Secret, The by Beverly Lewis Read Free Book Online Page A

deck. She moved down the stairs to the large water feature her mom and their landscape architect had decided on before Mom died. The cascading mini falls reminded Heather of their many visits to Pennsylvania Amish country, where they had loved walking the back roads, stopping in at roadside stands, and enjoying the sound of gurgling creeks. “Cricks,” one Amish girl had called them, and Mom had looked at Heather with a twinkle in her eye, a smile on her pretty face. The three of them had frequently vacationed there, soaking up the tranquillity offered by rolling, picturesque farmland stretching in all directions.
    I need something like that again.
    Sipping her juice, Heather strolled through the grass, past the patio gardens and around to the front of the grand old colonial where she’d grown up.
    “I miss you, Mom,” she whispered.
    She walked around to the opposite side of the house, taking her time as she pushed dry leaves out of the empty birdbath, wishing she could talk to her mom about Dr. O’Connor’s diagnosis. The last thing she wanted was to be unreasonable. Maybe there was something else she could do . . . perhaps she could look into some naturopathic treatment alternatives in Pennsylvania. There was a woman specialist somewhere in Lancaster whom Mom had wanted to see—Dr. Marshall, she recalled. According to the information Mom had jotted down and stuck on the fridge, her expertise was in stress relief, sleep disorders, cancer, headaches, and emotional well-being. Heather thought the list was still around.
    Her mind was in a whirl as she slipped back into the house.
    Inside, she wandered down the hall to Dad’s den. Somewhere in a drawer, waiting to be inserted into a photo album sleeve, there was a handful of brochures she and Mom had picked up and collected the last time they’d done something impulsive. They had planned the last-minute trip together, anxious to get away from the anxiety-ridden worlds of school and job and housework. Maxed out on stress, both of them had craved a serene spot that summer.
    It would be like old times, visiting there. Heather recalled that her mom hadn’t had a clue about her cancer then, though she’d been experiencing some weight loss and a puzzling lack of appetite. Her mom had been focused on nothing more serious than her obsession with heirloom quilts. While she’d never sewed herself, she loved seeing the quilts up close, even talking with expert quilters. On the final day of their trip, her mother had taken the plunge, purchasing the handmade Amish quilt that now adorned the guest bed downstairs.
    “Think. Where are those brochures?” she muttered, aware of Moe’s padding close behind her. Of the cat duo, Moe was more eager for company, following her from room to room as if he were her assigned shadow. “My constant companion, huh, Moe?”
    She pulled out the top drawer of Dad’s custom maple built-ins. Beneath a road atlas, she found the pamphlets wrapped with a rubber band. “Jackpot!”
    Heather curled up in her dad’s recliner next to the bay window. Moe waited until she was settled, then jumped into her lap. “Well, aren’t you needy,” she joked. She flipped through flyers touting the Amish Farm and House on Route 30, J & B Quilts & Crafts, a strolling tour of Strasburg’s historic district, and Wheatland, the historic mansion residence of President James Buchanan. She studied the words Mennonite Information Center — welcome, let us help you feel at home —and was captivated by the large barn and silo on the front of the brochure.
    A page fell out onto her lap. It listed tourist homes in Lancaster County. She slid her finger down the list of people offering lodging in private family homes: Benners, Groffs, Rohrers, Wengers . . . Many families offered places to stay, some suggesting a “hands-on farming experience.”
    She sighed. “How cool is this? I might actually get to stay with an Amish family. That’s something we never got to do.