IN PLAIN View

by Olivia Newport

  “We should do a driving lesson,” Lauren said. “No point in having a car and letting it sit in the parking lot.”

  “Whenever you’re ready.”

  “Admit it, you like driving.” Lauren snapped her laptop shut. “Let’s go now.”

  Ruth did not stifle her laugh. She had been lonely for so long after leaving the valley of her family’s home. It was good to once again be with someone who knew her well.

  “I’ll get the key.”

  Tom Reynolds was cranky.

  His mood rarely faltered this much, but Annie almost wished she were riding in the open bed of his truck instead of wedged between him and Rufus. Before they left Westcliffe, Annie toyed with seeking counsel from both men while the three of them were captive to the road. What if something were going on with the boys? Tom and Rufus could sort it out. In only minutes, though, Tom’s disposition clamped her mouth shut.

  Tom twisted the steering wheel in a sharp turn. “Carter has too much unsupervised time. When summer vacation comes, he’ll have way too much free time.”

  “He’s a good boy, Tom,” Rufus said.

  “When he was little, Trish and I could not leave him alone for a minute or he’d get into trouble.” Tom accelerated. “Can’t you keep him occupied on your crew, Rufus? You wouldn’t even have to pay him.”

  Annie blocked out most of Tom’s tirade, unwilling to offer Carter up for sacrifice at the moment. She gripped the seat when he took turns a little too fast. She glanced at Rufus every few minutes, admiring his calm responses.

  But, no, this did not seem like the time to mention to Tom that his son might be building a bomb and that his Amish friends— including Rufus’s brother—might be helping him. She could not be sure, and maybe she was wrong, and she did not want to make false accusations, so never mind. How do you know? he would ask. Because I’m nosy and jump to conclusions and I have no proof, she would have to say. She did not want the Amish to dub her Nosy Annalise.

  They pulled up—finally—in front of Annie’s parents’ home. With Mrs. Weichert’s permission, Annie had used the phone in the shop to alert her mother that she was coming and to make sure she would be home. When Annie got out of the truck, Myra Friesen was already standing in the front door frame.

  “I’m not so sure about this,” Annie muttered in that moment when she was wedged between the truck and Rufus standing at the open door.

  “It’s the right thing.”

  Visions of the red dress flashed through Annie’s mind. She would only be home a few hours this time. Surely she could not get into trouble in one afternoon.

  No. She wouldn’t. She just wouldn’t. In fact, she would put that dress in the trash herself.

  Her arm brushed Rufus’s as she moved past him, and his fingers fluttered for hers.

  A rare gesture. He knew how much she needed it.

  “When I come back, I will come in and say hello to your mother.” As he spoke, Rufus waved at Myra, who returned the gesture with the delay of reluctance.

  Twenty-Six

  I only wish you were staying longer.” Annie’s mother squeezed her tight. “I made brunch.”

  “Quiche Lorraine?” Just the thought triggered Annie’s salivary glands. Her mother’s quiche, a family weekend staple during Annie’s childhood, was a dish she would like to learn to make now that she was determined to cook properly.

  “With a fresh spinach-cranberry salad I still have to put together.” Myra turned toward the kitchen.

  “Almonds?” Annie followed her mother.

  “Of course.”

  “I took all this for granted growing up.” Annie perched on a stool at the breakfast bar, where she could smell the baking quiche and imagine it rimmed by a perfectly golden crust. Her mother would know precisely the moment to remove it from the oven. “The next time I come, maybe you can teach me to make your quiche.”

  “I’m glad to hear there will be a next time.” Myra opened the refrigerator and rapidly transferred an array of ingredients to the counter.

  “Of course there will be a next time, Mom. You’re being dramatic.”

  “I might argue that you’re the one with the flair for drama of late, but let’s not quibble.” Myra dumped a bag of spinach in a colander. “Oh, before I forget, there’s some mail for you on the sideboard in the dining room. Some of it looks important.”

  Annie doubted important mail would be coming to her parents’ home. She had been living in Westcliffe for eight months now, and mail came to her house. “Probably junk.”

  “I don’t think so. You’d better look at it.” Myra brushed her hands on a dish towel. “I’ll get it.”

  “Mom—” Before Annie voiced her protest that she could fetch her own mail, Myra whizzed past her into the dining room and quickly returned.

  “This does not look like junk.” Myra tapped the envelope that sat atop a clothing catalog and a bank advertisement. “Isn’t that the company you sold to?”

  Annie picked up the flat manila envelope, imprinted with the logo of Liam-Ryder Industries. “Yes. It’s probably some formality, a notification the government requires.”

  “I may not be a corporate executive, but that doesn’t look like a form letter to me. Open it.” Myra picked up a knife and let it drop through a cucumber in six quick taps.

  Annie tore the envelope open. “Are you making dessert?”

  “I have some Bosc pears. I was going to do something fancy, but I ran out of time.”

  “We can just eat them fresh.” Annie slid a letter out of the envelope.

  “I have caramel sauce.”

  “That would be good, too.” Annie scanned the embossed page in her hand. How in the world had Liam-Ryder Industries tracked her down to her parents’ address? And why? The sale of her software company, including its intellectual property assets, was final months ago. She let her breath out slowly as she read more carefully.

  “What do they want?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  Continued partnership with L-R Industries.

  Two years of exclusive creative work.

  Operate from the location of her choice.

  A financial package that made Annie look twice.

  Liam-Ryder Industries had bought her company and her innovative software to track and analyze shopping habits for individuals according to several variables. Now they wanted her, too.

  Her next creative challenge could be the next software advance to transform the service industry. Annie turned the letter, the envelope, and the junk mail facedown on the breakfast bar.

  “I don’t know why they’re sending me mail here. Can I help you with the salad?”

  “Would you rather have raisins instead of cranberries?” Myra opened a cabinet and pulled out a box. “I have the golden kind you always liked.”

  “Cranberries are fine.” Annie slid off her stool. “Let me make the salad.”

  The home phone rang, and Myra answered. From her mother’s end of the conversation, Annie could tell Myra had launched into another community fund-raiser project. Myra’s promise to track down a catering list took her out of the room. Annie picked up the knife her mother had abandoned and cut a few more slices of cucumber and considered beginning on the water chestnuts.

  She glanced back at the letter from Liam-Ryder. The amount of money they were offering approached obscene levels for only two years of work. The president of L-R Industries had not said exactly what they wanted her to do—that would have been risky to put in writing, she supposed—but Annie knew he would not have approached her if the challenge were not stimulating.

  The chase.

  The hunt.

  The conquest.

  That tempted her more than the money. Curiosity made Annie’s brain click through its gears. She laid the knife down and picked up the letter again then read it for the third time at a pace that allowed her to speculate on between-the-lines innuendos. Temptation crept through her, as seductive as the red dress had been. Abruptly she ope
ned the door to the cabinet beneath the sink and dropped the whole pile of mail into the trash. She was chopping water chestnuts when Myra returned.

  “Sometimes I think it would be easier to skip the chicken. We all just pretend it doesn’t taste like rubber,” Myra said. “Why don’t we just ask people for money and save everybody a lot of time and fuss? It seems like we’re always feeding someone’s ego with these dinner events.”

  Annie pinched her shoulders up and held them there. “Maybe you don’t have to plan them anymore.”

  “Believe me, I’m tempted. Your father insists the social contacts are good for his business.” Annie was afraid that if she sliced any faster, her bounty would include a fingertip.

  With the swiftness of long habit, Myra tore off a paper towel and wiped up the widening puddle beneath the colander of spinach on the counter. She opened the cabinet door to toss the soggy towel into the trash.

  Myra picked up the letter. “Throwing away your mail so quickly?”

  “It’s nothing I’m interested in.” Annie reached for the letter, intending to crumple it this time.

  Myra raised her arm and stepped back, keeping the letter out of Annie’s reach and already reading. “Annie! This is an amazing opportunity!”

  “Under other circumstances, yes, it would be.” Annie resumed chopping.

  “But two years, Annie. Then you could be comfortable and never have to worry about money again.”

  “I already don’t worry about money.”

  “Surely you’re allowed to make a living. After all, you haven’t actually joined the Amish. It’s not too late to back out.”

  Annie swallowed and laid the knife down carefully before turning to her mother. “Mom, I don’t want to back out. That’s the last thing I want.”

  Color evaporated from Myra’s face. “I thought you were just thinking about things.”

  “Well, I’ve been thinking for quite a while now. It might be time for me to do something more definite.”

  Myra moistened her lips and twitched her chin. “I read somewhere that the Amish are allowed to use computers as part of their businesses. That’s all you’d be doing.”

  Annie shook her head. “You know it would be much more than that for me. My relationship with computers is a different life, a different set of values than anything the Amish could ever imagine or justify.”

  Annie felt it when she used Mrs. Weichert’s computer at the shop for more than a quick search for information. She felt it when she picked up Carter’s phone and looked at his Internet search history. Months of disciplining herself not to depend on the gratification of instantaneous information would melt into a river of slime running through her life if she considered L-R Industry’s offer.

  “I can’t, Mom,” she said.

  “You could if you wanted to.”

  “But I don’t want to. And I don’t want to want to.”

  “Are you and Rufus getting serious? Is that it?”

  “Honestly, I’m not sure what we are, Mom. That’s not the point. I want to live more simply, with deeper values.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with the values your father and I taught you.”

  “I didn’t say there was, Mom. Maybe I need to understand them better. Maybe I’m just choosing something more overt. More definite.”

  “Then it’s his family. His mother.”

  “Franey? What do you mean?”

  “You’re closer to her than you are to me.”

  “Oh, Mom.”

  “Don’t deny it. You didn’t want to come home while Penny was here because you didn’t want to miss your quilt lesson with Franey Beiler. You’re replacing me. How can I have a place in your life if you go Amish?”

  “ ‘Go Amish’?”

  “You have a family, Annie. Why are you turning your back on us?”

  Annie dug the heels of her hands into her eyes.

  “You’ve done that since you were a toddler,” Myra said. “It’s as if you made up your mind not to cry and so you just won’t. I bet Franey Beiler doesn’t know that about you.”

  “It’s not a contest, Mom.”

  Myra gasped and lurched toward the oven, slamming the door down and reaching in with a dish towel as her hot pad. She set the quiche on the stovetop.

  “Look at that. I’ve never burned a quiche before in my life. This crust is ruined.”

  They ate without saying much. The crust was darker than usual but far from ruined. After wedges of fresh pear, they agreed they would take a walk around the neighborhood. It did not escape Annie’s notice that her mother chose a route that took her past her old elementary school, past her childhood best friend’s house—though her friend had moved away years ago— and past her middle school. Annie felt every tortuous tick of the afternoon’s minutes until it was time for Rufus and Tom to return.

  When the red truck pulled up, Annie was already waiting outside in one of the two chairs her mother left year-round on a flagstone patio. She had said good-bye to her mother a few minutes earlier. Now she jumped up and crossed the driveway before Rufus could get out of the truck.

  “Let’s go home,” she said through the open window.

  “I was going to greet your mother.” Rufus gestured toward the house.

  “It’s not a good time.” Annie lurched into the cab.

  Twenty-Seven

  On Saturday, Annie parked her bicycle at the bottom of the steps leading up to the Beilers’ front porch. The front door creaked, and Jacob Beiler pushed the screen door open wide.

  “Mamm said you would be here soon.”

  “Well, here I am.”

  Annie never could manage to suppress a smile at the sight of the little boy who had attached himself to her nearly a year ago. While Rufus’s feelings toward her mystified her at times, Jacob never gave her a moment’s doubt. She straightened the fullness of her dress and reached up to make sure her prayer kapp had not escaped her head during the ride from town.

  Jacob let the screen door slam behind him. “Mamm said to tell you she would be right back. Sophie is supposed to be in charge of me. I keep telling Mamm I don’t need anyone to be in charge of me.”

  Annie climbed the porch steps and gave Jacob’s shoulder a quick squeeze. “So your mamm is not here?”

  “You’re supposed to get everything out and get started.” Jacob turned and led Annie into the living room and toward the chest he knew held her quilt-in-progress.

  They both turned at the sound of steps coming through the dining room.

  “Good morning, Annalise.” Sophie nodded with her greeting. “I’m sorry I must steal Jacob back from you. He has not finished his work in the kitchen.”

  “Of course.” Annie put a hand on Jacob’s back and nudged him toward his sister.

  “Make yourself at home,” Sophie said. “You know you are always welcome here.”

  His shoulders slumped, Jacob trudged after Sophie into the kitchen. Annie lifted the lid on the cedar chest, savoring the touch of Rufus’s workmanship in her fingers. Saturday morning quilting sessions illumined her weeks. Annie had missed too many of them recently. Franey Beiler was a skillful, patient teacher. Perhaps she found more to commend in Annie’s work than it deserved, but her kindness crafted hope in Annie. As she lifted the quilt out of its safekeeping, Annie listened for the familiar cadence of Franey’s steps across the hand-scrubbed, broad-planked flooring.

  Her mother’s words from three days ago oozed through Annie’s mind now. Was there any truth in them? Annie certainly had not set out to replace her mother with a relationship with Franey Beiler. But did Franey somehow see Annie as a replacement for the daughter who had fled her own baptism rather than join the Amish congregation? Franey taught Annie skills she had taught her own daughters—including Ruth. Annie could bake a decent loaf of bread without a recipe and a tasty apple schnitzel if she paid close attention to the steps of the process. She was in Franey’s kitchen often enough at mealtimes to learn more about cooking than she had ever
tried to absorb from her own mother. She knew Franey liked her. Loved her, even. So did Eli. If she decided to formally join the Amish, they would welcome her as part of their family regardless of what became of her relationship with Rufus. But would she be a consolation prize? A peculiar comfort to offset Ruth’s decision?

  Annie shook the thought out of her head. The quilt was in her arms now, and she also snared the small basket that held threads and scissors and templates. She moved to the sofa to take her usual seat, remembering the block she was working on two weeks ago. A hoop still held it taut, as smooth on the bottom as it was on the top.

  It took only seconds for Annie to see something was not right. Someone had been working on her quilt.

  Someone who used fine, even stitches.

  The block was finished—and flawless. Her own stitches, which she had wrestled with for four hours last week, had been picked out with a delicate touch that left the cotton fabric unblemished. Meticulous stitches replaced her work. Each length of thread was exactly the same measurement, equal distance apart, and pulled through with faultless tension. Annie flipped the quilt over and ran her fingertips over the back of the square. She found no knots visible to the eye or available to touch, only the same perfection on the underside that the quilt top boasted.

  Fury roiled, then grief. If she quilted every day for a year, she could never replicate that precision.

  But perfect as they were, the stitches spoiled her quilt. It was her quilt.

  Moving off the sofa, Annie spread the quilt open on the floor, squatted, and crept around all four sides, lifting the unbound edges at intervals. Many of the squares were still basted in place to keep them from moving during the quilting process, but even an unpracticed eye could see The difference between the work she had done under Franey’s supervision and the expert stitching that now shone from the block in the quilt hoop.

  Annie looked more closely. The thread was not hers. The color match was closer than her choice had been. How was that possible?