You think I was dreaming or imagining things. I wasn’t.”
“Dreams can seem very real.” He ought to know. He’d dreamed that explosion in Afghanistan enough times, waking up covered in sweat, a cry strangled in his throat.
“I wasn’t dreaming.” She rose suddenly. “Forget it. Let’s get back.”
He stood, not sure what to say. “Maybe you ought to tell Adam about this.”
“So he can suggest I dreamt it, too?” She started toward the car.
He fell into step with her, still bothered. If Marisa was talking about something that really happened, that was troubling. And if she was imagining it, maybe that was even worse.
Marisa was wrong. She had to be. This figure in the night was a product of all the upsetting news she’d had to face in the past few days. The Amish people he knew just didn’t behave that way.
The Amish couple he’d seen earlier came out of the clinic door, their little boy skipping between them. They started toward the main walk. The man looked up, his gaze going from Link to Marisa. Then he took his wife’s arm, clasped his son’s hand and deliberately walked back the other way.
CHAPTER FIVE
MARISA FELT QUITE sure that if Link knew what she was doing, he would not approve. In fact, he’d probably try to stop her.
Still, Geneva Morgan was a grown woman, well able to decide for herself what she wanted to do. All it had taken was a thank-you phone call for the dinner, a little gentle steering of the conversation, and Geneva had suggested meeting her for coffee.
Geneva had wanted Marisa to come to the house, but she’d managed to avoid that. She didn’t want this conversation taking place where any of Geneva’s protective family was likely to interrupt.
They were getting together at a place called Emma’s Teashop at two. Marisa glanced at her watch. She was early, and she’d been walking down Springville’s main street as if she were in the city. She forced her pace to slow. People didn’t walk that way here. They didn’t avoid eye contact.
Except, of course, for that Amish couple at the hospital, who seemed to go far out of their way to avoid coming near her. Link had noticed that. She’d been sure he had, even though he hadn’t spoken of it.
There wasn’t really much to Springville—one main street that became a state road at the end of town and several side streets lined with shade trees and well-kept houses. A brick bank rubbed shoulders with a Victorian house whose decorative carving was freshly painted. The township library was housed in a two-story brick building whose historic plaque indicated it had been built in 1740 as the home of a wealthy merchant.
Straus’s Hardware seemed to be doing as much business as any establishment, and in addition to parking spaces for cars along the street, it had hitching rails for buggies along the alley. Three Amish buggies stood there at the moment, the horses seeming to wait patiently.
As she passed the front window, she could see several bearded men inside who were deep in conversation. One glanced at her, and she forced down the suspicion that they talked about her. That was paranoid.
Geneva had been right about the tea shop; it was virtually empty at this time of day. Even though she was early, Geneva herself was already seated at a small glass-topped table in the back of the room, shielded from view of the street by a white latticework screen. She waved, a silver bangle sliding on her arm, and Marisa went quickly to join her.
“This is a lovely place to chat.” Geneva smiled as warmly as if meeting Marisa was exactly what she’d most wanted to do with herself this afternoon. “I’ve ordered tea and sticky buns, because that’s Emma’s specialty, but if you’d rather have coffee…”
Marisa 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