“Okay, something else I don’t get.” She said above the rush of the wind. Tiffany obviously loved the open road: after a few moments of calming silence as she sped down the highway, she lifted her face to the sun with a mystifying smile. “How come your women wear such dull dresses, all made in the same dumpy style? And what’s with those little hats with the dangly strings?” she demanded. “You can’t tell me Amish guys wear suspenders and straw hats as a
religious
ritual! I mean,
really!
Do you believe you’ll go to hell if you wear plaid pants—or go to a barber for a real haircut? Or that your women will be condemned if they sewed a dress from a neon leopard-skin print?”
Micah’s breath left him. While she sounded genuinely curious, she could obviously fillet him with her sharp tongue even faster than Rachel did when she got upset. When a gust of wind popped his hat from his head, he grabbed it and held it on his lap ... not proper behavior, especially in the presence of an Englishwoman, but what else was he to do? “When we are baptized into the church—as adults, so we
choose
to live the Old Ways—we agree to follow the
Ordnung
our congregation has agreed upon.”
“
Ordnung ?
You mean like rules and regs?”
“
Jah
. And it reminds us to not be distracted or misled by worldly things like electrical appliances and—”
“That is so freaking weird.” From behind her sunglasses, Tiffany stared at him as though he had two heads. “So then, how do they cook at the café? And how on earth do those women conduct business without a phone?”
“Bishop Knepp allowed Miriam to partner with Mennonites—her husband’s cousins—who wired the buildin’ for electricity after she had it built. So she can run the Sweet Seasons with a kitchen that’s up to code,” he added in a voice that sounded none too confident. “The two shops share a phone in a little booth out back—”
“You let one guy decide who gets electricity? That’s nuts!”
The bishop had insisted they use pneumatic tools and a generator in their carpentry shop, rather than more convenient electrical power, but he and his brothers hadn’t protested or challenged Hiram’s judgment. “He was chosen by God to lead our district—”
“So you’re saying
God
lets you Amish have phones, but only outside? Get real!”
“Only because the café brings in tourists that supplement all our incomes. We don’t have telephones in our homes because—”
“This is unbelievable! Freaking uncivilized!” Tiffany looked at the road again and then swerved to get back into the proper lane. They were going way too fast, yet she seemed able to control the car ... as though she enjoyed driving with the wind whipping her short, spiky hair.
And he enjoyed watching her.
Micah shifted. Recalling this same rush of excitement when he’d ridden hell-bent down the highway with his English and Mennonite friends a few years ago. The wind was blowing his chin-length hair into a tangle, but he didn’t care: it was enough to feel these moments of glorious speed with no one from Willow Ridge to witness how he’d spent his afternoon. He’d pray about it tonight. Talk to God about staying on the straight and narrow way he’d sworn to uphold, because Rachel deserved a man who kept his word—to her and to God.
As Tiffany slowed to make a U-turn in the middle of the road, he tried desperately to speak of his faith, of the strong family ties fostered by Old Order ways ... family ties and a birthright she could reclaim, if she chose to. But he was bungling it badly when she took a tiny phone from a holster on her belt and began talking into it, oblivious to his presence for several moments. How could she negotiate this turn with one hand, and talk at the same time?
Tiffany made a face at the cell phone before she slipped it back into its holster. Then she focused on him instead of watching the road. “So where’s your car?” she demanded.
“Don’t have one.”
“You
what?”
She jammed her foot on the brake, to stare at him as the Mustang idled right in the middle of the county highway. “So you don’t even know how to drive? And you’re
how
old?”
As Micah watched the incredulous emotions play across her face, he felt like a little schoolkid. Tiffany’s sudden mood switches intimidated him—and they might not be too safe at the speeds she’d been traveling, either. But, of course, if safety was a concern, what was he doing here with this English-raised daredevil? “
Jah
, I drive,” he insisted, “but without a license, I’m limited to farm machinery and horse-drawn carriages.”
“Let me guess: your bishop decided that, too.”
Micah cleared his throat, grateful that she was driving again rather than sitting in the middle of the curving road. “Ownership of cars fosters envy and competition. Takes us too far from home—”
“So how’d you get to the pool hall? Didn’t see a horse outside—not that there was a hitching post, either!” An unladylike snort escaped her, and once again Tiffany became his interrogator, his challenger.
“I parked amongst the rigs at the Mennonite church.”
“And why weren’t
you
at church today?” she shot back.
“It’s not a preachin’ Sunday, so—”
“Look, forget it.” Tiffany turned left so suddenly the tires squealed on the hot pavement as she headed back toward town. Micah grabbed the door handle and the console to keep from being knocked around. His arm brushed against hers, and he was suddenly too aware of her—and also aware that her laughter was at his expense. The car shot across the other lane of traffic and into the church parking lot, where she gleefully stomped the brake to skid to a halt.
The ruckus made Rosie, his mare, dance nervously and toss her head. All the other carriages had gone home, so it was very obvious the new courting buggy was his—not that Tiffany would be impressed.
Micah’s heart felt heavy in his chest. At least folks weren’t coming out of church to witness the end of this fruitless little adventure where the joke had been on him: he knew some of the young Mennonite men who attended service here, and they’d never let him live it down that a girl like Tiffany had spurned him. Through her dark glasses she was gawking at him as though his next move should be obvious, so he stepped out to the pavement. As he closed the shiny red car door, he resigned himself to reality. “Look, I’m sorry we couldn’t reach any solutions, but I hope ya realize Mr. Oliveri—your
dat
—wasn’t makin’ up that story about the flood and findin’ ya in the river. And I wasn’t lyin’ about how your mother wants to—”
“Yeah, well.”
That’s all she had to say?
Yeah, well?
With a sad nod, Micah turned toward his horse to soothe it. He wasn’t having much effect on the other female he’d been dealing with, so—
“Whaddaya say you come see me next Saturday night, Micah?”
He turned, staring. Was she sincerely interested in spending time with him? Or was this just another chance to entertain herself at his expense? Seemed like there was something else he was supposed to do ... yet when Tiffany flashed him a bright smile and batted those black eyelashes, he forgot all those reasons he shouldn’t be wasting his time with this exotic, irreverent young woman. “
Jah
, I could do that, if—”
“I’ll wait for you here, then. Say, sixish? We can get something to eat and talk some more.”
Micah nodded, fighting a silly grin. As Tiffany revved the engine of her car and then sped back onto the highway, he felt like a kid who’d just won a prize at the mud sale. What was he, five years older than this unconventional young woman? Yet his mind raced ahead to ways of engaging her in more meaningful conversation—ways to convince her it wasn’t such a horrendous thing, having Plain roots and a family who was truly interested in knowing her again. “Ya know, Rosie, we might just soften that hard-core shell she hides behind—”
“Can I help ya, young fella? As you can see, you’re a little late for the service.”
Micah pivoted then forced a quick smile. The gray-bearded man coming out the front door of the church was a preacher, whose sharp little eyes were looking right through to his soul. No sense in making up some cockeyed story about what he’d been doing just now. “What might ya know about that gal who just drove off? Tiffany Oliveri, her name is.”
The older fellow’s thin shoulders rose expressively and his demeanor spoke volumes. “Don’t know her, son. Not the type who’d come to services.”
Because you wouldn’t let her in? Tiffany could use the comfort and strength that comes from spendin’ time with God, among His people.
And that’s what he needed to do right now, as well, so Micah didn’t challenge the preacher’s remark. “I’ll be headin’ on home, then. The Lord’s been workin’ in some mighty mysterious ways—”
“Don’t be misled, son. The Devil tempted Jesus, too, with ideas that seemed reasonable, under the circumstances.”
Micah held back a remark. He hopped up into his buggy and clapped the reins lightly across Rosie’s back. “Thanks. I’ll keep that in mind.”
Chapter 9
“Miriam?
Gut
mornin’, Sister! Ya look all flushed and overdone, like rhubarb cobbler just come from the oven!”
Miriam glanced up from the double batch of oatmeal-flax dough she was mixing for her favorite bread. It
was
hot in the café’s kitchen: she’d been running the ovens for hours, and July mornings in Missouri were always sultry. “Takes some doin’ to work in the last of this whole wheat flour. Ya been pickin’ us more veggies this mornin’?”
Her sister wore an old choring dress with a bandanna tied over her hair, and she was barefoot.
Mighty sweaty herself
, Miriam noted smugly. As Leah set baskets of lettuce and spinach on the far counter by the sink, her expression seemed ... purposeful. “
Jah
, best to get the greenery in before the sun wilts it. Been wonderin’ about that girl who stopped in last week—”
“My Rebecca!
Jah
, she’s alive! And I’ve learned all sorts of—”
“—and I’m just now findin’ a minute to see how you’re doin’ with that. Musta been quite a shock.” Leah leaned a hip against the counter where Miriam worked. “I stopped by the house yesterday, when ya didn’t come to the quiltin’ frolic with the girls.”
Miriam paused, her hands clamped around the bowl and her spatula. With all those boys to raise, bees to tend, and the huge garden plots she watched for the café and several farmers’ markets in the area, Leah Kanagy had little time to chat—and less inclination toward needlework, truth be told. “
You
spent the day at a quiltin’ frame, Sis? Amongst all those chirpin’ girls?”
She shrugged. “Stopped with a wee gift for Daniel’s niece, due any minute now, and then stopped by to see
you
. Tell your big sister, now, Miriam: Were ya out courtin’ and keepin’ it quiet-like? High time, I say!”
“Nothin’ like that.” Miriam paused, partly for effect and partly to decide how much of her secret to reveal. If word of her Sunday excursion reached the wrong ears, there’d be trouble ... but if she couldn’t share this family matter—this unexpected joy—with her own sister, whom
could
she trust?
Miriam smiled. Took two to play cat-and-mouse, and she’d always enjoyed putting one over on Leah, making her gawk and beg for details this way. “I was gettin’ acquainted with Bob Oliveri, over in Morning Star! Can ya believe it?” she asked happily. “He pulled my Rebecca out of the river eighteen years ago! Raised her as their own, he and his wife did—I saw pictures of her on their walls, and—oh, Leah!” she added with a wistful sigh. “Never in my life had I thought to see my lost girl again.”
“They say she looks hard. One tough-talkin’ customer, too.”
“
Jah
, that she is. No patience for Plain ways.” Miriam pinched the brown dough into four equal sections, to shape them into loaves. Her sister had never been one to gush or show emotion, so she proceeded carefully. “But it was like my sins were forgiven ... all those years of blamin’ myself for lettin’ her get loose, put to rest! Even Sheila proclaimed it a miracle. We were all of us in tears.”
“Don’t go gettin’ your hopes up. Hate to see ya hurt again, dredgin’ up so much from the past, Miriam.”
Miriam chuckled wryly. She could count on Leah to see the glass as half empty rather than believing it would run over with goodness. “
You
recall how devas-tatin’ it was when I lost little—”
“She’s not so little now, and she’s not the wee girl ya were raisin’ to follow our ways!” Her sister’s damp brow furrowed sternly. “No tellin’ what she might try, now that she sees how well the bakery and café’re doin’.”
Miriam blinked. Even for Leah, this conversation seemed cold and hard. Such suspicious talk reminded her of another blessing: she was all too glad that her sister had such a talent for raising food while she was the one in the kitchen, cooking it! It was nearly five. She glanced out to see if her girls or Naomi were on their way down the lane. “I doubt Rebecca will come back to see us again, but it’s good to know she’s alive, Leah! Surely ya can let me have
that
to smile about!”
“
Jah
, of course, I’m happy about that.” Leah washed her hands and then ran water into a stainless steel sink to clean the greens. “But Mary Schrock was sayin’ this version of Rebecca had everybody gawkin’ on account of her black-rimmed eyes and witch-dyed hair. And a sketch of a skull on her back, for land sakes!”
“Well—we all know the gossip from the quilt shop’s always true, ain’t so?” Miriam fought a sly grin. “I can recall when Mary and the aunts had you steppin’ out with the UPS man, on account of him stoppin’ every single day for a week to deliver your onion sets and beekeepin’ gear.”
“Oh, go on with ya!”
“I’m tellin’ ya, the café was buzzin’ like a hive of your bees, Sis!”
Leah lifted a double handful of deep green spinach from the water to let it drain. “Word of this situation with Rebecca is bound to reach the bishop, ya know. He’ll not want the story gettin’ out of Willow Ridge, bringin’ in reporters or television cameras—”
“You’d be singin’ a different song if
your
wee one had washed away all those years ago! Now hush with ya!” Miriam gestured toward the window. “The girls are nearly here and this ain’t been easy for them.”
Her sister’s grin turned catlike. “
Jah
, your girls were more in the spotlight than the expectant mothers and their babies yesterday, and they were none too happy about it.”
“My girls? Or the new mothers?”
Leah’s lips quirked. “
Jah
, them.”
Miriam fought the urge to shoo Leah Kanagy back to her garden plots. Had her own sister—Rebecca’s aunt—nothing positive or encouraging to say? Only sunrise, and already Leah had put a damper on the day—not that things had changed since they were girls growing up amongst five other sisters. She patted the fat, brown loaves into their pans and set them by the ovens to rise. Then she opened the large refrigerator door to assess the makings of today’s breakfast offerings.
“Well, I can see my big-sister advice is gonna blow right by ya.” Leah gently squeezed the last of the wet spinach and dropped it into the colander. “Take care, Miriam.”
“
Jah
, you too, Leah. Careful out there in the heat of the day—and
denki
for the fine-lookin’ greens. I’ll add them to my tab, end of the month.”
Her sister wiped her wet hands and then left by the kitchen exit, her greetings to the girls drifting into the kitchen with them. Rhoda, in blue, hugged her mother warmly while Rachel, in faded brown, appeared as pinched as a robin on a parched summer lawn. Miriam gazed at their dear faces. How would her daughters react if they heard she’d been to see Mr. Oliveri yesterday? Especially if they learned it secondhand? She hadn’t gone to Morning Star to spite them or hurt their feelings ... didn’t want yet another secret to make them doubt her boundless, unconditional love for the both of them.
“So Aunt Leah brought us more work, did she?” Rachel remarked shrilly. “Seems to be the only time she comes around.”
Miriam blinked. Where had
that
come from? Such an uncharacteristic question warned her that everyone’s morning would go downhill from here if she mentioned her trip to Morning Star right now. “
Jah
, the work—and the fresh veggies—keep comin’ at us, thank goodness! So we’d best make our way through it with a smile, instead of whinin’,” she replied as lightly as she could. “We’ll be needin’ silverware bundled first thing. And I’m thinkin’ we’ve got more ham than sausage this mornin’—at least until the Zooks send us any surplus from the weekend. “What sounds
gut
for the breakfast specials?”
Rachel beelined into the dining room, to the big tub of clean silverware beside the coffeemakers. Rhoda sighed and tipped her head toward her sister. “Got a bone to pick with Micah, I’m guessin’,” she murmured as she stood beside her mother, gazing into the refrigerator. “He didn’t come to the singin’ after our quiltin’ frolic, and she’s mighty put out about it.”
“Was he s’posed to? Did he say he’d pick her up?”
“Well, in Rachel’s mind, the poor fella’s to be spendin’ every spare moment with her now.” Rhoda glanced out the serving window to where her sister was tightly winding white napkins around silverware. “I try to remind her he’s got outside jobs, and he puts in extra hours this time of year, but she’ll hear none of that. All wound up about the ice-cream social next Saturday, too.”
Miriam smiled to herself. Micah Brenneman had bought paint, lumber, and other building supplies and stashed them in the smithy Saturday morning so he could begin the transformation of the loft this week. “I hope she don’t get so pouty and pushy he changes his mind about her. Micah’s a man with a
gut
solid plan for his future—and hers, if she’ll give him a little breathin’ room.”
“
Jah
, and he’s got eyes for only Rachel, ain’t so? Always has.” Rhoda took out cartons of eggs and a jug of milk, her expression thoughtful. “I’m in the mood for bacon and flapjacks this mornin’. Could mash those spotty-ripe bananas and add some walnuts to the batter ...”
Miriam smiled. This daughter had a true talent for creating wonderful-
gut
meals out of whatever food she found—a gift she’d certainly use, if ever she’d settle down and start a family. “So who’s got eyes for
you
these days, honey-bug?”
“
Ach
, Mamma! Do ya think I’d tell ya if I knew?” Rhoda flashed a teasing grin over her armload of groceries.
“Ain’t like you’re sixteen anymore. And the fellas seem to flock around the new crop of courtin’-age girls—”
“The frolic yesterday was proof of that, for sure and for certain. Not a one of those expectant mammas was yet eighteen.” She began mashing the overripe bananas with a vengeance and then looked out the window, toward the lane. “Naomi not comin’ today, I wonder?”
“Takin’ Mammi Adah to the eye doctor, clear to Columbia.”
“Guess I’ll be your chef then.
Des gut
, too,” she added with another glance toward her sister in the dining room. “Best we stay outta the way, in case forks start flyin’ when Micah comes for his breakfast.”
Two hours later, it was Hiram Knepp who came in first, with Tom Hostetler, and old Gabe Glick—not that it was unusual for any of them to take meals at the Sweet Seasons. The bishop’s wife had passed last spring, and Preacher Tom’s wife had vamoosed with a fancy man, and Gabe often came when his ailing wife didn’t feel up to cooking. Seeing them all enter together and take a table in the back, however, made Miriam’s insides tighten. “Now why do I feel like those three are doin’ more than just eatin’ together?” she asked Rhoda, who stood at the griddle flipping pancakes. “All we need’s Deacon Reihl and we’d have us a meetin’ of the elders. Do ya ... s’pose they’ve heard about our Rebecca comin’ here last week?”
“And what if they have?” Rhoda replied with a shrug. “Not like we
invited
her to cause such a ruckus. And not like we’re stirrin’ the pot amongst her English friends or tryin’ to get our story in the papers, either.”
Miriam nodded as she poured the glaze over the lemon pound cakes she’d made for today’s lunch. Had somebody seen her going to Morning Star with Sheila yesterday? Or had last week’s gossip at the quilt shop—and yesterday’s talk at the quilting frolic—made its way to Esther Reihl and her husband by way of their greenhouse? How would she answer if those men started asking pointed questions about her long-lost daughter and what plans she might have for their reunion?
Lord God, You know my heart! Let my words and thoughts reflect the truth as only a mother can know it. And let my girls understand that my actions are based on love.
That’s how it would have to be. She’d been asking after her lost child’s welfare and comforting Bob after he’d lost his wife. No one could fault her intentions there. And since Sheila had refused her money, it wasn’t like she’d hired a driver on Sunday. Not exactly, anyway ...
A few minutes later they got another surprise altogether: Micah entered the café, grinning at Rachel as he headed toward an empty seat with the Kanagy boys. Rhoda looked up from the eggs she was scrambling. “Best hold on to your kapp, Mamma. There goes Rachel to—”
But before Rachel could express her irritation or take Micah’s breakfast order, Hiram Knepp rose from his table to approach Micah, as well. Tom and Gabe slipped out through the hall connecting to the quilt shop, their expressions grim. Thank goodness Rachel knew better than to voice her complaints when she overheard what the bishop said to Micah: indeed, the fellows at his table looked as
ferhoodled
as the blond carpenter himself when Micah followed Hiram outside. He looked like a boy being called behind the woodshed for a spanking.