The Redemption of Sarah Cain (9 page)

He still cares too much
, she thought as she made her way to his table.

Bryan stood tall and lean as she approached, and she let him kiss her cheek. She caught a hint of his subtle cologne as he stepped back, smiling. ‘‘You look wonderful, Sarah.’’ He pulled out a chair for her and she sat.

‘‘How are you?’’ she asked, her head spinning with a dozen different topics, namely her upcoming trip.

‘‘The question is how’s everything going for
you
?’’ He had an uncanny way of turning questions back to her. On occasion, this had frustrated her. Today she would overlook it.

‘‘I’ve been horribly busy,’’ she replied. ‘‘The real estate market amazes even me . . . especially this time of year.’’ Not wanting to dissect her career—not today—she reached for the menu, a slim, leather-bound green folder. ‘‘What looks good to you?’’

‘‘You do.’’ He grinned.

She might have known he’d bait her with such a response. ‘‘I’m
not
on the menu, in case you hadn’t noticed.’’

He reached for her hand, and she didn’t have the heart to pull away. ‘‘I’ve missed you. Okay with you?’’

She felt the passion in his palm, his long warm fingers wrapped around hers. Stiffening, she knew she shouldn’t have agreed to see him after all and avoided his gaze.

‘‘You seem jittery. Something bothering you?’’

Confusion reigned as she looked deep within her soul. Should she confide in him, tell of Ivy’s death? What would he say if he knew the implications facing her?

‘‘Sarah . . . ?’’ he persisted, his eyes searching hers.

She held her breath, not knowing . . . not
wanting
to answer. But Bryan Ford was as direct and tenacious a man as any she’d known. Truly, she must offer him a crumb of information.

‘‘There’s a family crisis,’’ she managed.

‘‘Oh, honey . . . what
is
it?’’

Her throat closed up at his endearing word. Slowly, yet firmly, she withdrew her hand.

‘‘I think we’d better order now.’’ Abruptly, she set her gaze on the menu, knowing if she allowed her eyes to find his again, she might cave in and tell all. The knowledge of her orphaned nieces and nephews could only serve to create additional tension between them.

Bryan gave in to her request, it seemed, and they read their menus without speaking.

When the waitress came, Sarah noticed that her friend’s demeanor had changed. He was mechanical. Too polite. She’d wounded him . . . again. She had attempted to shut him out, hoping he might clam up and choose another topic of conversation. She had been unnecessarily rude. Yet she could not help herself.

Soon the waitress was gone, and they were alone once again.

Nervously, she played with her pinky ring.

‘‘New?’’ He eyed her finger.

‘‘Santa brought it . . . this year.’’ She stared fondly at the ring, then hid her hands in her lap.

‘‘How many diamonds does a girl need?’’ he quipped.

She laughed, welcoming the relief. ‘‘Oh, you know me. I like pretty things—and lots of them. What can I say?’’

His eyes penetrated hers. ‘‘It’s just stuff, Sarah. You can’t take it with you.’’

He’s talking death now. That’s Ivy’s department
, she thought, wishing their discourse were off on better footing. Oh, to chat about something insignificant. Anything but her insatiable need for possessions.

‘‘My material girl,’’ he said more softly.

She couldn’t avoid his dark eyes, the intense expression on his handsome face. ‘‘You know I’m not that, what you said . . .
your girl
.’’ She felt terribly flustered.

‘‘But you could be. Just say the word.’’

She paused, thinking of ways to change the subject. At last she blurted, ‘‘My sister’s dead, passed away last week.’’

‘‘Ivy?’’

She nodded, unexpected tears welling up.

He frowned, not understanding her sudden grief. No doubt he recalled her ongoing detachment from Ivy. Maybe that’s what he was thinking, looking so concerned.

But she wouldn’t second-guess him. ‘‘She named me guardian for her five children,’’ Sarah told him. ‘‘Can you believe it?’’

Bryan looked puzzled. ‘‘I’m stunned,’’ he said.

‘‘I’m leaving today for Lancaster, Pennsylvania.’’

His eyes were kind, thoughtful. ‘‘How long will you be there?’’

She shook her head, feeling the hostility anew. ‘‘I hope this mess can be straightened out in a few days. Only God knows what sort of mother I’d be. And I doubt I’d take too kindly to the simple life. I prefer a cluttered, complicated, extravagant lifestyle, thank you.’’

Bryan chuckled a bit. ‘‘A few days in Amish country might do you good. You might be surprised.’’

‘‘So . . . we’re back to the
stuff
issue?’’

His irresistible smile drew her in. ‘‘Ivy’s kids are related to you by blood, Sarah. I think you might enjoy them if you give yourself half a chance.’’

Half a chance . . .

Where had she heard that before? Ivy was forever inviting her to ‘‘come visit us in the country,’’ implying some of the same things Bryan had just now.

Was there no one on the planet who understood her? She would absolutely not think of giving up a lucrative career to raise someone else’s family. She loved her things, her life, her money too much to let it all go. And for what? Amish children . . .
Ivy’s
offspring?

‘‘I think we’d better skip this conversation.’’ She studied his face, his brow, his eyes.

He winked at her. ‘‘If you can’t talk it over with me, then who?’’

A legitimate point. No one in her life had discerned the IvySarah issue over the years as well as Bryan Ford. No one else had ever taken time to decipher the frustration in her voice on the phone; the numerous times she’d felt guilt ridden after receiving yet another letter from her narrow-minded sister.

‘‘May I at least keep in touch while you’re there?’’

‘‘Believe it or not, there
is
a phone in the house. But I’ll have my cell phone, too,’’ she replied, patting her purse.

‘‘And your laptop computer, I suppose?’’ He was grinning.

‘‘Can’t leave my email behind.’’

Their breakfast was coming—eggs and waffles for Bryan, a fruit plate and cottage cheese for her. She realized then, as the food was placed before them, she hadn’t asked a single question about
his
life, how things were going back in Boston.

Suddenly she felt embarrassed, ridiculously self-centered. ‘‘Forgive me, Bryan. How’s everything with you?’’

‘‘Thought you’d never ask.’’ He leaned forward, studying her across the table. ‘‘As a matter of fact, my work is going along better than ever. It’s very possible I might be able to get away again for a few days, visit you in . . . Lancaster, is it?’’

‘‘Oh, you mustn’t come. Ivy’s children aren’t your problem.’’

He smiled knowingly. ‘‘But . . . we’re friends, aren’t we?’’

‘‘Thanks.’’ Then she added quickly, ‘‘I mean, for your friendship.’’ He was nodding. ‘‘But you meant ‘no thanks’ to my coming to Amish country?’’

She felt completely ashamed. ‘‘Yes,’’ she said so softly she wondered if he heard. Bryan knew her far too well, yet loved her still. Seemingly, there was nothing she could say or do to make him change his mind about her.

Nothing at all.

Sunday afternoon, January 23

Ach, what a day of days.

Levi King asked if Caleb could drive me in the family buggy
over to Singing tonight. Glory be! But I told him I’d best stay at
home with my sisters and brothers. ’Course, I thanked him for
asking.

‘‘Maybe somebody could put a bug in Fannie Flaud’s ear . . .
just for tonight.’’ He winked at me after he said that!

’Course, I knew what he was getting at. He wanted one of
my other girlfriends to contact Fannie, see if she couldn’t take
over for me here at the house while I went to the Singing at the
Eshes’ big barn.

But then I thought of poor Fannie missing out on her own
fun, and I knew it wouldn’t be fair to cheat her out of a good
time. No, I’d stay put . . . where I belong for now. I just have
to give up this one chance to spend some time with Levi.

Jah, I could tell by the look on his face, he was more than
just a little disappointed. But not enough to go looking for another
girlfriend. He reached for my hands and squeezed them gently.
‘‘I’ll miss ya, Lyddie, but there’ll be other times for us. I know
there will.’’

I’ll never forget the sound of those words. Now I’m thinking—
more convinced than ever—he really and truly loves me.
Yet I daresn’t let on a thing to Caleb or the others. This courting
business must be kept quiet. It’s the way things have been done
amongst the People for nearly three hundred years. Makes right
good sense to me, too.

In spite of everything I’ve thought and worried about Aunt
Sarah, still a part of me hopes there might be a way to get Sarah
Cain to come right soon and maybe even stay. More than anything,
’cept for the promise I made Mamma, I want to be Levi’s
wife someday.

Chapter Seven

S
arah folded her lingerie, placing each item in the soft pockets of her wardrobe Pullman. Methodically, she checked off the categories of clothing she intended to pack for her trip—sufficient for a full week. Undergarments, hosiery, silk pajamas and robe, slippers, two suits, three skirts and blouses, pants ensemble to mix and match, two Angora wool sweaters, dress shoes, two pairs of casual shoes, jewelry, and necessary toiletries, including makeup and hair needs.

Of one thing she was convinced: She would remain in Lancaster County no longer than necessary. She fully intended to wrap things up on behalf of Ivy’s children in a single week’s time. Psychologically, she could better handle the stressful, complicated situation if she mentally limited the amount of time spent on Ivy Cottrell’s Amish turf.

Fondly, she surveyed her suite of rooms, taking in the canopied rice bed done in a delicate but somewhat sophisticated floralpatterned duvet and solid ivory coverlet. A white wood fireplace with recessed bookcases over the mantel graced one entire corner of the room, surrounded by matching pale rose-hued overstuffed armchairs.

She would miss this opulent chamber. How could she not? She had closely involved herself in the impassioned process, working with an exclusive decorator, intent on creating the ultimate in fine design. This house—the three-thousand-squarefoot town home—represented everything she had ever worked for. It was her Shangri-La, her haven in the storms of life.

Had she overlooked anything? Deliberately, Sarah combed the suite with her gaze, as one who dreads abandoning a shrine.

Then, nearly gasping, she spied the tiny gold frame on the bedside table—the picture of her deceased student, sweet and mildly handicapped Megan Holmes. Nicknamed ‘‘Meggie’’ by her friends, the youngster had been in Sarah’s second-grade class in Stonington, Connecticut.

Lovingly, she wrapped the picture in several layers of tissue and placed it in the suitcase next to her silk pajamas.
Safe there
, she decided, rejecting the impulse to study the image again.

Satisfied that her packing was complete, she went to her writing desk and pulled open the deep middle drawer where she stored Ivy’s recent letters.

Opening the first envelope her fingers touched, she noted the postmark. December 1997. She unfolded the off-white stationery, taking note of the greeting—Ivy’s customary salutation.
Greetings, my dear sister, in the name of our precious Lord and
Savior, Jesus Christ
.

Often, Sarah had wondered if Ivy’s reference to
our Lord
was a subconscious approach to ‘‘preaching,’’ or if her sister purposely wished to set an ultraspiritual tone for the body of the letter. Rereading this particular note, Sarah noticed that there was not a single trace of rebuke to be found.

We’re having our share of cold weather here lately. Snow is
falling and the wind is blowing just now as I write. Some of the
womenfolk, including myself, will take turns going from one
house to another during the next week, repairing old quilts and
making new ones from scratch. It’ll be fun, mixed in with the
work, too. How we do enjoy the Tellings that come out of such
gatherings. I must say, too, that I believe my Lydia is coming up
in the ranks as a fine storyteller herself.