Faith and Hope in Lancaster (The Amish of Lancaster County #1) (5 page)

He offered his arm to Katie, who started in surprise. “May I walk you to your car?”

She studied him for a moment, then broke into a smile. It made Aaron think of the sun breaking through the clouds and lighting everything it touched. She linked her arm through his. “Yes, I’d like that.”

They strolled out into the evening air. It was crisp, and Aaron could smell apples. Katie inhaled appreciatively and released Aaron’s arm to do a little impromptu dance. She looked completely strange and awkward, but he was thoroughly charmed. She didn’t notice or care how she looked, she was just like a child, enjoying the moment.

If he hadn’t already begun to fancy her, this would have done it for him. As it was, he tried to suppress the goofy grin spreading over his face. Katie had a spark about her he really admired, a spark he hadn’t seen in the girls of the community. And it wasn’t because she was an
Englischer
, he thought defensively. The majority of the English girls he’d met were too cynical and world-weary to be at all attractive. It was as though they’d given up on life at age sixteen and seventeen, and there was nothing charming about that.

Aaron impulsively knelt and picked a handful of daisies, which he arranged in a bouquet and presented to Katie when she finished her dance. Out of breath, she accepted the flowers and curtseyed.

Their eyes met, and Aaron’s heart started pounding in earnest. The amusement on Katie’s face softened into something else, something Aaron couldn’t put a name to. With the late-afternoon sun gilding her yellow hair and her creamy skin, she looked like a princess. “I really like you,” he blurted out, then wanted to throw himself under the nearest passing buggy. What was he thinking, being so blunt? What if she thought he was a provincial fool?

“I really like you, too,” Katie said, her voice soft as the grass beneath their feet. She probably smelled just as sweet, part of Aaron’s mind noted. He knew it was wrong to think these things, but he dearly wished he could find out.

“Aaron,” Katie whispered, holding the bouquet of daisies before her face, “do you . . .”

“Do I?” Aaron repeated. His palms were sweating so badly, he wanted to wipe them on his pants. What was she going to ask him? And what would he say?

“Do you think I could come back and talk to you more after I’ve tried the apple butter?” Katie blushed. “You know, to find out more about how you live and all that. If it’s okay, I mean. I don’t want to bother you. Actually, never mind. It was a stupid idea.”

Aaron held up a hand to stop her from rambling on. “It’s much more than okay. In fact, I would really like that.”

“So would I,” Katie said. “So would I.” She smiled wickedly and burst into a sprint toward her car.

Aaron watched her car until it was out of sight. Just what had he gotten himself into?

* * *

Miriam stood in the overly bright dressing room stall, staring at her reflection in the three mirrors. She turned this way and that, trying to reconcile the girl in the red pleather miniskirt and sparkly black tank top with the girl who had just come from Lancaster County. It was discomfiting, not wearing her
kapp
in public, as though she were missing part of her body. She felt strange—a little ashamed to be baring so much skin but oddly excited, too. Pamela had given her a pink razor and shaving cream and then demonstrated how to shave her legs. Miriam had cut herself a couple times, but she had to admit, her skin had never been so smooth. In the miniskirt, they looked like they were a mile long, if not more.

She didn’t know what to think about that. In fact, the low-cut tank top showed off her cleavage, dipping far lower than anything she had ever worn in her entire life. She didn’t think she was ready to go that bold yet, so she tried on the light jacket Pamela had picked out, what she’d called a shrug. It was a soft black knit, machine made. Machine made! Miriam didn’t own any clothing that hadn’t been hand-stitched.

The shrug made Miriam look more demure while still . . . well, all right, she would be honest with herself. She looked hot.
Hot.
The way she’d secretly fantasized about when she’d heard about
Englischers
and their fashion trends. It was so impractical, so immodest, and Miriam loved it!

She hadn’t known she would be torn about stepping out of the dressing room to let others see her, though. Shame had played no role in her daydreams. Now, as she studied her trim figure, slender waist, and curvy bosom, Miriam couldn’t stop her
mamm
’s voice from playing in her head, her quiet words dripping disappointment. “My daughter, what is this? What are you wearing? What are you
doing
?”

Then her
daed
’s voice followed. “Young lady, I don’t even know you anymore.”

Anger flared in Miriam. Her parents were not supposed to have followed her here. What was the point of going on
rumspringa
if Miriam was still hemmed in by all the expectations of the Amish community and the
Ordnung
?

Dear God
, she prayed,
didn’t You ordain this exploration of the outside world? How can I know what it is I’m to give up later if I haven’t experienced it myself?

Staring at herself in the three-part mirror, she made a decision right then. She would not let other people’s ideas constrain her while she was here. She didn’t know what she would choose at the end of her
rumspringa
, but there was no cause to worry about that right now. God would lead her to the correct path. For now, she should learn as much as she could.

Someone knocked at the door to her stall. “Miriam?” called Pamela, sounding concerned. “Are you okay in there? Do you need me to come in? Call the saleslady?”

Miriam shuddered. For all that she didn’t want to be ashamed, she was
not
ready to let anyone else view her body as she dressed. Particularly not a stranger! “No, I’ll be right out!”

She cast one final glance at herself, smiled, and opened the door.

Pamela’s eyes flew open, and her jaw actually dropped. “You look
amazing
!” she gushed, rushing over to Miriam’s side and pulling her hair into a high ponytail, then twisting it into a knot. “Gorgeous. Just gorgeous.” She turned to the saleslady, who looked equally as delighted. “Doesn’t she just look like a supermodel?”

Miriam blushed and dropped her gaze. Oh, she realized, she needed new shoes, too. Her clunky, staid sensible shoes were completely at odds with her trendy outfit.

“With that bone structure and those legs, not to mention that beautiful figure, yes, absolutely!” the saleslady said. “Shall I ring everything up?”

Miriam opened her mouth to answer. She felt silly, but despite all the money she had managed to save, she couldn’t afford all of this!

She hadn’t realized just how expensive machine-made clothing was, not to mention Pamela appeared to prefer more sophisticated shops and boutiques. David and she had a great deal of money, Miriam was slowly coming to realize. They didn’t hesitate for a second before ordering meals delivered to their apartment or eating at fancy restaurants, their building had a doorman who stood there merely to open and close the front door—which seemed like an indulgent waste to Miriam’s way of thinking, though she was trying hard not to judge—they constantly discussed their trips around the world, and according to David, they owned a summer home in the Hamptons and a vacation home in Italy. Italy! Miriam couldn’t even imagine what that would be like.

What would her community say? No one she knew had ever been to Italy. She felt dizzy at the thought. She’d have to fly on an airplane like a bird, trusting modern technology to deliver her safely. Forget the community—what would
God
say?

“We’ll take it!” announced Pamela grandly, thrusting one of her many credit cards at the saleslady. “All of it!”

“No, Pamela, I cannot let you—” Miriam began, but Pamela brushed off her protests.

“You can, and you will!” she said, smiling broadly. Her teeth were white and perfect and straight, rich-people teeth, Miriam noticed. “We took you in as a host daughter, and it is deeply important to us to give you the real New York City experience. Not to mention, you look
incredible
.” She gave Miriam an appreciative look. “Do you want to change or wear that out of the store?”

Miriam’s bare skin was already sprouting gooseflesh in the overly air-conditioned shop. She didn’t much care for the recycled air, but not sweating horribly was a nice change. She envisioned herself on the bustling streets of the Big Apple, dressed like another of the English girls. Fitting in.

Possibly even having boys look at her.

The idea caused her face to burn. But it refused to go away. Yes, have boys look at her and think she looked amazing, the way Pamela said.

“Yes,” she said, beaming. “I will wear this out of the store!”

“Wonderful,” said Pamela, nearly clapping her hands in glee. “Next stop, makeup!”

They strolled to the escalator, laden down with plastic bags full of beautiful clothes, clothes that Miriam could hardly believe belonged to her. Part of her still felt guilty at accepting the gifts, but she could see how much Pamela wanted to do this for her. As though Miriam really were her daughter. Plus, she rationalized, it wasn’t like Pamela and David couldn’t afford it. They wouldn’t even notice the money was missing.

“Will you teach me how to apply makeup?” she asked shyly, as they strolled along the street toward a store named Neiman-Marcus. It was funny, but she didn’t feel exposed in so little fabric, not when nearly every other girl they passed was dressed similarly. If anything, she felt at home.

Pamela’s eyes grew even huger than they had at seeing Miriam in her new clothes. “
Will
I?” She linked her arm with Miriam’s. “Will I? I’ll tell you what I’m going to do! I’m going to teach you all my secrets for looking beautiful! Not that you’re not already, but I will teach you how to look like a model or a movie star.”

Miriam’s heart began pounding with excitement. This—this was it, this was what she had daydreamed of, back when she was baking for the local market, when she was helping her
mamm
with the wash. When she was avoiding the attention of the boys in the community, the glances of budding interest. On some level, she’d been afraid it would trap her there.

And she didn’t want to be there. She’d wanted to be here. Here, wearing beautiful clothes, styling her hair to frame her face and pinning it with small, glittering barrettes shaped like flowers, her eyes and mouth made up with glossy colors. Knowing she was turning boys’ heads as she walked—as she was doing now.

One boy, tall and handsome with skin the color of chocolate chips, sat at an outdoor table in front of a café, sipping on a soda. He jumped up as they passed and called out, “Hey, Ms. Roth! Ms. Roth!” His voice was deep and rich, self-assured. It struck a chord in Miriam.

“Mikey!” Pamela said, breaking into a huge smile. “Mikey, so lovely to see you! This is my host daughter Miriam. She’s Amish, and she’s come to live with us for a while. We’re showing her what life’s like in the Big Apple.”

Mikey returned her smile before turning to Miriam. He took her in with big brown eyes, big, soft eyes that made her want to melt. She didn’t think she should feel things like that, but she did, and honestly, she didn’t care. No boys in the community back in Lancaster County looked like that. They were all pale, with light-colored eyes. But she couldn’t deny how good-looking this Mikey was, and she quite liked the way he studied her with interest. It made her feel special.

It made her feel excited with possibility.

Mikey insisted they sit down and have a drink with him, and Pamela began to say no, explaining they still had shopping to do, but Miriam laughed. “I’m rather thirsty,” she lied. “A drink would be lovely.”

Pamela threw up her hands, smiling. “A drink it is, then! But it’s your treat, young man.”

“Sure thing, Ms. Roth. What’ll you have?”

Pamela ordered a Coke with lemon and no ice, and Miriam echoed that. She hadn’t drunk one yet; it couldn’t hurt to try it. But more importantly, she didn’t want to look foolish before this boy with the beautiful eyes and the intriguing voice.

“I’ll be right back,” Mikey promised, hurrying inside the café to place the order.

As soon as he’d disappeared inside, Miriam gave in to the enormous smile that wanted to burst forth. “Such a fine day, isn’t it?”

Pamela’s lips twitched, but she kept her voice calm. “It sure is! So we’ll have a quick drink, chat with Mikey a bit, and then head to the makeup counter.”

“That sounds wonderful,” Miriam said sincerely. It really did. She wished she could confide in Pamela, because she wanted to sing about the fact that she didn’t even have makeup on yet, and she was already attracting good-looking young men to her side. Surely this was a sign she had made the right decision in coming to New York?

“Mikey’s a good kid,” Pamela said, leaning forward conspiratorially. “He’s the son of some good friends of ours, stockbrokers on Wall Street. The two of them have quite the head for the business—they win big and lose small. Real bulls, those two. Mikey, though, wants to be an artist.”

“Oh?” asked Miriam. Pamela’s words about Mikey’s parents had rushed right over her head, as though they’d been in Italian, but Miriam was fascinated by the thought of Mikey as an artist. She couldn’t begin to fathom having the freedom to pursue an art for its own sake, let alone the leisure. “What kind?”

“A painter. He likes to throw a lot of paint onto a canvas and call it art. But hey,” Pamela said, shrugging, “people like it, and that’s all you can really ask for. Most painters should be so lucky.”

Miriam would have to chew on that line of thought for a while. For now, though, she had other questions. “What do you do, Pamela? What is your job?”

A look of complete disbelief crossed Pamela’s perfectly made-up face, followed by a peal of laughter that made Miriam think of bells. Or maybe someone in pain. She wasn’t certain. “A job? Sweetheart, this
is
my job.” Miriam must have looked confused, because Pamela touched her wrist. “Oh, silly me. I forgot you’re new to all this. It’s like an alien coming to live among earthlings, having to learn all our strange customs and traditions.”