Free The Postcard by Beverly Lewis

who’d be willing to talk. For money, if for no other reason. But now that he was here, had been offered a sampling of the conservative lifestyle, had met Susanna and observed Annie with her mother, he was having second thoughts about the silver-tongued approach. Maybe his sis knew what she was talking about. Lest he start out on the wrong foot, maybe he should mention to Susanna or her more reticent husband that Janice was close friends with one of their relatives. After all, weren’t all Amish connected by blood or marriage? Yes, maybe some old-fashioned name dropping would open a few doors for him.
    He wracked his brain, trying to remember the name of the Harrisburg woman, Janice’s pen pal. Was it Stoltzfus? Something fairly uncommon.
    Scanning the room, he observed the brown tufted velvet chair and settee. Not exactly the most vigorous choice of color for such a grand room, considering the large tan hooked rug beneath his feet. Although coupled with the backdrop of yet another floral wallpaper pattern, the earthy tones actually worked.
    He was beginning to wonder if Plain folk purposely chose to decorate their homes a whit better than they adorned themselves, though the bright blues and purples he’d seen several Amishwomen wearing as they scurried about Bird-in-Hand Farmers Market weren’t entirely unattractive. At least, he hadn’t seen anyone else sporting the dismal gray that Annie’s mother wore as she sat alone in the parlor, completely still.
    He took note of the pink- and cream-colored hurricane lamp. Antique, no doubt. Most everything in the house was of the Victorian era. That, or New England Country. Susanna surely had an affinity for old things, same as his sister. He wondered how the two might get along if ever they were to meet.
    Culture clash , he thought, suppressing the urge to laugh. Then again, they had the potential to get on famously, especially since it was Janice who’d told him in no uncertain terms to slow down and live. The Amish seemed to know how to enjoy a slow-paced life. “You’re rushing through life, Philip, and it makes no sense . . . especially since you seem so absolutely miserable,” Janice had said.
    “But I need to keep busy,” he’d responded, a bit put out. “I function best that way.” He’d laughed, but he knew the truth. If he stopped working so hard, stopped filling up every second of his life with appointments and interviews and social events, he’d have to think. About the state of his life, for instance.
    “I’d rather die than sit around twiddling my thumbs,” he’d tossed off, hoping to end the uncomfortable Q and A.
    “So you’re addicted to work, is that it?” Janice never quit. She always pushed until he clammed up. “You know what I think? I think you’re running from yourself, and if you slow down, you’re afraid you’ll have to take a long, hard look at who Philip Bradley really is.”
    Nailed again.
    Truth was, of course, he did long for a simpler, slower life. But it was easier, by far, to keep running on this insane but safe treadmill called life, going faster and faster, never allowing himself to stop.
    Susanna startled him slightly as she came with a generous mug of steaming coffee on a saucer. “Here we are. Feel free to take it to your room if you like.” She glanced about her. “Or you may stay here . . . for as long as you wish. We also have a number of footpaths, leading to the orchard and beyond, to Mill Creek. It’s a wonderful-gut afternoon for a walk.”
    “Thank you, I’ll keep that in mind . . . and I’ll look forward to supper, as well.” He offered a smile to the friendly hostess, and to the cozy couple who paid him no mind.
    “I think you’ll be mighty pleased with the pork chops.” Susanna’s smile was warm.
    “Yes, I’m sure I will,” he agreed, heading toward the stairs and to his room high above the parlor. He couldn’t help thinking most writers would give their eyeteeth to see the scene he had