Summer of Secrets Read online

  She sighed loudly and looked away. Why couldn’t this man understand that sometimes she just wanted to be left alone? “In my dream, Tiffany showed up again.”

  “Jah?” Micah took a large bite of the rhubarb custard pie and then offered her a forkful.

  Rachel turned her head. “The Kanagy boys egged ya on, and ya took their dare,” she continued in a strained voice. “Not only did ya put your hand on her back, ya kissed her, too! Full on the mouth! And she grabbed on to ya like she wasn’t lettin’ go. Like she was hookin’ her claws into ya!”

  His face sank a notch lower. “But by the light of this day, ya surely see that I’m doin’ no such thing, Rachel. Nor do I want to.”

  “Are we still goin’ to the ice-cream social, then?”

  “Where else would I be goin’?”

  She sighed impatiently. Micah was being extraordinarily nice, yet his kindness scraped at her like the steel wool they scrubbed pans with. “I don’t know! I just—ya wanted to hear about that dream, so there it is! I shouldn’t have told ya, probably, as it just gave ya ideas about that ghouly-girl in black.”

  “She’s your sister, Rachel. And she can’t help that any more than you can.”

  “So? Why’d she come buttin’ in on us that way? Did she think we’d act all overjoyed and throw a party, like the father did for his prodigal son?”

  Micah offered her the last bite of his pie: creamy pink rhubarb sandwiched between golden layers of pastry, with ice cream melted over it. As though she could think of dessert at a time like this! “I’m sorry she’s got ya so upset, Rachel. But ya know, Tiffany’s not really doin’ this to ya. You’re doin’ it to yourself.”

  Her face fell. This kind, handsome man spoke the truth, but there was just no believing what she didn’t want to now, no matter how right he was! “I’m sorry, Micah. Truly I am!” she rasped. “But I’m fresh outta patience with—can’t think any good will come of—oh, forget it! Things ain’t been right since that surprise sister of ours showed up!”

  Rachel slammed the back screen so hard, Micah nearly dropped his pie plate. But she’d hit the nail on the head, hadn’t she? Tiffany’s appearance had overturned her applecart and now, in her soul, Rachel felt too scattered to get her act together. Not gut, considering she didn’t have any idea how to turn her attitude aright again.

  But he knew things, didn’t he? Miriam’s voice had drifted outside this morning during her phone call ... and if he could use what he’d overheard to help Rachel, shouldn’t he do that? She’d be furious if she knew of the plan forming in his mind right now. But then, if Rachel’s own mother had arranged a meeting with Tiffany and her dat, why couldn’t he use the information from such a visit to make his girl feel better—about herself, mostly?

  He’d never seen her so upset. That was fear talking, because Rachel seemed to believe he found Tiffany more appealing, more exciting, than she was. How silly and wrong was that? Yet Rachel’s dream had seemed real, and she believed what she’d seen in her overactive imagination last night.

  Micah went back inside, smiling at Miriam as he passed through the steam from a pot of fresh corn boiling on the stove. His mother was running fresh green zucchinis through a grinder to make bread. Rachel and Rhoda were going to a hen party Sunday afternoon, so now he had a plan of his own ... and since most ablebodied men in Willow Ridge would be spending tomorrow raising a new milking barn in New Haven, it would be a Saturday night when Rachel didn’t expect his company. More importantly, those hours of physical labor would allow his mind to lie fallow so his best thoughts about this Tiffany situation could develop.

  Micah grinned as he fetched his hat from the peg on the wall. His brothers and the Kanagy boys had already gone back to work, figuring him for a lovesick fool who deserved to be late. But they had no idea: he was about to solve the mystery of what made women tick. And after he proved to Rachel how much he loved her, she’d never again pester him about being slow or clueless.

  Chapter 6

  “Jah, des gut. On goes the lid!” Rhoda positioned the skillet of chicken pieces on the gas burner of their stove at home, while her sister put the seasonings back into the spice rack beside the cookstove. “That makes us enough spaghetti squash, chicken, and green beans for supper—and for tomorrow, too. I’m ready to be out of the kitchen for a day. What a week it’s been!”

  “Glad for the party at Schrocks’ tomorrow, too. Gut to get out amongst friends.” Rachel took three plates from the cabinet. “And nice to go somewhere and be guests instead of servers, ain’t so?”

  Rhoda laughed. As she placed the silverware and cloth napkins at their places, she glanced at the head of the table, where Dat used to sit, and at the length that went unused unless they had company. Everything about this house had been designed for a large family, yet now there weren’t but the three of them. And if Rachel moved out when she and Micah married ...

  Gut thing Mamma and I enjoy each other’s company. Our two voices won’t nearly fill the spaces left empty. But there was plenty of time to think about that: nearly half the summer left, and autumn yet. And who could tell what might happen by the time Rachel and Micah published? Why, she might’ve found a steady beau herself by then!

  “What would it have been like, to have three girls while we were growin’ up, instead of just us two?” Rhoda mused aloud. “It’s for sure and for certain Mamma and Dat figured on havin’ a raft of kids—”

  “She said Rebecca was the feisty one. I’m thinkin’ we’d’ve had a lot more cat fights, with her stirrin’ things up amongst us.” Rachel rolled the wringer washer out of the pantry closet and fitted the hose end to the faucet. She started the air motor to make it agitate. “And it would’ve been two against one, most likely, when it came to choosin’ fabric for new dresses or what kind of pie to make.”

  Rachel reached under the sink for the laundry detergent, still considering this question. “Wouldn’t take as long for three to redd up the house. But when we were little, if one weren’t holdin’ up her end of the chorin’, we’d’ve all caught Mamma’s switch across the backs of our legs!”

  Rhoda chuckled as she separated their dark dresses from the underthings. “Jah, all things considered, you and I have never fussed much. Thick as thieves when it comes to keepin’ our secrets and keepin’ track of each other. Probably would’ve been some hurt feelin’s if one of us would’ve become the snitch... .”

  “Well, it wouldn’t’ve been me or you!” Rachel added borax powder to the water, her mouth set in a tight line. “Maybe Dat would’ve taken Rebecca out to the shop, since he had no boys to help him. Seems she likes metal and leather—”

  “Rachel! You need a saucer of milk for makin’ such a catty—sourpuss—remark!”

  “Jah, well, somebody needs to see things the way they are! That girl showed up and wrapped Mamma around her little finger—even while she insulted her!” Rachel stuffed one dress and then another into the washing machine, as agitated as the sudsy water. “And Micah took one look at her—”

  “Micah and everyone else. Even the other Englishers.”

  “—and off his mind raced, like a spooked horse!” her sister ranted. “Only took two minutes for the pot to boil over, and now, two days later, we’re still cleanin’ up the mess she made of us!”

  Rhoda sighed, sorry she’d speculated about growing up as triplets. “Listen to yourself, Rachel!” She jerked away her hand as her sister clapped the lid on the whirring washer. “You’re the one who’s so—I think you’re jealous of Tiffany!”

  Her sister’s eyes flashed icy-hot. “Why would I want to be like her? Why would anybody?”

  “Because Micah took his eyes off you for two seconds to gawk at her, that’s why!” Rhoda struggled to restore their harmony—that seamless state in which no one knew where one of them ended and the other began. “This isn’t at all your way, Sister! I’m as ferhoodled about your reaction to Tiffany as I am about her showin’ up in those nasty black clothes.”

 
; “You think you’re upset? This is my future we’re talkin’ about, so—”

  “Stop it! Just stop.” Rhoda placed her hands on either side of her sister’s hot, flushed face, startled by the emotions she saw there—yet again. Rachel was wound up so tight her kapp quivered like a pale leaf. “Look at us, Sis! We just said how we’ve never fought, and ya nearly cut off my hand with that washer lid just now! What’s goin’ on here, really?”

  The kitchen rang with stunned silence.

  Rachel’s gaze locked into hers. Then, with a little sob, she squeezed Rhoda’s wrists and shook her head miserably. “Don’t rightly know,” she murmured. “Last two nights I’ve been havin’ the most wicked nightmares about that girl—”

  “Jah, she looks like somethin’ that stepped out of a bad dream,” Rhoda commiserated.

  “—and I can’t seem to stop thinkin’ on her—on the whole fact of her existence,” she confessed. “So I’m not sleepin’. I—I’m truly sorry, Rhoda. Last thing I want is to upset you or Mamma.”

  “Mamma’s got a lot on her mind.” Rhoda plucked a towel from the sink and gently blotted her twin’s tears. “But remember when we were wee little, cud-dlin’ in the dark so’s the monsters under the bed wouldn’t eat us?”

  Rachel’s quivering grin shone through her tears. “Jah, we reached our limit callin’ out in the night for Mamma. Dat had no idea how lonesome—and scary!—it got when he moved us into separate rooms and told us to stay put.”

  “And then it got really scary when he passed, ain’t so?” She let out a shaky breath, wondering how long it would be before she could discuss their father without wanting to cry. But that sadness wouldn’t serve her purpose now. “Who’d’ve thought we’d be runnin’ a restaurant with Mamma? Payin’ all the bills and gettin’ by better than anybody predicted. All our friends thought we’d just go to pieces, but we showed them what we were made of! And what we could do with God’s help.”

  “Jah, there’s that. Mamma’s a strong woman.”

  “Well, so are you, Rachel. And no matter what happens—Tiffany or bad dreams or whatnot—you’ll always have me.” Rhoda smiled, drawing the corners of her sister’s lips up with her fingertips, like they’d done when they were kids. “Even after ya get hitched, and ya need to steam like a teakettle, I’ll understand ya like nobody else can.”

  “Jah ... jah. Fer gut and forever, Sister.”

  “Fer gut and forever.”

  For a moment the two of them hugged each other hard, surrounded by the rhythmic thrum of the washer and the rich scent of chicken and vegetables. Together they sighed. And together they eased apart. “Better splash your face,” Rhoda murmured.

  “Mamma always knows when we’ve been cryin’. She’ll be here any minute.”

  Nodding, Rachel went to the sink and ran cold water into her hands. As she patted her face, Rhoda looked toward the lane to see if their mother had finished for the day. “Jah, here she comes. I’ll keep her talkin’ a minute—see if we’ve got a nice ripe tomato in the garden. Ya gonna be all right?”

  Rachel resembled a little girl who’d just been pulled from a raging river—even if those waters only raced through her mind as emotions. But she nodded and motioned for Rhoda to go on outside.

  “Feels gut to set a spell,” Mamma murmured after they’d cleaned their plates. “The chicken and veggies tasted mighty fine, girls. But then, like I’ve told ya, even a peanut butter sandwich seems a feast when somebody else makes it!”

  Rhoda widened her eyes playfully. “Ach, Mamma! Had I known ya wanted peanut butter instead of—”

  Their mother smiled and reached across the table for their hands. “Ya can’t know how I appreciate comin’ home to find the house redded up and the laundry goin’. Denki, daughters.”

  For a moment they held the connection—affection like they hadn’t shown when Dat sat at the head of the table and decided how their days would proceed, and what they’d do when the day’s work was done. Truth be told, the work never seemed to be done, yet a satisfaction passed along the triangle of their joined hands with the gentle rhythm of their pulse.

  “Dishes or laundry?” Rachel murmured.

  “I’ll hang the clothes.” Rhoda stood, then pointed imperiously toward the porch before steering her mother out there. “Mamma, after such a busy week as we’ve had, you’re due for some time in the swing with your feet up, ain’t so?”

  Mamma waved her off. “Comes a time I can’t help with—”

  “Nee! Ya better be out there supervisin’ me! Can’t have the neighbors cluckin’ over how I hung your underthings toward the road!”

  “Or on the side where Preacher Hostetler’ll see them when he milks in the mornin’,” Rachel joined in as she stacked their plates. “We cause enough talk, bein’ three hens without a rooster in charge.”

  Mamma laughed as she removed her shoes and stockings. “Guess you girls’ll just have to get hitched then. Don’t go tellin’ anybody, but I kinda like my life right now.”

  Rhoda smiled. It was nice, this chatter the three of them shared after a busy week at the Sweet Seasons ... yet Mamma was a far cry from being old or unattractive. Truth be told, some of the unattached fellows here in Willow Ridge came to the café as much to enjoy Miriam Lantz’s company as her cooking, she suspected. And once she and Rachel started families, who would their mother spend her evenings with? Or did she figure to become the mammi of the family—the grandma—with all of them living here?

  “Those are deep thoughts goin’ through your mind, Rhoda,” Mamma mused from the swing. “You and Rachel were jawin’ about somethin’ when I came home, ain’t so?”

  Rhoda cranked the pulley, moving their dresses away from the porch so she could fill another section of clothesline. “When are we not?” she hedged. Last thing she wanted was to bring up the subject of Tiffany again, what with Rachel just on the other side of the open window. “We were sayin’ how it’s gut tomorrow’s not a preachin’ Sunday, so’s we can go to the party—and eat goodies we didn’t bake ourselves! Sure ya don’t wanna come?”

  Mamma let out an exaggerated sigh as she stretched out on the swing, propping her bare feet on the armrest. “Peace and quiet ... maybe somethin’ as sinful as a nap. That’s what these tired feet need, more than all the gossip you girls’ll be hashin’ over. But denki for offerin’.”

  A nap? When had her industrious mother ever slept during the day?

  Rhoda almost challenged her, yet when Rachel came out with the big Bible for their evening reading, she let it go. Mamma rose several hours before the sun every morning except for nonpreaching Sundays—made her daughters look like laggards, getting up by five to join her at the bakery. Truth be told, a little extra rest would probably do them all a favor.

  “Your turn to read tonight, Rhoda,” Rachel reminded her. “Looks like Mamma’s already in listenin’ position.”

  “Jah. Pick me out somethin’, and I’ll be right there.”

  When her sister lit the lamp on the sturdy little table, its glow gave the summer night a peaceful feeling. Used to be Dat who chose the selections, when it came time for the actual reading, he always handed the Good Book to Mamma. In every other family she knew, the men read, and yet ... the Scriptures took on a warm, personal tone when a woman gave them voice.

  “Here—I did like Dat and just let it fall open to the place.” Rachel handed her the Bible, mischief twinkling in her smile. “Like God decidin’ what we need to hear, he used to say.”

  Rhoda sat down so the lamp’s light fell across the page, then closed her eyes and put her finger down on the spot where she would start. Silly, perhaps, yet these simple traditions felt comforting now that Dat was no longer alive—and after a week that had delivered a startling surprise to their doorstep. “I’ll be readin’ from First John, the fourth chapter, startin’ at verse eighteen,” she said reverently. “‘There is no fear in love; but perfect love casteth out fear ... because fear hath torment. He that feareth is not made perfect i
n love. We love Him, because He first loved us.’”

  She paused to ponder this, to let the meaning soak in.

  “Jah,” Mamma said quietly. “It’s like that sermon a few weeks ago, where Preacher Tom said that if you’re feelin’ afraid all the time, ya got no real faith that God’s takin’ care of things.”

  “Ya s’pose he sees Lettie’s takin’ off as ... God workin’ things out?” Rachel asked quietly. “That sort of thing’s not s’posed to happen if a woman really loves her man—and if he really loves her. Ain’t so?”

  “Now there’s a question best left to God.” Mamma’s tone suggested they might’ve veered from the Gospel into gossip. “Keep goin’, Rhoda. You’re a fine reader, child. Ya don’t just rush over it, mouthin’ the words, like some folks.”

  Rhoda nodded and focused on the dark, dense print again. “‘If a man say, I love God, and hateth his brother, he is a liar: for he that loveth not his brother whom he hath seen, how can he love God whom he hath not seen? And this commandment have we from Him, that he who loveth God love his brother also.’”

  She sighed, looking out into the night where the insects sang their summer song. “The Word only mentions menfolk and brothers, but it would work the same for a sister, I’m thinkin’. So ... she who loveth God loves her sister, also?”

  “Ya just said a mouthful, honey-girl.”

  In the porch chair on the other side of the lamp’s glow, Rachel shifted until her face was lit by the lamp. “Like God decidin’ what we need to hear,” she repeated in a faraway voice.

  For just the slightest moment, Rhoda had a vision of Tiffany—their Rebecca—in a kapp. Clean faced and smiling ever so gently.

  Chapter 7

  Out by the county highway on Sunday afternoon, Miriam waved at the familiar van pulling onto the shoulder. She opened the back door to put her picnic hamper on the floor, and then hoisted herself into the front passenger seat. “Gut afternoon, Sheila! And how are ya this fine day?”