“I’ll be in the gift shop,” Mary Aaron said after greeting Ada and one of her granddaughters, who was sweeping the kitchen floor. “There’s a box of pottery to unpack and price and the shelves to be dusted.”
Mary Aaron had taken over much of the day-to-day chores with the crafts and artwork that the B&B offered for sale. Quilts, wooden toys, baby cradles, and jams and jellies: Everything was Amish-made other than Rachel’s watercolors of local scenes.
Her latest painting was of a one-room schoolhouse in autumn. As in all of her artwork, the teacher and children were seen from the back so that no faces were ever represented. The watercolors sold well from her shop and at galleries in State College, but Rachel was reluctant to sign her work. Instead, the only identification on the paintings was the initials A.D. for Amish daughter. The only ones who knew the identity of the artist were Evan and Mary Aaron, and both could be trusted never to breathe a word.
Rachel went first to her office and checked her email for any inquiries or cancellations. There was a reminder for a charity event at church and a notice about the upcoming school board election, but nothing from any potential guest or returning one. She turned from the keyboard to her guest registry and looked over the names of her current visitors. Mrs. Eloise Morris stood out.
She’d invited Mrs. Morris to go to the church concert the previous evening, but the woman had said she was tired. Why she came to Stone Mill, Rachel wasn’t certain. She spent most of her time in her room and had more than her share of silly complaints. Rachel hadn’t seen her in the dining room this morning, though, which was unusual. Even though Mrs. Morris rarely left the house, she always came down in the morning for coffee. Rachel wondered if she’d left her room at all today.
She went down the hall to the gift shop, where Mary Aaron was rearranging a display of hand-sewn baby dresses and infant caps. “Have the girls all gone?” she asked, referring to the young Amish women who cleaned for her.
Mary Aaron nodded. “Ada told them they could go.”
“That’s fine. I just . . . I think I’ll call upstairs and check on Mrs. Morris. I haven’t seen her since yesterday morning. I hope she’s not ill.”
“I’m sure she’s fine. You probably just missed her.”
Rachel returned to the office and used the office phone to call upstairs. There was no way she wanted to give Mrs. Morris or any other guest access to her personal cell number. Certainly not with the amount of squirrels on the property.
Mrs. Morris answered on the third ring, her tone low and subdued.
Rachel pictured the tall, elegantly dressed woman with the steel-gray hair, pale gray eyes, and carefully applied, thick makeup. She was all angles and sharp elbows, a woman that it was impossible to imagine ever being a rosy-cheeked child.
“This is Rachel, your host. I was just checking on you. I didn’t see you this morning. I wanted to be sure you were okay.”
“A little under the weather, is all.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. Did you have lunch?” When the reply was negative, Rachel offered to bring her up a tray. “I have some lovely chicken vegetable soup.”
“Thank you. That would be kind of you. And would it be too much to ask for a cup of Earl Gray and some saltine crackers?”
“Certainly,” Rachel responded, genuinely concerned. “Just give me a minute to heat everything. Would you like a sandwich? I have egg salad or ham.”
“Don’t make a fuss. It’s enough that you’re providing room service. Either is fine.”
A short time later, Rachel had Mrs. Morris seated at the table in her guest room with a fresh table runner and the promised lunch. “Do you mind if I stay and visit a while?” Rachel asked.
“Please.” The older woman indicated the chair opposite her at the table.
Rachel took the seat. A copy of the King James Bible lay on the nightstand, but otherwise, the room was immaculate. Not a lamp or pillow was out of place, though the blinds were all drawn. Despite the white plaster walls, deep windowsills, braided rug, and the colorful painting of a farm meadow in springtime, there was an atmosphere of sadness.
Rachel wondered how Mrs. Morris could see the offensive squirrels outside with the room shuttered and semidark. “I’m sorry you couldn’t join us at church last night,” Rachel said when the woman didn’t ask her to leave. “The music was beautiful.”
“I didn’t feel up to it.” She picked at her egg salad sandwich. “I’ve not been my best this last year.” She looked up and her gaze locked with Rachel’s. “I feel I need to apologize. My physician has ordered a rather strong medication, and I sometimes get disturbing thoughts.” She faltered and then went on. “I sometimes say foolish things.” She rubbed her hands together, and Rachel noticed how thin she was. “It sounds silly for me to admit it, but I . . . I’m afraid of squirrels. My brother had one as a pet when I was five and it bit me rather badly.”
“That would frighten anyone,” Rachel replied.
“My parents were out of town, and my nanny took me to the hospital to be stitched up.” Mrs. Morris held out a trembling hand, showing a thick white scar that twisted one pale finger. “It bled, of course, and it was painful. But I think, most of all, it was the hospital and nurses who frightened me. I was a shy child, and I wanted my mother.”
Mrs. Morris gripped her fingers and gave a half-smile. “It sounds silly, I know, but to this day, I have nightmares about squirrels, very large ones.”
Rachel made a soothing reply. “Maybe you’d prefer a room at the back of the house. One without oak trees outside the window? There’s a beautiful view of the Amish farm country.”
“No. This
