Morning Star

by Charlotte Hubbard

  According to the receipts she’d scribbled out, she’d sold forty-eight seven-by-ten-inch paintings for fifty dollars apiece, and twenty-two that measured fourteen by twenty, for which she’d charged a hundred dollars. When Regina counted the money in her cash box, the amount she’d collected matched the receipts she’d be handing over to Jo and Lydianne for their records.

  She was absolutely stunned. Four thousand six hundred dollars!

  Who could believe she’d sold so many paintings in a single day? She’d been telling herself not to be disappointed if no one bought her work, so Regina felt elated beyond belief—and she grabbed her pad of watercolor paper and her sketching pencil.

  As she sat in her recliner with her feet up, she quickly blocked out several scenes that were similar to the ones she’d sold. Because she painted the final details on a whim, no two pictures were ever alike, even though several might be of the same animals or flowers or barn. Many of her customers had remarked that they loved her four-seasons paintings—such as the same horse barn and silo painted with autumn foliage, with snow, with the bright yellow-greens of springtime, and with the contrasting sunshine and shade of a summer afternoon.

  Regina sketched quickly, on instinct, so the outlines of animal forms, rustic fencerows, and trees appeared without much effort. The idea was to build up a stack of sketches she could paint this week—starting Monday, because Sunday was a day of rest. Even though her painting was forbidden no matter when she did it, Regina believed it was best to observe the Sabbath.

  She was too tired to paint, but when she carried her sketches up to the attic, she thumbed through her bins, picking out pictures to display on the following Saturday. After she’d chosen about a hundred, Regina realized how few paintings remained in her bins. It gave her the incentive to work very hard every evening so she’d have enough pictures for customers to choose from in the future.

  Regina went to bed with a big smile on her face. She prayed for God’s forgiveness even as she hoped He would be so pleased with her contribution toward the schoolhouse that He would overlook the way in which she was earning it . . . and the lies she was telling her friends.

  Weary as she was, however, sleep eluded her. In her mind, Regina kept replaying her conversation with Gabe. It had seemed perfectly ordinary on the surface, yet his body language had sent messages she hadn’t read before. He’d seemed concerned because she was tired, yes, but he’d also acted . . . interested, in her as much as in her paintings.

  It would be a dream come true if Gabe wanted to court me, she thought as she tossed and turned. But why now? If he gets too close, or asks too many questions, it’ll mean big trouble.

  Regina went to the kitchen for a drink of cold water. As she stood by the open window, letting the night air soothe her, she sensed she needed to create several more convincing details about Hartley Fox to keep Gabe and her girlfriends from ferreting out the truth.

  * * *

  The next morning at church, Jo’s hips and leg muscles reminded her that she’d spent a long Saturday standing on hard floors. But who could allow aches and pains to overshadow the huge success she and her friends had enjoyed at the grand opening?

  After Bishop Jeremiah gave the benediction, he called a Members Meeting. “What a day we had at The Marketplace yesterday!” he crowed as he gazed at the nodding congregation. “It was a fine grand opening for our shopkeepers, and it was gut to see a lot of you there to support them—not to mention hundreds of our Mennonite friends and English customers.”

  “Do we have any idea how much the shops grossed yesterday?” Deacon Saul asked. “While I was there in the morning, I saw a great many quilts, bags of noodles, and wood items being carried out—not to mention hanging baskets and the treats folks consumed in the commons area.”

  Jo held up her file box with a grin. “Lydianne and I just received some of the shops’ receipts this morning before church, so we haven’t tallied an exact figure—”

  “But because we sold several big-ticket items like furniture sets and quilts, we took in thousands and thousands of dollars,” Lydianne chimed in.

  “We ran out!” Molly crowed. “Every last bag of our soup noodles and lasagna flew out of the store!”

  “And I sold more chairs, rocking horses, and small toys in one day than I usually sell in a month at the store in Willow Ridge,” Glenn put in happily.

  “We quilters are very pleased with how many of our pieces sold, too,” Martha Maude said. “And Rose’s candles were a big hit.”

  Chuckling, Saul held up a pocket calculator. “Just for fun, we could do a quick accounting so folks would know how much commission we collected for the schoolhouse by the time they’ve finished eating,” he suggested. “Or, because this is Sunday, should we hold off until tomorrow? Your call, Bishop.”

  Jeremiah pondered the deacon’s question as he glanced at the eager faces around him. “Considering how excited we are about our new venture, I guess it wouldn’t hurt—just this once—to do a little math on the Sabbath.”

  “Jah! You number crunchers go to it!” Martin called out. “You’re excused from setting up tables and setting out the food today.”

  Laughter filled the room as folks stood up. Jo glanced down the row to catch Regina’s eye. “Got your receipts?” she asked beneath the chatter that surrounded them.

  “Jah. Am I the last one?” Regina pulled a couple of bundles of paper from her handbag. “Sorry I didn’t get these to you sooner. I was brain-fried when I got home yesterday.”

  “You had a lot of folks in your shop,” Jo agreed as she accepted the receipts. “I was so busy keeping my glass cases and the goodies out in the commons replenished, I didn’t have a chance to visit with you.”

  “You’re smart to have the Shetler girls helping you,” Regina remarked. “Who knew I’d have so much traffic in my—Hartley’s—shop.”

  “Gabe suggested that I help you out,” Lydianne put in from behind Jo. “I’ll be happy to do that, if you’d like me to.”

  As Jo made her way toward the aisle, she wondered why Regina had been so subdued all morning, and why she looked as if she hadn’t gotten any sleep. Maybe Regina’s pale complexion made her exhaustion more obvious—or maybe she was coming down with a summer bug. Considering all the people they’d been around at the grand opening, she could’ve caught something. Saul was gesturing at Jo so eagerly, however, she didn’t have a chance to ask Regina if she was all right.

  Church had been held in the Hartzlers’ large home, so Saul led her and Lydianne into his office at the back of the house. Jo wasn’t surprised that the deacon immediately took charge of the receipt tallying. He already had his hand out as he sat down behind his big walnut desk.

  Jo gave him Regina’s receipts first. “Ordinarily, Lydianne will take care of the accounting, you know,” she remarked politely as the two of them sat down.

  “Jah, we’ve got a desk, file cabinets, and a calculator in our office at The Marketplace,” Lydianne added.

  Saul’s fingers flew over the keys of the small calculator as he flipped over one receipt after another. “I’m sure you’ll do a fine job of it,” he murmured. “But as the district’s deacon, I’m ultimately responsible for what we collect for the church district—to repay what we’ve invested in the stable’s renovation, and to build the new schoolhouse.”

  Jo glanced at Lydianne. They both knew Lydianne was a competent bookkeeper—just as they knew better than to challenge Saul’s insistence on totaling Saturday’s income.

  “Well now!” the deacon said as he rebundled Regina’s receipts. “That artist fellow took in forty-six hundred dollars, which means four hundred and sixty for us. I’ll have to check out his pictures next Saturday, to see what all the fuss is about.”

  “He paints beautiful nature scenes and animals,” Jo remarked as she handed Saul the receipts from Quilts and More.

  “And it’s nice that he’s already covered his shop rent,” the deacon said as his fingers clicked the ke
ys again. “With those artsy types, you never can tell. Let Regina—and your other shopkeepers—know that their monthly rent should come out of their income on the first Saturday of each month. Just so everybody’s clear about the payment date.”

  Once again Jo and Lydianne glanced at one another as Saul did his figuring. “Don’t forget that we’ve agreed to forgo the first six months’ rent for Glenn and Jo because of all the carpentry and setup work they’ve done,” Lydianne reminded him in a low, firm voice. “And the Helfings are doing our cleaning, so they don’t pay rent, either.”

  Saul let out a whistle. “All hail and hallelujah!” he said with a chuckle. “My wife and my mother have finally found a way to make a profitable hobby from all that fabric they buy! It’s a fine thing they do, donating lap robes to folks in the senior center, but I’m happy to see some return for the hundreds of dollars of quilting materials I’ve paid for over the years.”

  Jo held her tongue. She could imagine Martha Maude’s reaction if her son had made the same remark to her—and it seemed like one more good reason not to get married. A husband would probably say the same thing about all the flour, sugar, and other ingredients she and Mamm bought for their baked goods—even if baking was the way they supported themselves.

  Of course, if you had a husband, you wouldn’t have to work to keep a roof over your head. You could quilt or do whatever you enjoyed during your spare time, the way Martha Maude and Anne do.

  Jo reminded herself not to envy the Hartzler women—or to feel disappointed about never getting married. What with renting out their dawdi haus and selling their produce, eggs, and baked goods, she and her mother got by just fine, and they didn’t have to answer to a man. It was a situation that suited her mamm as much as it did Jo, so she saw no reason to change it.

  Within fifteen minutes Saul had completed his calculations. He handed Jo the stacks of receipts with a satisfied smile. “Twenty-five thousand three hundred and fifty dollars,” he announced, “which means two thousand five hundred and thirty-five dollars in commission for the district. Congratulations, ladies! We had a very profitable day!”

  Lydianne sucked in her breath. “We did!”

  “Wow,” Jo murmured, rising from her chair. “Aren’t we glad the Flauds agreed to sell furniture with us? Most of that money probably came from their sales—”

  “Don’t you dare underestimate your own contribution,” Lydianne insisted softly as she followed Jo out of the office. “You and the Helfings and Glenn and Regina—everybody at The Marketplace—made our success possible. And it was your idea, Jo. Remember?”

  Jo slung her arm around her friend as they stepped out into the front room, where folks were just beginning to eat. “I guess it was,” she murmured. “We maidels can accomplish amazing things when we put our minds to it, ain’t so?”

  Chapter Eleven

  The next two Saturdays, Gabe marveled at the continuing customer traffic at The Marketplace. During a lull at the furniture shop, he headed outside to chat with Nelson and Michael Wengerd—very pleasant fellows who arrived each week with lush hanging baskets in a riot of colors that attracted folks in from the road. They had some pint boxes of produce on a table in the shade as well.

  “Has it been worth your time to sign on here in Morning Star?” Gabe asked them. “It’s a bit of a drive from Queen City, jah?”

  Nelson shrugged amiably. “We come in on Friday afternoons so we have time to unload and arrange our stock,” he explained. “Makes it pretty handy that we can stay in the Fussners’ dawdi haus—”

  “And we get much better meals than we would cook for ourselves at home!” Michael put in with a laugh. “We were happy to see the posters Martha Maude’s going to put around town advertising our first produce auction on the twenty-ninth. By then our garden plots will be putting out a lot of veggies.”

  “What with other area farmers bringing produce as well, it should attract a lot of buyers,” Nelson remarked as he watched cars turn in off the county highway. “Might depend on the weather, as to whether we drive in for every Saturday during the winter. We’ve decided to build some special greenhouses for hothouse tomatoes and other fresh produce you couldn’t otherwise grow in the colder months.”

  “It’s gut to try something different,” Michael remarked, waving as folks approached them. “And we like meeting all these new people as well.”

  Nodding, Gabe let the Wengerds greet their customers. Back in the building, he saw Bishop Jeremiah and his dat sipping coffee and eating brownies at one of the tables in the commons area. He was glad one of the men from the shop was coming in to help for a few hours midday, so his father wouldn’t be on his feet for so long. Gabe waved as he passed Glenn’s wood shop. His friend appeared pale and drawn, which made Gabe wonder if Dorcas or the new baby might not be doing so well.

  He told himself to return to the furniture shop—so Red wouldn’t think he’d rather spend time with her—yet his feet went their own way. As Red and Lydianne rang up a nice four-seasons collection featuring a buck, a doe, and a fawn, Gabe admired the artwork on the shop’s walls. When the bishop came in to stand beside him, he glanced up.

  “This guy’s paintings are really something,” Jeremiah said, stooping for a closer look at a pair of wood ducks on a pond. “If I were one to hang artwork on my walls, I’d certainly buy a few of these watercolors.”

  “Dat says the same thing,” Gabe remarked. Amish folks didn’t display a lot of decorative stuff in their homes. They hung calendars and clocks, mostly, along with a list of family members beside the front door, because those served a purpose and reinforced the importance of each and every member of a family. “For a guy who’s got health problems and is confined to a wheelchair, he has a real talent—and he gets a lot of painting done.”

  Bishop Jeremiah nodded, scrutinizing a few of the pictures. “I don’t know much about art, but I thought it was customary for the artist to sign his work.”

  Gabe recalled mentioning that subject to Red, and the way she’d acted as though she wasn’t aware of such a tradition. He didn’t respond to the bishop—because he was too engrossed in watching the animated way Red’s hands moved and the radiance of her face as she spoke to a customer.

  How does Red seem to know every little thing about these watercolor paintings—and the way Fox portrays his nature subjects—yet she’s not aware of the signature thing?

  Gabe’s doubtful thoughts flew from his mind when Red caught him watching her. He waved, hoping he didn’t look like a lovestruck puppy.

  “Gut afternoon, Bishop—and Gabe,” she added breezily. “Looks like we’re all having another great day.”

  It would be an even greater day if you’d join me for dinner—

  Gabe caught himself before he could say those words out loud. He’d have to be very careful if he wanted to come across as a fellow worth dating instead of a clueless kid. “We haven’t moved as much furniture today as we did that first Saturday,” he remarked, “but I figure any exposure to potential customers is gut exposure.”

  Was Red chuckling at his choice of words, maybe getting private ideas about exposure? Why had he used that word twice? Or did she look so fetching in her rust-colored dress and her fresh kapp that he’d been temporarily ferhoodled ? “So how’s it going for you today, Red?” he asked quickly. “You’ve had a constant stream of folks in your shop—well, Fox’s shop—all day.”

  “Are you sure we couldn’t convince your artist friend to make an appearance?” Bishop Jeremiah put in. “Everybody’s eager to meet him.”

  Red flushed, shaking her head. “I—I asked him about that earlier this week when I went to pick up more of his pictures,” she replied quickly. “Now that he’s selling so much of his work, he—he says he has to stay home and paint more!”

  “Ah. Well, give him our best,” the bishop said.

  Gabe sensed he should get back to his own store before he said something moronic. “See you, Red,” he murmured. He waved at Lydianne, who
was placing more paintings on the walls.

  What was it that didn’t seem right? Why did Red’s responses feel half a beat off?

  And why have the lights been burning in her attic every evening you’ve walked past her house? What’s going on with her?

  It was a question Gabe couldn’t ask aloud, because Red would know he’d been acting like a schoolboy with a big crush on her. And if he admitted that his evening strolls had become more frequent—and that they always took him past her home on Maple Lane—she’d think he was spying on her. Or stalking her.

  After he’d closed up shop and handed the day’s receipts to Jo, Gabe drove Dat home. They had church the next morning, so his mamm and two sisters were in the kitchen preparing a couple of dishes to share at the common meal while they put the finishing touches on a supper of pork chops, fried apples, and baked potatoes.

  Lorena and Kate looked up from the fresh snickerdoodles and brownies they were arranging in lidded containers. “How’d you do today? Was The Marketplace busy?” fourteen-year-old Lorena asked.

  “One of these Saturdays we want to come and shop!” Kate declared, glancing at their mother. “Mamm kept us busy washing the rugs and curtains today.”

  Gabe chuckled, snatching a cookie from Kate’s bin. At nearly thirteen, she was a younger version of their plump mother, while coltish Lorena favored their tall, slender dat. “We did well, and we were glad to have Harvey Shetler spelling us for a few hours this afternoon,” he remarked. “Maybe come winter, when the customers thin out, you girls can be our helpers—”

  “We’ll discuss that before we get anybody’s hopes up,” Mamm interrupted him in a purposeful tone. “I don’t like the idea of young girls working amongst so many English—at least not until they’re out of school.”

  When his sisters’ faces fell, Gabe winked at them. “Mamm’s probably right about that part,” he admitted. “But there’s no reason you couldn’t go in with Dat and me for a while some Saturday to look around, and then somebody could bring you home.”