“Daett liked his books,” Bertha said.
“Liking books” was an understatement. Joe approached Abraham’s personal library with reverence.
“Alfred Edersheim’s Life and Times of Christ,” he murmured, pulling the dusty volume off the shelf. He ran his finger over the spine of another. “Strong’s Exhaustive Concordance.” He pulled a three-inch-thick title off the shelf. “Philip Schaff’s History of the Christian Church—all eight volumes.” He glanced up at her. “Your father was a scholar, Bertha.”
There was confusion on Bertha’s face, and he realized that she was wondering why her handyman was so familiar with these religious books. In his excitement with coming face-to-face with these old friends, he realized that he had let down his guard.
“My father was a preacher,” he explained.
It was true. It didn’t even scratch the surface of the whole truth, but it was true.
Bertha smiled, pleased with his answer. “Your daett was a preacher?”
“Yes.”
“My father was too, most of my young life,” Bertha said. “Then the Lord chose him to be the bishop of our church.”
“I thought the Amish didn’t believe in advanced education—even biblical. How did your father come to possess all these?”
“My father’s collection is quite unusual for an Amish bishop. There was a regular guest with whom he became close friends—a professor of Bible at a small Christian college. They had many discussions about religion over the years. My father shared his own copies of Amish works with his friend, and they spent hours together comparing his German Bible with Englisch translations. The professor brought my father gifts of books every time he came. The friendship spanned decades.”
“And your father read all these?”
“Cover to cover. He never desired the position of bishop, but he took the heavy mantle Gott chose for him very seriously. He struggled to gain wisdom.”
“Why did he accept the position of bishop if he didn’t want it?”
“When a young man is baptized into the Amish church, he agrees to serve in whatever position Gott might choose for him. Our belief is that, if chosen, Gott will give him the strength to carry out his responsibilities.”
“Did he get into trouble with the others for all this study?”
“It was not something he discussed with the others.” She looked beyond him through the window, as though seeing into the past. “I doubt anyone outside our family knew. The Amish believe there is a risk in much study. Even of the Bible. There is a temptation to be proud of one’s ability to quote Scripture or know where certain passages are. My father did not tout his scholarship; instead, he took the knowledge deep into his soul and allowed it to come out only in ways that helped him lead his flock.”
“He sounds like a great man.”
“No!” Bertha looked alarmed at his praise of her father. “He was a humble man—as Gott willed.”
Joe plucked another well-thumbed book off the shelf, J. Gresham Machen’s The Virgin Birth of Christ. A classic.
“You can read them if you want,” Bertha said. “I haven’t known what to do with them. It would not be appropriate to give them to someone in our church. Few would understand.”
Joe reverently put the book back on the shelf and dusted off his hands. This room could be glorious with a little work and a comfortable chair. Strangely enough, he found himself longing to be lost in Abraham’s books.
It had been years since he’d had the desire to study. Now, after all he’d been through, he found himself eager to dig into the Word of God and these classic works of biblical scholars.
“Do you mind if I paint the walls?”
“No, I would be delighted. I will pay for the supplies.”
He felt more than a glimmer of hope. No one would ever expect to find him here in Sugarcreek, Ohio, living in an Amish daadi haus and working as a handyman. It was practically the last place on earth anyone would look. It would be so good for Bobby, as well as for himself, to have a place to come home to each day.
That is—if Rachel continued their unspoken truce. He thought they had done pretty well together yesterday at their little picnic. He’d done everything he knew to put her at ease.
“If you think you can live here,” Bertha said, as though reading his thoughts, “without missing too much the electricity and the television—I think you can have a good life. Bobby will give all of us joy, and we can help you watch over him. You will have no more need to run.” She smiled. “I do not think anyone would ever suspect that someone famous would be living here at our humble farm.”
“I am more grateful than you can know. But I hate having to accept pay from you.”
“The Bible says that a workman is worthy of his hire. We have enough money to pay you. Rachel has seen to that. Although I do not think she quite had this in mind.”
Before he could inquire about that interesting piece of information, Bertha clumped out of the daadi haus, shaking her head and chuckling at some inward, private joke. Then she turned back with a grin so wide it warmed his heart.
“Welcome home, Joe.”
It was Monday, and once again Rachel had a day off—and she had no idea what to do with herself. What did regular women do on their days off—women who had normal jobs and didn’t tote guns? Did they visit friends? Do their nails? Shop for clothes?
Shop.
Not something usually high on her list, but today it seemed like an intriguing idea. She had done nothing at all with the inheritance she’d received, except to turn a portion over for her aunts’ use.
She deserved to buy at least a little something for herself. Maybe some new clothes. Or something for the house. Serious shopping would require a drive to New Philadelphia and the New Towne Mall, but the day was gorgeous and New Philly not all that far away.
A bubble of excitement rose within her at the thought. As she went to her closet to get dressed, it occurred to her that this shopping trip was actually seriously overdue. Her wardrobe was functional but sparse. Half of her attire consisted of her basic blue-on-blue uniforms.
She was going to spend some money today, and she was going to enjoy every minute of it!
Five hours later, she staggered back into her home, footsore, eyes glazed, and laden with bags. The only thing in the world she wanted was to soak in a hot tub until the ache of mall-walking drained away with the bathwater.
Fortunately, she had just the thing. A trip to Bath and Body Works had bagged a citrus-ginger bubble bath and shampoo that had caught her attention the moment she’d sniffed the sample. Refreshing. Light. Perfect. She had also purchased some candles of the same scent, which she’d lit and placed around the bathroom.
She had never been one for scents, but there was something about this one that made her want to close her eyes, inhale, and smile.
Which was exactly what she did after she pinned her hair up and stepped into her seldom-used, claw-foot bathtub.
Pampering herself felt a little strange. She was half-embarrassed by indulging in such luxury.
Her final act of indulgence had been picking up a new mystery novel at Waldenbooks. She loved mysteries. Loved her ability to solve them long before she’d turned the last page—but for the life of her, she couldn’t remember the last time she had allowed herself the joy of reading one.
Ed was right. She needed to loosen up a little. Quit being a cop all the time. Quit feeling responsible for her aunts all the time. Quit—
The phone rang. And rang. And rang.
Her first instinct was to ignore it, but her responsible nature got the better of her. She dragged herself, dripping, out of the warm, sweet-smelling water.
Three minutes later, the tub was draining and Rachel was toweling off. Aunt Bertha had called. Joe was preparing the daadi haus for habitation, and Bertha wondered if Rachel couldn’t come and help. Bertha felt it would be best for Bobby’s health if they could move in quickly.
Rachel had no choice. She pu
lled the hairpins out of her hair and shook her head. The haircut she had received a few hours earlier during her shopping spree fell easily into place. As she dressed in her newly purchased, better-fitting jeans and an apricot T-shirt, she wondered if Joe would notice anything different about her.
Not that it mattered or anything.
She wasn’t going over there to impress Joe. She was going because her aunts had asked her to.
She told herself that Joe’s being there had absolutely nothing to do with the fact that she was wearing her new clothes to go help clean the daadi haus.
With Bobby happily “helping” Lydia bake cookies, Joe set to work heating water on the stove. The moment it was hot enough, he added some cold water, rolled up his sleeves, and plunged his hands into the now-warm soapy water. The daadi haus wasn’t so big that he couldn’t scrub down most of it by nightfall.
He was whistling a tune, down on his hands and knees, and scrubbing the kitchen floor when he heard a noise and looked up. Rachel had entered the house. Once again, she was not in uniform—and she looked absolutely stunning.
“Hi,” she said.
He concentrated on wringing out the rag he had been using. “Hi, yourself.”
“You’re really going to do this? Move in here?”
“I really am.”
“You will miss having electricity.” Rachel dropped into one of the kitchen chairs.
“I doubt it. I’ve lived without it before.”
“Oh?”
His unusual childhood had been a matter of much discussion in the media at one time. He had no intention of discussing it any further.
He noticed she was not wearing her habitual stark ponytail and had gotten a new haircut that framed and softened her face. She had the features of a true beauty, the fact of which she seemed utterly unaware.
“Aren’t you working today?” He glanced away, afraid to spend any more time thinking about how lovely she was. The last thing he needed was to develop an attraction to a nosy cop.
“Nope.” She crossed her long, denim-clad legs. “Bertha asked me to help you.”
Her T-shirt fit her perfectly, and those jeans accentuated curves he had never noticed when she was wearing her uniform.
He stared hard at the floor he was mopping. “Why?”
“She thinks the sooner you move in here, the healthier it will be for Bobby.”
He went to the sink to dump the dirty water. As he passed by her, he noticed a scent so enticing it made him want to bury his nose in her hair and inhale.
Not a good thing to have on his mind right now.
He busied himself by pouring out the bucket of water and refilling with fresh. “Bertha’s probably right.”
“She usually is. Drives me crazy sometimes.” Rachel stood and looked around the half-cleaned kitchen. “So—what can I do to help?”
Joe felt a little strange about allowing Rachel to help him; he still didn’t know if she considered him a friend or a foe. But Bertha had sent her over here, and it wasn’t his place to send her away. He just wished he wasn’t suddenly so aware of her as a woman.
“I was planning on scrubbing down the study next,” he said.
“All those windows will need polishing. I could do that.”
“You’re dressed too nice.”
She seemed startled that he had noticed. “I—I went shopping today.”
“I can tell.”
Was it his imagination, or was Rachel starting to blush?
“I have some work clothes upstairs in the farmhouse,” she said. “I’ll put something else on.”
“Might be a good idea.”
Strangely enough, she didn’t move. Nor did he. They stood in the middle of the wet kitchen floor, staring at each other. Aware of each other. Only inches apart. As though truly seeing each other for the first time.
It was awkward…and intense. The air grew heavier, making it difficult to breathe.
As though drawn by a magnet, Joe’s hand lifted and touched a strand of her silky hair.
She didn’t move.
His index finger moved to her cheek, and he gently caressed the curve of her jaw. Her sudden intake of breath at his touch broke the spell that had fallen upon them.
Joe turned away first, avoiding her gaze, busying himself with heating fresh water…angry with himself for doing something so stupid.
Rachel hesitated, as though trying to process what had just happened. Then, without a word, she ran into the farmhouse.
She came back with Windex and paper towels, wearing a flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled up—and determinedly acting as though nothing at all had just transpired between them.
Joe was relieved that she looked ready to work instead of ready to walk into a lonely man’s dreams.
Unfortunately, she still smelled like a mix of ginger and oranges—
a scent he was determined to ignore as they carried their cleaning supplies into the study.
“I remember my grandfather reading in here,” Rachel said as she sprayed the window cleaner on a dingy pane. “He kept peppermints in a drawer and always gave me one when I came to visit him. I would sit on his lap, and he would tell me stories about our people.”
Joe pulled an armload of dusty books off the shelves and laid them on the desk. “You must have loved that.”
“I did. He was kind to me.”
Rachel was so engrossed in her task that she didn’t notice him watching her as the late afternoon sun made the natural highlights of her light brown hair shine like burnished gold. She didn’t notice as his eyes traced the curves of her body. She didn’t notice as he forced his gaze away from her.
Rachel was not the type of woman he had ever thought he would be interested in—and he didn’t want her in his life now. Not as things were.
But he couldn’t help thinking about what a ferocious and wonderful mother this half-Amish girl would make some lucky child. What a strong companion and loyal wife she would be to some fortunate man.
Joe fought against the fantasy of him and Rachel together. He fought against indulging in the dream that he was an ordinary man who could build a simple life for his son in the sweet Ohio town of Sugarcreek. Dreams like that weren’t for people like him.
Chapter 10
Joe applied one last stroke of off-white paint over the dark paneling in the living room. Yesterday, with Rachel’s help, he had finished the kitchen with the same color.
Based on what he had seen within the aunts’ farmhouse, the Amish preferred plain white walls. Fancy colors were studiously avoided—with the exception of their quilts, dishes, and exuberant flower gardens.
However, with Bertha’s permission, he had chosen a light blue for Bobby’s bedroom, one close to the shade his wife had used in his son’s old bedroom back home. Grace had called it “desert blue” and had insisted on having the other twenty-two rooms of their home professionally painted in what she had called “Navajo colors.”
Joe had hated the extravagance of that house but had purchased it because Grace wanted it so badly. He loved simplicity. Always had. Grace’s need for show had been a struggle for him to accept.
This Spartan daadi haus suited him perfectly. The austerity of it reminded him of the bare, windswept huts he had known as a child.
Finished with the living room, he took his painting supplies into Abraham’s study, which, as a small treat for himself, he had saved for last.
He laid a few newspapers on the floor and opened another fresh can of paint. He had never realized how the simple act of smoothing paint onto walls could feel so cleansing. He loved this task of covering the years of stains and smudges with the bright, light paint. It satisfied something deep within his soul. It felt as if he were making his own life new again with each stroke. Each finished room felt like a small rebirth.
If he could just hold on here for a while longer, perhaps he could manage to live the simple life he craved. Maybe he could blend in and become that average guy no one took notic
e of. An ordinary Joe, living an ordinary life, in an ordinary town, doing an ordinary job. No pressure. No press. No one hounding him for an autograph or an interview.
It was a vision entirely too good to be true. The most he could hope for was a respite. He knew that somehow, some way, it would eventually come out that he was here, and then the nation’s ravenous curiosity about him would be fueled by those who wrote the news.
Abraham’s desk was so heavy when he tried to move it more into the center of the room that he pulled drawers out to lighten it. The top drawer held old-fashioned pump fountain pens, a bottle of ink, two yellow pencils that had been carefully sharpened with a pocket knife instead of an electric sharpener, and a more recent book than the ones on the shelves. He reached in and drew out a hardback copy of Forty Years Preaching Christ on the African Plains.
It was, Joe knew, written by a famous African missionary, telling the stories of a life spent building congregations in some of the poorest villages in the world.
He turned to the back cover, where there was a full-page picture of the author, Dr. Robert Mattias. His father’s familiar, craggy face stared up at him. Joe had read the book, of course. His dad had been a master storyteller, and the book was good—part adventure and part hard-core evangelism.
It had been a small publishing success in the Christian book market a few years earlier. Joe would bet his life that every penny of royalties his father received had gone into the stomachs of his people and the drilling of more wells for fresh water in the war-torn countries where his father had labored.
That was the kind of man his father was.
The book included some stories of himself as a small boy. His father’s love for him had shown through, in spite of the rift now between them. He felt a pang as he pictured his father bending over a desk, penning page after page. How amazing that it had somehow touched the life of an old Amish bishop, and possibly in the very place Joe would soon be residing!
Joe knew that some people would call this a coincidence, but his father had never believed in coincidences. He had taught Joe that God watched over every aspect of the lives of those who served Him.
The Sugar Haus Inn Page 12
