As I drove across the mountain, I noticed that while many trees were now in full autumn color, a great many others had already dropped their leaves. Even some of the evergreen trees had shed their needles, and their twisted brown branches stretched toward the sky above as if longing for the warmth of the sun. At one bend, the view was so spectacular, I pulled over and stopped for a minute to enjoy it. Below me the little river danced over gray, moss-covered rocks before disappearing into a copse of trees. Beyond were green and golden fields dotted with dollhouse-like farmhouses, barns, and silos. Then came orchards of peach and apple trees, their branches bare and stark against the sky. And off in the far distance were the hazy lavender-blue outlines of the next range of mountains. Once I'd thought of Pennsylvania only in terms of big cities like Philadelphia and Pittsburgh or small, dingy mining towns. Cities and mining communities were part of Pennsylvania, that was true, but they were far away from lush, mountainous rural south-central Pennsylvania. Here was proof that not all of America had been turned into Anytown, Anywhere, U.S.A. Here, at least, America was still a land of amber waves of grain and purple mountain majesty.
As I drove past Dr. Washabaugh's office, I saw a few cars and trucks in the parking lot. More people picking up their medical records and hearing the latest gossip from Vesta, I was sure. If they watched the evening news last night, I was probably the subject of conversation. I kept going until I came to the top of the hill that overlooked my destination, Shoestring Hill Farm.
The drive down to the stone house seemed to take forever, perhaps because I had no desire to tackle the task that would face me when I reached the house. On either side of me, horses played behind white board fences. The fences, the barns, even the wood trim around the windows of the house, looked freshly painted. The woodpile near the house was neatly stacked. Charlotte Macmillan had prepared her farm for whatever winter brought.
I knocked on the front door, waited, knocked again, then noticed the small doorbell on the door frame. A moment later, the door opened inward and a Plain woman in a lavender dress, wearing a white net bonnet, looked out at me.
“Yes?” Her tone wasn't very inviting.
“I've come to see Mrs. Macmillan.”
“Is she expecting you?”
“Yes,” I fibbed. Anything to get in.
She stepped to one side, and I walked past her into a large center hall.
“Name?”
“Tori Miracle.”
“Mrs. Mack's with her personal trainer. She should be finished in about fifteen minutes. You'uns can wait in the living room.” She led me through a curtained archway into a large, expensively decorated room. The furniture was all mahogany and walnut from the Federal period, and although I'm no expert, it all looked genuine to me. No reproductions allowed at Shoestring Hill.
“Can I get you'uns a cup of tea?”
“No, thank you.”
“Then I'll get back to my chores. Have a seat.”
Instead of sitting down, I moved around the room admiring the furniture and the artwork. The painting over the fireplace was of a King Charles spaniel. The two behind the sofa were primitives of a man and woman. I wondered if they were the ancestors of either Charlotte or Mack Macmillan. An arrangement of autumn leaves on top of the Steinway grand piano repeated the soft gold of the silk wallpaper and the rust and moss green of the upholstered furniture.
French doors at one end of the room were closed, and velvet drapes, as green as an evergreen forest, hid from view what was behind them. They opened quietly when I pulled on them, and I stepped through the doors into a cool study, lit by diffused sunlight streaming through sheer curtains at the far end of the room. A great mahogany partners desk was centered on the Oriental carpet. The telephone on the desk had a light on it, and next to it was a small machine with a typewriter keyboard.
One wall, from floor to ceiling, was covered with books. I took one from the shelf and saw it was a treatise on the Civil War. Glancing quickly at its neighbors, I saw that the war was the subject of all the books. They ranged from modern fiction like Killer Angels to old leather-bound volumes dating from the late nineteenth century. At first glance, it looked like a collection any university library would be proud to own.
On the wall opposite the bookshelves hung a copy of the same sepia photograph I'd seen at the college, depicting Macmillan dressed as a Union Army general, with one hand resting on a table and the other on the hilt of his sword. Below the photo, a row of glass cases stretched from one wall to the other. The items on display were similar to what I'd seen at the visitor center at the Gettysburg National Park. Just about anything from the Civil War era was represented, from old canteens to lead bullets. One case was full of daguerreotypes. Another held musical instruments: drums, bugles, even harmonicas.
So involved was I with looking at the antiques that I jumped when Charlotte appeared by my side and said, “I'm glad to see you survived last night's ordeal.”
“Did you watch it on TV?”
She shook her head. “I've been out of town for a few days, visiting a friend's horse farm in North Carolina. Lela, my housekeeper, told me about it when I returned this morning. It must have been a terrifying experience.” She gestured graciously at the couch and urged me to have a seat. Almost immediately, Lela appeared with a tea tray. Charlotte filled two bone china teacups and asked me if I preferred milk or lemon.
“Milk, please. And two sugars.”
With tiny silver sugar tongs, she dropped two cubes of sugar into one cup and passed it to me. It was a gracious ritual I had often watched my mother perform for her guests at the embassy. Charlotte sat back and looked at me over the brim of her cup. I wished I could see through the mask, for just a minute, to read on her face what must be running through her mind.
The telephone rang and flashed before we had a chance to talk. Charlotte excused herself and crossed over to the partners desk. After a few words about the sudden change in weather and assurances that she was just fine, she said, “I'm sorry. The stable will be closed Saturday. I'm going to a wedding.”
When she returned to her seat, I asked, “That light on the phone. I presume that was for your husband?”
“Yes, of course.”
“I heard he was deaf-I mean hearing impaired. How could he take phone calls when he couldn't hear?”
“There's a special operator who types the message as it's relayed to her. After it came up on the screen, Mack would type his response.”
“Did you learn sign language to communicate with him?”
Charlotte laughed. “Tori, signing was my first language. My mother was hearing impaired, deaf as the proverbial post if you prefer. As an adult, when I wasn't working with horses, I taught signing. That's where I met my husband. He had lost his hearing suddenly from a viral infection, and he signed up for my class. We fell in love and were married shortly after. I interpreted for him in Congress until he retired. Still do, I mean I still did-”
“I can see how he depended on you, but how did he manage when you weren't around? I met him for the first time at the college and you weren't with him then.”
“Mack could read lips if people spoke slowly and looked directly at him. And he often did things alone. I couldn't follow him around twenty-four hours a day.”
“That explains why he thought my name was Dorie when we were introduced.”
She nodded. “Right.” Her eyes narrowed. “I'm delighted to see you, Tori, but I'm wondering why you're here.”