The Postcard by Beverly Lewis Page A

land.
    “We’re full-up in the guest quarters tonight,” she told him, turning her attention to the meal at hand.
    “Yes, and I do believe we’ve got ourselves a big-city reporter in residence.” Benjamin reached for the towel and dried his hands.
    “A reporter? Here? Are you sure?”
    He smiled, slipping his arm around her waist. “Sure as the sugar maple turns crimson. I sniffed him a mile away. Philip Bradley’s the name, and you best be watchin’ what you say at supper, hear?”
    Ben oughta know, she thought. He’d smelled a rat before, not from visitors up north or anywhere else for that matter. But she’d seen his God-given gift in action many a time. It was the gift of discernment, all right. He could pretty much tell who was who and what was what before anyone fessed up to much of anything. And Susanna, well, she liked it just fine that way. Jah, she’d be mighty careful what she said from now on.
    ’Twould never do to have some dark-headed English reporter snooping around here, living under their roof and writing stories that weren’t one bit true—or slanted at best. Wouldn’t do, a’tall.
    They’d had more than their share of false reporting. Amish were forever being featured in one newspaper or another, especially after that drug business broke last summer. But for the most part, far as she was concerned, the reporting was heavy on exaggeration and sensationalism. She’d never known a single Amish teenager doing drugs of any kind. Net —never! ’Least not in their church district. English newspapers were cooked up by many a misguided writer, hoping to turn a few heads and make a dollar. When it came right down to it, a body had to stick to what he believed—wrong or right. And that was that.

Eight
    P hilip stared at his laptop computer screen, scanning the description he’d written before supper. Before the cordial hostess—Mrs. Susanna Zook—had decided to give him a rather cold shoulder. At first he had just assumed that her detached manner during the meal was due to the fact that both she and her husband were busily engaged in conversation with a number of other guests, three couples from the Midwest who seemed rather ignorant of the Plain lifestyle and who fairly dominated the evening’s chatter. This turn of events had suited him fine because he merely had to listen to the responses given by Susanna and Benjamin, though occasionally guarded, to learn tidbits of Amish tradition.
    Interestingly, the most fascinating aspect of the evening had been the grand entrance made by Annie Yoder, introduced by Benjamin as their “littlest helper.” She was as candid and bright as his own niece had been at the same age. However, he did not hold out false hope of making friends with the Zooks’ granddaughter. The B&B owners had become somewhat cautious around him, and the obvious shift in their demeanor had him utterly intrigued.
    First thing tomorrow, he would wander down the road to the village shops—see if he could eavesdrop on some of the locals prior to his formal afternoon interviews. In leafing through the tourist handbook, he’d noticed that several Bird-in-Hand stores—among them Fisher’s Handmade Quilts and the Country Barn Quilts and Crafts—offered genuine Amish quilts, wall hangings, and other handcrafted items. Folks at country stores often stood around conversing while they drank coffee or sipped apple cider. Most likely, there would be some Amish person he could connect with in the immediate area before his interview with Stephen Flory’s contact, unless, of course, he was able to get things back on an even keel with Susanna Zook.
    What had he said or done to make the Zooks so suspicious?

    “Ach, you’re not sittin’ very still,” Rachel chided her daughter. She let her fingers run down the long, silky tresses, weaving Annie’s hair back and forth, doing her best to make a smooth braid.
    “It’s awful hard to sit still, Mamma.”
    Rachel understood. “ ’Twas