Morning Star

by Charlotte Hubbard

  “Chilly.” Lydianne came close to where Regina stood, keeping her voice low. “The men are saying it was a mistake for Martin to order Gabe off the job, because they need guidance deciphering the orders he took at The Marketplace on Saturday—and Martin didn’t hear the details. You know how Gabe uses his own shorthand writing when he’s jotting a customer’s ideas.”

  “Jah, you have to be able to read between his lines.” Regina smiled, because she could usually interpret Gabe’s scribbles. It was just one of the ways they communicated without having to spell out every little detail.

  “Martin’s still so upset that he’s not seeing straight,” Lydianne continued with a sigh. “I came in here to work where it’s quiet. The bookkeeping can wait awhile.”

  Regina straightened to stretch her back muscles. She was grateful that Lydianne wasn’t giving her the silent treatment because she’d been shunned, as most folks would. “How was the common meal yesterday? Were folks wound up about Gabe’s confession?”

  Lydianne laughed softly. She dipped her brush into a bucket of maple stain, to work on the cheval mirror that went with the bedroom set Regina was working on. “There was plenty of talk—and not just about Gabe’s guitar playing and visits to the Methodist church,” she replied. “Saul and Martin had a lively discussion about the way Gabe criticized them, but other folks—the women mostly—were considering what Gabe had said about God-given talent . . . about when it crosses that invisible line and becomes a sin.”

  Regina sighed and resumed her staining. “I’ve had that conversation with myself—and God—for most of my adult life.”

  “Anyone who looks at your paintings knows you’ve got a gift,” Lydianne said earnestly. “And we can’t miss that joy Gabe talked about when we see your texturing and shadings of color, Regina. It’s a shame you have to put it all away. I’m really sorry.”

  Regina blinked hard to keep from crying. “But I knew I was breaking the rules—my church vows—every time I picked up a sketch pad or sat down at my easel,” she pointed out. “And then, when I opened my shop, I burned with every lie I told you and our friends and Bishop Jeremiah. It was a stupid thing to do, and it was the wrong thing to do. But I jumped in feet-first anyway.”

  They worked in companionable silence for a few minutes. Regina wanted so badly to tell Lydianne about her pizza date with Gabe—except someone passing by the staining room might hear them. For all she knew, Martin was standing outside the ventilation window listening to them.

  “We maidels are having a little potluck supper in the office at The Marketplace this evening,” Lydianne said softly, “and we want you to join us, Regina. We’ve been gut friends too long to let a shunning come between us.”

  A warm glow filled Regina’s heart—and then she panicked. How could she tell Lydianne she had plans with Gabe? It wouldn’t take long to drive to the thrift shop and donate his guitar and her art supplies, but she’d been hoping they’d find other things to—

  “You can’t come?” Lydianne interrupted her racing thoughts. “Or you feel you shouldn’t be associated with us—or the shops?”

  “I’d love to come!” Regina blurted. “But I—I plan to take my paints and easel and other supplies to the thrift store this afternoon, and I won’t be very gut company after that. Might need to hold a pity party and get it out of my system, you know?”

  Lydianne’s eyes widened. “Jah, I guess an artist would have a tough time saying gut-bye to her paints,” she murmured.

  Regina burned with telling yet another lie. When had she gotten so good at fabricating fibs on the spur of the moment? Was she sincere about her confession if she kept concocting such blatant stories—even if she told them with the best of intentions?

  “How about if we meet tomorrow evening, then? We want to discuss how things are going overall with the shops, and we want to keep you company during your bann,” her friend put in pensively. “What with putting your house up for sale and getting ready to move in with Preacher Clarence, we figure you can use a little girlfriend support.”

  “I’ll be there. Denki for thinking of me, Lydianne,” she whispered. “What would I do without friends like you?”

  * * *

  Regina rode her bike home faster than usual—not only because she’d gotten through a day at work unscathed by Martin’s foul mood, but because she was excited about seeing Gabe. Somehow, knowing she’d be going to the thrift shop with him to donate her beloved art supplies made the trip easier to think about. He was as emotionally invested in their errand as she was, and he’d been right: without a witness, it would be tempting to pack her brushes and paints into a box and merely hide them away, as she’d heard folks did with their cigarettes when they tried to stop smoking.

  They almost always start up again in a weak, stressful moment. And so would you.

  Regina forgot all thoughts of sacrificing her art, however, when she spotted a horse and buggy in front of her house. Gabe sat waiting in a wicker chair on her front porch. What an unanticipated thrill it was to see such a handsome man rising to meet her with an eager smile. Maybe with Gabe for company, she could navigate the difficult road that lay ahead, away from her artwork and into a life of more honest, transparent devotion to God and the Amish faith.

  “You’re already here!” Regina exclaimed as she approached the porch steps. It was a silly, obvious thing to say, and her grin probably tipped Gabe off about how nervous she was. She felt as excited—and jittery—as a girl going on her very first date.

  Yet when he brushed back his brown hair, he appeared as young and inexperienced as she felt. “I wanted to be here before you got home so—so I wouldn’t chicken out and leave my guitar stashed in its hiding place,” he admitted. “A dozen times I’ve caught myself rethinking our trip to the thrift store—”

  “Been there, done that,” Regina put in as she parked her bike beside the porch. “We’d better gather my stuff from the attic now, before I take a notion to backslide. It’s a gut thing we’re doing this together, jah?”

  His smile sent a telltale tingle up her spine as she ascended the porch stairs to stand alongside him. “So I get my wish? I get to see your studio, before—”

  “We’d better do more packing and less talking about it,” Regina interrupted, opening the front door. If Gabe could tell how worked up she was getting at the thought of dismantling her painting haven, he was kind enough not to mention it.

  She preceded him through the front room, wishing she’d taken time to tidy up. But what did it matter? When she’d ridden past his rig, she’d tried not to focus on the FOR SALE sign the Realtor had posted during the day. Regina led Gabe quickly into her bedroom, praying she’d get up to the attic without tripping on the stairs because she couldn’t see them through her tears.

  “What a great place,” Gabe remarked as he followed her. “I’ve always loved Craftsman-style architecture. Plenty of practical built-ins and just enough rooms to make life comfortable without much space to accumulate extra junk.”

  Regina laughed in spite of the heartrending task that awaited her upstairs. “Oh, I’ve acquired my share of stuff,” she said as she opened the trap door in the wall. “Now I have to figure out what to do with it. Clearing out the attic is just the tip of the iceberg.”

  Once she stepped up off the trunk and started up the stairs, she was aware of Gabe following behind her—his eyes level with her backside. Regina kept moving so she wouldn’t worry about whether she’d gotten even more stain on her old, threadbare dress at work—or if he’d spotted the gap in the seam she kept forgetting to mend. The comforting aromas of watercolor paints and her warm, stuffy studio enveloped her as she reached the landing and turned toward the front of the house.

  After today, you’ll have no need to come up here—

  Regina stifled a sob as she entered her studio, wishing Gabe wasn’t around to witness her meltdown. He was directly behind her, however, and she found herself stepping into his embrace as he caught up to her.


  “Red, I’m sorry, honey-girl,” he murmured as he held her close. “This has to be so hard for you.”

  Regina pressed her face against his purple shirt, clinging to his warm shoulder as her emotions got the best of her. She couldn’t form words, and bless him, Gabe simply let her cry it out. For several minutes they stood together in the airless attic, surrounded by her empty easel, the worktable where she’d left her paints and sketch pad, and the strings stretched across the attic’s width—now empty, because she’d sold the last of her paintings on Saturday.

  As she regained control of her emotions, Regina became aware of the way she fit so perfectly against Gabe, and the muscular strength of his warm body, as well as the clean scent of him and the way his breathing was synchronized with hers. She eased away, conscious of how plain and dowdy she was compared to him. So often she’d daydreamed about Gabe holding her close, and yet she’d ruined these precious moments by bawling like a baby.

  “I’m sorry I’m being so—”

  “Don’t apologize,” he put in quickly. “This is a big part of your life you’re about to surrender, Red. Anybody would be upset.”

  Regina glanced at her familiar, beloved equipment—the props of the secret play she’d been performing since her parents’ deaths. When she dragged her sleeve across her eyes, Gabe gently took her hand.

  “How can I help?” His words hung suspended in the warm, motionless air as he awaited her answer.

  She sighed forlornly. “We should find a box for this stuff. I suppose that one in the corner will get us started.”

  “Want me to pack it all up for you? You can wait downstairs, if that’ll make it easier.”

  Regina held his gaze as he gently thumbed a tear from her cheek. “That’s a very nice thing for you to—”

  “See? I may be a sinner, but I have gut intentions,” Gabe said with a chuckle. “You’re one of the few who seems to realize that right now.”

  Regina looked sadly at her easel and the stool in front of it. “If we wait for me to feel ready to box it up, we might never get out of here,” she mumbled. “I feel like such a sissy saying that, but I’d be grateful for your help, Gabe. Denki for understanding.”

  Before she started crying again, she left the dear little room where she’d spent many an evening totally engrossed in the details of her paintings. Maybe the Slabaugh sisters had it right—maybe she was so addicted, she’d have more trouble giving up her art than she’d anticipated. Once downstairs, she entered the kitchen to make some iced tea. If Gabe was going to rescue her from her desperation, the least she could do was offer him something for his trouble.

  She was pouring freshly brewed tea over the ice cubes in two glasses when she heard Gabe’s footsteps on the hardwood floor. He went straight out to the buggy with the box, which gave her time to wipe her face again and put on a weak smile.

  “How about some tea? And I have a few cookies,” Regina offered when he came inside again.

  Gabe’s fingers covered hers as he took the glass. His gaze lingered on their hands for a moment before they broke contact.

  Regina closed her eyes wearily. “I forgot I wasn’t supposed to directly hand you anything.”

  “And I chose to overlook it,” he said before taking a long sip of the tea. “Or maybe, since we’ve both been cast out, that rule about the bann doesn’t apply to us. I’ve never understood what it accomplishes anyway, except to further humiliate a person—like kicking a man when he’s down.” His face clouded over. “I endured enough of that watching Dat put a card table on the far side of the kitchen yesterday. At every meal, I’ll be like a misbehaving scholar the teacher has placed in the corner.”

  Regina watched the way his Adam’s apple bobbed in his clean-shaven neck each time he swallowed more tea. Why did such an ordinary motion hold so much allure? Why were his dimples suddenly the cutest things she’d ever seen? And why was the image of Gabe eating apart from his family so difficult to think about?

  “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “That part’s easier for me, living here by myself.”

  Gabe shrugged, placing his empty glass on the counter. “Speaking of Dat, what’d he say to you today? Any more warnings? Or rules you have to follow?”

  “I didn’t see him all day, because I stayed in the staining room. Hiding out,” she admitted. “Lydianne came in to work with me, because he was apparently in a mood. And from what I overheard when he lectured the men in the shop, it had become a rampage by quitting time.”

  Gabe frowned, glancing toward the front door. “Shall we get going, in case Dat comes over here to talk to you? I suspect it won’t help your case if he learns I’ve been here.”

  A few minutes later they were rolling down Maple Lane, taking the long way around town toward the thrift shop, as though Gabe thought his father wouldn’t be as likely to spot them on that route. The clip-clop of his mare’s hooves lulled her into a comforting sense of familiarity. When Gabe took her hand, she found a smile.

  “It’s a pretty day,” she remarked as they passed the city park and the local car dealership. She stopped herself before she mentioned that she used to spend sunny afternoons like this one making sketches for future paintings.

  “It is,” Gabe agreed. “We’ll have to find other ways to fill afternoons like this, when we used to slip away and enjoy our forbidden pursuits. Or not,” he added in a defiant whisper.

  Had she heard him correctly? When Regina glanced at his face, Gabe remained focused on the street up ahead where the thrift shop was, his jaw tensed. As they reached the intersection where they should turn, however, Gabe clucked for his mare to go faster.

  “Didn’t you mean to take that street?” she asked quickly. “Or do you know a different way—or a different shop where—”

  Gabe steered to the shoulder of the road and stopped. His green-eyed gaze silenced her. “Why ruin a perfect afternoon by disposing of our most precious belongings as though they’re junk?” he asked raggedly. “I want to sit at that spot by the river where you composed your pictures of the Kraybills’ old barn. And I want to play my guitar for you while you sketch whatever strikes your fancy today. Just one last time, why don’t we enjoy doing what we most love to do—together?”

  Regina sucked in her breath. “Won’t that make it harder to go to the thrift store next time? If we lose our resolve—if we backslide today—”

  “Who’s to know, except God? And who’s to say He’ll really find fault with us?” Gabe pleaded softly. “I won’t tell if you won’t, Red.”

  In that fateful moment, Gabe Flaud became more than a fun-loving, good-looking carpenter trying hard to accept the punishment the church had prescribed for him. He was a child of God desperately awash in need and indecision, just as Regina was.

  And she loved him for it.

  “Well, I would love to hear you play—just once,” she whispered. “Then we really do have to give it all up, Gabe, or God will know we’re not sincere about keeping our promises.”

  Gabe grinned. “That’s all I’m asking for, Red. One last time—like a going-away party for my guitar and your paints. Let’s go!”

  Regina sensed they were sliding down a slippery slope, yet she was so tickled by Gabe’s suggestion—and caught up in the joy of sharing their art with one another—that she didn’t protest. As he urged his horse down the road at a faster clip, she tied the strings of her kapp to keep it from flying off.

  She didn’t dare think about the possibility of someone from church spotting them. She just rode the wave of exhilaration that made her pulse race with each clip-clop of the mare’s quickening hoofbeats.

  Chapter 20

  As Gabe plucked out the melody of “You Are My Sunshine,” filling in between the beats with quick running notes, his fingers flew effortlessly, driven by the delighted awe on Red’s face. Her sketch pad rested forgotten in her lap as she watched his hands. When he finished with a flourish, she applauded exuberantly.

  “My word, Gabe, could you h
ave possibly squeezed in any more extra notes?” she teased. “You sounded like you were playing with twenty fingers instead of ten!”

  When Red met his gaze, Gabe’s heart stood still. He’d always played in secret, so Red’s praise sounded particularly sweet. “Well, now you know how often I’ve practiced over the years,” he admitted softly.

  “And I know why you didn’t want to stop.” She relaxed against the old boards of the Kraybills’ barn with a sigh. “So where have you been playing that nobody’s caught you in all that time? Surely not at home.”

  “Oh, no,” he replied quickly. “With two little sisters, I would’ve been caught long ago. I, um, designed the wooden tool chest in the back of my rig so my guitar is hidden in a compartment under my equipment. Whenever I take a notion to play, nobody thinks anything of it as I drive off—as though I’m running an errand, or doing whatever single guys do in their spare time,” he added with a chuckle. “My parents like to assume I’ve been seeing somebody. They don’t press for details, and I don’t volunteer any, either.”

  “A hidden compartment in your tool chest,” she murmured. “That’s pretty clever.”

  “Sneaky is more like it. Devious,” he added, none too proud of his admission.

  “It’s a lot less expensive than keeping a house, the way I did,” Red pointed out. As her pencil began to move again, a dilapidated split-rail fence appeared on her sketch pad. Tall stalks appeared in the foreground, dotted with wildflowers. “Dismantling the deception I’ve built around my painting will take a lot of time and willpower. It’s much more than giving up my easel and paints.”

  She let out a heavy sigh, even as she continued to sketch. “I never dreamed I’d be dismantling the very satisfying life I’ve made for myself over the years,” she murmured sadly. “Every time I think about how much stuff I have to get rid of, I feel totally overwhelmed.”

  “So don’t think about it,” Gabe whispered. The pained expression on her flawless face was more than he could bear. “For these couple of hours we’ve carved out for ourselves, let’s just enjoy what we do—and who we’ve become. After all, God didn’t create the world in one session,” he pointed out. “How can He expect us to make all of our changes in a single day?”