by Susan Wiggs
She took unabashed delight in sharing her world with him. Everything startled him—wall-to-wall carpeting, a restaurant menu, the fact that people could bring food to the table and earn a tip for doing so. She introduced him to pizza one night and sushi another, roaring with delight at the expression on his face as he watched the sushi chefs at work with their knives and blowtorches.
“Back home, we’d probably use this for fish bait,” he said, eyeing a portion of unagi and a roll covered in bright orange roe.
“Try it,” she said. “You’ll never look at fish bait the same way.”
He fumbled with the chopsticks, but managed to get a roe-covered morsel into his mouth. His eyes widened and then teared up. He swallowed hard, grabbed for a glass of water, and downed the whole thing.
“Not your cup of tea, then,” she said, suppressing a grin.
He gamely stabbed at another bite, this one from a vegetarian roll. “I’ll keep trying to like it.”
She gazed at him across the table. “Is it hard then? To like being in this world?”
He set down his chopsticks and gazed back at her. He seemed to be looking at her lips. “Sometimes it’s altogether too easy.”
Her mind lingered on his comment as they went for an after-dinner stroll back to the apartment. “By too easy, do you mean convenient?”
“Could be it’s just an adjustment, getting used to the way things work. Like someone brings the food ready-made, then takes away the dishes. Or you need to do the bookkeeping and there’s a program to tally everything up.”
“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
“No, it’s just a thing, as my friend Reese would say.” As they passed a trendy gym that was crammed with exercise machines, he shook his head. “Now that is something you won’t see in an Amish community—devices to make a body work harder.”
“Lots of people slave all day at a desk job. When you’re doing taxes, you probably sit around too.”
“Not all day. All night. During the day, it’s the farm or the horses. No need for the gym.”
It shows, she thought, unable to keep herself from checking out his muscular arms. In the deepest part of herself, she knew it wasn’t just attraction she was feeling. Deep down, she sensed an oh-so-satisfying flash of defiance—this was not her norm. It was something wholly new and different and unexpected. She could easily imagine her parents’ reaction if she said she had a crush on an Amish guy. It would probably surprise them less if she told them she was dating a traditional Inuit.
Yet even deeper down, at her very core, she felt apprehension. A better person would feel totally confident and open to pursuing this relationship, but she was not that better person. So for her, apprehension was the only possible thing to feel at this moment.
There was no future with Caleb Stoltz, and though they had never discussed anything of the sort, they both knew it. She had been doggedly on this path to a medical career for years and could not let herself falter. Any distraction—and he was highly distracting—was bound to make her feel apprehensive.
Looking around the riverwalk, she noticed an interracial couple on a park bench, a black executive in an expensive-looking suit, carrying a couture briefcase, with his arm around a white woman in a fast-food restaurant uniform. His entire focus was trained on his mobile phone while she blew bubbles with her gum and looked bored. Those two, thought Reese, knowing nothing else about the couple. They’ll never work out. She wondered what people thought when they saw her and Caleb together.
“Yes, but you have to admit, some of the conveniences are amazing,” she commented, dragging herself out of her own head.
“I never said they weren’t. Being able to hear any music you want with a nap on your phone is incredible.”
“Did you just say ‘with a nap’?”
“I did. No idea why you’d want to sleep through the music, though.”
“App,” she said.
“How’s that?”
“You mean ‘an app,’ not ‘a nap.’” She showed him her phone screen. “These are programs called applications—apps.”
“That makes a little more sense, then.” He took the phone from her and studied the screen, then lifted an eyebrow. “Booty Call?”
She flushed. “I never use that one. I forgot it was there.”
She grabbed for her phone, but he held it out of reach. He tapped another icon called Favorite Places. “Now, this is nice.”
“Other people’s travel pictures. You can see the world without ever having to leave your house.” She studied his rapt expression as he gazed at an idyllic beach scene. A thought struck her. “When was the last time you went down to the shore?”
“Never been. Never even seen the ocean.”
“Well, that’s just wrong. So guess what?”
He looked her straight in the eye, and that niggling apprehension dissolved. “Are you thinking what I think you’re thinking?”
Caleb admired Reese’s persistence. Once she got a notion in her head, there was no stopping her. She was absolutely convinced that he needed to see the ocean for the first time, and on a hot September day, she made it happen. After his morning visit to see Jonah, Caleb met her at the parking garage where she kept her car.
She was already there, looking like a butterfly in a gauzy white dress and a wide-brimmed straw hat with a pink scarf around it. He couldn’t keep from staring at her legs as she loaded things into the trunk and back seat. Then he cleared his throat to alert her before he got too riled up.
When she turned to him, her face lit with a smile he thought about all too frequently. “Ready?” she asked.
“I am. You need help with something?”
“Not yet. I will when we get there.” She put the top down, and he settled in the passenger seat. He had borrowed a pair of shorts and flip-flops from Leroy and wore a plain white T-shirt. When they stopped at a traffic light, he caught Reese staring at him.
“What?” he asked.
She jerked her gaze away. “Nothing.”
“You look at me like that and you see nothing?” With a chuckle, he propped his elbow on the window ledge.
“I just noticed you have a suntan.”
“Happens every summer.”
“I thought Amish guys wear long pants only.”
“Not when we go swimming.”
“Oh. You wear shorts, then. Swim trunks?”
“Nah. Never owned a pair of shorts.”
She turned back to face him and lowered her sunglasses. Her eyes were wide with dawning comprehension. “Oh.”
“It makes no sense to put on dry clothes and then go in the water.”
“When you put it that way . . .” The light changed, and she turned away. “Grab the sunscreen from that bag behind you,” she said. “It’s my duty as a doctor to warn you about sun damage. Do yourself a favor and put some on. We’ll put on more when we get there.”
He gamely spread the coconut-scented lotion on his thighs and arms.
“Don’t miss the tops of your feet,” she said. “Very vulnerable.”
“I never wore shoes in the summer until I was old enough to work the fields.”
“I’m curious. You make the simple life sound so idyllic. Why would anyone want to leave?”
“Everybody’s got his reasons. It’s complicated.”
“I can do complicated.” She flexed her hands on the steering wheel. “Hannah told me you intended to leave but came back when your brother was killed.”
He squinted at the road ahead. “I was away on rumspringa . . .” He still remembered the heady, unfettered sense of freedom and possibility of those times.
“And how did it go? Like Jerry Springa? Did you hang out at the mall and get high?”
He grinned. “You must’ve seen that documentary on the TV.”
“Parts of it, I admit. So is that what it was like?”
“Maybe for some. Not for me, though.”
“You weren’t such a rebel, then.”
>
“That depends on whose opinion you’re asking for. Some folks would say I was the worst kind of rebel. In the eyes of the most conservative members of our community, anyway.”
“Oh. So what’s the worst kind of rebellion?”
“I went to school.” He could tell from her expression that she didn’t understand. “To college. Community college. The owner of Grantham Farm paid my tuition and I took classes.”
“And people in your community objected to this?”
“Oh, yah.” Worldly knowledge inspired a hint of fear—always that. Fear was the thing that poked the beast awake. Asa had stood with his fists pressed to his sides, clenching and unclenching in silent rage. “Education is considered a more powerful lure than 3-D movies or rock ’n’ roll music,” Caleb told Reese. “The more a person learns, the more he wants to experience the world.”
“And yet you went back to Middle Grove.”
“I did.”
“Because of Jonah and Hannah.”
“That’s right.”
“Have you ever thought about leaving the community with the two of them?”
“Nope. John wanted them to be raised Amish. Honoring my brother’s last wish is the least I can do.” He paused, then unearthed one of his most painful memories. “John didn’t die right away when he was shot. He survived long enough to tell the bishop and me his final wish.”
“That his children be raised in the faith. Yes, you told me that. You’re very loyal,” she said. “And the kids are lucky to have you.”
He was more grateful than loyal. He owed John so much. There had been times when the one thing that stood between Caleb and his father’s fists had been his fiercely protective brother. For that alone, Caleb would be forever in John’s debt. Now more than ever, given what Jonah was going through.
She glanced over at him as they left the city behind. “You’re a good guy, Caleb Stoltz. And your big teenage rebellion was going to college. I still can’t get over that.”
“What was yours? Assuming you had one.”
“The usual. Sex, drugs, rock ’n’ roll. It didn’t really rattle my parents, though. They started talking to me about safe sex before I even hit puberty. They gave me a chart about recreational drugs and made me memorize the risks and antidotes. And they played arena rock all through my childhood—Pearl Jam, Nirvana, Soundgarden. If I really wanted to shock my parents, I would have refused to go to college.”
“Guess we both failed in our mission to rebel,” he said.
The highway swept them away, and the stream of traffic thinned to a trickle. She followed signs to a state road. Soon they would cross into New Jersey. Caleb had never been to New Jersey before. The stretch of road leading due east was all but deserted—one of the perks, Reese explained, of coming out on a weekday.
“Ever driven a car?” she asked him. “Hannah said you did.”
“A time or two. One of my buddies kept an old Chevy in a shed back home. We managed to get it up and running. Took turns driving it until my buddy’s father caught on and sent the thing to the junkyard.” He decided not to elaborate on his father’s reaction to the situation.
She pulled off to the side of the road. “Switch places with me.”
He didn’t need any urging. He jumped out and went to the driver’s side and fastened his seat belt. His knees were cramped awkwardly against the dashboard. “How does this adjust?” he asked her.
“There’s a switch on the side of your seat.” She leaned across him, took his hand, and guided it to a small lever near the floor. The soft weight of her against him, the smell of her hair, the feel of her sun-warmed skin made him dizzy. He held himself immobile, trying not to react to her nearness and her touch.
He managed to adjust the seat and then refastened his seat belt. “I got it,” he said. “Okay then. All set.”
“Same here,” she said. “It’s pretty straightforward. Let me know if you have any questions.”
He angled the rearview mirror, trying to remember the last time he’d driven a car. Hiram Voss’s old Chrysler, maybe ten years before. The occasional tractor or truck at Grantham for work or chores. That was about it, though. And a convertible sports car? Never.
His mouth curved upward as a sense of anticipation spread through him. He shifted into drive and checked the road—still empty. Then he eased out onto the highway. The car lurched a little until he got the hang of driving something so responsive. Smooth, steady acceleration and braking, that was the key.
Reese switched on the radio. A song about a bad habit and looking for a stranger was playing, the heavy beat thumping from invisible speakers. “The Kooks,” she said. “An oldie from the nineties.”
He liked the way the music felt as he drove along the arrow-straight road toward the shore. The flat pavement bisected an area of lowlands, passing scrubby marshes and occasional side roads leading to small settlements here and there. When he was a kid, he used to be obsessed with maps, tracing his finger along the lines marking roads and rivers, imagining places he knew he’d never see.
Glancing at the speedometer, he accelerated up to the speed limit, feeling the power of the engine carry them along. He relaxed and sank into the pleasure of freedom flowing through him. The warm sun and the wind, the radio playing, the coconut essence of sunscreen, a pretty girl beside him—all these elements combined into a singular sensation that was so heady he almost didn’t have a name for it. He tipped back his head and laughed aloud.
“I’m glad you’re enjoying this,” said Reese.
“Enjoying is an understatement. It feels like freedom and joy and exhilaration all at once.”
“We can all use more of that.”
“Yeah?”
“I have this problem. I tend to forget to have fun because I get so busy with studying and work and trying to plan ahead.”
“That’s quite a problem.”
“I’m working on it.” She turned slightly in her seat. “This is helping. How do you like driving?”
“This car doesn’t handle like a tractor.” He pressed on the accelerator and with a growl of power, the car surged even faster. Caleb allowed his worries to peel away like leaves on the wind. He could do anything. Anything was possible. Jonah would heal and be as good as new. Hannah would find her own happiness, somehow. And he—
A high-pitched yip crashed into his thoughts.
“Oh, shit,” said Reese, looking back over her shoulder. “Pull over. Shit. Shit. Shit.”
He glanced in the rearview mirror. Sure enough, the blinking, flashing, colorful lights of a highway patrol car filled his vision. He eased the convertible over to the shoulder of the road and shut off the engine.
“Do you know what to do?” asked Reese. She looked ghostly pale, as though bracing herself for disaster.
“What I’m told, I reckon.”
“Damn. Shit. Quick, let’s get our story straight.”
“What’s wrong with the truth?”
“The truth will get you a giant expensive speeding ticket.”
“Crime doesn’t pay,” he murmured. “Neither does lying.”
He heard the crunch of boots on gravel as the cop approached. She had on a Highway Patrol uniform. A badge and gun in a holster gleamed in the sunlight. She wore dark glasses and a hat, hair in a ponytail and her mouth pink with just a hint of lipstick.
But no hint of a smile.
“License and registration, please,” she said.
Reese looked slightly nauseated as she rummaged in the console and extracted a printed page. Caleb took out his billfold, produced his driver’s license, and handed it over. Reese looked as if she might faint with relief.
The patrolwoman took off the sunglasses and studied his license, front and back. Then her gaze swept over the car. “Mr. . . . Stoltz,” she said. “Do you know how fast you were going?”
Like the wind. “No, miss. I was watching the road.”
She looked at him, then back at the license card, and something a
bout him seemed to catch her eye, because her expression changed a bit.
“You were going seventy-six miles an hour,” the cop said. “Do you know what the speed limit is here?”
“Last signpost we passed said fifty-five,” Caleb admitted.
“What’s your hurry?”
“I’m going to see the ocean,” he said. “I’ve never seen it before.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Sure.” Then she snatched the registration paper from Reese’s hand. “Wait here,” she ordered. “I’ll be right back.” She pivoted sharply and went back to the patrol car.
“Thank God you have a license,” said Reese.
“I got it when I turned sixteen,” he said.
“Is it still valid?”
“I renew it every five years, whether I need to or not.”
“God. Seventy-six in a fifty-five. I can’t even . . .” Reese took off her hat and fanned herself. He couldn’t help but notice the single trickle of sweat slowly wending its way down between her breasts.
The patrolwoman returned. She handed over the registration and Reese put it away. Then she looked down at Caleb, keeping hold of his license for a stretch of silence. “You’re in the database,” she said.
Reese took in a quick, audible breath.
“I don’t know what that means,” Caleb admitted.
“It means I looked up your records.”
“You have a record?” asked Reese, looking faint again.
“Oh,” Caleb said. “Is that a problem?”
“The milk truck incident. There’s a record of it. It was a viral video on the Internet.” The officer paused. “I guess, being Amish, you don’t watch Internet videos.”
“You’re right about that.”
“But you remember the incident, don’t you?”
“That I do.” A winter morning, the roads covered in ice, dragging himself out of bed to help a fellow out.
“There was an incident?” Reese asked, fanning herself with her hat again. “What kind of incident?”
