Читать книгу Amish Christmas Memories - Vannetta Chapman - Страница 16

Chapter Four

Rachel’s library search was not fruitful.

First of all, the library was small—smaller than she had imagined. The room was about the size of Ida’s sitting room. The walls were lined with bookcases that were filled to capacity with books, but there wasn’t exactly a large variety of material and much of it looked quite dated. Worse, there were only two computers. Both were being used when she walked in, so she had to wait. While she did, she perused the bookshelves. There was a single shelf with books labeled Christian Fiction. She thought to check one out, then realized she didn’t have any identification.

The librarian had been watching her—she was an older lady with shoulder-length silver hair and was wearing a bright red sweater that said Ho Ho Ho across the front. She stood about only five feet tall, and Rachel couldn’t help envisioning one of the elves she’d seen as part of a lawn display on her drive into town.

“Problem, dear?”

“Only that I don’t...well, I don’t have any identification. I’m staying with John and Ida Wittmer.”

“You must be the girl Caleb found in the snow.”

“Ya. Unless he found two, and I haven’t met the other one yet.”

“I’m pretty sure it was you—Amish, young, pretty and with freckles.” She walked over to Rachel, patted her on the arm and smiled. “I mean no offense, dear. You’re quite the topic of conversation around our little township—a real Christmas mystery.”

“I never thought of it that way.” Rachel turned back to the books, allowed her fingertips to caress the spines. Had she always liked to read? What were her favorite types of books?

“You can pick out up to three items.”

“But I don’t have an identification card.”

“So you mentioned.”

“I don’t even remember my own last name, and...and I don’t have a home address.”

“For now, your home address is Ida and John’s place, which I know because they both have a card here.”

“They do? I thought Caleb said...”

“I’m well aware of Caleb’s opinion on the matter, but I suspect one day he will marry and perhaps his wife will be able to soften that stubborn spirit.”

Rachel didn’t know how to answer that. From what she’d seen of Caleb Wittmer it would take more than a wife to change his attitudes—it would take divine intervention.

“As far as your last name, we’ll just put Rachel for now. I make up the entire library staff—well, me and one part-time girl who works a few hours in the afternoon. So there’s no one to tell me what I can and can’t do. I’m Mary Agnes Putnam, by the way, but most people just call me Mary Agnes.”

The woman was as good as her word. While Rachel picked out one novel and a slim volume of poems by William Blake, Mary Agnes printed her a library card on an old printer, which sounded as if it was in distress. Rachel looked over a few cooking books, several historical tomes and some children’s titles. As she was walking toward the checkout desk, she spied a pile of books with the word Self-help neatly printed and taped to the wall beside it. She dug through the stack and came up with Crocheting for Dummies. Maybe she’d feel useful if she could at least use Ida’s crochet needle properly.

Mary Agnes checked out her material, and Rachel confessed, “I came in to use the computer.”

“Indeed? We get that a lot around here.”

“Maybe I should come back.” She glanced over at the two old gentlemen who were still at their monitors.

“I’ll take care of those two for you. They’re playing chess—with one another—on the computer!” She leaned forward and lowered her voice. “We have a chessboard on the game shelf, and even a table where they can play, but both Albert and Wayne say they need to learn to travel the information highway. That’s what they call it. So they play chess every day on the monitors. Fancy the things that people do.”

Mary Agnes ran off the two men, who claimed it was time for their lunch, anyway. She showed Rachel how to log on and directed her to Montgomery’s virtual job-search board.

But thirty minutes on the computer only increased Rachel’s frustration. She couldn’t fill in any applications with no last name. She didn’t know what her educational level was. Ida had mentioned that most Amish students attended school through eighth grade. Had she? Who knew? Maybe she’d lived in a district that went to school through twelfth grade like the Englischers. Did any Amish do that? She certainly couldn’t recall her employment history, though if she was twenty-five she must have worked somewhere.

Sighing in frustration, she logged off, picked up her three books and thanked Mary Agnes for her help. She stepped out into a day that felt more like fall than winter. She should go on to the store and pick up the items on Ida’s list, but then she remembered Ida telling her to take her time. What was it she had said?

Do something whimsical.

She couldn’t imagine what that might be, so she walked over to the parking area and checked on the buggy horse, who was contentedly cropping grass.

Whimsical?

There was a park bench in the middle of the grassy area on the north side of the library. No one else was around, so she made her way across the small area and sat down, eventually putting her head back and closing her eyes. The sun felt good on her face, and some of the tension in her shoulders eased—as long as she didn’t think about her predicament.

Instead of worrying, she focused on the word predicament