turn the mansion into a bed-and-breakfast had been Rachel’s idea, no doubt. She hadn’t really settled to anything since culinary school, always moving from job to job.
Grams should have talked some sense into her, instead of going along with the idea. At this time in her life, Grams deserved a quiet, peaceful retirement. And Rachel should be finding a job that had some security to it.
Andrea didn’t like risky gambles. Maybe that was what made her such a good financial manager. Financial security came first, and then other things could line up behind it. If she’d learned anything from those chaotic years when her mother had dragged them around the country, constantly looking for something to make her happy, it was that.
She stood for a moment, peering out. From this window she looked over the roof of the sunroom, added on to the back of the house overlooking the gardens when Grams had come to the Unger mansion as a bride. There was the pond, a little gleam of light striking the water, and the gazebo. Other shadowy shapes were various outbuildings. Behind them loomed the massive bulk of the old barn that had predated even the house. Off to the right, toward the neighboring farm, was the “new” barn, dating to the 1920s.
It was dark now, with Cal presumably asleep in the tack room apartment. Well, he was another thing to worry about tomorrow. She lowered the shade with a decisive snap and went to crawl into bed.
Her eyes closed. She was tired, so tired. She’d sleep, and deal with all of it in the morning.
Something creaked overhead—once, then again. She stiffened, imagining a stealthy footstep in the connecting attics that stretched over the wings of the house. She strained to listen, clutching the sheet against her, but the sound wasn’t repeated.
Old houses make noises, she reminded herself. Particularly her grandmother’s, if her childhood memories were any indicator. She was overreacting. That faint, scratching sound was probably a mouse, safely distant from her. Tired muscles relaxed into the soft bed, and exhaustion swept over her.
She plummeted into sleep, as if she dived into a deep, deep pool.
Andrea stepped out onto the patio from the breakfast room, Barney nosing out behind her and then running off toward the pond, intent on his own pursuits. A positive call from the hospital had lifted a weight from her shoulders and she felt able to deal with other things. She paused to look around and take a deep breath of country air.
Not such pleasant country air, she quickly discovered. Eli Zook must be spreading manure on his acreage, which met the Unger property on two sides. How were the city tourists Rachel expected to have as guests going to like that? Maybe they’d be pleased at the smell of a genuine Amish farm.
They’d have to admire the view from the breakfast room. The flagstone patio had stood the years well, and now it was brightened by pots overflowing with pansies and ageratum. The wide flower bed dazzled with peonies and daylilies. She had knelt there next to Grams, learning to tell a weed from a flower.
Moving a little stiffly, thanks to her bruises, she stepped over the low patio wall and followed the flag-stone path that led back through the farther reaches of the garden, weaving around the pond and past the gazebo with its white Victorian gingerbread. When she glanced back at the house, morning sunlight turned the sandstone to mellow gold, making the whole building glow.
Rounding the small potting shed, she came face-to-face with the new barn. An apt expression, because she’d always thought the barn had more character than a lot of people. Lofty, white, a traditional bank barn with entries on two levels, it had the stone foundation and hip roof that characterized Pennsylvania Dutch barns. More properly Pennsylvania Swiss or German, her grandfather had always said, but the name stuck.
It hadn’t seen much use since her grandfather had stopped farming and leased the fields to the Zook family, but the stone foundation showed no sign of deterioration, and the wooden planks looked as if they had a fresh coat of white paint.
A small sign on the upper level door was the only indication that Cal Burke did business here. And how much business could he do, really? The only way into his shop was via the rutted lane that ran along a hedge of overgrown lilacs that bordered the house. She glanced toward the road. Yes, there was a tiny sign there, too, one that could hardly be read from a passing car. The man needed a few lessons in marketing.
She walked up the bank to the door and tapped lightly. Stepping inside, she inhaled the scent of wood shavings and hay. Music poured from a CD player that sat on a wooden bench. Cal apparently liked Mozart to work by. He bent over a pie safe, totally absorbed as he fitted a pierced tin insert to a door.
He obviously hadn’t heard her, so she glanced around, wanting to see any changes before she spoke to him. There weren’t many. In the center threshing floor he’d installed a workbench and tools, and the rest of the space was taken up with pieces of furniture in various stages of construction. The mows and lofts on either side already held hay and straw, probably stored there by Eli Zook.
She took a step forward, impressed in spite of herself by his work. They were simple oak pieces, for the most part, done in the classic style of Pennsylvania Dutch furniture. There was a three-drawer chest with graceful carving incised on the drawer fronts, a chest stenciled with typical tulips and hearts, a rocking chair with a curved back.
Cal did have a gift for this work, and he was certainly focused. Sun-bleached hair swung forward in his eyes, and he pushed it back with a sweep of one hand, all of his movements smooth and unhurried. He wore faded jeans and a blue plaid shirt, also faded, the sleeves rolled up to the elbows. A shaft of sunlight, beaming down from the open loft door, seemed to put him in a spotlight, picking out gold in his brown hair and glinting off tanned forearms.
She moved slightly just as the music stopped. The sole of her loafer rustled stray wood shavings, and he looked up. The pierced tin clattered to the floor, the sound loud in the sudden stillness.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to disturb you.”
“It’s all right.” He straightened, leaning against the pie safe, and watched her approach.
She hadn’t noticed his eyes last night. The light had been too dim, for the most part, and she’d been too upset. Now she saw that they were a light, warm brown, flecked with gold like his hair.
He waited until she stopped, a few feet from him, before he spoke again. “Any news from the hospital?”
“We called first thing. Rachel had a good night, and she’s awake and asking for us.” She couldn’t stop the smile that blossomed on the words.
“Thank God.” He smiled in return, strong lips curving, lines crinkling around his eyes, his whole face lighting. For an instant she couldn’t look away, and something seemed to shimmer between them, as light and insubstantial as the dust motes in the shaft of sunshine.
She turned to look at the furniture, feeling a need to evade his glance for a moment. She wouldn’t want him to think he had any effect on her.
“So this is your work.” She touched a drop leaf table. “Cherry, isn’t it?”
He nodded, moving next to her and stroking the wood as if it were a living thing. “I’ve been working mostly in oak and pine, but Emma Zook wanted a cherry table, and Eli had some good lengths of cherry that I could use.”
“It’s beautiful. Emma will be delighted, although if I remember Amish customs correctly, she won’t say so.”
A faint smile flickered in his eyes. “‘For use, not for pretty,’ she’ll say. Anything else might sound like pride.”
“That’s Emma, all right.” Nostalgia swept through her. Emma Zook had helped Grams in the house for years, and her sturdy figure, always clad in a long dress and apron, was present in Andrea’s earliest memories.
As children, they’d played with the Zook youngsters, so used to them that they never saw the Amish clothing or dialect as odd. She’d caught up a bit with Emma over breakfast. As she’d expected, all the children except Levi were married and parents by now. Levi—well,