Alison Stone - Plain Sanctuary

Heather closed her eyes and imagined the wind blowing through her long flowing hair—free from the constraints of a tight Amish bun—as she pumped her legs on the swing. Despite the vivid memory, or maybe it was a dream, her father claimed he had never gone back to Quail Hollow. He couldn’t face the tragic past. Heather forgave her father that. His wife—Heather’s mem—had been murdered by a stranger passing through town, or so they suspected. No one was ever arrested. Every corner, every face, every waking moment in Quail Hollow had reminded him of all he had lost.

All they had lost.

Heather threw back the quilt, climbed out of the bed and was drawn again to the window. Thick drops of rain pelted the glass and screen. She pushed down on the frame and it slid with a loud screech, making the hairs on her arms stand on edge. A shadow in the distance, near the rows of corn, caught her attention. She blinked rapidly. It was gone.

Am I imagining things?

Heart racing in her chest, she flattened herself against the wall, careful to stay out of view.

An old, familiar fear coiled around her lungs, making it difficult to breathe.

Heather focused on each intake and release of breath as the walls seemed to close in around her.

In through the nose, count to three, out through the mouth...

In through the nose, count to three, out through the mouth...

She was safe. The man who had tormented her was in prison. A hint of guilt twined with her fear and pressed heavily on her lungs. Somehow in her warped perspective, she felt guilty that after she escaped her violent marriage, he had sought out another victim.

His new wife hadn’t been able to get away.

Brian Fox killed his second wife, landing him in prison. Finally granting Heather her freedom.

She closed her eyes and said a quick prayer for Jill’s soul, the only remedy that gave her some modicum of peace.

Heather opened her eyes and focused on her reality. She was standing against the wall, still afraid of the bogeyman from her past. Perhaps she wouldn’t have been so jumpy if the Amish workmen had completed the installation of the new window in the breakfast area. Large plastic tarps stapled over the huge opening may keep the rain out, but not a determined intruder.

She rolled back her shoulders, trying to dismiss her racing thoughts. She blamed Brian Fox for the lingering fear, the paranoia that always hovered just below the surface. A person didn’t live in constant fear for ten years and not escape unscarred.

The wind picked up and the tree branches scraped the side of her home. She climbed back into bed and shuddered against the chill despite having closed the window. She’d have to hire someone to trim the branches. The dragging sound was unsettling.

Heather finally drifted to sleep when a loud crash downstairs startled her awake. She bolted upright in bed, her heart jackhammering in her chest.

“It’s just the storm,” she muttered to herself. “It’s just the storm.”

A creaking sounded in the hallway. On instinct, she slipped out from under the warm quilt and grabbed her cell phone from the nightstand. She moved to the bedroom door, considered locking herself in, or perhaps dragging the tall chest of drawers in front of it. Indecision kept her rooted in place. Why had she thought it was a good idea to move way out into the country all by herself?

In spite of her past fears, Heather decided she’d live life as a strong, independent woman, not letting her ex take that away from her, too. However, in reality, she was defenseless out here. Even if the spotty cell phone reception allowed her to call 9-1-1, how long would it take for help to arrive? Could law enforcement reach her before a potential intruder did?

Grabbing the golf club she always kept in the bedroom closet—this new home was no exception—she tucked her cell phone under her arm and opened the bedroom door. The loud creak of the hinges set her nerves on edge.

Since her grandmother had been Amish and she meant to recreate an Amish-like experience for the tourists, there was no light switch close by. Instead she’d have to take the time to turn the knob on the kerosene lamps mounted on the walls in the hallway.

An unease threaded its way up her spine as she tiptoed down the hallway toward the stairs. She grabbed her cell phone out from under her arm and used the back of her hand to feel along the wall in the dark. The other hand was wrapped firmly around the handle of her driver.

Dear Lord, please keep me safe.

Heather navigated the stairs, each one creaking under her weight. Breathing heavily, she made her way to the new addition off the kitchen, where she hoped to serve meals to large groups of tourists staying in her home.

The plastic sheets the Amish workmen had hung over the opening for the window flapped in the wind. The snapping sound—along with the rumble of thunder in the distance—was disconcerting in the dark of night.

For a long moment, Heather stared at the rippling plastic, trying to decide if she should barricade herself in the bathroom and call 9-1-1 because someone had slipped in through the opening or if perhaps the wind had somehow torn the plastic sheeting from its staples.

With her back flat against the wall, she didn’t let go of the golf club. Her eyes adjusted to the shadows. A crack of lightning illuminated the new breakfast nook. A metal mop and broom had been upended and had come to rest in the corner.

A shaky groan of relief ripped from her throat as the need to both laugh and cry at the same time overwhelmed her. The metal bucket must have made the crashing sound. Not an intruder. She set the golf club against the wall, then examined the plastic sheet more closely. She couldn’t leave it like that or the rain would warp the plywood that formed the base of the new hardwood floors that were scheduled to go in soon.

She glanced at the time on her cell phone. The workmen wouldn’t be there till morning. And she couldn’t very well call her Amish handyman this late at night. Even though he was allowed to have a cell phone for work purposes, she doubted he kept it on his bedside table as she had. The rules provided limits.

Come on, you can do it, a little voice inside her head nudged her. You want to own a business? You gotta get your hands dirty. Put on your big girl britches.

Rolling her shoulders, she tried to ease out the kinks. She might as well replace the torn plastic and seal the window opening because the adrenaline surging through her veins wasn’t going to allow her to catch a wink of sleep anyway.

She turned on a kerosene lamp in the sitting room, then jogged up the stairs to throw on some clothes. On the way back down the stairs, she could hear the rain pelting the roof.

“Being a business owner is highly overrated,” she muttered.

She grabbed an umbrella from the front hall, then put it back. She’d need two hands to carry the supplies from the shed in the back corner of the yard. She had noticed her Amish handyman, Sloppy Sam, putting them away this afternoon. The Amish people’s tendency to use nicknames to distinguish between the same names was both creative and charming. She doubted she would have had a nickname because her name wasn’t all that common among the Amish. Her mother’s love for flowers influenced the names of her daughters: Heather, Lily and Rose. But the girls never had to worry about their unique names while living in Quail Hollow because they were ripped away from their extended family as little girls.

Focusing on the task at hand, Heather plucked her rain slicker from a hook by the door and stuffed her arms into the cold sleeves. She psyched herself up to run across the wet yard, get the stuff she needed from the shed and then return to the house. It would take no time. No time at all.