Everyone has quirks, of course. My biggest one – well, you know, in addition to loving, as Gretchen refers to it, “Leopard Barbie frou-frou fashion” – is that I need only four hours’ sleep a night. It’s been this way since my Senior year of high school. Thankfully, my husband is the same. When I’m home, that’s not a problem. But anywhere else, it is an issue.

       Today, it is more an issue than ever because it’s 4 a.m., and even our Amish hosts, who, I swear, went to bed at 8 p.m., are still sleeping. There are no books to read in this bedroom, and no paper or pen, either. I can’t even do my morning stretches because this room is so small.

       So, I lie here quietly and think, trying to figure out how Gretchen and I will be able to get ourselves to the FanStory convention by Saturday, when the sheriff and doctor – the only ones in this community with phones – won’t be returning until sometime Wednesday, two days from now.

       I imagine calling my cousin in Baltimore, where I left my car, to see if she’d be willing to drive it here. There’s no way Old Reliable will be back in working condition in time – or, do let’s be honest here, EVER – and I’m pretty sure getting a buggy ride to New Jersey is a hard ‘no,’ as well. Gretchen will have to acclimate to not being in the driver’s seat. I’m counting on Helene to lend us a vomit pail just in case.

       When I cannot take lying down and ruminating any longer, I wrestle my hair into a bun and pad my way downstairs and then onto the front porch, where I’ll be able to watch the sun rise.

       The meadow scents weave themselves throughout my olfactory system and are redolent with mint and sage, wildflowers, roses and, of course, goat dung. The morning air is heavy with dew that, as I lift my chin skyward, bestows a moisturizing facial that I could not love or appreciate more.

       Finally, the tiniest strands of variegated plums and maroons begin to unravel themselves from the horizon, like a fraying ribbon.

 Within moments, the family rooster announces the day. Even though I’m fully awake, his trumpet blast pierces through me enough to roust me from my chair as if I’ve just been given a jolt of electricity.

He’s on his third round of screeches when I hear Gretchen’s voice from her open window next door. “WILL SOMEBODY PLEASE SHOOT THAT ROOSTER!” Hopefully, our hosts are as highly amused as I am.

The maroon and plum streaks have now begun to levitate, leaving rippled claw marks behind. Shimmering dollops of mango and maize stream through the gashes left in their wake.

 I now have a spectacular view of acres of wildflower gardens and wish my beloved Diane Kenel-Truelove were here to appreciate it with me and give me the lowdown on every last blossom raising its face to us.

Before long, Simeon and Solomon exit the front door, to my right, while, across the gravel path, I spot Ezra leaving his house, too. The trio stops short and gapes at me, so I smile and say, “Goot meriya free!” Pennsylvania Deutch for “Good early morning!” I learned this from reading the Linda Castillo books about a formerly Amish Chief of Police in a small, heavily Amish community in Pennsylvania.

When they continue to remain speechless and agape, I say, “I’m a four-hour-a-night sleeper.” Finally, after another round of silence, I do the teacher trick of evoking a verbal response by asking a question. “May I help with chores?”

The rooster gives one final officious shriek, and Gretchen’s voice rings out again. “SHUUUUUUUT  UUUUUUUUUUP, YOU STUPID, STUPID BIRRRRRRD!! YOU’RE GONNA BE SOUP BY LUNCHTIME IF I HAVE MY WAY!”

I watch as Ezra exchanges amused smirks with the boys.

Rebekah bustles out of the front door, armed with two baskets. Obviously, she heard my request to help with chores, because she hands one to me then sweeps the air with her arm in the universal sign for “Follow me” and heads us toward the chicken coop.

“Is there a special technique here I should know?” I ask, trying to keep pace with her. Rebekah can’t help smiling. It tells me that I have asked the equivalent of “How do I tie my shoes?” But she is kind.

“I’ll gather them and hand them to you, so you’ll just be in charge of putting them into these baskets without breaking them.”

“Oh, I’ll be very good at that, I promise,” I say and smile so she knows I’m in on the joke. Once we get into the rhythm of our task, I say, “So, I’m curious about how old you and your brothers are.” She mesmerizes me with how efficiently she slips her hand beneath the breast feathers of each plump hen, then quickly extracts a huge brown egg.

“I’m sixteen,” she answers, going on to the next chicken without any lost momentum whatsoever. I marvel at the way the hens make no attempt to peck her as she removes their precious cargo. And she’s so speedy, I am having all I can do to match her, egg for egg. “Simeon is eighteen, and Solomon is nineteen.” She looks down as she adds, “And our sister who died last month in the accident was seventeen.”

“Smaller than most Amish families,” I say.

“True,” she says. “But bigger than Uncle Ezra’s.” As an afterthought, she adds, “I’ve overheard people say that it was Gott’s punishment for him marrying an Englisher.”

I make a mental note to explore that later. For now, I ask, “Is that your feeling, too?”

“No!” Her response is both immediate and definitive. “Gott would have given them none if that were the case.”

“Will you be participating in Rumspringa?” I ask. “In our culture, we call that ‘sowing some wild oats,’ and parents fear it.” We share a smile as she continues to hand me eggs, and I carefully add them to the ever-burgeoning trove. “I think the way your culture handles it is so much wiser: go off, indulge in non-Amish ways, then decide for yourself if you want to return and commit to the church.”

“How do you know so much about our ways?” she asks, with only curiosity in her voice. There are no undercurrents of suspicion or defensiveness.

“Well, as you know, I like to write, and most times, writers are also readers. We’re a curious group. The Mennonites who live in the next county over from mine piqued my curiosity decades ago, so I continue to read about them and all the other sects, too.”

We have now filled one basket with substantial sized brown eggs, so I retreat to the door of the coop and return with the empty second basket.

“I’m surmising your family is Old Order Amish, so, not as strict as the Schwartzentrauber, but also not as permissive or modern—” I use finger quotes, then watch her give me a quizzical look, “as New Order Amish or Mennonite?”

“Yes, that is right,” she says with kind appreciation in her eyes.

“So…Rumspringa for you?” I ask again, and she laughs. “I can’t help myself, Rebekah. As a Jewish Mommie, it’s my birthright to be nosey and also to repeat myself as many times as I deem necessary.”

This time, her laugh is from deep down. “I’ve laughed more in these last twenty hours since meeting you and Gretchen than I have in months.”

I simply can’t resist; I give her a Mom-squeeze. And, best of all, she lets me.

“I’m considering it strongly,” she says, referring back to Rumspringa. “A friend of mine from choir and I have been talking about it, but we’re not very far along in our planning.”

We have now finished gathering eggs and, each of us, with a full basket in our hands, heads toward Helene’s.

“We put these into cartons to sell at our roadside stand,” she tells me. “Visitors and tourists buy many dozen at a time.”

As we enter Helene’s kitchen, I see Gretchen ambling in, bed-head hair on full display.

“Do Gretchen and I have time for a walk before breakfast?” I ask Helene. “I want her to see your beautiful flowers.”

“Yes,” she says. “Ezra and the boys will be milking for at least another twenty minutes.”

“Come on!” I say to my fellow road warrior. “We have a lot to see so we can describe it to Mrs. KT on Saturday!”

She blinks several times, giving me the impression that she is still trying to focus and acclimate to being vertical, as she shuffles toward me and the open door. “Is it even 6 a.m. yet?” she asks with a voice still full of morning-croak.

There is a clearing quite a ways past the flowers, where we can sit and be alone.

“How did you sleep?” I ask her.

“Fine until that frickin chicken starting belting out Reveille. W. T. F!!”

 I laugh louder than I’d expected, but, really, this girl is hilarious, even first thing in the morning and before she’s had her coffee.

       “How was it alone with your guys?” I ask.

       “Weird a little at first,” says Gretchen. “But then Helene and I found some common ground.”

       “Like?”

       “We both fell so head-over-heels for our husbands that we changed our lifestyles completely. I used to live in the city, and now I’m beyond the Outer Banks – as in, as isolated as I can possibly get! And Helene was an Englisher!”

       “Rebekah mentioned that this morning. How did that happen?” I find myself running my hand over the grass because it feels so silky and thick and smooth. I don’t even care that it’s still a little moist, and my Amish dress is wicking up all the dew.

       “Her friends deserted her, as a prank, at a carnival, and Ezra was there selling at a booth, heard her crying and came to her rescue. She fell in love with his beautiful eyes.”

       “Oh, wow!” I say, trying to imagine the practical Helene either crying or taking romantic stock of Ezra. Both commodities seem equally, completely foreign.

       “How about you and your fellow gingers?”

       “They SANG for me!” To my surprise, these words make me well up. “Their maam was their church choir director, so now they’re without one. I wheedled them into letting me teach them some choral pieces and conducting techniques in the next few days.”

       We hear some commotion by the barn so stand to see what’s happening. Ezra holds a rein in each hand, and two massive draught horses are following behind. Suddenly, one rears up onto his hind quarters, which startles Ezra to shout, “DOWN!” Simeon and Solomon dash from the barn and try to assist, but before they can, the horse has knocked Ezra to the ground. Both horses are now running as fast as they can straight toward Gretchen and me.

Author Notes

As in previous chapters, some actual facts about us do get woven into this fictitious road trip story. In this one, it's that I honestly am a four-hour-a-night sleeper, and so it my husband. (In the words of my mother, "You saved two other marriages.")

So far, FanStorians, Gretchen and Rachelle, have taken off for the International Fanstory Writers Convention in Atlantic City, N. J. When Gretchen's "old reliable" Suburban breaks down, the two heroines find themselves being rescued by an unlikely source. Amish cavalry take them in to await help.

*************************************************************************************************

I've been known to aggressively tap the snooze on my clock radio a time or two. I will quickly swipe the end alarm bell on my phone sending it careening off the edge of my nightstand. So, when I wake to the Amish alarm, I am both confused and a tad aggravated. This alarm crows. (It is the equivalent to a person who can't sing a note on key, belting out your very favorite song.) The room is still cloaked in darkness, and there is a slight coolness to the air.

I roll over and feel my hips squeal out in protest. I am once again reminded how I am not in a room at the Hilton. I am in the upstairs of a house with no electricity and paper thin walls. I am not getting a courtesy call from the front desk. No, I am being assaulted with the nails on chalkboard anthem of an over zealous rooster.

After the third time, I kick back my covers and painfully make my way over to the window. "Hey, dumb bird, shut up," I hiss.

It sounds off again.

"Will someone shoot that stupid chicken?" I call out into the darkness. And, as I am scouring the darkened landscape below, I see a familiar sight. Even in the dim light, I recognize the red hair of my friend. She is sitting on a bench outside of the other house. I open my mouth to call out but that freaking rooster starts its racket again. "Rachelle, go grab that stupid noisy rooster and please dispose of it."

Rachelle walks closer to my window. There she stands in a tarp of a dress. She smiles brightly, like all is right with the world. The name Pollyanna comes to mind. "I'll be right down."

I pull a fresh shirt and a pair of clean jeans out of my bag and proceed to dress in the dark. As I'm finger brushing my hair, I see the first streaks of sunlight curling up from the horizon. It's been a while since I've watched the sunrise. I make my way back over to the window, just in time to see Rebekah and Rachelle heading to the chicken coop, each with a basket on their arm.

I pull the ladder back chair over and sit. For the next ten minutes I watch as the blank canvas of sky is painted and repainted by God Himself. Maybe, despite the ear shattering alarm, today would be a good day.

***********************************************************************************************

Before breakfast, Rachelle and I step away to regroup. Not sure why, because, my car is still dead and hope it hasn't been towed to some other location, and she still has no clothing to wear. We are still firmly planted in the nineteenth century, with people who don't know what coffee is, and can't tell a good old dirty joke to ease the tension. Once again, I am reminded that I am out of my element. My phone has sixty-four per cent left on its battery. I text my husband. I'm sure he's going out of his mind with worry. The little spinning thing just keeps spinning. Please, God, get my message through, even if, it takes all day.

"Helene, would you happen to have a comb I can use?" I say, as I get to the bottom of the stairs. "Sorry for the bed head," I mutter to Hannah. Hannah grins.

Rachelle and Rebekah come in with two baskets of brown eggs. Since Rachelle revealed her past farm experience, I can't giggle at the absurdity of her doing farm related chores. I can just dig up the memory of her in an over sized dress, with Amish toilet paper in her hair yesterday. That is a sight I will not ever forget.

"Helene, is there enough time for Gretchen and me to look at the flowers out back? I'd love for her to see them."

Since both Ezra and the boys were still busy with the animals, she nods. "Don't be too long. Breakfast is best when hot."

We escape out the door and step out into the cool purple and pink shadows of the early morning.

She tells me about her night. I can tell by just the look in her eyes what their singing meant to her. Music is her life. She sings without fear and hears music in every sound of nature. I envy her for that. The fact that she was able to be a witness to something so private and pure, has changed her.

I listen to her as she speaks and hear the writer in her, tiny details that are like flourishes on an unwritten page.

We both look to where Ezra leads two horses out of the barn. Without warning, one of them rears up, a frantic sound coming from it.

"What the hell?" I say, suddenly on high alert. "He's gonna get hurt if he isn't careful."

Rachelle rushes forward, leaving me in a wake of her dust. "Careful!" she calls, her ill fitting dress flapping in the breeze like a loose sail.

"What the hell do you think you're doing, Rachelle? Remember, there isn't a doctor here. He won't be back until Wednesday. Don't think they have a spare racehorse for their Amish ambulance." I run along behind her, keeping my eyes on two things, the increasing fuss of the horse and Rachelle's backside as she hurries toward Ezra.

I watch in horror as Ezra stumbles, falling into the danger zone of horses' hooves. The boys are grabbing for the loose reins.

"Rachelle, be careful. I still have hopes of getting to the conference. Don't blow it by being a hero."

As all of this unfolds before my eyes, I wish for two things. That no one gets hurt and a pitch black cup of the strongest coffee known to man.

What do you think my chances of getting either of those things are? About the same as waking up in the Hilton tomorrow.

Author Notes

No horses, flowers or roosters were hurt in the making of this chapter. We are still waiting for a cell signal and I am still waiting for a good cup of coffee. Happy Sunday from Amish country. Check out Rachelle Allen's post.

Chapter 13
Runaway Horse and Venomous Snake

By Rachelle Allen

In the previous chapter, Gretchen and Rachelle are in a clearing in the field, admiring their Amish host, Helene’s, beautiful wildflower gardens. Suddenly, they hear a commotion near the house, see one of Ezra’s two draught horses rear up on its hind legs, then, with the other horse, break free and head straight for where Gretchen and Rachelle are standing.

The horses are so enormous and traveling so fast that I can already feel the ground thrumming beneath my on-loan clodhopper-like work boots.

I scream over my shoulder toward Gretchen, “RUN TOWARD THE RIGHT AS FAST AS YOU CAN.” Remembering her topple the previous evening as she ran from the man with the scythe coming out of the barn, I add, “AND THIS TIME, DO NOT FALL!”

Something in the terror-filled pitch of my voice sends her streaking faster and more nimbly into the meadows to our right than I could ever have fathomed. She is many paces in front of me, and I had a head start.

We keep our arms in front of us like linebackers in the final moments of Super Bowl Sunday and navigate our way through what could very well be Joe Pie-Weed and patches of yarrow – flowers I remember Mrs. KT mentioning she’d seen during her visit to Bird-in-Hand, Pennsylvania. Right now, though, everything is simply a weedy, undecipherable jungle.

        Suddenly, we stop when the ground behind us is shaking so tremendously that it feels like an earthquake. We intuitively turn toward the ear-splitting waves and watch  Ezra’s behemoths steamroll by.

        Their ears are flattened, their nostrils are flaring, and their dinner-plate-sized hooves are pummeling the ground beneath them into an apocalyptic landscape of dirt geysers.

        Gretchen and I gape at each other.

        “How did you know to do that?” she asks.

        “Horses run in straight lines,” I say. “They’re not like bears or cougars. They wouldn’t chase us. But they’re so fast that getting out of their way in time was all that mattered.”

        Together, we try to slow our breathing.

        “Between those horses and that guy coming out of the barn yesterday afternoon with a scythe, you’ve become quite the impressive runner, Gretchen Hargis,” I say. “I was really proud of you for remaining vertical this time, though.”

        “Oh, yeah; you’re a freakin’ riot, Allen,” Gretchen says, still crouching with her hands on her knees and trying to stabilize both her breathing as well as her wits.

        “I bet those horses are already at the FanStory Convention,” I tell her, then silently cheer as, finally, my little Olympian laughs.

        “Yeah,” she adds, “And Steve Foreman’s wrestled both to the ground and is charging people to take rides on ‘em.” We both break into peals of laughter at the thought of our favorite No-Nonsense English military man and fearless African safari guide making short work of a pair of runaway equines. Amateur Hour!

        Just then, we hear a gut-wrenching scream.

        “Who’s that?” I ask.

        “It’s so high, it’s got to be Hannah,” says Gretchen.

        “Oy!” I gasp, and the two of us tear off in the direction of the wails.

        When we arrive, Ezra is writhing on the ground and moaning. Solomon is kneeling next to him, and Simeon is holding a bloody hoe and standing astride a decapitated black-and-brown variegated snake.

        Gretchen goes pale while I run into the nearby wildflower patch to toss my cookies.

        Between hurls, I can hear Helene hustling from the house and asking Solomon, “Was he bitten by the snake?”

        “No,” I hear Solomon answer. “The horse knocked him down after this timber rattler struck at it.”

        “TIMBER RATTLER?” I hear Gretchen scream. Then I hear her feet pound toward the house with the same kind of ferocity and abandon as Ezra’s draught horses.

        I manage to wobble my way back to the rest of the group as Rebekah gathers Hannah into her arms. “Your daede will be okay,” she tells her with an impressively perfect maternal coo.

        But Hannah can’t be consoled quite yet. “Daede, are you okay?” she asks between sobs.

        “Yes,” he says, though his voice is noticeably constricted. “Horses that size are powerful beasts. I just need a couple minutes, Hannah, but I’ll be fine.”

        Solomon and Simeon help him to his feet and lead him into the house. The rest of us file in behind them for breakfast, though I can’t imagine anyone having an appetite at this point.

        Amish life is so much more action-packed than anything I've ever experienced in humble little East Rochester, New York!

       

Author Notes

Although Gretchen (GW) Hargis and I are real - and friends - this story we're co-writing is completely fictitious. Be sure and check out her version of this (and every) chapter, because that's the added fun, we think, of this novel.

Chapter 14
Runaway Horse and Venomous Snake

By Rachelle Allen

Day two or three of the detour into Amish country for Rachelle Allen ad Gretchen Hargis, has them running for cover when the normally docile horses charge. Will our normally cunning and together heroines panic or rise to the occasion? Who the heck knows.

*************************************************************************************************

The flowers in the field are beautiful. Rachelle points out the different varieties and tells me their names, but I don't know the difference between a daisy and a daffodil. They are just flowers, beautiful and fragrant and early this morning covered with all sorts of flying insects. I see butterflies, dragonflies, and happy little bumblebees lifting off from one bud to another. I might not know my flowers, but I can spot and name a bug from fifty yards away.

She glances back towards the house and her hand tentatively reaches out as if to pick one. "Do you think she'd mind if I picked a couple? I think Rebekah would enjoy seeing them in the house."

I shrug. "I can't imagine any of them getting upset. They're pretty laid back around here."

She plucks one bloom and is in the middle of reaching for another when we hear the frantic sound from the horses. I spin quick to see Ezra, trying to grip the reins and this behemoth of an animal rearing up, then the other horse starts up.

Rachelle lets the flower fall and almost pushes me. "Run! Run as quickly as you can. And, do not fall this time. If you do, it will be the last time you do."

There is one thing about me you should know, and that is, if someone tells me to run, I run. I'm not curious enough to question why. I have one goal and that is to outrun everyone else. I am a survivor. So, I go into auto pilot and start running. Next thing I know, I'm Usain Bolt and I'm going for the gold. I pass Rachelle and keep going. Adrenaline is coursing through my veins and it feels good.

I heard her words about horses running straight and something about other wild animals, but I didn't wait for that to process in my brain. When she finally catches up, she breathlessly smiles at me.

"Between those horses and that guy coming out of the barn yesterday with a scythe, you've become quite the impressive runner, Gretchen Hargis. And, I was proud of you for remaining vertical this time, though."

I struggle to catch my breath but cut my eyes at her. "You're a riot, Allen." If a Southern girl knows one thing, when running from something that can hurt you, it doesn't matter how fast you run, just matters that you are faster then the guy or girl beside you.

Rachelle brushes her mass of red curls back and finally straightens up. "I bet those horses made it to the convention already," she says.

I laugh as I think about my Amish ambulance horse remark earlier. We start to joke about several members of FanStory and the personalities we've come to know through writing. I can almost not feel my heartbeat throbbing in my temples when a piercing scream cuts through the air.

"Who's that?"

I feel my heart sink. I know a little girl's scream when I hear it. There is no doubt in my mind that it is Hannah. Both Rachelle and I head off in the direction of the barn.

It doesn't look good when we get there. Ezra is lying there, eyes rolling back, moaning and slightly rocking side to side. A blur whisks by me as Helene rushes from the house to the spot where her husband is.

I see one of the boys holding a hoe and the rusty tinge of blood is shining in the bright sunlight.

Timber Rattlesnake was all I heard and with my one remaining sprint, I run for the house. If I have enough battery power left on my phone, I can take a picture of it. I hate frogs, toads and lizards, but I do like to see a snake. I can't wait to send this to my husband. This is the kind of stuff we live for. Pictures of snakes and dogs. Odd combination but works for us.

I take the stairs two at a time and know that I will be pay for this tomorrow, if not sooner.

They are heading to the house as I'm going past them. Ezra supported on either side by Solomon and Simeon. Rebekah cradling Hannah in her arms, as Helene walks behind her husband. The look she has on her face is one I know well. Its a flash of reality. Time is fleeting and things can change. I'm sure she had a moment of uncertainty when she saw her beloved husband lying on the ground next to the venomous snake. "Back in a flash," I say, racing to where the outline of the dead snake is.

I stay back far enough away from it and start clicking the pictures. I've heard so much about snakes and how even after they're dead they can still bite. I don't know what the truth is and what is Internet garbage, but I'm also unwilling to test fate. I check the images and go to my contacts, click on my husband's name and my heart surges.

The message I sent earlier this morning says delivered. I have managed to reach the twenty-first century from Amish country.

I turn back to the house and suddenly, my appetite is in overdrive.

"Bring on the day," I shout happily.

Author Notes

The Rattlesnake was a stand in for the actual snake actor. He was trained and through AI it only appeared he was decapitated. No Amish were hurt in this episode either. Just another fictional day in Amish country. Check out Rachelle Allen's post.

Chapter 15
Plan B - Rachelle's Version

By Rachelle Allen

        Thank goodness for Gretchen, who keeps everything so real in this rather Alice-in-Wonderland-like alternate universe in which we have become ensconced. She reminds me of a character from a 70’s TV show I used to love called “The Munsters.”

        The patriarch was named Herman Munster, and he was a Frankenstein doppelganger, but gregarious and charming. His wife, Lily, was equally warm and gracious, despite her bloodless pallor, long, diaphanous gown with spikey, bell-shaped sleeves and a shock of white that ran the length of her black, waist-length hair.

        Her father, “Grandpaw,” who lived in the haunted-looking dilapidated mansion with Herman and Lily, had fangs, blood-red lips, a pasty complexion and sported black nail polish and a full-length black cape. Although he was acerbic, he was not the least bit scary.

        Herman and Lily’s son, Eddie, had a deep widow’s peak, extra-furry sideburns, and a unibrow, despite the fact that he was only eight years old.

        The only one who could be deemed “normal” by most standards was Cousin Marilyn, who was blonde and blue-eyed, with gleaming, straight, white teeth, dimples, a warm disposition, melodious voice, and model-perfect figure. The Munsters, when she wasn’t in the room, often spoke in hushed tones about “poor Cousin Marilyn.” They felt bad for the unfortunate way she looked.

        That’s Gretchen. She looks absolutely adorable in her everyday shorts and regular top right now. Yet, at this breakfast table, full of “plain folk,” as they’re called – not to mention me in my Amish costume – she is the one who doesn’t fit in. Oh! The stories we’ll be writing when all this is over, and we’ve made it to The International FanStory Convention in Atlantic City!

        Despite the trauma with the horses and the snake just fifteen minutes earlier, Gretchen’s appetite is fully intact. She polishes off a stack of Helene’s fluffy, perfect-looking pancakes-with-apple-butter and regales us with stories about the many albums of pictures she and her husband, Chuck, have of snakes.

        Meanwhile, I can barely get my small bowl of berries-and-cream to slither down to my stomach, even though it seems to be firmly lodged right now in my throat.

        Suddenly, the sound of creaking wooden wheels, co-mingled with shod horses, fills the room. Hannah rushes to the door and yells, “It’s the Yoders!” Then she quickly adds, “And they’ve got Barney and Klem with them!”

        I am at a loss. Gretchen and I exchange quizzical looks.

        “Our runaway horses,” Rebekah says, catching our consternation.

        Hannah opens the door to two gorgeous blonde, blue-eyed girls I’m guessing to be in their older teens, a blonde boy in his mid-teens, and a peppy blue-eyed blonde the same height and stature as Hannah.

        The small girls hug each other enthusiastically the minute they are within arm’s reach.

        “Klem and Barney got scared by a timber rattler,” says Hannah, “and then they broke away from Daede and started running toward the field where Gretchen and Rachelle were. And then Gretchen and Rachelle ran really, REALLY fast to get out of their path. Gretchen was AMAZING!! But Rachelle said she would’ve been faster than Gretchen if she’d had her high heels on and not Aunt Ruth’s work boots. She’s wearing those instead because her high heels got caught in our buggy and she went flying through the air and landed in the mud. She’s wearing those clothes because our goats ate her straw suitcase and all her clothes inside it. She still has her leopard dress, though, but she wears that when she takes a bath in the hot springs. Oh! And she thought the corn cobs in the outhouse were to make her curly hair straighter!”

        “Hannah!” says Helene. “Please let the Yoders come inside!”

        The four stand inside the doorway and stare incredulously at Gretchen and me like we’re escapees from Barnum and Bailey’s freak show contingent.

        Finally, the boy speaks. “Our daede and I heard the horses running, so we took out some oat pails for them, and they came right over.”

        “It worked out well,” the taller girl adds, “since we were coming here this morning anyway to make pastries with you and help with canning.”

        Gretchen and I exchange Wise Eyes as we notice how Solomon’s cheeks have pinked up at the sound of this girl’s voice.

        “Klem knocked Daede to the ground!” Hannah tells them. “And Simeon cut off the timber snake’s head with a hoe!”

        The second sister turns to Simeon and casts him a sidelong smile. Gretchen and I exchange glances again and this time suppress Omniscient Mom smirks as we watch Simeon’s color rise from neck to forehead like a thermometer in a vat of bubbling caramel. Amish or not, teens and hormones are as robust and runaway a commodity as Klem and Barney were not thirty minutes earlier.

        While the menfolk head for the fields, and Helene and the teen girls busy themselves prepping to make jam and pastries for their roadside stands, Gretchen and I are given pails and follow the two younger girls to the berry-picking patches.

        I’ve never seen such a lush, impressive crop! The blueberries are so plentiful and close together that they resemble giant, indigo-colored bubbles of caviar. By now, enough time has elapsed since the horse-rampage trauma that I have finally regained my appetite. In fact, I am absolutely famished.

        It takes a good fifteen minutes before I quell my two-for-me-one-for-the-bucket spree. Finally, I slow down long enough to talk.

        “Gretchen, we need a Plan B,” I say. She is standing on the other side of the bush we are sharing. “Old Reliable is never going to be able to be resuscitated in time to get us to Atlantic City.”

        “I know,” she says like someone who’s just learned her grandma’s been moved into hospice care. “My text to Chuck finally got through, but he wrote back that he can’t get off work to come help us.”

        “Not to worry,” I say. “I’ll call my cousin in Baltimore to see if she’ll bring my car up. She’s newly retired, and I know she’d love the adventure of it all.”

        “Yeah, that reminds me,” says Gretchen. “Where’s your phone? Why haven’t you tried to send texts?”

        “My battery was low when we left my cousin’s house,” I explain. “I’d envisioned being able to charge it in Old Reliable. It never dawned on me that it wouldn’t have a USB port.”

        “Oh, yeah; those were a bit before her time,” says Gretchen with a wry little smile, “being a 2005 and all.”

        We’re quiet a beat, then I ask, “Do you have enough juice left in yours so I can call my cousin,Tova?”

        “I think so. Just don’t mention the timber rattlesnakes to her. I’m betting that would be a deal-breaker,” says Gretchen.

        “S-s-s-s-s-s-s-so true!” I say.

        “S-s-s-s-s-s-s-so unfunny,” retorts Gretchen as I hear a clump of berries clink down into her bucket.

        I know, without question, that the real Cousin Marilyn would’ve found that clever little comment of mine absolutely hilarious-s-s-s-s.

        Amish life has made my fellow FanStorian a little s-s-s-surly.

Author Notes

The protagonists are real, but their story is pure fiction. And both women have their own version of the same story each week, so be sure that you're fans of both GW Hargis and me.

Chapter 16
Plan B (Gretchen Hargis)

By Rachelle Allen

So far, Rachelle Allen and Gretchen Hargis have broken down in the heart of Amish country. Relying on the kindness of strangers has had its perks, but there is a convention to get to and another century to return to.

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Okay, I'll be the first to admit it. I would rather run naked dipped in honey through a bee hive than wear the clothes of the Amish. Sounds a tad dramatic and snotty and I guess it is, but the feeling remains. I was never one of those girls who would dress up like the slutty nurse at Halloween or wear a ton of makeup and low cut clothing to go out to a bar. It just wasn't me. The only pretending I do is on paper. Having said that, I feel like I'm the odd ball here in jean shorts and a t-shirt with some obscure bike company logo, and my trusty worn out flip-flops.

Ezra won't so much as look at me. I get the feeling he thinks I'm a bad influence. He's probably right. I do have a potty mouth. My oldest daughter's first few words were, mama, da-da, brodder (brother) and shit. And, she said it with just the right inflection in her voice that everyone knew she had learned it from me. (I'm happy to report she has since cleaned up her act.)

I've been pretty good with the four letter bombs for the most part, but slipped up occasionally here and there. Helene has rolled with it, Hannah has giggled, but Ezra, he grimaces.

I don't usually like pancakes, but with home-churned butter and a dollop of apple butter, I eat up. Rachelle is picking at her berries and I slide my plate towards her. "Are you sure you don't want a bite?"

"No thank you. I still have the image of that snake in my head."

"Squeamish of a little blood? You wouldn't make it where I work. I've had people show me more injuries, broken bones, blisters, abscesses. I've been told about diarrhea, constipation, bloating gas. The dental things, okay, those get to me. But, I just nod. It's not like I can say, "Gross. Stop showing me that." No, I have to just say, "wow, that must have hurt. Hope you heal up soon." I stop as I see a new shade of green color her face.

Hannah, who up until now has been paying attention to every word I have been saying, suddenly jumps out of her seat and races for the door.

"It's the Yoders!" she says, full of childish excitement. "They've got Barney and Klem with them!"

While Hannah tells the tale of the morning, not to mention the numerous humiliating moments for Rachelle and me. I mean that little girl didn't miss a thing. She even blurted out about Rachelle's face plant and the corncob curlers. Who knows what else she might have divulged had Helene not interrupted.

It doesn't take long for the Yoders to notice us. To them, we are a circus act. They stare in disbelief. I nudge Rachelle. "Should we curtsy? I'm not used to this much attention. Help me out here."

Rachelle steps forward. "Hello, I'm Rachelle."

They introduce themselves and after a few minutes I don't feel so conspicuous. While the older Yoder girls head in to the kitchen with Helene and Rebekah, Hannah hands little metal pails to both Rachelle and I.

"Follow me," she says, then starts talking to the littlest Yoder in a low tone. With the occasional look over their shoulders, followed by some giggles, I get the feeling that they are talking about us.

"I think they're talking shit about us," I whisper.

"Stop it. They are sweet little girls. Besides the Amish don't do things like that." Rachelle assures me.

"Every kid does that. Trust me. I've been around hundreds of kids. They all laugh at adults."

"You, my friend, are acting paranoid," she says, swinging her empty pail.

"They're probably making fun of my outfit," I mutter.

Rachelle laughs and points. "I think we have stumbled on the mother-load."

I look around, checking for bears. "Just know this. Little kids are vipers. They look all sweet and innocent, but most are serial killers at heart." I'm joking, of course, I love kids, but I don't trust them as far as I can throw them.

Rachelle seems to be eating more than she's dropping in the pale, but I say nothing. She's going to pay for this indulgence in a little while because blueberries, when eaten in abundance, pillage the digestive tract. Hello corncobs.

"We need a plan B. I don't think Old Reliable is gonna get us there, even if they mange to fix it."

"I know, I know. My text went through to Chuck, finally, but he can't get anyone to cover his shift. So, he can't come help us."

"If I can use your phone, I might be able to call my cousin and get her to come pick us up. Do you have enough juice left in yours?"

I nod and pull my phone from my back pocket. "Hey, just don't talk long and use all the power. It's my only connection to the outside world. Oh, and don't tell her about the snakes. I'm betting that would be a deal breaker."

"S-s-s-s-s-s-so true," she says, a big grin plastered on her face.

Had I not been knee deep in chiggers, I might have thought it was funny. "S-s-s-s-so unfunny," I say, with the appropriate amount of vinegar in my voice. "Hurry up and make the call, Amish Allen." She might be assimilating but this southern girl is dying to get out of here.

Author Notes

No children, Amish or otherwise, were ever in danger. I really do suffer from the phobia of not having a charged phone. And the blueberry part, is very true, so you're welcome. Check out Rachelle Allen's post.

Chapter 17
Simple Gifts (Rachelle's Side)

By Rachelle Allen

     Before I punch in my cousin’s number, I formulate what I’m going to say. With so little juice left in Gretchen’s phone and no electrical outlets within who-knows-how-wide a radius, this could be our last chance of getting rescued before Wednesday, when the sheriff and doctor return to town.

        It’s as if time is standing still here. So much has happened since Old Reliable failed us, yet, in actuality, only sixteen hours have elapsed. The thought of an additional forty-eight before we can return to civilization? Better to stand in Klem and Barney’s rampaging path and save myself the torture.

        It’s not that they’re not lovely people; they totally are. They’re just not my lovely people, and the idea of another eight hours of them sleeping while I’m wide awake with no books or writing instruments wreaks havoc with my psyche. I guess, if worse came to absolute worst, I could take the Bible on the nightstand next to my bed and concoct “different endings” for several dozen stories, and then hope Simian Savant sponsors another FS contest with that heading.

        “Ready?” asks Gretchen.

        “Ready,” I say, blowing a jet of air out between my lips as if I’m Rocky Balboa getting ready to step into the ring with Apollo Creed. So much is resting on this!

        Tova’s number rings four times then goes to voice mail. “Tova,” I say, “it’s Rachelle. Gretchen and I are in big trouble, and we need help. Her car broke down, and we’re stranded in Amish country. Please, please use my car and come pick us up at #16 County Line Road in Applewood, Pennsylvania. The family who took us in are the Zimmermans. If you get lost, just knock on doors and ask for directions to their farm.

        Do NOT call this number. We’re almost out of juice, and there’s no electricity here, so we can’t re-charge the phone. Please hurry! Oh, and also, could you please bring me nice clothes and high heels because, Tova, the goats ate my beautiful hemp suitcases and everything in them, and I’m in a long Amish dress and work boots! FLAT. WORKBOOTS, Tova! Please hurry!”

        I hear the desperation in my voice and quickly end the call because, strangely, I’m on the cusp of tears. Knowing family is coming to the rescue can evoke that. We all need our tribe when life becomes chaotic.

        I can just imagine Tova laughing hysterically as she plays that message over and over, picturing me in Amish clothes. I even know that, within an hour, it will have been shared with everyone on this side of the continent. Our tribe savors ridiculousness.

        “This was no time for my husband to be away on business,” I grouse to Gretchen. “He’d have come in record time.”

        "And I'd pay big bucks to see his expression as he pulls into the Zimmermans' driveway and you come running out in this fashion statement!" says Gretchen, offering her upward-turned palms in my direction. She then proceeds to snort with abandon. I make a mental note to ask Simeon if he'd be willing to gift Gretchen with that snake head under her pillow.

        Our day of picking blueberries is broken up with a lunch of pork sausage hash: cubed potatoes, and sausage, smothered in gravy, with a side of green beans. I opt out of the former, needless to say, and have some more blueberries-and-cream with the latter. I’m calling this the Amish Farm Diet for Jewesses. Oy! I will certainly be svelte for the conference!

        Five hours of berry-picking later, it's time for dinner: ham steaks and corn fritters (fried in – did you guess? – pork grease) and snap peas in an enormous serving bowl, so I didn’t feel guilty overloading my plate. I also take an extra helping of rice pudding.

        I’m losing brownie points with Helene, though, for not eating her meals. She’s actually resorted to the Mom thing of praising Gretchen – twice, in fact! – for her “hearty appetite” Still, I’m not about to counter with, “Hey, Helene, serve chicken instead of pork for a change, and I’ll tank up, too!” They’re being so incredibly generous as it is – welcoming us into their homes and letting us co-habitate with them when we are complete and total strangers. I’m not about to explain how our cultures’ dietary laws do not mesh.

        The Yoder kids return after dinner and congregate in Rebekah and her brothers’ living room. By now, I’ve learned that the Yoder brother is Judah, the older sister, who made Solomon blush earlier, is Miriam, and the sister who gave goo-goo eyes to Simeon for beheading the snake is Grace. The little cutie who’s over playing with Hannah at her house is Elizabeth.

        Mondays are always church choir practice night at the Zimmermans’, I am told, and tonight I’ve been asked to lend my conducting and choral teaching skills to the group. It is exactly the joy I need to bring to this day.

        The Yoders are good, solid singers, and, better yet, they know how to blend. There are definitely no peacocks in this group. It’s all for one, and one for all, a choral leader’s dream. The Zimmerman siblings’ voices are absolutely exceptional, and I have an instinct where Solomon is concerned.

        As I stand in front of the group, getting ready to conduct, I say to him, “Solomon, would you please give me an ‘A.’”

        He complies at once. The others look on, perplexed, and he gives them a quizzical look. “What?” he asks.

        “How do you know that’s an ‘A’?” asks Rebekah.

        “I don’t know how I know. I just do,” is Solomon’s adorably honest answer.

        “You have perfect pitch,” I tell him. “It’s the equivalent of a photographic memory, but for sound instead of sights.”

        “Not everyone has this?” he asks, genuinely surprised.

        “Nope,” I say. “Only about one person in ten thousand does.”

        “WOW!” says Miriam and beams up at him. Solomon’s cheeks now match his very red beard and hair.

        “It’s a wonderful advantage as a choral leader,” I tell him. “I know the Amish use no instruments – only their voices – to make music. So, your having perfect pitch allows you to give the proper starting note to each section of singers. This is phenomenal!”

        I turn back to the group. “Okay,” I say. “Let me hear Amazing Grace. But you’re all in really big trouble if you make me cry.” I see smiles en masse appear before my eyes and delight in the moment.

        They are not even ten notes in when I’m covered in little jolts of electricity all over my head. Another three measures, and I’m sopping tears from my cheeks with both hands. G-d is all but palpable in this room at this perfect moment in time.

        When they finish, all I’m able to say is, “I feel like the luckiest musician on the planet right now. I will treasure this moment for the rest of my life. Thank you.”

        I re-arrange them so they’re in groups of soprano, alto, tenor and bass then have Solomon come to the front so I can show him how to conduct in ¾ time. I also demonstrate the hand motions to use for extending a phrase and how to do a proper cut-off. Then I have the group sing the piece again, this time with me conducting, then one more time with Solomon leading with his newly acquired conducting skills.

        He is a natural at it. It’s not just music he’s making; it’s magic. If he had a baton, he’d look like a wizard casting a spell over everyone within his listening audience.

        In fact, I, myself, am feeling so enchanted at this moment that I don’t care if Tova ever arrives or not. I no longer want to be rescued…though a cute fashion-forward outfit with matching high heels would certainly not take away from this heavenly feeling!

Author Notes

Although Gretchen and I are real, this road trip is complete and total fiction. Be sure to check out Gretchen's (GW HARGIS) version of this same chapter, or you'll being missing out on half the fun!

Chapter 18
Simple Gifts (Gretchen's side)

By Rachelle Allen

So far, Rachelle Allen and Gretchen Hargis have had Hargis's suburban breakdown on a lonely stretch of road in the heart of Amish country. While communication with the outside world is spotty, they have two choices. They can either wait for the sheriff and doctor to return or chance using all of their cell phone battery and trying to get in touch with Rachelle's cousin. They choose the latter.

************************************************************************************************

I watch as Rachelle punches the number for her cousin into my phone. When I last checked, I had about eighteen percent battery life left. The old me would have started panicking at forty percent, but not now. Life in Amish county changes a person. Like doing time or serving in a war, you learn what's important. Getting the hell out of here, that's the main objective.

She scrunches up her nose and lets out a frustrated breath. Apparently, Tova ain't taking calls at the moment. Rachelle takes a deep breath and when she opens her mouth, this steady stream of words comes pouring out. I hear an "oy", a couple of Yiddish sounding words that I can only assume are curse words, then she hangs up.

"How certain are you that your cousin is going to come up here?" I ask. She doesn't answer. She looks from one side to the other. Rebecca of Sunnybrook farm looks like she's going to cry. "Wait a second, are you gonna cry?"

"No. Maybe." she mumbles. "This sucks, Gretchen. No matter how nice these people are, we don't belong here."

"Thank you, Captain Obvious. Helene is nice and I love Hannah. But the Mister, I don't think he likes me much."

"Men in this culture are different."

"Understatement, Allen. Plus, it's boring as crap here. They go to bed at like eight. I can't read because they don't have electricity, I can't write, well, for the same reason I can't read. The food is good, though."

Rachelle rolls her eyes and shakes her head. Her eyes still threaten to start leaking.

"Don't start bawling, Rachelle. I don't have any corn cobs to dry your pretty eyes."

She swats at me before turning and walking away.

We carry our pails filled with blueberries back to the main house and Helene already has lunch ready. Rachelle smiles but I know she is disappointed with the offerings. She hasn't been eating much. She moves the food around her plate, takes one or two polite bites then covers her plate with her napkin. She isn't a hundred pounds soaking wet with rocks in her pockets to begin with. She could be dead by Wednesday.

I eat whatever they put on my plate. I'm enjoying the food, mainly because I haven't had to step foot in the kitchen. This southern belle hates to be in the kitchen.

After lunch, its back to the fields for Rachelle and me, led by the energetic little girls. I start picking slower and slower, not minding that I'm getting some disappointed looks from the other three. It's hot, I'm tired and itchy, I keep seeing bears in my peripheral vision, only to have them disappear when I look over. The bees have started to hang around me too long and I haven't totally forgotten the horror movie that first played in my head. "Are we done yet?" I ask.

Hannah looks in each of our buckets. She nods her approval until she gets to mine. "It's not full."

"I'm color blind, if you must know. It's really hard to see these da-dumb berries." I say, catching myself before using a bad word. "Look, I'm old and I'm tired. Can I, at least, sit down?"

Hannah takes my pail and starts picking berries. Her little fingers move fast, expertly plucking and depositing the indigo orbs as if she has been doing it all of her life. And, come to think of it, she probably has.

Rachelle, and her family, along with the older Yoder girls return to her house, leaving me at mine. I sit on the bench, having downed a couple of Tylenol from my purse with dinner. The little girls are on the floor, each playing with a corn husk doll. I lean forward, studying the handmade dolls.

"Those are so cool," I say.

Both girls look over at me, stopping mid-play as Hannah hands hers over to me.

"What happened to their faces?" I ask. The doll is faceless but still a beautiful work of art.

Helene comes over, sits on the bench beside me. "It keeps the child humble. You are supposed to see the doll for what it is on the inside, like a real person. Judging not for their outward appearance."

"I used to cut my Barbie's hair. I didn't want them to be judged for being too beautiful," I mumble as all three stare at me like I'm speaking gibberish. "Ignore that. So, if I was to tell you that you are pretty, it would be a bad thing?"

"It isn't something that I'm comfortable with, but I would not be angry," Helene says, glancing at the doll.

"Mamm made mine," Hannah says.

"Could you teach me how?"

"I can. Tomorrow, I will gather our supplies." Helene stands and nods at the girls.

The little Yoder girl, Elizabeth, whispers to Hannah, "I hope she will be better at this than she is at picking blueberries."

I wait until Helene turns away and stick my tongue out at her.

Helene walks to the front door and steps out onto the porch. "Come, girls, Gretchen, listen."

The sound of voices, sans music, come floating across the yard. The breeze carries it closer and I hear the words to Amazing Grace. I've never cared for that song, but I've never heard it sung like this before. This is beautiful. Voices, each distinct and clear, meld together. They are like wildflowers in a field, no flower prettier than the next.

I smile, knowing Rachelle who has been upset all day, is in her happy place. I look up and wink at the heavens. God knows what he's doing. I sometimes forget that.

Author Notes

Yes, it's true, I am color blind. Rare for a woman but not impossible. Yes, it's true, I do stick my tongue out at kids, but only the ones who deserve it. Yes, it's true, I don't like the song Amazing Grace. I'm sorry if that upsets anyone. Yes, it's true, sometimes I need to be reminded that God knows what He's doing. Check out Rachelle Allen's post.

Chapter 18
Plan C - Rachelle's Version

By Rachelle Allen

        It’s getting toward 7:30 when the Yoders leave. Gretchen comes over to me and says, “I need a bath. Will you walk with me to the hot springs?”

        “Of course!” I say. “Will you be doing your hair? Should we stop at the outhouse for some corn cobs?”

        She laughs for, I’m pretty sure, the first time all day. “I’ll NEVER get that image out of my mind,” she says between raucous snorts.

        “Well, then you’ll never have a totally bad, in-the-tank kind of day ever again for the rest of your life,” I say, then add, “You’re welcome.”

        We’re halfway to our destination when her phone chirps. I watch as Gretchen gapes at the screen then shrieks, “It’s Tova! She wrote ‘Coming!’!!” Then she cries out, “Oh noooo! Now I’m totally out of juice.”

        “I TOLD her not to contact us,” I grouse. “That woman never does what she’s told. Her life’s mantra has always been: You’re not the boss of me. I’m so sorry, Gretchen.”

        “It’s okay,” Gretchen says. “At least we know she’s en route. That helps.”

        “That definitely helps,” I say as we reach the hot springs. I take off my clod hopper work boots and soak my feet in the bubbling waters below. “This is so heavenly,” I say with a sigh, closing my eyes.

        “Whadd’ya think?” asks Gretchen. “I know it’s not a ruined silk leopard ‘swim dress,’ but will it do?”

        I open my eyes to discover she’s shimmied out of her cute shorts-and-shirt combo and is modeling an even cuter simple black tankini.

        “I’m telling Ezra, you Englisher strumpet, you!” I say.

        Now she’s doubling over. I love this about Gretchen; she is definitely not a wallower, and she makes the best of any situation she’s in.

        “I heard the kids singing Amazing Grace,” she says as she wades down into the hot springs. She dips under and, as she breaks the surface again, her long dark hair, now shiny-wet and clinging all over her shoulders and back, like seaweed, evokes thoughts for me of a trained Sea World performer.

        “I knew I should’ve brought along a corn cob,” I shout out to her. “You could be balancing it on your nose now and entertaining me!”

        “Allen, don’t you make me pull you under in all that Amish splendor you’re wearing,” she says in a teasing No Nonsense Mom voice.

        “The kids made me cry, they sang it so beautifully,” I admit to her.

        Gretchen says, “I don’t even like Amazing Grace, and I found myself feeling spellbound.” She begins lathering up with a big white brick of Amish-made soap.

        “You don’t like Amazing Grace?” I ask, incredulous. “Oy! Don’t ever mention that to our fellow FanStorians. They’ll have your hide for heresy of that biblical magnitude!” I continue. “All three of those sibs inherited their mother’s musical gifts. They’re just naturals.” I pause a minute then say, “I’m going to suggest to Rebekah that she come with us, Gretchen. She’s been contemplating doing Rumspringa – you know, that ‘sow your wild oats before you choose to commit yourself to the church’ thing? I’d love for her to explore some musical options.”

        “OY!” says Gretchen.

        I give her a smirk and say, “You are so bad,” and flick water at her with my big toe. “In my heart of hearts, I don’t think she’d ever leave this lifestyle – or her brothers, certainly – but I’d love for her to have another facet of music to know about besides just hymns. It could be her special treasure to hold inside and nurture forever.”

        Gretchen stops mid-armpit-scrub and says, “And to think what I was feeling excited about for this evening was the prospect of learning how to make faceless cornhusk dolls.”

That sends us on a much-needed laughing jag. If we just had a bottle of wine here, this would be the perfect Girls’ Night Out.

        Afterward, at the house, Rebekah and I are hand-stitching quilting squares again while, instead of whittling, the boys are helping Ezra with something in the barn. Out of the blue, she says, “May I hear you sing something? It doesn’t have to be a hymn. Just something beautiful that you love.”

        “Of course,” I say. “I’m going to give you the full effect of it, though. I’m going to stand and perform it as if I’m on stage and doing it for a huge audience.”

        She smiles broadly and sits up straight to give me her full attention.

        I choose my all-time favorite aria: O Mio Babbino Caro by Giacomo Puccini from the opera Gianni Schicci.

         As soon as I begin, I watch Rebekah’s eyes grow wide and her mouth form an ‘O,’ and although I’m sensing incredulity, I also get the feeling it’s laced with anguish. I continue on, somewhat pleased that the music is touching her, but my Little Voice is growing more and more unnerved. Something is amiss here.

        By the end of the first verse, Rebekah’s hands are covering her face, and she is sobbing with abandon. I stop at once and rush to sit beside her. “Sweetie, what?” I ask, completely alarmed.

        “My mamm sang that song,” she chokes out. “She studied opera during her Rumspringa, and she sang that song whenever Daede and the boys were in the fields and she and my sister and I were together.” She looks me square in the eyes. “I know that it’s a song about a girl who is singing to her father because there is a man she loves and wants to go away with. That was my mamm during Rumspringa. She met an Englisher who was a musician, and he wanted to marry her. But she knew if she did that, her Daede – and EVERYONE – would have to shun her. Our Ordinung – our laws - say that if someone leaves the Order, they have to be shunned. So, she came back home and married my Daede. She loved him, but she never forgot the Englisher.” She is inconsolable, and between her sobs, I hear her whisper, “This is just too much! I feel her here soooo much!”

        “Rebekah,” I say, wrapping her in a Mom-hug, “I think you need to come with Gretchen and me. I still have contacts and friends in the music industry in NYC, and I think you need to take the gift your mamm imbued within you and let it grow.” I can feel the dampness from her cheeks soaking through the shoulder of her mamm’s dress that I am wearing. I’ve never met or even seen a picture of the woman, but I can feel her presence so strongly at this moment that she is all but palpable.

        It cements for me the notion I expressed earlier: our being stranded here is no coincidence. Thank you, G-d, for arranging this, and you, too, Old Reliable, for your part in making this gift possible for us all.

Author Notes

I don't seem to be able to be able to share the link, but for THE most beautiful rendition of O Mio Babbino Caro, please go to YouTube, and watch ANNA NETREBKO (in a beautiful red evening gown) performing it. I guarantee you will be moved - even if you don't think you like opera!!

Chapter 19
Plan C (Gretchen's version)

By Rachelle Allen

So far, Rachelle Allen and Gretchen Hargis are headed to the Annual FanStory Convention in Atlantic City, New Jersey, when Hargis's car breaks down and leaves them stranded in Amish Country. While they try to make the best of it, both learn a lot about their hosts and a lot more about themselves.

*************************************************************************************************

Hannah and Elizabeth play together for the better part of two hours before the older Yoders come to get Elizabeth and start for home. It's so odd to watch children play when they aren't surrounded by electronics or something shiny and plastic. I think about how I used to take my own Barbie dolls and play outside with them. They were adventure-bound Barbies, but they were still store bought. I had different outfits that they could model and later I had a Ken doll who was the steady boyfriend. I'm not sure I could have had such a good time with a faceless doll. I had a good imagination, but I doubt I would have been satisfied.

Hannah hugs her friend, and I give her a no hard feelings wink so she knows I was just playing around with the whole tongue sticking out thing. She smiles almost bashfully at me.

While Helene takes Hannah upstairs to bathe and get ready for bed, I go out to find Rachelle waving goodbye to her new Amish Sorority sisters. "Do you make friends wherever you go, Rachelle?"

"I sure try. You never know when you'll meet up with them in the future. Did you have fun playing with the girls?"

"Let's put it this way. I didn't turn my back on them, the little vipers," I mutter, but smile to let her know I'm joking. "Do you feel up to escorting me to the hot springs. I'm in need of a bath. Using that bowl and pitcher only lets me hit the tourist attractions, if you know what I mean."

Rachelle laughs then hikes up her skirt as she waits for me to go grab my back pack from inside. When I come back outside, she points to the pile of corn cobs. "You want to do your hair?" As rough as today was, and as tired as I am from the manual labor of berry picking, I giggle at the memory of Rachelle waltzing in with the big Amish dress and the corn cobs wound tightly in her hair.

Rachelle knows I'm thinking about it and without missing a beat she nods and says, "You're welcome."

I hear the ding of my phone. "It's her, Tova, she's coming!" I get ready to show her the screen but the phone goes dark. "And, it's dead."

"She never did listen very well," Rachelle says. "I'm sorry."

We walk through the field to the hot springs and I look around. This girl ain't gonna shed so much as her shoes if there is anyone around. "Here goes," I say, tugging my shorts down and then pulling my t-shirt over my head. I turn coyly and let her see my bathing suit.

"Why do you have a bathing suit for this trip?"

"Some hotels have swimming pools. I didn't want to be the only one who didn't get in. You didn't pack one?"

"If I did, the goats had it for lunch."

I timidly step in and gasp as the hot water covers my feet and legs. It's not as bad as I thought so I immediately duck under to get my hair wet. It's the first time I've felt human in a while. The thick cake of soap is like a brick. It smells mildly of lavender and glides across my skin like silk.
"I've died and gone to heaven."

After twenty minutes of basting in the hot the water, I reluctantly get out of the water. "I guess its time to go back." The sun is setting. No idea what time it is since my phone is dead. Part of me is panicking inside but there is a little bit of me who is free of the clock. Free of everything that stresses me out. It actually is starting to feel good.

***********************************************************************************************

Helene is sitting on the porch when I finally part ways with Rachelle. "Did you enjoy the springs?"

"Very much. I take a bath almost every day. Sit and soak, think about the things that went on that day and just relax. Do you get to use it much?"

"Some days. We have a tub that we can fill with water in the winter. Small but nice."

"I've got to ask you. How do you not go insane living like this? I can understand Hannah and Ezra, since this is all they know, but you lived a different life."

Helene tilts her head and studies me for a while before answering. "You said you came from the city and moved to the beach. Did you love it at first?"

"No. Not at all. Despite the beauty of the beach, I was lonely and missed the conveniences of the city"

"Then why did you stay?"

I smile, thinking of my husband. It was his dream to live at the beach. His dream and not mine, but I stayed because I wanted him to be happy. "I stayed because I loved my husband. I guess it didn't matter where we ended up, as long as we ended up together."

"I would have followed Ezra to the ends of the earth. And, this really isn't a terrible place to be, is it?" Helene asks.

"No. I guess I was being narrow minded. Home is where the heart is."

Helene smiles and pats my hand. "It is getting late. Tomorrow I will teach you how to make a corn husk doll, but for now, it is time to go to bed. Sit here as long as you want, but I am going inside."

I sit on the porch for a few more minutes, finger combing my damp hair. The owls hoot softly from the woods near by and the landscape changes from a violet hue to indigo. A few lightning bugs appear and I think about home. I close my eyes and concentrate trying to imagine the sound of the waves as they crash on the beach. Miles away from me, my family is doing the things that they always do. Gosh, I miss them. I miss my husband and my dogs. I miss my children bickering over who needs to clean the bathroom they share. I open my eyes to see the lights dim next door and go inside.

Author Notes

Sorry this took so long to post. Today has been a hectic one. First, I do ask people those kinds of questions. I like to see things from their perspective. I did hate living at the beach when I first left Richmond. It was boring and winters were harsh one day and the next you'd swear you were in the Bahamas. But after the second tourist season, the fall and winter became my favorite times of year. I still love it. Check out Rachelle Allen's post.

Chapter 20
The Decision and the Aftermath

By Rachelle Allen

     In the morning, after yet another pork-based breakfast, as Gretchen and I – and our pails - head to the blueberry bushes again, I share what transpired the previous evening with Rebekah.

        “Whoa,” is about all Gretchen can say, and then I watch as her brain spins like a ferris wheel in a tornado.

        “I bet anything she’s going to go for it,” she finally says.

        “I think she almost has to, don’t you?” I say. “But do you think I should talk to Helene or wait until after Rebekah lets me know her decision? I don’t want Helene to feel as if I’ve gone behind her back to unduly influence Rebekah. But I also don’t want to say something prematurely.”

        “Yeah, that’s a tough one,” Gretchen says. “It’s just the two of them in the kitchen right now, though, so it’s pretty likely that that’s the topic of their conversation. With Helene’s history as an Englisher herself, who knows how that will influence the outcome.”

        I see her looking over my shoulder toward the road every few seconds as she’s talking to me.

        “Hey, Gretchen,” I say with a little smirk. “Just like a watched pot never boils, a watched road never brings our cavalry in the form of Tova Morgenstern.”

        Gretchen gives me the side-eye. “You’re so not funny, Allen,” she says and starts popping berries into her pail with renewed speed and defiance. She’s suddenly become an Olympian berry-picker.

        “You got a quota to make before Helene agrees to teach you the fine art of cornhusk doll-making or something?” I ask.

        “I hope Tova’s bringing masking tape for across your mouth,” says Gretchen. It seems the lack of cell phone accessibility has made my little Southern belle all kinds of surly this morning.

        “RACHELLE!” I hear Helene call from the house. “May I please speak with you a moment?”

        Gretchen and I gape at each other between the bush we’re sharing.

        “Uh-ohhhhh!” says Gretchen, her eyebrows high. “Someone’s about to get a paddlin’ from the principal!”

        I drop my bucket and head toward the house.

        Rebekah is nowhere to be seen. I step lightly across the threshold, stupidly imagining that somehow that will soften the impact of what’s about to transpire.

        Helene is whisking eggs with such ferocity that they’re practically becoming meringue-like in their frothiness.

        With no preamble, she says, “So, Rebekah informs me that she’s going to New York City with you to receive musical training from contacts you still have there?”

        I take a moment to absorb the enormity of this. She’s actually accepted my offer? Oy.

        “We did talk about it last night,” I say softly to her back, feeling exactly as Gretchen described it – as if I am a bad child in the principal’s office.

        “You’ve made quite the impression on her in less than forty-eight hours,” she says, then punctuates it with a sardonic huff.

        I choose not to respond to the challenge she’s just laid at my feet.

        “What do you possibly get out of this, Rachelle? Are you some great savior in your eyes, whisking her away to a better, brighter world?

        I sense her sharp edge is underwritten with agony. There is no question but that she is teetering on the precipice of tears here.

        “No, honestly, Helene. It’s nothing like that whatsoever.” I walk to where she’s standing so that she has to face me. “I do not believe in coincidences.” I let that sink in a moment before I plead my case to her. “Here I am, a musician – an opera singer with flaming red hair, no less – rescued by you and your family who, just a month earlier, lose a beloved member with red hair and opera training she acquires during Rumspringa. Doesn’t that feel like G-d’s hand upon all of our shoulders?”

        Rather than responding, Helene whisks her bowl of eggs faster still. “And how about this, Helene: out of all the countless arias I have in my repertoire, the one I choose to sing for Rebekah, when she asks to hear me perform, is the only one she knows…because her own mamm – who I look like – sang it to her whenever the three females of the family were alone together. There’s no WAY that’s a coincidence, Helene. No. Way.”

        Helene’s cheeks are now glistening with tears.

        “She’s supposed to go with us. It cannot be more obvious that this is G-d’s plan here.”

        I tug the bowl and fork from Helene’s grip and place them onto the counter. Then I hold her hands in mine, look her square in the eyes, and say, “I will take the utmost care of her, Helene. You have my word on that. She will be safe, and she will be immersed in music programs that will enhance her joy and depth.”

        At this point, Helene is wracked with sobs. “I am so afraid we’ll lose her,” she says with a tone so sorrowful I feel a catch in my own throat.

        “I understand that,” I say. “But that’s not who she is. I’ve known her only two days, and even I know that.”

        Helene uses her apron to stanch the flow on her cheeks. “But she’s so vulnerable right now,” she insists. Coldness has returned to her tone, and it feels like both an accusation and a hard slap. Then she adds softly, as if she’s surrendering to her enemy, “And honestly, you can’t believe how much you look like my sister-in-law, her mamm.”

        “No such thing as coincidences,” I repeat with a softness that matches hers. We hold each others’ eyes a long moment before I say, “She needs this to connect to her mamm and to fuel the gift she inherited from her.”

        I’m feeling the need to hug her. But just as I take the step forward to do that, the kitchen door clatters open, and there stands my wonderful partner in road-trip mayhem with an overflowing bucket of blueberries in each hand.

        “Recess is over, Allen!” she says. “I did the pickin’, so now YOU get to do the washin’!”

        I adore this girl. She surmised that I needed the cavalry and quickly went into high gear on my behalf. She’s not just a gifted writer, but a true-blue champion of a friend, as well. She is worth a hundred million times her weight in corn cobs!

Author Notes

Although Gretchen and I have become friends through the co-writing of this novel, we have never met in real life, let alone traveled together on a road trip! There are many other truths that are woven into this tale, though - like that I was an opera singer in NYC, have flame-red hair, and know how to pick blueberries. The other truth is that Gretchen is a bona fide smart-ass. Nurturing and a true-blue friend, mind you, but a smart-ass.

Chapter 21
The Decision and the Aftermath

By Rachelle Allen

So far, Rachelle Allen and Gretchen Hargis, are still relying on the kindness of strangers after the Suburban breaks down. Rachelle has mentioned to Rebekah that she should think about coming with them and being dropped off at a voice coach for the remainder of the convention. The suggestion is met with mixed reviews.

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I ease up on breakfast this morning. I know I will be nibbling on those fat juicy blueberries shortly and I've noticed that having such heavy meat-laden meals are starting to mess with my sleep. They aren't keeping me up, but my dreams are becoming a tad worrisome. I won't divulge what they are about, until after I can get an appointment with a therapist. I always thought anxiety and stress were the same thing. I see them now as two very different components of my personality. I don't really have any stress right now. I have a roof over my head, meals prepared for me, and no contact with the outside world. Prison, if you will, except there is no one named Roxie trading me for a pack of cigarettes.

After Rachelle gets summoned to the house, I stand alone at the edge of the woods, plucking dew kissed berries like it's my job. Not really sure how Hannah got out of doing it, but in a way, I'm glad I'm alone. Gives me much needed time to think. I brought a small canvas bag with me today, inside is my notebook and a pen. I check to make sure the pails are almost full and finally sit down. I pull out the book, and caress the stately Bic crystal black ink pen in my hand. I haven't gone this long without writing in a while. It feels selfish to stop picking and just sit.

The Amish don't really ever rest. They wake, take care of animals, eat, work, work some more, eat again, do nightly chores, read the Bible, then go to bed. It's a very purposeful life. So, sitting here, letting myself indulge my passion for a few minutes, seems naughty.

I think about my character Miranda and how she would react. I tell her to go away, because if she shows up we will definitely get escorted out of the compound. But, Rachelle's excitement over her bond with Rebekah, just might do us in, as well. The tone of Helene's voice hinted at her mood. I scribble my first line down:

Contrary to popular belief, the Amish do get pissed off. It ain't all corn cobs and smiles.
Today, my little friend, Rachelle, is getting a taste of that first hand. I can only imagine her
turning on her Jewish mother setting and shaking her long suffering head and muttering "Oy
vay." I can all but guarantee that will not help the situation.

I tap the end of my pen on my chin and feel the creative juices starting to bubble uncontrollably. I put the tip of the pen to the paper again ready to continue.

Rachelle has been summoned to big house. She may or may not return. I wonder if her
New Yorkitude (New York attitude) will work out in her favor. In my humble opinion, it will
probably blow up in her face. I've seen her use it once on this trip. Poor lady at Dunkin
Donuts didn't know what hit her. It was fascinating. Being Southern, we don't accost people
verbally. We leave you scratching your head as to what we really mean when we say bless
your heart. It can mean many, many things.

I stop writing, pausing to look towards the direction of the house, hoping I don't see Rachelle with a hobo's bag at the end of a stick over her shoulder. I decide to hurry up and finish this little masterpiece and reluctantly go to her rescue.

So, in conclusion, I, knowing nothing about this world I was recently thrust in, now realize
one thing. We are all just people. People trying to get along, trying to make a difference.
We are trying to be a part of something without encroaching too much. People are
different.
As a writer, that knowledge puts a lot of possibilities out there. It's an endless source of
materials. Being smack dab in the middle is a very different problem. Should you
assimilate or remain your original self? That's something to think about.

I recap my pen and close the notebook and slip them back in my bag. I feel like a new person. My anxiety and stress are snoozing for the moment.

"Okay, Hargis, you've had your fix. Get your ass up and go try to pull Allen out of that hole she's dug for herself."

I brush the grass and leaves off of the back of my shorts, gather the buckets and my bag, then head for the house.

************************************************************************************************

The house is quiet and I raise my fist to knock, but think better of it. Surprise is always better. So, in true Gomer Pyle fashion, I throw open the door and look a teary eyed Rachelle in the eye. "I did the majority of picking, so roll up your sleeves and start washing. As for me, I'm going to walk my happy butt to the springs to soak my feet."

I can tell by the look of both women, they are thankful for my interruption. I wink at Rachelle, give her a mock salute and call out over my shoulder, "See ya', losers!"

Author Notes

I do find if I can write for a few minutes every day my stress and anxiety level do go down. Writing takes me away better than Calgon. I do say bless your heart and it does mean a lot of different things. Check out Rachelle Allen's post.

Chapter 22
Regular People and Others

By Rachelle Allen

So far, Rachelle Allen and Gretchen Hargis are en route to Atlantic City to the FanStory Writers' Convention. Hargis's car breaks down in the heart of Amish country and with no way to call for help, they are guests there until the doctor and sheriff can return. Miraculously, they manage to get two messages out. One to Gretchen's husband and the other to Rachelle's cousin, Tova. No they wait for Tova to arrive.

************************************************************************************************

I probably shouldn't have left Rachelle there with Helene. They both seem to be very strong personalities, but I did what I thought needed to be done. I took their attention off of the problem and then retreated.

The hot springs simmer in the early afternoon sun. I sit down and kick off my flip flops, then stick my legs into the water. I look around at the sky and the tall grasses of the field. It's beautiful here, like a painting that someone would hang in their office. But it isn't home. I miss home. I miss having to shake the sheets free of sand before climbing into bed, and seeing the ocean waves crest as I hit the top of the hill leaving my neighborhood.

I rest for a few minutes then get up and head back to the house.

I'm about to come around when I hear voices, low and intimate, but not a good intimate. There is a tension that you could cut with a knife. I recognize Helene's voice, then after a second I realize she's talking to Ezra.

"I like them. That doesn't mean I want that life again."

"They teach our daughter their ways. Now they will take Rebekah with them."

"It is her choice, Ezra. You had this opportunity as well. We can not keep her if she wants to go. We must trust that she will make the right choice."

He sighs in exasperation. "These English, they are loud and ill mannered. She will be blinded by the lies the world offers."

Helene chuckles dryly. "I was English, or have you forgotten? Did I lie to you? Did I try to get you to leave your ways? No. I gave up everything for you. We must put this in God's hands. Rebekah is a good girl. She deserves the chance to see what she will be giving up, no matter what her decision is."

Ezra comes storming past me as he rounds the barn. He locks eyes with me and I give him a coward's smile.

"Morning," I say, then look past him for Helene. She must have gone back to the house, so I turn and watch his retreating back as he walks away.

I think about how dismissive he is of Rachelle and me. I can understand his fear but I don't like his judgement. I'm not a confrontational person by nature. Most of the time I let a lot slide. Either the person who has offended me is of little importance to me, or they're an idiot and I don't have time to waste on stupid people. But from what I can tell, Erza isn't an idiot.

"Hey, Ezra, got a second? Well, actually, this might take more than a second. Rachelle's cousin is on her way to bring us another car. That's the good news ... for you."

He nods and looks away.

"I'm not a bad person. Rachelle isn't a bad person. We are English. In your eyes, that is a bad thing apparently. But to me, it just means we're different. I'm no better than you, and you're no better than me."

He starts to walk off, but my little soliloquy has just begun. "I'm a mother. I have four kids. They don't go around singing Amazing Grace, heck, they haven't been to church in years, but they are good people. I am a good person. Rachelle teaches children music. She listens to children, hears what they are saying and loves every minute she spends with them. If Rebekah decides to go with us, you can rest assured that she will have two mothers who will look out for her and keep her safe."

He nods again, his lips pressed together in a tight line. "Very well," he says.

I start to go but think about what I overheard. "By the way. Helene would go to the moon to live with you, if you asked her to. She has no regrets about choosing this life. She loves you."

This time I don't wait for an answer. I walk away and head to the house. Dust is swirling down the driveway. I squint, thinking either a buggy is coming down the lane at break neck speed or it's a car.

Wait, it's a car plus one!

"Rachelle," I scream. "She's here!"

By the time I make it to the front of the barn, I see Rachelle, Helene, Hannah and the boys all out in the yard. The closer the cars get, chickens start squawking and running around like its feeding time.

I feel like I'm gonna start crying. I'm getting out of here. Thank God, soon I'll be able to take a hot shower, watch television, charge my phone. Soon, I'll be heading back to the twenty-first century and I can't wait.

The cars come to a stop and a middle aged woman steps out. She looks like she's dressed for a sophisticated event not an Amish farm in the middle of nowhere. She lowers her over sized shades and looks at Rachelle. "Oy vay, Rachelle you look mashugana."

Immediately, Rachelle runs over to hug her. "Tova, you're an angel."

I turn to find Ezra standing at the edge of the barn, a small smile on his normally stoic face. He looks happy, for this first time since we've been here. Ezra looks as happy as I feel. I can't resist smiling brightly at him and giving him a thumbs up.

Then as Tova and Rachelle are embracing and talking in Yiddish/English, I watch as the occupant of the other car gets out. She has tight curls that are the color of Old English furniture oil. She looks from them to me, smiling like she's watching an episode of "The Waltons".

Why is my gut sending me signals that all is not well?

Author Notes

I stand by my statement about not engaging with idiots or people who don't matter to me. You can have your opinion, I won't make you defend it and you can bet if it's different than mine, I'll be okay with that. I have no idea if an Amish man would even listen to a woman who is English. This is what I'm calling artistic license. Hope you enjoyed this.

Chapter 23
Regular People and Others

By Rachelle Allen

        As soon as Gretchen deposits her pails of blueberries onto the floor and breaks the grip of Helene's and my discussion, she and her flip-flops leave again. I can hear them receding rhythmically in the direction of the hot springs. That oasis has definitely been the saving grace of our existence here.

        As if on cue, Ezra comes in, gives Helene a look, and she follows him out the door. I heave the pails of blueberries onto the massive wooden table between the windows and the well-water pump that stands, like a sentinel, in the middle of kitchen and set to work cleaning Gretchen’s impressive haul.

        It’s wonderful to be alone. I immediately begin to indulge in one of my favorite control-freak pastimes: making a To Do list. This one is subtitled “Once Tova Arrives.”

1. Call Bobby, world’s sweetest husband, who must be crazed with worry about now. We never, in our twenty-five years together, have gone this long without checking in with each other.
2. Call Maria Antinarelli, New York City voice coach extraordinaire, to secure Rebekah’s spot for the next several weeks.
3. Give Rebekah the low-down on what to expect from her music-fueled Rumspringa experience.
4. Get a phone for Rebekah and teach her how to use it.
5. Take her shopping for “modern” clothes.
6. Get to the FanStory International Convention in New Jersey by Friday at 6 p.m., when Mrs. KT delivers the “Welcome” address.

        Every time I stop using the hand pump, I can hear the muffled sounds being lobbed back and forth, like a tennis ball in a heated match, between Helene and Ezra. Although I can’t discern even one of the actual words they are saying, the staccato deliveries they’re using and the ever-rising volume and pitch make it obvious it is not love-talk going on out there. I am reminded of Poor Richard’s Almanac and the quote: Fish and visitors stink after three days. We arrived Sunday, and now it is Tuesday. Yep, ol’ Ben Franklin nailed it yet again.

        A few minutes later, Helene returns to the kitchen. We lock eyes only the briefest of moments before she quickly retreats to the root cellar. Oy. The mayhem my presence has evoked here!  G-d, please; am I doing the right thing?

        Another second later, I hear Gretchen scream my name, followed by the sweetest words imaginable: “SHE’S HEEEEEERE!!!!”

        I run as fast as my flat Amish work boots will carry me, straight into the welcoming arms of my g-ddess/cousin.

        “TOVA!!!!! You’re an ANGEL!” I shriek.

        We squeeze each other hard, and I suddenly realize I’m soaking her beautiful butterscotch-colored coif with my tears. She holds me at arm’s length, lowers her big designer sunglasses and gasps. “Oy vey! You look meshugana!”

        I glance from my long, shapeless blue dress, replete with wet muslin apron, to Tova’s Ralph Lauren zebra-striped silk sweater set and black Halston wrap-around mid-length skirt and ask, between pathetic snuffles, “Did you bring me nice clothes?”

        “Yes, yes, Bubbelah,” she says. “Not to worry. You’re safe now.”

        “And high heels?” I ask in a voice so high and pathetic I would never guess it to be mine.

        “Yes, Bubbelah.” Tova pats my hair. “Jimmy Choos, your favorite! And, best of all, they were on SALE!”

        “I love you,” I say and have never meant those three words more in my entire life.

        I come out of my reverie enough to notice the various reactions from those who’ve gathered ‘round. Ezra is actually smiling (who knew he even had teeth?), Rebekah and her brothers are agape, Helene is hollow-eyed and motionless as Hannah hugs her waist and gazes up at her, and Gretchen is giving a side-eye to a woman I don’t recognize who has a headful of dark ringlets and is leaning against the vehicle that’s parked behind my Mercedes.

        In the words of author Maurice Sendak: Let the wild rumpus start!

Chapter 25
Goodbyes and Jane (Gretchen)

By Rachelle Allen

So far, Rachelle Allen and Gretchen Hargis are on their way to the FanStory Writers' Convention in Atlantic City, New Jersey when Hargis's suburban breaks down. Luckily, an Amish family comes to their rescue. With no cell service to speak of, the women are stuck until the local sheriff returns. But, as luck would have it, they manage to get two calls out. One to Hargis's husband and the other to Rachelle's cousin, Tova. At long last, Tova comes through and brings Rachelle's fancy new car. Well, that and a friend.

************************************************************************************************

Tova finally releases her embrace of Rachelle and calls over her shoulder, "Manny, pop the trunk!"

I glance to see a man, in the driver's seat, reading a paper like he's waiting for his wife to run into the store for bread, not someone who has driven a couple hundred miles to rescue two women. The soft click of the trunk release is almost soothing. This vehicle doesn't whinny or neigh. It runs on fuel not hay and oats.

Rachelle squeals with delight as Tova pulls a shiny white suitcase out of the opened trunk. "This should be everything you need. I took the liberty of adding a few extras, you know, things that will make my Rachelle smile."

The other lady, still engrossed in the scene starts walking towards me. "Hi, I'm Jane. Jane Babies."

"Gretchen," I say, looking around awkwardly.

"German. I guess that's okay. Any Nazis in your family?"

I stare at her. That was quite the ice breaker. I can't tell if she's teasing or really inquiring so I play it safe. "None that I know of, but there's always hope, isn't there?"

Jane's eyes widen for half a second then she throws her head back and laughs. Not just laughs, but snorts and slaps my arm playfully. "You're a hoot, missy, you are funny. This is going to be a fun trip."

That's when the bottom off my stomach dropped out. What trip? Not the trip Rachelle and I are taking? No, how could this be? Surely, Rachelle would have mentioned this to me earlier, had she known. I try to summon Rachelle's attention telepathically, but, apparently, you can't get a signal through when a Jewish woman is talking about clothes or shoes.

"What trip?" I ask.

"To the convention, silly. I just joined Fanstory and well, Tova told me about you guys and I thought, what the heck, this would be a hoot."

"A hoot, huh? Not quite the word I was thinking," I mumble. I excuse myself with the mention of having to pack my bag and head to the house. As I pass Rachelle I hiss in her ear, "Allen, we need to talk."

She gives me a forced smile. "I just heard. We can talk in a few. Just understand I had no idea."

*************************************************************************************************

I sit on the edge of the bed and draw in some steadying breaths. I am a self proclaimed creature of habit. They joke at work about who has to tell me there are going to be changes in the pharmacy. Whoever draws the short straw and has to break the news to me, usually comes armed with smelling salts and a paper bag for me to hyperventilate into. Having this Jane woman show up and proclaim she is hitting the road with us, has sent me into a tizzy. I had the day to get used to the thought that Rebekah was coming.

But this lady gives me the heebie jeebies. My gut is never wrong. If my red flag detector goes off, there is good reason. I go to the window and stand just to the side, watching as Rachelle and Tova and the man named Manny talk. The lady, Jane, just off to the side, dancing like she's hearing music in a disco. (And, let's be honest, this whackadoodle just might have her own DJ in her head.)

A noise from the doorway makes me turn. There stands Hannah. "Hey, you come to help me pack?"


Hannah smiles and steps timidly into the room. "I'm glad God sent you and Miss Rachelle to us."

Not one to get those mushy gushy feelings, her comment made me warm up inside. "Well, thank you, Hannah. I think God likes to put people in your life when you need them the most. Apparently, I needed y'all."

"My mamm gets lonely sometimes. She liked having you here."

"I liked talking with her. I'm sorry we didn't get to make those corn husk dolls. I was really looking forward to that."

Hannah smiles brightly. "Wait here." She runs out of the room and down the stairs. I go back to the window and see Rachelle talking to Jane. She's nodding her head yes, over indulging this woman with attention. And Jane is eating it up. She is throwing her hands around, and I can just tell she's talking, no make that bragging about herself.

"Here," Hannah says coming to stand beside me. When I look down, I see what she's holding. It's her very own corn husk doll. "You can have her."

"What? I don't want to take your doll, Hannah. What will you play with?"

"Mamm will make me a new one."

Her generosity is almost overwhelming. "Thank you, Hannah. I will treasure this. I have a hutch in my dining room where I keep things that mean a lot to me. This will go on it as soon as I get back home. Can I name her?"

Hannah nods.

"I think I'll call her Hannah. I think that's the perfect name for her. What do you think?"

Her blush says it all.

**********************************************************************************************

After Tova and Manny climb back in their car, it's just Rachelle, Rebekah. Jane and me. Rachelle tells Rebekah to say her final farewell to her family. She hands me her keys and opens the back door. "Just remember, this is my baby. Please be careful."

I smile devilishly. "How fast can this baby go?"

Jane hurries to the front passenger side. "Shotgun!" she yells.

I clench my jaw and send a side eye glance at Rachelle.

"I know," Rachelle whispers. "This is all just part of the detour."

Author Notes

This fictitious Jane is based on no real person, living or dead. The hutch is real and it's where I keep my treasured things. And, no, there are no Nazis in my family tree. Besides, if there were, do you think I would ever admit it to Rachelle?

Chapter 26
Goodbyes and Jane (Rachelle)

By Rachelle Allen

     After I’ve stopped crying with relief and hugging my cousin/rescuer, Tova, she shouts to her husband of forty-five years, who’s sitting serenely in the driver’s seat, reading a newspaper. “Manny! Open the trunk!”

        I am reminded of one of my favorite jokes ever: Little Manny comes home from Hebrew school play auditions, and his mother asks, “Well? Did you get a part?”

        “Yes!” replies little Manny. “I am playing the part of a Jewish husband!”

        His mother frowns and says, “You march yourself back to that school right this minute and tell them you want a SPEAKING part!”

        Tova escorts me to the trunk of my brand new car, and there lies a gleaming white trunk-sized suitcase, replete with a handle and wheels.

        “This should be everything you need,” she tells me. “I took the liberty of adding a few extras to make my sweet Rachelle smile.”

        “I love you so much,” I say. “And you know I will NEVER forget this kindness.”

        “I know. Just pay it forward, Sweetheart. You’re always so good about that.”

        We’re about to start another round of hugs when Tova’s ringleted friend approaches.

        “OHHH! MYYYY! GAWWWWWWWD!” she gushes. “I cannot believe I am actually getting to meet youuuuuu! Tova talks about you ALLLLLL. THE. TIIIIIIIIIIIME!”

        I am already cringing at her syntax. People who draw out their words make me want to shake them.

        “Remember meeeee?” Her voice is extra loud and exuberant. “Jane Babies? We met last weeeeeeek when you were visiting Tovaaaaaa?” She splays her arms wide for emphasis and pushes her face up close to mine, with her eyebrows raised high and her mouth open clownishly wide.

        I know there is no way in the world I’d have been able to forget meeting her, yet nothing is registering. I smile as graciously as I can muster and say, “I’m so sorry, Jane; I must be having a Senior Moment!”

        “Noooooo! You remember! I was on Zoom with Tova, and you were heading into the kitchennnnnn?”

        It was a less-than-one-second viewing, and no introductions were exchanged.

        “Afterward, I said to Tova, ‘Tova! Your cousin looks like a movie starrrrrr!’ And that’s when she told me about FanStory and how you and Gretchen – who I just met, by the way, and is she HILARRRRRRRIOUS! – were on your way to the FanStory International Convention in Jersey. So, just like that, I joined FanStory, too, so I would get to meet you!”

        I am suddenly feeling so unbearably queasy.

        “Wait. You’re going to the convention, too?” I ask.

        “Yes! When Tova told me about you getting stranded here and how she and Manny were coming to rescue you, I said, ‘Well, Tova! This is PERRRRRRRFECT! I’ll go with you to rescue them, and then I’ll hitch a ride the rest of the way to Jersey!’”

        “Oh BOYYYYY!” I say with a clenched faux smile then turn to give Tova dead eyes. I watch her register at once that I am no longer indebted to her.

        “Well, Manny and I need to get back to Baltimore,” she says quickly. “I hope the rest of your trip goes smoothly.” She gives me another tight hug and whispers “She does not take ‘no’ for an answer. I’m so, so sorry.” She lets me go then and calls over her shoulder, “I love you, Rachelle.”

        “I love you back,” I say, because, really, she has always been my favorite cousin. “Bye, Manny!” I add loudly. He turns and waves as he escorts Tova to their car behind mine and opens the door for her.

        Back in my room, I open my vast new trunk and am mesmerized at all the sartorial treasures Tova has bestowed. I choose a cherry red one with a cinched waist, full skirt and scalloped hemline. There’s a wide black belt and black-and-red high heels to accessorize and THE cutest black beret with a red ostrich plume. My heart sings.

        Rebekah stands at my open doorway with a look that’s an amalgam of excitement and trepidation.

        “Having doubts?” I ask her.

        “Not doubts,” she says. “Just some guilt. Solomon and Simeon seem sad and worried, and Helene is trying to be gracious, but her eyes are so sad.”

        “I know,” I say.

        “I think she’s worried I’ll fall for an Englisher like my mamm did.”

        “It’s her job to worry, Rebekah. She loves you and never wants anything bad to befall you. But she also knows Gretchen and I will never let that happen. It’ll be fine, Sweetie. The pain you’re all feeling is because there’s so much love between you all.”

        Two huge tears roll down her cheeks.

        “But you’ll be growing the gift G-d gave you, and that’s important.”

        “Tell me again about this woman I’ll be staying with,” says Rebekah.

        “Her name is Maria Antinerelli. She lives in Babylon, New York, which is a suburb of Long Island. Her grandmother was a New York City opera diva, who was MY teacher. Then, in her teens and twenties, Maria studied opera from me, and now you’re going to study under her tutelage! She does this as a business – trains teenagers while they live there in her home. But since it’s summer right now, she has no students there. So, this will be perfect. You will be able to get her complete and total undivided attention.”

        “Does she know I’m Amish?”

        “I will be speaking with her once we’re on the road and I can plug my phone into the port in my car.”

        I head back to my suitcase. “That reminds me,” I say. “Tova brought me an extra phone, but I don’t need it. So, this will be yours. I’ll teach you how to use it once we’re on our way.”

        Rebekah gapes at the modern-looking device and blinks several times.

        “All becoming pretty real now, right?”

        She nods, and I’m sure it’s so I don’t hear the tears that would be the undertow in her speaking voice.

        “I just want to say that the woman who came with my cousin? She’s coming along, too. She actually invited herself, and I’m pretty sure she’s odd.” I give Rebekah a wry look then add, “I know what you’re thinking: this from the woman who, just two days ago, came from the outhouse with corn cobs in her hair?”

        This gets her giggling.

        I zip up my trunk, and we head downstairs. Helene, Hannah, Ezra and the boys are all waiting in the living room to hug Rebekah one last time. I watch them each surreptitiously press a thick fold of bills into her palm then head outside to give them their privacy and put my suitcase into the trunk of my car.

       Gretchen meets me en route and, like a ventriloquist in a library, whispers, “That nut job is going with us!”

      “I know,” I answer back with my own motionless ventriloquist lips. “I had no idea. I guess this means that the detour continues.”

        “IIIIIIIIIIIIII CALLLLLL SHOTGUNNNNNNNN!” we hear the nut job shout.

Author Notes

In the "true in real life" column this week, my own opera teacher was Lois Antinerelli, and she was, indeed, a NYC diva. I, though, did not teach her granddaughter.

Chapter 27
Stranger Danger

By Rachelle Allen

        Gretchen is behind the wheel of my car, because I never forgot her confession of how she vomits if she’s in the passenger seat. Jane – you know, because she “called it” – is riding shotgun, and Rebekah and I are in the oh-so-roomy back seat of my brand new Mercedes luxury sedan. We leave Amish Country and make our way to Long Island and the boarding school for aspiring opera singers, run by my own former student, Maria Antinerelli.

        After I phone her to arrange it all, I call my husband, Bobby, to update him on all that’s happened since Sunday and what’s on the current day’s agenda.

        As I begin to teach Rebekah how to use her new phone, Jane takes the opportunity to say, “Now that I’m a new member of FanStory, I’ve begun to write poetry. Let me read you a few of my favorites so far. Rachelllllllllle? Are you and Rebekah listeningggggg?”

        We exchange bemused looks, Rebekah and I, and I say, “Oh, yes, Jane, by all means. Let’s hear these masterpieces!”

        Jane adds, “Because, you knowwwwww, I used to write poems alllllll the time in college. Did Tova tell you thaaaaaaat?”

        “No,” I say. And because she’s just annoyed me by extending her words in a way that sounds like a goat – an animal I now hate – I ask sweetly, “Did you graduate together? 1970, right?”

        Gretchen gives me Wise Eyes in her rearview mirror, and, in my periphery, I see Rebekah covering her teeth with her lips.

        “Stilllllllllllll. It was good enough to survive the test of tiiiiiiiiiime,” Jane replies.

        Oy. If Google Maps is correct, it will be another three hours and thirty-one minutes before we arrive in Long Island. There is not enough Calgon – or chocolate – on the planet to take me away from this whiny, annoying speech pattern.

        “Okayyyyyyy!” says Jane. “Here’s the first one. It’s called ‘Luscious.’

        Your plump lips

        Seek my awaiting mouth---”

        “Um, JANE!” I break in, a little more emphatically than I intended. “Anything G-rated you can share?”

        “What?” Jane asks. “Whyyyyyy?”

        “Well, because Rebekah is (a) sixteen and (b) Amish, so we need to be respectful here.”

        Gretchen’s face in the rearview mirror is now Pepto Bismal pink from suppressing laughter. I’m just grateful she hasn’t been consuming a beverage because I know for a fact that, if she had, it would be geysering from her nostrils right now.

        Jane sighs heavily and roots around in her spiral-bound notebook. “Fiiiiiiiiine,” she says in a tone that makes it oh-so intentionally clear that fine isn’t even marginally the case.

        “This one’s PG,” she says. “Readyyyyyyyy?”

        Gretchen mouths ‘no’ at me in the mirror.

        “It’s called ‘Consummation.’

        Approach me in all your naked splendor---”

        “YO!!! JANE!!” I squawk. “What does ‘PG’ stand for in your world? Pretty Graphic?”

        “Oy veyyyyyy!” she responds.

        “Yeah, well, right back atcha!” I say with my No Nonsense Teacher edge. How is Tova friends with this woman?

        Rebekah begins to rock a bit and rapidly whispers The Lord’s Prayer.

        “Hey, Gretchen!” I say. “Let’s listen to some music! It’s already set to the Classical station.”

        But even with that distraction, every twenty minutes or so, Jane announces a poem she’s found in her trove that she’s deemed okay for young audiences. But every single time, I have to shut her down by the end of the first line. This is starting to feel like a Tik Tok prank, the online jokes people play on unsuspecting others for the purpose of getting viewers.

        This new detour is so much worse than the original one! Thanks, Tova! I’ll be in touch; don’t you worry about THAT!

        Finally, after about ninety minutes, Gretchen suggests we stop at a mall so that we can find some contemporary clothes for Rebekah. That’s how dire this is: my friend Gretchen, who could not care less about clothes, has volunteered to find an entirely new wardrobe for a sixteen-year-old she’s known three days. Surely Armageddon awaits at the next rest stop!

        A mall appears relatively soon, and Gretchen pulls into a parking space. As we pile out and stretch, my phone dings, and I see that Gretchen has texted me.

        “Pleeeeeeease can’t we lose her somewhere in the mall and then just ditch her altogetherrrrrr? When the authorities question us, we’ll claim we simply forgot she’d been on the triiiiiiiiiip.”

        “Sooo tempting,” I text back. “But she knows our final destination and will be there with a poison dart gun. I’ll talk to her privately if you take Rebekah shopping.”

        “GLADLY!!!” She texts back.  

        “Bet you never in your life imagined that that would be your preference over any other choice offered, did you?”

        “Never.”

        “Okay,” I say. “Rebekah, in an effort to make you look like a normal, regular sixteen-year-old rather than a frou-frou Barbie princess, Gretchen wants to be your personal shopper. But you have final say over everything you choose.”

        Her eyes light up. I hand Gretchen my VISA and say, “No limit today.”

        “No!” says Rebecca at once. “My family gave me money, and I had money saved, too.”

        “This is on me,” I say. “Save your money for when you’re in Long Island.”

        She actually hugs me, and I want to give Gretchen my Amex Platinum card, too. “Meet back here in ninety minutes?” I ask.

        “Perfect,” says Gretchen.

        Jane and I watch them disappear into the west entrance to the mall, and I am convinced I see a spring in Rebekah’s step.

        “Shall we go shopping, toooooo?” Jane asks. “I love that hat you’re wearingggggg. I’d like to get one exactly like it!”

        I stop abruptly to just stare at her. “Seriously?” I ask. “Don’t you think that would look a bit peculiar? The two of us in matching black berets with red ostrich plumes?”

        “Well, those Guardian Angel people all used to wear red bereeeeeeets!” she says.

        “Yeah, and the Army guys wear green ones, but you and I don’t belong to an organized group.”

        “FANSTORY!” she reminds me at once.

        “Okay, but this is not a FanStory beret. You understand that, Jane, right?” I am incredulous that we are even having this absolutely stupid conversation. I feel like I’m Alice, this is Wonderland, and I have fallen down the rabbit hole.

        “Heyyyyy!” says Jane. “Now that we’re by ourselves with no, you know, impressionable minor in our midst, can I read you one of my poemmmmmms?”

        I know I won’t be able to hold her off for eighty-six minutes, so I relent, generously taking one for the team.

        She extracts a sheath of rumpled notebook pages from her oversized handbag then jockeys them into a single jumble.

        “This one is called ‘Screw Me Like You Meeeeeeean It,” she announces to anyone within earshot, and all I can think is I miss my Amish life more than I ever would have imagined.

        When she finishes, she gives me the haughty, triumphant stare of a prima donna who feels she’s just given a world-class performance. “Wellllllllll?” she asks.

        “When we get to the convention,” I tell her, “the first person I want you to meet is Lancellot.” Then I add, “Jane, please promise me that you won’t read any more of these while Rebekah’s in the car. Can you do that for me?”

        She gives me the angry pout of a six-year-old deprived of ice cream.

        “I will be so very appreciative if you could do that,” I add with a kind smile and warm, loving eyes that I so seriously do NOT mean.

        “Wellllllll, okayyyyyyyy,” she finally says.

        “Oh, you are such a sweetie,” I say and suddenly have an epiphany. Her name may be Jane Babies, but her strangeness reminds me of Baby Jane, the psychopathic character played by Bette Davis in the movie where she keeps her disabled sister captive in their house.

        I get a head-to-toe shiver.

        “Heyyyy!” I shout, then feel immediately chagrined that now I, too, am drawing out my words. “Let’s go into the mall and get some coffee! There’s bound to be a big crowd in the food court!”

        So as not to be too spectacularly obvious about my motive, I quickly add, “We can people-watch!”

        I’m so spooked by the Baby Jane aspect right now, I don’t even wait for a response. Instead, I hustle toward the mall entrance while fervently hoping she doesn’t follow me in. Gretchen’s idea to ditch her was spot-on. This woman is certifiable.

        I text Gretchen: “Nutjob Jane and I are in the Food Court. Meet us there.” Then, just for good measure, I add: “Jane Babies/Baby Jane. From this point on, no one does alone time with her. I bet Tova’s using this reprieve from her to move to Madagascar and leave no forwarding address!”

        Gretchen texts back: “Agreed” then attaches pictures of Rebekah in THE cutest grey-and-pink striped Nike t-shirt, matching skirt and leggings ensemble ever made. She looks like a real teenager – and a fashion-forward one, at that.

        My Jewish Mommie Red Alert vibe abates a moment as I take in the delightful transformation occurring just a few stores away. Trade-offs, I think to myself.

        Just then, Jane is standing beside me. “Welllllll, I also love your shoooooooes, too,” she says. “Can’t I look for a pair just like themmmmmmm?”

        Forget Baby Jane, now she’s feeling like the Bridgette Fonda character in the movie Single White Female. I mean it; if I hear even one note of the Dueling Banjoes song from Deliverance, Jane Babies will think I have turned into a spaceship with the way I will rocket away, leaving her to cough in the wake of my fuselage.

Chapter 28
Stranger Danger

By Rachelle Allen

So far, Rachelle Allen and Gretchen Hargis are on their way to the FanStory Convention in Atlantic City when their car breaks down in the middle of Amish Country. With no cell service and no way to call for help, they are at the mercy of their hosts. Thankfully, Rachelle's cousin, Tova, is able to come to their aid and bring Rachelle's car to them. But she brings along another surprise. Boo.
*************************************************************************************************

I've got good instincts about people. My gut tells me if I should embrace or run like hell. Guess which signal I'm getting from Jane? She is probably one of the most annoying, self absorbed people I've ever met. She is also at the emotional maturity level of my seven year old grandson.

She called shotgun and I'm the driver so I can smell her industrial strength cologne and know a scent induced migraine is on the horizon. She is chewing gum, not quietly, nor politely, mind you. No, Jane is doing those little snaps and pops and her red stained lips are open and flapping.

It takes every ounce of strength not to slam on the brakes just to watch her head hit the dash board. Maybe that would shut her up for a few minutes. At least, I'd be amused for a few. But it isn't my car and I don't want Rachelle to have a coronary because of my inappropriate impulses.

"Hey, you guys want to hear my poetry?" Jane asks. She doesn't wait for an answer. No sir, she just pulls this big notebook out of her over sized bag and starts flipping through the pages. She giggles, clears her throat and starts reading.

I don't like hearing about sex, reading about it, or even seeing it on the screen. To me sex is very private. I value the sanctity of a physical relationship, just like the next person, but hearing words like throbbing, and plump moist whatevers, make bile slide into my throat quicker than syrup of ipecac.

I search out Rachelle in the rear view mirror. I hear the words of the Lord's prayer floating softly around the interior of the car. So, I know I'm not in hell. Darn close to it, with Dr. Ruth of bad pornographic poetry spouting off terribly metered shat.

"Okay, wow, maybe we should hold off on that one. Anything rated G or PG rated in that notebook?" Rachelle says, a forced smile on her face and in her voice.

A slight pout comes to the face of Shotgun Jane. "Sure. I don't see what the big deal is, she's a teenager. She's probably heard it all before," Jane mutters.

Apparently, she knows something about the Amish that Rachelle and I don't. My mind wanders to an Amish market where the guys with the weird Abe Lincoln beards are selling Amish porn. Miss November, clad in her flat shoes, gray dress and bonnet, milking a cow with a seductive smile on her face. I wander back upon hearing the title Screw Me Like You Mean It.

"Oh, you're still here," I whisper sadly to myself. It's gonna be a long ride.

**********************************************************************************************

Malls used to bore me. I'm not a shopper unless its an art store or a book store, but I have never been so happy to turn into a mall parking lot in my life. The last twenty minutes were wonderfully quiet. Rachelle had to call her friend about Rebekah and demanded complete silence.

Rachelle pulled me aside to show me something in the trunk of the car and whispered that she would occupy Jane while I took Rebekah shopping. She handed me her credit card and said, "No limit. Get her what she needs first and then what she wants."

Rebekah and I walk into the mall and I watch as she takes it all in. The floors, the little trees and fountains. She looks up, I guess, to find where the piped in music is coming from. She looks at the people who pass by, the mothers with strollers, the couples holding hands. I realize she is doing the exact same thing I did that first day in Amish Country. This was a strange new world. There is a part of me that hopes she likes it, but a stronger part that prays she can resist the lure of it.

"Come on, let's find a Forever Twenty-one store. If they don't have it, it doesn't exist." I hook my arm through hers and guide her to the directory a few feet away.

The process of shopping for teenaged girl clothing is confusing for the most part. They want to fit in, to make a statement. But are they old enough to make some of those statements? I take her to the rack where the jeans are. "You want to be comfortable, sitting and not having the waistband dig into you. Also, gotta watch the butt crack. Some jeans will slide down and people can see your butt crack. Not a good look on some."

Rebekah nods, studying the various jeans. "May I try these?" she asks.

I nod, then look around for a top. There is a Snoopy and Woodstock t-shirt folded on the table beside me. "Here, take this. Snoopy is a classic."

I wander around, close enough to keep my eye on the dressing room, but I start looking for things for my girls. They aren't teenagers anymore, twenty-six and twenty-three to be exact, but I am filled with the memories of shopping here. Spending hours for them to find just the right ensemble. I miss it.

After about thirty minutes, Rebekah has two pair of jeans, three shirts, a pair of socks and a bunch of scrunchies for her hair. She even found an outfit that rivaled anything Rachelle would have picked out. I send a picture to Rachelle.

Now, we have to meet Rachelle and Jane in the food court. This Jane is a conundrum. She is extremely friendly and open. She has the manners of a spoiled brat, an obnoxious demeanor, and I don't trust her. But there has to be something good about her. Right?

That feeling in my gut starts again as I find them sitting at a table mid-court. Rachelle looks up and she has a distressed look.

I may have said this before, but it bears repeating, this is going to be a long trip.

Author Notes

I do hate malls. I do miss the stress of shopping for two teenaged girls. I would pick a Snoopy and Woodstock t-shirt. You can't go wrong with that. And, yes, I do fantasize about hitting the brakes to shut people up when they get on my nerves when I drive.

Chapter 29
On Your Mark, Get Set...

By Rachelle Allen

        As we sit in the food court, Jane drones on with a poem she wrote entitled “Mi Panties Es Su Panties.” She’s reading it with a ridiculous “accent” that makes her sound like the Mexican bandito cartoon from the 70's  who was a spokesman for corn chips. My only solace is that she’s not dragging out her vowels and consonants with this new syntax, but the “Spanglish” is so incredibly embarrassing – not to mention politically incorrect – that I’m dying a thousand deaths here. The woman has no “inside voice,” and the looks she’s evoking from the other patrons here makes me wish I had a sign that reads: I Lost a Bet. That way, they’d be amused and compassionate instead of looking like they want to tar and feather me. Ay, carumba!      

        Finally, I catch sight of Gretchen and launch myself toward her as if I’ve been shot from a cannon.

        I stop short, though, when I also take in the “new” Rebekah. She’s in skinny jeans, a Snoopy-and-Woodstock tee and sporting THE biggest grin I’ve ever seen on her pretty face. I savor this moment.

        “You look SO good!” I say to her and motion for her to turn, which she does. She’s even wearing a baseball cap and sneakers! Wait’ll her horse and goats see THOSE!

        “I need to buy you a few more necessities,” I say. “But would you like to experience the food court first?”

        She gapes at all the choices that surround us and nods.

        “Gretchen, what do you think?” I ask.

        But before she can respond, Jane joins us. “I didn’t finish reading you my poemmmmmm!” she whines. “You just left me sitting therrrrrrrrrre!”

        “Sorry,” I say. Sorry-not-sorry, I think. Then I add, “Remember your promise from earlier, though, Jane, right?” I give her my No Nonsense Mom Look.

        She sighs loudly, rolls her eyes and stuffs her book of smut back into her handbag. “What are we talkinnnnnnnng about?” she asks, and I watch both Gretchen and Rebekah stiffen from head to toe.

        We agree to divide and conquer, each of us buying choices from different vendors that we’ll share, “family dining style,” when we meet back up at our designated table.

        Watching Rebekah sample things like curly fries and tacos, chicken nuggets and a Frosty is a rush like no other. She’s blossoming before our eyes, and I decide that this moment alone is worth every bit of the frustration and unhappiness that has sprung from our detours. I see the Proud Mama in Gretchen loving it, too.

        When we finish, I say, “Rebekah, I need to get you a few music books, and then I also want you to find a beautiful black recital dress – and shoes, of course. Then you’ll have everything you need for the next leg of your journey.”

        She looks like a child who’s just eaten all of her birthday cake and has now been told her parents bought her a pony.

        “I just can’t believe this is all happening,” she says.

        “What am IIIIIIIIIIIIII supposed to do?” asks Jane.

        “You can meet us back here in two hours!” says Gretchen, suddenly sounding like a perky game-show host.

        “Yes! Perfect!” I say immediately and with matching enthusiasm. “Go shopping! Enjoy yourself! We’ll all show each other our treasures when we reconvene!”

        "NOOOOOOOO!” Jane says. “Shopping alone’s no fuuuuuuuuun! I’m going with all of youuuuuuuu.”

        Oy. My cousin Tova once again jumps to the top of my “Will Be Seeking Retribution Upon These People” list. How could she saddle us with this totally obnoxious barnacle? Oh, who am I kidding? It was an act of self-preservation for Tova. Begrudgingly, I know I can’t even fault her. In her place, I probably would have done the same thing. I take her off The List.

        We hit the music store first for a copy of Schirmer’s Italian Art Songs, then The Prima Donna’s Album and Estelle Liebling’s Coloratura’s Handbook. I also throw in a pack of note-reading flashcards. Finally, because all work and no play is no fun, I also buy her the score for the Broadway musical, Wicked.

        Although I am focusing on Rebekah, I keep catching glimpses of Gretchen trying to keep a distance from Jane while Jane proceeds to handle instrument after instrument on display. At one point, I watch our social maladroit get “talked to” by a store employee! Gretchen scurries to an opposite corner at that point and texts me, “Pleeeeeease help me kill herrrrrrr!” She immediately adds, “It’s only fairrrrrr; she’s killing MEEEEEEE!!!”

        I quickly pay for our bounty and, as we head toward the door, I mouth over my shoulder to the clerk, “I’m so sorry!” He gives me a nod of understanding.

        At our final destination, or, as Gretchen refers to it, ‘the fancy-ass store’ – a term that immediately evokes a full-out guffaw from Rebekah – we explain to a highly coifed, dramatically lip-lined and oh-so obsequious salesclerk what we’re hoping to find: an age-appropriate, tasteful black dress for Rebekah to wear while performing at a vocal recital.

        “I have just the thing!” she says, all but drowning us in her gush. “Follow me, Dear,” she says to Rebekah, and Rebekah takes after her like a two-month-old puppy behind its mother.

        Gretchen settles into a tasteful, overstuffed beige armchair, and I head to the “Cocktail Dress” section, because I need to replace my original FanStory convention jaw-dropper, the one that was eaten whole by Helene and Ezra’s freaking goats – NOT that I’m still bitter or anything, of course.

        I extract a dazzling, emerald green number with sequins and an asymmetrical hemline that begins just below the knee and ends mid-thigh.

        “Gretchen!” I call and hold it up for her perusal.

        “I trust that comes with a tiara?” she calls back. Everyone’s a comedian on the FanStory roster.

        “Ohhhhh! I LOOOOOOOOOOOOOVE IT!” says Jane.

        Gretchen doesn’t even try to hide her smirk.

        I decide to get it anyway. Redheads are irresistible in green.

        The salesclerk sings, “Ta-daaaaaah!” and we watch Rebekah step out from behind the satin curtain in a dress so perfectly made for her and the occasion of her impending recital that I actually have to blink back tears.

        It sports a ballerina neckline, three-quarter-length sleeves, a belted waist and a massively full skirt that ends right at her knees. She’s been accessorized with shiny MaryJanes with a kitten heel.

        None of us makes a sound, because we don’t want this absolutely perfect moment to end.

        Finally, I ask, “Do you like it, Sweetie?” and Rebekah answers, “I know I shouldn’t say this – it’s not humble – but I feel beautiful.”

        “Wrap it up,” I say to the clerk and head to the check-out counter with my own already- bagged acquisition.

        As I wait for the clerk to cash me out, I see a display labeled, “Estate Sale Treasures” and notice an exquisite, white-on-black cameo on a diamond-and-onyx choker.

        Gretchen stands beside me and looks where I’m pointing. “Doesn’t that profile look so much like Rebekah?” I ask.

        Gretchen assesses it with her artist’s eye and says, “That’s uncanny.”

        “There’s been a lot of that this trip, hasn’t there?”

        “That, there has,” she says.

        “Could you wrap this up, as well?” I say to the clerk as she begins writing up my receipt.

        “With pleasure, Ma’am,” she says.

        But I know beyond any doubt in the world that the pleasure is totally and exclusively mine.

Author Notes

In observance of our "even though this is a fictitious story, some things are true" tradition, the books I mentioned ARE the ones that a newbie opera student would need. ...And redheads ARE irresistible in green.

Chapter 30
On Your Mark, Get Set...

By Rachelle Allen

So far, Rachelle Allen and Gretchen Hargis are on their way to the FanStory Writers' Convention in Atlantic City when Hargis's car breaks down. Unable to contact help, they stay with an Amish family for a few days. Both learn a lot about themselves and others, and when help finally arrives, they think they are home free. But, another "new" member of FanStory joins them on the last leg of their journey. After one detour they find themselves in the midst of another.

************************************************************************************************

It was fun shopping with Rebekah. Unlike my own girls, who had their own sense of style and would politely turn their noses up at my fashion advice, Rebekah was open to suggestions. I noticed she was drawn to the bright colors. I waited for her to correct me on my mention of colors. Being color blind, lighting has everything to do with what I perceive a color to be. But she didn't. She absorbed what ever I told her.

As we walk back to find Rachelle in the food court at the designated time, Rebekah is smiling ear to ear. "You look so cute," I tell her. "I'll bet all the boys around are crushing on you."

A deep pink sneaks onto her cheeks and she shakes her head. "It's not time for that yet."

I nod. I never knew there was a time for young love. I always thought it just happened. As we round the corner into the food court, I wince. I can hear that nasal drawn out voice of her. Jaaannnee. I shiver. I push the thought of being cut to shreds by the scythe wielding Amish man out of my head. Now, the horror that pushes into the forefront of my mind is being stuck in the car with this nincompoop.

I wave at Rachelle and she looks like a trauma victim. There is a stress induced smile on her face. It is only her mouth that smiles, Rachelle's eyes are intense. "Thank you," I mouth. "Doesn't she look adorable?" I call out and wave my hand over Rebekah.

Rachelle bites her knuckle and I swear it looks like she's going to cry. I glance at Jane. She isn't looking at Rebekah, no, she is looking at Rachelle. I watch as she mimics Rachelle and bites her knuckle. Something odd is happening and I can't quite put my finger on it, but it's enough for me to know, Jane is not like us. If Jane is playing cards, she definitely isn't playing with a full deck.

We go off in different directions for food. Rachelle is intent on loading Rebekah up on experiences in the short time we have before we drop her off to the vocal coach. Poor Rebekah, a mall food court is going to be her experience of eating in the English world. I head to Chic Fil A, while the others head to others establishments.

Jane has grabbed a table for us. When I reach for the chair next to her she shakes her head. "This is for Rachelle."

"Quick question, Jane. Are we in middle school? You're saving a seat for your new BFF?"

Jane scowls. "I'm being nice. Surely, you understand that. Here you are, driving her nice car, spending her money on that girl. I'm a nice person. Rachelle is a nice person. We connect. She's like a friend that I've known forever."

I press my lips together and think civil thoughts. It's either that or I picture myself curling my fingers into a ball and hitting Jane right in the nose. I wouldn't do it, but in my head, the food court would be cheering and throwing flowers at my feet. "You don't like me much, though , do you?" I ask, as I squeeze the special sauce for the fries onto the paper wrapper. I don't make eye contact. What's the point? There is a disconnect somewhere behind those eyes. I'm almost afraid I might get sucked into a vortex of crazy.

"I never said that. But you, you're different. We just don't have much in common. Rachelle and I we hit it off the first time we saw each other." She smiles wistfully and looks across the food court to where Rachelle and Rebekah are waiting for their orders.

"You mean when you saw her walk behind her cousin on the zoom call?"

"I told you, you wouldn't understand. It's like one of my poems," she says with a fevered excitement as she digs into her bag for her notebook. "Listen to this. Thrusting, lusting, busting with urgency. Two bodies melding into one. I clutch, tense flesh, drawn to your words that you whisper into my ear."

I choke on the sip of Coke I had just taken. "Whoa, I'm eating Chic Fil A, for goodness sake. That's almost like being in church. Maybe save the poetry for the convention."

She shuts the notebook and shoves it back in the bag. "You're uncomfortable with sexuality, aren't you?"

"If I am, does that mean you won't read your poetry anymore?"

She nods. "Not around you, anyway."

I nod my head vigorously. "Then yes, I am very uncomfortable with anything sexual."

I high five myself in my mind.

***********************************************************************************************

Rachelle takes us to a music store, where you guessed it, Jane decides to try out all of the instruments. She has no concept that she is bothering anyone. She is in a world of her own, and I bet none of the inhabitants there like her either.

I'm not much of a shopper and Rachelle now drags us to a high dollar dress store. Granted, if I didn't live at the beach, maybe I would be interested in these things, but even weddings at the beach are casual. So, after looking at one or two things, I find a nice cozy chair and call home.

"Can you come get me," I whisper as soon as Chuck answers.

"What's wrong?"

"We have a stow-away. I'm gonna kill her. She is so obnoxious."

"Wait, the girl? Is that who you are talking about?"

"No. Rachelle's cousin brought a woman with her when she brought Rachelle's car. This woman is certifiable. She writes dirty poetry. It isn't even good dirty poetry."

I smile when I hear him laugh. "Read some to me, let me be the judge of that."

"Absolutely not." I sigh as I see them finishing up at the register. "So, you aren't coming to get me?"

"No. Ignore that looney tunes and have fun. You've wanted to go to this convention for a long time. I love you. Call me if you need to."

Rachelle and Rebekah come towards me an I watch as Jane heads to the register empty handed. She hands the sales girl her credit card and after a few minutes she comes sauntering up. "Boy, oh boy, do I have a fun surprise for you," she squeezes Rachelle in an embrace.

"Bigger than that surprise?" Rachelle says and wriggles free of Jane's grasp.

Jane winks. "You're going to love it. I promise."

Karma is a weird thing. What on earth did either Rachelle or I do to have this woman join us? I'm gonna think about it and pray about, I can guarantee that.

Author Notes

Janes are all around us. Someone who copies you, puts you on a pedestal, or decides to make your life a living hell. You'd like to blame karma, but the truth is karma has nothing to do with it. Most of the times, you really have nothing to do with it. These people, the Janes, latch on to you. Yes, I do high five myself sometimes. (Like when my colonoscopy was cancelled. High five!!)

Chapter 31
Leaving Rebekah

By Rachelle Allen

        We have less than an hour now before we arrive in Babylon, New York, a Long Island suburb. Maria’s house is on Eaton Lane, a short street that ends with a yacht club poised on the Great South Bay. It will either spoil Rebekah forever or make her homesick beyond words.

        Will she go for walks, taking in the vast expanse of water and sky, and see limitless potential? Or will it look more like stultifying emptiness? Will studying opera, as her mamm did, tether her to her roots in rural Pennsylvania or spur her to stay away and complete what her mamm could not – or would not – complete for herself? So much hangs in the abyss that is her future.

        All I know is that, from a musical standpoint, this girl is a natural. She may not have perfect pitch, like her brother Solomon does, but her relative pitch is impressively solid. She grasped how to read notes with the flashcards I bought at the mall faster than any student I’ve ever taught, and when I had her sight-sing – try a piece she’d never sung or heard before – her skills were far above average. Maria is going to be so thrilled.

        I steal a glance at Rebekah and watch as she remains glued to the Wicked book, absorbing each page – the story, the characters – while she listens to the score with earbuds Tova provided when she also bestowed the phone.

        How is she the same girl who, just this morning, was wearing a bonnet and long dress as she left a simple, clapboard house on an Amish farm? In any Englisher family, this girl would be ready to burst forth onto the music scene with great expectations and years of knowledge and training under her belt. She’d have the support – both emotional and financial – of her family, and she’d be ready to meet the challenge.

        Instead, she is here with strangers, no musical education, no experience and the forlorn and disapproving faces of her aunt and uncle, respectively, as her most recent memories of home.

        I cannot predict how this will play out. All I can do is hope it enriches, rather than defeats her, this girl I’ve grown to cherish so much already.

        As we enter the township of West Islip, Gretchen says, “Wow! This is some seriously upscale area!”

        I give Rebekah’s arm a squeeze, and she returns from her musical reverie and removes her earbuds.

        “We’re only about five minutes away now,” I tell her.

        Her beautiful blue eyes become unreadable. They seem to be offering up an amalgam of fear and excitement, anticipation and dread as reality settles in.

        Because I don’t want Jane to insinuate herself into these precious last moments, I text Rebekah: I am always just a phone call away. And the FanStory convention is only two-and-a-half hours from here. I will gladly come get you no matter when you call. Or we can just talk.

        She reads my text then puts her head on my shoulder. Oy! This child. G-d bless Old Reliable for stranding me in this girl’s beautiful orbit.

        You have arrived at your destination, the crisp voice of Google Girl informs us.

        “Whoa!” Gretchen gasps and takes in Maria’s house.

        “Ohhhh, puh-leeeeeeease!” says Jane. “You should see MYYYYYYYY house! It makes this look like a cottaaaaaaage!”

        The first feature to grab your attention is the ornamental six-foot-high wrought-iron fence that encircles what, compared to the neighboring homes, is very obviously, a triple lot. The structure is vast and Victorian – white with tall windows and black shutters, three stories, and a wraparound porch. Wind chimes of every size and design dangle, like exotic earrings, from the porch’s rafters and serenade us as we exit our vehicle.

 Maria bursts from the front door at a full run, arms outstretched, face beaming. She reminds me so much of her grandmother, my own beloved voice teacher, at this moment, the way she’s brimming over with life and enthusiasm.

        “You’re here at last!” she says with a voice so robust and melodious that it sounds as if she’s singing to us. Rebekah’s face lights up.

        Maria wraps us both inside her arms and says, “Welcome!” then smooches me on the cheek. “You look as beautiful as ever,” she says, holding me at arm’s length.

        “Ditto!” I say. Her hair is still lush and long and jet black, her eyes like dark chocolate bon-bons. It’s her smile, though, that always beguiles people – so warm and inviting and movie-star beautiful.

        I remember how, even as a teenager, when she took voice and piano lessons from me, she was decades beyond her contemporaries in the areas of charisma and social grace. When she was tapped for the New York City Opera, I wasn’t the least bit surprised. She had “star quality” written all over her from Day One.

        “This has to be the talented Rebekah!” she says, and I watch as Rebekah becomes so immediately enchanted, she’s not even blinking.

        “I can’t WAIT to work with you!” Maria says and squeezes her. “We are going to have so much fun here together!”

        “Ummmmm. Hellloooooooo!” says Jane, tapping Maria from behind.

        Maria’s back becomes rigid, and her eyebrows hook together at the bridge of her nose like mating caterpillars. She whirls around to face Jane and uses an imperious, Icy Diva tone to say, “I am speaking with my student right now, Madam. Do NOT interrupt me!”

        Gretchen, who is standing outside of Jane’s sight lines, pantomimes a prolonged scream of elation, which she punctuates with an enthusiastic fist above her head.

        And just like that, Maria’s charms have even won over the perpetually wary and stand-offish Gretchen.

        She turns back to face Rebekah and asks, “Are you hungry after such a long trip, Dear Student? I’ve made a huge pot of pasta and meatballs.”

        Rebekah nods, and Maria links elbows with her. As they head toward the house like life-long buddies, I say, “We’ll bring in her stuff.”

        “Perfect!” says Maria to me over her shoulder. “See you all inside.”

        Jane is still standing in the exact position she was in during the moment of her rebuke from Maria.

        “Well, I’m SOOOOO not going in THERRRRRRRE!” she says, curling her upper lip.

        “Suit yourself,” I say, causing her to gape and then instantly pout.

        Gretchen meets me at the trunk, and we divvy up Rebekah’s suitcase and the bags full of treasures from our morning’s shopping spree.

        As we head toward the house, I shout, “Hey, Jane! On the ride to Atlantic City?”  I pause so she’ll have to break her silence and answer me.

        “Yeahhhhhh?” she shouts back like an insolent teenager.

        “I call shotgun!”

        It takes a moment, but then Gretchen whispers, with breathless incredulity, “Oyyyyyyy!” Immediately, she adds, in a low voice, “You have no concept of how much I adore you in this perfect, priceless moment, Allen.” She gives me an admiring look followed by a love-nudge with her whole body.

        “Ditto,” I say. Then, I give her Wise Eyes and add, “Game on, yes?”

        “Oh, SOOOOO yes,” she answers back and sighs like she did at the hot springs when we immersed ourselves after hours of berry-picking.

        With a bounce in our step as we anticipate the final leg of our road trip, we ascend the

porch stairs together for a homemade meal and to say goodbye-for-now to our fabulous and

beloved Rebekah.

Chapter 32
Leaving Rebekah

By Rachelle Allen

So far, Rachelle Allen and Gretchen Hargis are on their way to the FanStory Convention when Hargis's car breaks down. Out of cell service and totally at the mercy of the road, they are rescued by some Amish folks. There they discover a new way of life, and a lot about themselves. Finally back on the road thanks to Rachelle's cousin, Tova, they have two extras in the car. Rebekah, an Amish girl with musical potential and Tova's odd friend Jane. Now, they are on their way to drop Rebekah off at vocal coach in New York.

************************************************************************************************

I've been to New York once. It was when I was in my early twenties, and it was New York City. I remember my friend, Mary, a native New Yorker telling me the rules of survival.

1. Don't make eye contact.
2. Never play a street game. (Cards or where is the marble under which cup. They let you win, until they decide otherwise. And you never walk away with any cash.
3. Don't stop when someone tries to talk to you.

She didn't have to tell me twice. I'm not the adventurous type. I remember it was drizzling that day. We rode the subway from her home in Yonkers to Manhattan. I was lost in the architecture and the history of the buildings. I gawked at the Empire State Building, twirled around staring up at the ceiling of the Rockefeller Center and peeked into the window of the NBC building. New Yorkers use their umbrellas like bayonets. Weaving through the crowded streets like it was a war zone. I was not prepared for the wet assault of the dripping umbrellas nor the surprised looks when I said excuse me. Several people stopped and jaws slack, they asked where I was from. "Virginia."

"Say it again."

"Virginia." I said and smiled my sweet southern girl smile.

That was the day I learned the power of the southern accent.

My southern accent isn't working on Jane. She just flat out doesn't like me. And that is fine with me. I used to be a people pleaser when I was younger, but those days are history. Now, I keep my circle small, and I can decide within a few minutes if a person is worthy of my time. Jane doesn't make the cut. She's an attention whore. She will whine to get attention. Talk loudly to get attention and I'm waiting for her to start juggling or spinning plates for attention.

The more Rachelle and Rebekah talk, Jane squirms. She looks over at me. "How much longer until we drop the girl off?"

"I have no idea. I'm following Google maps and as my father used to say, "when we get there, you'll be the second to know."

She turns sideways in the seat and looks at Rachelle. "It's rude to whisper in front of others."

Rebekah looks away nervously. "I'm sorry," she says softly. "We are just talking about music."

Rachelle and I make eye contact in the rear view mirror. I can tell, her patience is wearing thin. I feel a tinge of both pity and excitement as I anticipate the come to Jesus meeting she will level on Jane. It's coming, make no mistake, it is coming.

"Maybe if you hadn't called shotgun so quickly, you could be sitting back here and you could hear everything I'm telling her." Rachelle's voice is clipped and I see the strain on her face as she tries to remain civil.

"What exit am I looking for, Rachelle?" I say, trying to interrupt the "meeting between Rachelle, Jane and Jesus". Oh, I want it to happen, but I don't want it to be while I have to keep my eyes on the road and can't fully enjoy the entertainment.

"Babylon," she says. She turns to Rebekah and smiles warmly.

I focus on the road and keep driving. Jane decides we need some music. She starts pushing buttons on the stereo and to my horror but her delight, she finds "her jam". Her words, not mine.

"OOOH my Gawd!! EEEEE!! I looooovvveee this song. Hey, Mickey, you're so fine, you're so fine, you blow my mind. Hey, Mickey," she sings, then claps her hands...right in my ear. "Don't you looovvveee this song?"

Come on Babylon. I wonder how much insurance Rachelle has on this car. In theory, I could say an animal ran out in front of me and I slammed on brakes. Maybe I could coax Jane to unhook her seat belt and reach into the back seat for something. But, I refrain from hitting the brakes and sending our unwanted guest through the glass.

Jane, in her naive idea that everyone likes her, continues to sing and clap in my ear.

"Can you not do that in my ear?" I ask.

"You're a negative Nancy, you know that?" she grins and starts dancing in her seat. "Hey, Mickey. Hey, Mickey," she sings slightly off key.

Through the haze of red I see the long awaited sign. Babylon, next exit. I take the exit on two wheels, hearing the lovely sound of the Mercedes tires squeal in excitement.

"Whoa, Mario Andretti," Jane says, her hand searching for the handle on the ceiling. "I'd like to arrive in one piece, thank you very much."

I glance at Rachelle in the mirror and our eyes lock. Jane has no idea this wasn't her first brush with death while I was behind the wheel.

"Here it is!" Rachelle says, excitedly. She is unbuckling her seat belt as I pull through the gate. Palatial is an understatement. The rolling green of the lawn looked as if it was cared for by a team of landscapers. The Victorian house was stunning but welcoming. The front door opens and a woman steps out on the porch. As Rachelle exits the car they run towards each other.

I turn off the car, pocket the keys and look at Rebekah. "This place is gorgeous. You're gonna get spoiled this week."

Jane looks at the house, trying not to look impressed. "You should see my house."

"I'm sure." I say, ignoring her petty comment and going to join Rachelle, her friend and Rebekah.

I sniff the air. I can smell something delicious. Despite having eaten just a few hours ago, my stomach growls.

Jane walks over, trying to insinuate herself into the conversation, but the woman isn't having it. I smile. I like her. She doesn't waste time trying to unruffle Jane's feathers. No ma'am, she cuts her off and continues to talk to Rebekah.

The woman, Maria, ushers us onto the porch, telling us how she's prepared pasta and meatballs for us. I elbow past Rachelle and start to follow Maria like puppy into the spacious house. As I'm stepping over the threshold I hear Jane bitching about not coming inside and how she's never been so insulted, yada, yada, yada.

Then, Rachelle does the one thing that was like the icing on the cake. She pauses and turns to Jane. "Hey, Jane! On the ride to Atlantic City?"

Jane looks at her, a scowl on her face. "Yeah?"

Rachelle smiles with the cunning of a fox. "I call shotgun."

Dinner is served.

Author Notes

The part about me using my accent to my advantage while in New York is true. We went to a bar called Shout and I had guys lining up to talk to me. Apparently, Jersey boys really like a good "Y'all and bless your heart." I didn't buy a drink all night. I would, of course, never willfully hurt someone by sending them through the windshield, but its a great threat, so lets keep that between you and me. Thanks for reading.

Chapter 33
End of the Road for Jane

By Rachelle Allen

        The moment I’ve been dreading has finally arrived.

        I’ve helped Rebekah settle into her baronial-sized bedroom, replete with an attached, soundproof practice room that holds a piano, microphone and floor-to-ceiling mirror so she can check her posture, breathing position, openness of mouth and jaw alignment while singing.

        We stand toe-to-toe a moment, visually taking each other’s emotional temperature. Excitement, sadness and mutual adoration fills up the space between our bodies.

        “You’re going to do so great here,” I say. “I can already tell that Maria is crazy about you.”

        She smiles. “I am very thankful for everything you have done to make this possible,” she says. I hear a slight catch in her voice. We exchange rueful sighs.

        “You have my number,” I remind her, and I know I am talking faster because I can feel that I’m on the verge of losing my composure. “Use it whenever you want. I will always be happy to hear from you. You are never an interruption or imposition for me.”

        I take out the box with the cameo necklace I bought her at the fancy-ass mall dress shop. She opens it and gapes. “She has your same beautiful profile,” I say, pointing to the ivory silhouette, “so I felt like it was a sign. Won’t this look perfect with your recital dress?”

        She nods, not taking her eyes off it.

        “You know,” I continue, “sometimes you don’t need to know someone a long time to know they’re a perfect addition to your life, and that is exactly how I feel about you. You’re this wonderful, shining light that warms up my whole heart.”

        “The same for me,” she says, and we give each other one last really good hug.

        “We’ll be back to visit you after the convention, okay?”

        She nods.

        “Or sooner, if you need,” I add with a smile. “Now, wish me luck, Rebekah, because I still have three-and-a-half hours in the car with Jane!”

        This evokes a fill-up-the-room style giggle, which, I decide, is my perfect cue to wave and blow her a kiss on my way out the door.

        After some good-bye hugs with Maria, Gretchen and I head outside, where I see Jane leaning against the car, a sour look of entitlement emblazoned upon her face.

        Gretchen clicks the locks but I say, "I'll drive for this leg." She and I take our places in the front seats, and Jane’s sigh, even through our closed doors, mind you, is so pronounced and overexaggerated, it sounds as if a hippopotamus just deflated a pool raft by landing on it with all four feet.

        I do NOT have the alacrity for her nonsense anymore. Without Rebekah to take into consideration, my redhead’s temper is already officially in the danger zone. It will take only the tiniest provocation for it to be Open Season on this friend of my cousin, Tova’s, who wormed her way aboard this road trip.

        I’m thinking ahead, too, of what Jane will be like at the FanStory convention. If she’s as insufferable with the rest of the members as she’s been for Gretchen and me, once all the festivities are over, I’ll FOR SURE be on even more people’s “Muted” list than my current number of seven! I make a mental note to distance myself from Jane every single moment at the convention. That way, no one can associate her with me.

        We’re barely out of Maria’s rambling driveway when Jane scooches herself as close to us as she can. “It’s SOOOOO unfairrrrrrrr that I have to be back here all by myselllllllllllf!” she starts.

        Gretchen and I exchange “The Look.”

        “Okay; Jane?” I begin. “Until now, because of Rebekah, I have been very, very nice to you, despite the fact that you’ve been the equivalent of a spoiled eighth grade debutante.”

        Jane’s eyes open so wide, I’m thinking that with even the slightest of bumps in the road, they could just jostle themselves right out of her sockets and onto my headrest.

        “But that level of magnanimity from me is now over,” I tell her and let that settle in before continuing on. “If you whine or complain from here on in—”

        “—Or read your lousy poetry,” Gretchen adds.

        “Or read your lousy poetry,” I affirm, “then I am raising the soundproof glass barrier here between our section and yours.”

        “You can’t do thaaaaaat!” Jane squawks.

        “Can and WILL,” I say. “And, if you pound on the glass even one time in protest, then we will immediately drive to the nearest bus station and leave you there. Are you reading me loud and clear, Jane?”

        “I can’t belieeeeeeeve this!” Jane shouts. She points to Gretchen and screams, “You’ve let that low-class Dixie chick with the ridiculous accent drive a wedge between us!”

        Now the incredulity is mine. I gape at her quizzically a moment then say, “Okay; that does it. You are a bona fide KOOK, Jane Babies, and you have now officially lost any further road trip privileges in this vehicle.” I turn to Gretchen and say, “Please be on the lookout for the next mall or plaza you see so that we can let Jane out.”

        “Oh YES!!!!” she yells. “GLADLY!!” and with that, she scours the landscape until lasering in on the Woodbury Commons Premium Outlet.

        I take a moment at a red light to apprise Tova via text. All she sends in response is, “Oy.” But, a few moments later, she adds, “I pity the limo driver who takes her the rest of the way!”

        Limo driver?!

Chapter 34
End of the Road For Jane

By Rachelle Allen

So far, Rachelle Allen and Gretchen Hargis are on their way to the FanStory Convention when Hargis's vehicle breaks down. They are taken in by a nice Amish family and given shelter until they finally get through to Rachelle's cousin. But, Tova, Rachelle's cousin didn't just bring a car for them to continue to the convention in. She brought an obnoxious and pushy woman by the name of Jane Babies. Now, on the last leg of their journey, both Rachelle and Gretchen have to fight the urge to ditch her.

*********************************************************************************************

I can tell from the smudge of mascara under Rachelle's left eye, saying goodbye to Rebekah had not been easy. I glance up to see Rebekah watching us depart. I wave at her then point to where Jane is lounging against Rachelle's car with her arms folded across her like a spoilt child. I shake my head and draw my finger across my own throat dramatically. Rebekah smiles her sweet smile and lets the curtain fall back across the window.

"How much longer?" I whisper as Rachelle cuts her eyes at the blatant disrespect Jane is showing her brand new vehicle.

"About three or four hours, depending on traffic. I'll drive this leg of the journey."

I hand over the keys and suck in my breath as Jane lets out a loud unhappy sigh. I hate drama. I hate whiners. I hate people who think they are entitled to special treatment based on their gender, financial status or their looks. We are all in this together. Come on, didn't any of these people watch High School Musical, for crying out loud. "Jane sounds unhappy," I whisper to Rachelle, who looks like someone who just realized they stepped in dog poop and walked across a beautiful white rug.

"Surprise," Rachelle says flatly. She puts the key in the ignition and then turns around to face our disgruntled tag-along.

What happens next is priceless. Rachelle reads her the riot act, but in such a disappointed teacher way, that I have to look out the window so I don't start laughing. And, the icing on the cake was when Rachelle compared her to an eighth grade debutant. And, still despite being called to the Principal's office, Jane continues with weird comments and goes so far as to call me a "low class Dixie chick". I am left wondering if she is referring to the place or the band. Neither would offend me.

When the dust starts to settle, Jane slumps back and stares at the back of Rachelle's head, brow furrowed and lips pouting. "You people don't know who you're dealing with."

Now, though I've never solved an actual murder or a crime, I have been dubbed Nancy Drew when I have helped solve a few mysteries around town. I have the determined qualities of my horoscopic sign, Virgo. I love to be right and hate to depend on others for information. I reach for my phone and decide it's high time Rachelle and I do find out who exactly we are dealing with.

I type in Jane Babies. I wait while Google does its leg work and my jaw drops. Jane Babies, daughter of Adult Films and media mogul, Robert "Bobby" Babies (Babinowitz), was spotted in New York with Actor Benjamin Fire. Despite the age difference, the pair looked very comfortable together.

I scroll farther. "Is Jane Babies going to take the reins from her father, King of Porn, Bobby Babies?"

Oh. My. Gosh. We have Sodom and Gomorrah in the backseat.

"So, Jane, tell me a little bit about yourself," I say. I wait for her to start simple and maybe build up to the crescendo, but that's not her style. I shake my head when Rachelle gives me a quizzical look.

"Well, I'm rich. I'm not going to bother telling you my net worth, because well, it would just make you feel bad. I probably make in a day what you make in a six months."

"Go on, please," I say, making sure to add a little southern exposure to my voice. "And, don't leave a thing out." I wink at Rachelle who looks like she's about to faint.

"You may have heard of my daddy, Bobby Babies."

I shake my head. "No, I don't think so. What does he do?"

"Ever hear of Wet Hustle or Give It Up?"

"Movies?"

She scoffs. "No, Magazines. Online stuff. Adult websites."

"You don't mean pornography, do you, Jane?" I gasp and my southern little hand flies to my mouth.

She smirks. "Of course you'd be offended. Google it."

"Sorry, no WIFI." I shake my phone and shrug. "So, Daddy runs a porn industry, what did dear old mom do for fun?"

Jane lifts her chin. "She was an actress."

"Stag films?"

"No, Hollywood. My mother was a saint."

I hold up my hands to show her I meant no bad intent with my question. "How come you didn't follow in her footsteps?" I don't follow up with the comment about her wanting to be in the spotlight and being an attention whore.

She looks out the window beside her and sniffs. "I did a few films. Daddy said I was a natural," she says quietly.

I wonder what types of films she did and what she was a natural at. Then I think about my father. He sold insurance for a living. He was a good man. For the first time in a long time I realize how lucky I was to have him for thirteen short years instead of what Jane has.

Rachelle's phone buzzes and she reads the brief text, before handing me the phone for me to read.

Tova has answered Rachelle's previous text. "Oy." A couple of seconds later, "I pity the limo driver who takes her the rest of the way!"

I turn it to show Rachelle, who lets out a defeated sigh. We can't unleash Jane on someone who can't fight back. No, we will get her there, but no promises on a safe journey home.

Author Notes

I stand by my statement about entitled people. No one is better than anyone else. But, that doesn't mean you can act like a fool. Being a decent human being isn't that hard. Jane's are everywhere. But so are decent folks. Surround yourself with decent and leave the Janes to impress each other.

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