CHAPTER 2

I answered my cell phone to hear the B&B’s proprietress say, “Thank goodness I caught you before you arrived.” Her voice was aflutter. “We had a storm last night—we needed the rain, that’s for sure—but our roof leaked. I just discovered your room was hit the hardest. The bed’s soaked.”

Ah, my chance to get upgraded. “Do you have other rooms available?”

“Nothing, I regret to say. And we have a waiting list. I called around and couldn’t find another vacant room closer than the city of Lancaster. I’m afraid it’s a good drive from here and not in the best part of town. I’m sorry, miss, really I am.”

I was tired and grumpy when I said good-bye to her. Good riddance, I felt like saying, all the time recalling Pops’s disapproval of my coming here. I was tempted to make a U-turn and slink back home. Or find a cheap motel on the highway.

Why hadn’t Donald called?

I reminded myself I usually came groveling to him. But not this time. We needed to start our marriage on an even footing or I’d always be the underdog. Yesterday, when I’d told Donald that Pops’s kidneys were in trouble and I might offer one of mine should my father need it, Donald said, “No way; no how. That would ruin our honeymoon.” His words made me feel prickly inside. He’d shown no sympathy for Pops. Did I want to marry a man who’d let my ailing father die without a fight?

I lowered my window farther and the fragrances of moist sod, mowed grass, and farm animals inundated the car, luring me into the valley. For late March, the air felt coolish, in the forties. Cars zipped along, as they did back home. But with buggies on the road, I slowed for fear of hitting one. Sure enough, I spotted a gray carriage in front of me—an orange-red reflective triangle affixed to its back—and told myself to be content following it.

A blanket of clouds enveloped the sun and the road darkened, yet few street lamps shone and most of the houses remained relatively dim. I’d heard the Amish didn’t use electricity, so how did they light their homes?

Motoring south on the two-lane road, life moved in slow motion. I followed the buggy until it rolled off onto the shoulder. I seized the opportunity to speak to the driver. I scooted up next to it to see an Amish youth at the reins. We both stopped. Leaving my car idling in Park, I lowered my passenger-side window. The young man, around age eighteen and wearing a straw hat, eyed the Mustang with what appeared to be envy.

“Hey there,” I called. “You know of any motels or bed-and-breakfasts around here?” I doubted the woman at the B&B had called every single hotel in the county on my behalf.

“Nee, but I’m meeting up with a couple friends. One of them might.” He tipped his head toward two buggies at the side of the road ahead of us. One of the drivers, dressed Amish and about the same age, stood outside.

I rolled the Mustang forward and asked the same question. The young man ambled over to admire my car and removed his wide-brimmed hat, revealing longish straw-colored hair, flattened on top and cut like someone had placed a mixing bowl over his head, following the rim.

“My parents rent out a room at our farmhouse and it’s vacant.” His voice carried a sing-songy accent. He seemed harmless enough, but out of habit I locked my car with my elbow.

“’Tis true,” he said, and replaced his hat, pushing his bangs to his eyebrows and over the tops of his ears. “My mamm will fix ya supper if you’re hungry.”

“I could do with a snack.” An understatement. My stomach was gurgling.

“I’m Jeremy.” He grasped his horse’s reins when the brown mare lowered her head to munch scrub grass.

I didn’t give my name—none of his business, Pops would say. He’d drilled into me when I was a child: never talk to strangers. “Sure, I’ll swing by and take a look.” What other options did I have?

“If you’d care to follow me, I need to head home—after I pick up mei Schweschder—my sister. Won’t take long.”

“Okay, thanks.”

He hopped into his buggy and slapped the reins. The reluctant mare grabbed another mouthful of grass before clopping back onto the road. I put on the headlights and trailed behind him, watching the reflective triangle. Keeping near the shoulder, I ignored the cars and trucks stacking up behind us, let them zoom past. People on their way to join their families.

I pictured Pops eating alone tonight and felt apprehension flood my chest, dampening my spirits. When I got married and moved to Brewster, New York, with Donald—where his parents lived—I wouldn’t be around to care for Pops. Unless I called off the wedding. The invitations were addressed and stamped, set to go in the mail Monday, in three days. Would Donald’s mother have a fit if I told her not to send them? Or maybe Darlene would be relieved. She was probably worried spitless about what Pops would wear to the rehearsal dinner and how he’d act during the ceremony.

Ten minutes later, I saw the regal sign for the town of Intercourse, founded in 1754. The small village seemed sparse, nothing like New Milford with its neatly manicured green and white gazebo surrounded by shops and restaurants. This town’s streets were devoid of pedestrians and most of its stores already closed. I raised my windows. Why had I driven this gas-guzzling flashy car, a cinch to break into? I was glad I’d packed my overnight bag in the trunk, out of sight.

Jeremy drew to a halt off to the right on the other side of town, about a half mile farther. Thankfully, the triangle reflector caught my eye. I stopped behind him, glanced off to the left, and saw a sign: Sunflower Secondhand Store.

“Land o’ Goshen,” my father might sputter. The store really existed.

A young Amish woman in her early twenties at most, wearing a mid-calf dress, an apron, a cape, and a white heart-shaped head covering, stood struggling to lock its front door.

Jeremy yelled, “Hurry up or you’re walking!” impatience grating his voice. “Someone’s following me home.”

The young woman blasted him with a volley of words in another language, what I presumed was Pennsylvania Dutch, because I understood bits and pieces from high school and college German classes. “I can’t leave it open, now, can I?” She tried another key.

I called out my window. “You closing shop for the day?” What time was it? The clock on the forty-plus-year-old car’s dash didn’t work and I’d neglected to wear a watch.

She turned to me. “Yah, and I’m running late.”

“You need help locking up?” Between Pops’s old house—where I lived—and his compilation of vehicles, I doubted a lock existed I couldn’t finagle. And I wanted to get moving.

“Yah, I do or I’ll be out here all night.”

Ignoring Pops’s lectures to mind my own business and not speak to strangers, I drove into the gravel parking lot at the side of the two-story building and got out.

“I ain’t got much time,” Jeremy said. “Our dat needs me.”

As I approached the flustered young woman, I inspected her pretty face—the set of her pale blue eyes, her high cheekbones, her sandy-blonde hair tucked into a bun and straggling out from under the delicate white organza head covering. No makeup.

“I usually don’t close,” she said, her pale complexion blotchy, “but the owner went home early.” She handed me a key ring. Why would she trust a complete stranger who drove a car? But on the other hand, why was I trusting her Hicksville brother in a buggy? Pops would have a fit.

“Let me try.” I extended my palm. Without hesitation she handed me the key ring. “You’re using the wrong one.” I slid a stainless steel key into the lock and with a little prodding turned it, then heard the bolt click into place. The store was faintly illuminated by an overhead look-alike Tiffany lamp. I glanced through the store’s wide windows and saw a plethora of secondhand items: tea cups, quilts, clocks, old-fashioned dolls, and a case of reading material off to the left. I should have thought to bring a novel and take a break from TV.

I gave her the keys, and she dropped them into her apron pocket. “You’re ever so kind,” she said, with the same accent as Jeremy.

“I’d better hurry,” I said, still unnerved to be standing in front of the Sunflower Secondhand Store. “My mission is to find a place to spend the night. Jeremy said your parents rent out a room.”

“Yah, you come home with us. We’re used ta havin’ Englischers staying with us.”

“I’m not English.”

“Sorry, I meant anyone who isn’t Amish. Although my dat—my father—may insist you park your car at the side of the house so neighbors don’t see it. It sure is red, like a cardinal. We mostly use the back door, anyways.”

“All right, I’ll follow you and Jeremy.” I couldn’t resist asking, “Say, do you have someone working at the store named Lizzie?”

“Yah, that would be me.”

“You’re Lizzie?”

She bobbed her head. “Yah, Lizzie Zook.”

I felt what Pop would call bamboozled, like last winter when my tires skidded on a patch of black ice. Out of control, I’d fishtailed, pulled a one-eighty, and ended up headed in the opposite direction.

“Are there many Zooks in Lancaster County?” I asked.

“Oh, yah, ’tis a common name.” Her gaze took in my skinny jeans and suede loafers.

“And probably a good many Lizzies, too,” I said.

“Yah, my aunt on my dat’s side and two cousins. Why do you ask?”

“Because I’m Sally Bingham.” I held my breath, half-hoping her face would remain placid because she’d never heard of me. She must be in some kind of trouble, because she didn’t look like any pedigreed dog fancier I’d ever met.

“Sally!” Her hands flew up to cover her cheeks. “Ya came? I can’t believe it.”

“That makes two of us.” I didn’t put faith in coincidences and happenstance. I felt disoriented, my world rotating in the wrong direction. This couldn’t be the person who’d emailed me because I didn’t believe in flukes. I refused to.

“’Tis an answer to prayer.” Lizzie’s voice rippled with elation.

I was stunned to find her standing before me. Knock me over with a feather, Pops might say. He’d also caution me to beware. “Things are seldom as they seem,” he’d occasionally sung, a line from an old Gilbert and Sullivan musical.

“Willkumm!” Lizzie said, harpooning me to the present. “I can’t tell ya what this means to me.” Her oval face beamed like a kid opening a birthday present.

“So you’re Lizzie?” I tried to make light of it, when in fact I felt as if I might topple over a cliff. I was tempted to dive into my car and take off. But how could this young woman do me any harm? Yet she seemed to possess enough gumption for both of us.

“I’m that Lizzie Zook,” she said. “Ever so glad ta finally meetcha.”

“Happy to meet you, too.” No, I wasn’t. I didn’t like surprises. My words marbled out. “So you’re in some kind of trouble or what?”

She put a finger to her lips. “I can’t talk in front of mei Bruder—my brother—Jeremy.”

The sky was fading, the world turning monotone. The temperature was dropping. Chilly air traveled up my jacket sleeves. What alternatives did I have? I’d at least check out their accommodations.

As I watched Jeremy adjust his hat, I formulated a plan to exhume Lizzie’s scheme—my hunch was she’d devised one. “Is it okay for you to ride in my car?” I asked.

“Yah.” She bounced on her toes. “That would be ever so nice.” She spoke to Jeremy in Pennsylvania Dutch. He jiggled the reins and the horse lugged the buggy forward.

“I told him to go ahead,” she said. “We’ll probably pass him.”

I stood for a moment, marveling at Lizzie’s lack of sophistication—or was it a theatrical act for my benefit?—before opening the passenger door for her.

“You ready?” I was glad she couldn’t decipher what lay behind my cheerful facade.

“Denki,” she said as she got in. “Thank you.”

“Sure, no problem.” I bopped around the hood, slid behind the wheel, and started the engine while she buckled her seat belt. The tires bit into the gravel parking lot as I backed up, then maneuvered the car toward the road. Jeremy and the buggy were nowhere in sight.

“Okay, Lizzie. Where to?” I switched on the headlights and rolled forward.

At that moment, a horse pulling a carriage came cantering in our direction. A spike of fear shot through me. I slammed on the brakes and skidded. The horse stopped short and reared, its front legs pawing the air. The driver, a bearded gent I guessed to be in his sixties, settled the animal, then gave me a less-than-cordial look, his lips drawn back.

I mouthed the words I’m sorry, but his expression remained severe as he glared at Lizzie and me.

Lizzie sank down in her seat. “Ach, ’tis Bishop Troyer,” she said, wringing her hands.

My mind floundered with uncertainties. Recalling Pops’s admonishment not to come, a shiver ran through me. What was I getting myself in to?