Sisters of the Quilt

by Cindy Woodsmall

  Paul brushed locks of hair off Hannah’s neck and kissed it, causing goose flesh to run down her. He drew a sleepy breath. “I love you, Hannah.” He planted another kiss on her neck. “Are we up for the day?”

  “The joys and victories and challenges of the day are calling. Can you hear them?” She put his hand over the left side of her stomach. “And your son seems to be up for a while too. You don’t have to be.” But she knew he would. They seemed unable to take the other one’s presence for granted.

  “It’s not even daylight … again. He’s taking after his mother already?” he teased.

  She sat up, smacking him in the face with a pillow.

  He laughed, deflecting the bombardment before he pulled her into his arms, and she snuggled against his bare chest. Throughout their years together, the laughter that rang through their small home as they juggled work with play continued to bring healing to both of them.

  They worked with healthy people to keep them healthy and with the unhealthy of mind or body to help them find or regain their health. Life didn’t always go the way the suffering ones wanted, but Hannah and Paul drew their strength and peace from things they could never fully understand, that inside the God of nevertheless, abundant life could always be found—even on a fallen planet.

  “Nevertheless,” she whispered.

  Paul’s warm hand gently moved to hers, and he interlaced their fingers. “Nevertheless.”

  Acknowledgments

  To those who believed, helped, and encouraged—your faithfulness made this novel, as well as this series, possible. Thank you!

  Shannon Hill, my editor and mentor at WaterBrook Multnomah. Marci Burke, my critique partner and dear friend. You two are amazing.

  Miriam Flaud, my Old Order Amish friend. Your companionship alone has made this journey worthwhile.

  Steve Laube, my agent. I stand amazed—from handling stress for me to helping me get a handle on a new project.

  Eldo and Dorcas Miller, whose expertise and insights about the Plain Mennonite kept my course steady throughout this journey. Your prayers have sustained me over and over again.

  Joan Kunaniec, whose wisdom in the ways of the Plain Mennonite life has been a blessing beyond words. Your knowledge, deep. Your willingness to share, complete.

  Jeffry J. Bizon, MD, OB/GYN, whose medical knowledge and energy for this three-book project have been greater than my gratitude can cover. Kathy Bizon, whose friendship, encouragement, and brain-storming help keep me focused.

  Vicki Cato, RN, outpatient surgery Northeast Georgia Health System, who’s always willing to answer medical questions.

  Terry Stucky, whose time and insights into the story and character arc of this three-book series were very beneficial.

  Rhonda Shonk, Office Manager, Alliance City Schools Career Centre and the Robert T White School of Practical Nursing, whose knowledge continued to keep Hannah’s schooling experiences accurate.

  Carol Bartley, my line editor, whose gentle but thorough edits are trustworthy and absolute as we turn each final manuscript into as seamless a story as possible. I would not have wanted to do this without you!

  And a special thank-you to everyone on the WaterBrook team—sales, marketing, publicity, and cover art. I’ll never know how I managed to get to work with such a gifted group, but I’m deeply grateful.

  Glossary

  aa—also, too

  an—on

  Arewet—word

  bin—am

  bin kumme—have come

  bis—until

  Bischt—are

  Bobbeli—baby

  Bsuch—visit

  bsuche—to visit

  da—the

  Daadi Haus—grandfather’s house.

  Generally this refers to a house that is attached to or is near the main house and belongs to a grandparent. Many times the main house belonged to the grandparents when they were raising their family. The main house is usually passed down to a son, who takes over the responsibilities his parents once had. The grandparents then move into the smaller place and usually have fewer responsibilities.

  Daed—dad or father

  Dei—your

  Denk—think

  denki—thank you

  die—the

  do—here

  do yetz—recently

  draus—out

  drei—three

  du—you [singular]

  eens—one

  Englischer—a non-Amish person.

  Mennonite sects whose women wear the prayer Kapps are not considered Englischers and are often referred to as Plain Mennonites.

  es—it

  ganz—quite

  Genunk—enough

  glei—soon

  Grossmammi—grandmother

  Gut—good

  hab—have

  hatt—difficult or hard

  Hatzer—hearts

  Helfe—help

  Ich—I

  in—in

  Iss—is

  Kann—can

  Kapp—a prayer covering or cap

  Kumm—come

  letz—wrong

  Liewer—dear (used when addressing males past preschool age)

  Liewi—dear (used when addressing females and young children)

  loss uns blaudere—let’s talk

  Mamm—mom or mother

  Mammi—shortened term of endearment for grandmother

  mei—my

  Mitgebrocht—brought

  net—not

  nix—nothing

  Pennsylvania Dutch—Pennsylvania German. The word Dutch in this phrase has nothing to do with the Netherlands. The original word was Deutsch, which means “German.” The Amish speak some High German (used in church services) and Pennsylvania German (Pennsylvania Dutch), and after a certain age, they are taught English.

  raus—out

  rumschpringe—running around

  Saag—tell

  uns—us

  unsrer—our

  verbinne—unite

  viel—much

  Was—what

  Wege—about

  Welt—world

  Wunderbaar—wonderful

  ya—yes (pronounced jah)

  zu—too

  zwee—two

  * Glossary taken from Eugene S. Stine, Pennsylvania German Dictionary (Birdsboro, PA: Pennsylvania German Society, 1996), and the usage confirmed by an instructor of the Pennsylvania Dutch language.

  About the Author

  CINDY WOODSMALL is a New York Times best-selling author whose connection with the Amish community has been featured on ABC Nightline and on the front page of the Wall Street Journal. She is the author of the Sisters of the Quilt series as well as The Bridge of Peace, The Hope of Refuge, and The Sound of Sleigh Bells. Her ability to authentically capture the heart of her characters comes from her real-life connections with Amish Mennonite and Old Order Amish families. Cindy lives in Georgia with her husband, their three sons, and two amazing daughters-in-law.

  To keep up with new releases, book signings, and other news, visit Cindy at www.cindywoodsmall.com.

  Reading group and discussion guides for each book are available for download online at www.waterbrookmultnomah.com.

  Sample chapters from

  The Hope of Refuge

  Book 1 in the Ada’s House series

  © Material

  Excerpted from The Hope of Refuge by Cindy Woodsmall, Copyright © 2009 by Cindy Woodsmall. Excerpted by permission of WaterBrook Press, a division of Random House, Inc. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.

  Prologue

  “Mama, can you tell me yet?” Cara held her favorite toy, stroking the small plastic horse as if it might respond to her tender touch. The brown ridges, designed to look like fur, had long ago faded to tan.

  Mama held the well-worn steering wheel in silence while she drove dirt roads Cara had never seen before. Dust flew in through th
e open windows and clung to Cara’s sweaty face, and the vinyl seat was hot to the touch when she laid her hand against it. Mama pressed the brake pedal, slowing the car to a near stop as they crossed another bridge with a roof over it. A covered bridge, Mama called it. The bumpiness of the wooden planks jarred Cara, making her bounce like she was riding a cardboard box down a set of stairs.

  Mama reached across the seat and ran her hand down the back of Cara’s head, probably trying to smooth out one of her cowlicks. No matter how short Mama cut her hair, she said the unruly mop always won the battle. “We’re going to visit a … a friend of mine. She’s Amish.” She placed her index finger on her lips. “I need you to do as the mother of Jesus did when it came to precious events. She treasured them in her heart and pondered them. I know you love our diary, and since you turned eight, you’ve been determined to write entries about everything, but you can’t—not this time. No drawing pictures or writing about any part of this trip. And you can’t ever tell your father, okay?”

  Sunlight bore down on them again as they drove out of the covered bridge. Cara searched the fields for horses. “Are we going to your hiding place?”

  Cara had a hiding place, one her mother had built for her inside the wall of the attic. They had tea parties in there sometimes when there was money for tea bags and sugar. And when Daddy needed quiet, her mother would silently whisk her to that secret room. If her mama didn’t return for her by nightfall, she’d sleep in there, only sneaking out for a minute if she needed to go to the bathroom.

  Mama nodded. “I told you every girl needs a fun place she can get away to for a while, right?”

  Cara nodded.

  “Well, this is mine. We’ll stay for a couple of days, and if you like it, maybe we’ll move here one day—just us girls.”

  Cara wondered if Mama was so tired of the bill collectors hounding her and Daddy that she was thinking of sneaking away and not even telling him where she was going. The familiar feeling returned—that feeling of her insides being Jell-O on a whirlybird ride. She clutched her toy horse even tighter and looked out the window, imagining herself on a stallion galloping into a world where food was free and her parents were happy.

  After they topped another hill, her mother slowed the vehicle and pulled into a driveway. Mama turned off the car. “Look at this place, Cara. That old white clapboard house has looked the same since I was a child.”

  The shutters hung crooked and didn’t have much paint left on them. “It’s really small, and it looks like ghosts live here.”

  Her mama laughed. “It’s called a Daadi Haus, which means it’s just for grandparents once their children are grown. It only has a small kitchen, two bedrooms, and a bathroom. This one has been here forpmany years. You’re right—it does look dilapidated. Come on.”

  Seconds after Cara shut the passenger door, an old woman stepped out from between tall rows of corn. She stared at them as if they were aliens, and Cara wondered if her mama really did know these people. The woman wore a long burgundy dress and no shoes. The wrinkles covering her face looked like a road map, with the lines taking on new twists as she frowned. Though it was July and too hot for a toboggan cap, she wore a white one.

  “Grossmammi Levina, ich bin kumme bsuche. Ich hab aa die Cara mitgebrocht.”

  Startled, Cara looked up at her mama. What was she saying? Was it code? Mama wasn’t even good at pig Latin.

  The old woman released her apron, and several ears of corn fell to the ground. She hurried up to Mama. “Malinda?”

  Tears brimmed in Mama’s eyes, and she nodded. The older woman squealed, long and loud, before she hugged Mama.

  A lanky boy came running from the rows. “Levina, was iss letz?” He stopped short, watching the two women for a moment before looking at Cara.

  As he studied her, she wondered if she looked as odd to him as he did to her. She hadn’t seen a boy in long black pants since winter ended, and she’d never seen one wear suspenders and a straw hat. Why would he work in a garden in a Sunday dress shirt?

  He snatched up several ears of corn the woman had dropped, walked to a wooden wheelbarrow, and dumped them.

  Cara picked up the rest of the ears and followed him. “You got a name?”

  “Ephraim.”

  “I can be lots of help if you’ll let me.”

  “Ya ever picked corn before?”

  Cara shook her head. “No, but I can learn.”

  He just stood there, watching her.

  She held out her horse to him. “Isn’t she a beauty?”

  He shrugged. “Looks a little worn to me.”

  Cara slid the horse into her pocket.

  Ephraim frowned. “Can I ask you a question?”

  She nodded.

  “Are you a boy or a girl?”

  The question didn’t bother her. She got it all the time at school from new teachers or ones who didn’t have her in their classes. They referred to her as a young man until they realized she wasn’t a boy. Lots of times it worked for her, like when she slipped right past the teacher who was the lavatory monitor and went into the boys’ bathroom to teach Jake Merrow a lesson about stealing her milk money. She got her money back, and he never told a soul that a girl gave him a fat lip. “If I say I’m a boy, will you let me help pick corn?”

  Ephraim laughed in a friendly way. “You know, I used to have a worn horse like the one you showed me. I kept him in my pocket too, until I lost him.”

  Cara shoved the horse deeper into her pocket. “You lost him?”

  He nodded. “Probably down by the creek where I was fishing. Do you fish?”

  She shook her head. “I’ve never seen a creek.”

  “Never seen one? Where are you from?”

  “New York City. My mama had to borrow a car for us to get beyond where the subway ends.”

  “Well, if you’re here when the workday is done, I’ll show you the creek. We got a rope swing, and if your mama will let you, you can swing out and drop into the deep part. How long are you here for?”

  She looked around the place. Her mama and the old woman were sitting under a shade tree, holding hands and talking. Across the road was a barn, and she could see a horse inside it. Green fields went clear to the horizon. She took a deep breath. The air smelled delicious, like dirt, but not city dirt. Like growing-food dirt. Maybe this was where her horse took her when she dreamed. The cornstalks reached for the sky, and her chest felt like little shoes were tap-dancing inside it. She should have known that if her mama liked something, it was worth liking.

  “Until it’s not a secret anymore, I think.”

  One

  Twenty years later

  Sunlight streamed through the bar’s dirty windows as the lunch crowd filled the place. Cara set two bottles of beer on the table in front of the familiar faces.

  The regulars knew the rules: all alcoholic drinks were paid for upon delivery. One of the men held a five-dollar bill toward her but kept his eyes on the television. The other took a long drink while he slid a hundred-dollar bill across the table.

  She stared at the bill, her heart pounding with desire. If earning money as a waitress wasn’t hard enough, Mac kept most of their tips. The money the customer slid across the table wasn’t just cash but power. It held the ability for her to fix Lori something besides boiled potatoes next week and to buy her a pair of shoes that didn’t pinch her feet.

  Would the customer even notice if I shortchanged him from such a large amount?

  Lines of honesty were often blurred by desperation. Cara loathed that she couldn’t apply for government help and that she had to uproot every few months to stay a few steps ahead of a maniac. Moving always cost money. Fresh security deposits on ever-increasing rents. Working time lost as she searched for another job—each one more pathetic than the one before it. Mike had managed to steal everything from her but mere existence. And her daughter.

  “I’ll get your change.” All of it. She took the money.

  “Cara.�
�� Mac’s gruff voice sailed across the room. From behind the bar he motioned for her. “Phone!” He shook the receiver at her. “Kendal says it’s an emergency.”

  Every sound echoing inside the wooden-and-glass room ceased. She hurried toward him, snaking around tables filled with people.

  “Keep it short.” Mac passed the phone to her and returned to serving customers.

  “Kendal, what’s wrong?”

  “He found us.” Her friend’s usually icy voice shook, and Cara knew she was more frightened than she’d been the other times.

  How could he after all we’ve done to hide? “We got a letter at our new place?”

  “No. Worse.” Kendal’s words quaked. “He was here. Broke the lock and came inside looking for you. He ransacked the place.”

  “He what?”

  “He’s getting meaner, Cara. He ripped open all the cushions, turned mattresses, emptied drawers and boxes. He found your leather book and … and insisted I stay while he made himself at home and read through it.”

  “We’ve got to call the police.”

  “You know we can’t.” Kendal dropped the sentence, and Cara heard her crying.

  They both knew that going to the police would be a mistake neither of them would survive.

  One of the waitresses plunked a tray of dirty dishes onto the counter. “Get off the phone, princess.”

  Cara plugged her index finger into her ear, trying desperately to think. “Where’s Lori?”

  “I’m sure they moved her to after-school care.” Through the phone line Cara heard a car door slam. They didn’t own a car.

  A male voice asked, “Where to?”

  Cara gripped the phone tighter. “What’s going on?”

  Kendal sobbed. “I’m sorry. I can’t take this anymore. All we do is live in fear and move from one part of New York to another. He’s … he’s not after me.”

  “You know he’s trying to isolate me from everyone. Please, Kendal.”