travels, he thought ahead to his writing schedule and deadlines for the next month.
At twenty-seven, Philip was already weary of life, though he wouldn’t have admitted it. Even as a youngster he had tried not to call attention to himself—the private side of Philip Titus Bradley, that is. His public image was a different story, and though he had risen to the top tier of feature writers for Family Life Magazine , he clung hard to his privacy, guarding it judiciously.
Sitting on the four-poster canopy bed, Philip stared out the window at a cluster of evergreens. The open space to the left of the pines captured his attention. In the distance, he spied a white two-story barn, complete with silo. A gray stone farmhouse, surrounded by tall trees, stood nearby. He wondered if the place might be owned by Amish. His contact, Stephen Flory of the Lancaster Mennonite Historical Society, had informed him that nearly all the farms in the Bird-in-Hand area were Amish-owned. The minute it was rumored that an English farm might be for sale, a young Amishman was sure to knock on the door, inquiring about the land and offering the highest bid.
Philip raked his hands through his thick dark hair, gazing at the streams of sunlight pouring through the opening in the tailored blue drapes, its gleaming patterns flickering against a floral wallpaper of blues and greens. The large desk had caught his eye upon entering the room, and now as he studied it, he fancied that if he were ever fortunate enough to own such a piece, it, too, would be made the focal point of its surroundings. Though such a colossal desk would be out of sync with the contemporary decor of his upper Manhattan apartment.
It was odd how the desk, centrally situated on the adjacent wall, seemed remarkably fashioned for the room. Lauren would not have agreed, however, and he chuckled at the notion. Thank goodness they’d parted ways long before this present assignment. Were they still dating, she would be totally disinterested in his Lancaster research. On second thought, she might have made some crass remark about the back-woodsy folk he planned to interview.
Lauren Hale had been the biggest mistake of his adult life. She had completely fooled him, displaying her true colors at long last. To put it bluntly, she was an elitist, her intolerant eyes fixed on fame and fortune.
Nor had Philip measured up to Lauren’s expectations. She had had a rude awakening; discovered, much to her amazement, that beneath his polished journalistic veneer, there was a heart—beating and warm. And no amount of wishful thinking or manipulation could alter that aspect of his character. So thankfully, he had won. He had let her have her way that final night, let her break up with him, though he’d planned to do it himself had he not been so completely exhausted from the recent European trip.
Philip observed the antique bow-top bed. King size. Handmade canopy , he thought, noting the delicate off-white pattern. Thanks to his vivacious niece, he knew about stitchery and such.
Young Kari had pleaded with him to let her accompany him on this trip. She’d giggled with delight when he called to say he was flying to Lancaster County. “That’s Dutch country, isn’t it?” she exclaimed. “And aren’t there horses and buggies and people dressed up old-fashioned?”
“They’re Amish,” he told her.
“ Please , take Mom and me with you, Uncle Phil. We’ll stay out of your hair, I promise.”
Regrettably, he had to refuse, though it pained him to do so. He made an attempt to explain his deadline. “You wouldn’t have any fun, kiddo. I’ll be busy the whole time.”
“Won’t you at least think about it and call us back?” She was eager for some fun and adventure, though she needed to stay close to home, follow through with her homeschooling—the sixth-grade correspondence course her parents had recently purchased. Public school just wasn’t what it used to be when he was growing up in
At twenty-seven, Philip was already weary of life, though he wouldn’t have admitted it. Even as a youngster he had tried not to call attention to himself—the private side of Philip Titus Bradley, that is. His public image was a different story, and though he had risen to the top tier of feature writers for Family Life Magazine , he clung hard to his privacy, guarding it judiciously.
Sitting on the four-poster canopy bed, Philip stared out the window at a cluster of evergreens. The open space to the left of the pines captured his attention. In the distance, he spied a white two-story barn, complete with silo. A gray stone farmhouse, surrounded by tall trees, stood nearby. He wondered if the place might be owned by Amish. His contact, Stephen Flory of the Lancaster Mennonite Historical Society, had informed him that nearly all the farms in the Bird-in-Hand area were Amish-owned. The minute it was rumored that an English farm might be for sale, a young Amishman was sure to knock on the door, inquiring about the land and offering the highest bid.
Philip raked his hands through his thick dark hair, gazing at the streams of sunlight pouring through the opening in the tailored blue drapes, its gleaming patterns flickering against a floral wallpaper of blues and greens. The large desk had caught his eye upon entering the room, and now as he studied it, he fancied that if he were ever fortunate enough to own such a piece, it, too, would be made the focal point of its surroundings. Though such a colossal desk would be out of sync with the contemporary decor of his upper Manhattan apartment.
It was odd how the desk, centrally situated on the adjacent wall, seemed remarkably fashioned for the room. Lauren would not have agreed, however, and he chuckled at the notion. Thank goodness they’d parted ways long before this present assignment. Were they still dating, she would be totally disinterested in his Lancaster research. On second thought, she might have made some crass remark about the back-woodsy folk he planned to interview.
Lauren Hale had been the biggest mistake of his adult life. She had completely fooled him, displaying her true colors at long last. To put it bluntly, she was an elitist, her intolerant eyes fixed on fame and fortune.
Nor had Philip measured up to Lauren’s expectations. She had had a rude awakening; discovered, much to her amazement, that beneath his polished journalistic veneer, there was a heart—beating and warm. And no amount of wishful thinking or manipulation could alter that aspect of his character. So thankfully, he had won. He had let her have her way that final night, let her break up with him, though he’d planned to do it himself had he not been so completely exhausted from the recent European trip.
Philip observed the antique bow-top bed. King size. Handmade canopy , he thought, noting the delicate off-white pattern. Thanks to his vivacious niece, he knew about stitchery and such.
Young Kari had pleaded with him to let her accompany him on this trip. She’d giggled with delight when he called to say he was flying to Lancaster County. “That’s Dutch country, isn’t it?” she exclaimed. “And aren’t there horses and buggies and people dressed up old-fashioned?”
“They’re Amish,” he told her.
“ Please , take Mom and me with you, Uncle Phil. We’ll stay out of your hair, I promise.”
Regrettably, he had to refuse, though it pained him to do so. He made an attempt to explain his deadline. “You wouldn’t have any fun, kiddo. I’ll be busy the whole time.”
“Won’t you at least think about it and call us back?” She was eager for some fun and adventure, though she needed to stay close to home, follow through with her homeschooling—the sixth-grade correspondence course her parents had recently purchased. Public school just wasn’t what it used to be when he was growing up in
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