The Redemption of Sarah Cain (10 page)

Susie Lapp and her daughter Emma and granddaughter Fannie
soon will come to help cook up some cabbage chowder. We’ll
make plenty, as I know how much her family and mine do enjoy
such a meal on a blustering day like today.

Two Tuesdays from this coming, a group of us plan to make
up a batch of homemade doughnuts, the Lord willing. Oh, I wish
you could smell the aroma as it fills the house. Sarah, I wonder
if you recall how we helped Mother make her once-a-year doughnuts
back in Connecticut. Do you remember the year we got
snowed in? In late February, I believe it was—well after Valentine’s
Day. Dad wanted to put chains on the car and drive around
in the parking lot near the little shopping center, making his own
kind of doughnuts in the snow, I s’pose. But in the end Mother
put her foot down, remember? You and I fell asleep to the delicious
smells of yeast and dough, our stomachs full of sweet, warm
pastry. I’m not sure, but those doughnut-making sessions with
Mother might just be where my yearning for baking got started
.

Sarah readily recalled that winter day. The wind had howled in the trees beyond the fence as snow piled in drifts against the front door and covered every tree and shrub like fluffy white frosting on a cake. The family cat snoozed beside the hearth, and the fragrant warmth from the kitchen was deceiving, giving the illusion that all was well. As usual, though, Sarah felt the strong undercurrent of conflict, stemming from Ivy’s need to be ‘‘in charge’’—either of assigning aprons or measuring ingredients.

But for Sarah, frequent summer visits to the shore with her father were the memories
she
most cherished. Daddy had always been intrigued by seashells washed up on the sand. So the two of them went barefoot together in the spring, summer, and fall, their pants legs rolled up to midcalf, gathering dozens of shells; caressing each one—channeled whelk or moon shell alike. Daddy spoke as if each had an important life lesson to impart, and for him the shells
did
have something beautifully enlightening to share. Every aspect of nature seemed to communicate— reveal itself intimately—to Alfred Cain. Never had there been any doubt that her father was in tune with the Creator of all things. Thankfully, he had not pushed his theology off on her the way Ivy had attempted to do in recent years.

Refolding Ivy’s letter, Sarah slipped it back into the envelope. She rose, carrying a handful of letters, and placed them into her suitcase before closing it.

Thoughts of Megan Holmes swept over her unexpectedly. Perhaps it was the reminiscing of sea creatures; moon shells especially, with their glossy-smooth surface and flawless spiral.
‘‘The heart-core in the center is like an island,’’
Daddy would say, pointing to the ‘‘dark eye.’’

Perhaps it was the subconscious connection to an island that brought Meggie to mind. At any rate, she found herself longing for the darling girl, overwhelmed by guilt once again.

Breathlessly, Sarah began to unzip the section where several pairs of pajamas were nestled, removing Meggie’s picture. She chose to tuck it away inside her briefcase instead. At least it would be safe there, in the event her luggage became misplaced or lost.

Simply put, she could not allow herself to risk losing the one and only tangible memento of a precious life. A young life lost to Sarah’s poor judgment.

Time spent collecting shells on the sand at Watch Hill had taught young Lydia fascinating things. Things a person didn’t learn at school, ’specially not public schools. Jah, in Amish schools, for sure and for certain. But, thanks to Grandpa Cain, she’d learned the art of shedding unnecessary things early on.

‘‘Watch closely the hermit crab,’’
he would say, picking up a castaway shell house.
‘‘See how
little
he seems to get by with?’’

She’d observed hundreds of seashells, too many to count— perty, simple shelters abandoned by former snail owners. No wonder Dat had taken up the refrain about casting off vanity. He’d heard it enough times, too, from Grandpa, long before they’d ever thought of becoming one with the People.

These things she pondered to the muted
clip-clop-clip
of the horse’s hooves against the snow-packed road, ever thankful for Caleb’s strong arms today as he reined in Dobbin, one of their two most reliable driving horses. Grateful, too, for Josiah’s and Hannah’s calm repose behind her in the second seat of the carriage. Anna Mae was again the quietest of all, sitting between her younger brother and sister. But now and then Lydia could hear Anna Mae muttering, like she was talkin’ to somebody but nobody was listening.

Josiah spoke up from the back. ‘‘Preacher Esh was mighty long-winded today.’’

‘‘Best not say such a thing ’bout God’s anointed,’’ she chided.

‘‘Well, he
was
,’’ Anna Mae said. ‘‘I don’t see no reason for not sayin’ so.’’

‘‘
Any
reason,’’ Lydia corrected her sister out of habit, though she knew there was more to admonish Anna Mae about than her poor grammar. Her sister was becoming mighty headstrong— and all just since Mamma’s passing. She wondered if she ought to speak to one of the older women about what to do.

But, no, Sarah Cain was on her way, so she’d prob’ly just wait and leave it up to their aunt to apply the right discipline.

‘‘When didja say Mamma’s sister is comin’?’’ Caleb broke the silence.

She’d told them a dozen times, if she’d told them once, just since this morning when Mr. Eberley had called before breakfast, of all things. On a Sunday morning yet. It was as if her brothers and sisters had to hear the same thing over and again in order to believe it.

She couldn’t blame them, really, for it seemed like a solitary dream to her, too, that Mamma’s fancy younger sister was actually comin’ to be their guardian. ‘‘Her plane’s landin’ at Harrisburg, and Mr. Eberley says it’ll take her a gut forty minutes to get here.’’

‘‘Ach, I wonder what it’s like to fly in a plane high up in the sky,’’ Josiah said, making buzzing sounds behind her head.

‘‘The Lord never meant a person to go so awful fast,’’ she said, offering words that Dat used to say about the pace of things. ‘‘Life goes by so terrible swift without forcin’ it along faster.’’ She felt she had to say the latter, just to put Josiah in his place.

It worked. He stopped making the whirring sounds right quick and began chattering with Hannah. All the while, Anna Mae carried on her private conversation with no one at all.

‘‘How will we know it’s Aunt Sarah when she comes?’’ Caleb asked softly, his left hand resting on his leg. His right hand held both reins loosely.

‘‘Oh,
I
think we’ll know.’’

Anna Mae whispered, ‘‘For sure?’’

‘‘Well, she must be an awful rich lady now, from what Mamma always said. Aunt Sarah drives fast cars and likes to dress up a whole lot. So I ’spect she looks perty fancy most all the time.’’

‘‘She wears for-gut clothes
everywhere
?’’ Hannah said, revealing her astonishment.

‘‘Jah, but I’m thinkin’ it’d be best if we don’t gawk or say anything ’bout how she looks. Promise me that?’’ She turned in her seat, eyeing Josiah and Hannah sternly. As for Anna Mae, Lydia reached around and patted her sister’s chubby knees through her long woolen coat. ‘‘I’m almost positive we’ll recognize her. She must look something like Mamma, after all.’’

‘‘No . . .
you
look like Mamma,’’ Anna Mae pointed out.

Lydia knew it was true. Everyone, from the time she was born till Mamma’s funeral, had always said she was the spittin’ image of her mother. Truth was, she was right proud of it, in a humble sort of way. She had Mamma’s features and golden brown eyes and hair, just not the same strawberry hues as Mamma had in her flaxen hair. No, her own was more like wheat after a hard rainstorm, blanched nut brown with no hope of red. Still, she had the persistent waves that sometimes worked their way into ringlets around her hairline on a hot summer day.

‘‘Where’s Aunt Sarah gonna sleep?’’ Hannah asked.

‘‘Mamma’s old room.’’

The enclosed carriage fell silent. Only the soft snort of Dobbin the horse could be heard.

Sighing, she thought maybe she shouldn’t have been so quick to volunteer their mamma’s former abode. Maybe it bothered the children to think of Aunt Sarah coming into their home that-a-way.

Sometimes, here lately, instead of having to make so many decisions for the family, she almost wished she were small enough to fit inside the weathered channeled whelks Grandpa used to pick up and talk about so cheerfully. Up . . . up the tiny spiraling staircase, safe from harm, secure in his strong, wrinkled hand.

Chapter Eight

I
n Chicago, Sarah made her connecting flight with little hassle. On board the plane, she found her aisle seat and settled into row ten. Immediately, she was greeted by the passenger in the seat next to hers. ‘‘Hello, there.’’

‘‘Hello,’’ she replied, not so interested in engaging in conversation.

‘‘Where are
you
headed?’’ asked the woman, not much older than midthirties.

‘‘Harrisburg.’’

‘‘I’m going back to Lancaster,’’ the brunette woman volunteered. ‘‘I’m a Bible school student there.’’

She nodded, saying no more, eager to get back to her novel.

‘‘Are you from Harrisburg?’’ inquired the woman.

Sarah chose to remain elusive. ‘‘New England’s my home.’’

The passenger’s eyes lit up with recognition. ‘‘You know, I
thought
you might be from somewhere up there. I have relatives in New Hampshire . . . they sound just like you.’’ She paused all too briefly, then continued. ‘‘What part of New England?’’

Sarah didn’t want to appear rude, but she did want to discourage a long discourse with a stranger and get on with her reading. ‘‘Not far from Mystic, Connecticut.’’

‘‘That’s beautiful country up there.’’

‘‘Yes.’’

‘‘I spent several summers in Stonington when I was in my teens,’’ the young woman volunteered. ‘‘A long time ago, it seems.’’

She refused to admit to having been born and reared there. The wounds were still too fresh.

‘‘I love Lancaster County. Ever been there?’’

‘‘This happens to be my first trip.’’

‘‘Oh, then by all means, let me encourage you to take a bus tour of Amish country while you’re there. It’s like nothing you’ve ever experienced.’’

‘‘Really?’’

The woman was nodding, wide-eyed. ‘‘You’ll feel like you’ve stepped back in time . . . at least to the nineteenth century and then some. It’s so amazing how they can ride around with their horses and buggies, right on the main streets, no less. And the women and girls wear the cutest bonnets, like you’d expect to see on a storybook character in a play.’’

Storybook character . . .

The thought had never crossed her mind about Amish attire. Her own nieces and nephews were most likely as Plain as any of the other Amish sects in the Lancaster area. ‘‘Do they all dress the same?’’ she asked.

‘‘The Amish, you mean?’’

Sarah nodded, feeling brazen, as if she were inquiring behind someone’s back. Her deceased sister’s . . .

‘‘It’s hard to tell the Old Order from the New Order or the Beachy Amish and some of the other conservative circles. Surely you know there are many varieties. You’d almost have to delve into individual Ordnungs for each church district—if that were even possible—to know for sure what is allowed and what isn’t. Most Amish adhere strictly to the Old Testament, but only certain passages of Scripture are taught in their Preaching services.’’

She was surprised at the knowledge the woman seemed to have of Ivy’s People. ‘‘How do you know so much about the Amish?’’ she asked hesitantly.

‘‘I’ve made a good many friends with Mennonite young people over the years. Some of them are related to Amish. One of the girls has even dated Old Order boys. Can you imagine that?’’

Sarah certainly could not. She was somewhat relieved to hear the pilot’s voice over the intercom. Time for the plane to taxi out to the runway for takeoff.