“You did say you had a reservation, didn’t you?”
She nodded, the movement barely visible in the dim light. “I saw the place listed on one of those tourist maps. The woman I spoke to said they had a room available.”
“By the looks of it, they have plenty.” He eyed the dark windows. “They wouldn’t be busy on a weekday in October.” He set the bags down. “Maybe we should—”
“Who is there?” The gruff voice came from the dark side lawn. An instant later Eli Miller stepped into the faint light of the pole lamp, the breeze ruffling his beard, his black pants and jacket disappearing into the darkness. “What do you want?”
Marisa took a step back, sucking in a startled breath. She was so close Link could feel the tremor that went through her at the sight of the Amish man.
“Eli, it’s me, Link Morgan. I brought Ms. Angelo. She has a reservation.”
“Ms. Angelo?” Eli lifted the flashlight he held, switching it on.
Marisa’s face was white in the harsh beam of light. She didn’t speak. What was wrong with the woman, anyway?
“She called to make a reservation,” he explained.
“Ach, ja. I am so sorry. My Rhoda isn’t so gut at talking on the telephone. She thought you were coming tomorrow. It’s a mix-up for sure.” Eli didn’t sound put out at the prospect of an unexpected guest. “I’ll chust go back to our side of the house for the key. I’ll be right with you.” He chuckled. “I’ll tease Rhoda about being so ferhoodled, that’s certain-sure.”
He switched off the light and strode back toward the semi-detached wing where the family lived, apparently more comfortable without it.
Marisa let out an audible breath. He turned, frowning at her.
“What’s going on? You’ve seen Amish people before, haven’t you?”
Her shoulders stiffened. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“When you saw Eli, you reacted as if he was some kind of monster.”
“I didn’t.” But her voice lacked conviction.
“You did. And you weren’t natural with Katie, either, back at the house.”
She might have told him to mind his own business, but she didn’t. “I…I just haven’t been around Amish people much, that’s all.”
“It never surprises me how prejudiced some people can be,” he said deliberately. “But your mother was Amish.”
“Yes. She was.” Marisa glared at him. “And all I ever heard about the Amish was how they wouldn’t leave her alone and how they lured my mother away from us. My grandmother said it was like a cult that wouldn’t let her go.”
“Cult?” He kept his voice low. Eli could be coming back at any moment. “That’s ridiculous. They’re as normal as anyone. More normal than most, in fact. If your father told you that—”
“Not my father. He never talked about my mother.” Some of the anger seemed to go out of her. “My grandmother. All right, maybe Gran was a bit judgmental about people who are different.”
“You see—”
“But I went out to Indiana a few years ago when I finally located my mother’s family. I thought…” Her voice trembled and fell silent.
But he could finish the sentence. She’d thought she might find her mother.
“They stonewalled me. They wouldn’t even talk to me about her. So I don’t exactly have any reason to like them.”
“I’m sorry.” He was. No matter how inconvenient her presence was for him, he couldn’t help feeling her grief.
A door closed next door, and he heard a jingling sound that might be a key ring. Eli was coming.
“Look, if you want, I’ll take you to a motel. I’ll make some excuse to Eli. But…” He was about to involve himself more deeply in Marisa’s problem, despite his determination to stay uninvolved. “But if you really want to find out what happened twenty-three years ago, you might need to have some allies among the local Amish. Eli and Rhoda Miller could be a good place to start.”
A little silence fell between them, and her reluctance was so strong he could almost feel it. Then she nodded.
“You’re right. I’ll stay.”
MARISA WOKE SOMETIME in the dark hours of the night, a cry clutching her throat. She sat upright, heart pounding. Had she cried out aloud? She didn’t think so, but she cringed at the thought of Eli Miller hearing, running to her room…
But he wouldn’t hear. First, because the cry had only been in her dreams. And second, because the Millers slept in their own separate section of the house next door. She was the only occupant of the Plain and Fancy.
She rubbed her forehead, willing herself to remember her dream. Something about herself as a child, waking in the night, calling out for her mother. Frightened when Mammi didn’t come. Crawling out of bed, drawn toward the window, her bare feet cold on the wide wooden boards of the floor.
She could almost see it, white net curtains billowing inward from the wind. Almost.
But even as she tried to focus, the dream began slithering away from her grasp in the manner of most dreams, vanishing faster the harder she tried to grasp it.
Forget it, she ordered. Go back to sleep. But she was awake now, too awake to slip under the covers. She fumbled for the clock on the bedside table. Three o’clock. And she hadn’t managed to drop off until sometime after midnight.
It was small wonder that she’d entangled herself in a bad dream, after all that had happened. That suitcase. The photo.
Her throat thickened at that. She had a copy of that picture, too, always kept carefully out of Daddy’s sight because she’d thought, with a child’s logic, that it would make him sad.
She swung her legs off the bed, her bare feet encountering a braided rug. She might as well get up. Try to distract herself from the endless questions that circled in her thoughts.
But that was easier said than done. She switched on the lamp on the bedside table, and the room sprang into view. The Miller family apparently did without electricity over on their side, but provided it for their business. The logic of that escaped her.
The second floor guest room was plain and simple, with good, solid-wood furniture pieces and a comfortable padded rocking chair. The handmade quilt that covered the bed was such a work of art that she had folded it carefully and placed it atop the blanket chest before she did anything else. The room had seemed somehow familiar, as if she’d slept here before, even though she knew she hadn’t.
After such an unpromising start, the Millers had done their best to make her feel welcome and comfortable. Rhoda had scurried over immediately behind her husband to show Marisa the room, and a teenage girl had followed in a few minutes with a tray containing a mug of hot chocolate and a plate of oatmeal cookies.
But
