Page 101 of The Hidden One

I shake the hand of each of the children. I hug Dorothy and thank her for the bread. I take a final look at Jonas. “I know it’s a tall order, but if it’s not too difficult, stay out of trouble,” I tell him.

“Same goes,” he says.

And I walk away.

CHAPTER 34

The Amish have a lot of sayings about a lot of things. One that has stayed with me over the years has to do with family and goes something like: Home is anywhere you are with the ones you love. I hadn’t thought of that adage in years, but as I pass by the sign welcoming me to Painters Mill, the words play in the periphery of my thoughts, and I feel the solace of this place fall over my shoulders with the warmth and comfort of an old coat.

I spent most of the drive thinking about Jonas Bowman, the past we shared, and how those formative years shaped our lives. Had the circumstances played out differently, I might’ve married him. We might’ve had children and a farm somewhere right here in Painters Mill. Of course, it would have been the wrong path for me. Him, too, probably. But that scant piece of time we shared as teenagers was precious nonetheless. Looking back, the ache is truly both bitter and sweet.

As I idle down Main Street, I consider stopping in at the station to let Lois know I’m back in town, but I don’t pull in. More than anything, it’s Tomasetti I want. He is my family. My love. My life. The need to see him, touch him, hear the sound of his voice has a desperate edge that has me cranking the speedometer over the limit.

I fly through Millersburg and head north on Ohio 83. South of Wooster, I nearly blow the stop sign at the township road. I wind it down just in time to avoid skidding on gravel as I make the turn into our lane. Dust billows in my rearview mirror. My heart patters against my ribs when our old farmhouse looms into view. Fresh paint from a marathon weekend of painting last summer. The grass is freshly cut, phlox blooming wildly in the side yard. Next year, I think, a garden. Maybe a maple tree in the front to replace the spruce we lost last winter.

Tomasetti’s Tahoe is parked in its usual spot. I glance left toward the bank barn to see an old pickup truck I don’t recognize. It’s hitched to a rusty stock trailer. The rear door is open, the ramp pulled out. No livestock inside. The barn’s big sliding door stands open. I see light inside, telling me he’s there.

I park behind the Tahoe. Leaving my overnight bag and laptop case, I start toward the barn. Midway there I break into a run. By the time I go through the door I’m breathless, not due to the exertion, but because I can’t wait to see him.

Our riding mower is parked against the wall to my left. The smells of freshly cut grass and gasoline in the air. Garden tools—shovel, hoe, and rake—hang neatly on the wall next to the mower. A bag of fertilizer sits next to a bag of grass seed. No sign of Tomasetti. I turn, spot the light seeping out from the aisle to my left, so I head that way.

I find him standing outside one of the livestock stalls. The sliding door stands open. He’s so absorbed in whatever’s going on in the stall that he doesn’t notice me until I’m nearly upon him.

He does a double take upon spotting me. His eyes land first on the sling cradling my arm; then his gaze meets mine and a grin emerges. “Now there’s a sight for sore eyes,” he says, starting toward me.

I smile. “Yard looks nice. You’ve been busy.”

“You have no idea.”

He reaches me, and I plow into him, put my arm around his neck. His arms wrap around me and he pulls me tight. “You’re early,” he murmurs.

“I missed you,” I whisper into his ear.

Standing on my tiptoes, I press a kiss to his cheek. He shifts his head, and I find his mouth. I kiss him long and hard, embarrassed because I’m an inch away from crying and I’m not sure why.

“I like it when you miss me,” he murmurs.

I pull away slightly and for an instant, we grin stupidly at each other. “Whose truck?” I ask.

“Ours,” he says. “Got it for a steal. Couldn’t pass it up.”

I release him and glance toward the stall where a bare bulb rains down light. “Dare I ask?”

“Mr. Baker was looking to buy some feeder calves,” he tells me. “Asked me to drive over to the auction in Kidron yesterday.”

A cry that’s part bleat, part kitten mewl sounds from inside the stall. I look over his shoulder, realize that the light is actually a heat lamp and shining down …

“Come here.” Taking my hand, he leads me to the stall door. Fluffy yellow straw covers the floor. A small brown goat stands in the middle of the stall, nibbling hay from a feeder I’ve never seen before. Three tiny brown kids huddle beneath a big heat lamp in the corner.

“You bought goats?” I say dumbly.

“Goat, actually. She’s a Nigerian Dwarf.”

“In case you hadn’t noticed, there are four of them.”

“Mama had triplets this morning.” He grins, but I can tell he’s not sure if I’m pleased.

I walk into the stall and bend, run my hand over the adult goat’s back. “Hi, Mama,” I say quietly.