Sunlight played chase with yesterday’s fog, and the newly painted clapboard farmhouse beamed like a white moon against the backdrop of a considerable willow tree in the backyard. There, dozens of scarlet cardinals flocked to its branches in the early evening, as if drawn to the thousands of golden leaves.
A stand of sugar maples on the opposite side yard made a show of their dazzling red tresses, and each day more crimson blanketed the ground below.
Never in disrepair, though more than a hundred years old, the three-story house stood as a testament to hard work and constant care. Out front, just steps from the yard, a scarcely traveled ribbon of road divided the property in two—the house on one side and the barn and several outbuildings on the other.
Annie stared out her bedroom window at the radiant foliage bursting forth from nearly every tree, the array of colors reminding her of an artist’s palette. She chided herself a bit. No time for daydreaming during the harvest, she thought, what with everyone keeping busy—men filling silo, womenfolk making applesauce and cider, this very morning, in fact, in Mamm’s big kitchen. She headed downstairs. I must do my part, too. For now. . . .
Annie and her mother were soon joined by more than a dozen women, each assuming a different task. Looking around intently, she saw that one very important helper was missing. Annie held her breath, thinking of her dear friend Esther Hochstetler, hoping she might yet arrive even at this late hour.
Mamm’s three older sisters, Aunts Suzanne, Emma, and Frannie were on hand with their married daughters, Mary, Katie, Suzie, Nancy, Becky, Rhoda, and Barbianne. Another half hour passed, and Esther was still not there, even though two weeks ago at Preaching service she’d told Annie she was definitely coming today.
I hope she’s feeling all right. Esther was expecting again, and this pregnancy seemed to be the reason she gave lately for staying home.
Annie continued to help her cousins prepare the apples for cooking into sauce, cutting a neat circle in each apple to core the seeds and stem. All the while, Barbianne and Suzie chattered about the corn-husking bee tomorrow, the familiar light evident in their eyes as they talked softly of those ‘‘pairing up,’’ unaware of Annie’s hollow heart.
They continued whispering of the fun in store, hoping one of them might find the colored corn—Indian corn—for a special prize of candy or cream-filled cookies.
Then, for no particular reason, Annie happened to glance up. There was Esther coming through the back porch and mud-room area, hesitating slightly before stepping foot in the kitchen, looking awful tired and pale.
Lickety-split, Annie set down her paring knife and wiped her hands on her apron. She rushed to Esther’s side. ‘‘Ach, I’m so glad you’re here!’’ She pulled her into the kitchen. ‘‘Where have you been keepin’ yourself?’’
Esther blinked her pretty eyes, blue as can be. ‘‘Oh, you know me . . .’tis easy to get caught up with the little ones.’’
‘‘Well, two in diapers must be nearly like havin’ twins.’’
Esther nodded. ‘‘Jah, seems so at times.’’
‘‘Who’s with them today?’’
Esther paused. ‘‘Uh . . . Mamma came by, said I needed to get out a bit.’’
Annie agreed. ‘‘I’m glad she did!’’ She led Esther over to the section of the table where the cousins were still coring and peeling. ‘‘How does your big girl like first grade?’’
‘‘Laura thinks goin’ to school is the next best thing to homemade ice cream.’’ Esther gave Annie a quick smile. ‘‘But I miss her help at home . . . for sure.’’
They went over and began working on the first bushel basket. Then, after a bit, when the next group of women had the apples quartered and ready for the sugar, cinnamon, and water, they all took a short break while that mixture cooked.
Annie sat with Esther at the far end of the table, pouring extra sugar into her own cup of tea. ‘‘Laura’s always been keen on learnin’, seems to me.’’
Esther nodded, holding her teacup. ‘‘She’s doin’ all right . . . in school, jah.’’
‘‘I remember I always liked spelling best.’’ She bit her tongue and almost said drawing, too. But, of course, that subject was never taught in the little one-room schoolhouse over yonder. ‘‘I remember your favorite was geography. Am I right?’’
Esther’s lip quivered slightly and she was still.
‘‘You all right?’’ Annie touched her arm. ‘‘Come, let’s walk over to the outhouse right quick.’’
‘‘No . . . no. I’ll keep workin’ here—you go on.’’
Annie was stumped. Esther looked to be troubled about something, so why did she clam up like that?
Hurrying out the back door, Annie headed around the side yard to the wooden outhouse. She hoped Esther was all right, really she did. Essie, as she’d called her when they were girls, had always been a most cheerful playmate. She and her family had lived a ten-minute buggy ride away, so she and Annie got to visit each other often, and Annie loved it, being the only girl in a family of boys. She also remembered that up until Essie’s courting years, she’d worn a constant smile on her pretty face.
But sadly it wasn’t long after Essie married Ezekiel that the infectious smile began to fade. Soon Essie was asking folk to drop her youthful nickname. ‘‘Call me Esther from now on,’’ she insisted.
In the few months following her wedding day, Esther became sullen, even distant, and within the year, she was scarce at gatherings. When she did go to help can vegetables and fruits or put up canned meats, she didn’t say much unless spoken to first. It was as if Esther had to be pried free of something each and every time.
Annie could not put her finger on the reason for the drastic change. But something sank in her like a rock in a dew pond whenever she thought about who her friend had become. What was it about getting hitched up that caused the light to go out of some girls’ eyes?
Annie shook away her fretting and headed back to the house. She wished she could help, but there was a thick wall around Esther now and it seemed no one could break through.
Just then Annie spied her father and Rudy Esh’s older brother, Caleb, across the road smoking cigars near the springhouse. How peculiar. In all her days she did not recall ever seeing Caleb Esh chewing the fat with Daed.
A little shiver went down her back, seeing Caleb, because he looked a lot like Rudy. What on earth does he want with my father?
But, alas, she’d worried enough for one morning. Taking a deep breath, she forced her attention back to applesauce-making and to dear downtrodden Esther. She opened the back door to the tantalizing aroma of tart Granny Smith applesauce.
Jesse Zook puffed on his cigar, exercising as much forbearance as possible, saying not a word as Caleb Esh gabbed away.
‘‘My brother Rudy must have had a good reason for picking a different girl—it’s just that I think your Annie’s far and away a better choice of a mate, Preacher.’’
Jesse had not made a practice of knowing who was seeing his daughter and who wasn’t. He wouldn’t start speculating now . . . unlike some fathers who required a report from their sons of the scallywags who drove younger sisters home from barn singings and other church-sanctioned activities. Never had he cared to interfere that way with Annie’s courting years. She was a levelheaded sort and downright determined, too. His daughter would have no trouble attracting a fine man to marry, but only when she was good and ready to settle down.
‘‘Rudy is makin’ a big mistake, the way I see it,’’ Caleb continued.
Sighing, Jesse removed his hat and inhaled his tobacco deeply. He contemplated the field work to be done yet, and here they were wasting time. ‘‘Well, I have to ask ya, just what’s your concern in this?’’
‘‘Only that Rudy was in love with Annie. Sure as my name’s Esh.’’
‘‘But you say he broke off with her?’’
‘‘That he did.’’
Now Jesse was confused and perturbed. Seemed Caleb wasn’t making much sense for a man nearly thirty-five years old, married, and the father of nine children, last count. This here Caleb had also been talked about as a possible preacher nomination back last fall after council meeting, amongst some of the brethren.
A busybody, to be sure . . .
‘‘Is all your plowin’ done, Caleb?’’ he asked right quick.
‘‘Well . . . almost.’’
Jesse shook his head a bit, looked down at his straw hat, and then placed it back on his head. ‘‘Why not let nature take her course where courtin’s concerned. Seems the Good Lord works all that out just right fine, given the chance.’’
Caleb nodded his head quick like and said, ‘‘Afternoon, Preacher Zook.’’ Then he sauntered over to his horse and carriage, where he’d left them smack dab in the middle of the lane.
‘‘Be seein’ ya at Preaching service come Sunday,’’ Jesse called to him, attempting to keep a grin in check.
Louisa lit each of four candles on the table, two tall tapers and two votives. She softly blew out the match and returned to the kitchen, where Michael was putting the finishing touches on his organic dressing ‘‘experiment,’’ as he called it: extra-virgin olive oil, French sea salt, freshly-squeezed lemon juice, dry Italian basil, fresh garlic, ground black pepper, and Greek oregano— leaves only, all mixed into one dressing bottle.
‘‘Looks exotic,’’ she said, smiling. ‘‘And the steaks await.’’
He carried the wooden salad bowl, tongs, and dressing to the table. ‘‘How about some dinner music?’’
‘‘Sure. What are you in the mood for?’’
He winked at her in response, and she felt her face blush.
‘‘You pick.’’
She went to the sitting area of the small living room and scanned the CD tower. This was not a night for anything heavy. Keep it mellow, she decided, thinking ahead to the topic of conversation, which must wait until they had enjoyed the jointly made candlelight dinner.
She reached for her old favorite, legendary Stan Getz—cool tenor sax—and slipped the disk into the CD player. Smooth jazz filled up all the spaces of silence, and she sat down across from Michael.
‘‘Hold your plate,’’ he said and forked one of the steaks.
She watched him place the medium-rare piece of meat onto her plate. She was aware of his hands, his well-manicured nails . . . and immediately she thought of her mother’s plans to do an all-day manicure, pedicure, and facial with all the bridesmaids. Then, they were all supposed to go to a glitzy tearoom Mother had booked, where Louisa was to present the gold bracelets.
But here she was having a really terrific dinner with Michael, who was making nice remarks about the steaks she’d grilled. Saying other complimentary things with his eyes, as well.
Oh, she groaned inwardly. Wrong timing.
But later, during a dessert of peach sorbet and gourmet butter cookies, it was Michael who mentioned that his mother was asking about ‘‘all those groomsmen.’’
‘‘Did you tell her it was my mother’s idea to have a million bridesmaids, which meant you had to scrounge up that many groomsmen?’’
He shook his head. ‘‘Moi?’’
‘‘Well, it’s excessive, and it seems Mother has decided this wedding is to be the most costly, the most lavish of any in Denver’s recent history.’’
‘‘Hmm . . .’’ Michael frowned. ‘‘I take it you’re not happy.’’
‘‘It’s just that . . .’’ She spooned up a small amount of sorbet and stared at it. ‘‘I was hoping our wedding might reflect something of the two of us.’’
‘‘Doesn’t it? Our families aren’t exactly collecting food stamps. Why not have a good time?’’
This wasn’t going as she had imagined. She looked at him. ‘‘It’s gotten so out of hand, and Mother’s calling all the shots.’’
He reached across the table for her hand but she stiffened. ‘‘What’s really wrong?’’
‘‘Don’t you get it, Michael? It’s not a wedding anymore, it’s a Las Vegas show!’’ She thought she might cry.
‘‘Do your parents know how you feel?’’
‘‘It’s not me they’re trying to please. It’s all about making impressions . . . Mother’s society sisters, for one. And everyone else on the guest list.’’
Michael shrugged. ‘‘So? My mom’s one of the society girls, too, remember? She’s equally anxious to see a gala wedding for us. Everyone, both families, all of our friends, are on board.’’
‘‘Except me.’’ Her words came out like a thud, and Michael’s eyebrows shot up. Until this moment, she hadn’t realized how terribly disillusioned she had become. What had changed? Was it Annie Zook’s friendship over the years, an Amish girl’s influence from afar? No, it was more than that. Had to be.
She swallowed hard. ‘‘A quarter-of-a-million-dollar wedding won’t make our day more special or meaningful, will it?’’ She had to hear him refute it. Instead, he pushed his chair back and reached for her salad plate, as well as his own, and carried them to the kitchen sink.
Returning, he brought along a bottle of champagne and two glasses. ‘‘Look, babe, who cares how much money our parents throw at this wedding? It’s how we were raised. Our parents have more money than they know what to do with, so what’s the harm?’’
She shook her head. Either he hadn’t heard a word she’d said or he simply didn’t care. Or worse, he didn’t understand.
Wealth is all he knows . . . it’s all I know. Of course he doesn’t understand.
‘‘I’m tired of this life,’’ she said softly.
He leaned forward, frowning. ‘‘I don’t think I heard you. You said what?’’
She was so frustrated, it was all she could do to measure her words, to keep from simply bursting. ‘‘I have no intention of living the way my parents—or yours—do. Look around here . . . at my apartment. This is the real me. I crave secondhand furniture and flea market treasures. Old stuff. Things with class but inexpensive, worn, and scuffed up . . . things that exude character.’’ She paused. ‘‘I thought you knew.’’
Michael grimaced. ‘‘Isn’t this merely a phase, your latest artistic flair? I didn’t think you were serious.’’ Casually he unwound the wire fastener from the bottle. ‘‘You want the look of poverty, well fine. That’s cool.’’
She sighed. He doesn’t get it.
‘‘What does it matter about the wedding?’’ he continued. ‘‘Why not go along with the plans? You know your parents always get their way. Like they did with you and me.’’
His words slammed into her heart. ‘‘What are you talking about?’’
He gripped the bottle and pulled up, grimacing slightly. ‘‘You know. The long-range plan.’’ He popped the cork for effect.
She blew out a breath. ‘‘What?’’
Their eyes met, and Michael flashed a smile. ‘‘Surely you remember how we met.’’
A blind date. ‘‘My dad ran into your dad. . . .’’ She struggled to remember. Where? ‘‘And they began talking, and one thing led to another, and then . . .’’
He chuckled. ‘‘Well, yeah, but there’s way more to it.’’
‘‘More to what?’’
‘‘Oh, come on, Louisa. You can’t tell me you didn’t know.’’
She was unable to breathe. It’s so warm in here.
He poured champagne into her glass first, then his own. He set the bottle to the side and raised his glass, proposing a toast, waiting for her. But she could only stare at him, too flustered to reach for her glass.
‘‘Nothing changes the fact that we belong together, Louisa. Does it really matter how it happened?’’ He gestured toward her champagne. ‘‘I say we make a toast to the future—yours and mine, as well as to my partnership with your father’s law firm . . . eventually, but certain.’’
She glared at him. ‘‘So that’s what this is? An arrangement?’’
‘‘Louisa, don’t play the drama queen.’’
‘‘I thought we had something special.’’
‘‘We do. Someone simply got the ball rolling, that’s all.’’
She searched his eyes for some hint of insincerity, some indication he was teasing her. But he was incredibly earnest and more than eager to make the toast.
He winked at her, as though hoping to humor her. ‘‘To the Berkeley-Stratford merger.’’
Her mind whirled. Surely we weren’t merely pawns in our fathers’ hands!
He was smiling at her, attempting to charm her, still holding his glass high. ‘‘Our future is secure and rather limitless. Won’t our children be perfect?’’
She had not fallen for him for any of those reasons. She had been totally in the dark. ‘‘No . . . don’t you see? Our beginning was a fraud,’’ she whispered, blinking back tears.
He set down his glass. ‘‘What’s the difference how it started? What matters is how it ends.’’ His tone was one of impatience now.
How it ends. The words rang hollow and prophetic.
‘‘It matters to me,’’ she said.
‘‘You’re making too much of this.’’
She couldn’t help it . . . she thought of her first boyfriend, a man a few years older whom she’d met at the start of her junior year—an art fanatic like her. Trey Douglas had loved her for who she was. But the timing was all off for them. She should have followed him to London. Instead, she’d fallen prey to her own father’s misguided scheme.
She shook her head. ‘‘No, Michael! I don’t want any part of this. I thought you loved me, no strings attached. I had no idea this was part of someone’s plan to manipulate us. The whole thing is messed up.’’ She rose and hurried down the short hall to her bedroom and closed the door.
‘‘Louisa, baby . . . wait! Let’s talk this out.’’
‘‘I’ve heard enough.’’ She locked the door, leaning her head against it, clutching her aching throat.
Even in spite of his repeated knocking and calling to her, she simply could not bring herself to open the door. It would break her heart even more to look into his face.
All a charade!