said. “But let’s keep it our secret. Best that not get out.”
“Best what not get out?” Connor asked, leaning toward them. “Ah, the Amish contingent. We’re pleased you could come, of course. The sheriff and Ray-Lynn are over by the casket paying their final respects. Closed casket, the close of a sad life. I try to remember Aunt Vicky as she was, but these last years have been so difficult—for her, of course, as well as for us to see her slip away like that.”
“Did she still read or write?” Lydia asked. “I mean, anything normal like that?”
She felt Josh’s arm touching hers stiffen. He knew that she was digging for information about the note. The fact he took her elbow as if to steer her on made her realize he didn’t think it was a good idea—not here, not now. She could almost hear his thoughts.
“She scribbled crazy things, pictures, like senseless doodles,” Bess said. “She used to want to be an artist, but gave it up for a career in journalism. She was a bright woman. Her Alzheimer’s doctors used to try to decipher her scribblings and pictures, but that, too, went nowhere.”
Others had come in the door; they had to move on. Connor introduced them to his wife, Heather, a pretty, slender woman with long blond hair streaked with auburn. Heather Stark seemed nervous. Her eyes darted past them as they spoke briefly. She thanked them for what they had done the night Aunt Vicky died, then told them, “Please take a chair over by the casket. People have sent such lovely flowers. I’m going to have to duck out and see how our twins are behaving. Seven-year-old boys at something like this need a bit of watching, so they don’t show up in a Darth Vader mask or tell people what they want for Christmas. I’m pleased you’re staying for the buffet.”
She darted off. “Twin boys just like Hannah has,” Lydia told Josh as they moved on. She could tell some of the Englische folks were watching them. She’d been so few places lately where they were in the minority that she’d forgotten the feeling.
“Tragedies and blessings fall on the Plain People and the fancy ones,” Josh said as they headed for the Freemans, who had sat down in the back row of wooden chairs facing the flowers and the casket, where the funeral service would evidently be held.
Lydia was awed by the huge array of summer flowers this time of year and by the rest of the living room she’d been stealing glimpses of. The family had apparently cleared furniture from this end of the room. Through a veil of falling flakes, the array of windows on the east and west sides displayed the white Home Valley below. It made her feel they were in a snow globe.
On a third wall was a ceiling-high stone fireplace and mantel with an oil painting over it of Bess, Connor, Heather and the twins. How her artist friend Sarah would love to see that, she thought, with their unique facial expressions: Bess, prideful; Connor, possessive; Heather, loving; and the twins, one a bit smug, the other looking as if he’d rather be elsewhere.
Although the floor underfoot was polished oak, foreign-looking area rugs with ornate designs were scattered throughout. As they approached the Freemans, Lydia glimpsed the dining room off to the side. Two long tables were not yet laden with food, but linen tablecloths, plates and utensils and more flowers were in place. Beyond that, in yet another living room or den, she could see small, round tables set with candle and pine cone centerpieces.
And on the polished coffin, beside a draping of red roses, was a photo of a much younger Victoria—Vicky, they had called her—sitting at a writing desk with pen in her hand, looking off into the distance. Though her own people would have judged that as prideful, Lydia was glad to see the picture. After she had found that note, it was almost a sign from heaven that the deceased woman had pen in hand.
“Glad to see you all,” Ray-Lynn interrupted her thoughts. Some
“Best what not get out?” Connor asked, leaning toward them. “Ah, the Amish contingent. We’re pleased you could come, of course. The sheriff and Ray-Lynn are over by the casket paying their final respects. Closed casket, the close of a sad life. I try to remember Aunt Vicky as she was, but these last years have been so difficult—for her, of course, as well as for us to see her slip away like that.”
“Did she still read or write?” Lydia asked. “I mean, anything normal like that?”
She felt Josh’s arm touching hers stiffen. He knew that she was digging for information about the note. The fact he took her elbow as if to steer her on made her realize he didn’t think it was a good idea—not here, not now. She could almost hear his thoughts.
“She scribbled crazy things, pictures, like senseless doodles,” Bess said. “She used to want to be an artist, but gave it up for a career in journalism. She was a bright woman. Her Alzheimer’s doctors used to try to decipher her scribblings and pictures, but that, too, went nowhere.”
Others had come in the door; they had to move on. Connor introduced them to his wife, Heather, a pretty, slender woman with long blond hair streaked with auburn. Heather Stark seemed nervous. Her eyes darted past them as they spoke briefly. She thanked them for what they had done the night Aunt Vicky died, then told them, “Please take a chair over by the casket. People have sent such lovely flowers. I’m going to have to duck out and see how our twins are behaving. Seven-year-old boys at something like this need a bit of watching, so they don’t show up in a Darth Vader mask or tell people what they want for Christmas. I’m pleased you’re staying for the buffet.”
She darted off. “Twin boys just like Hannah has,” Lydia told Josh as they moved on. She could tell some of the Englische folks were watching them. She’d been so few places lately where they were in the minority that she’d forgotten the feeling.
“Tragedies and blessings fall on the Plain People and the fancy ones,” Josh said as they headed for the Freemans, who had sat down in the back row of wooden chairs facing the flowers and the casket, where the funeral service would evidently be held.
Lydia was awed by the huge array of summer flowers this time of year and by the rest of the living room she’d been stealing glimpses of. The family had apparently cleared furniture from this end of the room. Through a veil of falling flakes, the array of windows on the east and west sides displayed the white Home Valley below. It made her feel they were in a snow globe.
On a third wall was a ceiling-high stone fireplace and mantel with an oil painting over it of Bess, Connor, Heather and the twins. How her artist friend Sarah would love to see that, she thought, with their unique facial expressions: Bess, prideful; Connor, possessive; Heather, loving; and the twins, one a bit smug, the other looking as if he’d rather be elsewhere.
Although the floor underfoot was polished oak, foreign-looking area rugs with ornate designs were scattered throughout. As they approached the Freemans, Lydia glimpsed the dining room off to the side. Two long tables were not yet laden with food, but linen tablecloths, plates and utensils and more flowers were in place. Beyond that, in yet another living room or den, she could see small, round tables set with candle and pine cone centerpieces.
And on the polished coffin, beside a draping of red roses, was a photo of a much younger Victoria—Vicky, they had called her—sitting at a writing desk with pen in her hand, looking off into the distance. Though her own people would have judged that as prideful, Lydia was glad to see the picture. After she had found that note, it was almost a sign from heaven that the deceased woman had pen in hand.
“Glad to see you all,” Ray-Lynn interrupted her thoughts. Some
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