Half an hour later, with the hot casserole packed in an insulated carrier, Leah set off with Sarah and Rachel toward the Miller farm, which Sarah told her was only a mile away.
A mile. In bare feet. In Los Angeles, no one walked a mile, let alone barefoot. They got into their cars and drove. Everywhere.
But the two young women didn’t consider it anything odd. Swinging the food carrier, Sarah chattered about a young man named Aaron. “He’ll be taking over his daed’s farm soon. He’s the youngest of the family, so he inherits the farm.”
“That’s odd.” Leah winced as she trod on a sharp stone. “I would have thought that older sons would inherit.”
“No, they buy new farms, with their parents’ help. Traditionally the home farm goes to the youngest boy.”
“And where will Aaron’s parents live, when Aaron takes over the farm?”
“Oh, nearly all farmhouses have a daadi haus attached for older parents. They’re often relieved to move in there and leave the hard farmwork to the younger generation.”
“So if the baby your mother is carrying is a girl, then the farm will eventually go to your youngest brother?”
“Ja. And if it’s a boy, it will go to him.”
“And none of the older boys are upset about this?”
Both girls looked at Leah in surprise. “No, of course not. Why would they be?” said Rachel. “All young men learn a trade or get help buying another farm, if that’s what they want to do. If things get too crowded around here, some people leave to form a new church elsewhere.”
“I see.” It seemed so neat and tidy, somehow. No wonder the Amish were flourishing.
“So are you marrying Aaron?” she asked Sarah.
The lovely young woman blushed. “As Gott wills,” she murmured.
“We don’t normally discuss such things out in the open,” advised Rachel. “Though it’s well known I’ve decided not to marry, even if I found someone willing to marry me. I shall teach school instead.” Her voice betrayed no sorrow or bitterness, just an acceptance of God’s will.
“Do Amish women teach?” asked Leah.
“Ja, of course, who do you think teaches our children?”
“I thought they went to public school.”
“They did, long ago, but fortunately we now have our own schools.”
“Aren’t you quite young to be a schoolteacher?”
“Not especially. I’ve already spoken to the bishop, and the school board has accepted my application. I’ll start in the fall with the current teacher, and she’ll help guide me for a year or two.”
“And will you continue to live at home while you teach?”
“Ja. I can easily walk to the schoolhouse—it’s where Sarah and I went to school, and where our younger siblings go now.”
Leah sighed. “I’m older than you, and yet you both have your lives already planned out. But I’m rudderless at the moment.”
She detected a hint of surprise from both girls. “Put your trust in Gott,” suggested Rachel. “He’s the only one who can plan your life. Not you.”
Leah digested this notion. To her, God was a shadowy figure, a vague Being who didn’t have much to do with what happened in her everyday life. She hadn’t grown up with any meaningful religious practice, so putting her trust in God was a very foreign concept.
“Look, there’s Hannah.” Sarah waved to a group of distant figures coming down an adjacent lane. “And Mark and Matthew with her.”
“The Yoder family,” Rachel explained to Leah. “They’re about our age.”
The other group of young people met them at an intersection and launched into Deitsch chatter, a little of which she understood but most of which was unintelligible. Leah noticed their eyes darting toward her.
Finally Rachel spoke in English. “This is our friend Leah Porte,” she introduced. “She’s staying with us for a few months. She’s not Amish.” Rachel pointed. “This is Matthew Yoder. Mark Yoder. Hannah Yoder.”
One by one, each of the young people stepped forward and pumped Leah’s hand.
“Kannscht du Deitsch schwetze?” asked Hannah.
Leah caught the gist. “No, I speak a little High German but not Deitsch,” she replied.
“Then we will speak English,” responded Matthew.
“Thank you.”
Walking again, the Yoders fell in with Leah and the Byler girls. “Why are you visiting?” Hannah asked.
The forthright question was not meant to be rude, Leah knew. She decided to spread the same story she’d told Isaac. “I was in a bad car accident a few months ago.” She touched her cheek. “I can’t go back to my former job, and the Bylers gave me a place to stay for a little while.”
All three Yoders nodded with apparent understanding. “We’re glad you are here.” Hannah spoke simply.
Leah felt her throat thicken. Despite the culture and language differences, despite her scarred face, no one she had met yet had been anything but very welcoming. “Thank you,” she mumbled.
Conversation turned to who the younger people hoped would be at the gathering. Leah tried not to feel left out. It was clear the Bylers and Yoders had known each other since infancy and were perfectly comfortable in each other’s company.
She was beginning to see something of the strength the Amish forged through their strong ties with each other. They didn’t compete; they cooperated. They didn’t tear down; they built up. Rachel, so much shorter than her companions, was clearly just as loved and accepted as Sarah with all her beauty.
“Big group.” Mark pointed.
Leah looked over a field and saw a white farmhouse ringed with outbuildings and trees. Smoke rose, and people in colorful garments milled about.
“Come on, I don’t want to miss anything.” Sarah picked up her pace.
Normally not a shy person, Leah felt like hanging back as they approached the crowd. People called greetings, and everyone stopped to stare at her for a second or two—not because of her scar, she realized, but because she was a stranger.
An older couple approached her. “Miss Porte?” asked the man, smiling through his bushy white beard. “I’m Abram Miller. This is my wife, Charity.”
“How do you do?” Leah received a strong hand pump from both. “Thank you for letting me come.”
“We thought you might. Most people are aware the Bylers have you staying with them.” From the sharp expression on both their faces, Leah suspected the Millers knew more than the bland story she was telling people and understood she was in witness protection.
“Most people here are youngies,” Charity Miller said, “so we thought you might like to sit with us and some of the older folks while the younger ones eat and play games.”
“Thank you, I’d like that.” Leah warmed to the couple. “I think Sarah has a casserole.”
“She knows where to put it. Come along now, we will introduce you to some people.”
What followed was an extraordinary evening for Leah. Having never seen a large group of teens and young adults romp and sing and play games in such a—the word wholesome sprang to mind—manner, she expressed her admiration to her hosts.
“They’re a good group of youngies,” beamed Charity, spooning some salad from her plate. “Ah, here’s Isaac. Gut’n owed, Isaac.”
Leah’s heart gave a thump as she looked up to see her acquaintance of this afternoon approach. She kept her voice steady. “Hello, Isaac.”
He thumbed the brim of his hat and grinned at her, plopping down uninvited by Abram. “Gut’n owed.”
“You’ve met?” Abram sounded surprised.
“Ja, sure, since I’m working with Ivan for the next few months. I gave Leah the farm tour this afternoon.”
“And Ivan’s story will be next in your magazine?”
“Ja.” Isaac rubbed his chin and glanced at Leah, though he directed his words to Abram. “Leah tells me she worked as a reporter and can write articles. She may do some things for the magazine while she’s here.”
“I said nothing of the sort,” Leah snapped. “You’re making assumptions.”
“You’ll change your mind.” He grinned with maddening confidence.
“Isaac once printed a poem of mine.” Charity interrupted the argument. “But I could never write a whole story.”
“You just haven’t tried,” admonished Isaac in what was clearly an established case on his part.
Despite her stubborn resistance, the journalist in Leah felt curious. “What’s the circulation of your magazine?”
“About ten thousand,” he replied. “I’m trying to increase the numbers, of course, mostly to Plain People in the various states.”
“I’d like to see a copy.”
“Ja, I’m sorry, I meant to bring one this afternoon. I’ll bring one with me tomorrow.”
“Don’t rush. I’m not going anywhere.” She took a bite of her strudel. “Do you work by an editorial calendar?”
“Roughly. I don’t adhere to it too strictly, and of course I keep seasonal subjects in mind.”
“And it’s about farming?”
“Yes. And rural businesses, and rural lifestyles and other things of interest to Plain People.”
“It’s no wonder I haven’t seen an issue in Los Angeles.” She gave a ghost of a smile.
“So far away,” murmured Charity. “This must be a very different place for you.”
“It is. But I like it here so far.” She gazed over the scene. The Millers had set up tables, which groaned under all the food. A shallow pit, about fifteen feet long and one foot wide, held an elongated campfire. Dozens of chattering, laughing young people were sitting or standing around the fire, holding hot dogs speared on prongs and roasting them over the flames and coals. Occasionally snatches of song rose up and floated on the warm June evening.
Leah spotted Sarah sitting next to a young man she presumed was Aaron. They talked animatedly together but didn’t touch. She began to realize public displays of affection were discouraged among the Amish.
Something caught her eye. “Oh—what’s that?” she gasped.
“What?” All eyes turned toward her pointing finger.
In the growing darkness, magical sparkles floated over the fields and lawn.
“Those!” exclaimed Leah. “Those lights!”
The Millers and Isaac all burst out laughing. “Those are glühwürmchen. Fireflies,” chuckled Isaac. “Haven’t you ever seen them before?”
“No!” One flew near her. Feeling like she was reaching for a fairy, Leah rose from her seat and caught the insect in her cupped hands. She examined it. It was plain, yet it was beautiful. It was a metaphor, she realized, for the Amish. Plain, but beautiful. “They’re amazing!”
“I heard they don’t have fireflies in the west,” commented Charity. “So sad.”
Leah released the insect. It crawled to the edge of her hand, spread its wings and took off, its tail end glowing on and off.
“I’ve never seen anything like it!” Feeling a bit like she was glowing herself, Leah stared after it, then resumed her seat. “I think I’m going to like it here.”
Abram laughed. “Those fireflies, they are all over on summer evenings. We take them for granted, but you’re right, they’re wunderschönen. Sometimes it’s good to be reminded of Gott’s wonders.”
With the Amish, everything came back to God, Leah realized. She recalled Rachel’s earlier comment about how she should put her trust in Him. “He’s the only one who can plan your life. Not you,” Rachel had said.
Even, it seems, in matters of appreciating fireflies.
But she couldn’t do it. God just didn’t seem real to her.
She listened as Abram and Isaac talked about the Millers’ dairy and how the animals were doing.
This, too, was new and different for her. She was used to colleagues discussing career issues—which was exactly what Abram and Isaac were doing. But what very different careers, and very different issues.
She found herself smiling. Charity asked her, “What’s so funny?”
“Just contrasting my old life with this one,” she replied.
“It must be very different.” The older woman paused. “Just so you know, Edith told us the whole story of why you’re here. You can depend on our silence.”
Leah stole a lightning glance at Isaac, but he was engrossed in conversation with Abram. “Thank you. I hate lying, but I’m sure you understand why it’s necessary.”
“Ja.” Charity nibbled a biscuit. “I can’t imagine being worried for my life.”
“Count your blessings.”
“Oh, I do, my dear. Daily.”
By the time the party broke up, it was pitch-dark and the stars shone overhead with a brilliance Leah had never, ever seen. The fireflies were starting to peter out, as well.
Yawning, Sarah walked over to the Millers to thank them for hosting. Aaron trailed behind. “Leah, this is Aaron. Aaron, Leah Porte.”
Aaron was a pleasant-looking young man with blond hair and blue eyes. He pumped Leah’s hand, but it was clear his vision was filled with the sight of the lovely young woman beside him.
“Sunday?” Sarah asked Aaron.
“Sunday,” he agreed, clearly acknowledging a previous arrangement. He flicked his hat brim and moved off.
Groups of chattering young people departed in all directions. Leah thanked the Millers for their hospitality and fell in with the Byler sisters.
And Isaac.
“I’ll walk back with you.” He directed his words at all the young women.
Leah caught a look exchanged between Sarah and Rachel. “Thank you,” said Rachel.
They set off down the dark road, lit only by starlight and a half-moon high in the sky. The sisters padded ahead, chatting in Deitsch. Walking behind them with Isaac felt unsettling to Leah, almost as if they were on a date.
“This must have been quite an eventful first day for you,” he commented. “So many new things to see and do. And people to meet.”
“Yes. It’s going to take me some time to adapt, but everyone’s been so kind and welcoming.”
“Why won’t you write for my magazine?” he blurted.
She sighed. “Look, as you just said, I’ve only been here one day. I don’t know why you’re pushing so hard.”
“Maybe it’s because I seldom get to meet a—a colleague of sorts. If you were as big a name as you said in Los Angeles, then it’s apparent you have a lot of talent and you could only benefit the publication.”
“That’s rather mercenary on your part, isn’t it?”
He remained silent for so long that Leah stole a look at him, dim in the starlight. “What’s wrong?”
“You’re right,” he admitted. “It was mercenary on my part. Prideful. I was thinking only of the magazine, not you.”
A little part of her melted. “Then let’s change the subject. Forgive me, but how is it you’re using a computer and a camera? I thought those things were forbidden to the Amish.”
“It took some persuasion, I’ll admit,” he replied. “It helps that we’re a modern order—”
“What do you mean, ‘modern order’? Edith used that term too. I thought the Amish were the Amish.”
“No, not at all. Groups tend to interpret modern conveniences differently. The Old Order groups live very differently than the Beachy groups, which even drive cars. We’re not as modern as that, but the bishop liked the idea of a magazine geared toward Plain People, so long as I could produce it in a way that was not disruptive to our way of life. I’m walking something of a fine line, trying to show I’m not out to corrupt anyone but merely to serve Gott with the gifts I’m given.”
His casual reference to his faith disturbed Leah, who still felt God—if He existed—had a lot of explaining to do when it came to changing her life so completely last January. In her momentary lapse into bitterness, she lost the train of Isaac’s conversation.
“So if you’re agreeable,” Isaac was saying, “perhaps on Friday you can show me what I’m doing wrong.”
“I’m sorry,” she apologized. “Show you what?”
“I’m having some trouble with the computer software. I’m hoping you might know what I’m doing wrong.”
“Well, I’m no expert, but I guess I can take a look.”
“Gut. It’s been a stretch for me, learning how to use a computer, but people seem to like the magazine, so I think I’m doing well.” There was the barest hint of uncertainty in his voice.
“Has it been a difficult adjustment, coming back?”
“Oh, so you know?”
“Edith and Ivan told me you spent some years away from Pikeville.”
“It’s no secret.” He rubbed his chin. “Ja, it was difficult. I had too many Englisch ways in the beginning, but I’ve tried to forget them. The outside world... I liked it at first. I liked it too much. But it strips away a man’s faith and tries to replace it with other things. Competition, power, ambition. And technology. Technology has so many uses, but it drives many things away.”
“Like what?” Having grown up with nothing but competition, power, ambition—not to mention technology—she wasn’t sure she wanted to hear a litany of woe. But the journalist in her asked the question.
“Like this.” He gestured ahead at Sarah and Rachel, then at the dark landscape around them. “When I lived with the Englisch, no one liked to talk, to walk anywhere. They like brightly lit places with loud noises and loud music. I went to a movie once and the sound—the soundtrack—was so loud I had my fingers in my ears almost the whole time.”
“What movie?”
“Jurassic Park.”
“Oh, good movie.”
“It was impressive to see dinosaurs stomping around.” He grinned. “They were so huge on the screen...it was like they were come to life.” In the starlight, she saw his grin fall. “But it made me feel guilty too. We shun movies and television and cameras. Seeing a movie, even an older movie, made me feel I was supporting an industry we don’t approve of. And as for using a camera for the magazine...” He trailed off.
“I suppose I can see the conflict.”
“It’s been a problem. Then I came back home and found myself between two cultures. No one here knows what Jurassic Park is. Or even wants to.”
“But you did come back.”
“Yes. The benefits of returning home outweighed the detriments of staying away. I couldn’t give up my faith. Gott has been too good to me to turn my back on Him. Look, they’re expecting you...”
Leah looked ahead and saw an oil lamp set in a windowsill of the Bylers’ living room. It was a charming sight.
As if on cue, Sarah turned. “Danke schön, Isaac. Gut nacht.”
He tapped his hat brim. “Bitte schön.” Without further ado, he turned and walked away into the darkness.
Leah stared after him. “Does he have a long way to go?”
“Nein, just a mile or so.” A yawn split Sarah’s face. “I’m tired... I’m off to bed.”
The house was silent. Rachel took the lamp off the windowsill and showed Leah where the bathroom was. It seemed odd to wash up by lamplight, but she felt refreshed afterward.
Rachel carried the lamp upstairs and into Leah’s room. “Here, light your own lamp,” she said, “before I take this one away.”
Leah bit her lip. “I’ve never lit an oil lamp before.”
Rachel’s eyes widened in surprise, but she didn’t say a word of reproach. “Like this.” She put down the lit lamp.
She went through a brief instructional on removing and replacing the chimney, touching the match sideways to the wick, and lowering the wick to the proper height. “Never leave off the chimney,” she said. “It regulates the air flow. If you leave off the chimney when the lamp is lit, it can overheat and pressurize the lamp base and might catch fire. To blow out the lamp, cup your hand over the chimney like this—” she demonstrated “—and blow into your hand, so the air is directed down into the chimney. Don’t try to remove the chimney while the flame is going or you’ll burn your hand.”
Leah nodded, hoping she would remember all the details and—more important—that she wouldn’t burn the house down.
Then Rachel was gone, leaving Leah to the quiet bedroom.
A white cotton nightgown, utterly unadorned, hung from one of the clothes hooks. The bedroom window was open, and she heard the sound of crickets. Closing the simple sheet curtain over the window—not that she needed much privacy out here in the middle of nowhere—she removed her kapp and dress and donned the nightgown, which slithered all the way to the floor.
Then she sat on the bed and looked at the pretty glowing lamp and wondered what on earth she was doing here—and what to expect next. She heard the crickets and nothing else—no car horns, no sounds of traffic, nothing of the indefinable rumble of urban life. No hum of electrical devices, no blare of radios or televisions, no people talking in the corridor outside her apartment door. Nothing but crickets.
She touched the scar on her cheek. No one had mentioned it tonight at the hot dog roast, and there were times she actually forgot about it. But it was there, lumpy and red. Sometimes it ached. The doctors had done a nice job sewing it up, but there was only so much they could do. Perhaps someday she would be able to disguise it with makeup, but in her heart she knew it could never be disguised well enough to resume her job in front of a camera.
Okay, so she could work behind the camera. She’d been resisting the thought, in part because camera recognition fed her hungry ego, but recognition was now a deadly factor she could no longer risk. She literally didn’t dare show her face in Los Angeles again...or anywhere else, for that matter.
So here she was, living anonymously in an isolated Amish community. It was the best place for her, she knew, and she would do her best to blend in.
For now.