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Jemima waited until night had fallen and the moon began its slow arc across the sky. When its smiling silver face appeared in the corner of her bedroom window, when the house had been quiet for hours, and when everyone else was asleep – she crept downstairs and out onto the front porch.
The moon was so bright that it cast shadows across the front yard, and the crickets hummed invisibly from the meadow.
Jemima sat down on the porch steps and looked out across the soft darkness, fragrant of mown grass and roses. She had always come to this spot as a child when she had been confused or upset because it was safe and quiet, and a good spot from which to watch the stars.
She looked up into the infinite night sky and questioned it with her eyes.
The George Washington letter was worth a million dollars – that was what the experts had said. And she’d been sure that once she’d given it to him, Brad Williams, the Englischer reporter, would’ve grabbed the letter and run. She’d been sure that he’d have sold it and gotten rich and never bothered her again.
But he hadn’t done that.
She was still in shock.
Instead – unbelievably – he had thrown it right back into her lap.
Jemima had a fleeting suspicion that his gesture might still be some clever reporter’s trick, but what could he hope to gain by giving the letter back – and giving up a fortune?
She had been taught to be wary of the Englisch, but what could she say when the Englisch fellow could simply have taken the million dollars – and yet chose instead to give it back to her? Who would ever have guessed that an Englischer could pass up the chance to be rich?
A strange tingling danced down her neck. What if the Englisch reporter really did mean what he said about wanting to see her again – for her own sake?
She pressed her brow against her arms. But of course, that was impossible, and would be wrong, anyway. He wasn’t Amish, and so they had nothing in common.
Her thoughts returned to the thick, official-looking letters from the appraisers. They were a secret that she’d tucked away in the little hidden space behind her bedroom wall. She had told no one about them, not even her mother.
The ghost of a smile played across her lips. No matter what else happened, she was glad that the love letter itself had turned out to be real. It had been so sweet – so much the words of a man in love. Who would have thought it?
She wondered briefly if Martha Washington had been as pierced by its beauty as she had been herself.
Wouldn’t it be wonderful to have a husband who wrote you such letters?
She looked up at the sky, and just because there was no one there but her and God, and because there wasn’t another soul awake within miles, she allowed herself to dream.
A tiny star trembled in the unfathomable distance and she watched it wistfully. If only there was a man who would tremble like that when she kissed him.
And who would tell her about his feelings so she didn’t have to guess!
She closed her eyes. That was why the letter had been so beautiful. It had been written by a lover, not just a husband. A man who knew how to make himself vulnerable. A man who was strong enough to risk showing his heart without any attempt to protect it.
There were many boys who were willing to chase her, to kiss her, and do things for her. But not one of them, so far at least, had been willing to be naked in front of her –emotionally naked – and wasn’t that what it truly meant to be intimate?
Wasn’t love all about becoming vulnerable? Wasn’t that...how you knew what it was?
That was what she dreamed of, at any rate: a man who was strong enough to let love make him vulnerable. Who would open his heart and share his feelings. And none of the boys who were chasing her had made the faintest attempt. Clearly, that was because they didn’t know that was what she really wanted.
But if she told them, then they’d all say what she wanted to hear, and she’d never know if it had been real or not.
Jemima opened her eyes. She knew that Mark and Samuel and Joseph were all capable of making themselves vulnerable to her. Maybe they were just too busy competing with each other to notice that she was looking for a man who knew how to lose his heart.
Not win a contest.
She sighed.
But, of course, that was just wishful thinking. Her mother had told her many times that romance was not the same as happiness, and Jemima knew that she was right. A man’s integrity – his devotion to God and to his family – was what really made him a good husband.
And that was what made it so hard to choose between Mark and Samuel and Joseph. They were all good, they all had integrity, they all loved God and they would all be good providers.
And since they were all equally good, and all of them would likely make good husbands – would it be sinful of her to hope that she could find one who would make a good lover, as well?
Her mouth turned down gently. Not one, so far, had even told her that he loved her.
She had no doubt that all of them did – but they were Amish boys, and had been raised to show rather than tell.
Mark especially. She knew that he would do anything on earth for her, but he wasn’t one to talk about it. Her lips curved, as she remembered all the ways he had shown her that he loved her: he never let her carry anything, he gave her candy and bites of his lunch and little gifts he had made with his hands – a carved wooden box, a tiny bird made out of copper wire, and pressed flowers. But Mark felt deeply, she knew.
And Samuel – he was far more likely to kiss her, than to murmur sweet nothings in her ear. But sometimes he looked at her with so much love in his eyes that it wasn’t really necessary to hear the words. They were all there – right on his face. And when he took her hand, his touch was so tender and gentle that she would have had to have been a fool not to know that he loved her.
Joseph Beiler had big, melting brown eyes and thick dark hair and was as handsome as any movie star. But he was so shy that he was hardly able to string two words together in front of her – poor Joseph! Then he tried to make up for it by writing her poetry. She made a face, remembering his last effort: he had compared her to a beautiful cow. Her sister Deborah had been rude, but right: Joseph’s heart was pure, but he was a terrible lover.
She looked up at the stars wistfully. Just now and then, it would be so nice to have a boy tell her what he felt when he looked at her. To let her see inside his heart.
And it wouldn’t hurt at all, if he did it well.
Jemima brushed a tendril of hair out of her eyes. Her mother had told her many times that it was foolish to have your head turned by flowery words and pretty gestures.
“A good man shows love by what he does, Jemima,” had been her teaching. “Not by what he says.”
Jemima frowned. Her mother’s wisdom had seemed so clear and right just a few days ago, and she knew that it was the truth. But even so, she was confused.
Because by that reasoning, her childhood friends and current suitors weren’t the only ones who loved her. A strange Englisch reporter that she hardly knew had just shown her love.
Sort of.
And that made no sense at all.
