| |
Although Deborah had helped her escape from her suitors, Jemima soon regretted asking her for help. Because Deborah’s help always came with a price tag.
No sooner had they gotten home, than Deborah turned the situation to her advantage. She announced to her startled family that she was seriously ill.
“I have to lie down,” Deborah groaned dramatically. “I feel so sick!”
Deborah languished on the living room couch for the rest of that day. To Jemima’s surprise and indignation, Deborah’s mysterious illness hung on through the next day, and the next. Deborah told their parents that she was too ill to do any work.
Which meant that Jemima was forced to do both Deborah’s chores, and her own. To make things worse, Deborah made Jemima fetch and carry for her like a maid. Jemima grumbled under her breath, but she couldn’t very well accuse Deborah, because she was the one who’d asked her sister to lie in the first place.
Deborah proved to be extremely fond of a soft couch, and was a frighteningly good liar. When their parents were in the room, Deborah moaned, and rolled her head back and forth on her pillow, and was seemingly racked by spasms of uncontrollable nausea. But after they left, she sat up and laughed wickedly.
She sprinkled water on her face and nightgown to simulate perspiration, she complained constantly of spinning vertigo, and she refused all but the blandest foods.
But when their parents were gone, she made Jemima go to the kitchen and bring up a plate of all of her favorite treats to eat on the sly.
By midweek, Jemima was so heartily sick of this performance that she considered making a confession to her parents; but she was spared the necessity. Whether because she sensed Jemima’s rebellion, or because she herself was tired of the charade, Deborah suddenly declared herself much improved and hinted that she could probably eat – if she was fed.
Fortified with all her favorite foods, Deborah recovered from her illness with amazing speed, and started doing her own chores again. Life settled back into its familiar routine, but Jemima decided not to scold her sister.
She didn’t have time to quarrel with her, because Brad would return on Sunday night, and she had no room in her heart for anything else.
The remaining days passed slowly. To Jemima, they seemed like years, and she could hardly contain her impatience – but Sunday night arrived at last.
It was a crisp, cold October night, bare of leaves – the wind had stripped the branches of every tree, and even the bushes were mostly bare. The landscape was washed by the light of a full moon, and every star glittered with a sharp, chill brilliance; but, off to the west, clouds scudded across the horizon, and the feel of snow was in the air.
Jemima waited in her bedroom, watching the clock by the light of a single candle. The night was cold, but she had two thick quilts to nestle in, and she had hot cider and coffee in two thermos jugs.
She had also taken the precaution of enlisting Deborah’s help. She was reasonably sure, now, that Deborah wouldn’t betray them.
She opened her door, crossed the hall, and rapped softly on Deborah’s door. It opened, and Deborah’s sly face appeared in the crack.
“Time,” Jemima whispered.
Her door opened, and Jemima gave her a quilt and a thermos to carry. “Be quiet,” she warned, and they descended the front stairs as softly as they could.
Deborah sat down on the couch in the living room to serve as lookout, and Jemima walked out onto the porch.
She breathed in the cold air. It tasted like ice from a silver cup, but the moon was bright and would help Brad find his way. She walked quietly to the swing, arranged the quilts, and set the thermos jugs on the floor. Then she skipped down the porch steps and crossed the lawn.
She could see Brad as soon as she rounded the corner of the house; he was walking across the garden in the moonlight with the picnic basket in one hand. Jemima smiled and ran to meet him.
The shadow stooped, set down the basket, and held its arms wide.
Jemima jumped into them, and two strong arms closed around her, lifted her feet off the ground and spun her through the air.
She buried her face in Brad’s shoulder and laughed breathlessly: “Stop, stop! My head is spinning!”
But he had no mercy, because no sooner were her feet back on the ground than he kissed her, braced her back, and bent her away from him until she seemed to be floating out over the ground. She looked up, and could see the stars, winking high overhead. Then he kissed her, and slowly raised her up again. She leaned against his chest, laughing.
“Are you hungry?” he teased her.
She nodded, and he took her hand. “Come on then. I have a basket full of Thai food. You’re going to love it.”
They ran across the lawn, laughing breathlessly, and stopped just short of the porch. Jemima put her hand on his chest and lifted a finger to her lips.
“Careful! Remember last time,” she breathed.
They walked quietly across the porch and settled into the swing. Brad set a small dark lantern on the floor, and a small puddle of light appeared at their feet. Brad knelt down and opened the basket lid. A delicious aroma rose heavenward.
He looked up at her. “Have you ever had Thai food before?”
Jemima shook her head.
“You’ll love it. This is courtesy of the little storefront restaurant across the street from my complex. The cook there is an artist.”
He lifted the lid off a covered dish, and a fragrant perfume rose up. “Try the cashew chicken. It’s amazing.” He rummaged in the basket for a cup, a fork and a napkin, and gave them to Jemima with a flourish.
She giggled, and took an experimental forkful. The flavors were unlike anything she was used to – they were spicy and creamy and nutty and sweet, all at once.
It was delicious.
She closed her eyes and rolled it luxuriantly in her mouth. When she opened her eyes again, she was embarrassed to find Brad smiling at her, because she had been making involuntary mmm sounds. She lowered her eyes in embarrassment but Brad only laughed.
“I told you,” he grinned. “Here, have some of mine. This is called pad thai.” He held out a heaping forkful of some noodle concoction, and placed it carefully into her mouth. Jemima closed her lips over it and savored the taste.
“Um Bwad,” she murmured, “se gud!”
He found the coffee thermos, poured out two cups and gave one to Jemima. She took it gratefully and gingerly sipped it. The heat from the drink was a welcome relief from the cold.
Brad settled into the swing beside her and began to eat. Jemima watched him, but then cried, “Oh, we forgot!”
He turned to her. “Forgot what?”
“Grace,” Jemima told him firmly, and bowed her head in silence. Brad watched her, and waited politely until she raised her head again.
“You don’t say grace before you eat?” Jemima asked innocently.
Brad shook his head. “No. I’m an agnostic.”
Jemima took another forkful of chicken and ate thoughtfully before replying: “What’s an agnostic?”
Brad smiled at her and shook his head. “It means I acknowledge that there might be a God, but I’m not sure of it.”
“Oh.”
“Maybe if I’d had a different childhood, I might’ve,” he sighed. “But it’s hard to believe in God when your Dad skips out and your Mom is a meth freak.” He broke off, and shook his head. “That’s all. Maybe there is a God, and He just isn’t involved. I don’t know.”
They ate in silence for a few minutes, and Brad turned to her again and took her hand. “Look, Duchess, the religion thing doesn’t matter to me. I don’t care what you believe, or if you believe in anything. But – I know it’s important to you.”
He fell silent and looked down. “How important is it, Jemima? Could you – ever consider, say – moving away from home, and living somewhere else? Maybe not even being Amish anymore?”
Jemima looked up at him sharply. “Oh, Brad, don’t ask me,” she whispered. “I couldn’t. I couldn’t, that’s all.”
He didn’t raise his head. “Is that because of your religion, Duchess, or is it because of one of those guys you told me about? The ones who want to marry you? Have you made up your mind about them?”
Jemima fell silent. She looked down at her lap. “I’m not going to marry any of them,” she whispered.
Brad nodded. “Why not?”
Jemima stared steadfastly at her hands. A wave of shyness washed over her. The silence stretched out.
“Because—”
She closed her eyes and tried again.
“Because I—”
She turned to him suddenly, impatient with herself, and took his face in her hands and kissed him like she had never kissed any boy in her life. She meant the kiss to communicate what she felt but could not say; but, to her surprise, Brad took her hands in his and pulled back from her lips.
“No, Duchess,” he whispered, looking into her eyes. “I know you like to kiss me. What I don’t know is why.”
Jemima gasped. She was pierced by the guilty insight – Brad was right. She wasn’t being fair to him. In fact, she was doing the very same thing to him that Mark and Samuel and Joseph had done to her.
Jemima nodded, leaned forward and met his eyes.
“I can’t marry them,” she whispered, “because I’m in love with another man.”
Brad’s voice was barely audible. “Lucky guy. Anyone I know?”
Jemima laughed suddenly and rested her brow against his. “Silly! You know.”
“Say it,” he murmured. “Say it, Duchess.”
“I love you,” she breathed, “I love you, I love you, I love—”
But that was as far as she got.
