Harvest of Blessings Page 8

  “Mainly I want to ask if they’ll all meet together at my place—with Millie and the men—so everybody can find a way to . . . mend fences,” he said with a sigh. “Except the fences need to come down. Separation from each other—especially within our own families—is akin to separation from God, the way I see it.”

  “I agree a hundred percent,” Miriam whispered. “But do ya figure on Atlee and Gabe goin’ along with it? If they get wind of Wilma, Lizzie, and Nora gettin’ together, they might well nix the whole thing.”

  “As the bishop of Willow Ridge, I see it as my mission—my duty to God—to bring folks closer together instead of allowin’ old attitudes and habits to keep us apart,” he replied in a low voice. “If I call a meeting, Gabe and Atlee will need to be there, ain’t so? And with tomorrow bein’ a non-church Sunday, the afternoon will be a gut time to get this process started.”

  “Oh, Tom, I’m so pleased to hear ya sayin’ that,” Miriam insisted. “I was thinkin’ on that very subject when ya came to the door. Let me know what I can do.”

  “I’ll be countin’ on you and Ben—askin’ him, as a preacher, to help persuade Atlee and Gabe to at least hear Nora out,” Tom said as he slathered butter on his bread. “If she’s willin’ to talk about what happened all those years ago, maybe we’ll see her situation in a different light. And I for one want to know what sort of life she’s been livin’ since she left.”

  Miriam began cutting shortening into the flour in her big wooden mixing bowl, for her piecrusts. “As I’ve been thinkin’ back to when Nora left town, I had a real hard time believin’ she was pregnant,” she mused aloud. “Nora grew up right across the road. She was back and forth with my girls even though they were a few years younger, so I thought I knew her. She didn’t go chasin’ after the boys. She wasn’t the sort to hide English clothes or jewelry and wear them when she was out of her parents’ sight. Truth be told, she’d barely gotten into her rumspringa and then she was gone.”

  “That’s how I recall it, too.” Tom tucked the last chunk of bread into his mouth before he spoke again. “I’m thinkin’ Ben will be a gut candidate for keepin’ Atlee and Gabe at least civil, on account of how he’s a newcomer. Doesn’t have any preconceived notions or family biases.”

  “And Ben wants the best for Millie, too. She’s the one most likely to feel betrayed and hurt.”

  “Millie needs our prayers,” the bishop agreed as he slid off the stool. “I’ll leave ya to your work now, Miriam—and I’ll take those loaves of bread after I’ve had my breakfast. I’m hopin’ Gabe’ll eat here this morning so I can sweeten him up,” he added with a smile. “But he might stay away, thinkin’ that’s what I intend to do. He’s a crusty old character.”

  “Gut luck and Godspeed with your visits.” As the door closed behind him, Miriam placed a ball of dough on the countertop and began to roll it flat. Sweet Seasons customers always bought more whole pies—more of everything she baked—for the weekend, so she wanted to be ready. The July heat and humidity had already made the kitchen feel sticky, so she switched on the exhaust fan. The midsummer weather seemed a good reason to serve chilled salads and lighter fare on the day’s menu, but with so many of the local men eating breakfast or their noon meal here, the steam table would have to offer solid meat-and-potatoes fare, as well.

  As Miriam considered stirring up a batch of whole grain pancake mix from the Hooley mill, the shifting in her abdomen made her grin and place a floury hand there. “Gut mornin’ to ya, wee one,” she murmured.

  Once again she considered what a major change this baby was going to make in her life, now that she was forty-one with a busy preacher and farrier for a husband, grown triplet daughters, and a restaurant to run. This child was a miracle she welcomed, however, even as she realized young Nora Glick had experienced these same fluttery sensations as a terrified teenager who’d been cast out of Willow Ridge.

  What a difference a baby makes, Miriam mused as she resumed her baking. With all her heart she hoped the Glick family would be reunited, and she prayed that Millie would come to feel she’d made a positive difference in the lives she’d touched since she’d been born.

  Chapter Ten

  When Nora stepped into the Schrocks’ quilt shop early on Saturday afternoon, she stood for a moment to gaze at the bolts of fabric arranged by color families on the shelves along the wall. She inhaled the scent of dyes, made more pronounced by the midday heat, and rejoiced that she’d found a source for embroidery floss, thread, and other supplies within a five-minute walk of her new home. Standing in a large room surrounded by so much color made her believe she could survive in Willow Ridge—could thrive here, if she applied her best artistic instincts and business sense.

  Nora wandered over to where full-size quilts hung from heavy rods that extended out from the wall. A log cabin quilt was displayed on a double bed, and Nora paused to admire the unusual gradations of green, blue, and purple prints that formed the traditional design.

  A pleasant voice interrupted her reverie. “How can I help ya?”

  Nora smiled. She had dressed Plain again today, in a solid-color cape dress of goldenrod she’d sewn in anticipation of moving to Willow Ridge. “I’ve come for some materials, and maybe some advice,” she replied as she studied the woman before her.

  Was this Mary Schrock, Zeb’s wife? Or was she dealing with Priscilla or Eva, one of Zeb’s aunts? As a kid she’d been acquainted with the Schrock family who lived on the road to Morning Star, because Atlee had been apprenticed to Zeb. But in sixteen years they—and she—had matured. “I need some fabric and crochet thread to finish some hangings, but I’m also gathering information about whether a gift shop might be a feasible venture here in Willow Ridge,” Nora explained. “I’m hoping to repurpose the big barn on Bishop’s Ridge Road—to turn it into an outlet for locally made Plain items.”

  The woman sucked in air. “You bought the Knepp place—which means you’re Wilma Glick’s girl. Oh my.”

  Nora kept her smile in place, hoping she wasn’t already condemned as someone a decent Mennonite woman shouldn’t talk to. “Word travels fast,” she murmured.

  “Atlee’s sister, then. He works at my Zeb’s auction barn—”

  “Jah, Mary, I’m Nora and it’s gut to see you again. A few years have separated us, but as I look at these fabulous quilts,” she said, gesturing toward the display, “I’m hoping I can sell some of them for you in my store. Surely other folks around these Plain settlements have handmade items they’d like to consign, too. But it’ll take a lot of merchandise to fill that big barn and make it look like we mean business!”

  Mary’s gray eyes sparkled. “My stars, just a few weeks ago Eva and Priss and I were wonderin’ where we’d put some of our quilts. Our space is gettin’ too full to really see some of the details our gals put into their hand quilting.”

  As her heart began to dance, Nora willed herself not to get too excited yet. It would take a tremendous amount of work to convert the two-level barn into a store, but if she could convince local crafters and artisans to participate, wouldn’t it be something?

  “I’d guess the Brenneman boys would have some furniture to display, and Matthias Wagler might have some leather saddles and tack,” Mary said as she counted these folks off on her fingers. “And over Morning Star way, there’s a fella who makes rockin’ chairs and wooden toys. And Miriam’s husband, Ben, makes the prettiest rose trellises and garden gates you ever did see, out of wrought iron.”

  For the first time in days, Nora felt she was in the right place at the right time. “You can’t know how glad I am to hear these suggestions,” she murmured as she pressed her hands together.

  Mary cocked her head, studying Nora. “From what I was hearin’, I didn’t expect ya to show up in Plain clothes or to be talkin’ about our handmade merchandise,” she said. Her eyebrows rose, questioning Nora.

  “It’s true that I’ve been living English—was married to an English man before he divorced me,�
� Nora admitted, watching for signs of Mary’s disapproval. “But during that time I got considerable experience in consignment shops. I’m a fiber artist—which is yet another difficult subject to discuss with my Amish family.”

  Mary looked puzzled, but then she giggled. “For a wee moment I thought ya made things out of bran flakes and beans,” she said as her cheeks grew pink. “Never you mind, Nora. Takes me a minute to catch on to new ideas.”

  Nora began to laugh along with Mary. To Plain women whose ways hadn’t changed much in the last century, the term fiber was dietary rather than a reference to fabric, yarns, and other needlework materials. She welcomed this moment of humor, sensing a barrier had come down between her and this middle-aged Mennonite lady.

  A slow smile lit Mary’s face. The hair tucked beneath her kapp was steely gray, and her dress of muted blue calico was pressed to perfection, yet Nora sensed this prim and proper shopkeeper might overlook some of Nora’s personal issues . . . or even help her with them.

  “Never let it be said that ya chose an easy path,” Mary remarked. “But a store like you’re dreamin’ of is more likely to happen now than it was even a few years ago. What with Miriam next door bein’ Amish, and we Schrocks bein’ Mennonite, and the owner of our building bein’ the nice English fella who raised Miriam’s daughter, Rebecca,” she added with a grin, “we’ve had some practice at gettin’ along with all sorts of folks. There’s a place for every soul and work for every hand, the way I see it.”

  Nora almost grabbed Mary in a hug—except the bell above the door jingled as a couple of English women entered the shop. “Thank you so much for saying that,” she whispered. “I’ll look around while you help these ladies. I hope we can talk more about my consignment store idea.”

  Her heart was thumping as she made her way to the shelves of quilting fabrics. Instinctively pulling out bolts of prints that would complete her hangings, Nora realized she had some catching up to do. Her tiny hometown had undergone several radical changes: the former bishop had been excommunicated, Preacher Tom had remarried after his first wife, Lettie, had run off, and the Lantz girl who’d been washed away in a flood-swollen river had returned to live here.

  There’s a place for every soul and work for every hand.

  Nora had been about eleven when toddler Rebecca had broken away from Miriam, who’d been hurrying her triplet daughters away from the rising river while calling out to her husband about an approaching storm. Miriam had lost the baby she’d been carrying, too. And after the local men had searched for Rebecca and decided the police were not to be notified, Miriam had grieved the lively little girl everyone believed was dead. Yet now Rebecca was waiting tables and assisting at the new clinic down the road.

  Rebecca came back after being raised English. She wears jeans and lives near her family and designs websites. Everyone loves her even though she’ll never become Amish. Maybe there’s hope for me.

  Nora piled her bolts of fabric on the cutting table and then grabbed a shopping basket. As she quickly selected tubes of fabric paint, skeins of cotton crochet thread, and some fat quarters from a bin of fabric remnants, she eased into her creative zone—that state of mind where she intuitively chose materials that appealed to her, without thinking too much about how she’d use them. It was this innate artistic ability that had given her a purpose, a focus, after she’d left Millie with Atlee and Lizzie. She’d blended the practical sewing skills Mamma had taught her with so many other techniques she’d picked up in craft classes, to create a lucrative hobby while Tanner had been traveling so much. More than once in her lifetime, crafting items to sell had been her salvation—in a personal sense if not a religious one.

  But it was art. And art for decoration—art for art’s sake—was forbidden in the Amish culture because it called attention to the artist.

  On impulse, Nora grabbed two more bolts of fabric—a vibrant pink, red, and orange plaid and a calico of muted red shamrocks on a beige background. She could envision cape dresses with matching aprons she would wear when she opened her shop. Such un-Amish prints wouldn’t be suitable while she tried to reconcile with her family, but this new clothing would fit the woman Nora thought she could become, given a chance.

  When Mary had rung up the other customers’ purchases, she joined Nora at the cutting table. “I can’t wait to tell Eva and Priss about your idea for a store,” she said as she measured the fabrics. “If you’ll jot down your phone number, I’ll tell our friends at church tomorrow, too. I bet you’ll get calls from folks all over mid-Missouri once word goes out, on account of how there are so few places to sell our work, aside from our own little shops.”

  “I can’t wait to get going on this store now,” Nora replied as she grabbed paper and a pen from her purse. “But it’s going to take a lot of cleaning. I’ll need shelves and display tables, and—”

  “Many hands make light work,” Mary reminded her. “Seems only right that anybody wantin’ to consign pieces to your new store should have a hand in gettin’ it ready. Set some dates and times. Ya might be surprised at who-all shows up.”

  Nora’s mouth dropped open. Half an hour ago she’d ventured into this shop, and she was leaving with a contact list and a store preparation plan she believed would work. “I can’t thank you enough for your help, Mary,” she said as she paid for her supplies.

  Mary handed over Nora’s bulging sack with a bright smile. “I wish ya all the best, Nora—with your family and your new store, as well,” she said. “And if you’d like to meet some of those folks I was tellin’ ya about, our church is right out there on the road that runs past my Zeb’s auction barn. We’d love to have ya.”

  And wasn’t that a pleasant surprise? While outsiders occasionally attended Amish weddings or funerals, Nora had never known an Amish person to invite anyone except members of the Old Order to worship with them.

  “I might just show up one of these Sundays,” Nora replied. “I could use some help from higher up, that’s for sure.”

  “‘And from whence cometh my help? My help comes from the Lord, who made heaven and earth,’” Mary paraphrased as she gently grasped Nora’s wrist. “You’ll figure that out eventually, Nora, just like you’ll figure out where ya fit in. Really ya will.”

  Nora nodded, fervently hoping Mary Schrock was right.

  As she hurried home with her purchases, Nora felt certain she could make a go of a consignment store. When she entered her kitchen through the back door, the house’s relative coolness felt good after the heat outside. Hiram had built this home on a hill to catch the breeze from the river, and its well-placed windows allowed her to create a cross current by opening them in the basement as well as on the first and second levels.

  When she’d raised her upstairs windows, Nora went into the room she’d chosen as her studio—it had a fabulous view of the river and the mill. As she opened a couple of big cardboard boxes, it was almost like Christmas in July, seeing the hangings she’d packed away.

  Nora carried her pieces downstairs, arranging them on the backs of her sofas and chairs so she could remember what she’d made and decide on new items to design for her store. It was no coincidence that the people on her pieces were Plain. She’d harkened back to her early years for inspiration, so these quilted, appliquéd pieces featured buggies and little Amish boys and girls because those subjects sold very well to English shoppers. No two of her pieces were alike, but as she created her three-dimensional hangings she repeated the themes and scenes that her customers bought most often.

  Nora grabbed a notepad from the kitchen. Barefoot girl in a garden, she scribbled. Another washday clothesline. Scenes from Willow Ridge—dairy farm/cows, mill on the river. Instinct told her she’d just purchased the right fabrics to begin a couple of these projects, which suddenly felt much more pressing—and much more fun—than unpacking the boxes that were still stacked in some of her rooms.

  A confident knock on the front door brought Nora out of her artistic musings. Oh, just lea
ve me alone, she thought with a sigh—until she caught a glimpse of a straw hat and a graying beard through the glass panel in the entryway. Her visitor wasn’t Hiram or any of the Hooley brothers, so as she opened the front door she reminded herself to be patient and polite.

  “Tom Hostetler,” she said as a kindly smile lit his weathered face. “I hope you’ve not come to warn me of any wrongdoing, after I’ve only been in town a couple of days.”

  That was a presumptuous, smart-aleck thing to say to the bishop, her conscience warned as she held the screen door open for him.

  Tom studied her for a moment. “My reputation precedes me,” he replied with a chuckle. “Truth be told, I’ve come with an apology and an invitation—and a loaf of Miriam’s bread, baked just this morning,” he added as he offered her a white paper bakery sack.

  “I’d be silly not to accept any of those,” Nora replied as she took the solid, round loaf. “I didn’t mean to sound offensive or—”

  “No offense taken, Nora.” The bishop paused in the entryway to gaze into the kitchen and the living room. Then he focused on her, his eyes clear and direct. “I wanted to say how sorry I am for the way your dat treated ya yesterday. It took a lot of courage to approach him after all these years—and to that end, I’m hopin’ you’ll join your mamm and Lizzie at my place tomorrow afternoon to talk things out.”

  Nora blinked. This bishop’s energy was so different from Hiram Knepp’s that she sensed Willow Ridge had entered a new era . . . perhaps an atmosphere of cooperation rather than condemnation. “Will Millie be there?”

  “I’m hopin’ she will, jah. I’ve asked her to come.”

  Nodding, Nora tried to keep up with her racing thoughts. “Will Dat be there? And Atlee?”

  “I’ve expressed my opinion that their presence would be beneficial,” Tom replied earnestly. “With those fellas, the old sayin’ of leadin’ the horse to water applies.”