CHAPTER 9

I awoke with a jolt to a clacking sound. A rock hitting my window? How long had I been asleep? I guessed over an hour by the heaviness of my limbs and my mental confusion. Was someone stealing the Mustang?

No, a thief wouldn’t throw a pebble at a window. I swung my legs over the side of the bed and landed on the wooden floor; chill air traveled up my gown. In darkness I peeked around the window shade and saw a male figure and a flashlight’s beam.

The rain and wind had eased up; the trees no longer swished like hula dancers, nor were droplets pounding the ground. The moon—with crepe-paper–thin clouds dashing by it—illuminated the property like a fifteen-watt lightbulb, giving the world an eerie appearance.

The young man stood gazing up at the house for a moment, then receded to the base of a tree.

Armin? I wondered, then noticed the guy was hatless, his pale hair short—to his disadvantage if he wished to stay hidden. On closer inspection, this fellow was not as tall as Armin—about Pops’s height, but his torso was stocky. No beard. In my foggy half-asleep state, my brain struggled for clarity.

I heard the rustle of fabric in the hallway, then the pitter-patter of movement on the staircase. Below me in the front room and kitchen, the air lay still, but a door creaked open and closed. My nose against the windowpane, I saw Lizzie in a black coat and hat descending the stoop. She looked over her shoulder, then rushed toward the young man, who turned off his flashlight. Together, they disappeared from sight.

The bedroom’s icy air spurred me to either get dressed or pounce back into bed. But would I fall asleep again? I reminded myself: I had no control over Lizzie’s actions. Obviously. I’d delayed her attempt to leave earlier, so she’d waited until I was in bed. I checked the hands on the battery-run clock on the bureau. Who in their right mind would leave the house at midnight?

Minutes later, a motor started up, but it carried little heft, unlike the Mustang’s 390 engine’s robust growl. I’d recognize it. I couldn’t see the Mustang from this window; the shed stood between us. Other automobiles passed by every now and then on the main road out front. Maybe I’d heard one of them.

If only Pops were here. At home, he always sailed in to save the day. Tonight’s phone call infested my mind. I doubted I’d get back to sleep until I checked on the Mustang. I felt foolish for not bringing its key upstairs with me, not that a thief couldn’t break in. Even I could, using a coat hanger. And a carjacker could bring the engine to life in a snap.

I flicked on the flashlight Rhoda had left on the bed table, then wriggled into my sweatpants, a long-sleeved T-shirt, and a hoodie. Cracking open the door, I was relieved not to run into Reuben. Lizzie’s door was closed tight, but I knew she wasn’t in bed. Unless Rhoda had been the woman leaving earlier. No, the female figure I’d witnessed was petite, her movements spritely. Yet the night was dark; I could have made a mistake.

I made my way through the living room and into the kitchen. I opted to borrow a black woolen coat hanging alongside my jacket. It was long enough to cover my legs and appeared warm. I also grabbed a black hat, the same type Lizzie had worn. I didn’t think Rhoda would mind. I’d be back in a few minutes.

I took the liberty of stepping into a pair of work boots, thinking they were Peter’s—too small for Reuben and Jeremy—and headed outside. The rain had stopped. Clouds still streaked across the sky, but enough light reflected from the moon’s porcelain surface to assist me down the steps and around the corner. The flashlight’s beam illuminated the Mustang’s sleek fastback and its mag wheels. All my fretting for nothing, I chided myself. I let out a lungful of air. Lizzie might be gallivanting about the county, but she wasn’t in Pops’s vehicle. Nor were a swarm of teenagers on a joyride at our expense. Pops’s words nagged at me. I should have stayed home to look after him.

I breathed in the perfume of moist earth, manure, hay, and a trace of burning wood. I noticed a ribbon of smoke curling from a chimney on the other side of the Mustang. Armin’s abode? I stepped around to see a rustic, quaint clapboard cabin with two windows and several steps leading up to a covered porch. Two rocking chairs lounged by a front door that appeared to be newly painted.

Armin was most likely asleep in preparation for tomorrow morning’s chores. Or perhaps reading by the fire. Did he even know how to read? I realized I was being a snob.

Years ago, I’d overheard Pops mention to someone that the Pennsylvania Dutch only went through the eighth grade, but were well educated, intelligent, and industrious. I figured he’d gleaned the information from a magazine, since I’d never seen a book about the Amish in our house. Just the opposite. Road and Track was Pops’s style. And he never uttered the word Amish. Pennsylvania Dutch was what he called them on the rare occasions they came up in conversation.

As I turned to go back to the house, I admired the lofty barn and silo under the stippled moonlight. Beside the barn stood a smaller building with what looked like electric wires running to it. The white structure, dwarfed by the barn, appeared recently built. Reuben’s workshop, I assumed, and wondered if Armin had remembered to plug in my phone. By now, it might be charged. Had Pops or Donald called and left a message or texted? I was used to keeping my phone close by, and admit I was curious what I’d find in Reuben’s shop. I wouldn’t be breaking in, because Armin told me they never locked their doors.

As I approached, a dark form scampered past my ankles. A rat! I let out a scream. I hated rats.

In a flash, a cat bolted after it, brushing my shin. I yelped and spun around to retreat to the safety of the house, but I stood for a moment to see if I’d woken anyone, if lights were coming on. I saw none. Not that someone couldn’t be watching me from a window.

In my mind, I improvised an explanation should Reuben trundle outside to scold me. The truth: I’d come to check on the car and get my phone. No one told me Reuben’s office was off-limits. All very logical. Then why was I trembling?

That stupid rat.

Close up, the building was larger than I’d first thought. Desire to retrieve my phone spurred me forward. My flashlight’s beam leading me, I inched toward the door. My free hand went out to grasp the knob.

“Was is letz?” Armin said, and I twirled around to face him. “What’s wrong?” he said. “I heard a woman scream.”

“Sorry.” I steeled myself. I wasn’t about to admit I was afraid of crawly, furry rodents. “A cat ran across my path and startled me. I apologize for waking you.” In the dim light, I noticed he’d dashed outside wearing a long work jacket and was carrying his hat and a flashlight. I felt a flush of gratitude for his presence, the aura of confidence he exuded.

He positioned his hat on his mussed hair. “Even when asleep, I keep an ear open. Sometimes a dog or coyote gets into the chicken coop.”

But Lizzie had escaped without his notice?

I wished Ginger stood at my side. Small in stature but fearless, my corgi could see in the dark far better than I could. No rat would dare dash past her.

“Why doesn’t Reuben keep a dog?” I said, stalling, because I didn’t want to admit I was sneaking into the man’s workshop.

“Reuben doesn’t much care for them.”

I felt my hackles rising. “Dogs are man’s best friend.” Mine had been loyal; they’d never have abandoned me like my mother had.

He let out a sigh. “I once had a big collie mix—the prettiest dog you’ve ever seen—but he took off one day and never returned.”

“Sorry for your loss.”

“Yah. I haven’t had the heart to replace my Rascal.” He buttoned his long work jacket. “Rhoda and Lizzie keep telling me I should get another, but I’m not ready. Rascal just might return on his own.” He fell silent for a moment, then added, “Only I was living next door when he left.”

An idea that would explain Lizzie’s emails sprouted like an acorn and took root. Perhaps she was planning to buy him a new dog. A Pembroke Welsh corgi that even Reuben couldn’t help but fall in love with. Did Armin have a birthday coming up? Maybe Lizzie had been telling me the truth the whole time.

“My Rascal more or less found me when I was up in New York State,” he said glumly. “He might have headed back north to where we used to live.”

“I’ve heard stories of dogs finding their way home.”

“I guess I should write the woman—”

“A girlfriend?”

“Yah, but we split up when I didn’t join the church and she married another. I feel foolish even mentioning it.”

“Lizzie said several women have their eyes set on you.” My turn to interrogate him. “In these parts I hear you’re quite a catch.” I could understand why, but I wouldn’t let him know I was attracted in spite of his Beatles haircut. I reminded myself he couldn’t compare to suave and sophisticated Donald. But where was Donald tonight? Not pining over me.

Armin gave a one-shouldered shrug. “I’m in my late thirties. I should settle down and start a family of my own. In fact, Rhoda invited a young lady over for dinner next week—some phony excuse. Rhoda likes playing matchmaker.”

“Really? I figured she’d want you and Lizzie paired up.”

“Nee, Lizzie and I are like sister and brother.”

For no reason, I felt a sense of relief, like removing a small pebble from my running shoe.

“Do you know this young woman who’s coming over?” I wondered if she were beautiful and clever. I hoped she wasn’t. But why? Because I wanted him to remain a bachelor and die childless like I would if I didn’t get back with Donald or find someone new? My biological clock was ticking and couldn’t be rewound, but men possessed decades of opportunities.

Armin straightened his hat. “I’ve driven Marjorie home from Sunday Singing a couple of times. But so have other fellas.” He scrutinized my borrowed jacket. “What are you doing out here anyway?”

“I came to check my phone. You did plug the charger in, didn’t you?”

“Just like I said I would. I was planning to put it in the kitchen when I got up.” He was talking down at me, like Reuben had earlier. I felt icy air traveling up my pant legs. The temperature was dipping as quickly as Armin’s mood.

“Since I’m here, do you mind if I check on it right now?” I tried to sound nonchalant but heard the tremor in my voice. “My father might have called again.”

“Reuben doesn’t like strangers in his workshop.”

“But you’d be with me.” On Pops’s car lot I’d learned never to take a customer’s first no as their final answer.

“I suppose it’s okay.” He strode ahead of me, opened the door, and lit a gaslight, illuminating the one-story space, the size of a double-car garage. I shut off my flashlight and followed him inside. The unctuous smell of turpentine and wood stain assaulted my nose. Ahead lay a room jam-packed with tools, plywood, and two-by-fours. Sawdust and scraps of metal and wood littered the floor. Jars of nails, screws and bolts, and a stew of hammers, screwdrivers, and paintbrushes lay scattered across a counter. The opposite of the main house’s interior. The word slovenly came to mind, but I had no right to be judgmental; Pops’s tool bench in his garage wasn’t any neater. Still, I bet Rhoda never set foot in here.

I slipped my flashlight in a jacket pocket and zeroed in on my plugged-in phone sitting atop a desk covered with a mishmash of diagrams, papers, pencils, and an old-fashioned typewriter.

My phone was charged, but no messages or texts awaited me. I told myself I didn’t care. But I did. Sadness weighed upon my chest as if I were submerged in water. I tried not to let my disappointment show but felt my shoulders slump.

“What does Reuben make here?” I turned the phone’s ringer back on, then stuffed it and the charger in my pocket.

“Mostly small wooden items like quilt racks. When he has time. A big farm like this keeps a man working all day spring, summer, and fall. But Reuben likes to keep busy in the winter, too.”

I scanned the room searching for anything that might bring a bishop’s disapproval. “Where does he sell his merchandise?”

“At a roadside stand, until he runs out of stock.”

“What are these?” I pointed to a stack of what appeared to be mahogany boxes with ornate brass hinges cloistered in a corner.

“Well, now, they’re jewelry boxes, if you must know. Reuben made them for tourists.”

“May I?” I set one on the corner of the desk and admired the cover: an inlaid stem of red roses and fern-colored leaves as lovely as I’d ever seen. “Maybe I could take one home as a souvenir if they’re not too expensive.”

“They’re not for sale.” Armin hovered over me as I lifted the cover. A burst of music filled my ears, notes sprinkling around the room. My surprised reflection stared back through a mirror affixed to the inside of the opened lid. Scarlet-red crushed velvet lined the rest of the container. I removed a shallow, partitioned shelf—I assumed for storing earrings—to see more lush red velvet.

“What an exquisite jewelry box.” The last thing I expected to find. “And Reuben made it?”

“Yah, he’s color-blind,” Armin said, flatly.

“There’s a problem with the color?”

“He thought he’d bought green fabric. And he sent away for the music box mechanisms not knowing what they played. He’d never heard of the tune before.”

“It sounds vaguely familiar.”

“The bishop’s wife says an Englisch woman told her it’s the theme song for a black-and-white TV show named M*A*S*H. It elevates war and makes a wicked life seem funny and appealing.”

“Oh, yeah, I’ve seen it on Pops’s favorite oldie channel. The show took place during the Korean War.” I lowered the lid and the music ceased. “Has Reuben been selling them?”

“Englisch women snapped them right up. But then Bishop Troyer’s wife complained to him that Amish women were buying the boxes too and humming the song.”

“A problem?” I said.

“Verboten. In the first place, we’re not to wear jewelry. Even wristwatches. And the bishop said Reuben chose Satan’s favorite color—red. And so fancy.” He picked up the jewelry box. “I shouldn’t have let you open it. Not that you follow the Ordnung—our unwritten rules. But the Bible admonishes us not to cause another to stumble.”

“Don’t worry. A jewelry box won’t lead me into a life of debauchery.” I contemplated the trashy magazines for sale back home, right in the grocery store where kids could see them, and the grungy R-rated movies I detested. “Is this why your bishop is on Reuben’s back?”

“Mostly. Ya see, Reuben didn’t destroy them when the bishop admonished him to. Now everything Reuben does is under scrutiny.”

I glanced around and saw several quilt racks waiting to be sanded and stained. “I feel sorry for Reuben. He probably thought he’d found a way to bring in extra income and unwittingly did it all wrong.”

“’Tis true. There was no evil intent. But he should have run his idea by our bishop or deacon first and saved himself the money and his reputation. And then heaped them on the burn pile when the bishop demanded it, and repented.” Armin stacked the jewelry box with the others and pivoted to me. “Reuben can be a bit bullheaded.”

“I don’t doubt that, but I can understand why he didn’t want to throw them away. He must have put hours and hours into each one. Maybe he could install a new tune.”

“Makes no difference. A man must listen to God’s Word, not his own. To add to Reuben’s problems, someone reported seeing him at a local bar downing a beer.” Armin’s hand swiped his mouth. “Ach, I shouldn’t have told you.”

I heard an engine idling and wondered if Lizzie were returning with her young man. I was tempted to sprint out and catch them, then remembered I was in Reuben’s workshop, uninvited. Alone with Armin, who didn’t seem to hear the car door. But I assumed he’d heard it. Lizzie must be stealing into the house and tiptoeing into her room.

In any case, I’d be close on her heels.

“No worries,” I said, “I won’t mention our conversation to anyone.” I took one last look around. I hoped Armin wouldn’t tell Reuben I’d been snooping in here. One more blot against me, when, in fact, Reuben was in the hot seat. But I cared what Rhoda thought of me.

“I’m afraid everyone in the district has already heard. With phone shanties—our Amish grapevine—juicy news purveys the county like the stench of a skunk.”

“I know all about gossip,” I said. “As a girl, kids ridiculed me behind my back and teased me openly about not having a mom. I invented stories about my sophisticated and glamorous mother, a flight attendant for United Airlines, based in Chicago, who got stuck flying holidays.”

Armin stared at me as if waiting for me to continue.

“In other words, I’m against petty gossip, what my father calls tittle-tattle,” I said, rather than reveal my thoughts. Not that I hadn’t already blathered about my reprehensible mother. What was it about this place that pried me open like bolt cutters snipping through chain-link fencing?

A horse whinnied—more a squeal—the sound emanating from the barn next door. “That’s my Thunder,” said Armin. “I’d better take a look.”

A nanosecond later, I was racing after Armin toward the barn. He yanked the door open and stepped inside the black cavern.

A voice, sounding like Pops’s, shouted inside my head: run back to the house and watch from the window! But the vagrant who’d prowled around the Mustang might be lurking in the shadows.

Following Armin, I aimed my flashlight’s beam around the barn’s spacious interior. A row of stalls contained six massive, statuesque draft horses and several other horses, including the mare that had pulled Jeremy’s buggy earlier. Meaning he must be home, although Lizzie had insinuated his friends owned cars.

My flashlight’s beam landed on Armin as he sauntered over to a restless horse. He patted its rump. The tall animal bumped the wooden stall, causing the boards to moan.

“What’s bothering you, boy?” Armin said, then spoke to it in Pennsylvania Dutch. He stepped into the stall and stroked the horse’s arched neck and nose. “I’m here. Everything’s okay.” A minute later Armin emerged from the stall. “Someone’s been in here.”

As I strode over to them, the horse’s ears pinned back and his head jerked. Armin put a hand up to stop me. “Better keep your distance. My Thunder doesn’t take to strangers until he gets to know them.”

“Fine. I don’t want to get bitten.” I inched nearer, still out of the horse’s reach. “Maybe he heard my voice next door.”

“No, someone’s been in the barn, I can tell. One of those stools is at a different angle.”

I looked over to a potbelly stove with a couple stools and chairs nearby. “Jeremy was in here after I arrived,” I said. “Maybe he moved it.”

Armin sniffed the air. “Wearing aftershave?”

I inhaled deeply, my nostrils struggling to decipher the musky layers of dried hay, silage, and manure. “I don’t smell anything remotely like a man’s aftershave.” Then a whiff of a pleasant fragrance drifted into my nose but quickly vanished.

As I scanned the barn’s interior again, today’s events circled through my brain like a NASCAR race on the verge of a pileup. I expected a bum or rodent to jump out at me. “I wish my dog was here,” I said. “She’d ferret out anyone.”

“And further agitate the horses.”

No use arguing with a man I’d awakened from slumber. But I was nervous about walking back to the house alone. My whole life I’d put up an impervious facade, and I wanted to convince Armin I was braver than I really was. I felt like mentioning I could stand in front of hundreds of spectators demonstrating my dogs’ attributes to hard-nosed judges. But why stretch the truth? Deep in my core lay an uncertainty, like a rock tumbling into an endless well. Nothing I could grab hold of. Someday I’d like to hear the sploosh as I landed in a tub of warm sudsy water. What I hoped would happen when I married Donald. But now figured was a fantasy.

The longer I was away from him, the less I missed him.

“I saw Lizzie out the window with a young man earlier.” I couldn’t withhold the information anymore. “I thought I heard a car leaving, but maybe the two came in here first.”

“Or someone wanting to keep warm.” With ease, Armin clambered up the ladder to the hayloft and shone his flashlight in every corner. “No one up here.” As he descended I admired his agility.

“We don’t mind a homeless man taking shelter as long as he asks permission and doesn’t strike a match,” he said.

A horrific vision of the barn catching fire from an itinerant’s cigarette made me shudder. As a child I’d watched a two-hundred-year-old barn burn, a ghastly sight I’d hoped to never witness again.

“’Tis been a tetchy night,” Armin said. Yet he’d discounted the footprints around the car.

On guard, I kept close to him as he moved to the potbelly stove, its black metal surface still emitting warmth, making me want to huddle close. I felt the security of Armin’s presence. No one would dare attack me with him at my side. Or would I have to defend myself? Was he a nonresistant pacifist? I was used to stalwart men like Pops, who would protect me with his life. And my Ginger would too.

“Maybe an animal spooked the horse,” I said, listening to bird wings fluttering in the rafters.

“Could be. I’ve heard tell a bobcat’s been seen in the area. Their scream sounds somewhat like a woman’s.”

I felt heat rising up my neck to my cheeks. “I’m afraid I’m the one who got you up.”

“I know.” He guffawed. “You think I can’t tell the difference between a woman and a wild animal? How thick-headed do you think I am?”

“I didn’t mean to infer—”

“Ach.” He stepped outside, then aimed his flashlight’s beam toward my feet as I exited the barn. “If anyone’s ab im Kopp—off in the head—it’s you,” he said.

“Are you calling me crazy? How dare you!”

“You woke me from the nicest dream.” He closed the barn door.

“About the young woman coming over for dinner?” Why did I feel a pinch of jealousy over a man who’d just insulted me?

“I can’t see how my dreams are any of your business.” He covered his mouth to yawn.

Staring back at him, I tried to ignore his rugged features, his eyes that pulled me right in.

“Ach, I can’t stand around chewing the fat.” He glanced at the sky as the rain started again. “I’ve got to get up to milk the cows in a few hours.”

A raindrop hit my cheek. “I’m sorry I bothered you.” I really was. “I shouldn’t have come out here.”

“You’ll not get an argument from me there. I’ll walk ya to the door to make sure you get inside safely—and stay there.”