Morning Star

by Charlotte Hubbard

  Her hazel eyes widened suddenly and she appeared too startled to answer. Red hastily took another bite of her sandwich. Something in her wistful expression warned him that her reply might cut closer to home than he’d expected.

  “Well, I kept this house so I could paint, you know,” Red reminded him softly. “I couldn’t pursue my art and marry anyone—”

  “Surely there’s been somebody,” he pressed. “You’re a pretty girl, Red, so I can’t believe the guys have kept their distance.”

  When her gaze locked into his, Gabe’s heart fluttered like a frightened bird.

  “Jah, I fell for a guy a while back,” she whispered, “but he didn’t have a clue that I existed, so—”

  A loud knock interrupted them before he could ask who would be so stupid as to ignore a sweet young woman like Red. Startled, she rose to look toward the front door. “Jah, who’s there?” she called out.

  “It’s your friendly neighborhood bishop, come to see how you’re doing, Regina,” a familiar male voice replied.

  Red’s eyes widened into hazel plates before she went to answer the front door. Gabe had no way to escape; even if he tried to go out the back exit, he’d have to pass through Red’s front room first.

  And then Jeremiah Shetler was filling the arched kitchen entryway with his tall frame. A knowing smile lit his face when he spotted Gabe. “I had some time before our Friday night men’s singing session, so I stopped by to see how Regina’s doing. I’m glad she’s not handling the sale of her home alone,” he added. “Or maybe, for two folks under the bann, it’s a case of ‘misery loves company,’ eh?”

  “Jah, there’s that,” Red put in as she gestured for the bishop to take the other chair at the table. “We’re both in such a low mood, peanut butter and jelly’s all the effort we’ve put toward supper. I was in gut company by myself before Gabe showed up, though,” she added quickly. “Sounds like things aren’t any too warm and fuzzy at the Flaud place.”

  Gabe immediately wished she hadn’t mentioned his predicament at home, yet an expression of concern replaced the bishop’s previous teasing grin.

  “What’s happening with your family, Gabe?” Bishop Jeremiah asked.

  He sighed. There was no use in dodging the bishop’s question—and maybe he was exactly the person who needed to hear what was going on. “I’ve done everything Dat has asked,” he replied softly. “I’m eating at a card table in the far corner of the kitchen. Three times I’ve apologized, but Dat doesn’t think I’m sincere—or sorry enough. I walked out a little while ago because things got so tense I couldn’t stay any longer. Mamm tried reasoning with him,” Gabe added sadly, “but Dat told her to butt out. I’ve never known him to be so rude and nasty.”

  The bishop’s eyes widened. He glanced at Red’s wall calendar. “You’ve got more than three weeks of your bann ahead of you,” he said. “That’s a long time for tensions to escalate within a family. I’ll see what I can do—and if it seems best, you’re welcome to bunk at my place for a while.”

  Gabe sat up straighter. “That’s a very generous offer. I appreciate whatever help you can give us, because it’s really tearing Mamm apart that we men aren’t getting along.”

  The bishop nodded and then focused on Red. “How are you doing, Regina? Your house sold mighty fast, ain’t so?”

  Her smile slipped. “The other maidels are going to help me pack,” she said with a sigh. “I—I really don’t want to leave, but Uncle Clarence won’t believe I’ve truly given up my painting unless I do that. It’s going to pinch, moving into the spare bedroom at their place.”

  Jeremiah considered this. “I personally have no problem with you or Lydianne living independently, but Clarence is the man of your family—and he and Preacher Ammon agree it’s best for him to be responsible for you now.”

  Regina’s expression was glum. “If Martin fires me because the men don’t believe I need an income, I’m going to go stark, raving crazy,” she muttered. “Aunt Cora runs her household a certain way, and I’m not used to spending my days at home anymore. It’s going to be a major adjustment for both of us. But I guess I have to start following the rules again. All the rules.”

  The hitch in her voice alerted Gabe to the depth of Red’s distress, which she’d been covering with a cheerful front. As always, Bishop Jeremiah listened carefully to her concerns—but after he prayed with them and went on his way, Gabe felt even more aware of the dark, oppressive cloud hanging over him and Red because they were trying to obey the Ordnung.

  “What if we just left, Red?” Gabe blurted. “I could make furniture and you could sell your paintings! We’d get by just fine living English.”

  Red’s horrified scowl told him he’d gone too far—but he couldn’t take back his words, and he didn’t feel like apologizing yet again for speaking his mind.

  “Could you really leave your family behind?” she whispered. She rose from her chair, looking away from him. “I don’t have many relatives left, but if I had to go the rest of my life without speaking to my friends again—knowing I had ripped apart those relationships—I can’t imagine how lonely I’d be, Gabe. And how guilty I’d feel for breaking my vows.”

  Gabe sensed he was heading down the wrong road, but something inside him snapped. Escaping the Old Order straitjacket suddenly seemed like the only sane way to live, and he had to do some tall talking to convince Red he was right.

  “What sort of religion decrees that your family and friends are no longer allowed to speak to you, simply because you regret a decision you made when you were too young to know what you were getting yourself into?” he demanded. “That’s how it happened with me—and you were awfully young when you got baptized, too. If Christ died to save us from our sins, why would God snatch away our salvation just because we want to consider a different lifestyle?”

  Red’s hand fluttered to her heart as she stared at him with a proverbial deer-in-the-headlights expression. It was too late to change course or back down, so Gabe kept talking, hoping to convince her.

  “What other options do you see, honey-girl?” he asked in a gentler tone. “I’m fed up with all these rules, but—but for you, I think I could stay Amish if I could keep my guitar and you kept your paints. If we got married and kept each other’s secrets, who’d be the wiser? And you wouldn’t have to live with Clarence that way, either.”

  Red staggered backward. The emotions warring on her flushed face told him he’d said all the wrong things yet again. He’d known for a long time that he wanted to marry her, but what respectable girl would accept such a bungled, back-door suggestion of a proposal? “Okay, so I shouldn’t have said—”

  She held up her hand to silence him. “We can’t let on as though we’ve given up our artistic pursuits if we really haven’t,” she stated with an unwavering gaze. “We’re either in or we’re out—we’re faithful, or we’re not. And if you think for one minute that I’d consider a marriage built on continuing our longtime lies, Gabriel Flaud, you’ve got me figured all wrong.”

  Her words scared all remaining rational thought from him. “Why do you always have to follow the Ordnung?” he fired back. “Old Order rules drive me nuts because they seem so arbitrary—and they have nothing to do with my faith in God! It’s a gut thing we figured out we have such a major difference in mind-set before we tied the knot, ain’t so?”

  * * *

  Regina’s heart shattered as she watched Gabe walk out—forever. His stride was stiff and quick, and he didn’t once look back as he headed away from the house. After all the years she’d known him, she’d never dreamed that irreconcilable differences would explode in their faces and send them on separate paths.

  But she’d stood her ground. She hadn’t allowed Gabe’s hints at marriage or the prospect of avoiding her uncle’s spare bedroom to sway her. Gabe’s persuasive voice and winsome smile hadn’t led her back to the artistic primrose path she’d promised to leave behind.

  She was Old Order Amish. She’d conf
essed, she was serving out her penance, and when she was voted back into the fold, she would stay where she belonged. Without Gabe.

  We’re either in or we’re out —we’re faithful, or we’re not.

  That was the black and white of it . . . even if Regina suspected her words would come back to taunt her in the coming months. With a parting glance at their two plates, which looked so cozy together on her kitchen table, she plopped down on her sofa. All she could do was stare into space, feeling hopelessly empty.

  As it sank in that she and Gabe wouldn’t be friends any longer, Regina’s fingertips burned with the need to paint. She curled in against her knees, willing herself to stay away from the old trunk in the back bedroom where she’d stashed her art supplies. Every fiber of her being regretted the fact that Gabe had driven past the turnoff to the thrift store the other day, and that they’d instead indulged in an idyllic afternoon of her painting and his guitar playing.

  The memory of their time together would torment her forever—and the knowledge that her paints were still in the house made Regina’s sandwich lurch in her stomach. She rushed to the bathroom and vomited. In a trance of regret and weakness, Regina opened the old trunk and grabbed her sketch pad. Within moments she was propped against the head of her bed with her knees bent slightly, lost in a hopeless haze of wretched need.

  As her pencil flew feverishly over the page, the image of Gabe that materialized appalled her—because it was so perfect and so wrong. She’d always avoided drawing human faces, believing that God would condemn her far more harshly for producing such graven images than He would for painting wildlife and nature scenes. But it seemed her imagination wasn’t ready to give Gabe up completely, because she’d drawn him effortlessly with only a few erasures.

  Regina finished the sketch quickly, complete with Gabe’s strong jawline, soulful eyes, and dimples. To avoid meeting his gaze, she’d drawn him looking off into the distance over her shoulder. With a will of its own, however, her pencil made a few more strokes and then Gabe was looking right at her, his face alight with the love she’d seen blossoming in his soul.

  Regina burst into tears. Would this be the only way she would again behold his affection for her?

  Maybe artistic talent isn’t such a blessing, if I use it to torment myself.

  When her inner voice came at her from a different place, however, Regina felt terribly unsettled. Maybe Gabe had a point—what if God isn’t the least bit offended by our talents? What if it really is just the age-old beliefs of Amish church leaders that condemn us?

  “Put it all away,” she muttered as she rose from her bed. “If your faith is truly strong, you can forget your gut times with Gabe ever happened. With any luck, you can go back to being the finisher at his factory—the mousy one who’s invisible to him.”

  As she dropped her sketch pad and pencil back into the old trunk, however, Regina knew she’d just told the most despicable lie of all: she’d lied to herself.

  * * *

  After jogging along Maple Lane at record speed, Gabe finally had to slow down at the intersection to catch his breath. He was a mental mess—an emotional wreck. Deep down, he knew he should return to Red’s and beg her forgiveness for the hurtful words he’d flung at her. His frustration with Old Order ways had gotten him so cranked up, he wasn’t even sure of everything he’d said.

  But he’d broken her heart—that much he knew.

  His own heart wasn’t in such good shape, either. And why would it be? Red had merely been standing by the beliefs they’d been taught all their lives, and he’d implied that they could be perfectly happy living English—and that she’d surely want to marry him rather than follow through with the promises she’d made to the church.

  It was a stroke of genius to suggest that if you married her, you could continue hiding your guitar playing and painting, too, idiot, Gabe chided himself. Escaping the Amish way was not the solution to all his problems. But he sure wanted it to be.

  He turned left on the county road that ran past the Shetler place. It would soothe his soul to sing with the other men who’d gathered for the Friday night singing—

  But Dat will be there. And the bishop will wonder why you left Red by herself. A man who loved her would’ve stayed with her this evening.

  With a sigh, Gabe continued down the road. He’d had no real intention of joining the group anyway, because he wasn’t supposed to socialize with his friends. And even if he were allowed to join the group, he didn’t want to inspire the counseling session that would surely come about when Bishop Jeremiah had him and his father together, along with Saul, Glenn, and Matthias—and other fellows who’d offer advice about how to live peaceably during a family member’s bann.

  Gabe stopped just as he came within sight of Bishop Jeremiah’s tall white farmhouse, because voices were wafting on the evening breeze. From behind a tree, he spotted several men from the congregation on the Shetler porch—some of them were seated on the steps, while those who’d arrived early, his dat among them, had claimed one of the porch chairs or the swing. They were singing “It Is Well with My Soul,” and their flowing four-part harmony made Gabe itch to join them—because Matthias sounded a little lonely on the top descant notes, which the two of them usually handled together.

  Closing his eyes, he allowed the serenity of the tune to wash over him, even though the words about being at peace didn’t describe him at the moment. It was such a blessing to sing with his friends, such an effortless joy to share songs they’d been singing together for as long as Gabe could recall. When the upper voices sang “It is well” and then the lower voices echoed the words, Dat’s rock-solid bass had the power to realign all that was out of kilter in Gabe’s heart. He and his father had sung together since Gabe was old enough to mimic the lyrics, even if he hadn’t yet known the meaning of them.

  He let out the breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding. You could go up to that porch and make peace with Dat right this minute—apologize and ask his forgiveness yet again. With Bishop Jeremiah and all the other men there, he wouldn’t dream of berating you. And then you could sing with them and feel so much better.

  Reality punched him in the gut, however. Under the circumstances, Bishop Jeremiah might allow him to reconcile with Dat, but then Saul and the others would silently stare him down—deny him permission to join their social gathering. When he’d broken his baptismal vow and the rules that went with it, he’d forfeited the right to participate in the fellowship he needed so badly at the moment—and those men wouldn’t let him forget it.

  Gabe leaned his head wearily against the tree trunk. Once again he considered leaving to live English—who needed those ancient ways that made a man feel despised and so desperately alone, just because he’d made a mistake?

  But Red had a point. If he left the Amish faith, he’d lose his family and his singing friends forever.

  Sighing wearily, Gabe turned away as the men struck up a lively version of “Do Lord.” Deep down, he knew he wouldn’t be at peace again until he reconciled with Red—but the chances of that happening were slim to none, unless one of them had a radical change of heart.

  Should he go, or should he stay?

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  On Saturday morning, Regina quickly tucked her art supplies into the baskets on the back of her bike. As she pedaled, she clenched her jaw against another crying jag—because she was tired of crying, and because she was on her way to The Marketplace. She didn’t want to explain her blotchy face to her friends, and she hoped Lydianne wouldn’t ask how she and Gabe were getting on.

  Regina told herself she was doing the right thing by ridding herself of her temptation to paint. She was fulfilling the promise of her confession, and that was a positive step toward her reinstatement as a faithful church member.

  If I’m doing the right thing, why do I feel so low?

  Regina forced herself to focus on the traffic. When she turned onto the street where the thrift store was, she recalled
the day when Gabe had kept on driving . . .

  The joy you shared with Gabe that day is just a memory—and maybe you should forget about it. You should throw away that sketch of him, too.

  When she’d gathered her paints, brushes, and sketchbook this morning, however, she couldn’t bring herself to destroy her drawing. The Old Order considered it a graven image—forbidden—yet Regina clung to the pencil portrait as her last memento of a love that had budded and then withered before it could bloom. Maybe someday she could free herself of the handsome face she’d rendered so perfectly on paper, but she’d tucked it into her dresser drawer, beneath her spare kapps and black stockings.

  As she entered the thrift store’s parking lot, she headed for the donation box—an enclosed structure with a metal flap to cover its opening. Steeling herself, Regina lifted the flap and dropped her two bags of art supplies inside.

  As she pedaled away, a little voice cajoled her. You can buy watercolors, brushes, and another sketchbook at the discount store in New Haven. Who would know?

  Regina shook her head to rid herself of that dangerous thought. The Slabaugh sisters had it right: painting was her addiction. It would take all her strength to kick the habit that had gotten her into such trouble with the church.

  She arrived at The Marketplace just before Jo opened the doors to customers. Heavy, dark clouds hovered in the sky, matching her mood. How would church folks react to her presence, considering she was under the bann and no longer a shop owner?

  After a restless night punctuated by dreams of Gabe living English with someone far prettier than she, Regina inhaled the welcome aromas of Jo’s brownies, cinnamon rolls, and fresh coffee as she entered the building. Lydianne and the Helfings waved cheerfully at her. Their eagerness to be with her eased the sting of Gabe’s harsh words and the way he’d walked out on her.

  Jo beckoned the four of them into her shop. “We’re glad you’ve come, Regina!” she said in a low voice. Her expression saddened quickly. “Bishop Jeremiah stopped by to say Glenn’s wife died in the night, so he won’t be here today—or maybe for a while.”