Morning Star

by Charlotte Hubbard

  When his own emotions welled up unexpectedly, Gabe had to look away. “I did the right thing by confessing about my music, yet I feel like my family and my faith have turned me away—so I might as well go live on Mars,” he added with a sigh. “I knew they’d be disappointed, but I—I didn’t expect Dat to cast me out of the factory, or to accuse me of being ungrateful. I didn’t realize that following the Ordnung would feel so harsh.”

  Red squeezed his hand. “It’s the separation part of shunning that’s meant to bring us sinners to our senses,” she pointed out. “Although, truth be told, it’s the opportunity for solitude I’ll miss the most when I leave my house. I’m not used to following somebody else’s schedule or spending my days in compliance with a man’s expectations.”

  Gabe blinked. Unlike Red, he took for granted that he’d be making his own decisions about how he spent his time—and without a job, he’d need to find something else to do. It also occurred to him that he’d never held a deep conversation like this with anyone—certainly not with the girls he’d dated previously, or even with the one he’d been courting years ago.

  He sensed he was just scratching the surface of the quiet little mouse who so meticulously finished furniture. He felt as though he could tell Red anything and she wouldn’t get upset with him or feel offended. Gabe brightened at the idea of getting better acquainted with her, now that their relationship was taking place outside the factory.

  “An English gal I know thinks that shunning is a man-made rule the Amish have concocted—that it has nothing to do with God’s will or what He really wants of us,” Gabe said softly. “She believes God and Jesus forgive us when we ask—that we don’t need the church telling us we have to suffer for weeks on end because we’ve sinned. And some of the things we’ve done—like painting pictures and playing instruments—aren’t even sins for most Christians,” he added with a shake of his head.

  Gabe’s spirits rose. Red was following his every word, not glaring at him as though his ideas contradicted the Amish principles they’d grown up with. So he dared to take his line of thought one step further.

  “Seems to me we’ve done our part by confessing,” he said. “And for all we know, God has already forgiven us, so maybe we should enjoy this next month of being outcasts! What do you say, Red? What do we have to lose?”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Regina gaped at the handsome young man across the table from her. Gabe’s playful question made her heart race, because no one had ever gazed at her so intently, with such obvious interest in her.

  What if we began dating? What if we fell in love? I wouldn’t have to live forever with my aunt and uncle—

  The squeeze of Gabe’s hand brought her back to reality, however. What did they have to lose? It was a dangerous question. If he’d been discussing such things as sin and forgiveness with an English girl—and if he fell under the influence of such worldly ideas and left the Old Order—the Amish believed he had everything to lose, including his salvation in the Lord. Not to mention his family.

  “Who would’ve guessed that you and I were kindred spirits?” he asked softly. “You could’ve knocked me over with a feather when I realized you’d painted those fabulous wildlife pictures, Red. I admire you for having the guts to come clean—but I’m even more amazed that you had the nerve to concoct a fake name so you could open a shop and sell them!”

  Regina’s cheeks burned at his praise, at the attention he was paying her.

  “Your name’s not Hartley, but you’re indeed a fox, Red!” Gabe went on before she could formulate a response. “And it’s worth considering that you’ve quietly pursued your God-given talent rather then pretending it doesn’t exist—trying to banish it from your life. If I got rid of my guitar, I might just cease to breathe.”

  The sudden seriousness of his words strummed a chord deep inside her. Regina gazed into Gabe’s eyes again, deeply grateful that at long last someone else understood what drove her to paint and create.

  “I’d love to hear you play sometime, Gabe,” she whispered.

  His face lit up. “That can be arranged.” He released her hand when the waiter placed their pizza in the center of the table.

  Regina inhaled the aromas of sausage and cheese as the steam from the pizza warmed her face. When had a simple meal ever seemed so inviting—so exciting? She always enjoyed her meals in town with her maidel friends, but this was so different. She was on a date, with Gabe, not to mention indulging in talk about forbidden pastimes while everyone else was at the Slabaugh sisters’ farmhouse.

  “Do you suppose they’re talking about us at the common meal?” she asked.

  Gabe placed two pieces of pizza on a plate and handed it to her. “Between the two of us, we’ve given them plenty to say, ain’t so?” he replied lightly. “I wonder if they’re also asking if maybe we’ve got it right—if maybe God intended for us to use the gifts He gave us rather than hide them away. If we’ve made them think about that, it’s worth being cast out for a while.”

  Regina shook her head. “I can’t see Uncle Clarence—or Deacon Saul or Ammon Slabaugh—ever considering our artistic inclinations acceptable.”

  Gabe took a big bite of pizza, thinking as he chewed. “So then what does it mean that God created us in His image? What if God paints pictures and plays musical instruments, and the Amish have had it wrong for all these centuries?”

  Her eyes widened. She’d never thought about that, nor had she ever considered Gabe the sort of fellow who pondered religious matters enough to ask such startling questions. “If you really want to ask those questions, you’d better be talking to Bishop Jeremiah rather than those other church leaders.”

  “Jah, the answer to any such question generally depends upon whom you ask, ain’t so?” He flashed her a smile. “I’ve had all the soul baring I can handle for one day, though. Let’s talk about something else—like your painting, Red. I’m guessing you paint up in your attic and, well—could I see your studio, while it’s still intact?”

  Regina nearly choked on her pizza. How on earth did Gabe know she painted in the attic? Was it even proper for her to take him up there—and did she want to show her inner sanctum to anyone? “I—how did you figure out—?”

  Gabe smiled sheepishly. “Okay, just one more confession today,” he replied. “I got curious about Hartley Fox, because you opened a store for him, yet he wasn’t willing to help you. I had a friend check online and I couldn’t find him in the phone book, either—and I’d been walking past your place, noticing how your attic lights were on nearly every evening—”

  He exhaled loudly. “Well, there it is. I was sort of spying on you, Red. Wondering if you were dating this Fox guy, and—and trying to solve the mystery of the woman I’ve been working with for years yet didn’t know at all. But I really want to know you, honey-girl,” he added softly. “Please don’t be mad at me.”

  Gabe had been walking past her house? And he’d figured out that she worked late into the night, in her attic? Regina set her half-eaten piece of pizza on her plate, suddenly not hungry anymore.

  “I’m sorry, Red,” he whispered. “I invaded your privacy, didn’t I?”

  Regina blinked, meeting his earnest gaze. “Truth be told, if you figured out what I was doing, and you discovered Hartley Fox didn’t exist, other folks would eventually have done that, too,” she replied softly. “I opened my shop on the spur of the moment, without considering how many holes my story would have in it. I had so many paintings stashed away, and I saw a shop at The Marketplace as a worthwhile way to donate part of my profits to the church—”

  “Your heart was in the right place,” Gabe insisted. “Your wildlife paintings are so realistic they could be used in the classroom, so our scholars could see God’s creation more clearly. But our preachers would never look at them that way,” he added with a sad sigh.

  “My paintings are all gone,” she pointed out. “All that’s left is for me to box up my paints, brushes, and sketch pads
and dispose of them . . . before I backslide into my old ways again. I was figuring to do that when I got home from church today.”

  Gabe relaxed against the back of the padded booth, fighting a smile. “Ah, but wouldn’t that be considered work on the Sabbath?” he pointed out. “How about if I stop by tomorrow after you get home from work, and we’ll figure out what to do with my guitar and your painting supplies?”

  Regina blinked. “I was thinking I’d donate them to the thrift shop—”

  “But if we use the buddy system, I can be your witness and you can be mine,” he suggested. “If we take our stuff to the thrift shop together, we’ll keep each other honest, ain’t so?”

  Regina laughed so loudly that folks at the nearest tables looked over to see what was so funny—not that Gabe’s suggestion was outlandish. She just suspected he had something totally different in mind from what he’d put into words.

  But he wanted them to do this together. He wanted to spend more time with her.

  “All right,” she agreed, trying to decipher the meaning behind the shine in his deep green eyes. “We can be accountable to each other. Is that what you mean?”

  “That’s my story, and I’m stickin’ to it.”

  * * *

  Gabe whistled all the way home. Spending time with Red had put a shine on his whole world and had taken some of the sting out of his dat’s tongue-lashing. He’d discussed issues with her that he didn’t dare broach with anyone else of the Amish faith, and his soul felt freer for it. Maybe, with Red’s help, he could come to terms with the restrictions their faith imposed upon folks who’d been born with an artistic bent.

  Or maybe he’d realize he’d been living a lie, and that it was time to break away.

  It was a startling thought. Gabe had never seriously considered living any other life than the Old Order one in which he’d grown up—and it would break his mother’s heart if he left it.

  When he arrived home and saw Dat placing a card table in the corner of the kitchen farthest from the main table, however, Gabe stopped in the doorway.

  “Martin, you’re taking this too far,” Mamm was saying in a tremulous voice.

  “He’s to eat at a separate table,” Dat insisted sternly. “Those have always been the rules of the bann. We’re not to speak to him, either—but I have a few things to say before I stop talking to him.”

  “But some families put the separate table at the end of the kitchen table,” she pointed out, “and some families skip the separation part altogether at home, so why not—”

  “We need to make our point crystal clear, Delores,” he shot back. “In this house, we honor God and we abide by the Ordnung. At twenty-seven, Gabe’s old enough to understand our ways—and to face the consequences of his behavior at church this morning.”

  Gabe’s insides tightened. For a fleeting moment he was tempted to leave this unpleasant conversation before his parents realized he’d overheard it. But it was time to face the music.

  “I confessed, jah?” he asked softly. “Are you saying I didn’t do the right thing?”

  When Mamm turned, Gabe saw her red-rimmed eyes and immediately regretted the pain he’d caused her. Dat, however, focused on arranging the card table just so in the corner—as though there was any way to place it other than with two sides against the walls.

  “You could have gone to one of the preachers, or to Bishop Jeremiah, and made your confession in private instead of throwing it—and your criticism of Saul and me—in our faces,” his father said stiffly.

  “But I didn’t say a word that’s not true.” It was exactly the wrong thing to say, because his father would interpret his remark as back talk. But he couldn’t unsay it—and he wouldn’t apologize.

  His father slowly straightened to his full height. He was a couple of inches shorter than Gabe, but there would never be any denying which man was the head of the Flaud family.

  “If we charged less for our outrageously expensive furniture,” Dat began, “we would have to let some of our employees go. And if Saul—or we—went out of business, several men in our congregation would be hard-pressed to find other work that paid a living wage. Their families would probably have to leave Morning Star in search of a steady income.”

  His father held his gaze unflinchingly. “After all your years as the shop foreman, Gabriel, I’d think you’d be aware of the responsibility that comes with running a business as large and as successful as ours,” he continued. “And I thought you had the sense not to humiliate the goose that’s laid your golden egg. That’s why I don’t want you back in the shop until you’ve seen the error of your ways—and that’s why you’ll not eat at my table until I’m convinced you’ve learned from the mistakes you made today.”

  The silence became deafening. Mamm was clasping her hands so hard, her knuckles turned white as she looked from him to Dat. Gabe felt chastised—and perhaps his father had made some valid points—but he was far from ready to beg for forgiveness. His dat was presently in no mood to accept an apology anyway.

  “I doubt anyone’s shocked or offended that you play the guitar, but plenty of folks believe you crossed the wrong line with your criticism this morning—including your mamm and me.” With a final glare, his father headed through the front room. The screen door banged shut behind him.

  When Gabe could breathe again, he let out an impatient sigh. “Was I really so wrong to confess, or to stick up for Red?” he asked under his breath. “I was only—”

  “Give your dat time to cool off,” Mamm suggested in a shaky voice. “You took him by surprise—well, you took everyone by surprise, son. In all my years, I don’t recall ever seeing anyone go down on his knees spontaneously.”

  “I didn’t intend to cause so much trouble,” he said ruefully. “Maybe I should leave, so your kitchen won’t become a battleground at every meal—”

  “Don’t go,” Mamm pleaded. She looked older as she blinked back fresh tears. “If you leave home, your dat will assume you want no part of belonging to our family—which will only make the situation worse. Not to mention that your sisters and I would miss you terribly.”

  She approached him with her hands extended, and when Gabe clasped them he could feel how she was trembling—how she was struggling with her emotions so she could say what needed saying. It was a balm to his soul that she was willing to touch him despite the rules of the bann that forbade such contact.

  “Give God time to work out His plan, Gabe,” Mamm continued softly. “We have to believe He can use this unfortunate situation to create something gut—because all the things He created, He declared gut.”

  Gabe swallowed hard. His mother’s simple faith, her way of looking beyond Dat’s black-and-white mind-set, had always made him grateful to be her son.

  “Maybe God will even bring about something positive with your music,” she murmured with a shy smile. “You’ve been blessed with a beautiful, clear voice—and although I’m not supposed to say this, I’m not surprised you have a talent for the guitar.”

  Gabe remained still. What could possibly follow his mother’s unexpected statement?

  Mamm smiled at their clasped hands. “My dat didn’t realize I overheard him, but he used to go to the loft in the old barn and play a guitar he kept hidden up there,” she admitted. “When our family walked past the appliance store in town, he’d stop to listen if there was a musical show playing on a TV in the window. Then he’d go home and pick out the tunes he’d heard. You come by it honestly, dear.”

  Gabe hugged her close, grateful for what she’d shared about his grandfather—and fascinated by it. He and his dawdi had shared a special bond—and they’d always sung together, no matter what they’d been doing. “Did he ever confess to it?”

  Mamm shook her head. “He was such a kind and generous soul—such a special, patient man—I can’t believe God condemned him to eternal punishment for playing an instrument, either. But we can’t tell your father what I’ve just told you.”

&nbs
p; “I won’t say a word,” Gabe whispered. He glanced at the card table in the corner, already feeling the vast chasm in the kitchen, though the distance between the tables was only about ten feet. “And I’ll do my best to make peace with Dat, in time. Right now I’m feeling a little raw.”

  Mamm nodded sadly. “Your intentions were gut. Sometimes we have no idea how our words will be heard, or what will change because we said them. It’ll all work out, Gabe, and peace will fill our home again. We have to believe that.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  On Monday morning, Regina slipped directly into the staining room, relieved that Martin hadn’t seen her. Her first priority was to keep her job. She prayed that doing her best work and staying out of the break room—maintaining the separation from other employees that the bann required—would convince him she was sincere about her confession.

  What if Martin hears you’re seeing Gabe—and what if he thinks that’s improper?

  As she applied the first coat of maple stain to a lovely chest of drawers, Regina decided that total silence about Gabe—not even telling Lydianne about their date on Sunday afternoon—was best. Gabe’s absence would create tension in the shop, and she didn’t want to invite Martin’s resentment by mentioning his son in any way.

  Regina leaned into her work, brushing stain over turnings that adorned the front edges of the chest. The turnings ran diagonally within their recessed areas, like the strands of a rope, and it required her utmost concentration to keep the stain from running in stray rivulets while she carefully coated the grooves and spaces.

  Someone opened the door, but she remained focused on her work. If Martin had come to talk to her, she needed to remain calm.

  “Hey there, Regina. How’s it going?”

  Regina relaxed at the sympathetic ring of Lydianne’s voice. “I’m okay. Staying out of trouble,” she added with a chuckle. “How was the temperature out in the shop when you came through?”