Read Online Sisters of the Quilt Trilogy by Cindy Woodsmall - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Cindy Woodsmall
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white envelope inside it for Hannah.”
“I’d remember a letter from you, Paul, and it ain’t arrived. Just as well. I think it’s best if you two stop conversing for a spell. I let things get out of hand over the summer.”
Keeping his voice respectful, Paul said, “I’m not a child, Gram.”
“No, you ain’t. But she is.”
“You and Grandpa were eighteen when you married.”
“Our parents approved of us seeing each other from the get-go. If Hannah’s father weren’t so stubborn about his kids remainin’ Amish and staying in his district …” Gram paused.
Paul wondered why Gram, who had nothing to do with the Amish community aside from Hannah working for her, seemed to think she knew how Zeb Lapp felt. “But—”
“But,” Gram interrupted. “But Hannah’s father will not spare the rod on her if he gets wind of this, and you know it. Now, no more talk. You’d best spend your time looking at the realistic aspects of this relationship instead of letter writin’ and callin’ and such.”
Paul’s temper threatened to get the best of him. “I need to go, Gram. I’ll call you in a few days.” He hung up the phone.
Irritation pulsed through him. Still, Gram had made some good points. Hannah was young. But she was mature enough to make lifelong decisions.
Wasn’t she?
He glanced at the psychology books spread out over the desk. He was torn between his desperation to make a connection with Hannah and the nagging feeling that maybe his grandmother was right.
But where was the letter he’d written, the one in which he’d shared openly about his love for her? If a letter from him never arrived, what would she think of his commitment to her?
He could try to circumvent his grandmother’s wishes and drive to Owl’s Perch to see Hannah. But that could prove detrimental to their future relationship and get Hannah in a lot of trouble.
Paul’s only option was to give his grandmother time to change her mind about allowing Hannah and him to communicate through her address.
Her heart pounding, Hannah unfolded the letter. The top page had a watercolor painting of a sunset on a beach. She shifted to the second page, where large handwriting in the salutation said, “Dearest One.” Refusing to give in to defeat just yet, she flipped to the last page. It was another beach scene but from a bird’s-eye view. She flipped back to the second page to find the closing: “With all my love, Zabeth.”
Disappointment drained what little strength Hannah had. She sat on the side of the bed, holding the letter in her lap. Her momentary hope that Paul had written to her and that somehow, through the mystical way of love, the letter had found its way to her was gone. It was a childish dream, without merit or good sense. As she adjusted to the fresh setback, a new thought worked its way to the front of her mind: who was Zabeth, and was that even an Amish name?
If it was, she’d never heard of it. Dozens of questions floated through her mind. She wondered who “Dearest One” was, why the letter had been stuffed under a drawer, and if the written words might hold any clues as to why she hadn’t heard from Paul. As she sat there, the questions grew and so did a desire for answers.
Rising, Hannah hid the letter behind her. After bolting the door, she returned to the bed and unfolded the letter.
Dearest One,
It has been too long since we’ve seen, spoken to, or written to each other. I pray you will set aside your shame of me and find it within yourself to return a letter.
When we were but youth, I made my choices and you made yours. Now we are fast approaching old age, and I need no one’s judgment—every day of my life I’ve paid the price for my decisions. But surely, as I deal with this horrid illness, our separation need not go any further.
I’m your twin. We shared our mother’s womb. And once we shared a love so deep we could each feel what the other one felt before any words were spoken. Perhaps
“I’d remember a letter from you, Paul, and it ain’t arrived. Just as well. I think it’s best if you two stop conversing for a spell. I let things get out of hand over the summer.”
Keeping his voice respectful, Paul said, “I’m not a child, Gram.”
“No, you ain’t. But she is.”
“You and Grandpa were eighteen when you married.”
“Our parents approved of us seeing each other from the get-go. If Hannah’s father weren’t so stubborn about his kids remainin’ Amish and staying in his district …” Gram paused.
Paul wondered why Gram, who had nothing to do with the Amish community aside from Hannah working for her, seemed to think she knew how Zeb Lapp felt. “But—”
“But,” Gram interrupted. “But Hannah’s father will not spare the rod on her if he gets wind of this, and you know it. Now, no more talk. You’d best spend your time looking at the realistic aspects of this relationship instead of letter writin’ and callin’ and such.”
Paul’s temper threatened to get the best of him. “I need to go, Gram. I’ll call you in a few days.” He hung up the phone.
Irritation pulsed through him. Still, Gram had made some good points. Hannah was young. But she was mature enough to make lifelong decisions.
Wasn’t she?
He glanced at the psychology books spread out over the desk. He was torn between his desperation to make a connection with Hannah and the nagging feeling that maybe his grandmother was right.
But where was the letter he’d written, the one in which he’d shared openly about his love for her? If a letter from him never arrived, what would she think of his commitment to her?
He could try to circumvent his grandmother’s wishes and drive to Owl’s Perch to see Hannah. But that could prove detrimental to their future relationship and get Hannah in a lot of trouble.
Paul’s only option was to give his grandmother time to change her mind about allowing Hannah and him to communicate through her address.
Her heart pounding, Hannah unfolded the letter. The top page had a watercolor painting of a sunset on a beach. She shifted to the second page, where large handwriting in the salutation said, “Dearest One.” Refusing to give in to defeat just yet, she flipped to the last page. It was another beach scene but from a bird’s-eye view. She flipped back to the second page to find the closing: “With all my love, Zabeth.”
Disappointment drained what little strength Hannah had. She sat on the side of the bed, holding the letter in her lap. Her momentary hope that Paul had written to her and that somehow, through the mystical way of love, the letter had found its way to her was gone. It was a childish dream, without merit or good sense. As she adjusted to the fresh setback, a new thought worked its way to the front of her mind: who was Zabeth, and was that even an Amish name?
If it was, she’d never heard of it. Dozens of questions floated through her mind. She wondered who “Dearest One” was, why the letter had been stuffed under a drawer, and if the written words might hold any clues as to why she hadn’t heard from Paul. As she sat there, the questions grew and so did a desire for answers.
Rising, Hannah hid the letter behind her. After bolting the door, she returned to the bed and unfolded the letter.
Dearest One,
It has been too long since we’ve seen, spoken to, or written to each other. I pray you will set aside your shame of me and find it within yourself to return a letter.
When we were but youth, I made my choices and you made yours. Now we are fast approaching old age, and I need no one’s judgment—every day of my life I’ve paid the price for my decisions. But surely, as I deal with this horrid illness, our separation need not go any further.
I’m your twin. We shared our mother’s womb. And once we shared a love so deep we could each feel what the other one felt before any words were spoken. Perhaps
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