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  WHAT PEOPLE ARE SAYING ABOUT SARAH PRICE . . .

  In First Impressions Sarah Price has crafted a lovely setting with memorable characters and a fascinating plot—all specialties for this talented author. The conflict is realistic, and the ending will leave you satisfied but wanting more. I can’t wait for the next one!

  —KATHI MACIAS

  MULTI-AWARD–WINNING AUTHOR OF MORE THAN FORTY

  BOOKS, INCLUDING THE SINGING QUILT

  WWW.BOLDFICTION.COM

  Sarah Price’s First Impressions is a heart-warming story of faith, family, and renewal. It will delight fans of Amish fiction and those who love a tender romance.

  —AMY CLIPSTON

  BEST-SELLING AUTHOR OF

  THE KAUFFMAN AMISH BAKERY SERIES

  [First Impressions is] a sweet, engaging story that will satisfy Price’s many fans.

  —SUZANNE WOODS FISHER

  BEST-SELLING, AWARD-WINNING AUTHOR OF

  THE INN AT EAGLE HILL SERIES

  Sarah writes so well in so many different genres, it’s dazzling. There’s never a dull moment reading Sarah’s work. [First Impressions] is a real treat.

  —MURRAY PURA

  AUTHOR OF AN AMISH FAMILY CHRISTMAS

  Sarah Price continues to explore new territory when it comes to writing Amish Christian fiction. Her ability to forge new paths is a true statement to her talent and skill, not just as writer, but also as a masterful storyteller. Her talents are a true gift to her readers.

  —PAMELA JARRELL

  WWW.WHOOPIEPIEPLACE.COM

  Sarah Price writes with an authenticity that pulls at the heartstrings and triumphs over self in a way that gives you renewed faith in love and friendship, showing us all the hand God has in our lives.

  —SUE LAITINEN

  DESTINATION AMISH

  Once again Sarah Price has woven a tapestry of beautiful imagery, timeless wisdom, and sigh-worthy romance into [The Matchmaker]. Endearingly sweet and positively delightful!

  —NICOLE DEESE

  AUTHOR OF THE LETTING GO SERIES

  AND A CLICHÉ CHRISTMAS

  Highly recommended to anyone who reads Amish romance!

  —BETH SHRIVER

  AUTHOR OF THE TOUCH OF GRACE SERIES AND

  RUMSPRINGA’S HOPE

  Most CHARISMA HOUSE BOOK GROUP products are available at special quantity discounts for bulk purchase for sales promotions, premiums, fund-raising, and educational needs. For details, write Charisma House Book Group, 600 Rinehart Road, Lake Mary, Florida 32746, or telephone (407) 333-0600.

  SECRET SISTER by Sarah Price

  Published by Realms

  Charisma Media/Charisma House Book Group

  600 Rinehart Road

  Lake Mary, Florida 32746

  www.charismahouse.com

  This book or parts thereof may not be reproduced in any form, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or otherwise—without prior written permission of the publisher, except as provided by United States of America copyright law.

  Unless otherwise noted, all Scripture quotations are from the King James Version of the Bible.

  Scripture quotations marked MEV are taken from the Holy Bible, Modern English Version. Copyright © 2014 by Military Bible Association. Used by permission. All rights reserved.

  Copyright © 2015 by Sarah Price

  All rights reserved

  Cover design by Studio Gearbox

  Design Director: Justin Evans

  Visit the author’s website at www.sarahpriceauthor.com.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data:

  Price, Sarah, 1969 Secret sister / by Sarah Price. -- First edition.

  pages ; cm

  ISBN 978-1-62998-219-9 (paperback) -- ISBN 978-1-62998-220-5 (e-book)

  1. Amish--Fiction. I. Title.

  PS3616.R5275S44 2015

  813'.6--dc23

  2015029510

  International Standard Book Number: 978-1-62998-219-9

  E-book ISBN: 978-1-62998-220-5

  Lyrics from Leroy Beachy and Edward Kline trans., Songs of the Ausbund: History and Translations of Ausbund Hymns vol. 1 (Millersburg, OH: Ohio Amish Library Inc., 1998).

  Wives, be submissive to your own husbands as unto the Lord. For the husband is the head of the wife, just as Christ is the head and Savior of the church, which is His body. But as the church submits to Christ, so also let the wives be to their own husbands in everything. Husbands, love your wives, just as Christ also loved the church and gave Himself for it, that He might sanctify and cleanse it with the washing of water by the word, and that He might present to Himself a glorious church, not having spot, or wrinkle, or any such thing, but that it should be holy and without blemish.

  —EPHESIANS 5:22–27, MEV

  CONTENTS

  A NOTE ABOUT VOCABULARY

  A WORD FROM THE AUTHOR

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  EPILOGUE

  GLOSSARY

  OTHER BOOKS BY SARAH PRICE

  ABOUT SARAH PRICE

  A NOTE ABOUT VOCABULARY

  THE AMISH SPEAK Pennsylvania Dutch (also called Amish German or Amish Dutch). This is a verbal language with variations in spelling among communities throughout the United States. In some regions, a grandfather is grossdaadi, while in other regions he is known as grossdawdi.

  In addition, there are words such as mayhaps and the use of the word then at the end of sentences and, my favorite phrase, “for sure and certain,” which are not necessarily from the Pennsylvania Dutch language/ dialect but are unique to the Amish.

  The use of these words comes from my own experience living among the Amish in Lancaster County, Pennsylvania.

  A WORD FROM THE AUTHOR

  IN THE TWENTY-FIRST century we have lost many things.

  One of them is the art of letter writing. Beautiful handwritten notes in precise penmanship have been replaced with quickly typed statuses, often limited to 140 characters. Whenever I receive a letter from a reader, I sink into my reading chair, admiring the handwriting on the envelope long before opening it to pull out the letter.

  Each letter is a gift. In many ways, the letter writer is my secret sister, since most of my readers I will meet only through my books. Some readers find me on social media and we communicate on my Facebook page or through e-mail. I do enjoy interacting with my readers, and I’m quite thankful the Internet affords me that opportunity.

  But there is something else that I see on the decline that is akin to those letters I receive: giving for the sake of giving without any recognition at all. To me, that is the true definition of philanthropy.

  The Amish are masters of philanthropy. They donate time, material, and labor to help anyone in need. But the most beautiful art they have mastered is that of being secret sisters. Unlike in our culture, where secret sisters are typically created through a church or women’s group with structure and rules, the Amish truly embrace the term secret.

  In many ways, secret sisters provide a form of ministry to each other, especially the elderly, who may be in need of a little extra support during hard times. One of the most common “gifts” sent from a secret sister is a neatly written Bible verse on a single sheet of paper. Of course, other small gifts are sent along the way, but scripture is usually the most impactful gift.

  In most cases, the secret sister is never discovered. The identity of the secret sister is never discussed o
r speculated, not even among friends; to do so would be a form of pride. Typically, the giver’s identity forever remains a mystery. The only reward for being a secret sister is the knowledge that someone else received encouragement through the actions of a completely anonymous person.

  Yet the receiver will treasure these gifts, the token objects, and the many handwritten Bible verses that are sent to her.

  Giving for the sake of giving. Not for the glory of being recognized as the giver, but solely for the sake of knowing that joy was received.

  Just one more lesson we can learn from the Amish.

  PROLOGUE

  August 3, 2015

  GRACE WALKED OUT of the kitchen, careful not to let the screen door slam shut behind her. The little metal spring at the top needed to be fixed; she just hadn’t the time to repair it of late. In her hands, she carried a tray with two empty glasses and a green plastic pitcher. The humidity of the afternoon was slowly dissipating, but it still felt warm enough for a nice cold glass of mint tea.

  He sat on the small front porch in the metal garden chair, the cushions faded with age but still plush enough to support his hunched back. As Grace set down the tray, he lifted his eyes, so tired and dull, and watched her. She tried not to notice the dark circles under his eyes or the gauntness of his cheeks. In her mind, she remembered a different vision of her husband, one of sparkling green eyes and a flashing smile. In his youth, he had never been one to sit around, not in those days. But the vigor of a twenty-two-year-old man is not something that can be bottled up, like a medication, and stored for use in later years. Now, just getting out of bed required Grace’s assistance, and most of his days were spent sitting in a chair.

  No. Grace Beiler much preferred the memory of those years when Menno used to come calling, not caring that people knew of his affection for her. He would drive his courting buggy down her father’s lane, whistling a tune she hadn’t heard before, then stop right in front of her house and jump down with a spring to his step.

  “I came to take you for a buggy ride,” he’d say. He never asked. He just told her the way it was going to be.

  And that was fine with her.

  Her maem hadn’t particularly cared for Menno’s unconventional approach to courting. She’d purse her lips and look the other way, pretending to busy herself with some insignificant chore by the sink. As for her daed, he would scowl and leave the room, never having approved of this young man or his interest in his daughter. Grace felt torn between respecting her parents’ feelings and following her own. While the former tugged at her conscience, the latter won over her heart.

  “Aw, Grace,” Menno said to her. “What’s the point in being so secret about courting, ja?” He smiled out of the corner of his mouth. “I already know that I’m gonna marry you anyway.”

  She caught her breath at his proclamation. She was only eighteen at the time, and Menno was the first boy to call on her. But one look at those eyes, so bright and so alive, and Grace knew she would never say no to Menno Beiler.

  They married just three months after their courtship began.

  Now, fifty years later, the brightness had faded long ago, and even though neither spoke of it, they knew the unpreventable and inevitable limitations of their future time together. First came news of cancer, metastasized from his lungs to his liver, and then, more recently, a stroke.

  “I have your meadow tea, Menno,” Grace said as she began to pour the drink. Made from fresh mint leaves, meadow tea had long been Menno’s favorite drink.

  “What was that?”

  His words weren’t very clear; they hadn’t been for weeks. Sometimes when he spoke, a white film formed in the corners of his mouth. She always made certain to have a handkerchief in her apron pocket to wipe it away.

  “Your tea, I said.” This time she spoke louder and slower, hoping he could hear her better. “It’s warm outside, and I know how much you like your fresh meadow tea.”

  “You made it?” At his emphasis on the word you, she felt a warmth in her heart. He always said that no one else made a finer meadow tea than his fraa, Grace.

  “Ja, Menno,” she reassured him as she poured some of the tea into the glass. “I know just the way you like it.”

  Reaching over, she placed the glass of tea in his hand, making certain that his fingers wrapped around it before she released her hold. It was only half full; she knew better than to fill it much more than that because his hands often shook when he tried to take a sip.

  “You always made the best meadow tea,” he said after he swallowed a mouthful. He tried to smile, but only one side of his mouth lifted. “Reckon I’ll miss that, Gracie.”

  Startled at his words, she looked at him. He hadn’t told her he wanted to go visiting anyone. She needed to arrange transportation and hire a young man to help her. Such visits could no longer be spur of the moment. “You plannin’ on going somewhere, then?”

  His attempt at a smile tugged at her heartstrings.

  When he didn’t respond, she poured herself a glass of tea and sat down in the chair next to him. It took a few shuffles of the pillows to feel comfortable. At last, she could take a deep breath and enjoy the evening. Humidity or not, she loved the lazy warmth of late summer. She delighted in watching the birds that sat on the ugly Englische electrical wires or visited the bird feeder. At least no one complained when Menno hung up the bluebird boxes. Grace diligently chased away the pesky sparrows that tried so hard to steal the nesting boxes. With the help of Hannah Esh, one of her close neighbors, Grace learned that hanging a thread over the birdhouse opening often kept the sparrows away.

  “God sure has given us many blessings this summer, ja?” Grace set her glass down on the table and looked at Menno. “The farmers surely cannot complain.”

  “Reckon not,” he managed to say.

  “And we have the autumn communion and baptisms coming up.” For a moment, she felt twenty years younger as she smiled to herself, clasping her hands together in delight. Each year, she looked forward to those special occasions at worship service. Seeing young men and women join the church simply brought her joy. And the communion service with the foot-washing ceremony reminded her of the need for humility, as Jesus had showed His disciples.

  Of course, following those two important services came the next wave of gatherings: weddings. Between young folk getting married from their own g’may and the children of their cousins, nieces, and nephews, they used to get invited to upwards of ten weddings a season. Ever since they had moved, however, and later when the g’may split, there seemed to be fewer weddings, so Grace knew they might be invited to attend just a few of the joyful celebrations this year. Still, Grace looked forward to each and every wedding, knowing there would be new bopplis within a year or so; and that meant she could knit pretty blankets to give in exchange for a few moments of holding the babies.

  Grace loved babies and wished that she and Menno had a larger family. But God’s will was His own doing, and she felt blessed enough with the four He had given her.

  “I wonder who will be announcing their weddings this October.” Unlike Menno’s approach to courtship, most young men still honored the art of secrecy in their pursuit of a wife. The older women liked to speculate which of the families might be hosting a wedding feast in November. The first clue came at the kneeling vow service in October, since marriage was typically a catalyst for baptism. The second clue was hearing whispers of large orders of celery, a staple in the wedding feast. “Won’t that be right gut fun, Menno?”

  He grunted in acknowledgment, and she wasn’t certain which way to take that. Clearly he was not in a talking mood. That was Grace’s signal to keep talking and to expect no answers. Ever since his stroke, his impaired speech seemed to frustrate him. So she compensated by talking more and asking fewer questions.

  “And then Christmas. Oh, I simply cannot wait to see those children in their pageant. They always glow, especially when they sing ‘Silent Night.’” She couldn’t help he
rself; she laughed in delight. “Remember last year when that little Rebecca Lapp forgot the words and started to cry? Bless her heart!”

  Menno remained silent for a few minutes. Grace let the sounds of nature speak for them. Birds chirped as they flew back and forth to the bird feeder near their porch. In the distance, she could hear the familiar beat of horse’s hooves rhythmically pounding the pavement, accompanied by the gentle whirring sound of a buggy’s wheels. Grace looked up as the buggy passed their driveway and waved to the driver, a man with a long white beard whom, without her glasses, she couldn’t quite identify.

  “Grace,” Menno said before clearing his throat. He repeated her name again. “Grace. It’s time for me to go.”

  She frowned. “Are you sleepy already, then? It’s a bit early, but let me help you change and get into bed.” Immediately she stood up and began to assist him to his feet. She managed to give him his cane, but she still held his arm as they walked to the front door. She’d return later to clear away the tray of refreshments. It would take at least thirty minutes to prepare Menno for bed.

  As the door shut behind them, a small brown sparrow landed on the birdhouse. After looking around as if making sure no one was watching, it pushed aside the white thread and dipped its small body into the hole, disappearing for the night into the safety of its new shelter. It would stay there to celebrate the arrival of a new day and a new sunrise.

  A new day and a new sunrise that Menno would never see.

  CHAPTER ONE

  September 27, 2015

  GRACE SAT ON a cushioned chair in the front of the women’s section at worship service. Her wrinkled hands held the worn-out Ausbund, the Amish book of hymns, as she sang with the rest of the members in her g’may. She didn’t need to open the small, chunky book to reference the words of the hymn, for she knew this particular song by heart. They were lovely words, words that she often sang to herself when she was home alone, sitting in her dark green recliner that rocked if she pushed with her feet against the well-polished hardwood floor. It was a soothing motion and a soothing sound.