Part 2 (1/2)

She enjoyed the mingled sound of their play. And as she strolled along, dusk began to fall. Just that quick, the children were drawn to each other, like a flock of birds toward the sky. When they saw her, they shouted, ”Come on, Rose!” encouraging her to chase and catch fireflies with them, their laughter clear and true.

After a time, they began to settle onto the back steps to take turns telling stories, each one trying to outdo the other with farfetched or frightening tales. This evening was no exception. Most every story included some superst.i.tion about the dark, rocky ravine that ran below Bridle Path Lane over yonder ... of disappearances and mysterious sounds in the night. So many superst.i.tions had sprung up after Mamm's near-fatal accident. Despite all of that, Rose s.h.i.+vered with delight at the telling.

She heard the crack of a twig and glimpsed Nick's shadow near the side of the house - she knew what he was fixing to do.

Nick reached the farthest end of the porch, pausing there, still as a tree trunk. Then he jumped out and shouted, ”Boo!”

The children's terrified yet merry screams rose straight to the sky. Nick clapped his hands, his laughter ringing across the paddock as he swung one child, then another, around and around. He'd pulled pranks like this before, and the children were always gleefully surprised.

He stayed around, squatting on the top step and listening as the stories took a more ominous turn. The story being told now was of a recent flood that had washed out and destroyed the historic Jackson's Sawmill Covered Bridge not far from there. ”Weeks afterward, live frogs and dead fish were found in Gilbert Browning's house, right there near Octoraro Creek,” the tallest boy said.

Rose stifled a laugh. While it was common knowledge that last year's flood had washed the old bridge off its moorings and flooded several houses, too, she couldn't envision how this child knew anything about the interior of Gilbert Browning's abode. The eccentric man rarely let in any outsiders except Lucy Petersheim, who'd quit working there several weeks ago. That was how Rose came to be hired in her place, to cook a variety of meals for the week, as well as clean the kitchen and wash up a small mountain of dishes. Since he was a widower, there was surprisingly little to keep tidy. As meagerly furnished as the main floor was, Mr. Browning's house could've easily pa.s.sed for Amish.

She was thankful to her father, as well as to the bishop, for agreeing to let her work for Mr. Browning on a trial basis. She had no idea why Lucy had stopped working so suddenly, unless she was planning to marry come fall.

Rose's mind drifted back to the voice of the young storyteller. ”It's awful dark in the holler.” He went on to describe the very location where Mamm's buggy had flipped over, adding, ”There's a hobgoblin who lives deep in the ravine by the crick. If you ain't careful, he'll grab ya!”

Now the children were squirming with fright. Rose had never been one to fret at such tales or grimace at the thought of the sun going down. Truth be known, she relished the nighttime hours - enjoyed stepping out of the house after dusk to sit on the back porch before family wors.h.i.+p. She liked to simply breathe in the savory freshness, especially during the autumn months. The resonance of a thousand crickets in the vast underbrush along the horse fence ... nothing quite compared.

Hen, on the other hand, was petrified of the dark. In fact, at supper tonight, Hen lamented the shorter days now that it was late September. Rose, however, secretly thrilled to the longer evenings. For one thing, Mamm went to bed earlier in the fall, giving Rose more time to read her library books. And ride with Nick.

And back when she was going to Singings in the fall of last year, Silas Good would arrive at dusk - pulling up Salem Road a ways and parking his open buggy beneath the turning trees to wait for her. It had been nearly one full year since he'd first taken her home in his new courting buggy ... last September twenty-eighth. But in that year they'd only gone together a handful of times.

It had been Hen who'd urged Rose to attend Sunday Singings again. Love can't find you if you're hiding at home, her sister had said last week. Yet Rose had been almost reluctant to go again - until Silas's letter had come today.

Starlight slanted in the sky as Rose sat there listening to the last of the stories. Looking at the top of Nick's head as he leaned in toward one of the children, she wondered how it might be if Silas asked to court her. How would it change her life?

A dream come true, she decided, cheris.h.i.+ng the delicious warmth brought by this new excitement as she said her good-byes to the little ones and to Nick, then headed toward home.

But as Rose walked through the white moonlit pasture, the vision of Nick attentively sitting with the children lingered.

Back home now, Hen opened the front door to the modern twostory house she and her husband had purchased four years ago. She remembered the first time she'd spotted the For Sale sign standing like a beacon in the front yard. Her heart had skipped a beat as she pulled the car off the road to jot down the real estate agent's phone number.

She still caught herself hesitating slightly before entering by way of the front door, even after living this long in the wonderful house. Everything was different from her growing-up years, when the entrance to her father's farmhouse was through the back door.

I should be used to it by now....

As they went inside together, Hen leaned down to kiss Mattie's forehead, lifting her daughter's thick blond hair over her shoulders, beneath the little black candlesnuffer bonnet Hen had gotten for her just today at a quaint general store on the back roads. Other than her daughter's bangs, not once had she actually cut Mattie's long hair, only tr.i.m.m.i.n.g the dead ends every few months. Brandon's negative reaction to Mattie Sue's long locks had caused conflict between them. That, and the fact she'd pulled Mattie's hair back into a thick knot a couple times recently. She'd occasionally pinned up her own hair, as well, though not in the traditional Amish bun.

Going into the living room, she saw Brandon sitting in the breakfast nook across the house, his gaze focused on notebook pages spread out all over the table. Mattie Sue removed the bonnet and dashed to her daddy, throwing her arms around his neck. Brandon kissed Mattie on the cheek, making over her as he always did when they returned home from shopping or running errands.

Mattie leaned on his arm for a moment, gazing up at him. ”Look what Mommy bought me.” She held up the black outer bonnet. ”See, Daddy - it's just like Aunt Rosie's.”

”I see that.” Brandon raised his eyebrows at Hen.

Hen cringed inwardly. ”It's almost bedtime, Mattie.”

Mattie Sue looked back at her, then turned again to Brandon.

”Do you like it, Daddy? It's for dress-up - make-believe.”

”Why don't you get ready for your bath,” Hen suggested quickly.

Brandon groaned, then frowned as Mattie scampered back to her and she patted Mattie's head. ”I'll come in and draw the water soon,” she said.

”Okay, Mommy.” Her little girl's bright eyes held hers momentarily before she darted down the hallway to her room, swinging the bonnet behind her as she went.

Hen stiffened as she walked toward the kitchen to pack Brandon's lunch for tomorrow. She opened the refrigerator and found the lunch meat and the mouthwatering dill pickles she'd put up last summer. She felt her husband's eyes on her.

”So ... you've been out.” He sounded tense.

She nodded, not wanting to tell him about their relaxing time this evening, enjoying her grandmother's wonderful dinner and all the pleasant chatter around the table. True, her father had seemed a bit quizzical about their making yet another unannounced visit, but her mother had appeared content just having Hen eating with them once again. She didn't say a word, either, about going through piles of Mom's piecework with Rose Ann, choosing enough squares to make a quilted wall hanging for Mattie Sue's bedroom. And she certainly would not mention Mattie's delight at getting more than a peek inside the Amish general store.

Brandon looked up suddenly. ”No need to make my lunch, by the way. I have a noon appointment tomorrow.”

”All right,” she said quietly. She forced a smile, wis.h.i.+ng she could return to the lovely time at her parents' house. If Hen tried hard enough, she could actually picture Brandon sitting next to her at the table back home - but years ago, when she'd finally gotten the nerve to introduce him as her boyfriend. Well, by then Brandon had been her fiance.

So much water under the bridge, she thought as she returned the lunch meat to the refrigerator. She opened the lid on the dill pickles and halved a long spear down the middle. For as long as she could remember, she'd loved eating dill pickles just plain.

Plain, she thought, like I used to be.

”Anything else I can get for you?” she asked Brandon, holding the sliced pickle in midair.

”No, thanks.”

”Okay, then ... as you wish.”

He sighed loudly. ”That's an interesting concept.”

She hoped he wasn't picking a fight.

”What do I wish for, Hen?” He shook his head and looked away. ”Do you even know anymore?”

She noticed how spotless the kitchen was. ”Nice of you to redd up,” she said, attempting to change the subject.

”Must you always talk that pig Latin?”

”What?”

”You know what I'm talking about.”

”It's Deitsch,” she insisted.

”You aren't Amish anymore.”

She shrugged absently, already weary of the undertow between them. ”Anyway, thanks for straightening up after supper.”

”I actually didn't - I went out” was his taut reply. ”Remember, my wife didn't bother to cook tonight.”

First time in months.