Katie's Choice(17)

                Was John Paul kidding? Or rather, Abram? Did they really expect him to go around in these . . . pants? They weren’t so bad by themselves, but when added to the suspenders and the dress shirt, then he was sure he’d look like an escapee from a theatrical production of backward lame-oids.

                Maybe he could plead rumspringa and wear his jeans like John Paul? And then he remembered the hard line of Abram’s mouth from the night before. Doubtful, very doubtful.

                Or maybe he should just buck up and wear the crazy black pants with the flap in the front and rows of buttons across. He’d promised to come here and live like the Amish, work with them side by side, and get to know what it was like to be part of their community. He sighed once again at the crazy outfit. He’d worn worse. It was only for three months, he told himself again.

                Then a foreign correspondent’s mantra came to mind: When in Rome . . .

                Zane quickly dressed, looking down at himself in horrific amazement.

                He felt ridiculous. Who dressed like this these days? Okay, stupid question. The Amish dressed like this, but for the life of him he couldn’t figure out why.

                Zane had never considered himself tall. He was almost six foot, but he was apparently longer legged than the pants’ previous owner, and two inches of white sock glared in between the hem and the laces of his black work boots.

                Like anyone was going to see him. He donned the dressy blue shirt, grabbed his camera, and made his way down the stairs.

                The enticing smell of bacon hit him before he even entered the room. It was barely five a.m. and the house bustled. Ruth stood at the stove, flipping the irresistible strips, a black bonnet covering her head again this morning. Annie hovered behind her. Zane couldn’t tell if she was trying to help or flat-out take over. She reached toward the stove, and Ruth swatted her hand away.

                Annie sighed. “You should sit.”

                “You should check the biscuits.” Ruth might be engaged in the battle of her life, but she still had some spunk. Dark circles underlined her tired, puffy eyes, but her wan smile served as a testament of her courage.

                Zane had liked her immediately. Almost as much as he liked coffee. He looked around, realizing there wouldn’t be an automatic drip machine waiting on the counter, and focused instead on the stove. Ah-ha. An old-fashioned enameled coffeepot sat in plain sight, a puff of steam rising up and competing with the bacon for the most tantalizing smell of the morning.

                “Ach, milk time.” John Paul slapped a round brimmed black hat on Zane’s head and grabbed him by the arm.

                “But coffee—” Zane protested as he was dragged toward the back door of the house, so close to the beloved coffee, but too far away for a snatch and grab.

                “Amish cows don’t wait for Englisch habits.” John Paul laughed, then frowned at the camera Zane held. “And you won’t be needin’ that.” He plucked the Nikon from Zane’s fingers and deposited it on the big wooden table.

                Zane caught one last glimpse of the coffeepot before he was forced out the door.

                A fine sprinkle of dew covered the grass. Stars twinkled above them, but already the sky had lightened to a deep shade of purple as morning approached. Zane had seen the sun rise from points all over the globe, but there was something unique about this cool, misty morning. He couldn’t say what it was, just a specialness lingering in the air.

                Maybe because it reminded him of his childhood. He was old enough when his parents died to remember their faces, but not many other details. Few photographs were left behind to jog his memory. He did know he was a perfect genetic combination of Thalia and Robert Carson. He’d gotten his fair coloring from his mother. She could sit on her long blonde braid, and her blue eyes sparkled when she laughed. She hadn’t been overly maternal, but he always felt loved. His father had a thick beard he wore year round in the cool temps of the Cascade Mountains. His hair had been dark, his eyes deep brown, a definite trait they shared. His father had a booming laugh which he used often, content as he was to live off the land and not compromise his integrity by “working for the man.” Or at least, that’s what his uncle said when he came to get Zane after the fire.