slipped into the chair across from her, hanging her bag from the back. “Not at all. That sounds lovely.” She’d have happily consumed whatever Geneva wanted to order for the chance to talk with her.
Geneva had been a contemporary of Allen Morgan—his sister-in-law—living in the same small area. She must surely know more about him than Link did. There had to be some fact, no matter how small, that would lead Marisa to understanding.
“You look tired, dear.” Geneva spoke as if Marisa were one of her children. “Link told me you had a bad night last night.”
She hadn’t expected that, and it took a moment to regroup. “He probably told you I have a too-vivid imagination.”
“Don’t mind him. Both my boys focus too much on what can be proved and not enough on intuition. Just because Link couldn’t imagine someone watching your room, that doesn’t mean it didn’t happen.” Geneva’s eyes sparkled at the thought, and her silver and turquoise earrings seemed to sparkle, too.
Marisa felt a momentary qualm. Geneva looked a little too enthusiastic, bright blue eyes snapping, cheeks rosy with excitement. All she wanted from the woman was information, not a partner.
“I could have been wrong, I guess. That’s part of being an illustrator—responding to everything in visual terms. Sometimes my imagination gives me images that aren’t real.”
Like the recurring image of her mother that haunted her dreams, walking away from her, disappearing into the dark woods where Marisa couldn’t reach her.
“Well, naturally. You’re an artist. I’m sure it must be fascinating to illustrate children’s books. Some of them are so beautiful that I can’t resist buying them even though I don’t have any children in the house any longer.”
Geneva wore such a wistful expression at the thought that Marisa found herself hoping Jessica and Trey planned to provide grandchildren for her. Geneva would throw herself into that role with enthusiasm.
“The books are lovely, aren’t they? I buy them, too, and then rationalize that I have to keep up with what’s happening in my—”
Marisa broke off as a woman came through what must be the door to the kitchen. Round and smiling, she carried an enormous tray laden with teapot and cups and a platter piled high with baked goods. She was also, to judge by her clothing, Amish.
“Ach, here we are.” The woman set the tray on the edge of the table and began to unload it. “I brought some apple kuchen fresh from the oven, as well as the sticky buns. You’ll want a taste of that, for sure.”
Geneva smiled. “If we have a taste of everything, you’ll have to roll us out of here. Emma, this is a friend, Marisa Angelo. Marisa, Emma Weaver, best baker in the township.”
“Ach, I am not that.” Emma responded to Geneva warmly, but there was a reservation in her face as she glanced toward Marisa and as quickly looked away again.
So, Emma already knew who she was, obviously. And probably, like Rhoda Miller, she would be unwilling to talk.
“You will tell me if you need anything else.” She spoke to Geneva, turned and scuttled back to the kitchen.
Geneva looked after her, seeming perplexed at the woman’s rapid retreat.
“I’m afraid it’s me,” Marisa said, answering her expression. “That’s the effect I have on the local Amish. Nobody wants to talk to me.”
Geneva transferred her gaze to Marisa. “Are you sure? That seems odd.”
Marisa shrugged, pouring tea from the pot into her cup. “I tried to talk to Rhoda Miller, but her husband clearly didn’t want her to discuss my mother.” She seemed to hear again that rapid-fire patter of dialect that she couldn’t understand. “All they could say was that I should go to my mother’s cousins. Or to the bishop.”
“That’s the answer.” Geneva’s face cleared. “Bishop Amos is a dear man. He’ll know just what the problem is and how to deal with it. He’s so wise and kind.”
Maybe, like his parishioners, he’d want her to go away and stop asking questions. “I’m not sure that’s a good idea.”
“Of course it is. If you like, I’ll set up a meeting for you.”
She hesitated, but it was an obvious answer. She could search out the man on her own, using Rhoda Miller’s directions, but Geneva’s intercession might be the one thing that would ensure he talked with her.
“I’d be very grateful.”
“Not at all. It’s the least I can do.” Geneva paused for a moment, staring down at the tea she was stirring. The spoon made a delicate clinking noise, the only sound in the room. Finally she sighed.
“I know Link talked to you about Allen, but you want to hear it from me, don’t you?”
She nodded. “Yes.” She smiled slightly. “But I was going to try and find some tactful way of bringing it up.”
“No need for that. It’s obvious why you want to know.” Geneva seemed prepared to talk, but the vertical lines between her brows suggested that the subject troubled her. “Allen was a difficult man. I’m not sure anyone really understood him.”
“Not your husband?” She asked tentatively, having gathered that Geneva was a widow.
“Blake least of all. It’s that way with brothers, sometimes. We tried to guard against that with Trey and Link, but I’m not sure we entirely succeeded.”
She’d love to know why, but that was not her business, and she wasn’t going to betray interest in Link to his mother, of all people.
“I didn’t have siblings, so I don’t really understand, I’m afraid.”
“Fight like cats and dogs in private, but present a united front to the world.” Geneva’s face cleared, as if she were remembering something pleasant. “That was always Trey and Link, anyway. As for Allen…” She let that trail off, shaking her head. “I think perhaps he envied Blake, although he’d never admit that.”
“Link said he was a loner,” she prompted.
“He lived all by himself in that house, with just a housekeeper coming in a few days a week to do for him.” Geneva broke off a piece of the sinfully rich sticky bun. “Your mother wasn’t the only person who worked for him in that capacity, but she stayed the longest, I think. Four years, if memory serves.”
That startled her. “Four years? Then she must have gone to work for him when I was little more than a baby.”
“She took you with her, for the most part. I remember dropping some dinner off for Allen one day, and you were playing with some plastic measuring cups on the kitchen floor, good as gold while she cleaned the cabinets.”
She had another image now to add to the small store she had of her mother, and she tucked it away to think about later. “Did you know my mother well?”
Geneva considered. “Not well, but to talk to. She was a very sweet person. You could tell that by her expression.” She
