Forever Amish Read Free

window farther and the fragrances of moist sod, mowed grass, and farm animals inundated the car, luring me into the valley. For late March, the air felt coolish, in the forties. Cars zipped along, as they did back home. But with buggies on the road, I slowed for fear of hitting one. Sure enough, I spotted a gray carriage in front of me—an orange-red reflective triangle affixed to its back—and told myself to be content following it.
    A blanket of clouds enveloped the sun and the road darkened, yet few street lamps shone and most of the houses remained relatively dim. I’d heard the Amish didn’t use electricity, so how did they light their homes?
    Motoring south on the two-lane road, life moved in slow motion. I followed the buggy until it rolled off onto the shoulder. I seized the opportunity to speak to the driver. I scooted up next to it to see an Amish youth at the reins. We both stopped. Leaving my car idling in Park, I lowered my passenger-side window. The young man, around age eighteen and wearing a straw hat, eyed the Mustang with what appeared to be envy.
    â€œHey there,” I called. “You know of any motels or bed-and-breakfasts around here?” I doubted the woman at the B&B had called every single hotel in the county on my behalf.
    â€œ Nee , but I’m meeting up with a couple friends. One of them might.” He tipped his head toward two buggies at the side of the road ahead of us. One of the drivers, dressed Amish and about the same age, stood outside.
    I rolled the Mustang forward and asked the same question. The young man ambled over to admire my car and removed his wide-brimmed hat, revealing longish straw-colored hair, flattened on top and cut like someone had placed a mixing bowl over his head, following the rim.
    â€œMy parents rent out a room at our farmhouse and it’s vacant.” His voice carried a sing-songy accent. He seemed harmless enough, but out of habit I locked my car with my elbow.
    â€œâ€™Tis true,” he said, and replaced his hat, pushing his bangs to his eyebrows and over the tops of his ears. “My mamm will fix ya supper if you’re hungry.”
    â€œI could do with a snack.” An understatement. My stomach was gurgling.
    â€œI’m Jeremy.” He grasped his horse’s reins when the brown mare lowered her head to munch scrub grass.
    I didn’t give my name—none of his business, Pops would say. He’d drilled into me when I was a child: never talk to strangers. “Sure, I’ll swing by and take a look.” What other options did I have?
    â€œIf you’d care to follow me, I need to head home—after I pick up mei Schweschder —my sister. Won’t take long.”
    â€œOkay, thanks.”
    He hopped into his buggy and slapped the reins. The reluctant mare grabbed another mouthful of grass before clopping back onto the road. I put on the headlights and trailed behind him, watching the reflective triangle. Keeping near the shoulder, I ignored the cars and trucks stacking up behind us, let them zoom past. People on their way to join their families.
    I pictured Pops eating alone tonight and felt apprehension flood my chest, dampening my spirits. When I got married and moved to Brewster, New York, with Donald—where his parents lived—I wouldn’t be around to care for Pops. Unless I called off the wedding. The invitations were addressed and stamped, set to go in the mail Monday, in three days. Would Donald’s mother have a fit if I told her not to send them? Or maybe Darlene would be relieved. She was probably worried spitless about what Pops would wear to the rehearsal dinner and how he’d act during the ceremony.
    Ten minutes later, I saw the regal sign for the town of Intercourse, founded in 1754. The small village seemed sparse, nothing like New Milford with its neatly manicured green and white gazebo surrounded by shops and restaurants. This town’s streets were