Operation Bonnet Page 16

  “This corn pudding does not have a taste.” Granny pulled a face. “Did you put in the salt?”

  I nodded.

  “Not enough.” She put down her spoon. “It is so sweet, the children will eat it. But no man will, not in my home.”

  “Not in your administration,” I said, just a little too snippy.

  She narrowed her eyes at me, and I could feel Sarah staring over her potato ricer.

  “Sorry,” I mumbled. “That was over the line.”

  A small smile appeared, the visage of a victor. “You are one hundred of the percentage correct, Nellie Monroe. The English may not teach their children how to speak with respect to the elders, but the Amish do. I accept your apology.” She pushed an empty dish toward me. “No more pudding today. Now we cut the cherries for crisp.”

  I left two hours later, my belly full of warm sweet crisp, and met Katie on the driveway. Seeing her caught me off guard, a feeling for which I immediately chastised myself. Katie was the reason I was even visiting the Schrocks, but lately I’d been more preoccupied with corn pudding and ignoring my best friend than solving my case.

  “Pathetic, worthless, bad, bad PI!” I said under my breath. “Focus!”

  “Hello, Nellie,” she called out in greeting. The girl had great teeth, Crest commercial white, even and straight. The smile was killer, and I knew she’d never worn headgear, dirty rotten sucker.

  “How are you?” I stopped near the weeping willow where John Yoder had visited. “You’re later than usual.”

  She nodded and squinted into the sun, which fought on without mercy, even though it was after four in the afternoon. “I am late because my mother took measurements for my wedding dress.”

  “Wow,” I said. “That’s a big step.”

  She shook her head and glanced toward the road. “No, not very big. The Amish do not have large, fancy weddings like the English. I will wear a new dress, but it will be plain. Blue and simple and one that I will wear many times after the wedding.”

  I thought of my mother’s bridal gown hanging enshrined in her closet. It was formidable, with yards of satin, lace, and rhinestones. She’d told me what it had cost, and that many dollars, even twenty-five years ago, would have gone a long way toward eradicating debt in the Gambia. Despite the significant investment, the dress had hung, lifeless and unworn, for its entire shelf life with the exception of Mother and Dad’s first anniversary, when Annette had tried it on to make sure she hadn’t gotten fat.

  “Right. We English are more into buying shamefully priced dresses that poof out in ways we’d never normally permit and then putting them away in boxes, never to be worn again.” I nodded at the simple lavender dress she was wearing. “It’s probably a better idea to have the wedding be about the marriage instead of about the wedding.”

  She nodded. “That is what John says.”

  I waited while she scanned the empty road, seeming to look for someone or something that did not appear. After a moment, she blew a definitive puff of air toward her forehead, making the tendrils near her hairline quiver before falling again. She turned to me. “I hope you have a lovely evening, Nellie.” She smiled and started to walk to the house.

  “Wait.” I turned, feeling a familiar churning in my gut. I’d had the churn many times throughout my life, usually resulting in faulty decision making on my part. I felt it just before I told Mrs. Wozinski that she’d be a better bank teller than English teacher. I felt it as I stepped onto the field for my debut and only performance as a twirler with the Casper High Marching Marvelettes. I felt it after I told the pastor of our church that I thought adult baptism was a great way to break up a rambling sermon if he needed a few moments to refocus. The churn started up as Katie turned back to me, her cheeks flushed with the heat and eyes bright with curiosity. That should have been my warning light to stop, drop, and roll right out of there without saying another word, other than a congenial good-bye or a “Try the cherry crisp. It’s great!”

  “Katie, what if I told you I could find Amos?”

  She froze, the cornflower blue in her eyes as intense and prophetic as the wash of sky overhead. “Amos.” She said the name as a declaration, a statement of irrevocable fact.

  “Would you want to see him? Before you marry John and start trying to love him and—”

  She cut me off with a hand outstretched. “Nellie, this is not possible. I know from my rumspringa that the world is large and it takes you in and …” She trailed off, her breathing shallow and quick. “Amos has been gone for months, and he knows where I live. If he wanted to speak to me, he could come to find me all by himself.” The tremble in her voice betrayed a softness underneath the harsh words.

  “I understand,” I said, my tone careful. “If you change your mind, I think I can help. You know,” I said, and she met my gaze, “if you think of it when you’re fitting that new dress.”

  She stood with both fists clenched at her sides, her chest rising and falling in shallow breaths. When she spoke, it was just above a whisper. “He left.”

  I nodded slowly. “I know,” I said.

  She was still facing the road when I walked away.

  I picked Amos up on the way home. He’d answered his cell before the first ring, which I hadn’t known was possible.

  “Hello, it-is-your-luckiest-day-this-is-Amos.”

  “Amos, that is borderline skanky.”

  “Hello, Nellie Monroe!” I could hear a rhythmic hammering sound in the background. “I am close to finish the hole number fourteen at the mini-golf. You are sure to think it is rocking your world. It has a windmill.”

  “I’ll be there in ten minutes.” I turned onto the highway leading to the golf course.

  He hooted. “This is the best time of reaction! You are so fast to respond, Nellie! As when you punched me in the stomach!”

  I rolled my eyes. “Be ready to go. We need to talk.”

  When we entered Margot’s Coffee Nook a half hour later, it took me a moment to regroup. The smell of fresh grounds was an odd pairing with the frigid air pumping through the vents. I’d suggested something to cool the palate and the underarms, such as DQ or the freezer section of TasteWay. No chance, Amos had insisted. He’d “found out about the espresso.” And there was no turning back.

  We sat and were swallowed by two leather chairs placed by the fireplace, which, thank God in his mercy, was unlit. I took an indulgent sip of my iced water and assessed Amos over the lip of my glass. I saw him doing the same.

  “What happened to your movie star hair?” he asked. “This is the old hair that is very large on your head.”

  I scrunched up my face in annoyance. “Ninety percent humidity does not allow for movie star hair.” I tightened my ponytail for emphasis.

  He shook his head. “This is not the truth. I have read in the People magazine that many movie stars with this curly hair find good ways to make straight their locks. The Sarah Jessica Parker, the Debra Messing, the Taylor Swift—”

  “Taylor Swift curls her hair with a curling iron,” I interrupted. “And all of those women have full-time stylists who have sworn off normal, healthy lives to devote themselves to making another person look good in airbrushed photos. A completely shallow existence.”

  “The Minnie Driver.”

  I gulped water and then pulled my bare arm across my lip. “As long as we’re on the subject, what’s up with your hair?”

  He patted it gingerly and grinned. “It is this most excellent thing called Electrify Pomade.”

  I stared at his coif. The hair was clumped into product-heavy sprigs that shot heavenward. The clumping was not uniform, however; some of them thumb-width and others only a few hairs’ worth. “Quite the technique.”

  He took a draw of his brewed Colombian with a double espresso depth charge. “I found Electrify Pom
ade at Target, a store that has every item a person can want. Perhaps you should look there for a styling aid for that curly hair.”

  “Thanks for the help,” I said, my impatience lost on him. “Listen, Amos. We need to figure out our plan of attack.”

  His face grew serious, and he set his drink on the stone hearth. “I will not attack Katie. Men who attack women are nasty.”

  “I don’t want you to attack Katie. I just mean we need to decide what we’re doing next.” I paused. “I told her I could set up a meeting between you two.”

  His eyes bugged. “This is very dangerous for her. She could get into very much trouble.” He started bouncing his leg up and down, smacking a nearby table with each bounce. “I would fall downward in joy to see her again, but it is impossible. She was baptized. They would cut her off forever, like me.” Bounce, bounce, hard bounce.

  I reached over and slapped my hand down on his knee, which provoked one last attempt at a bounce. Keeping my hand in prevention position, I said, “You wanted to know if she loves John, and we found out she does not. But she’s working on it, Amos, and she’s a few weeks away from marrying him and having babies with him. Lots of little bonnet-wearing babies.”

  He shuddered. “With John Yoder.”

  “Exactly. So—” I stopped in midsentence, my hand on Amos’s leg but my eyes stuck on Matt, who stood just behind him.

  Amos turned to see the object of my open-mouthed staring. “Matt!” he called, waving with full arm movement, as if he were standing on the opposite end of a crowded football stadium. “Come on to sit down.” He slapped the empty leather chair next to him. “We would like your advice.”

  Matt padded over, his eyes on Amos. “Hey, buddy,” he said. Then a nod at me. “Hi, Nellie.”

  I watched his face, normally easy for me to read but today inscrutable. Friendly, pleasant even.

  “How are you?” I didn’t mean for it to be a loaded question, but all I could think of was my halfhearted texting. And his face, which had a deep tan and really nice lips, it turned out. I looked away before he answered.

  “Great, thanks. Busy.” He flopped down on the chair. “What’s this about advice?”

  Amos turned to face Matt. “It is a problem I have. With … you know.” At this, he actually shoved Matt like they were dishing after prom. “The women. Heh, heh.”

  I tried not to vomit in my mouth, watching them both heh, heh. “There is a woman present, remember.”

  Matt cleared his throat. “Right, right. Sorry. So what’s your woman trouble, Amos?” I felt Matt’s eyes on me as I crunched an ice cube between my teeth. “I’ll just tell you right now, they’re a wily species.”

  “Yes!” Amos slapped Matt on the back. “Very wily! This woman, she is haunting to me, you know? I think about her, I dream about her, I wonder how she is …”

  Matt raised one eyebrow, eyes on me. “You could just ask her.”

  Amos clapped once, loudly. “This is just what Nellie says! I should ask.”

  Matt waited until I looked up from my empty glass. “Nellie’s usually right.”

  I bit my lower lip. Except for when my oldest and best friend might have a crush on me and I can’t speak because he’s developed a stunning complexion, I thought. Except then. Then I’m really not right.

  Matt nudged me with his foot. “Hello? Anyone there? I haven’t seen you this quiet since the day Doug Lambert lifted your skirt at recess in third grade.”

  Amos hooted. “This is a funny thought! Nellie in a skirt!”

  I swallowed hard and looked at Matt. “I’m just listening. I’m trying to be a better listener.”

  Matt’s face was screwed up in concentration. “You are.” A statement, not a question, as if it were simply too difficult to believe.

  “Yes,” I said, nodding with all the earnestness within. “I have been a very, very bad listener for most of my life. I’m repenting.”

  “You’re listening and repenting.” He watched me for a moment, his face all confusion. “Well. That’s very interesting. Actually,” he said, standing, “I’ve been thinking about that kind of thing too.” He held out his fist for a bump from Amos. “I’m off, dude. I’d say just tell her what you feel. It will promote cognitive and emotional health. Plus, you won’t have any regrets when you die.”

  Amos nodded slowly. “This is very deep thinking.”

  “Nellie, can I talk with you a second?” Matt nodded toward the door.

  I followed him, the churning in full force. I tried with all my intellect, a substantial force, to think of something witty or engaging to say, but when he turned to face me, I stared at his cheekbones. Right cheekbone, then left, then right again …

  “Nellie, are you all right?” Matt looked concerned. He glanced at my mouth, which was open.

  I shut it. “Yes, of course.” I pulled my eyes away. “Just listening.”

  He narrowed his eyes. “Are you ill?”

  I snorted, a decidedly unladylike response, but there it was. “No, no, not at all. You?”

  He smiled slightly. “Um, no. In fact, I feel really good. The best I have in a long time. Nellie,” he cleared his throat. “I want you to know that you’re a really good friend to me. And I want you to be happy because, well, because you deserve it.”

  “Matt, I—”

  “No, wait,” he said. “I think I’ve been really annoying lately, and you’ve probably gotten sick of it. So I just want you to know that I’m over being annoying and now I’m ready to move into my Less Annoying Phase. Impossible, perhaps, given the raw material.” He grinned.

  I felt my heart drop to my toes. “I don’t think you’re annoying,” I said, my voice rather mouse-like.

  He shoved me on my shoulder. “Aw, shucks.” He stopped when he saw my face unchanged. “Seriously, Nellie. Are you sure you aren’t sick? Your cheeks are all pink and your eyes are fiery, like you have a fever or something.”

  I was breathing too fast. “Not sick,” I said, leaning against the wall.

  He watched me until I lifted the muscles in my face to reveal my teeth. Placated with the “smile,” he pushed open the door to Margot’s. “I’m off to read Freud. Mostly mindless blather, but the absolute most fascinating kind.”

  I nodded, keeping my teeth visible. I gripped the wall with my fingers, leaning my body against the glass of the door, and I watched him walk away.

  22

  Old Habits

  Mrs. H. was singing when I got home. I don’t think I can convey with words the shock this was. The woman did not sing. She did not dress in animal prints, she did not eat anything that came out of France, and she did not, ever, not once, sing in my presence. But there she stood, swaying to her own voice, her back to me as she mopped the marble floor in the foyer.

  “Hello, young lovers, wherever you are,” she sang. Mrs. H. never had children, but that was for the best. The breathy, fluttery vibrato alone would have made for some insurmountable lullaby issues.

  I cleared my throat, and she jumped.

  “Nellie, how many times have I told you not to sneak up on people!” She held one hand to her chest. “One of these days you’re going to give me a heart attack.”

  “I wouldn’t worry, Mrs. H.,” I said as I tiptoed over the wet floor to the kitchen. “Young lovers hardly ever die of heart attacks.”

  She muttered a few choice words under her breath, which was reassuring. Second-chance love with Arthur DuPage didn’t cause a total personality makeover. I slipped from the room as she sloshed water over the edge of her bucket and took to the floor with conviction. “Be brave, young lovers, and follow your star….”

  Her voice faded from my hearing. I plucked a peach from a bowl on the butcher block and headed for the back stairs. The elder DuPage boy may have made Mrs. H. sing, but the young
er was only rendering me mute and pink-faced. I sank my teeth into the flesh of the fruit, and my cheeks puckered, the peach was so perfectly ripe. Matt liked peaches. He liked peaches and blackberries and nectarines but not blueberries, and plums only if they were a bit sour. His second toe was longer than his big toe; so long, in fact, that it measured almost the same length as my pinky finger. He went through zealot phases with music and so listened exclusively to Phish, Cold Play, and James Brown at different points during high school. I knew all this trivia and more, but you didn’t see me singing songs from The King and I. He’d moved on, if he’d ever even been within canoodling distance, which was doubtful. Nona might have been completely wrong about his feelings, and when I finally started coming to attention with my own, he was well-adjusted and reading Freud.

  I paused for a deep breath when I reached the top of the stairs. The back door to Nona’s attic was slightly ajar, and I pushed it with my elbow in order to spare it peach juice graffiti.

  “Nona?” I called. “I’m home. May I come in?”

  She turned from her canvas with a big grin. My heart soared: Today was a good day.

  “Hello, Annette,” she said. “Do you mind if I keep painting?”

  I filled my lungs with air in an attempt to push the heartache out. “Go right ahead,” I said, taking a seat by the window. I watched her while I finished my peach.

  The painting was new. The canvas had an all-over wash of pale indigo, and Nona was fussing with a set of hills that could have come from a Grant Wood. She’d brush with precise, quick strokes, then step back and take in the entire image. Then back to the same spot for more tweaking. I’d watched this process many times over the years and had marveled at her patience in creating just the right amount of light or dark, just the right texture or movement of the paint.

  My eyes moved to her frame, the disheveled curls falling out of a loose bun, the oversized man’s shirt with splotches of paint littering even the back. She wore jeans cuffed to the calves, and if I’d asked a year ago, she would have argued for their rightful name, pedal pushers, instead of the newfangled and imprecise coinage, capris. Her shoes were a pair of Chuck Taylors, originally white but now the combined colors of hard work.