Weddings at Promise Lodge

by Charlotte Hubbard

  She strode to the door and threw it open. “You!” she spat, as though the sight of him made her ill.

  Monroe sighed. “At least you’re speaking to me.”

  “You have no idea what I want to say to you, Bishop. There aren’t enough hours in the day to tell you how—how crushed and betrayed and—”

  “Maybe I’d better step in, jah? So everybody downstairs won’t be in on our conversation?”

  Once again Monroe was right, and that irritated Christine even more. How dare he gaze at her like a desperate puppy as she shut the door, glaring at him? Couldn’t he see she was beyond politeness and logic? “Sure, why not? It’s not like any hanky-panky’s going to happen.”

  Monroe knew better than to respond with his usual flirtatious banter. “Christine, I am so sorry,” he began tentatively. “I had no idea Leola would run away from home—follow me here—”

  “Is it true, what she said? That you ruined her?” Christine crossed her arms hard and turned away from him. “If so, you’re despicable and I have nothing more to say to you.”

  Monroe’s breath escaped in a hiss. “Well, then, it’s a gut thing I’ve never had any sort of physical relations with her,” he said softly. “But if you can’t believe my word against hers, then I might as well leave.” He remained behind her, where she’d left him. “I understand why you feel hurt and betrayed, Christine, after what you witnessed this morning. Until you can listen with an open mind, however, I’ll save my breath.”

  Christine’s heart thudded in her chest. She closed her eyes against a fresh burst of tears. She wanted to believe Monroe was a man of integrity and truth—a servant of God who rose above ordinary standards of behavior. She had to admit that many other bishops she’d known would be ordering her to her knees to beg forgiveness because she’d spoken in such accusatory anger . . . had jumped headfirst into a red pool of fury, despite the Old Order’s teachings that insisted upon peace and forbearance.

  She released the tension in her shoulders. Her head dropped forward and she mopped her face with the hem of her apron. “You’re right. I’m not being fair,” she mumbled. “I heard Leola’s words and watched her kiss you, and jumped to all sorts of hasty conclusions.”

  “You and everyone else,” he said with a humorless laugh. “She didn’t leave a lot to the imagination—but Leola sees the world through a different lens than most of us do. I’ll call her parents as soon as Rosetta has her settled into a room, so we can get to the bottom of this.”

  Monroe’s sigh sent goose bumps up her spine, even though he remained halfway across the room. Christine longed for the comfort of his embrace and a shoulder where she could rest her head, confident that the future she’d envisioned with this man would be restored—and that Leola would go home, never to return. But it didn’t seem like the appropriate time or place to open her arms to him—and she didn’t want Monroe to think she would give in to his pleas and his physical attraction so quickly.

  Christine turned to look at him, sorry that her face was such a mess from crying. But if they were to become a couple, Monroe would see her tears many times over the years, so perhaps his reaction would set the tone for their future disagreements. If he tried to gloss over her emotions, or chide her for expressing her hurt and disappointment, then she would know this handsome bishop wasn’t good husband material—for her, anyway.

  Monroe gazed sadly at her. “Do you believe what I’ve said? That I’ve not made inappropriate advances toward Leola?” He paused, his green eyes widening when she didn’t answer immediately. “Shall I explain the situation further? If you don’t believe in me, Christine, no one else will.”

  She pressed her lips together. She badly wanted to hear the details of Monroe’s relationship with Leola—wanted him to expand upon his statement about the different lens through which the young woman saw the world. “Maybe we should sit down,” she suggested, gesturing toward her sofa. “I’m sorry I can’t offer you coffee or—”

  “We can share some dessert downstairs, if there’s any pie left—and if you’ll come with me,” Monroe said. He exhaled a little nervously. “And maybe, for propriety’s sake, I’ll stay standing. Even though you’re a widow and I’m a widower, some folks downstairs might not think it’s proper for me to be in your apartment. In fact, I’ll just open the door—”

  Christine’s confidence in him was somewhat restored by his actions. With her relief came weariness, so she sat in the armchair and left the sofa for Monroe. When he opened the door, however, she heard Rosetta’s urgent plea in the hallway.

  “No, Leola! That apartment belongs to my sister—”

  Monroe’s breath left him in a rush as Leola threw herself against him. “Monroe! I’ve been looking all over for—why are you in this lady’s room?”

  Christine’s heart sank like a rock. Even if the wedding guests downstairs hadn’t overheard Leola’s outburst, she sensed the young woman would have no qualms about mentioning the fact that she’d found the bishop in Christine’s apartment. As she stood up, she saw Rosetta peering in from behind Monroe, aghast at what had happened.

  “Shall we all come in and talk?” Christine asked. She hugged herself hard, as though holding her body and soul together. It wasn’t as though anything improper had gone on, yet she sensed that—as Monroe had stated—their guest did indeed see things differently.

  Leola pulled away from Monroe to study Christine closely. “All right, I’m gonna stay in the room next door,” she stated, looking at Rosetta and then gazing up at the bishop. “But where do you live, Monroe? I could be with you—”

  “No, you may not,” Monroe interrupted sternly. “Your parents taught you better than that, Leola. Do they know where you are?”

  Leola burst into tears, crying out so loudly that anyone within earshot might think she was being beaten. “No!” she wailed, curling in on herself as she turned toward the open door. “They wouldn’t bring me here to see you, so after Dat dumped me off at Aunt Polly’s, I—I came by myself.”

  Monroe appeared stricken by Leola’s loud crying, but he carefully stepped away from her. “Where did your folks go, Leola?” he asked gently.

  “I don’t know!”

  Rosetta slipped her arm around the young woman. “Maybe you’re more tired than you thought,” she suggested. “Shall we go to your new room and unpack your suitcases?”

  “No!” Leola jerked away from Rosetta. She glared accusingly at Christine and her sister before wiping her tear-streaked face on her sleeve. “I wanna be with you, Monroe. I want you. Nobody else loves me the way you do.”

  Monroe appeared at a total loss about what to do next. Christine realized that he’d somehow caught Leola’s fancy despite his attempts to dissuade her affection for him. He placed his hands on the young woman’s slender shoulders, keeping her at arm’s length as he held her gaze.

  “Leola, you’re upset. You’re not thinking clearly,” he said gently. “Is it time for your pills?”

  Leola looked away from him, shaking her head.

  “I want you to go to your new room with Rosetta, all right?” he continued. “You can unpack your clothes later. Right now I want you to lie down and rest, and I want you to say your prayers. Don’t come out of your room until at least four o’clock, understand me?”

  Leola blinked repeatedly. “How will I know what time it is?”

  “I’ve got just the clock for your room, Leola,” Rosetta said, smiling at the girl. “We’ll hang it on your wall where you can see it. It has a battery, so you’ll never have to wind it.”

  When Leola looked at Monroe again, he nodded his encouragement.

  Her shoulders slumped and she looked like a whipped pup, but she left the room. Rosetta smiled sadly at Christine before she followed Leola down the hallway.

  Monroe let out a long sigh. He appeared so downhearted that Christine longed to wrap her arms around him and assure him they’d get through this difficult situation somehow, yet it felt right to refrain. For all the
y knew, Leola would find a reason to come bursting into her apartment again.

  “You’re a gut man, Monroe,” she murmured. “I’m sorry Leola’s coming here will muddy the waters, far as what folks will think about you.”

  He smiled gratefully. “Denki for your understanding, Christine. It means a lot.”

  She pondered their situation for a moment. “Give me a minute to splash some water on my face, and then let’s go downstairs, all right?” she suggested. “If the pie’s all gone, and Roman and Mary Kate haven’t cut their cake yet, I know where to find some cookies to go with our coffee—something to sweeten this day a bit.”

  “Count me in. I’ll wait right here.”

  Chapter Nine

  As Monroe sat at the end of a long table with Christine, Rosetta, and Truman, eating a slice of the best lemon pie he’d ever tasted, he felt relieved. The wedding guests’ chatter filled the room as longtime friends talked among themselves or congratulated the newlyweds, so he had a few moments to collect his thoughts. Leola’s arrival had struck him like a thunderbolt. Christine’s acceptance of the situation boded well, for if she believed in him—believed he’d done nothing to encourage Leola’s infatuation—then he stood a chance of regaining the confidence of the rest of his flock.

  “Mighty fine pie,” Truman remarked as he rubbed his fork over the final crumbs on his plate. “As always, you sisters and the Kuhns put on a fine feed. Hardly any leftovers—and not a slice of pie remains, either.”

  Although Rosetta and Christine still seemed a little taken aback by the conversation upstairs, they managed smiles. “It’s gut to see so many of our friends from Coldstream came, considering they were just here three weeks ago for Mattie and Amos’s wedding,” Christine said. “Beulah and Ruby seemed a little frazzled as they pulled the last pans of food from the ovens, thinking they hadn’t cooked enough.”

  “Nobody went hungry,” Truman insisted. “And it’s a better meal than most of them would’ve eaten at home, because even the best of wives doesn’t put out such a spread on your ordinary Thursday.” He smiled boyishly at Rosetta. “Except maybe you, honey-girl. You’re the finest cook I know.”

  Rosetta’s cheeks turned pink, yet she didn’t seem completely thrilled with Truman’s compliment. Monroe sensed it wasn’t the time to ask questions—or to tease Rosetta into her usual sunny mood. He was well aware of what she’d endured while showing Leola the rooms upstairs.

  He ate his final bite of pie and glanced at the large clock on the dining room wall. Three thirty. There was no telling how much longer Leola would stay in her room. He touched Christine’s hand. “Hate to eat and run,” he murmured, “but I’ve got some calls to make concerning Leola’s parents and—”

  “Say there, Bishop,” a familiar male voice said from behind him. “What’s happened to your girlfriend?”

  Trying not to wince, Monroe turned to face Amos. “Rosetta helped her choose a room upstairs. I hope she’s napping.”

  “Jah, I bet you do,” the preacher murmured. He pulled an empty chair from the table behind him, placed it next to Monroe, and sat down with an expectant expression on his bearded face. “Care to explain what’s going on?”

  Monroe knew an open-ended question—and a trap—when he heard one. “What would you like to know?” he asked carefully. “Leola Duff is a member of the church in the Macomb district—”

  “We know all that,” Amos interrupted brusquely. “So why is she crying out for all to hear that you ruined her? Any truth to that?”

  The rapid tattoo of thick heels on the wooden floor made Monroe look up.

  “Amos Troyer, this is not the time or the place for this discussion,” Mattie declared as she clapped a hand on the preacher’s shoulder. “Roman and Mary Kate are ready to cut their cake, and I want no contentious talk to spoil the rest of their day. Let’s join them at the eck, shall we?”

  Amos seemed ready to put his new wife in her place, as a lot of Amish men would, yet he thought better of it. He shot Monroe a purposeful glance as he stood up. “Plenty of time to get the details. How long’s she staying?”

  Monroe shook his head. “I have no idea.”

  Amos’s bushy eyebrows rose. “All of us in the ministry get tested now and again, Bishop. Seems it’s your turn.”

  Monroe sighed as the preacher followed his wife to where folks were gathering in front of the eck. Mary Kate and Roman stood behind it, flanking the tall white cake on its pedestal platter. The joy on their young faces took him back to when he and Linda had been sharing the first slice of their wedding cake . . . when he’d been young and in love and filled with all manner of dreams. He’d had no idea about the trials and tribulations that came with maturation.

  As Rosetta and Christine stood up to join the others, Monroe saw his chance to slip out. “See you all later,” he murmured. “If anything happens with Leola, come and get me—and thanks again for looking after her.”

  Christine and her sister nodded, and Truman clapped him on the shoulder. Monroe headed for the lobby, where his black coat hung among dozens of others that resembled it. He fumbled with collars, looking for the distinctive green tag sewn inside that bore his initials. A few moments later he stepped out onto the lodge porch and placed his black Stetson on his head.

  Queenie came around the corner of the building and yipped her greeting.

  “Hey, there, girl,” Monroe murmured as he scratched between her black ears. “If I was any sort of friend, I would’ve brought you a little scrap of something, jah? Sorry about that.”

  The Border collie ran circles around him, dipping her nose into the snow and flinging it into the air, delighted to accompany him. Monroe strode to the road and passed Noah’s house, and then Roman’s. He inhaled the cold air to collect his thoughts, walking quickly past the Troyer place and up the first hill to where the two Lehman homes stood. Frances had told him that Floyd and his brother, Lester, were in the siding and window business, which explained why all the new houses sported off-white siding. The phone shanties at the roadside did, as well.

  Monroe opened the door of the shanty he shared with the former bishop’s family and sat down on the chair. Closing the door against the brisk breeze, he took a handwritten list from the drawer of the small table where an old push-button phone sat. Most folks had newer equipment, but it didn’t matter. As he dialed Polly Duff’s number and heard it ring, he was just grateful to be able to communicate with folks he’d left behind in Illinois.

  When her machine prompted him, Monroe spoke. “Polly, it’s Monroe Burkholder, and I hope you’re feeling gut and doing well,” he began. “Leola showed up here in Missouri, where I live now. She says Chester and Edna left her with you, but couldn’t tell me where they went. I have a feeling she’s not taking her medications. Give me a call when you can, all right?”

  Monroe said the phone number slowly, twice, and hung up. Then he dialed Chester Duff’s place. “Chester—Monroe Burkholder here. I suspect you’re away on a serious type of trip if you left Leola with your sister, and I wanted you and Edna to know that she’s safe and she’s here with me. Hope all’s well, and hope to hear from you soon.”

  After he repeated the phone number and hung up, he sat for a moment. He couldn’t think of anyone else in Macomb who might be able to help him, so it was a matter of waiting until Polly checked her machine—which, because winter weather bothered her arthritis, might be a few days. He would simply have to rely upon Rosetta, Christine, and the Kuhn sisters to help him keep an eye on Leola until somebody could come for her, or until he knew her parents were home. Most girls of twenty-one could look after themselves, but Leola wasn’t like most girls.

  A movement outside the shanty’s window brought Monroe out of his thoughts. Queenie was bouncing up and down like a pogo stick, yipping to get his attention. He laughed and stepped outside. “Jah, what do you want?” he teased as he stopped to gather snow between his gloved hands.

  He lobbed the snowball several yards in front of
them, and Queenie shot out after it. When she picked up the snowball, it fell apart in her mouth and she shook her head excitedly. As Monroe made his way up the hill, he continued packing and tossing snowballs, laughing as the black-and-white dog had so much fun with them. He came to the top of the rise . . . the place where he’d first kissed Christine. Looking out over the hills and valleys he’d just purchased, he had more questions than answers.

  Christine seemed tolerant of his situation with Leola, but how long would she remain that way? If Chester had been the one to leave Leola with his sister, did that mean something was terribly wrong with Edna? What if Edna had passed on? Monroe sensed that Chester wouldn’t be able to care for his daughter alone for long, so what would happen to Leola? What if Chester asked him to become the girl’s guardian?

  Monroe exhaled forcefully to rid himself of these troubling thoughts. He sensed he should be at the lodge when Leola woke up, or she might raise a ruckus in the dining room among so many strangers. Who could tell what she might say or do if she panicked and couldn’t find him?

  We sure do need your help, God, he thought as he started down the hill. And if it’s not too much to ask, I’d like some answers to this dilemma sooner rather than later.

  * * *

  Rosetta laid her hand carefully on Leola’s shoulder, aware of how thin the young woman was—and fragile, in more ways than one. “I think you’ll sleep better now that you’ve had some supper,” she murmured. “Tomorrow you’ll be rested, and we’ll fix up your room, all right?”

  Leola was eyeing her warily. “I want blue,” she said. “Blue walls and curtains and a blue comforter, like at home.”

  Rosetta glanced inside the room Leola had chosen. Phoebe and Laura had painted the walls a pale yellow to freshen them, but had done no more because no one had chosen to live in this room or the one that adjoined it. She wondered if it was worth buying paint if Leola wasn’t going to be here long, but she sensed that agreeing to her color choice might keep the girl from having another hissy fit.