Morning Star

by Charlotte Hubbard

  But the circumstances add up, don’t they? And the way Red ran off suggests that she’s too guilty and upset to even set the record straight.

  Still, he wished he’d handled this differently. He’d thought long and hard about why it was impossible to locate an artist named Hartley Fox, but the idea that Red might be painting those beautiful pictures—in her attic, late at night—hadn’t occurred to him until moments ago when his dat had called Fox a mystery man.

  “D-do you suppose it’s true?” Jo whispered. “Regina’s made herself pretty scarce the past few weeks—”

  “She’s seemed really tired at work, too,” Lydianne put in, shaking her head. “And she hardly says three words to me during our breaks, like her mind is off somewhere else.”

  “I had no idea,” Marietta said with a perplexed sigh. “We’ve all known Regina since we were kids—”

  “Let’s not jump to any conclusions,” Molly insisted. “Maybe Gabe’s idea startled her when she was swallowing her food, so—”

  “Guilt was written all over her face,” Saul stated sternly. “What we witnessed was the knee-jerk reaction of a sinner caught in a tangle of lies—a web of deceit—and we need to confront Regina immediately. She’s a member of the Old Order, and her very soul is at risk, after all.”

  Gabe agreed, but he didn’t say so out loud. He tossed his crumpled napkin onto his half-eaten meal, no longer hungry. He, too, had joined the church years ago, and he was keeping a secret every bit as pernicious as Red’s. He just hadn’t been caught yet.

  “I need to get over to her house right now—and take Clarence and Ammon along,” Saul went on in a rising voice, “because if this is true—”

  “I’ll go,” Bishop Jeremiah said. “There’s no call to accuse her of something that might indeed be a conclusion we’ve jumped to.”

  “But it’s the deacon’s responsibility—and the preachers’ job—to pay the first counseling call,” Saul protested. “I’ve thought all along that there was something fishy about this Hartley Fox fellow—”

  “I’ll go,” Jeremiah repeated. When he placed his hand on Saul’s arm and looked him directly in the eye, the deacon went quiet.

  “You mean well, Saul,” the bishop continued, “but Regina’s a quiet, sensitive young woman and she deserves a chance to explain herself without feeling she’s already been condemned for sins she might not have committed.”

  Gabe relaxed a bit. Saul tended to be overzealous in his pursuit of Old Order truth; the bishop would give Red a chance to talk without feeling threatened. Still, he felt terrible about bringing this down on her head. If he’d watched his mouth, he could still be sitting with her—could’ve asked her out for a date later, when they weren’t with so many people.

  You blew it. Why would she want to spend time with you now?

  Gabe remained at the table, listening to the conversation about whether his dat, Saul, and the maidels thought Red was talented enough to paint those nature pictures—and nervy enough to sell her work under a fake name. After several minutes, he excused himself to get some dessert, but rather than returning to the table, he tossed his silverware into a tub of sudsy water. He made conversation with other folks as he meandered away from the crowd. No one seated elsewhere seemed aware of why Red had made her sudden exit, but it was only a matter of time before everyone in the congregation would hear the story behind it.

  He walked toward Maple Lane so he could give Red the apology she deserved and hear her story. As Gabe came within sight of the quaint red brick house, however, he heard the clip-clop of a horse’s hooves.

  Bishop Jeremiah was approaching from the other direction.

  Gabe remained behind some lilac bushes on the opposite side of the street, not wanting to interfere with the bishop’s business. When Jeremiah knocked on the front door and Red appeared a few moments later, Gabe couldn’t miss her distraught expression and tear-streaked face. The bishop stepped inside.

  Gabe knew he should leave. His heart went out to Red, however, and the possibility of making amends compelled him to cross the street and sit against the side of her house until the bishop left. When he heard their voices, he realized that the window was open.

  Leave. It’s wrong to eavesdrop.

  Bishop Jeremiah cleared his throat. “Regina, you left us with some questions about whether—”

  “I painted those pictures!” she blurted out miserably. “I—I’m sorry, and I know we have to talk about it. We might as well get on with it, jah?”

  For the second time that day, Gabe sat wide-eyed. Again his conscience prodded him to give Red her privacy while she poured her heart out to the bishop. But he couldn’t seem to move.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Regina burst into tears and couldn’t stop crying. Bishop Jeremiah rose from the armchair and returned to the front room with a box of tissues. She nodded gratefully as she mopped her face, trying to pull herself together.

  “I—I’m sorry,” she repeated before loudly blowing her nose.

  “Take your time, dear,” the bishop said. “The hard part’s over, now that you’ve admitted what you’ve done.”

  Regina wasn’t so sure about that. Talking with Jeremiah Shetler, one of the most patient men she knew, would be a lot easier than explaining her secret habit to the rest of the congregation. She had visions of Uncle Clarence forcing her to sell her home and move into his so she wouldn’t relapse into her deceitful ways. And her maidel friends would be so disappointed in her. She’d have to close NatureScapes, just when she’d been earning some serious commissions for the schoolhouse fund.

  Why had she foolishly believed the truth wouldn’t catch up to her?

  “Do you want to tell me about how you came to be a painter?” the bishop asked. “Or would you rather I asked you specific questions?”

  Regina let out a shuddering sigh. “I loved to sketch and color as a little girl,” she began. “For birthdays, I’d ask for paints and crayons and paper—and once I was in rumspringa, I begged my folks to let me take a painting class at Koenig’s Krafts.”

  She blew her nose again, wistfully recalling her childhood and the parents who’d loved her so much. “I was in rumspringa—and I was a shy girl who didn’t socialize much—so Mamm talked Dat into paying for one class, about composition and arrangement. The teacher encouraged me to try watercolors, and I was transported into another world.”

  Bishop Jeremiah nodded, taking in every word. “You have a lot of talent, Regina,” he agreed. “When I see those—your—paintings, I want to touch the animals and the flowers. They look so alive.”

  Regina sighed sadly. “My younger siblings didn’t survive, and we lived a ways from town, so my art was a substitute for the friendships most other kids formed,” she explained. “I put away my paints when I joined the church. But after my parents died in that bus accident, I couldn’t stop asking God why I was sitting up front with a cousin while Mamm and Dat got hit by the train after the bus stalled on the tracks. I—I got my paints out again, trying to stay sane.”

  “Survivor’s guilt,” the bishop whispered. “I recall how shattered you were those first few years, Regina. You were awfully young to lose your parents—”

  “Twenty-two,” she murmured. “Who can believe they’ve been gone ten years?”

  “—but I could understand why you wanted to stay in this home, surrounded by the things your parents left behind, rather than live with your uncle and aunt,” he continued. “Clarence gave me more than one earful about being too indulgent, too trusting of your ability to get by on your own. When Martin offered you a job, however, the two of us overrode your uncle’s insistence that he should be responsible for you—that your welfare was his duty.”

  Regina grimaced. How many times had she heard that same tirade—that same talk of duty—from Uncle Clarence?

  “And although we Old Order folks take our family responsibilities seriously,” Bishop Jeremiah went on, “I believed Clarence was more motivated by a hidden
agenda than by the love he felt for you.”

  Regina looked down at the soggy tissues in her lap. “He wanted to sell this place, didn’t he? Figuring the money would be his as payment for taking me into his home.”

  Bishop Jeremiah’s eyes widened. “You knew about that?”

  She let out a sigh. “He also figured that when I had no further bills to pay here, I wouldn’t need my job at Flaud’s anymore, ain’t so?” she asked softly. “Denki from the bottom of my heart for saving me from becoming his prisoner, Bishop—because that’s how I would’ve felt if I’d moved into one of his rooms upstairs.”

  Regina felt a stray tear trickling down her cheek. “And now I’ve betrayed your trust in me by continuing to paint, and by lying to cover it up. I knew it was wrong all along,” she admitted hoarsely, “yet the idea of earning money for the new schoolhouse convinced me to open my shop. And once customers complimented my work so lavishly, well—that pride I felt, and all the money I was making, blinded me to the sin I was committing every time I picked up a paintbrush. Saying I’m sorry isn’t enough, is it?”

  Bishop Jeremiah sat quietly, taking in her furniture—probably noting that she hadn’t dusted for a while, and that her decor was more decorative than that of most Amish folks. “Saul and the preachers—especially your uncle—won’t be satisfied if I tell them you’ve confessed to me today.”

  She felt a brief glimmer of hope, yet Regina knew the bishop expected her to face the reality of her Amish faith. “I have to go before the congregation for a kneeling confession now, ain’t so?”

  Bishop Jeremiah nodded. “Jah, you do, Regina. Had you come to me on your own and confessed before this blew up, I would’ve considered pardoning you, and the matter would’ve remained between us and God,” he murmured. “When you got so flustered at the common meal, however, Saul knew immediately that you’d pretended to be Hartley Fox so you could sell your paintings.”

  Regina looked down at her lap miserably. “I suppose Jo and my other friends were appalled at the way I deceived them.”

  “They were surprised—but Molly insisted no one should jump to conclusions just because you left the table,” he said. “I sense that your friends will remain very supportive. And they’ll miss your company out at The Marketplace.”

  With a sigh, she blinked back fresh tears. “I’ll be shunned, won’t I? Cast out for six weeks—or worse.”

  “I suspect so. We won’t know that until the preachers and I decide on the action we’ll recommend and the congregation votes on it.”

  Regina knew, however. Deacon Saul would leave no stone unturned when it came to her paying full penance. Uncle Clarence would feel that every picture she’d ever painted and sold, and her fake identity—along with her other lies—were embedded like sharp, pointed rocks in the road to her salvation. Only a full shunning would satisfy them.

  “I guess I have two weeks to prepare myself,” she said with a hitch in her voice.

  “It’ll be painful, but it’s for the best, Regina. Shall we pray about it?”

  Regina bowed her head and squeezed her eyes shut. God had known all along about her painting and her lies, of course, but that didn’t make it any easier to face up to them as the bishop prayed.

  “Lord and Father of us all, we come before you as errant children needing your love and forgiveness—every one of us,” Bishop Jeremiah added emphatically. “Guide us toward Regina’s confession and reconciliation, that in these acts of contrition we may carry out Your will for us in a manner that’s right and pleasing in Your eyes. Forgive us our debts, Lord. For if You were to judge us for all we’ve done wrong, who amongst us could stand? Amen.”

  Regina remained seated with her head bowed, awaiting what the bishop would say next. He’d been more than generous with his compassion. Some of the other members of their church wouldn’t be nearly so gracious . . . including her uncle and aunt.

  “I’ll report to the preachers and Deacon Saul that you’ve confessed to me and that you’ve offered to give a kneeling confession two weeks from today,” he said as he rose from the armchair. “The fact that you initiated your confession is much better than if I had to convince you to see the light.”

  Bishop Jeremiah’s remark didn’t make her feel better, however, nor did it solve all her problems. “What about the rest of the paintings I have? Shall I sell them—or close the shop immediately?”

  Bishop Jeremiah held out his hand to her. “Do what you believe God would have you do. Fair enough?”

  “Oh, you’ve been more than fair,” she replied as she grasped his strong hand to stand up. “From what you saw of Martin’s reaction, do—do you think he’ll fire me for this? Without my job, well . . . ”

  The bishop squeezed her hand. “I trust you two to consider all the angles and make the decision that’s best. You’ll be in my prayers.”

  After he left, Regina dropped back down on the couch. A sense of deep shame and desolation enveloped her until she couldn’t sit still, so she climbed to her attic studio. As she lovingly flipped through the finished pictures in her bins and glanced at the dozen or so paintings hanging on her strings, she counted about fifty finished paintings and a couple dozen sketches.

  She could easily sell out on the upcoming Saturday, or by the next one, for sure, before her confession at church.

  But if you’re put under the bann, and if you lose your job, what will you live on? Will you become dependent upon Uncle Clarence’s charity?

  The thought petrified her. If the Flauds fired her—if she was forced to sell her home—what sort of life would she have, living in a small upstairs bedroom? She was grateful to her uncle and aunt for their concern, but the prospect of spending the rest of her life under their roof and her uncle’s watchful eye made her panic.

  A sob escaped her. As a show of true repentance, the folks at church would expect her to give up her painting immediately, but she’d been self-supporting for too long to accept the idea of rolling over and playing dead, as it were.

  Regina told herself that the proper response to this crisis would be to hand her future over to God, to give up her artwork right this minute as a display of her sincere devotion to the Old Order faith. She had to trust that God would take care of her.

  In her heart of hearts, however, Regina knew she’d be painting until all hours of the night right up to the morning of her confession. It was the best way she knew to deal with the stress of this situation—the possibility of running out of money, and the heartache of facing the end of her independence.

  A pity party wouldn’t solve anything, would it? Didn’t God help those who helped themselves?

  That was faulty reasoning—succumbing to her sinful nature, the way the Old Order would see it—but Regina wiped away the fresh tears forming in her eyes and sat down at her easel. She’d never worked on the Sabbath, but considering all the sins she had to confess in two weeks, what was one more?

  Chapter Fourteen

  Gabe wasn’t surprised when Red asked for a few minutes of his and Dat’s time Monday morning. As he followed the two of them into the off ice, Lydianne looked up from the front desk, where she was recording their receipts and orders from Saturday’s sales at The Marketplace. Her expression was somber as she watched him and Dat enter the back office with Red.

  Gabe closed the door. After eavesdropping on Red’s chat with Bishop Jeremiah, he knew what she was going to ask—not that he could admit he’d been listening beneath her window. Her faded kerchief and the stained gray dress she wore accentuated the shadows beneath her red-rimmed eyes, and he suspected she hadn’t gotten any sleep the previous evening.

  He hadn’t slept much, either.

  “I—I’ve come to apologize for my deception,” Red began in a small voice. “And because I’ll be confessing in church in a couple of weeks, probably going under the bann, I—I also need to know if I’m going to lose my job.”

  Gabe let his father answer Red’s question. If he let on how he admired her for
coming in to state her case, the emotions her story had stirred within him on the previous afternoon would make her and Dat wonder how he knew so much—or why he suddenly cared so much.

  His father gazed steadily at Red from the old wooden chair behind his desk. “So what are you apologizing for, exactly?”

  Gabe recognized this tactic. Whenever Dat disciplined his children, he made the guilty party spell out the incriminating evidence of his or her wrongdoing.

  Red looked at her lap with a sigh. “Yesterday, when Gabe guessed I was the artist who’d painted those pictures, he was right,” she replied without looking up. “I’m sorry I’ve deceived everyone and told so many lies to cover it, Martin. While talking with Bishop Jeremiah yesterday, I agreed to a kneeling confession next time we have church, and I expect I’ll be shunned.”

  She paused, licking her lips nervously. “But meanwhile, I—I need to know if you’ll be kind enough to keep me on here at your factory, or if I need to figure out another way to support myself.”

  Gabe’s heart throbbed painfully. Red had placed herself at his father’s mercy without tears or drama or excuses. He wanted to blurt out that she had a job at the factory for as long as she needed one—that he considered her one of their most valuable employees, no matter what sins she’d committed with a paintbrush after hours. But it wasn’t his place to say such things.

  “So it’s true.” Dat tented his fingers beneath his chin. “You gave folks a lot to speculate about when you rushed from the room yesterday, Regina.”

  She nodded meekly.

  “Your uncle was mighty upset when the story made it around to where he and Cora were sitting,” Dat continued. “He feels you’ve set a bad example, shown how too much independence—separating yourself from your family by living alone—can lead to temptation and worldly ways. Unfortunately, the ones watching you most closely are our young girls, like my Lorena and Kate and your cousins, Emma, Lucy, and Linda.”

  “Jah, I’m sure my uncle will remind me of that,” Red mumbled wearily.