Rosemary Opens Her Heart: Home at Cedar Creek, Book Two

by Naomi King

  Matt scribbled the woman’s phone number below the previous three he’d taken down. Aunt Abby had mentioned the magazine article with a photograph of the white princess carriage, but who could have predicted this sort of response to it? He tore off the scratch pad page and stepped outside to gaze across the road. The Grabers had returned home from Lois and Ezra’s shortly after his family had, so he jogged across the blacktop to speak with James. It wasn’t often he had such exciting news to share, and phone messages like these certainly lightened a day otherwise filled with talk of Paul Bontrager’s death.

  He took the porch steps two at a time and pounded loudly on the Grabers’ front door. If Eunice and Emma were in the kitchen and James wasn’t nearby, there was a chance Merle would be napping in his recliner and wouldn’t hear him. Matt waited a moment and knocked again, louder this time.

  As footsteps came through the front room, a big grin overtook his face. Who wouldn’t be happy for a friend whose hard work had resulted in so many calls to order specialty carriages—plus a request for an interview? It wasn’t the Plain way to boast about such accomplishments, but didn’t it glorify God when folks outside of Cedar Creek acknowledged good work produced by Amish hands?

  The door swung open and Matt’s breath left him. “Emma! I—” He crushed the piece of paper in his hand. Why hadn’t he figured Emma might answer the door? “If James is around, I’ve got some news for him.”

  When the hopeful smile fell from her face, Matt felt lower than an earthworm’s belly. He hadn’t come here to make Emma feel bad, after all, and he hadn’t planned to discuss how he’d ignored her at the wedding supper, either. But here she was, standing in the doorway.

  “Matt.” Her tone told him she’d be going after some answers. “I’m sorry if I did or said something at Zanna’s wedding to upset you, or to make you think—”

  After all the years he’d known her, such a difficult moment probably called for holding her hands, but he didn’t have the heart to let these mismatched feelings continue between them. “Emma, it wasn’t your fault,” he insisted. “I know how everybody’s saying you and I would be a gut match, but—but that isn’t going to happen. I’m sorry.”

  Emma’s face crumpled. Her breath escaped her like air leaking from a balloon. “Oh.”

  Oh? How did he respond to that? Wouldn’t it only complicate matters further if he elaborated on his situation? “I can’t pretend to have feelings for you just because folks think I should, Emma. That would be more cruel than telling you the truth, ain’t so?”

  “So, what I think doesn’t matter?” She turned away, crossing her arms. “It’s because of that Rosemary from Queen City, isn’t it?”

  Matt closed his eyes. The excitement he’d felt for James’s phone messages drained out like water from a punctured trough. Why did relationships with women—both Rosemary and now Emma—have to be so difficult? “No,” he murmured, “it’s because I can’t let you keep bringing brownies and—and looking at me with all those wishes in your eyes. I’m sorry, Emma. Let James know I came by, all right?”

  As he stepped out of the doorway, Matt felt her closing the space between them. She shut the door, probably so her folks couldn’t hear. “Fine and dandy, then!” she said in a rising voice. “If it doesn’t work out with Mrs. Yutzy, at least you’ll have your dogs for company. Which is pretty much what you deserve!”

  Matt strode across the Grabers’ front yard, knowing that whatever response he gave would only anger Emma further. He hadn’t heard the last about this issue.

  Later that evening, as James sat in the phone shanty playing more than a dozen messages left for him on the phone, he shook his head in disbelief. Who would have believed one magazine article—one photograph of the white carriage he’d crafted last fall—would inspire such an avalanche of calls? All in all, he had three requests for interviews and potential orders for at least ten more customized carriages. Never had his work received so much attention. And for an Amish fellow, that became a problem.

  It wasn’t only the fact that he, by himself, couldn’t possibly fulfill so many special orders. Who could he hire to help with the technical details these English customers expected on their vehicles? Pete Beachey, who had taught him his trade long ago, was beyond the age when he wanted to work full-time. And while Perry Bontrager and Leon Mast were good, steady employees, he needed them to keep up with orders for ordinary farm wagons, courting buggies, and other vehicles his Amish customers depended upon. His apprentice, Noah, would probably be a fine carriage maker in time, but he’d worked in the shop less than six months.

  And then there was the issue of reporters from national magazines wanting to talk with him. Apparently the outside world was fascinated by all things Amish these days, but it went against the most basic tenets of Plain belief to accept the adulation of anyone—most especially curious English reporters.

  James raked back his hair and put on his straw hat again. It was another warm spring evening, and since Sundays were intended for visiting, he hitched Mitch to his buggy and drove down Lambright Lane to seek some advice. True enough, this was the courting buggy he’d driven Zanna in…but it was too fine a vehicle to leave in the stable just because he wasn’t courting anyone. Yet.

  He knocked on Abby’s door. While she might be at Sam’s, discussing plans for Paul’s funeral with Treva, Barbara, and the girls, he was hoping to catch her without an audience. Right now, with so many phone voices in his head, he could use a quiet chat with a woman who would see through to the heart of his dilemma.

  She opened the door at last, and the sight of Abby’s face settled his churning thoughts. “Could we go for a ride?” he began. “You won’t believe how many phone messages I just listened to, all on account of that magazine article I showed you! Some for orders—mostly for more of those fancy parade carriages—and three requests from magazine reporters for interviews, and I—”

  “Vernon will know just what to do, James,” Abby said. “And no doubt the bishop will be pleased to hear some gut news after dealing with Paul’s passing all day long. Let me fetch my shawl.”

  Wasn’t it just like Abby to suggest that he go to a higher power? James relaxed all over. “Denki, Abby. I’ll wait right here.”

  The voices, the demands, the requests…they all stopped spinning in his head. He sat down in Abby’s porch swing, aware of the mild spring evening, of the glow of the sun in the western sky, and the whisper of the leaves in the maple trees that shaded Abby’s home. While moments ago he had felt caught up in a whirlwind, he could now put his trust in Abby, and in Vernon Gingerich—and in God—as he decided how to handle this unexpected rush of publicity.

  Moments later, he and Abby were rolling down the county blacktop. The clip-clop! clip-clop! of Mitch’s hooves created a happy rhythm to accompany the sparkle in Abby’s eyes. “It was gut to see you at my door, James, and even better to hear of so many folks wanting your work.”

  “Jah, it was nice to hear so many customers telling me they want my carriages,” he agreed. “But it’ll be impossible to produce those specialty rigs as fast as these English folks will expect them. They have no idea that my shop employs just two full-time fellas and an apprentice, besides me, and that we already have a backlog of orders.”

  “English apparently have no concept of limiting their businesses, the way we do.” Abby looked over at him, her face alight with the setting sun. “From listening to them when they visit Sam’s store, I gather it’s a constant scramble to grow their companies bigger and to make more and more money.”

  “Which doesn’t always improve their lives,” James remarked. “Vernon has always stood by the Old Ways of working close to home and spending time with family. I have a pretty gut idea about what he’ll recommend, and I’ll let his wisdom guide me.”

  As they approached the corner where the old stone silo marked the Gingerich property, James grinned like a mischievous boy. “Maybe we could skip our visit with the bishop and go down that road to
ward Cedar Creek instead,” he suggested, half serious. “Our picnic yesterday was one of the nicest times I’ve had lately, Abby. And it was such a private spot, too…maybe for that kiss I didn’t get last night.”

  The gleam in her eyes told him she had been thinking about a kiss, as well, but when he pretended he might drive past the Gingerich lane, Abby elbowed him playfully. “Better stick to business first, or all your gut intentions might go astray, ain’t so?”

  James gave her a quick peck on the cheek, mostly to watch her blush, and then steered Mitch into the gravel driveway that led to the bishop’s home. The main house, two stories high and built of stone and brick, dated back to when early settlers had come to this part of Missouri, while the one-story wing Vernon had added when his two aunts moved in was made of clapboard painted white. Vernon was a retired master carpenter who now devoted his time to leading the Cedar Creek church district—and to finishing out Angus cattle, which his nephew Abner then butchered to sell to regional markets and restaurants.

  “It’s always a grand sight, looking out over Vernon’s pastures where those black cows graze,” James remarked as he parked the buggy alongside the house.

  “I’m sure Abner thinks so, too.” Abby grabbed his hand as James helped her down. “It’s been a gut arrangement for Vernon, having his aunts and a nephew here. Remember how, when Dorothea died, we all thought he’d wither up and blow away without a wife?”

  “Jah, especially since they couldn’t have kids,” James agreed. “But with Nettie and Florence keeping house for him, and Abner to tend to his barns and pastureland, it’s the perfect setup for a fellow who stays too busy to do such work himself.”

  “And would you look at how the ivy and the rose of Sharon bushes have grown!” Abby exclaimed as they approached the front door. “I’ll have to tell Mamm how well her cuttings have done.”

  As they waited on the front porch for an answer to his knock, James became more aware of the woman who stood beside him. Was she hoping this trip would end on the same romantic note as their previous ride? He’d been so focused on his carriage-making quandary, he hadn’t considered Abby’s expectations. “Denki for suggesting I talk with the bishop,” he said softly, “and for coming along with me, too.”

  Abby lowered her eyes, flushing modestly. What a beauty she possessed, radiating from the inside out…And wasn’t that a thought he’d do well to ponder? When the door opened, however, James focused on the stout, silver-haired woman who stood before them. “Gut afternoon, Nettie,” he said. “And how are you?”

  “Come in, you two! How nice to see the both of you.” The bishop’s aunt waved them into the front room. “If it’s Vernon you’re looking for, I’ll fetch him from the barn. He and Abner are tending a couple of contrary calves who tangled with a barbed-wire fence—and the fence won.”

  “Tell him we’re in no hurry, if he’s not at a gut stopping point,” James replied.

  “You can wait for him in the study.” Nettie beckoned for them to follow her. “I’ll bring you in some tea and sweets.”

  James and Abby passed through the large front room, furnished with sturdy sofas and chairs in soothing shades of blue and green. Beside a large picture window, Nettie’s older sister, Florence, sat at a quilting frame where the sun shone over her work. When she straightened in her wheelchair, her oxygen hose became visible. “Gut afternoon to you. You’ll have to pardon me if your names have slipped my mind.”

  “Gut to see you, Florence,” Abby replied as she stepped over to the quilt frame. “This is James Graber and I’m Abby Lambright, and we live a little way down the county blacktop. My word, but this is an intricate pattern you’re quilting.”

  “Jah, keeps me outta trouble. This one’s for a niece who’s getting married, and another three quilt tops are waiting for me—from gut friends who don’t have the eyesight for this close work anymore,” she added. “Mighty lucky, I am, at eighty-five.”

  “We’re every one of us blessed,” James agreed. “And Vernon is one of the blessings that keeps the Cedar Creek district going so strong, too.”

  “Jah, he takes gut care of us all,” Florence replied. “Who else would’ve built on to his house so my sister, my son, and I would have a home after our places washed away in the flood of ninety-three?”

  “And he hasn’t known a quiet moment since!” Nettie preceded them down a hallway to the study where Vernon often worked on the records he kept as a bishop. A beautiful carved library table and four matching chairs occupied the room’s center, while a modest desk filled one corner. “I’ll be back in a few. Make yourselves at home.”

  James pulled out a chair for Abby at the library table and then sat down. “I’m guessing Vernon built these pieces himself,” he said as he ran his hand over the smooth surface of the oak table.

  “Jah, I did, James—many moons ago, as a gift for Dorothea.” Vernon Gingerich entered, wearing work pants and a patched blue shirt. He’d brought some barn aroma inside with him, yet his ethereal blue eyes left no doubt that he was a man who followed God. “It was a sad morning, learning of Paul’s passing, but we rejoice for him because the Lord keeps His promises and grants us His grace. I sense, however, that another matter has brought you here.”

  The bishop’s gaze embraced the two of them as though he wondered if they had come calling as a couple. Once again James wondered how other folks had apparently noticed how compatible he and Abby were while he had remained oblivious for so many years. “Something unexpected has come up, Vernon,” he said, unfolding the magazine page that featured his white princess carriage. “I need advice and objective opinions, so Abby steered me here to visit with you.”

  Vernon’s bushy eyebrows rose as he looked at the photograph. “One of your custom creations, jah? Not a vehicle we’d drive through the barnyard,” he added with a laugh, “but a lot of folks would enjoy parading along in this pretty coach. So what’s on your mind?”

  James relaxed, grateful for the bishop’s manner. Vernon was as fatherly as he was friendly, and that made for a nice combination of traits in a community leader. Other districts didn’t have such an understanding man with whom to discuss perplexing issues. “They say success breeds success,” James began, “and as of this afternoon, I’ve gotten a dozen calls from English folks wanting carriages for their horse-drawn tour businesses. Three others were from reporters wanting to interview me for magazines.”

  “Ah.” Vernon nodded. “So you’ve come up against a production crunch. Not enough fellows in your shop to do all this work and not enough hours in the day. Unless you expand in a hurry.”

  “That hits the nail on the head. Not that I could find qualified employees or increase my shop space anytime soon.”

  “And then there’s the magazines wanting to shine their worldly light on your work—and on you as the man who does it so well.” The bishop looked up when Nettie knocked. She held a tray with a ceramic teapot, cups, and a plate of sliced breads. “It’s gut we have tea to lubricate our thoughts and some of Nettie’s fresh banana bread to fortify our intentions, jah? Denki, Nettie.”

  After her footsteps faded down the hallway, he refocused on the issues before them. “Your situation brings to mind the story of the Israelites enslaved in Egypt, where the Pharaoh had them making bricks. When they demanded time off to worship, Pharaoh stopped supplying their straw, yet he insisted they produce just as many bricks while having to go out and find the raw materials.”

  James nodded at this familiar story, as did Abby. “Jah, Pharaoh was calling out ‘more bricks, more bricks!’ while giving his slaves less material to work with and less time to make those bricks,” James replied. “I’m starting to feel that way.”

  “And if you take on all the orders you’re receiving, while telling these new customers you can meet their time frames,” Vernon continued, “you’ll feel as if Pharaoh’s sitting on your shoulder, making you a slave to your carriage business and to the ways of the world, as well.”

  “Thi
s, while you’re helping Emma take care of your parents,” Abby added.

  “Jah, there’s that.” James looked at the photograph of his white coach with Miss America beside it. “And while my sister would never expect to live in the style this young woman has become accustomed to, she can’t take on all of Mamm and Dat’s day-to-day care and have any time for herself—either to find a husband or to honor Sunday as a day of rest. We’re seeing that already.”

  “So what’s your response?” The bishop handed James the plate of banana bread as Abby poured three cups of fragrant orange-spice tea for them.

  “I’ll answer the calls in the order I got them, with a calendar at hand,” James replied firmly. “I’ll figure out how much time to allow for the special detailing of each rig—and if a customer can’t wait that long, I’ll decline the order.” He shrugged. “It’s all I can do. I can’t rush Noah’s apprenticeship, and I have to figure Perry and Leon—and Emma and my parents—might need my time along the way.”

  “There are only so many bricks a man can make,” Vernon agreed. “And you probably realize that those who interview you might want photographs and that such attention in worldly publications will distract you from doing your best work with your God-given skills. Not to mention inviting pride into your life.”

  James sank his teeth into the moist, sweet banana bread, glad he’d come to confer with Vernon. “For craftsmen, pride is a tightrope we walk when we become gut at what we do. I’ll call those reporters and tell them it goes against our Plain principles to talk to them.”

  “Or,” Abby chimed in, “if there’s a way to serve God by lifting up our Amish values—maybe to talk about the other craftsmen in Cedar Creek and the other home-based businesses our families run.”

  “That would take the spotlight off James and benefit other members.” The bishop nodded, his curly gray beard brushing the front of his shirt. “Seems to me if you chose one of those reporters and requested the interview questions ahead of time—with the understanding that you and I would choose which ones to answer—we could work this out to the common gut.”