Fraying at the Edge (13 page)

“In a car in the parking lot of a brown clapboard building called Long Shots. Why?”

“You're outside a bar.”

“Am I?”

“With that name I'd give it a ninety percent chance of being a bar. Ten percent chance it's a gun range. You're in a car by yourself?”

“Ya.” She sounded disgusted. “I got my license today.”

He knew she wouldn't want him to congratulate her. “After driving a horse and carriage, it feels weird, doesn't it?”

“It feels as if Nicholas has managed to strip away another layer of my Amish life.” She seemed to be fighting tears again. “I doubt getting your license distressed you.”

He passed a slower car. “True, although I wasn't planning on leaving the Amish at the time. Still, I didn't mind going outside the Ordnung.”

“I do. Nicholas says I'm afraid to live.”

Quill had no decent response for that.

“You agree with him?” Her voice quivered as if tears were too close to the surface. “He is determined that I face my fears, and he's given me a list of challenges. He called it a bucket list.”

The term
bucket list
sounded about right. Her biological dad would consider her life over when she returned to the Amish.

“So what's on it, Ariana?”

“Hundreds of things I don't want to do.” She listed some of the options Nicholas had provided.

“He's given you choices. That's good. A little adventure might—”

“You're going to take his side?” Was she crying again?

“No. I didn't mean—”

“You do agree with him, don't you?”

“He seems to be going about this wrong, but his desire for you isn't all bad. He's giving you room to make decisions. Dan and Regina do that with their children all the time. It's a good method. Rather than telling their children no or insisting they do as they're told, they give their kids two options each time. So if my brother needs to walk across a parking lot, he gives his children a choice—hold his hand or be carried.”

“So in this scenario I'm the child.”

“What? No. I wasn't saying that.”

“I called you crying, so I guess I deserve to be called a kid.”

“Ari, come on. My point is he may be trying to be a good parent. He wants to draw you out of your Amish shell, and afterward you can return to it.”

“My Amish shell?”

The phone beeped three times, as if the call had dropped. But it could also mean she'd hung up on him. That was more likely.

“Great, just great, Schlabach.” He sighed and pressed the button to dial the number she'd called from. “Go right ahead and share your opinion no matter what the cost. It's a brilliant plan, really.”

The phone rang, but she didn't answer. When it went to voice mail, a computerized message gave the phone number and said to leave a message. “Ari, we were disconnected, or maybe you hung up. Either way, would you call me back?”

A
riana stared at the phone. She'd needed him. She'd called him. She'd hung up on him. What was wrong with her?

But he thought like Nicholas? Disappointment rolled over her. Apparently there was no one she could talk to. No one who understood.

A neon sign in the window of the brown building flashed the word
Open.
When she'd pulled into the parking lot, it had been practically empty, but now, as twilight eased into darkness, the place was coming to life. She glanced at the clock: 6:54. Maybe she should go home or at least call Nicholas or Brandi. But she was tired of trying to do the right thing and too embarrassed about their affair to look them in the eyes or speak to them on the phone.

So now what, genius?

Music vibrated the air, and she realized that while talking to Quill she had seen several young men carrying instruments into the place. A familiar song caught her attention, one she and her sisters had heard while cleaning Englisch homes. She turned the key in the ignition just enough so she could lower the window. Nicholas had taught her that trick earlier in the week.

The song “We Are the Champions” filled the air. Susie used to love that song, and Ariana smiled, thinking about her younger sister dancing through the Englisch house and singing loudly while cleaning. Even though they had been alone in the house, Ariana thought it was inappropriate to turn on secular music and dance around, but Susie never saw the harm. Was Ariana right or simply a dinosaur?

Feeling a bit defiant, she grabbed her purse, put her keys and cell phone in it, and got out of her car. She took a few steps and then stopped. Going to a bar was on the list and had two asterisks beside it, but could she even get in? Her feet did not want to move. Had she lived a restrained life because she was godly or because she was afraid of everything?

The music stopped, people clapped, and she remained in place. A young man with brown shoulder-length hair and a beard was smiling as he walked out the front door, talking to someone inside the bar. The door slammed behind him, and he chuckled. He glanced her way. “The good times are inside.”

“Are they?”

“I think so.” He went to a car and pulled out a folder of papers before heading back to the bar. He paused near her. “It's like a person—okay looking on the outside, but the interesting stuff happens on the inside.”

Oddly enough, the man reminded her of Jesus. He had dark brown hair and eyes and a warm, welcoming smile.

“I'm not sure I would be allowed inside.”

“No money for the cover charge?”

“What's a cover charge?”

His eyebrows rose. “You have a bit of an accent.” He waved his hands, fingers splayed, as if about to do a magic trick. “Your aura is a little different from what I'm used to. I have no doubts you're sober, and yet you seem a bit…unglued. Any chance you recently stepped off a boat and onto US soil?” He grinned.

Ariana was weary of feeling serious about everything, so she aimed for some humor. “Yeah. The
Mayflower,
I think.”

He laughed. “That would explain it.” He tapped the folder against his leg. “Brice.”

Nicholas had shoved a lot of vocabulary at her this week, hundreds of words. Words like
dolman, acerbic,
and
trenchant,
but
brice
wasn't one of them.

“Brice?” As soon as she asked, it dawned on her that it was his name. She felt her face flush. Where was her head? “It's your name. Sorry. It took me a minute. See, I was happily on the
Mayflower
for twenty years and was forced to leave a week ago. It's been a tough week.”

He nodded as if he'd been in a similar predicament. “Let's try this again.” He held out his hand. “I'm Brice.”

She shook it. “I'm confused.”

He chuckled. “I can help with that.” He pointed at the building. “See, that's what we call a watering hole, only no one drinks water.”

“I would. I'm not twenty-one.”

“Don't worry, Prudence Bradford, no one is going to put you in the stocks.” He motioned toward the bar, welcoming her. “We serve water and soft drinks, and I can get you in despite the age thing. It'll be fine. You'll enjoy the music.”

She couldn't keep standing in the parking lot, wavering between wanting to run and doing something new. “Okay.” While walking toward the door, she dug into her new purse and came up with a ten-dollar bill Brandi had given her. “It's all I have. Is it enough for the cover charge and a drink?”

“It'll be plenty.” He took the cash and held open the door.

When they stepped inside, she was hit with a stale smell she couldn't define. Glasses clinked, and the room had a dingy amber glow. Unlike the dressing room at the mall with its bright-white gloominess, this was a dull radiance with more shadow than light. Did the Englisch have different color light bulbs?

Brice gave her money to someone at the door, and several people spoke to him at once, some sounding jovial and some frustrated, but he smiled and answered accordingly, never missing a beat. He recommended the annoyed ones get another drink, and he responded to the friendly calls with the same energy. The person who took the ten gave Brice a five back, and he handed it to her.

“This way.” He walked ahead of her.

She scanned the strangers in the room. A man in his midtwenties wearing a black T-shirt with the name of the bar on it stood behind a long counter, and behind him was a wall of variously shaped bottles and glasses. It clicked—the counter
was
the bar.

Two men at the end of the counter glanced at her with disinterest, as if she weren't really even there. One wore a camouflage shirt and pants, and everything about him was neat and orderly—from his haircut to his pants tucked into his boots. The man next to him looked totally different. He had on a tattered, sleeveless shirt, and tattoos ran down his neck and arms. Only one woman was on the row of stools. She had long, straight black hair and was in jeans and a sweater. Ariana could only see her profile as she turned up a bottle and drank, looking at ease inside this strange room filled with people who, with their distinct clothes and various hairstyles, looked nothing alike.

Were they pagans?

“Here.” Brice pulled out a chair for her.

Ariana appreciated that he'd picked a spot at the back where she could see everyone but wouldn't be seen by many, and it occurred to her that in this moment she was glad not to be dressed in her Amish clothes.

“I'll have a drink sent over, something more enjoyable than a soft drink. You can get that anywhere at any time. Okay with you?”

“Yeah.”

“Good. I have to get back onstage. I get a break in about forty. Can you hang around until then?”

“You're part of the music?”

“The band, yeah. Lead singer, guaranteed to make a couple hundred bucks a week if I can find enough confused people in the parking lot and convince them to come inside.”

She held out the remaining five-dollar bill.

He laughed. “I'd much rather have your name.”

“Oh, Ariana.”

“Nice name, Ariana. Better than Prudence. Just try to relax. It'll be fun.”

“Do I not look relaxed?”

“You don't, no.”

“Makes sense. I only agreed to come in because you remind me of Jesus.”

He lowered his head, chuckling. “No one has ever said that before. Is that a good thing?”

“Yeah. Why wouldn't it be?”

He nodded. “It's a
Mayflower
thing, right?”

“Amish, actually. Old Order.”

“Really? Meeting someone Amish in the parking lot isn't an everyday event. And you seem like a good girl to me. But they shoved you out?”

“No.” What an awful question, and yet on second thought…“Maybe.” She shrugged. Leaving had been her decision, hadn't it? Right now she wasn't certain of one thing about herself or her life.

“I have to hear the rest of
this
story. Any chance you have a phone?”

“Yeah.” She pulled it out of her purse.

“In case the Puritans come for you while I'm onstage, I'll text myself from your phone so I have your number, and I'll put my number in your contacts.” He typed in letters and numbers twenty times faster than she could. “Any song requests from the Pilgrim section?”

“I…I wouldn't really know any names to tell you, but maybe something about home.”

He gave her a warm, sweet smile that said he knew exactly what he was going to sing. “You got it. And just so you know, I think there's a first-bar-visit rule—drinks on the house.” On his way to the stage, he stopped by the bar and said something to the man behind the counter.

Once on the small stage, he took some papers out of the file he had gotten from the car and put them on a music stand. He turned to the band members and said something. The next thing Ariana knew, she was listening to beautiful lyrics about country roads taking her home, to the place where she belonged. And suddenly this place didn't seem ungodly or sinful. It just seemed like a place to be less lonely.

While Ariana was enjoying the song, a woman set an interestingly shaped glass in front of her filled with a slushy, orange-colored drink. “It's on the house.”

“The house?”

“Free.”

“Oh, thank you.” She took a sip. Brice was right. This was a lot tastier than a soft drink. She sipped on it and got lost in the beauty of the song. The lyrics tugged at her heart—about gathering memories and feeling that he should have been home yesterday. But tears welled in her eyes as Brice sang, “Country roads, take me home to the place I belong…”

The words reached deep, and the cold drink seemed to relax her. She realized she could breathe easy for the first time in way too many weeks. Within seconds of the song ending, Brice started another one, something about sweet Caroline, and the crowd joined him. He continued to sing one song after another, and on the fifth song the woman brought her another drink. The people no longer looked like pagans. They were just people loosening up after the workweek. What was so wrong about that? The muscles in her shoulders relaxed a bit more with each new song.

“Ariana.” Quill pulled a chair from across the table and set it next to her. “What are you doing?”

Her heart should have picked up its pace or jolted at the sight of him, but it didn't. Should she be embarrassed to be here? “I'm not totally sure, but I'm enjoying myself.” She had to speak over the music and the singing of the people around her.

“I didn't think you'd be
inside
the bar.”

Based on his body language, he was talking loudly, but it didn't sound that way.

“I've been searching up and down the street for thirty minutes.” His eyes held anger, a very different kind than when they'd argued before. “Why didn't you return my call?”

“I didn't hear my phone ring. But why would I want to talk to someone who agrees with Nicholas? Go home, Quill. I'm sorry I bothered you.”

The music stopped.

“Are we really going to do this again?”

“Do what?”

The man at the piano made more beautiful music, and no other instruments joined the soft melody. Brice moved to a stool and adjusted the microphone stand, apparently waiting for his cue to sing again.

Quill glanced at the band. “You let me into your life, and then a few minutes, days, or weeks later you kick me out again.”

Brice sang the opening of an unfamiliar song.

“We have a pattern, Quill. It goes something like this: I think you hung the moon, and it feels as if you did it just for me. Then you do me wrong. Or I simply discover that you've been quietly dismantling my life behind my back. Either way, at that point you're very sorry. Rinse, repeat.”

Brice sang, “Speaking words of wisdom, let it be. Let it be, let it be.”

She was glad the song was soft enough that Quill could hear her speak her mind.