Kate Burkholder: Her Last Breath Part 19

He casts me a look, but I see the grin in his eyes. For several minutes he pulls back on the pole and reels in the slack. I watch the line skim through the water as the fish on the other end fights.

"Gotta be a ba.s.s," he tells me. "They usually put up a pretty good fight."

I see a flash of silver beneath the water's surface, then the fish is out. Tomasetti was right; it's a ba.s.s, probably weighing in at six or seven pounds.

He kneels, grasps the fish in his right hand, and works the barbed hook from its mouth with the other. "I almost hate to eat this guy."

"Toss him back." When he frowns at me, I add. "He'll sp.a.w.n. Breed more fighters."

Holding the fish in both hands, he bends close to the water's surface and lets it go. "We're going to have to make do with the three I've caught, and they're kind of scrawny."

"We have grapes and cheese," I tell him.

"And wine." He wipes his hands on his jeans and turns his attention to me. "Where were we?" he asks.

"I think I was in the process of putting my tongue down your throat."

He leans in to me and kisses me on the mouth. It's just a peck, a soft brushing of his lips against mine, but it moves me, makes me want more.

I laugh. "So are you going to show me around, or what?"

"How much time do you have?" he murmurs.

"I can't stay," I tell him. "A few hours."

"In that case, let's go inside and get started."

It's odd that after being with Tomasetti I would dream of Mattie. Prior to the hit-and-run, I hadn't thought of her in any meaningful way in years. Since, I haven't been able to get her off my mind. She was a huge part of my formative years. She taught me many things, about myself, about boys, about the way life worked. Only now, as an adult, do I realize not all of the things I learned were good.

If you were a teenager and living in Painters Mill, the Round Barn Creamery was the place to go in the summertime. The owners, a husband and wife team I always fancied as former hippies from the 1970s, boasted fifty-three flavors of ice cream, sherbet, and gelato and ran their business out of a historical German-style round barn that had once been a dairy operation. The real draw, however, was the patio in the rear. Nestled beneath the shade of a ma.s.sive maple tree, the area was paved with flagstones and dozens of potted tropical plants. An old rococo fountain spurted water that trickled over river rock and made the most amazing sound. A smattering of antique ice-cream tables and chairs were scattered about. Best of all, the owners piped alternative rock through ma.s.sive walnut speakers, which drew teens by the drove and guaranteed a full house all summer.

My mamm and datt didn't know about the music-or the boys-both of which would have ended my new favorite pastime. I made sure they never found out. As long as my ch.o.r.es were finished, they didn't mind my going with Mattie for ice cream. We'd meet on the dirt road in front of my house and ride our bicycles into town. Friday afternoons at the Round Barn Creamery became part of our summer routine.

When you're fourteen years old and Amish, being away from the farm with your best friend was the epitome of independence. I drank in that newfound sense of freedom until I was drunk on it and giddy for more. Still, walking into an "English-owned" establishment-even a place as teenager friendly as the Round Barn Creamery-wasn't easy. I was ever aware that because of the way I dressed, some people would stare as if I were some kind of oddity.

One hot July afternoon, Mattie and I parked our bikes outside the shop. We'd been in such a hurry to get there and pedaled so fast, we arrived drenched with sweat. The bell on the front door jingled merrily when we walked inside. A wash of air-conditioned air sent gooseflesh down my arms as I made my way to the counter. I wanted to order my usual: a chocolate shake with a single dip of coffee ice cream, but we were both short on cash that day so we settled for small iced teas instead and carried them to our favorite table on the patio, where Kurt Cobain belted out a song about teen spirit.

I was so embroiled in the music and this special time with my best friend, I didn't notice the group that came in behind us. Two boys and two girls. English teenagers about the same age as Mattie and me. The boys wore cut off shorts with T-shirts depicting different rock bands. The girls were pretty. One wore blue jeans with a white tank top. The other wore shorts that displayed long, slender legs. I stole looks at them as they walked onto the patio, and I couldn't help but wonder what it would be like to dress like that. To have jewelry and wear makeup and be surrounded by boys.

"They're fat cows." Mattie whispered the words in Pennsylvania Dutch.

I couldn't help it; I laughed. That was one of the things I loved most about Mattie. Her unapologetic audacity. She was bold and brave and completely unstoppable.

When the group received their ice cream orders-big sundaes stacked high with whipped cream and slivered almonds-they strolled onto the patio. I could tell by the way their eyes swept toward us that they were curious. I wondered if they were tourists, if they'd ever seen an Amish person before. I wondered what that would be like, too.

"We ought to put on a show, give them a reason to stare," Mattie said, watching them unabashedly.

The group wandered to the table next to ours and sat down. I turned my attention back to my iced tea, hoping they left us alone. Mattie had no such ambitions. She was completely unperturbed by their not-so-covert ogling and the whispers they didn't bother to conceal.

But I felt the burn of their stares like fire against my skin, and I wanted to kick her under the table. After a few minutes, the two boys sauntered over to us. The first boy had brown hair that was nearly as long as mine. The second was blond with a slightly feminine air. I suspected he might have been confused for a girl if it hadn't been for the tuft of peach fuzz sticking out of his chin.

Mattie cast me a quick smile and winked. I couldn't believe she thought they were going to be nice. Even at the tender age of fourteen, I had developed a sixth sense when it came to spotting troublemakers. These two boys had it written all over their too-pretty faces. I sucked hard on my straw, uncomfortable because all of them were watching us expectantly, looking bored and mean and a little too anxious to focus those things on us.

"Do you ladies come here often?" the brown-haired boy asked.

A round of snickers erupted from the girls sitting at the table next to ours. I didn't look up from my drink. But I was quickly running out of tea. That was a problem because once that happened, I'd have nothing to do.

"We're regulars," Mattie said breezily. "Haven't seen you around, though."

He grinned, pleased to have received a response, and shot the girls a this-is-going-to-be-fun look. "Do you mind if my friend and I ask you a few questions? We're working on a report for school. You know, about Amish people."

More snickers.

Mattie sucked on her straw, studying him from beneath long lashes. "What's in it for us?"

"I don't know." He shrugged. "What do you want?"

"Buy us a couple of chocolate shakes and we'll tell you everything you ever wanted to know." She smiled sweetly. "Won't we, Katie?"

I kicked her, annoyed because I was certain she was about to get us involved in something that would surely backfire.

The two boys exchanged looks, then the brown-haired boy nodded. "Sure." Rising, he fished his wallet from his pocket and walked to the counter.

"What are you doing?" I whispered in Pennsylvania Dutch.

"You wanted ice cream, didn't you?" she shot back.

I shook my head, dread building in my chest. This wasn't going to be fun and it wasn't the way I'd wanted to spend my afternoon.

I risked a glance at the table next to us. Only then did I notice the girls sitting there by themselves, looking irritated, and it struck me that they didn't appreciate their boyfriends buying ice cream for us. I experienced a moment of triumph because I realized it was part of Mattie's plan.

A few minutes later, the brown-haired boy set two chocolate shakes in front of us, and they joined us at our table.

Mattie wrapped her lips around the straw. "Danki."

For the first time, the brown-haired boy's smile was genuine. He liked the Pennsylvania Dutch. Almost as much as he liked the way she was sucking on that straw. "What's your name, anyway?" he asked.

"Mattie. What's yours?"

"Hunter." He motioned to his friend. "This is Patrick."

Patrick leaned forward. "No offense, but what's up with the old lady getup? You know, the granny dresses? You two are pretty hot-looking and that s.h.i.t you're wearing isn't exactly s.e.xy."

The girls giggled.

Cruelty glinted within his smile, telling me he was out to impress his friends and that was going to happen at Mattie's and my expense.

"Ask her if they shave their legs," one of the girls blurted out.

"Better yet, why don't you show us your legs?" Patrick said.

The girl wearing the blue jeans cackled. "I bet their legs are hairier than yours, Hunter!"

Hunter shook his head. "As you can see, my friends have no manners." He spread his hands, trying for innocuous. "But we'd really like to know. Do you ladies shave your legs?"

To my utter shock, Mattie swiveled from her chair, hiked up her dress and exposed a slender, beautiful, shaved leg.

The other girl slapped her hand over her mouth and hooted around red-tipped fingers.

"Wow." But Hunter couldn't take his eyes off that long stretch of milky flesh. "I'll never think of an Amish woman in the same light ever again."

A moment of silence ensued as the teens took a good, long look. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the blue-jean-clad girl staring, her eyes alight with jealousy.

"What about your armpits?" she blurted.

"Do you trim up those Amish s.n.a.t.c.hes of yours?" Patrick asked.

"Oh my Gawd!" one of the girls chirped.

I nudged Mattie with my foot, letting her know I'd had enough and wanted to leave. When her eyes flicked to mine, I was surprised to see that she wasn't the least bit upset by any of this. In fact, she seemed to be enjoying herself. I didn't understand how she could remain so cool while I was embarra.s.sed and humiliated. Worse, I was angry because they'd ruined my big afternoon out with my best friend.

"You girls want to go smoke a joint?" asked Hunter. "We promise not to bite."

"I hear the Amish have the best s.h.i.t," one of the girls added.

I stood abruptly, my shake forgotten. All four sets of eyes burned into me, their expressions alight with the antic.i.p.ation of fireworks. The blue-jean-clad girl looked me up and down, her eyes lingering on my feet. "Oh my G.o.d, look at her shoes!"

"That takes practical to a whole new level," muttered the girl sitting next to her.

"That takes ugly to a whole new level," she amended.

"I'm leaving," I said to Mattie in Pennsylvania Dutch.

Taking her time, Mattie picked up her shake and scooted away from the table. "Don't forget your ice cream," she said, picking up my gla.s.s.

Ignoring her, I started toward the door without looking back. My face was burning, my heart pounding. I'd been taught to be forgiving, and that included forgiving people for ignorance and cruelty. But I was a teenager; I hadn't yet learned to curb my emotions. I wanted to put these cruel Englischers in their place. I wasn't proud of the fact that I didn't have the guts.

Before I could make my escape, one of the boys stuck out his leg and lifted the hem of my dress with the toe of his sneaker. My hand whipped out, brushed my dress back down. I didn't look at him. Didn't stop walking. I didn't voice the words running through my head.

"D'you see those f.u.c.kin' bloomers!" he screeched. "My granny wears those! Holy s.h.i.t!"

Laughter exploded from the table. Praying I'd find Mattie right behind me, I glanced back to see that she'd paused next to the boy who'd lifted my dress. All I could think was: Oh, Mattie what are you going to do? I almost couldn't believe my eyes when she raised both of our cups and dumped the shakes onto his lap.

CHAPTER 17.

It's 2:00 A.M. when I leave Tomasetti's farm. I didn't want to go. Tonight was probably the closest thing to a perfect evening I'd ever had in my life. Sometimes it's hard for me to believe I've arrived at this place. That two people as damaged as us have been granted this small slice of happiness by the same G.o.d who took so much from us in the past. When we're together, yesterday doesn't matter. The future is without limit and ours for the taking. I don't have to play the tired role in which I'd been cast. The one with the hackneyed script and rehashed lines. My new role is fresh, and I like the character I've become.

We spent the evening cooking on a camp stove set atop a card table Tomasetti brought from his loft in Cleveland. I scaled and deboned the fish while he showered. He fried the mangled filets while I washed the grapes and sliced cheese. We sat on the stoop out back and ate fresh ba.s.s from paper plates and drank cabernet from plastic gla.s.ses.

We didn't talk about the Borntrager case. He didn't ask me about Lapp. We didn't discuss the past. We didn't even talk about the future or where all of this might lead. For the first time since I've known him, we simply lived in the moment. It came as a shock when I realized there was no place else in the world I wanted to be.

Earlier, during the drive over, I'd feared he would bring up my moving in with him again. By the end of the evening, I almost wished he would because I realized that being with him like this makes me happy. It makes me want more.

After dinner, he gave me a tour of the house and outbuildings. We walked the pasture and he told me about all the things he had planned for the property. The amount of work to be done is mind-boggling, but to my surprise, Tomasetti is handy and plans to do most of it himself.

Later, as we stood on the front porch, looking out over the land, he kissed me. I lost half of my clothes before we made it through the door and onto the cot he'd rented, laughing because it was too small for two people. We made love twice, somehow ending up on the floor, tangled in his sleeping bag. Afterward, I lay against him, my head on his shoulder, my leg thrown over his, and we dozed.

I should be tired, but I'm not. I've never partaken in illicit drugs, but I feel high, a warm and pleasant buzz that hums through my body and mind like music. I know it's stupid, but I'm only twenty minutes from the farm and already I miss him. I miss him so much my chest hurts and I want to turn around and go back. I know at some point I'll have to come back to earth. Back to the realities of the Borntrager case and the secrets of my past that have returned to haunt me. I know it will probably be a hard landing when I do.

I'm ten minutes out of Painters Mill, doing fifty-five miles per hour with my window down and humming along to an old Sting tune when the truth of what I've let happen hits me. Abruptly, all the breath leaches from my lungs. I've never had an anxiety attack, but I'm pretty sure one has me in its grip. Tugging at the collar of my uniform, feeling as if I can't get enough air into my lungs, I pull off the road and onto the shoulder, braking so hard the tires skid in the gravel and the Explorer goes sideways. Then I'm out the door, cool air on my face. I stumble to the front of the Explorer, breaths ripping from my throat. I set my hand against the hood, concentrate on the warm steel against my palm.

I've always fancied myself immune to the craziness that sometimes accompanies intense emotional entanglements. The kind that makes smart people lose perspective and do foolish things. I was always above it and too cautious to give up too much of myself to someone else. Love was some intangible frailty to which I was not predisposed. Now, standing on a deserted road in the middle of the night and in the throes of a panic attack, it shocks me to realize I was wrong.

The problem is, I like my life the way it is: even keel. I own my emotions. I call the shots. I don't have to rely on anyone else or, G.o.d forbid, be responsible for someone else's happiness. All I have to worry about is me-and I'm an easy keeper.

For a full minute, I concentrate on getting oxygen into my lungs. Slowly, my surroundings come back into focus. The trill of the crickets from the woods. The hoot of an owl from the abandoned barn across the road. A dog barking in the distance. When I can breathe again, I push away from the Explorer and stand there, trying to figure out how to handle this new and uneasy situation. And I realize I've been lying to myself all along. I can no longer deny what I've allowed to happen. I'm going to have to face it. Deal with it. I'm going to have to decide where I stand and if I want to move forward. Because I'm pretty sure I've let myself fall in love with John Tomasetti and I haven't a clue what I'm going to do about it.

At 2:30 A.M., I radio T.J., who's on graveyard, and let him know I'm on my way to relieve him from surveillance duty at the Borntrager farm.

"Didn't mean to wake you," I begin.

"I wasn't-" Realizing I'm ribbing him, he laughs. "You're up late tonight, Chief."

"I got some rest earlier," I tell him. "I just wanted to let you know I'm on my way to the Borntrager farm. You can head out, finish your shift. Thanks for covering."

"No problem," he says. "Place was quiet all evening."

"That's the way we like it."

He pauses. "You expecting trouble?"

"I'm probably being overly cautious."

"Let me know if you need anything."

Our vehicles pa.s.s where the dirt road Ts at the highway, and we flash our headlights in greeting. A minute later, I park the Explorer on the gravel turnaround fifty yards from the mouth of the Borntrager farm.

I open the window a few inches, punch off the headlights, and kill the engine. A chorus of crickets, frogs, and peepers from the swampy area at the edge of the woods encroaches. It's a clear, crisp night; I can see the Big Dipper through the treetops to the west. My police radio is quiet, which is normal for Holmes County this time of night. Sliding my seat back for some extra legroom, I settle in for a wait.