Light Shines on Promise Lodge Read online

  Annabelle paused on the top of the stairs, gazing out over the lush green grass and the maple trees, which were now tinted with orange and gold. Beyond Mattie’s partially cleared produce plots, Christine’s black-and-white Holsteins grazed in the pasture. The surface of Rainbow Lake resembled a mirror, utterly smooth as it reflected a few fluffy white clouds and the blue sky. Up the hill, Allen Troyer and Phoebe Hershberger’s future home sat nestled among more trees that were taking on their autumn colors.

  “It’s a pretty tract of land these people have settled,” Phineas remarked as he came up beside her. “How long have they been here?”

  “About a year and a half,” Annabelle replied. Even though he spoke as though she wasn’t among the residents, she was relieved to hear sincere admiration in his voice. She remained wary of where this line of conversation might lead, however.

  “They’ve made a lot of progress, building so many homes and getting so many businesses up and running,” her husband continued. “And they seem to be prospering without a lot of help from nearby Mennonites or English, which is unusual.”

  “Well, I understand that before he married Rosetta, Truman Wickey cleared a lot of the land, dug holes for the foundations, and laid out the main road with his heavy equipment—he’s a Mennonite landscaping contractor,” she added. “But otherwise, jah, these folks have established Promise Lodge in an incredibly short time. They’re gut people. My kind of people.”

  Phineas shifted closer, until his shirtsleeve brushed her arm. “I agree with that—although I have to wonder about Clayton King coming here from Paradise to sniff around. He must’ve taken over as the new bishop for one of the Lancaster church districts since we’ve been gone, because I’ve never heard of him.”

  Annabelle’s pulse settled into a more regular, calm beat. It was a relief to be having a normal conversation—about someone other than herself. “Me neither.”

  “And it’s interesting that King has already wormed his way into Lester Lehman’s home rather than settling for a cabin,” Phineas remarked a bit more sharply. He clasped his hands behind him, gazing at her. “It’s also quite obvious that he’s got eyes for you, Annabelle. Be very careful.”

  Be very careful. What was that supposed to mean? Annabelle detected a note of envy in her husband’s observations—and a warning. She turned her face, although Phineas had probably already noticed her pink cheeks. “Why would a bishop from out east have any reason to notice me?” she asked softly. “I’ve done nothing to attract his—”

  “He’s an unattached man away from the prying eyes of his district,” Phineas interrupted. “And you’re an attractive woman who appears to be at loose ends, as well. Men can sense these things, and King’s the type to use his position—his charisma—to his advantage. Don’t fall for it.”

  Annabelle’s eyes widened. Phineas had called her attractive. And Bishop Clayton did indeed possess an allure—an unwavering confidence—along with a voice and a smile that any woman with eyes and ears would notice. But why had Phineas zeroed in on these qualities? Why did he think she would respond to the visiting bishop’s attention?

  Because you already have. Your face is an open book and your heart is hungry.

  Annabelle started down the stairs, eager to keep moving. “So you don’t think Bishop Clayton’s married?” she asked, hoping to redirect her husband’s line of thought.

  “King seems smooth to the point of being slick,” Phineas replied as he started down the steps alongside her. “I’ve learned a few things by living English. King’s not telling everything he knows—and Monroe Burkholder’s too upstanding a man to realize that.”

  Annabelle sucked in her breath. “What do you mean? Why would anyone come here to take advantage of Bishop Monroe—or any of us?”

  Phineas wrapped his hand around hers as they crossed the lawn. “I don’t know. But it’ll make my stay here even more interesting while I win you back, Annabelle.”

  She blinked. As they approached Lester Lehman’s place, where Bishop Clayton stood chatting with Monroe and the other men, she got an odd feeling as Phineas smiled broadly and waved to them.

  He’s parading me in front of them. Phineas is claiming me with the clasp of his hand, so all those men will see that I belong to him.

  She could recall a time when she would’ve been giddy over such a display of Phineas’s affection, yet a worm of uneasiness squirmed in her soul. Her husband was speaking more gently now, seeming to enjoy her company, yet Annabelle felt like a prize to be won in some sort of competition.

  And from Lester’s porch, the intensity of Bishop Clayton’s gaze told her that the game was on.

  Chapter Eight

  On Sunday, Cyrus looked around the crowd gathered outside the lodge, searching for Gloria before the picnic got underway—because he suspected that once Clayton King accepted Bishop Monroe’s invitation to say a few words, they were in for a sermon. King impressed him as the sort who would preach at every possible opportunity.

  And why was he here, anyway?

  Cyrus forgot all about the visiting bishop, however, when he spotted Gloria coming down the steps with a double pie carrier in her hand. The dark brown hair tucked beneath her kapp glimmered richly in the sunlight, matching her sparkling brown eyes, and in her cape dress of deep lavender she was too cute to ignore. He quickly made his way over to the dessert table.

  “I don’t suppose you made those pies?” he teased when he came up beside her. Then he kicked himself. Why would Gloria want to be reminded that she isn’t much of a cook, dummy?

  Gloria, however, seemed delighted to see him. “I don’t suppose I did,” she replied lightly, “but these pies from Phoebe and Irene’s bakery will be the best desserts here, ain’t so?”

  “Can’t argue with that,” Cyrus agreed as she removed the lids from the metal carrier. “I’m a big fan of cherry pie—and that rhubarb pie won’t last long, either, once folks realize it’s here. Always a gut idea to visit the dessert table first, before you fill your plate with the real meal, to be sure you get the goodies you really want.”

  Gloria’s smile told him her mind was following his flirtatious train of thought. “And what goodies do you really want, Cyrus?” she whispered.

  His pulse shot off like a racehorse leaving the starting gate. She’d beaten him to the punch! She’d obviously gotten past the humiliation of falling into the lake, so Cyrus answered her question without a lick of hesitation.

  “Time alone with you, Gloria,” he replied, standing so close that he caught the clean scent of her. “And a kiss. Hopefully more than one, jah?”

  Gloria’s eyes lit up as she sliced the pies. “That could probably be arranged. Where shall we go? And when?”

  Cyrus had daydreamed about this moment so many times, his suggestion popped right out of his mouth. “After we eat, I’ll take my dirty dishes to the washtub—”

  “And I’ll go inside to use the bathroom,” she put in. “Instead of coming back out here, I’ll head out through the mudroom to meet you—”

  “Behind Allen and Phoebe’s new place,” Cyrus suggested. “This being Sunday, nobody’ll be up there working, so—”

  “We’ll have those shady woods all to ourselves,” Gloria finished with a smile.

  Cyrus’s heart was pounding so hard that he didn’t have a clue what was going on around them—until Bishop Monroe raised his hand to get everyone’s attention.

  “Folks, our guest of honor, Bishop Clayton King, wants to answer some of the questions you’ve been asking,” he announced. “I told him we could spare him a few minutes before we eat, and he promised to keep it short—much shorter than a Sunday sermon!”

  Everyone laughed as King positioned himself on the top step. Cyrus sighed. Long tables in the shade were covered with food, and some folks had already taken seats at other tables—or were sitting in lawn chairs in the yard—so it seemed like the perfect time for loading their plates. But he politely focused on the visiting bishop, pleased t
hat Gloria remained beside him.

  Wearing a brilliant white Sunday-best shirt, his broad-brimmed black hat, and well-cut black pants, Bishop Clayton outshone the other men, who’d come dressed for a picnic in their colored shirts and everyday pants. King wore his silver-spangled dark hair and beard shorter than most of the local fellows did, too, which made him appear a cut above them—even though the Old Order Amish were all about conforming so that no one stood out in a crowd.

  “My friends, I’ve come to help you see the light,” King began in a voice that resonated richly. “Jesus said, ‘I am the light of the world,’ and the book of Matthew, chapter five, tells us to ‘Let Your light so shine before men, that they may see Your good works, and glorify Your Father which is in heaven.’” He paused to look a few folks in the eye. “But as the Council of Bishops sees it, Promise Lodge has hidden its light beneath a proverbial bushel basket woven from progressive ideas that are leading you away from God’s favor and salvation.”

  Cyrus sighed inwardly. He’d once sat through part of a revival meeting in a park, where the English preacher had spoken at great length in this same vein—and the facial expressions around him confirmed that King had planted the first seeds of doubt in a few people’s minds. Cyrus was tempted to slip away, hoping Gloria would follow, except she tucked her hand into the crook of his arm.

  Cyrus lost all power to think about anything except the nearness of the lovely young woman beside him, so he stood stock-still, pretending to listen.

  “Those of us on the council eagerly follow the news of newly formed Amish communities as reported in The Budget,” King continued. “Although we’re impressed with the progress Promise Lodge has made in a very short time, we’re quite concerned about the worldly, English influence that has slithered into your Old Order faith, much as the serpent beguiled Eve in the Garden.”

  Folks were shifting uneasily, remaining absolutely silent as King went on. He spoke earnestly, leaning into his words like a father trying to save the souls of his children . . . casting a spell like an invisible web of righteousness that wouldn’t allow them to fall into the everlasting fires of hell.

  “Promise Lodge appears to be very prosperous,” Bishop Clayton said in a near-whisper, “and I—the council—would hate to see you lose everything you’ve come to love here. But we fear you’ve turned a deaf ear to the teachings of our Lord, adopting your own worldly path rather than remaining within the confines of the Ordnung, which forbids members to marry outside the Old Order and expects women to stay home and submit to their menfolk.”

  When murmurings rose from the crowd, King pressed his palms together in an attitude of prayer, further beseeching the crowd to heed his warning. “This picnic isn’t the time or place for me to further explore the consequences of such wayward tendencies, friends, but I ask you all to pray fervently over this message I’ve brought you. We’ll speak more on these topics in the days to come, and it’s my hope—yea, my highest mission—to lead you back into God’s unchanging, everlasting light.”

  Cyrus blinked. The angle of the noonday sun suddenly bathed Clayton King in the brilliance of a halo so bright that Cyrus had to glance away—and that’s when he noticed the fear in Gloria’s dark eyes. As she gazed at the bishop on the porch, mesmerized, she appeared very doubtful about the future of the community she’d come to love.

  “Come on, honey-girl, let’s go for a walk,” he whispered. Other folks were starting to move around and speak in low voices, so Cyrus steered Gloria toward the back of the lodge. “We can eat later, after we digest what we just heard.”

  When they were out of sight, Gloria turned to Cyrus, her forehead puckered with a frown. “Do you think he’ll make us shut down the apartments?” she whispered. “Does this mean that the Kuhn sisters and Irene will have to go back to living with their menfolk—and that Mattie and Christine can no longer run the produce stand and the dairy?”

  Cyrus’s eyes widened. In mere moments, Clayton King had convinced this young woman that Promise Lodge was doomed. Gloria might be innocent of the ways of the world, but she didn’t deserve to be brainwashed by a bishop who obviously loved playing to a crowd.

  “Let’s not jump to conclusions, sweetie,” he said, gently grasping her shoulder. “The folks who founded Promise Lodge haven’t come so far by forgetting about God, as King was suggesting.”

  “But nobody said anything!” Gloria protested. “Why didn’t Bishop Monroe or—or Preacher Amos—stand up to Bishop Clayton and explain how we do things here?”

  “They will,” Cyrus assured her. “They were being polite, letting King have his say while everyone could listen to him at the same time. I can’t see Mattie, Christine, or Rosetta—or even Irene—giving up their successful businesses to stay home and be haus fraus. Can you?”

  Gloria blinked, considering what he’d said. “Not really,” she admitted with a smile. “And their husbands will surely set Bishop Clayton straight about why they allow their wives to run businesses—”

  “And let’s not forget that those gals originally went into business to support themselves,” he pointed out. “Truth be told, every one of them is at home a gut bit of the time. And it isn’t as though they have kids to look after.”

  Gloria let out the breath she’d been holding. “Jah, there’s that.”

  “Don’t let King’s speech upset you, Gloria. He’s a smooth talker, big on quoting the Bible to drive his points home, but he’s no match for Bishop Monroe and the other folks who’ve made new lives for themselves here.” Cyrus smiled at her, pleased at the way she’d gravitated close enough to him that he could encircle her with his arms.

  Gloria’s smile came out like the sunshine after rain. “You’re right, Cyrus,” she murmured as she looked at him adoringly. “He’s probably all bark and no bite.”

  “And I’m all kiss,” he whispered. “What do you say, pretty girl? We’re all alone and—”

  When she stood on tiptoe, her eyes closed tightly, Cyrus reveled in the warm sweetness of her lips. Gloria relaxed in his arms as the kiss deepened, and it was several long, lovely seconds before she eased away.

  “That was perfect,” she whispered. Her brown eyes were as wide as saucers and they reminded him of hot coffee—or maple syrup, dark and sweet.

  “It was,” he agreed breathlessly. “But maybe we should get back—”

  “Before folks wonder where we went,” Gloria said as she slipped out of his embrace. “My mamm—and Preacher Marlin—would think we were misbehaving in a big way if they knew we were kissing right after Bishop Clayton warned us about our wayward tendencies.”

  Cyrus gestured for Gloria to precede him as they rejoined the gathering on the front lawn—because if she lingered one second longer, he’d be kissing her again. She returned to the dessert table to help Laura put slices of pie on plates, her cheeks tinted a delicate shade of pink. When he saw Jonathan in line at the long buffet table, ready to fill his plate, Cyrus flashed him a triumphant thumbs-up.

  “Score another point for me,” he teased when he reached his brother. “First kiss—first base. And you are miles behind!”

  “Puh!” Jonathan shot back. “I’m a man with a plan, and you’re full of yourself. It’s Laura’s birthday, and I’m going to be the best present she’s ever received.”

  “Laura, eh? Settling for the last apple on the tree, figuring she’s as desperate to be picked as you are?” Cyrus challenged as he took a paper plate from the stack.

  Jonathan stabbed thin slices of ham bathed in barbeque sauce and arranged them on his open bun. “How can you say that? Laura’s a delightful girl—”

  “And she’s what—eighteen? You’re hoping she’ll be impressed that an older man’s asking her out?” Cyrus shrugged playfully. Laura was a delightful girl—and cute—but razzing his brother was part of the game. “Well, gut luck to you, guy. You’re gonna need it, if you’re not ready to cough up five hundred bucks.”

  * * *

  Jonathan barely tasted
his food as he racked his brain for the perfect opening line—the invitation that Laura would find irresistible. He was hoping to find a time and place that would be private, or at least away from his younger brother’s watchful eye, because if Cyrus observed them, Jonathan knew he’d be teased forever about what he had—or hadn’t—done to convince Laura to go out with him.

  Why does this feel so difficult? Laura’s a nice person—much nicer than Cyrus—and if she’s not interested, she’ll at least let you down easy.

  Jonathan swallowed hard to get his bite of ham sandwich down. If Laura wasn’t interested, he was back to square one—back to nowhere. He was making this invitation much harder than it needed to be, but there was no denying that his brother was more experienced and more suave when it came to getting girls to notice him. Would Laura think he was a total nerd? Hopelessly clueless?

  When Jonathan saw Beulah and Ruby coming down the porch steps, each of them carrying a large sheet cake, he sat up straighter. Across the crowd, Laura’s face lit up with surprise when she surmised that the cakes were for her.

  Look at her, man—she’s gorgeous. What would it feel like to have those baby blues focused on you as though you were the only guy in the world?

  When Cyrus rose to refill his plate, gesticulating toward the Kuhn sisters as they lit the candles on one of the cakes, Jonathan got a sudden idea. What was a birthday without presents? What could he give Laura that would tell her he was sincerely interested in her—and not just going along with a bet he knew better than to mention?

  A few moments later, Jonathan was loping across the lawn as though he was headed to his cabin, except he kept going. He heard Christine announcing to everyone that they were all invited to celebrate Laura’s eighteenth birthday, and then the air was filled with voices singing “Happy Birthday”—

  And as Jonathan entered the back door of the greenhouse where his cousins, Sam and Simon, sold all manner of pumpkins, mums, and ornamental gourds, he spotted exactly what he wanted to give Laura. The ceramic planter was painted in bright colors—depicting a smiling yellow scarecrow in a red hat and blue overalls, holding a big green basket—and it held an orange mum that was blooming profusely. The overall effect was cheerful, like Laura, and Jonathan could already imagine her beaming at him as he gave it to her. He lifted the planter from the table and left a twenty-dollar bill in its place, so no one would think the item had been stolen.