the covered bridge that separated them, but a long road
stretched ahead before he could ever hope to court her openly.
Ben parked his truck in a pull-off on Oakridge Road about a
half mile from Bishop Esh’s farm, got out and locked up, then began the long
walk toward his future.
* * *
“S O YOU JUST TYPE IN the name of the store in this
space,” Nicole Anderson, the librarian in the bookmobile, said, pointing to the
top of the screen. “And we’d better put a plus sign and the word Cincinnati, too, in case there are other stores by
that name somewhere in the world.”
“Oh. This covers the whole world?” Abby whispered as she slowly
typed all that in. The front part of the bookmobile was fairly crowded with
people she knew, and she didn’t want to broadcast what she was doing. She
shouldn’t even be online.
Instantly, when she clicked on the scrolled words Visit Jeweled
Treasures Here or In Person, a colored picture sprang onto the screen of jewels
and pearl necklaces dripping from carved, half-open boxes, no doubt Ben’s. Each
one had something from nature carved on its top or handle—butterflies, leaves,
even seashells. Off to the side was a close-up photograph of the owners of the
store, Cesar and Triana Tornelli. They were both really trim. Obviously, they
hadn’t been anywhere near Amish food. Probably in his mid-fifties, Cesar was a
silver-haired, tanned man in a worldly suit, with sharp gray eyes and a
prominent nose. Triana Tornelli wore big, hanging emerald earrings and a
matching necklace against her bare throat and upper chest. She was pretty
despite her hair being chopped really short and slicked to her head and, Abby
guessed, dyed that silvery-white shade. Both of them reeked of wealth and
worldly power.
She was so intent on studying them that she jumped when Nicole
spoke again. “You just click the cursor on those buttons on the left to find
particular things on pages within this website. Let me know if you need help,”
she added, and moved away.
Oh, ja, she needed help, Abby
thought. She was in love with a man who said he wanted to return to the Plain
People, but had worked for a fancy, just-for-pretty jewelry store with amazing
things for sale. She searched each page, astounded at the variety and prices of
the jewelry. And then she saw what Nicole had called a button, labeled Custom
Jewelry Boxes.
She clicked on it, and there was picture after picture of Ben’s
work, some with him doing the carving or holding up a particular box. But one
thing gave her hope. In none of the pictures had he let the photographer show
his face, so maybe he was truly, at least a little, still Amish at heart.
When she got off the website so the next person in line would
not know what she’d been looking at, she saw something else listed, a kind of
headline: Jeweled Treasures—Theft of Millions Worth of Jewelry Called Inside
Job.
Wide-eyed, she skimmed the Cincinnati newspaper article that
came up. Listed among the “persons of interest” in that huge theft was Ben’s
name!
* * *
A BBY ATE NEXT TO NOTHING for lunch. Since it was
broad daylight and the falling leaves allowed a clear line of vision to the
house, she locked up and, taking a big hemp wildcrafting bag from her pile, went
on her familiar way to the edge of the forest. She had to do something besides
brood and cry over what she’d read about the jewelry “heist,” as they’d called
it. She’d had to look the word up.
So had Ben come back to the Home Valley to find his Amish life,
or escape his English one? Charges were pending; an investigation was still
going on. Surely, he could not be guilty. What if he’d dropped a diamond from
his stolen gems, and that’s why he was upset she’d found it? Maybe he’d even
figured out she had it—had seen her find it that night—and then stole it back.
She felt sick to her stomach with fear, but she still believed in him. Didn’t
she?
She knew Ben was not back yet, and if—when—he was,
stretched ahead before he could ever hope to court her openly.
Ben parked his truck in a pull-off on Oakridge Road about a
half mile from Bishop Esh’s farm, got out and locked up, then began the long
walk toward his future.
* * *
“S O YOU JUST TYPE IN the name of the store in this
space,” Nicole Anderson, the librarian in the bookmobile, said, pointing to the
top of the screen. “And we’d better put a plus sign and the word Cincinnati, too, in case there are other stores by
that name somewhere in the world.”
“Oh. This covers the whole world?” Abby whispered as she slowly
typed all that in. The front part of the bookmobile was fairly crowded with
people she knew, and she didn’t want to broadcast what she was doing. She
shouldn’t even be online.
Instantly, when she clicked on the scrolled words Visit Jeweled
Treasures Here or In Person, a colored picture sprang onto the screen of jewels
and pearl necklaces dripping from carved, half-open boxes, no doubt Ben’s. Each
one had something from nature carved on its top or handle—butterflies, leaves,
even seashells. Off to the side was a close-up photograph of the owners of the
store, Cesar and Triana Tornelli. They were both really trim. Obviously, they
hadn’t been anywhere near Amish food. Probably in his mid-fifties, Cesar was a
silver-haired, tanned man in a worldly suit, with sharp gray eyes and a
prominent nose. Triana Tornelli wore big, hanging emerald earrings and a
matching necklace against her bare throat and upper chest. She was pretty
despite her hair being chopped really short and slicked to her head and, Abby
guessed, dyed that silvery-white shade. Both of them reeked of wealth and
worldly power.
She was so intent on studying them that she jumped when Nicole
spoke again. “You just click the cursor on those buttons on the left to find
particular things on pages within this website. Let me know if you need help,”
she added, and moved away.
Oh, ja, she needed help, Abby
thought. She was in love with a man who said he wanted to return to the Plain
People, but had worked for a fancy, just-for-pretty jewelry store with amazing
things for sale. She searched each page, astounded at the variety and prices of
the jewelry. And then she saw what Nicole had called a button, labeled Custom
Jewelry Boxes.
She clicked on it, and there was picture after picture of Ben’s
work, some with him doing the carving or holding up a particular box. But one
thing gave her hope. In none of the pictures had he let the photographer show
his face, so maybe he was truly, at least a little, still Amish at heart.
When she got off the website so the next person in line would
not know what she’d been looking at, she saw something else listed, a kind of
headline: Jeweled Treasures—Theft of Millions Worth of Jewelry Called Inside
Job.
Wide-eyed, she skimmed the Cincinnati newspaper article that
came up. Listed among the “persons of interest” in that huge theft was Ben’s
name!
* * *
A BBY ATE NEXT TO NOTHING for lunch. Since it was
broad daylight and the falling leaves allowed a clear line of vision to the
house, she locked up and, taking a big hemp wildcrafting bag from her pile, went
on her familiar way to the edge of the forest. She had to do something besides
brood and cry over what she’d read about the jewelry “heist,” as they’d called
it. She’d had to look the word up.
So had Ben come back to the Home Valley to find his Amish life,
or escape his English one? Charges were pending; an investigation was still
going on. Surely, he could not be guilty. What if he’d dropped a diamond from
his stolen gems, and that’s why he was upset she’d found it? Maybe he’d even
figured out she had it—had seen her find it that night—and then stole it back.
She felt sick to her stomach with fear, but she still believed in him. Didn’t
she?
She knew Ben was not back yet, and if—when—he was,