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we are!” she said with exhilaration. “Ya see the next house?”
    Up ahead stood a two-story clapboard home with a trio of gables and a smaller house oddly attached to one corner, a wraparound front porch with a railing, a sizable barn, and several outbuildings. “Spanking white,” Pops would label them. A lovely and impeccable property with a manicured lawn. Not like the houses in the movies Psycho and The Addams Family . Maybe my misgivings were for naught. At twenty-seven, had I turned into a paranoid, suspicious worrywart?
    No. Meeting up with Lizzie was downright bizarre. I hadn’t emailed that I was coming or agreed to visit her. Nor had she sent her home address.
    â€œIf ya wouldn’t mind, continue into the driveway,” she said.
    As I motored up the narrow lane, I caught sight of a cylindrical tin-roofed corncrib. On the other side of the barn stood a silo and a windmill.
    â€œWould ya please park over there?” She pointed to a couple of low buildings near the barn. “Right there, behind that shed, if ya don’t mind. We all use the back door. ’Tis no slight on you.”
    I could see gangly Jeremy ahead in the barnyard, unhitching the mare from the buggy. The animal stretched its neck, shook its head.
    â€œGet a move on it,” Jeremy said to Lizzie as we exited the car. “Dat’s finished milking. Everyone’s waitin’ on us for supper.” He took the horse by its bridle and guided her into the barn.
    I spoke over the car’s roof. “What about me?”
    â€œâ€™Tis fine.” Lizzie slammed the door too hard, making the car sound tinny. Pops would cringe. “Come inside,” Lizzie said.
    â€œWith such short notice? I need to know how much this is going to cost.” A startling thought came to mind. “Do you accept credit cards?”
    â€œNo. But you can talk it out over dinner.” Lizzie ushered me to the back stoop. “We always have room. Wait ’til you taste Mamm’s appeditlich —delicious—cooking.”
    A dog-show term, faultfinder , came to mind: a spectator who sees a dog’s faults instead of its good qualities. Blinded by a less-than-perfect muzzle width or tail carriage, the viewer missed the dog’s flawless gait. I’d become one, all right: focusing on negatives, momentarily ignoring this unique chance to stay in a real Amish home. Even though Pops wouldn’t approve.
    I inhaled the farm’s sweet scent knowing Donald would hate it. Thank goodness he wasn’t here.
    Above me the blackened sky displayed a glamorous near-full moon. With only a lantern on the house’s back porch and a light of some kind in the barn, I stood gazing up. Glittering stars populated the luminous heavens, mapping out constellations.
    I’d take a chance, I decided, jump on this carousel, and enjoy the ride. Maybe I’d stumbled into a sliver of heaven. I deserved a weekend retreat.
    Using prudence—my father’s words of warning niggling at me—I left my overnight bag in the trunk, then followed Lizzie up the stairs. She entered a dimly lit back room laden with clunky work boots—lined up like a battalion—heavy jackets on pegs, an archaic washing machine with a hand-wringer, and a small sink near a door that must lead to the kitchen.
    Ahead, I heard raised jagged voices—both male and female—squabbling in what I deduced was Pennsylvania Dutch, reminding me of a dogfight I’d once witnessed—a gruesome sight.
    An Amish brawl? I wanted to turn around and run for cover.
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CHAPTER 4
    I inched away from the voices blasting through the door.
    â€œWait, Sally.” Lizzie reached out to grab my arm, but I retreated toward the back stoop. She tailed me through the utility room. “You’ve traveled so far,” she said. “Please don’t go.”
    I was relieved I’d left my overnight bag in the trunk. I’d find a diner