The next morning there was a thin sheet of ice on the road, and twice the bicycle almost skidded out from under her, but she pedaled as quickly as she could. On the way, she determined she had set a poor precedent by chatting with Hunter each morning and afternoon. By doing so, she had allowed herself to imagine a flirtation existed between them. Further, those precious minutes were better spent kneading dough, mixing ingredients or otherwise preparing the bakery to receive customers. She also decided she and Pearl needn’t be so chatty: they could increase their productivity if they spent less time jabbering and more time baking.
As efficient as Ivy was at boxing the customers’ selections for them, Faith still had to be present to ring up their purchases, which disrupted her afternoon baking. Recalling that Hunter told her Ruth thought Ivy needed more challenges, Faith wondered if she could assign Ivy some light baking responsibilities. She expected since Ivy was excellent with numbers, she’d have no problem with measurements and following the sequence of a recipe, once she committed it to memory. It was worth a try.
By the time she arrived at the bakery, Faith was trembling with cold and excitement. The wedding was behind her: this was a new day and a fresh opportunity to apply herself to the undertaking that would bring her far greater contentment than if she had married Lawrence. She was certain of it.
* * *
A week after the wedding, Hunter crept up the back steps to the bakery, pausing before he rapped on the door. After each delivery, his legs, hips and back ached with an intensity he hadn’t experienced since immediately following the accident. The night before, he’d suffered through a particularly sleepless night, and his left leg was buzzing with pain.
“Guder mariye, Pearl,” he said when the elder woman opened the door. “I didn’t expect to see you here already.”
“Faith asked me to arrive early. She wants—I mean, we want—to increase the festival sales even more,” Pearl explained, wiping the back of her hand across her brow.
“If you don’t mind my saying so, Pearl, you look as if you could use a cup of kaffi,” Hunter hinted. “I know I could.”
Faith bustled into the room from the storefront. “I thought I heard you gabbing with someone,” she said to Pearl. “Guder mariye, Hunter.”
“We were hardly gabbing,” Pearl replied, clearly bristling. “We were just commenting about how we need a cup of kaffi. I’ll put a pot on.”
“But that will take—”
“It will only take a few minutes,” Pearl interrupted. “And while it’s brewing, I’ll wrap the last of the gingerbread cookies—rather, the gingerbread men for Hunter to take with him.”
Ever since the wedding, Hunter sensed Faith was rushing him out the door. Gone was her customary smile and garrulous greeting. Instead, she barely glanced up long enough to load his arms with stacks of boxed goodies. At first, he wondered if he’d done something to offend her, but now that he observed how blunt she was being with Pearl, he realized it was more likely she was tense about her looming financial deadline. Realizing Faith was trying to be as efficient as possible, Hunter suddenly wished he hadn’t indicated he wanted coffee. He would have preferred getting on the road to staying in the high-tension environment, especially when he was already on edge from his physical condition.
“Pearl thinks I shouldn’t have changed the gingerbread cookies’ shapes from circles into gingerbread men,” Faith explained, rapidly tying a clear plastic bag with a bright red ribbon. She held it up, displaying its contents: half a dozen gingerbread men, each with white frosting squiggles on their arms and legs, three red dots for buttons, a green bow tie and a smiley face with two eyes. “Although the Ordnung doesn’t forbid them, Pearl thinks they look like graven images.”
“That’s not what I said,” Pearl clarified. “I said I wouldn’t want the Englisch to think they look like graven images and accuse us of hypocrisy just to sell cookies, since they know we don’t allow our kinner to own dolls with faces.”
Feeling as if his lower back were being prodded with a burning poker, Hunter shifted his stance. “Either way, I’m sure they taste the same,” he said diplomatically.
“That’s just it—they don’t taste the same,” Pearl contended. “The round ones are softer. The flatter gingerbread men go brittle enough to crack your teeth in a day.”
“Ha!” scoffed Faith. “She’s exaggerating. Besides, we make these fresh every morning. It’s not our business if the customers keep them in their cupboards for a week. Don’t you think the cookies will sell better if they look a bit more festive, Hunter?”
“Er,” he stammered. This argument was between Pearl and Faith and he didn’t want to give his opinion on the topic, but since Faith pressed him, he answered, “They’ve sold out nearly every day as they were, so...”
“That’s exactly what I said!” Pearl tossed her hands in the air.
“Jah, but this way, we’ll sell even more of them, which is why I’ve doubled the amount I’m sending with you, Hunter. They’re bigger, so I’m increasing the price, too,” Faith reasoned. “But you’ll have to be extra careful transporting them, so their arms and legs don’t break off.”
“Yet another reason the round cookies are more practical,” Pearl mumbled as she handed Hunter his coffee.
“Denki,” he quietly thanked her.
“Here, let me carry some of these boxes to the buggy,” Faith offered, hinting he should be on his way.
“Neh, I’ll make a couple trips. I don’t want to take you away from your baking.” Hunter winced as he took a few steps toward the boxes.
“I’ll help you,” Pearl insisted, and the look on her face indicated neither Faith nor Hunter should challenge her offer.
When they were outside, Pearl questioned whether he was feeling alright. “Your posture seems a little...a little crooked,” she noticed.
“I must have slept funny last night,” he said.
“You’d better turn in early tonight, then,” Pearl lectured kindly. “I’m only now experiencing how imperative it is to get a gut night’s rest. I’m afraid I’m in a miserable mood without it—and so is our friend Faith.”
Despite how uncharacteristically gruff Faith had been, Hunter defended her. “She does seem high-strung, but I imagine she’s preoccupied with making the lease down payment.”
In the light cast by the open bakery door, Hunter noticed Pearl was arching her eyebrow curiously at him. “That’s probably true,” she said. “She’s blessed to have a young man like you to support her.”
I’d do almost anything for Faith. The thought instantly flitted through Hunter’s mind, but he couldn’t let Pearl assume his support was based on anything other than a business partnership.
“I know she feels blessed to have such a loyal friend and staff member as you, too,” he replied. “As for me, I’m glad to have the extra work and she pays me well, but I’d better get going before she changes her mind.”
“Be careful,” Pearl cautioned. “The roads are slick, and the Englisch aren’t always aware of the black ice.”
Hunter nodded. “I’ll see you in the afternoon.”
By the time Ivy and Pearl switched stores at three o’clock, Pearl’s energy seemed to have returned. Hunter’s, however, was flagging. The pain in his back was so exacting it took all of his stamina simply to place one foot in front of the other to limp down Main Street to the hitching post to retrieve his horse and buggy.
“Hunter!” Faith cheered when he shuffled through the back entrance. “Guess what? Marianne Palmer is having an impromptu neighborhood party and she’s asked me to bake pear cake and plum pudding. She’s also purchasing six dozen of the gingerbread men for all the kinner!”
“That’s wunderbaar,” he acknowledged.
“Jah, but there’s one little catch. The party is tonight and she asked if we could deliver the goodies to her house since she has to do s
ome last-minute decorating and her husband is out of town. I told her I’d check with you first. After you return from the festival, could you make a second delivery of the cakes? You’d receive double pay, of course.”
Hunter’s back was causing him such agony that the extra salary held little appeal; all he wanted was to get home and soak in a hot bath. But when he saw the hopeful look in Faith’s sparkling eyes, he couldn’t say no.
“Jah, I’ll stop in for Marianne’s goods when I get back from Piney Hill,” he promised.
* * *
Faith didn’t tell Hunter she’d already prepared the cakes and begun steaming the puddings for Marianne. It was a risk, but Faith knew she could count on Hunter. She figured if he couldn’t make the delivery for some reason, she’d negotiate another arrangement, since she speculated if Marianne was pressed, the woman would find a way to pick up her items in person. If Marianne refused, Faith would have had no choice but to add them to the display case for other customers to buy. But thanks to Hunter’s dependability, it hadn’t come to that.
With Marianne’s order tended to, Faith slid an applesauce cake into the oven. Then, while Ivy helped the steady stream of customers make selections and boxed their goodies for them, Faith devoted herself to ringing up their purchases. After half an hour or so, there was enough of a lull for Faith to lay out the ingredients for Ivy to begin making gingerbread cookies. Since Ivy struggled with manual dexterity, Faith would have to assist when it came time to use the cookie cutter, but Faith figured it would be helpful if Ivy got a start on the dough. She had just finished reviewing the instructions with her when the bell on the front door jangled.
“Guder nammidaag, Faith,” Isaac Miller greeted her. “I don’t see any bread on the shelves, which means you must be holding some for me in the back.”
As a widowed man with three small children, Isaac was one of the few Amish customers who depended on Faith’s bakery for his bread supply. He stopped in at the end of the day on Tuesdays, Thursdays and Saturdays to purchase two or three loaves of bread. If Faith or Pearl noticed they were running low or Isaac was later than usual, they set a couple of loaves aside for him. But today had been so busy and Faith was distracted by Marianne’s last-minute order.
“Ach! I’m sorry, Isaac,” she apologized. “I got so caught up in my Grischtdaag orders, I entirely forgot.”
“Your Grischtdaag orders?” Isaac repeated blankly.
Faith was embarrassed, knowing how weak her excuse sounded to an Amish man with three hungry children to feed.
“I’m sorry, Isaac. Let me at least wrap some gingerbread cookies for the kinner—no charge,” she offered.
“Neh. I’d prefer they didn’t have sweets today, since I’ll have to stop at the Englisch grocery store for bread and that has enough sugar in it to last them a week.”
“Oh, okay,” Faith uttered. “See you on Saturday, then.”
Isaac lifted his hand in a halfhearted wave. No sooner had the door shut behind him than Ivy’s piercing wail sounded from the kitchen, followed by a terrible racket.
The puddings! Faith panicked.
But no, Ivy was standing near the open oven, not by the pudding molds. At her feet, the large applesauce cake Faith had been baking was overturned, and a dishcloth lay next to the crumbly mess. Tears streamed down the girl’s face as the timer on the back of the oven buzzed loudly.
Faith gasped. “Ivy, are you alright? What happened?”
Ivy pulled away, hiding her hand behind her back.
“Did you burn yourself? Let me have a look,” Faith insisted.
The girl slowly opened her fist, allowing Faith to examine her skin.
“It doesn’t look that bad.” Faith sighed. “Let’s run it under cold water, shall we?”
“I did it the way you did it,” Ivy sobbed. “When I took the cake out of the oven, I used the dish cloth so I wouldn’t burn myself.”
“But, Ivy, that cloth was wet. You can’t use a wet cloth to retrieve a pan from the oven. That’s why you burned your hand,” Faith explained, a hint of exasperation in her voice.
“I’m sorry!” Ivy howled louder.
Faith pressed her lips together and counted to five. “It’s okay, Ivy. You didn’t know. It’s not your fault. Please stop crying.”
She wrapped her arms around her petite friend and hummed a hymn they’d sung together at Thanksgiving. Soon the young woman’s sobs turned into sniffles. Finally, Ivy raised her head from Faith’s shoulder and stated, “I need to add one-half of a cup of molasses next.”
“Okay, Ivy. You finish mixing the cookie ingredients while I sweep up the cake,” Faith instructed.
As she bent to clean the floor, Faith mentally calculated how much money the wasted cake would have garnered in sales. She was immediately ashamed of herself, and her hands trembled as she lifted the dustbin. As regrettable as it was the cake had gone to ruin, she was relieved no harm had come to Ivy. Faith hadn’t realized how closely Ivy watched her. From now on, she’d have to remember to use pot holders and avoid other shortcuts she took as an experienced baker. And she’d have to limit Ivy’s responsibilities to helping customers, even if it meant Faith might fall behind with the baking.
When Ivy left for the evening, Faith sent half a dozen warm gingerbread men cookies with her, saying, “Your groossdaadi will be very impressed you made these.”
By that time, Faith had placed another applesauce cake in the oven and was carefully crating the plum pudding and pear cakes for Hunter to deliver to the Palmers’ house. Usually he was back long before five, and she wondered what was keeping him. The day had been trying enough with Pearl’s complaints and Ivy’s mishap; the last thing she wanted was for Hunter to be late with the Palmer delivery.
“There you are!” she exclaimed when he knocked on the door several minutes later. “I was beginning to worry you’d changed your mind and decided to head home for the night instead.”
“I gave you my word, so here I am,” Hunter replied curtly. “Are these the boxes?”
“Jah,” Faith acknowledged. She had only been joking, but judging from Hunter’s austere demeanor, she sensed she’d offended him. Trying to make up for it, she offered, “Would you like a cup of kaffi before you get back in the buggy? I have some sweet rolls—”
“Neh, the roads are icy and I’ve seen several Englisch cars spin out. Rush hour is peaking and I want to make this delivery and get home as soon as I can,” he said as he lifted a crate.
“Alright, well, you must be very careful,” Faith advised as she held the door for him.
“Don’t worry, I have a system for stacking these,” Hunter said. “Nothing will get ruined or broken along the way.”
Faith had been referring to his safety, not to her baked goods, but he was in too much of a hurry for her to elaborate. After he departed, she tarried on the back doorstep, allowing the sleet to pelt her upturned face as she wondered what Henrietta was fixing for supper that night. Ducking into the bakery, she buttered a roll and poured herself a cup of lukewarm coffee before washing the trays and wrapping the baked goods for the next day.
It was nearly seven o’clock by the time Faith began bicycling toward home. Because she’d never replaced it, the battery in her headlamp was completely depleted and the moon was obscured by clouds. The road was so slick she had to keep dismounting to push the heavy bike along the slipperiest stretches of pavement. Faith knew her sister-in-law would have an opinion about her tardiness, but she didn’t want to jeopardize her safety by taking unnecessary chances. Ivy’s burn, however slight, served to warn Faith against reckless behavior.
She’d just pushed her bicycle over the crest of a hill when she heard a horse whinnying and shifting its hooves restlessly against the hard pavement. Faith spied the flashers and headlights of a buggy halted on the opposite side of the road, but she didn’t see anyone in the front seat. She d
ropped her bike and darted toward the carriage, thumping on its exterior frame with her gloved hand. “Hello? Hello? Is someone in there?” she questioned.
“Jah,” a man groaned. “I’m in the backseat.”
Faith’s stomach dropped and her legs went squishy. Although the man’s voice was distorted by pain, Faith recognized it immediately. “Hunter!” she cried. “It’s me, Faith!”
* * *
Hunter felt the buggy shift slightly as Faith climbed inside, and the minor movement caused his lower spine to vibrate with pain.
“Please,” he pleaded, “Don’t jostle me. I’m...I’m injured.”
“Where does it hurt? Tell me what happened!” she pleaded. Her voice was above him now, and although he couldn’t see her features in the dim light, her tone conveyed both authority and alarm.
Hunter was in too much misery to detail how, on the return trip from Marianne Palmer’s, he thought he heard something slide off the seat behind him. Concerned he’d forgotten to bring one of Faith’s boxes into the house, he stopped the horse, set the parking brake and reached into the back of the carriage. When he initially failed to locate anything amiss, he stretched farther, triggering a spasm in the small of his back that was so acute he lost his balance and toppled over the seat, knocking the back of his head when he landed faceup on the floor. Wedged there for at least fifteen minutes, he was writhing in agony when Faith happened upon him.
Light-headed, he could only utter, “My back. I fell and hurt my back. I can’t feel my leg.”
“Are you bleeding?”
“Neh. Just in pain.”
Hunter could barely make sense of Faith’s movements overhead as she bit the tip of her glove and pulled her fingers free. Pressing her bare hand to the side of his face, she murmured, “Cold and clammy.” Then she unwound her shawl and spread it over his chest, tucking it in behind his shoulders.
“Don’t worry,” she consoled him. “I’m going to run to the phone shanty and call an ambulance. I’ll be right back.”
An Amish Holiday Wedding (Amish Country Courtships Book 3) Page 12
