Good morning, Chloe.” Tyler Hart, Becky’s lawyer, answered his phone on the first ring. “Is everything okay with Becky?”
“Everything is fine. Officer Fisher is going to recommend Becky’s probation be reduced as soon as she finishes her community service hours.”
“That’s great news. She should be able to place the entire accident behind her by springtime.”
Thinking of Becky’s nightmares, I wasn’t so sure.
“So what’s up, if it’s not related to Becky?”
“This time it’s about me.”
“I hope you don’t need a criminal lawyer.” His voice was teasing.
“No, I don’t, but I do think I need a lawyer or at least legal counsel. I don’t know who else to ask.”
“What’s the problem?”
I told him about Dylan purchasing the house and insisting to remodel it while Becky and I still lived there.
“I can see why you would want to move.” His tone was thoughtful. “I’ll tell you what. E-mail me a copy of the lease and I will take a look at it today and let you know what I think. I’ll give Greta a call too about this. You said she met the guy.”
“Yes.”
“I’ll get Greta’s take. If she doesn’t trust him, I wouldn’t either. She’s a good judge of character.” He cleared his throat. “I don’t believe he can knock down walls while you are living there.”
“He wants to restore the house to its original form. Everything must be historically accurate. He flipped out on Timothy for using the wrong latch on the window.”
“Maybe I can get a blueprint of the house from when it was originally built. The historical society should have one. Those ladies would love it if I dropped in for a visit.” He chuckled. “When was it built?”
“1909. 1910. I’m not sure.”
“That gives me a ballpark at least.”
I thanked Tyler and went straight to my laptop and e-mailed him the lease.
Becky walked into the living room rubbing her eyes. “You’re awake before I am. What’s going on?”
“Dylan was here yesterday.”
She flopped on her dog pillow. “I know. I let him in, remember?”
“Check out that wall.” I point to the one with the penciled X on it.
“What about—did you draw on it?”
“I didn’t. Dylan did. Timothy thinks he wants to knock it down because it’s not an original part of the house.”
She sat up. “While we live here?”
I nodded. “This place will be unlivable with debris floating around, not to mention the noise. I just got off the phone with Tyler, and he’s going to read the lease to see if there is a way out of it.”
Her eyebrows shot up. “Where would we go?”
“I’m sure we can find another house to rent somewhere in town.”
She frowned. “I like this house.”
“I do too, but I don’t like someone we don’t really know going in and out of it all the time.”
She stuck out her lip. “I guess.” She stood. “I’d better get ready for work.”
After Becky left, I found myself torn between whether or not to pay a visit to Grandfather Zook to ask him again about the attack. This was one of those times I wished the Troyers had a house phone. I could call him with my questions and the deacon would never know.
Instead I called Timothy’s cell. “I want to visit Grandfather Zook and talk to him again about the attack.”
“Okay,” he said, the tone of his voice confused, as if he didn’t understand my hesitation. “I’m sure he’d love to see you.”
I bit my lip before speaking. “I know he would, but I’m worried about causing more trouble for the family.”
“Chloe, we can’t be afraid to visit my family.”
“I know you’re right, but Ruth was so upset. If we stay away, maybe Anna’s parents will change their minds and let the girls see each other.”
“Ruth’s thirteen. Waking up in the morning upsets her.” He paused. “And Anna’s parents base their decisions on what the bishop says. A quick visit to see my grossdaddi is not going to worsen the bishop’s opinion of us.” He sighed. “You know what? I have an even better idea. We can talk to Grandfather Zook, but there’s a stop I’d like to make first. Be there in ten minutes. Wear old boots with a good tread, not the ones with the heels.”
As promised, Timothy arrived on my doorstep ten minutes later. I held up my foot, so that he could get a clear view of my old, ugly but practical, winter boots. “These babies were made for the Iditarod trail.”
Timothy’s expression was total bafflement. “What’s that?”
I laughed. It wasn’t the first time I made a reference to something from the “outside world” that Timothy knew nothing about. “I’ll tell you in the truck.”
The truck bounced along new potholes in the road that snow and ice had left behind. “So where are we going?” I stroked Mabel’s head as it lolled over the front seat.
“Bishop Hooley’s.”
I searched his face. “Are you joking?” Mabel’s head popped up, giving him a good once-over too.
“Nope. It’s time to go to the source of all the changes in the district. Maybe he can explain some of them.”
“Timothy,” I began as gently as I could. “Do you really think he will listen to you? You’re not a member of the district anymore.”
He tapped the steering wheel. “That’s true, but my family is. I need to know what is really going on and what needs to be done to get him to leave them alone.”
“Aren’t you afraid this will make it worse?” I didn’t want to voice that concern, but I thought that I must.
“I am, but I have to try.”
Another concern came to mind. “Won’t my being there make it worse?”
“I don’t think so. The bishop and deacon may say they have a problem with you, but their real problem is with Becky and me. We are the ones who left before we even knew you.”
“Won’t he be at the funeral?”
“He will be, but it won’t start for a few more hours. Since he will have to speak there, I know where to find him. That is if he hasn’t changed his habits since he was a preacher.”
Timothy pulled the truck up alongside a frozen pasture peppered by the occasional tree. That was it. No houses, no barns, not even any outbuildings.
“Where are we?”
“A field.”
I eyed him. “I know that, but I thought you were taking me to the bishop’s house.”
“I said I was taking you to the bishop. I never said his house. He’s in the pasture with his sheep.”
“His sheep?”
Timothy smiled. “You’ll see. Mabel, stay in the truck.”
The black and brown dog settled in the backseat for a nap.
I followed Timothy along a well-worn path through the pasture. The crunch of frozen ground under our sturdy boots was somehow comforting. I watched Timothy’s gloved hand as we walked, wishing that I had the courage to reach out and grab it. I frowned. As much as I wanted to do that, I didn’t believe that walking hand in hand with their oldest son would help our case that I wasn’t corrupting the Troyers with my English ways.
The phrase, “Are we there yet?” was on the tip of my tongue when we went over a rise. Ten yards in front of us was an Amish man. He wore a calf-length, black wool coat, and black stocking cap instead of the usual felt hat.
He faced a flock of thirty or so sheep. Most of them stood on the snowy ground staring at him. A handful found patches of earth where the snow had melted away and lay down with their hooves tucked under their wool coats.
The bishop held a crook in his hand as he spoke to the sheep. He spoke Pennsylvania Dutch, so I didn’t understand a word. Despite not knowing the language, I heard a hesitation in his voice. Every so often he stamped the end of his crook into the ground to make a point.
“He’s practicing his sermon for Ezekiel’s funeral.”
“To the sheep?” I whispered.
The bishop spun around and found us standing there. His dark brown eyes glared at us, but something else registered in his gaze. Fear.