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CHAPTER 1
There should have been more — balloons, fanfare, something to herald her return. But there was only the proud burgundy and gold sign that declared Hannah Gingerich McLean was back in Pontotoc.
She eased her car slowly through the town. It was nearing sundown and no one was about. Pontotoc was the kind of town that rolled up the sidewalks after supper. Once upon a time she had hated that small fact. Now it was more of a comfort than an annoyance. There were fewer people to witness her shame. When she'd left so many years ago, she had vowed never to return. It seemed like this was her year for breaking promises.
She sighed and turned to look at Brandon, slumped against the door, lips parted as he slept. When he was like this he still looked like her little boy, her baby. The one person she loved most in this world. Not the surly teenager who had taken over his body, but her precious angel.
"Hey." She touched his leg. "We're almost there." Pontotoc wasn't their final destination, but Randolph, the small community just south of town. There wasn't much in Randolph — just a water tower, a post office, and a community center. And home.
Brandon stirred. "Kay," he mumbled. "Why are we coming here again?"
Hannah took a deep breath and murmured the lie she had almost come to believe. "It's time you met your family here."
"I thought they didn't 'approve.'" He used air quotes around the last word, but didn't open his eyes.
Her family didn't approve, but she was counting on love to win out. Once upon a time she had been their precious angel.
Well ... that wasn't exactly true. Her twin sister, Leah, had always been the good child, while Hannah had been the handful, never quite fitting in with the rest of the community. Never quite accepting their ways. Willful, rebellious, contentious. But this was different.
"I've explained this," she said, her voice heavy with patience. "My grossmammi — grandmother — fell and broke her hip." At least that part was true. "Now my mother needs help with things until she gets well." It was as good of an excuse as any.
"Whatever." Brandon sighed and braced his Converse-clad feet on the dashboard. Any other car and she would have chastised him. But this was his car, a beat-up clunker that Mitchell had bought Brandon as a last-ditch effort to make amends. But as usual, the effort was too little, too late. And a little too soon. Brandon wouldn't be able to drive the car for another year and a half. At the time Mitch had presented him with the car, Hannah had been furious. Now she was grateful for the transportation. Without it, they would be on foot.
She peered over the steering wheel, trying to find her way. It was better by far than dwelling on the past. Past mistakes, past heartache, past lies.
But there was no escaping. She was driving into the past even as she called it a step toward the future. She shook the thought away and studied the landscape once more. Even in a tiny community like Randolph the vegetation changed. The tree line grew or was cut down. Flowers were planted, died, and bloomed once again. The turn was coming up, and she didn't want to miss it.
"I thought you said we were almost there." Brandon squinted through the bug-speckled windshield as Hannah veered to the left. A little farther on Topsy Road, then she would turn down the gravel road that led past the Gingerich drive. But she would have to watch carefully. After all this time, they had probably paved the lane through the Amish settlement.
Hannah eased the car down the lane, not allowing herself time to wonder what her mamm would think, her dat. Or the bishop. Gravel knocked against the bottom of the car. Going faster than twenty miles an hour was more than impossible. Driving slow gave her the extra minutes she needed to take it all in. It had been such a long time. Over fifteen years.
She spotted the fence before the road and the sign made of slats of siding, carefully hand-lettered to state that local honey, goat milk soap, jellies, jams, and storage sheds were available for sale. The weathered barbed wire stretched across the land, holding in goats and people alike. How could it be that after fifteen years the sign was still the same? The fence the same. The road still gravel. Nothing had changed.
And yet everything was different. Or maybe it was just her. She had been so glad to see the last of this place, with its run-down houses and dust that seemed to coat everything no matter how many times she swept and mopped. Theirs was one of the most conservative sects, not even allowing indoor plumbing or slow-moving triangles on the backs of their buggies.
She turned off the motor, then sighed. She knew everyone in the house had heard their arrival. The sound of an engine wasn't the most uncommon sound in a Plain community, but at this time of day ... It would only be a matter of seconds before someone peeked out the window, came out onto the front porch to make out the identity of their unexpected visitor.
The thought made her heart pound, her mouth dry, and her palms damp. What was she doing here? Just ... what?
"Is this it?"
She nodded, unable to get a word past the lump in her throat. She could only imagine what it looked like through his eyes. She had grown up here; some of the best times of her life had happened right there on that front porch. But those were all wrapped up with the worst times. All the times she couldn't understand the rules or the benefits in living such an austere life. All the times she had snuck out to meet Aaron.
Aaron. Now there was another memory altogether.
"It looks so ..." For once Brandon seemed at a loss for words.
"I told you; they are very conservative."
"Yeah." He nodded slowly, but didn't take his gaze from the house before him. Like most in the area, the house was white, plain, and covered with siding. The barns and outbuildings were protected with the same corrugated tin, though in a deep red. Only the orange dust that floated so freely about took the edge off the contrast.
Once again the truth of her situation slammed into her. How was she going to make it through?
Surely there was another way. She should be able to come up with some plan that would keep her from having to crawl back home on her hands and knees. The car's engine gave one last knock, as if it had traveled its last mile. She'd had to crawl back almost literally. And there was no other course of action she could take. Mitch had seen to that.
But there were things she could have done. She should have written more. She could have waited for a response. She should have made certain that she and Brandon would be welcome instead of hoping against the odds that love would overcome objection, even after all the years that had passed. But just how did a person say, I have no place to go. I need to come home, can I stay? And what would she have done if they told her she wasn't welcome?
"Let's get this over with," Brandon grumbled and opened his door.
Hannah didn't bother to correct his attitude as she got out of the car and turned toward the house.
A plump, barefoot woman in a plain green dress and a gray apron stood on the porch holding open the door and staring at Hannah as if she had seen the Lord Himself come back. Her hair was covered by the traditional Amish prayer kapp, but what Hannah could see of it was gray. She didn't remember it being that gray.
"Hannah?" The word was barely a hopeful whisper.
"It's me, Mamm." She took a couple of steps toward all the things she had left behind so many years ago.
This was the moment she had been dreading and anticipating. She took two more steps toward her mother, the house. Then she stopped, wrapped her fingers around Brandon's arm, and steered him forward. She tried to convince herself she had done that to introduce him, but she needed him by her side. The one steady in her life right now.
She almost stumbled as her father came out onto the porch, settling his hat into place as he peered at her car.
"Abner," her mother said, her clear voice still barely above a whisper. "It's Hannah. Our Hannah has come home."
Her father grunted once, then jumped off the porch and strode purposefully toward the barn. He disappeared readily into the shadows.
He didn't even glance toward them as he walked past.
"Nice, Mom," Brandon muttered under his breath.
But Hannah didn't have time to comment before her mother rushed toward her and enveloped her in the loving arms she had missed so much. The familiar scents of vanilla, homemade soap, and honest sweat filled her senses and all else fled from her mind.
"Your letter said you were coming home, but I dared not hope."
Tears stung Hannah's eyes. The last few weeks, months, had almost been more than she could stand. Her legs went weak with the relief.
She had missed her mother more than anything else. But the Ordnung was clear about such matters. Hannah couldn't live under Amish laws, so she had left, and in leaving she had sacrificed her contact with her family.
Mamm set her away, but retained the hold on her arms. "Look at you." She brushed the hair back from Hannah's brow. "So Englisch."
She knew she looked nothing like the girl who had left. She had cut her chestnut-colored hair first thing and never let it grow past her shoulders. Mitch had liked it lighter than nature had determined, and Hannah had kept it heavily highlighted to appease him.
Not anymore.
Her clothes weren't the fanciest she owned. She was accustomed to going around in top label pantsuits and designer heels. But when she packed her bags she grabbed her comfies from the back of the closet, those clothes she wore only when Mitch wasn't around.
Mamm pulled her close for another quick squeeze, then turned toward her companion.
"This is Brandon," she said. "Your grandson. Brandon, this is your grandmother." How uncomfortable to introduce them after fifteen years.
The sting of her father's rejection and the awkwardness of the evening subsided as her mother put her hands on Brandon's shoulders. "Let me have a look at you. You're the image of your mother, you know."
To Brandon's credit, he didn't roll his eyes. He even let her pat his cheek and fuss over him a bit.
To her mother's credit, she didn't say a word about his long hair or the ring in his lip. But Hannah could see the questions she had about both.
"Hannah?" A hesitant voice sounded close by, and she turned her attention from the long-overdue interaction between her mother and her son to the young woman who approached. "You made it."
"Gracie?" She couldn't hold back the tears any longer as her cousin took her turn to greet her. Though Gracie had been only ten when Hannah and Leah had left their Amish home, Hannah would have known her anywhere. Same big blue eyes that seemed to swallow up her face, same sweet dimples and unassuming disposition. "Oh, Hannah! I'm so glad you're home."
"I'm glad too." And she was. Glad to be home, glad to have her son at her side. If only her father were as happy. "Dat," she said, glancing toward the barn.
Her mother wiped her eyes with the end of her apron and shook her head. "Give him time, Hannah Mae. Now come on in the house. I'll get you something to eat."
* * *
Hell. That was the only way to describe it. He'd fallen asleep in the car, and he woke up in hell. Dusty, run-down, and sad, but hell all the same.
Brandon rubbed his eyes once again, hoping that when he was good and awake things would look better, but he knew that wasn't going to happen.
His mother didn't talk about her childhood much. Not like his friends' parents did. Now he understood why. Geez! How did people live like this?
"Are you coming?" Mom stopped, one foot on the first of the wooden steps that led to the weathered porch.
She couldn't be serious, but she seemed to be. They were really going to stay here?
His new grandmother was standing in the doorway, the screen door open as she waited for his response.
Unbelievable.
Somehow he put his feet into motion and followed behind them.
The inside of the house was dim, only the dying sun from the windows giving light to the rooms. What he could see of it was clean and smelled like the pizzeria that was down the street from their apartment in the city. He figured that was bread or something else baking in the oven that had surely come straight out of the Clampetts'.
The whole place might be out of the history books, but it seemed okay enough. The scent of lemon detergent mixed with the yeasty aroma to form a blend that was both homey and welcoming.
But this isn't your home.
Like he needed a reminder.
He shoved his hands into his pockets and eyed the room around him. Sparse and crowded were the first two words to enter his thoughts. And a far cry from their Nashville home. There was nothing on the walls, all the furniture looked to be made out of only wood, and there was no carpet on the floor.
But it's clean and sort of inviting.
He pushed the voice away. He didn't want to see any good in this move. His mother had told him that it was just a stopping point until they could get his father's estate settled, but after seeing her hugging his grandmother, he was beginning to think otherwise.
People seemed to materialize from nowhere. The woman who had met them outside had followed them in. Now another girl not much older than him approached, her eyes sparkling.
They were all dressed the same, with funny little caps on their heads, dresses, and aprons. None of them had on shoes.
He couldn't imagine his mother ever wearing such an outfit or going around barefoot, but if she had truly grown up here he supposed she must have.
He shoved his hands a bit deeper into his pockets and tried to make himself as small as possible. He was tired and angry and not ready to meet all these people. Couldn't they put this off until tomorrow?
"Brandon, this is your aunt Tillie."
Apparently not.
"Hi." He gave a quick shrug. The woman looked a little like his mom, with the same color eyes. But her hair was darker, more of a coffee sort of brown, instead of the streaky reddish blond his mother faithfully kept up.
"Are you hungry?" his grandmother asked. He didn't even know what to call her. Had he ever heard his mother actually say her name? He couldn't remember.
Like he cared. All he wanted was to be out of here as quickly as possible. Yesterday.
Mom shook her head. "I'm fine. Brandon?"
He shrugged again without taking his hands from his pockets. "Whatever."
His mother and grandmother stared at him as if he had just walked off an alien spaceship, but he didn't care. He didn't want to be here, and he wasn't about to pretend otherwise.
"Eunice? Who's there?"
His grandmother looked back to Mom. "That's Mammi."
"I'll go." His mother glanced to him as if he should volunteer to go with her, but no way. He'd had enough of meeting people he never wanted to know for one day.
"Whatever," he said again and flung himself down at the kitchen table.
"I have pie."
He turned to look at his grandmother. His aunt hovered behind, along with the woman named Gracie. He heard the door open as someone else entered the small house. So weird to meet these people and find out that he was related to them though he had just now seen them for the first time. He was practically an adult!
"And cold milk."
He shrugged one shoulder. Pie sounded awesome. But he didn't want to appear excited. So lame. "Sure. Whatever."
She gave him a questioning glance, then moved around the kitchen that looked as if it belonged in a museum exhibit. Tillie and Gracie slid into chairs across from him. They propped their chins on their hands and watched him like spectators at a baseball game while he pretended not to notice. Or to care. His grandmother puttered around, and before he knew it, she slid a piece of pie and a large glass of milk in front of him.
"Thanks." He sat up straight and picked up the fork resting on the edge of the plate.
"Danki." His grandmother smiled.
"What?" he asked around his bite of pie. Blackberry. Yum. But he wasn't about to say too much. No sense letting everyone know they could get to him. Now, if it had been an apple pie ... "Is that like Amish for you're welcome?"
"It's Dutch for thank you," Tillie said.
He took a gulp of the milk. It tasted a little weird — not bad like it had turned or anything, just different. "Dutch?"
"Pennsylvania Dutch." His grandmother gave a quick nod, then moved away as his mother came back into the room.
Weird. He thought they were German.
Mom sat in the chair next to him, releasing a sigh as she eased down. She looked beat, but he wasn't about to show concern. She was the reason they were in this mess.
(Continues…)
Excerpted from "A Home For Hannah"
by .
Copyright © 2018 Amy Lillard.
Excerpted by permission of KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP..
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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