The horse showed no signs of favoring his leg, which was good news. Faith slumped against the buggy seat. She had liked the idea of Bay staying in one of their stalls, knowing it’d mean seeing Gideon more regularly.
“Something wrong?”
Faith sat up straighter. “I haven’t had any kaffi.”
Her cousin chuckled. “I’ll be sure to get a pot brewing as soon as we arrive at the restaurant.” Catherine carried most of the conversation on their way into town, talking about the warmer weather and how well she expected her tomato plants to do this year.
Faith’s thoughts were on her parents. Was Daed still in a lot of pain? And Mamm, was she doing all right? The doctor admitted her for observation, but she longed to know if anything had changed during the night.
Catherine pulled into The Amish Table’s parking lot and drove around back. She stopped the horse at the hitching post, directly under the maple tree’s canopy of leaves, and set the brake.
Faith climbed out. Balancing the basket of eggs in one hand, she unlocked the kitchen door. The familiar scent of day-old cooking grease mixed with a hint of bleach traveled from the kitchen as she entered the building. She made a mental note to change the grease tonight, but in the meantime, she’d remedy the issue with the aroma of freshly baked bread.
Catherine started the coffeepot while Faith set the oven to preheat, then gathered the ingredients: flour, sugar, salt, oil, and active dry yeast. She knew her mother’s recipe by heart. She measured enough to make eight loaves. Bread never went to waste. Today’s loaves she’d use for French toast, breakfast toast, and sandwiches. She’d lather yesterday’s leftover bread with garlic butter and serve it with pork pie and chicken parmesan orders, and bread older than yesterday she would douse with herbs and olive oil and turn into croutons.
Catherine returned with a mug of coffee in each hand. “The dining room is ready. All we have to do is turn the sign at seven.” She handed Faith a steaming mug.
“Danki.” Faith took a sip of the dark roast, bitterness disrupting her stomach, then set the mug on the counter. Eager to get the work done, she mixed the ingredients and began kneading the dough. A few minutes later, she lightly touched two fingers to the smooth dough as her mother had taught, and it sprang back. Pleased with the degree of elasticity, she divided the mound of dough into eight loaves and placed them in the pans next to the oven to rise.
“I spoke with Lois last nacht,” Catherine said between sips of coffee. “She mentioned coming in to help out a few hours if her mother-in-law will watch the kinner.” Catherine wet a rag at the sink. “I don’t know how she does it with triplets.”
Faith couldn’t help but detect regret in Catherine’s tone. Zachary and her cousin had courted for several years, and at twenty-eight, she must be thinking he might never propose. Especially since the women in their district married as early as eighteen and often had several children by the time they reached their late twenties. Faith shifted the conversation to another topic. “Which would you rather do today? Cook or wait tables?”
“It doesn’t matter,” Catherine replied.
“You’re the better cook,” Faith freely admitted. “I’ll take the dining room, and we’ll put Lois on pitting the cherries if she comes in. I seem to recall she had an easy way of removing the pits using a paper clip.”
Catherine chuckled. “I made the mistake of challenging her to a race one time and I ended up do
ing dishes for a week.”
Faith started the next batch of bread dough with Catherine’s help, then placed the raised loaves in the oven to bake. At seven o’clock she turned the sign in the window, and soon, a stream of customers began to file in.
Hours later, Faith was clipping orders on the wire for two different tables when a knock sounded at the back door. “It’s probably the order,” she told Catherine, heading to the back. But instead of finding a delivery man outside her door, she discovered a hunched over red-haired man wearing a grungy torn shirt and paint-splattered pants. He leaned against a shopping cart filled with what looked like the entirety of his worldly possessions, which amounted to a wool coat, an umbrella, a stack of newspapers, a few empty soda cans, and a garbage bag containing things she wouldn’t venture to identify.
“Can I help you?”
He flipped the cardboard sign he was holding: “Will Work for Food. God Bless You.”
She didn’t have a job for him, but noticing how he sniffed the air, she couldn’t let him go away hungry either.
“I like the smell of baked bread,” he said. “Is it still warm?”
“I’ll check.” Faith left him standing at the door. She wrapped a loaf of warm bread in paper towels, poured some honey into a to-go cup, then took it to the man. She handed him the loaf. “If you kumm back after lunchtime, I’ll make you a hamburger.”
A childlike twinkle lit his eyes. “Cast thy bread upon the waters: for thou shalt find it after many days.” He tore the bread in half and took a bite, his eyes closing as if savoring the flavor.
Cast thy bread upon the waters . . .
As if the man could read her mind, he said, “Your kind deed has not gone unnoticed.”
“But I didn’t give it to you for recognition.” The ding of the cook’s bell broke Faith’s attention. “Excuse me, but I have to get back to work.”
“Faith,” he said, gaining her full attention. “Call your mother, child. She would like to hear how you’re doing.”
Chapter 16
New York
Present day
Roslyn aimed her friendliest smile at the camera and maintained it until Walter, the network director, waved his hand and called, “Cut.” She held the unwavering smile a second longer, then exhaled through pursed lips as tension seeped from her muscles. Even after fifteen years of hosting foundation-sponsored functions, she had trouble talking on camera, while her friend and longtime host of the syndicated talk show, DiAnna Rogers, coolly transitioned from camera to camera. The heat projected from the floodlights raised the surface of Roslyn’s skin to broiling temperatures. Following the flashing red indicator light, meant to direct her to one of the three cameras currently filming, her eyes darted around the studio until they felt crossed. But the interview was done. She’d gotten through another taping without chewing her nails to the nub. Hopefully the information she shared would increase child abduction awareness.
Roslyn glanced over her shoulder at her sister standing a few feet away from the floodlights and photo umbrellas. Chrisla smiled wide and made a thumbs-up gesture. Roslyn touched her moist forehead, sure her makeup had run down the side of her face.
DiAnna tapped Roslyn’s arm. “You did great.”
“Could you tell I was nervous?”
“Not at all.” Her college friend flashed a camera-ready smile that Roslyn had come to know as sincere.
“You probably have to say that,” Roslyn halfheartedly teased.
A female stagehand approached wearing a black shirt, black jeans, and baseball cap with the show’s logo. “I’m sure our viewers were choked up like me and reaching for their Kleenex. It must be difficult to keep reliving what you’ve gone through.”
“Thank you,” Roslyn’s voice squeaked. Although she’d trained herself to relive her daughter’s kidnapping to a point of numbness on the air, talking about Adriana’s disappearance always triggered emotional upheaval. But, for the most part, she was able to conceal the debilitating truth.
Roslyn shifted on the cushioned chair and stretched her neck so the woman could unclip the microphone from her suit lapel. An egg-sized lump remained in her throat as thoughts of her precious daughter continued to overwhelm her mind.
“You’re all set,” the stagehand said, making a loop of the loose cords.
DiAnna placed her hand on Roslyn’s shoulder. “I know these interviews are difficult so close to Labor Day.”
Unable to speak for fear she would completely fall apart, Roslyn helped herself to a tissue from the box on the table, blotted her eyes, then leaned into her friend’s embrace. DiAnna’s support meant a lot over the years. When the authorities closed Adriana’s case, despite Roslyn’s adamant refusal to accept that her child was dead, DiAnna continued to help arrange national coverage to keep the tragedy in the public eye. But all news eventually becomes old, and Adriana’s body never washed ashore. People lost interest.
Roslyn blotted away more tears as her sister climbed the stage steps.
“You didn’t look nervous to me, sis,” Chrisla said, shielding her eyes from the glare reflecting off the floodlights.
Roslyn reached for the glass of water sitting on the table next to her and took a sip. The lukewarm water didn’t do much to quench her thirst, but it did wet her dry throat, making it easier to speak. “Thanks.” She took another drink, placed the glass back on the coaster, then turned to her friend. “Ahem.”
“Busted.” DiAnna grinned as she snapped her compact closed. “Okay, so I’m a little vain.”
“A little?” Roslyn’s sullen mood lifted at the sight of her friend’s smile.
DiAnna erupted in laughter. “I do love having you here in New York. When are you going to sell your place in Michigan and move here?”
“I’d never be able to convince Brandon to move the Colepepper headquarters.” Besides, she refused to live in a high-rise. In fact, she didn’t even enjoy staying in one of their hotels for any length of time, and there she had room service.
“You’re probably right,” DiAnna said. “So, I take it Brandon is still keeping himself . . . busy?”
“That’s an understatement,” Roslyn said, attempting to soften her sarcasm with a chuckle. Brandon had immersed himself in work once the authorities closed Adriana’s case, and she’d begrudged his schedule for years. Granted, he tried encouraging her to accompany him on trips, but she refused to leave the house most days, let alone Bloomfield Hills. Then, teetering on the brink of insanity, she suffered a nervous breakdown, and Brandon assigned travel duties to the company’s vice president. Ten years of therapy later, when she was finally doing better—or at least, when she had learned how to fool people better—her husband had resumed business as usual. “Brandon does ask me to go along with him on trips,” she felt compelled to explain.
DiAnna lifted her brows. “So why don’t you go? I’m sure a long vacation would do you good.”
“You should have him take you to the beach,” her sister added. “You could use a little sun.”
“I have the foundation to run,” Roslyn said.
Chrisla cleared her throat. “That isn’t the only reason.”
“I also work closely with the Missing Children’s Network.” Chrisla and DiAnna were well aware of her extensive organizational involvement. It was common knowledge among close friends and business associates that Roslyn also arranged meetings with legislatures to lobby for nationwide traffic cam installations. Had traffic cameras been available at the time of Adriana’s kidnapping, the police could have tracked the car’s whereabouts instead of having to rely on bystander information coupled with random parking-lot footage from banks and other businesses. But as Roslyn had learned all those years ago, private businesses were hit or miss when it came to quality recordings.
Suddenly aware of Chrisla’s and DiAnna’s stares, Roslyn blew out a long breath. Her best friend and sister were not easily fooled. “Okay,” she finally said, knowing she had to spill the truth. “The Detroit News a
pproached me on running a story about Adriana.” Seeing their confused expressions, she continued. “Apparently the reporter is retiring after twenty-five years and is doing some sort of then-and-now on twenty-five of the most important stories of his career.”
“Oh, I see. He’s going to feature the foundation, that’s great,” DiAnna said.
Roslyn rubbed her trembling hands along her linen trousers. “He told me about new technology that’s been developed since Adriana’s abduction. Law enforcement have specialized computer programs to recreate crime scenes. Did you know President Kennedy’s assassination was reenacted? A few years back, the Discovery Channel created a 3-D crime-scene simulation where they were able to analyze blood splatters with the bullet’s trajectory to determine the shooter’s location. Forensic investigators were able to calculate the angles and distances and wind pattern—”
DiAnna and Chrisla exchanged worried glances.
“Adriana’s body was never found—and I’m not going insane—my daughter wasn’t in that car.”
Chrisla reached for her hand. “No one is saying you’re going insane.”
“Of course we’re not, sweetie,” DiAnna echoed. “But what does Kennedy’s assassination have to do with Adriana?”
“The computer simulation would prove she wasn’t in the car.” Roslyn studied their faces. She wouldn’t convince anyone if she couldn’t stop her hands from shaking. “I was there when they pulled that dingy, red car out of Lake Huron.” She squeezed her eyes shut, but wasn’t able to block the image of the compact car being lifted out of the Mackinac Straights as water gushed out from every crack and crevice and cascaded back into Lake Huron. Watching from the shoreline, Roslyn nearly fainted as the crane hoisted the 1987 Yugo to the surface.
Think on other things. You’ve trained your mind.
Roslyn opened her eyes and, blotting tears with the wadded tissue, she directed her attention to the stage crew moving various pieces of equipment around the studio. They were easier to focus on than Chrisla and DiAnna’s pitying expressions.
