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That night Jemima lay in her bed, staring at the ceiling, until well past midnight. The hum of crickets wafted in through her window, but so far had not been able to soothe her to sleep.
It had been a terrible day. She had been accosted by a crazy and frightening stranger, Mark and Samuel had shown up at the house on the same day—and at the same time. Mark was mad at her for seeing Samuel, and now they were both angry at each other.
The two of them had been good friends. She turned her face into her pillow.
And what about that letter, still hidden in the wall nook? The reporter kept telling her that she might be rich, but she could honestly say that she didn’t care. All she had ever wanted was to live in peace with a good Amish husband, near her family and friends. If that dream came true, she neither needed nor wanted anything else.
But clearly, the reporter did. He wanted that letter. That thing he had said about wanting to see her, about thinking she was pretty, she dismissed as a trick to get it.
A new thought came to her. What if she just – gave it to him?
Yes, she could just give it to him. Then he and everyone else who might want it would go away forever, and leave her alone.
Her spirits rose, only to be quenched by a new thought. How would she get it to him?
She tried to remember the name of the paper he said he worked for, but she couldn’t.
She sighed. There was only one other alterative – to try to forget that the whole ugly incident ever happened, and to call her father if the English fellow ever showed his face to her again.
She sighed and nestled into the pillow. She had no doubt that her father would convince him to mind his own business.
The next morning was fair and clear and sunny. Jemima took up her basket, and resumed her usual chore in her mother’s garden – gathering vegetables for the day’s meal.
She hesitated to go to the same spot where the Englisher had ambushed her. She was reasonably certain that he wouldn’t try a second time, but even so.
She ventured as far as the last row of pole beans, but only on the side nearest the house, so that if he was crazy enough to come back, she’d have a clear path back.
She scanned the bushes narrowly, but there was no sign of an intruder.
She picked fuzzy green bean pods and red peppers, and was about to move to the lettuce patch when something in her peripheral vision caught her eye.
She jumped, and rolled frightened eyes towards the house – but it was just a little spot of white lying on the grass.
She looked at the bushes again, and moved to take a closer look.
She bent down to pick it up. To her surprise – and relief – it was a business card. It read:
Brad Williams
Reporter, Ledger-Inquirer
There was also the phone number, and the newspaper’s address.
Jemima breathed a silent prayer, and tucked the little piece of paper into her apron. Now that she had the man’s address, she could mail the letter to him, and The Nightmare of the English Letter would be over.
She turned back to the garden patch, and began humming.
That evening, when she had closed her bedroom door, Jemima sat down at a little table, took a sheet of paper, and began to write her letter.
Dear Mr. Williams, she began, I do not want this letter, and I do not like people coming to my house without my permission because of it. If you want this letter, I will give it to you. I have no need to be rich, so you can be, if you want to be.
Please do not come to my house again, or send anybody else.
Sincerely,
Jemima King
P.S. Or I will tell my father that you are there.
She folded the letter neatly. Then she picked up the old, yellowed letter and tucked it carefully inside the first one, and slid them both into an envelope.
She sat back in her chair and sighed in satisfaction. She would go to the post office and mail it the next morning.
She propped the letter on the table, turned down the lamp, and went to bed, where she slept soundly for the first time in days.
