A shy laugh from Esther broke through her woolgathering. Glancing over, she couldn’t help but smile, too. Arnie, who finally had Esther all to himself, was putting his best and least socially awkward foot forward, taking only one candy from the bowl at a time and actually depositing the wrappers on the counter instead of the floor.
It was progress, even if it was only temporary.
For a moment she simply watched the two interacting, the differences between them vivid. First, there was Arnie. Somewhere around six feet tall, the anthropology student’s khaki trousers had seen a few too many hot-water washes, and his pale-blue button-down shirt was in desperate need of an iron. His red hair stood on end in some places, while several sections appeared matted to his head.
Across from him stood the always-neat Esther—a young woman who hand washed her simple clothes on a daily basis and was up at the crack of dawn to help around the farm before putting in her time at Heavenly Treasures. Coming in at just over five feet three, Esther was a nonstop ball of energy wrapped in a very unassuming package. To the outside world, she was quiet, maybe even meek. But to those who knew her, Esther was a dreamer.
Unfortunately for Arnie, Eli was at the center of those dreams.
Their conversation was fairly quiet, with breaks every once in a while for Arnie to consult his notebook and Esther to peer forlornly toward the bakery in the hope that Eli’s buggy might be parked in the alley.
She could make out the occasional questions pertaining to Amish beliefs and customs, but, for the most part, she could only guess at their words. There was a part of her that wanted to pull up a chair and listen, to learn even more about the group of people who had grabbed hold of her heart. But she resisted.
What she still wanted to learn about the Amish would unfold in time. At the hands of people she considered friends. Like Esther and Ruth, Eli and Ben—
The jingle of bells resonated around the room, forcing all eyes toward the front door.
“Good afternoon, Claire”—Jakob’s eyes darted around the room, stopping on the twosome by the counter—“and Esther … and Mr. Streen, isn’t it?”
A quick nod was all the answer the detective received as Arnie turned back to a suddenly flustered Esther.
Anxious to ease the tension that ignited in Esther every time her uncle was near, Claire stepped back from the hand-painted milk can she’d positioned in the window and spread her arms wide. “So? What do you think?”
Jakob closed the gap between the front door and the window display in short order, his hazel eyes riveted on the forty-eight-gallon can. “Where’d you get this? It’s beautiful.”
Before she could answer, the detective reached out and traced the autumn-based farm scene with his finger. “My sister did this, didn’t she?”
A quiet gasp from the other side of the room went unnoticed as Jakob’s voice took on a faraway quality. “I remember our Mamm using a paintbrush once for something I can’t even remember. We were sitting around the table after the evening meal. Martha picked up the brush and just started painting. Within minutes, there was a horse, and then a
buggy. It was so good that it looked as if you could step inside the picture and go for a ride.”
And then, as if sensing the question that hovered over his niece, he added, “She was about your age at the time, Esther.”
Claire stole a peek in Esther’s direction and saw the tentative curiosity behind her friend’s brown eyes. Not wanting to see the connection end, Claire grabbed hold of the still-unplaced handsaw propped against the wall and held it up for Jakob to inspect. “Look at this one. Can you imagine actually using this to cut something?”
Jakob leaned forward and sucked in his breath.
She lowered the saw and pinned him with a worried stare. “Are you okay?”
Without saying a word, he took the saw from her hands and studied it closely. “This pond is where we swam as kids. It is where my sister and I played together.”
She blinked against the tears that pricked the corners of her eyes, the wistful tone of the man’s voice tugging at that same place in her soul that desperately wanted to mend fences for this man and his sister.
A faint rustle made her turn to find Esther not more than three feet away.
“It is where Mamm took me to swim as a child,” Esther whispered. “She said it was a special place.”
Jakob nodded, his focus never leaving the painted landscape he held in his hands. “Because it was.”
Claire held her breath, afraid to break the spell.
Esther had spoken to Jakob. A real, honest-to-goodness sentence.
“Hey. You can’t do that.”
Esther spun around to face Arnie. “Mr. Streen?”
The redhead pointed at Jakob but addressed his Amish niece. “You’re not allowed to speak to one who has been shunned, remember? It’s against the Ordnung.”
And with those two simple sentences, the spell was broken.
S
he knew she should be pleased at the sales for the past week, but it was hard to focus on anything besides the image of Jakob Fisher’s face the moment Arnie opened his mouth and ruined a long-overdue moment. The detective’s hurt had been so raw and so fresh that it had been agonizing to witness.
In fact, if he hadn’t shaken her anger off, she’d have thrown Arnie out on his ear. Since he had, though, Arnie and Esther had resumed their private conversation, and Jakob had made some lame excuse that allowed him to retreat back to the police station.
By the time Arnie had finished with his elongated interview, she opted to cut Esther loose for the day, citing the quiet foot traffic along Lighted Way as a reason for the decision. But it hadn’t been the truth. Not really, anyway.
She just wanted to be alone—to go through the books, wander the store, and maybe even plan a way to reclaim the
tiny inroad Jakob had almost made with his estranged niece before her aunt’s boarder had stepped in and ruined everything.
Sure, she knew her aunt wouldn’t approve. The rift between Jakob and his family was a lost cause in Diane’s eyes, a casualty of a culture that was unbendable. And maybe it was.
She just wasn’t ready to write it off yet.
“Miss Weatherly?”
She looked up from the old-fashioned rolltop desk to find Benjamin Miller standing in the doorway of her makeshift office. “Oh, Benjamin. I didn’t hear you.”
“I knocked. You did not come.” He gestured toward the hallway from which he’d come. “Should I go?”
“No.” Pushing her paperwork and calculator toward the side of her desk, she gave the man her full attention. “I guess I didn’t realize I left the back door unlocked.”
She followed Benjamin’s gaze as he took in the envelope of money with Martha’s name sprawled across the front, the expression he wore difficult to decipher.
“Benjamin? Is something wrong?”
“I have something for you.”
Her focus dropped to Ben’s empty hands. “Oh?”
“Come.”
She rose from her rickety chair and followed the man down the hallway and out the back door. “What’s wrong? Did you find something?”
“I did not find it. I made it.” He sidestepped a team of matching horses and made his way to the back of an open wagon carrying a few small pieces of furniture. “Esther tells Eli of your honesty.”
Leaning forward, he reached across the wagon bed and wrapped his hands around the base of an unfinished rocking
chair, depositing it on the cobblestoned ground at her feet. Next to it, he placed a small side table and a child-sized footstool.
She ran her hand across the back of the rocker. “Is this for the store?”
He nodded.
An unexpected burning pricked at the corner of her eyes, and she blinked it away. The last thing she wanted to do was cry in front of this stoic man. Especially when she knew she’d sound foolish trying to explain the reason behind the tears. Instead, she swallowed—once, twice. “Benjamin, I’d be honored to display these in the store. They’re beautiful.”
A slight smile played at the corners of his mouth, and again he nodded. “I can make more.”
“How long does it take you to make a rocker like this?” she inquired. “The spindles alone must take forever.”
“If I work each night, it goes fast.”
She met his eyes. “But you’re in the fields all day long. How do you find the energy to do this, too?”
“I do it after the evening meal. It keeps me busy.”
It made sense now. Having been married, Benjamin lived alone. And although his house was on the same farm as his parents’ and grandparents’ homes, he surely felt his wife’s absence at mealtime and beyond. Woodworking surely eased that absence in much the way candle making eased Claire’s occasional bouts of loneliness.
The difference was, she had Diane to talk things over with when the candle making didn’t cut it. Benjamin, on the other hand, had a rock and a view …
“I … I want to thank you for last night. Seeing your special place, talking with someone close to my own age … It was more needed than I realized.”
For a moment he merely studied her face, his thoughts a
mystery. But just as she began to think she’d said too much, he grabbed the rocker in one capable hand and the side table in the other. “I will bring them inside for you.”
“I’ll get the footstool,” she mumbled before trailing him back through the door, across the stockroom, and into the shop. “Every Wednesday, I put Esther’s and now Martha’s consignment money in an envelope for a Thursday payday. When any of your work sells, I will do the same for you.”
“I trust you.”
Overcome by yet another round of emotions, she forced herself to focus on the best possible location for Benjamin’s pieces. “I’m not sure where the best place to put everything is just yet.”
Benjamin strode across the room and placed the side table and rocker in the section with other items for the home. Then he retraced his steps long enough to commandeer the footstool from her arms and place it alongside the bin of Amish dolls and hooks of baby bibs. When he was done, he turned to face her once again. “I have a new rolling pin for Ruth. But she left with Eli, and I did not bring the key.”
“I think I can help with that.” Beckoning him to follow, she made her way over to the counter. “The register and that tiered display stand in the front window are the only two things I hung on to when I took over this space. And, by default, that means your sister’s spare key, too.” She slid her hand along the side of the register until she felt the magnetized key holder on its side. “If it weren’t for Eli helping me carry in my candles on that first day, I’m not sure I would have ever noticed it back here.”
“I will bring it back in one moment.” He reached out and grabbed hold of the key, his fingers lingering on hers a beat longer than necessary.
She held her breath, unsure of what to say or how to
respond—or even whether it was all in her head. But before she could make sense of any of it, his hand was gone, and he was walking toward the hallway off the back of the shop, completely oblivious to any spark of attraction her desperate little mind had conjured.
S
he was just repositioning the footstool amid the items geared toward children when she heard his footsteps. “I bet Ruth is going to be thrilled with her new rolling pin.”
“Rolling pin?”
She spun around, surprised by the voice that answered. “Oh … Jakob, I’m sorry. I thought you were someone else.” She shifted her weight from one foot to the other as her thoughts traveled back to their earlier meeting. “I’m really sorry about what happened today. If I could have stifled Mr. Streen’s words with a roll of duct tape, I would have.”
“You and me both.” He wandered over to his sister’s coal bucket yet kept his hands in his pockets, the smile on his face anything but natural. “But he was right. And Esther knew it.”
“No one had to know.”
“Esther knew. That was enough.”
“What did Arnie mean about the Ordnung?” It was a question she’d intended to ask Diane that evening, yet was better suited to present company.
Jakob leaned his right shoulder against the nearest row of shelves. “The Ordnung is really an unwritten code of order that’s been handed down over generations. It essentially interprets the laws of social and spiritual behavior Amish are expected to follow.”
“But if it’s unwritten, doesn’t that leave room for exceptions?”
A strangled sound emerged from his lips before he shook it off. “No. And that is why the Amish have existed in such strong numbers for so long. They know what is expected of them, what kind of life they are to lead. It’s when exceptions come into play that things eventually fall apart.”
It was hard not to ache for this man who still championed the same lifestyle that had turned its back on him, and she said as much to him.
“The Amish do not baptize children. They wait until one is mature enough to make a conscious choice. That choice, should they make it, binds them to the Amish life, for they have committed to obeying the church rules. They know that if they sin, they will be excommunicated and shunned until they confess their sins and seek forgiveness in front of their congregation.” He took an audible breath as he brushed at the faintest hint of stubble on his chin. “I was baptized. I said I understood. And then I left. That can’t be forgiven.”
“How can you be so … so okay with it?” she whispered.
“I’m not. It hurts every day. But I knew the consequences of my actions when I left, and I left, anyway.”
“But why can’t your sister talk to you? Or even Esther, for that matter?”
“Because they follow the Ordnung.”
“I’m not Amish, and they talk to me,” she argued.
“You did not promise to be Amish and then leave.”
She didn’t know what to say. Her head got what Jakob was saying—it really did. But her heart just couldn’t wrap itself around the hurt.
“I made my choice, Claire.”
“Then I guess I just can’t understand why you came back.” She sat down on the edge of Benjamin’s rocker. “The hurt must be so much stronger here than it was in New York. At least there you could try to forget. At least a little.”
“I left so I could help people like my family. I can’t really do that in the city.”