“She’s pretty.” I place a spoonful of pudding into the next cup. “I bet the boys like to court her.”

“She’s mean to them, too.”

“Did any of the boys like Rachel?”

She separates two cups, sets both in front of me. “Jacob Yoder.”

I put the name to memory. “Did they go to singings together?”

She looks at me as if I’m naive, and I remind myself not to underestimate her or how much she may know simply because she’s special needs. “My mamm says Er harricht gut, awwer er foligt schlecht.” He hears well, but obeys poorly, which basically means he’s willfully disobedient.

Over the next twenty minutes or so, I try a few different angles with Anna, but she’s grown bored with me, makes an excuse and wanders away.

The date pudding was a hit and the container is empty. I keep an eye on the crowd as I pack things away. A dozen or so elderly women are seated at a folding table, drinking coffee and speaking quietly. Most of the men have gone to another section of the barn; through a wide doorway I see them standing around an ancient-looking manure spreader. Several groups of girls are scattered about, sitting at tables or packing leftover food and utensils. A couple of boys are breaking down tables, folding and stowing them.

I glance toward the place where Marie Weaver had been sitting but she’s left. I’d wanted to meet Rachel’s parents, Fannie and Samuel Esh, but I have no idea what they look like or if they’re even here. Normally, a briefing would have included photographs of all the players involved. But since most Amish do not have their photos taken, I can’t rely on recognition.

I spot Mary Gingerich sitting at a table with some other women, one of whom is crocheting. Picking up my bags, I carry them over to the table.

“Hi, Kate.” Mary addresses the other women. “This is Kate Miller. She just moved here from Holmes County.”

All eyes turn to me. I smile demurely. “Hello.”

“Kate’s a widow,” Mary informs them.

Eyes are averted, heads bowed slightly, and the women make a collective sound of sympathy. “How long ago did your husband pass?” a white-haired woman asks.

“Nine months,” I reply. “John and I wanted to move here, but he got sick.”

“You’re here permanently?” the crocheting woman asks.

I nod. “I’ve rented Mrs. Bowman’s trailer home.”

“You have children?” another woman asks.

It’s a question I’ve fielded several times now. Children and family are the heart of Amish society. I purposefully look away, glance down at the tabletop. “No, it’s just me.”

The white-haired woman shakes her head. She’s probably too kind to say it aloud, but I know what she’s thinking. If you’re Amish, unmarried, and without children at my age, you’re living an unfulfilled life.

“Welcome to Roaring Springs, Kate Miller.” A red-haired woman whose face is mottled with freckles offers a kind, sympathetic look. “My cousin, Ruth, lives in Berlin.”