Summer of Secrets

by Charlotte Hubbard

  “And you’ve spent all these years thinkin’ she drowned. And that it was all your fault.”

  “Jah. And believin’ Jesse blamed me, too, though he never came out and said so.” The cake on her plate blurred as she set down her fork. “Thing is, I got it in my head that God was showin’ me what a poor excuse for a mother I was—”

  “Oh no, Miriam! My own kids shoulda been so lucky as to have you for a mamm!”

  “—and both of us figured it for the reason we couldn’t conceive again,” Miriam finished with a hitch in her voice. “What I couldn’t tell the girls today, when they were lookin’ at the two little pink dresses I’d put away, was that ... well, I was carryin’ that day I heisted them up the slippery riverbank. About five months along, I was.”

  “Oh, Miriam. That’s just the saddest thing I ever heard.”

  When Naomi’s arm flew around her neck, the tears finally came. All afternoon she’d faced up to folks watching her every move, her every reaction, and finally she let loose of the fear and pain stored up in her soul. With her head on her friend’s shoulder, Miriam released a world of hurt and guilt no one else had ever seen. “Ain’t no use in cryin’ over somethin’ so long past—”

  “If ya can’t cry about lost babes, what’s left? I’m thinkin’ God cried right along with ya that day, Miriam.” Her friend sniffled loudly and swiped at her eyes. “Ya couldn’t have been, what? Twenty at the time?”

  “Twenty, jah. Same as Rachel and Rhoda are now.”

  “Well, then. Seems the Good Lord saw fit to bless ya with three girls at once and another babe only half-baked, yet He only gave ya two arms... .” Naomi cleared her throat, mischief sparkling in her dark eyes. “Even on a good day, that won’t add up. Only a man would leave ya that shorthanded, Miriam. But don’t go tellin’ Bishop Knepp—or the Good Lord—I said that!”

  Miriam gaped. Naomi’s remark bordered on irreverence, and yet ... all these years and she’d never considered that angle of her tragedy. Most women she knew had more children than hands—but most of them had never dealt with the survival of two children along with the loss of one wee, wiggly girl, either.

  Only a man would leave ya that shorthanded, Miriam. She hiccupped and then a giggle welled up from deep inside her. “Oh, denki, Naomi. I can’t thank ya enough for—all these years I’ve been blamin’ myself for not bein’ quick enough, or smart enough, to corral Rebecca—”

  “And don’t go thinkin’ that’ll happen anytime soon, sorry to say. She’s a hard nut to crack, that one.” The blonde fingered a string of her fresh white kapp, lost in thought. “Who can say how English ways might’ve fostered her rebellious attitude ... and what that unsuspectin’ couple went through after they rescued her. She musta been a real handful.”

  “There’s that, jah.” Miriam dabbed her eyes, feeling greatly relieved.

  “I think you’re a blessed woman, Miriam,” her friend continued in a thoughtful tone. “You’ve had two fine daughters to raise, and now you’ve learned that your third girl is a survivor, after all. Stronger than any of us knew—even if her witchy face paint and clothes scared the Devil out of us for a bit. Had everybody watchin’ her, that’s for sure and for certain.”

  Miriam closed her eyes again, letting these positive thoughts cleanse the secret wounds of the past eighteen years. At least a little. “Jah, the term ‘Devil’s spawn’ came to mind, at first glance,” she said ruefully. “But that’s my flesh and blood, Naomi. My little lamb lost. I can’t help wantin’ to see more of her—to know the girl beneath the ghoulish getup. To help her, if I can.”

  “Give it time, dear. By the looks of it, she was as shocked to learn the truth as you and the girls were.”

  “Came at a hard time for her, too.” Miriam caught the last of her cake crumbs with the tines of her fork. How was it that the rows of sweet corn in her garden seemed greener now, in the rays of the setting sun? The soft perfume of the mimosa trees wafted over her again, and three hummingbirds buzzed in to light on the feeder in front of her. “Denki ten times over, Naomi,” she murmured, feeling blessed indeed. “What would I do without ya?”

  “You’d do the same for me.” Naomi patted her hand. “Get some gut rest tonight. By the looks of your front garden, Leah‘ll be pickin’ us a load of zucchini tomorrow.”

  As the mantel clock chimed half past eleven that night, Miriam’s thoughts still simmered. The shock of her long-lost daughter’s visit had worn off, but as she lay with her arm across Jesse’s empty half of the bed, she felt anything but sleepy. What kind of childhood had her Rebecca known? What interests and talents had God given her? While Rhoda and Rachel looked identical, they were cut from different bolts of cloth, as far as their personalities went, so it only made sense that Rebecca—always more active and vocal than her sisters—had different strengths and interests, too.

  And what of her dat? Was he put off by the girl’s black clothing ... her dyed hair and tattoos? He surely couldn’t have envisioned her looking this way when he’d rescued the toddler in the pink Plain-style dress. Had he and Tiffany been close before his wife died? Or had the woman’s death driven more of a wedge between them? A parent’s passing always put a family out of kilter, even when everybody got along.

  Was there a chance she could reach out and recover the lamb she’d lost?

  Better watch me, Lord, or I’ll go and do somethin’ stupid. Might hurt people without meanin’ to.

  The quiet footsteps on the stairway told her Rhoda was home from the birthday party. And why that girl hadn’t long ago settled on a beau was beyond her. Certainly wasn’t for lack of interest amongst their young men, the way she’d heard it. Rachel was no doubt out enjoying Micah’s new courting buggy on this fine summer night, although Naomi’s boy was most likely getting an earful.

  And what sort of boys did Rebecca like? Her immodest way of dressing didn’t bode well for the reputation a mother wanted for her daughter—but then, what could Miriam do about that?

  Might as well get up, rather than lettin’ my mind spin like the café’s electric meter. Miriam listened to Rhoda’s quiet preparations for bed ... gave her another twenty minutes to fall asleep. Then she rose quietly to wind her hair into a fresh bun and dress for another day. It was hours too early to start baking pies and rolls, but two years without Jesse had taught her the value of hard work—not just for the income, but for releasing her worries, as well. The solitude of the Sweet Seasons kitchen ... the soothing rhythms and scents of making her pastries while the rest of the world slept around her, were a balm to her soul. Almost like chocolate.

  And if her sister Leah was bringing them a load of zucchini this morning, they’d be processing it to freeze for winter, as well as cooking some for lunch. And there were those two gallons of extra milk Lydia Zook had brought from the store ...

  It felt like a chocolate pie kind of a day.

  Chapter 4

  “Micah Brenneman, ya haven’t heard a thing I’m sayin’! I don’t know the answers to your questions about Tiffany—or Rebecca—or whoever she is. And I don’t really care!”

  Micah let the reins hang slack in his hand so Rosie, his mare, moseyed along in front of the buggy. He smiled in the darkness. Rachel cared plenty about their surprise visitor, or she wouldn’t be railing at him this way. It was almost worth the tongue-lashing she gave him, to ask her the questions that made her eyes widen so and got her dander up. Nobody in this world stirred him the way Rachel Lantz did, and a fellow always knew where he stood with such an outspoken young woman. “I still don’t understand about her comin’ from Morning Star if she got carried downstream—”

  “Exactly what I said to Mamma!” The girl beside him scooted closer, to take his chin in her hand so there was no missing what she was about to say. “Never underestimate an Englisher’s tricks, Micah! Just ask Tom Hostetler, now that his Lettie’s run off with that fancy man! And him a preacher, too!”

  “Jah, he’s takin’ the heat for that one.” As he adjusted
his hat, Micah thought it might be a welcome diversion from Tom’s troubles to let the grapevine vibrate with talk of Miriam’s long-lost daughter. “But your mamm’s not gonna let go of this one, Rache. That wild child named Tiffany mighta breezed in and blown right on out, but Rebecca’s the lost sheep the shepherd Jesus rejoices over, even when He’s got the ninety and nine safe in the fold.”

  “And why’re you so all-fired fascinated by her, then? Ya haven’t stopped talkin’ about her since we got to Zooks’.”

  Well, she had him there. Micah clucked to his mare, keeping his arm on the edge of the buggy seat behind Rachel. If he weren’t careful, she’d be giving him what his Mennonite electrician partner called the kiss-off instead of the kisses he’d been hoping for. She’d smiled through tears of joy last week when he’d said he loved her, even though their intentions wouldn’t be published until later this fall—and that wasn’t something a smart man messed with. Especially since he’d soon be twenty-five and had spent his time building his carpentry business with his brothers while most of his friends had wooed the community’s courting-age girls.

  “What’s your answer to that, Micah?” she insisted in a low, tight voice. “If you’re tellin’ me you’d rather chase after that heathen in the indecent black clothes—”

  Well, there was that thought. But he knew better than to take it seriously.

  “—then don’t let me stand in your way, mister!”

  “Rachel!” He dropped the reins to take her pretty face between his two hands. “When I said I wanted you to be my woman—my wife—I meant it.”

  “And surely you can see my family needs a man, Micah. So don’t go breakin’ my heart, lookin’ at that ghouly-girl with the hair lickin’ her head like black flames.”

  He kissed her softly, all the way around her lips, the way she liked it. Rachel was young and sweet, yet impetuous. Not a girl to cower in the face of a challenge. She’d worked hard alongside her mother and Rhoda to make the café a thriving business, ever since Jesse had passed when a spooked stallion trampled him. And one of these days she’d understand why Tiffany’s reappearance was a blessing rather than a bad omen, but right now Rachel was too rattled to hear his reassurances.

  Micah held her close, inhaling her clean scent. “I’ve got a busy day, what with raisin’ a barn over at Jim Kanagy’s in New Haven tomorrow—and you’ll be on your feet all day at the Sweet Seasons,” he reminded her. “How about I take ya home now and see ya over breakfast ... like I dream of doin’ when you’ll serve it up in our home every mornin’, just for me?”

  Rachel sighed softly and lowered her eyes then. “Are ya sayin’ we’ll have a place for just us two? What with Mamma bein’ alone, I feel responsible for—”

  “She’d never expect ya to put your happiness on hold until she finds her own, honey-girl.”

  “—and Rhoda! Like a butterfly flittin’ from beau to beau, with no place to land. Can ya see those two makin’ it from one day to the next without me to keep them on the steady path?” Rachel laughed softly as she shook her head. “With all those rooms upstairs, might be easier for you to just move in with—”

  “With all you biddy hens?” Micah teased. He could do worse than take up residence with Rhoda and Miriam Lantz, but it wasn’t his sweetest dream. “I’ve got better ideas for us, Rache. Can ya trust me on this and be patient awhile longer?”

  Like a deflating balloon she let out her breath. Weariness replaced the excitement he’d seen just moments ago: Was she tired of his talk? He’d been courting her for a long time, compared to most couples they knew. “It’s been a ... tirin’ day, jah,” she murmured. “Best take me back, I s’pose. She won’t admit to it, but Mamma doesn’t sleep until Rhoda and I are both home.”

  “Wants all her sheep in the pen. Just like you and I will someday.”

  They rode in silence along the main county road that led to the Lantz land. Just past the café and quilt shop they turned off, to head down the long unpaved lane that led to the tall house, glowing white in the moonlight. Odd that a light burned in the Sweet Seasons kitchen at this hour.

  Past Jesse’s vacant smithy and forge they rode in silence. . . alongside the large, flat garden where sweet corn stood in rows like sentinels with tassled hats. On the other side of the lane, melon vines wound around the dark, shiny fruits that burst with red sweetness at the touch of a sharp knife. All was orderly and tidy, like Miriam Lantz herself. Micah steered Rosie in a circle when they came near the porch.

  He hopped down, helped Rachel to the ground, and dared to kiss her full on the mouth even though her mother or sister might be peering out from behind the curtains. She tasted faintly of cake and root beer and all those homey pleasures he planned to share with her for years to come, and with her moonlit kapp framing her face, she enticed him with her expectant innocence. Would he live up to the sweet dreams shining in her eyes?

  “G’night now, Rachel,” he whispered. “See ya later, for breakfast.”

  She nodded and slipped out of her shoes, to pad silently up the front porch steps.

  Miriam kneaded the batch of warm, soft dough into a ball and turned the big crockery bowl over the top of it so it would rise for this morning’s cinnamon rolls. While she still rode this burst of energy, she stirred the butter she’d melted into a big bowl of graham cracker crumbs and began to form shells for those chocolate pies. Rhoda would be happy to stir up the pudding when she arrived, as the cool, thick filling resembled soft fudge when it set up: this was her favorite cream pie, while Rachel preferred butterscotch.

  And what did Rebecca like? Had her mother even made pies or rolls? Hard to believe most fancy folk chose store-bought pastries and breads ... handling dough was therapy to ease troubled souls and tense muscles—not to mention a surefire way to bring the family to the table together. Little of that went on these days in the outside world, she’d heard, and once more she felt ever so thankful for the Old Ways that kept families in Willow Ridge together.

  Well, except for the Hostetlers. Now there was a sad sight: Tom slinking into the café these past few mornings to eat in the back corner, as though his friends wondered what he’d done to make his wife run off. Miriam could well imagine the talk that had caused in the quilt shop next door, where Mary Schrock and her husband’s biddy aunts kept abreast of such situations. Recently widowed Priscilla, and Eva, a maidel as starchy as the doilies she crocheted for dresser scarves, had nothing better to do than speculate about how Lettie Hostetler had carried her suitcases out to the road under cover of a moonless night, to be whisked away by a man in a fast, flashy car. As Mennonites, the Schrocks were a little freer with their activities—and their imaginations. But she’d be forever grateful for the way Mary had partnered with her, providing the electricity and equipment the health department required, so she and the girls could run the café.

  Miriam blinked. Listened for the noise out front to repeat itself as she stood here alone in the kitchen. Who would be coming into the café in the wee hours?

  “That you, Miriam?”

  She let out the breath she’d been holding. “Micah? Come on back, dear,” she called. “But what brings ya here at this late hour?”

  “Early hour, ya mean.” He peered around the side of the tall stainless steel fridge, taking the straw hat from a full head of dark blond hair that made him resemble the picture on a Dutch Boy paint can. “Close as this place sits to the road, ya might wanna lock up when you’re here by yourself. Saw your light. Everythin’ all right?”

  Miriam smiled at her best friend’s middle son. No need to ask why her Rachel had been crazy for this one since they’d first sat in the schoolroom together. “When I need to sort through my thoughts, I bake. Lots better than rollin’ around in that lonely old bed—”

  She flushed and quickly resumed pressing the buttered graham cracker crumbs into pie pans. “More than ya wanted to know. Sorry.”

  Micah shrugged. He opened the fridge and pulled out a pan with the two last pieces
of lemon icebox pie in it. “Anybody’s name on these?”

  “Yours, now. How was Katie’s birthday party?”

  He smiled over the wedge of pie he’d crammed into his mouth. “Heavy on the girl side, but Jonah and I survived it.” Micah swallowed, as though considering how best to continue. “Your girls had a lot to talk about tonight, what with their sister showin’ up outta the blue. Must’ve been a shock to your system, too, but—but I’m real happy ya got to see her, Miriam.”

  Miriam rested her sticky fingers on the edge of a pie pan to take in what he’d just said. “Denki,” she murmured. “It’s troublesome to the girls, I think, but—”

  “It’ll work out.” He lifted the pie to his lips again, closing his eyes over the huge, sweet mouthful as though he’d gone days without eating. Then he focused on her intently. “Got a secret, and I think you’re the one to keep it for me. Got a big favor to ask, too—but if it ain’t to your likin’, I want ya to tell me straight-out!”

  What could he be asking of her? Micah’s quiet voice and the way he talked so freely to her felt encouraging, yet her insides fluttered with nerves.

  “A while back I overheard ya sayin’, after a Sunday meetin’ when ya sat amongst your women friends, that ya might live in the loft above the smithy once your girls got hitched, and—” The young man’s suspenders stretched over his broad shoulders as he shoved his hands into his pants pockets. “Well, maybe I shouldn’t’ve been listenin’, but it struck me as a mighty promisin’ situation. If I were to remodel your upstairs there, in the evenin’s after my shop work, would ya consider lettin’ Rachel and me—”