Page 3 of Dark Storm Rising

“It’s been about twenty-five years now.”

“Time gets away from us, doesn’t it?” She makes a wistful sound. “You must have been just a kid back then. I’ve got a knack for remembering faces; I thought you looked familiar.”

“I was twelve.”

She hefts a hearty laugh. “And now here you are, married and on your honeymoon. My goodness, how nice is that? Honey, you call me Lovina, you hear? My goodness, we’re practically family.”

“Kate speaks highly of Sugar Maple.” Tomasetti moves in, his hand extended. “We’ve been wanting to drive up, but never had the time.”

“Well, we’re certainly glad to have you,” the woman says. “Used to be a diner and a couple of cute shops in town. Things are a little quieter these days.”

“Are you talking to yourself again, woman?” comes a deep male voice from the back.

I look past her to see an Amish man come through the doorway behind her. He’s the size of a bear and wearing typical Amish garb: black jacket, flat-brimmed hat, dark trousers, and a white shirt. He’s carrying an armful of firewood and nearly drops it at the sight of us. “Oh! Didn’t realize we had company.”

“You drop that wood on the floor and you’ll find a broom in your hands,” Lovina says.

“Better in my hands than on my backside.” The man winks at us. “Forgot we had customers coming today.”

Giving him a playful poke, she pulls out an old-fashioned motel register and sets it on the counter. “Just need you to sign in here and you’re all set.”

While Tomasetti fills out the form, the Amish man carries the firewood to the stove. “I was out checking the sheep when you pulled up,” he says as he stacks it in the rack. Approaching us, he sticks out his hand. “Enos Nisley at your service.”

We exchange handshakes. He joins his wife behind the counter. I don’t miss the way his fingertips graze her arm as he sidles past her. Or the way her mouth curves at his touch.

“Last time I was here, there were a lot of Amish in the area,” I say. “We couldn’t help but notice the vacant storefronts in town. And the abandoned farms.”

Lovina shakes her head. “A lot of the Amish have moved away in the last five or six years. Developers buying up the land.”

“Paying a pretty penny for it, too,” Enos puts in.

The Amish woman nods. “Youngsters are moving over to Kish Valley. A lot of work over there. Lumber, you know. Farmers are all about upstate New York where the land is cheap and the taxes are low.”

“Too cold up there if you ask me,” Enos mutters.

“We’re the last holdouts,” Lovina tells us. “Those developers are hungry for land. A lot of English, city folks you know, like to vacation up here by the lake.”

“Can’t see selling at our age,” Enos grumbles. “This land has been in the family for a hundred and fifty years. Passed down by my dawdi and his dawdi before that.” Grandfather.

Lovina gives him an elbow. “Back when dinosaurs ruled the earth.”

The statement brings a round of chuckles.

“My goodness, I miss all our good Amish neighbors,” she says. “We don’t even have worship in the area anymore.”

“We’ve been going to that little Mennonite church down the road,” Enos adds. “Nice folks, but we’re Amish, you know, and it’s just not the same.”

Tomasetti finishes with the register and pushes it across the counter at her. “We passed by a structure that had burned. Was it one of your cabins?”

“Killdeer Cabin,” Enos tells us. “Hated to lose that one.”

“Most awful thing,” Lovina puts in. “One of our best cabins and it was a total loss.”

“Thank God there were no renters inside at the time,” her husband adds.

“How long ago did it happen?” I ask.

“Three weeks to the day,” Lovina replies.