The Imposter (24 page)

But one thing was sure, like Thelma, Katrina had learned how to say no.

She saw Andy stride up to the house for the evening meal, Keeper trotting behind him. She couldn't help herself from comparing the differences between John and Andy. She never had to say no to Andy because he didn't push her. She didn't feel manipulated when she was with him. She knew that he was attracted to her. Many times throughout a day, he would find her wherever she happened to be on the farm. Just checking in to see if she needed help, he would say, but she knew he had missed her. He had a tender way of looking at her, just at her, that tugged at her heart: his smile deepened, his eyes warmed.

She knew Andy would like to kiss her if she'd let him—but after that one time, when she told him no and why, he never tried again. But kissing wasn't all he wanted. He liked to talk to her too.

John had never been much of a talker. Well, no, that wasn't quite right. He talked plenty, and he was always joking around. At first, she'd liked his lightheartedness; it was a breath of fresh air compared to the sadness that filled her home after her mother's death. He seemed so upbeat, filled with big ideas, and it was flattering to have an older man like him pursue her.

But looking back, she realized that he never talked about things that mattered. And listening? He never listened to her. It was a one-way conversation. No, hardly even that. It was a monologue.

Andy liked to listen to her ideas about the moss farm. Many times, after supper, he would stay and help her with the dishes, then they would sit in the living room, warmed by the woodstove, and work on plans for expanding Moss Hill. He would take her thoughts seriously, like changing the
name of the greenhouse to the mossery. He never referred to it as a greenhouse again, only as the mossery. A small thing, really, and yet it was meaningful to her. He listened.

Now that she thought about it, if she measured it just on word alone, Andy talked considerably less than John ever had. But he managed to say a whole lot more.

On Sunday evenings, Birdy went up to the Big House for supper. She was helping her sisters-in-law in the kitchen when she heard snippets of conversation between Freeman and Levi in the other room. She stood by the doorframe, unnoticed, to listen more closely.

“I never thought we'd be facing this kind of thing,” Levi said.

“No, but I'm not at all surprised,” Freeman said. “David's far too independent-minded. If we wish to destroy a weed we must pull it up by the roots.” Freeman clapped his hands against his knees. “I'll make a call to a couple of bishops I'm friendly with—Isaac Fisher in Gap, and Sam Smucker over in Leola. They'll help get him quieted.”

Birdy gripped her elbows, hugging herself to stifle a sudden chill. This was wrong, what they were planning to do. Wrong and malicious and deceitful. When her brothers noticed she was standing by the door, they abruptly stopped their conversation. Freeman's gaze swept over her, holding her quiet and still and frightened, and then he smiled. The way he could go from that hard look of a moment ago, his eyes all flat and cold, to the way he was now, warm and friendly. It disturbed her, but she only blinked innocently back. “Supper's almost ready,” she said in the sweetest tone possible.

All throughout the night, and over the next few days, Birdy wavered about what to do. She felt that familiar pluck in her chest, a need to make sure everyone else was happy. But after she heard her brothers discuss that they were setting into motion the process to have David quieted, she knew the time had come to do something she should have done months ago.

Katrina went into the mossery and found Andy transplanting moss. She smiled at his concentration, the comma of his body arched over the shelf, his precision in placing the gathered moss into the substrate like he was creating a picture of mosaic tiles. His face was nearly perfect in profile—the high brow and angled cheekbones, his strong Roman nose and full lips. So very handsome.

Keeper, curled up by Andy's feet, scrambled up to meet her, his tail wagging like a flag. Andy straightened. He stared at her for what seemed like forever. She was having a hard time meeting his eyes, the way he looked at her lately. Then came one of those unexpected and dazzling smiles. “Morning.”

All business, she reminded herself.
Keep everything
all business.
“I just received a call from a florist in Lancaster. She wondered if Moss Hill could provide reindeer moss for a wedding this weekend.”

“Well,” he answered, drawing out the word long and slow. “First of all, reindeer moss isn't a moss, it's a lichen. And if anyone does provide it for her to use in a wedding, he should be drawn and quartered.”

“Why?”

“It's endangered in most states. It's very slow growing, takes thirty to fifty years to recover after it's been removed
or trampled on. Reindeer and caribou rely on it for their winter diet. It's highly nutritious. They can smell it through the snow and paw down to eat it.”

Katrina put her hand up in the air to stop the lecture. “Thank you, Professor Miller. I'll tell her that we can't provide reindeer moss and that she should be ashamed of herself for depriving animals of their winter food.”

He laughed, a soft laugh. “Tell her we've got something even better. A specialty moss called Hedwigia. Looks somewhat similar to reindeer moss but she won't have to feel guilty.”

“She needs two trays by Friday morning.”

“Sounds good. She can even come get them today and put them in the refrigerator for a few days. They'll keep fresh.”

“I'll let her know.”

He stared at her again in that intense way he had, his head slightly tilted.

“What? Is there something else you've thought of?”

A trace of color rose under his fair skin. “To be perfectly honest, I'm still thinking how much I'd like to kiss you.”

She flushed, looking away. “No.” Yes.

He read her mind and took a step toward her and leaned his head close, but she reacted without thought. “No! You mustn't.” She put her fingers against his mouth and felt as if she got a spark from touching him, like you might get if you pressed your fingertips to a window during a lightning storm. She took her fingers off his lips the instant she had touched him, but the strange tingly feeling remained. “Andy, any girl in town would be flattered by your attention.”

He backed up a step, studying her as if he didn't quite know what to make of her. “Any girl except you?”

She conceded with a tilt of her head. “Not me. Not right now. It's not a good time to start something. Not for me, not for you. I think it's best to stop it before—”

“Right.” He held up a hand, shaking his head. “We're not even involved.”

Yet.
She heard the word clearly in his head.

On Saturday morning, David had barely opened the Bent N' Dent store when Freeman Glick burst in the door. “There's going to be a Members' Meeting after church tomorrow.”

“Good morning to you too, Freeman.” David tried not to show any reaction, though he could feel his whole body and soul tense up. “Any particular reason?”

Freeman sucked in a deep breath and closed his eyes. “David, I think you know why we've come to this point.”

“Actually, I don't.”

“It's my duty to inform you that you will be asked to confess your sins before church on Sunday.”

“Which particular sins are those?”

Freeman drew in another deep breath. “Neglecting your children.”

Not controlling them, he meant. Pretending they weren't separate and unique individuals who had their own journey of faith to discover. “Freeman, have you ever had a herding dog?”

“Yes, but what does that have to do with anything?”

“My father raised sheep and always counted on a border collie to help him with the sheep.”

Freeman sighed.

“A smart herding dog never nags or drives or frightens the
sheep, never nips at their heels or rushes them. It goes back and forth from the rear, gently guiding the sheep into the fold.”

“Your point?”

“My point is that I've always considered it to be an illustration from the natural world of good parenting.”

“Well, maybe that's the problem right there. You're letting a dog guide you.” He leaned forward with a sneer. “And just look at the results.”

“Freeman, I don't deny that Anna was a better disciplinarian than I am. I'm not a perfect father, not by any means. I can certainly confess to making mistakes as a parent. But neglecting my children? That, I don't agree with.”

“That's the sin that's been laid on you.”

That's the one you can build a case
on.
David was aware there were a number of rumors circulating around and that he was not held in high regard in the church right now; the balance sheet at the store gave credence to that fact. But Freeman, as bishop, would have the most influence over the Members' Meeting on Sunday. He'd been trying to get rid of David for a long time now and, at last, he'd found what seemed to be a legitimate way to oust him.

David crossed his arms against his chest. “And just what will happen if I don't confess to the sin of neglecting my children?”

“Then we will have you quieted.” Freeman strode out of the store, leaving only the sound of the bell ringing on the door.

So. The rumor was true.

That evening, after he read stories to the girls, David worked on his sermon—possibly the last sermon he would
ever give. The text for that Sunday would come from the book of Exodus, the life of Moses. He kept sensing a distinct impression: power through weakness. God chose Moses, a man who showed little courage and less wisdom. A man who responded to God's divine call with five different excuses. A weak man. God used a weak man to shame the strong—Pharaoh and his multitude of armies.

David sat back in his chair and thought of how often that very principle displayed itself throughout Scripture: God's power operates best in human weakness.