Lydia's Hope (24 page)

“Surely not. She never gave any hint to me.” Mamm shook her head. “Well, she wouldn’t,
would she? I was married to her husband’s brother.”

True enough. Lydia had hoped, foolishly, that Mamm might have an answer. “Is there
anyone you can think of she might have talked to, if she seriously considered leaving?”

Mamm stared down at the baby, her thoughts clearly far away. Finally she shook her
head. “She could not have talked about that to anyone here in the church, I think.
If she did confide in anyone, it would be her friend from Ohio. The one whose wedding
she was going to when . . . when the accident happened.” Mamm stumbled over the words.
“They were very close, and I know she wrote to her regularly. I asked her once if
it was a round-robin letter, and Diane laughed and said no, that she said things to
Faith that she wouldn’t want anyone else to read.”

“Faith—that was her name?”

“Ja. Her married name is Faith Gottshall. I wrote to her every once in a while afterward,
to let her know how you were doing.”

“So you have her address?” Hope lifted. If Diane had really intended to leave, surely
she would have told her dearest friend.

“Ja, I have it. I’ll get it for you.” Mamm clasped her hand. “And I will pray that
she has the answers you need.”

* * *

Lydia
knew perfectly well that she couldn’t possibly expect an answer from Faith Gottshall
for a week or so, but she couldn’t help checking the mailbox each day and being disappointed
not to find one. She hoped the letter she’d struggled to compose hadn’t sounded quite
as desperate as she felt.

She wanted the truth from Faith, not comforting lies. Still, there was no denying
she longed to know that her parents’ marriage had not been a mistake.

Lydia started back up the lane from the road, looking through the mail. The
Budget
had come. She and Adam would both enjoy reading it tonight. Often Adam read it aloud
while she did the dishes, making a comfortable end to the day. Maybe he’d feel like
doing that tonight.

Or maybe not. Their conversations lately had been as careful as if they were both
walking on eggs.

A car pulled up at the end of the lane, sending up a cloud of dust. Lydia turned to
see Adam climb out, lifting his arm in thanks as the driver pulled away.

“You got a ride, I see.” She waited for him to join her. She’d been a bit upset that
morning when she learned he planned to hitchhike clear to Lewisburg to see if the
mill was hiring.

“Ja.” He caught up with her. “I hardly had to walk at all.”

“That’s gut.” But even as she said the words, she noticed how tired Adam looked. Even
if he’d gotten rides there and back, the job search was wearing on him.

Trying to put some enthusiasm into her voice, she said, “How did things go at the
mill?”

“No one is hiring.” He snapped out the words, his tone sharp. It almost sounded as
if his anger were directed at her.

Patience,
she reminded herself. “I’m sure things will get better soon. Let’s go in and get
you a cool drink and something to eat. You must—”

“Enough. I’m not one of the kinder, to be comforted with a treat and a hug.”

Lydia pressed her lips together. She would not let them tremble. She would not let
herself cry. She kept walking, one foot in front of the other, resisting the urge
to run away from the hurt.

Three more steps. Then . . .

“Sorry,” Adam muttered. The word didn’t sound convincing.

She stole a glance at him. Adam’s lips were a thin line above his chestnut beard,
and his face might have been carved from stone.

Lydia looked away, staring at the loosestrife that would soon line the lane with purple
blossoms. Adam was upset over the job situation. That was all it was. As soon as he
found a new job, they would return to normal.

Adam cleared his throat, as if his was as tight as hers. “Where are the boys?”

“I told them to water the strawberry plants. They were looking a little sad after
so many days without rain.” There, she sounded nearly normal.

Adam shielded his eyes with his hand, staring toward the berry patch. “I don’t see
them anywhere.”

“Ach, where have they gotten to? I told them to water, not play.” A glance of movement
caught her eye. “There they are, in the orchard. What are they up to?”

“Climbing.” Adam quickened his pace. “They shouldn’t be climbing that tree. It’s not
safe.”

Lydia trotted to keep up with him. She could see the boys now. Daniel sat on a low
branch of the tree she thought of as her mother’s. But David—what was David doing
up so high?

“David!” Adam shouted. “Get down at once.”

Fear seized Lydia by the throat. David could be hurt. He was too little—

The crack seemed to reverberate through the air, setting up echoes as David and the
branch crashed toward the ground.

Adam ran. Lydia ran, prayers forming with every step. Daniel was crying, crouched
by his brother, but David—was David crying?
Please, Lord . . .

Adam reached them first, with her a step behind. Lydia dropped to her knees next to
David. For an instant he just looked dazed, and then he started to cry, his sobs mingling
with Daniel’s.

“Daniel, stop the crying,” Adam ordered. “It’s David who is hurt. We must tend to
him.”

Daniel sniffed, a little sob escaping him. “Is he dead?”

“Ach, what a way to talk.” Lydia ran her hands lightly over her son’s body, searching
for blood or swelling or indication of pain. “He couldn’t cry so loud if he was dead,
could he?”

Daniel’s giggle was nervous, but her manner seemed to ease his terror.

Adam knelt on David’s other side, patting him gently. “Hush, David, hush. Mammi is
taking gut care of you. You don’t need to cry.”

“David, tell Mammi where it hurts,” she ordered, trying to conceal the fact that her
heart was beating so that it felt it would leap from her chest.

“My head,” David said, punctuating the words with a sob. “And my elbow.” He lifted
the offending joint, rubbing it with his other hand.

Lydia checked the elbow. Scraped and bleeding, but he was moving it normally, so it
couldn’t be too bad. “What about your neck? Does it hurt?”

David tried to shake his head and stopped, puckering up with tears. “Just my head.
My head hurts, Mammi. It needs ice.”

She managed to smile at that comment. He couldn’t have too much wrong with him if
he was diagnosing himself. She ran her fingers through his silky hair again. No cuts,
but a lump was forming on top.

“Ja, I think ice is the right treatment.” She helped him sit up. “Are you dizzy?”

“No. It just hurts.”

“It’s my fault,” Daniel said suddenly, his voice choking. “I shouldn’t have let him
climb the tree. I told him he couldn’t, and that just made him want to.”

“And I should have cut the tree down when I saw it was cracked,” Adam said.

His gaze seemed to accuse her. Lydia had kept him from touching the tree, and now
David was paying the price. Her heart was sore from the pummeling it was taking.

“We can all find some reason to blame ourselves,” Adam went on. “But it was David
who climbed, and David whose head will hurt for doing something so foolish.” He lifted
the boy gently to his feet.

“Komm.” Lydia took David’s hand, not looking at Adam. “We will thank God that He gives
little boys hard heads, ja?”

She led him to the house, not looking back. She didn’t want to think about the fact
that Adam had been right. It was time for her mother’s tree to come down.

Adam and Daniel walked a little behind them, and she could hear the murmur of their
voices, but not what they were saying. She was already sitting in the rocker with
David on her lap, a cold compress on his head, when Adam and David came in.

“Daniel and I have a plan,” Adam said. “He will help me, and we will cut out the bad
branches. We’ll save the tree if we can. Ja, Daniel?”

Daniel nodded, wiping a tear away and depositing a streak of dirt on his cheek.

Lydia’s eyes met Adam’s, and she didn’t know which concern to voice first. “If you
must take the tree down, then you must.” She felt as if she had pronounced a death
sentence. “But don’t you think Daniel is too young for such work?”

“I won’t let him get hurt.” Adam’s face was frosty, as if he was chiding her for doubting
him. “Daniel needs to help to make him feel better, ain’t so?”

She could only nod. He was right, of course. In some ways, Adam understood their sons
better than she did.

She cradled David against her. How seldom she got to hold him this way anymore. Her
boys were growing up, and she feared she and Adam were growing apart. Panic flickered
in her heart. How were they going to find their way together?

C
HAPTER
E
IGHTEEN

D
es
pite
Chloe’s effort to arrive at the restaurant first, Brad Maitland was already seated
at his usual table. She threaded her way among tables empty in mid-afternoon, following
the manager who insisted on escorting her. Well, why wouldn’t he? Brad was one of
his best customers, a creature of habit who found a French restaurant he liked and
never saw any reason to try something new.

Brad stood at her approach. He hadn’t betrayed surprise when she’d called, asking
him to meet her, and his narrow, well-bred face showed nothing as vulgar as curiosity
now.

“This is such a pleasure, Chloe.” He seated her, deflecting the manager’s hovering
with a gesture. “I’m glad you called.”

“I hope I didn’t take you away from anything important.” Driven as she was to find
out what Brad knew about her mother, she hadn’t even considered what appointments
he might have had to rearrange in order to meet her.

“Not a problem.” Behind his glasses, his eyes were assessing her. Some men might take
an invitation at face value, but Brad always seemed to be analyzing her motives.

Her thoughts flickered briefly to Seth, who seemed far more likely to plunge into
action than to sit back and analyze.

A server appeared, and Brad consulted with him over the menu and wine list. Chloe
waited impatiently, ordering the first thing that came to mind.

Finally they were alone, and Brad turned his attention back to her. “Much as I enjoy
having lunch with you, I have the impression there’s more to your invitation than
the pleasure of my company.”

True enough. Chloe hesitated, trying to frame the right words, mindful that Nora didn’t
want him to know that she’d talked about him. “I hoped you might be able to tell me
why my mother left Philadelphia.”

Brad’s listening face was too well-trained to show surprise. “What makes you think
I was in her confidence?”

“You were around the same age. The families have been close forever. Surely you must
have been friends, but you’ve never spoken to me about my mother.” Chloe couldn’t
help the trace of hurt that showed in her voice. Brad might be as dull as Kendra insisted,
but at least she’d always thought he was on her side.

He glanced down, seeming to shield his eyes. “You’ve never asked me about her.”

“That doesn’t mean I didn’t wonder. As a psychiatrist, you must have known I would.”
It was also the same excuse her grandmother had used for not telling her about her
sisters.

“I suppose I did.” He met her gaze. “Your grandmother made it very clear that she
didn’t want me to discuss Diane with you, and I tried to respect her wishes.”

“I can understand that when I was a child. But I’m all grown up now, and I’d appreciate
a little honesty between us.”

“Of course. I wouldn’t try to hide anything from you, Chloe.”

That was just what he’d done, but she’d let it pass if he’d speak openly now. She
stared at him, waiting.

“We were about eighteen, I suppose, when I realized I wanted more than friendship
from Diane,” he said. “Unfortunately she didn’t feel the same way about me.” His eyes
were softer than she’d ever seen them. “She made it clear she only wanted friendship
from me, and she said she needed a friend.”

“What was Diane like then?” Chloe tried to picture her mother at eighteen and failed.
All she had were studio photos that showed a Main Line debutante, not the real person.

“She’d had a few minor scrapes with the law at that point. Drinking and driving, mainly.
Your grandmother had her on a tight rein. Maybe too tight.”

“She was unhappy?” Was that why she’d left, because her parents were too strict? If
so, why run to a sect that was far more restrictive?

“Not unhappy, exactly.” Brad seemed to be searching for the right words. “She was
impatient. Wanting to find something she felt was missing in her life.”

Perhaps Diane had found that missing something in Amish beliefs. Or in the person
of Eli Weaver.

The server appeared with a laden tray and began putting dishes in front of them. Chloe
eyed the tomato basil soup with relief. At least she’d ordered something she could
get down her tight throat.

“Did my mother actually talk about her feelings with you?” Maybe there hadn’t been
anyone else she could confide in.

“A little.” He smiled at an image in his mind, it seemed. “I remember one day when
I was walking home and Diane’s car pulled up to the curb. She told me to get in and
wouldn’t take no for an answer. She was in such a rush I didn’t even think to ask
where we were going until we were already on the Schuylkill Expressway.”

“What did she say?” Chloe discovered she had no trouble picturing a teenaged Brad—he’d
have had the same fine, slicked-back hair, thin face, and glasses.

“Escaping.” He blinked, as if he’d teared up. “She said we were escaping. We drove
clear down to the shore. No one was there—it was November. Diane ran out onto the
beach as if it were summer. She grabbed my hand and made me run with her.” He stopped,
blinking rapidly.

Chloe could picture the scene so clearly in her mind, but she couldn’t get at the
emotions. What had Diane wanted?

“What did she want? To be free?”

“Not exactly.” Brad seemed to come back from a long distance. “She wanted to be . . .
well,
real
was the word she used. She said, ‘This is what’s real. The earth, the wind, the water.
Not all the useless things my mother collects to fill up her life.’”

He fell silent, looking as if he’d exhausted himself. “Your mother left a few days
later. I didn’t hear anything from her, but I felt quite sure she’d gone looking for
something she felt was real.”

And she’d apparently found it with the Amish, of all the unlikely places. Chloe had
wanted to know why Diane left her home and family and became Amish. She’d found out
all she could at this end of her mother’s life. If she really wanted to learn more,
she’d have to go to the Amish part of the story.

* * *

Once
Seth had made up his mind, he didn’t lose any time. Since letters and phone calls
and jars of apple butter hadn’t brought Chloe back to Pleasant Valley, he had come
to Philadelphia to do it in person.

Seth drove down a narrow tree-lined street, peering at the numbers on the gracious
old homes on either side. This neighborhood had escaped the tendency of the city to
gobble up its surroundings, maybe because the people who’d chosen to live here a hundred
years ago or so had had enough influence to prevent it.

Caught as he was between Lydia’s fears that her mother had planned to leave the Amish
and Chloe’s unanswered questions about why she’d become Amish, he’d begun to feel
like a volleyball being pummeled by both sides. The two of them, unlikely as it seemed,
were sisters. The only way for them to begin to resolve their concerns was to do it
face-to-face.

He’d tried the museum first, assuming Chloe would still be at work, only to learn
that she wasn’t there. The guard, perhaps recognizing him from his unceremonious exit
on his previous visit, had stonewalled any questions about Chloe.

Fortunately another of the museum’s staff had been passing and overheard. She’d looked
at him with a lively question sparkling in her dark eyes, identified him before he
could identify himself, and told him that Chloe had taken the afternoon off and should
be home by now. She’d done everything but take him by the hand to lead him to the
house. Bemused, he’d followed her directions, wondering how he’d acquired a friend
on the museum staff.

The street was so quiet it was hard to believe people actually lived here. There was
the number. Hoping he wasn’t about to get a parking ticket for daring to disturb the
purity of the area, he drew his car to the curb and got out.

Now the question was whether he’d get in the front door. He imagined Margaret Wentworth
guarded by an elite squad of men in dress suits and sunglasses. But the person who
came in answer to his ring of the bell was a gray-haired elderly female in an old-fashioned
housedress—certainly not Margaret herself.

“Good afternoon. I’m Seth Miller, calling to see Chloe—”

She grabbed his arm and yanked him inside, shushing him at the same time. With a swift
move, she propelled him through the hallway toward a swinging door.

“Who is it, Nora?” Another elderly female, by the sounds of it, and a rather commanding
voice.

“No one, Mrs. Wentworth. Just someone asking directions.” She pushed him on through
the swinging door and into the kitchen.

He looked at her questioningly when she released her grasp.

“Sorry. No sense in having a fuss if we can avoid it.” She darted a glance toward
the ceiling, presumably toward her employer. “You stay here. I’ll get Chloe.” She
scurried up a set of enclosed stairs that must be the means for servants to access
the upper floors.

He leaned against a kitchen counter. How did he come to have so many allies among
people he’d never met? It was obvious that the housekeeper, like the woman at the
museum, had not only heard about him but also sympathized with his desire to get the
sisters together.

Footsteps came down the stairs again, Chloe hurrying, the housekeeper a few steps
behind her.

“Seth, I wasn’t expecting you.” Chloe’s face was warm with welcome. “Did you have
another business trip to the city?”

“Not business, just you and Lydia. You have to come back to Pleasant Valley.” Well,
maybe he didn’t need to be quite that blunt. He didn’t want to put her back up.

“Sorry,” he said quickly. “I didn’t mean to sound so demanding. But neither you nor
Lydia can go on this way. She’s longing to see you, and the answers you’re looking
for are in Pleasant Valley.”

“That’s nonsense.” The authoritative voice cut through the kitchen, sending all of
them swiveling toward the door. The woman who stood there obviously wished she could
incinerate Seth with the stare she directed at him. “My granddaughter has neither
the need nor the desire to return to that godforsaken place. Or to see the people
who are to blame for her mother’s death.”

“Lydia isn’t to blame for Diane’s accident. She’s Chloe’s sister, and Chloe has every
right to see her.” The rest of them might be terrified of this woman, but Seth wasn’t.
He’d be happy to engage in battle.

“I have no intention of arguing with you, young man. I don’t know what you hope to
gain by this charade, but it won’t work. Now get out of my house before I call the
police.”

“Your orders didn’t prevent your daughter from leaving. Are you trying to drive Chloe
away as well?”

“Stop it.” Chloe sounded every bit as authoritative as her grandmother. “I’m capable
of making my own decisions.”

“Tell him, Chloe. Tell him that you have no intention of going back there.” Mrs. Wentworth
leaned on the ebony cane she held, bending the considerable force of her will on her
granddaughter.

Eyes wide, Chloe looked back at her. Seth felt her slipping away.

“I’m sorry, Gran.” Her voice was soft, but it admitted no room for argument. “I have
to go back to Pleasant Valley. I have to find out if my mother found what she was
looking for there.”

“I won’t allow it.” But the woman’s iron will was weakening.

“You’re tired, Gran.” Chloe’s face was gentle as she touched her grandmother’s arm.
“Let Nora take you upstairs to have a little rest before dinner.”

“That’s right.” Galvanized, the housekeeper hurried to take the woman’s arm and steer
her away. “I’ll make you a nice cup of tea.”

Seth let out a long breath. He’d accomplished what he came here to do, but he had
a feeling it might not have been necessary. Chloe had already made her decision.

“I’m sorry . . .” he began.

She shook her head. “I’ll walk you to your car. Then I’ll have to see to my grandmother.”

He understood. Family was family, even when they were downright unlikeable.

They went together back through the marble-floored hall to the imposing front door.
The rooms on either side of the hall were decorated in a stiff, formal manner, reminding
him of nothing so much as a funeral home.

They reached the car without speaking. He looked into her face and saw the afternoon
sun gilding her skin. “I’m sorry if I made things more difficult for you.”

“It wouldn’t have made a difference. She’d still have reacted that way when she learned
I planned to go back.”

He studied her face, seeing a new determination there and wondering what had caused
it.

“You said you wanted to see if your mother had found what she was looking for. What
do you think it was?”

“Real life. That’s what Diane was searching for, according to someone who talked to
her shortly before she left. Did she succeed?”

He thought of Lydia’s discovery. But that was hers to share or not, as she saw fit.

“I don’t know. I hope you find out.”

And I hope no one ends up getting hurt any worse.

* * *

According
to her GPS, Chloe was only a few miles from Lydia and Adam’s farm. She should feel
relieved. She didn’t. Nervous, uncertain, wondering if she’d made a mistake . . .
those better described her mood.

Why had she committed herself to staying until Monday? What if she found it too strange?
What if . . .

That was ridiculous. Her mother had been brought up the same way she had, and Diane
had adapted to the Amish way of life. Chloe could certainly stand it for two nights.

She intended to give this visit a fair shot. It was the only way she could think of
to understand what had drawn Diane to become Amish.

The anonymous female voice of the GPS announced that the turn was just ahead. A moment
later she saw the mailbox Seth had told her to watch for. With a little flicker of
anticipation, she turned in at the gravel lane.

Several cows watched her incuriously from a pasture on one side of the lane. On the
other side stretched a field that looked as if it had been freshly plowed, not that
she knew much about it. There was the house, a simple white frame two-story, and stretching
off to the left was the orchard. Behind the house she spotted a barn and several other
outbuildings whose use she had to guess at. She hoped one of them wasn’t an outhouse.
That would be carrying roughing it a little too far for her.