A Simple Wish

by Charlotte Hubbard

  “And we’ll buy them instead of trying to make them ourselves!” Sara’s friend Jenn said with a laugh. She held up the lumpy center of her rug with a sigh. “I can see that making rag rugs isn’t my best talent—but it’s not because Loretta isn’t giving me excellent help with it.”

  As Nora circulated among the other women in the class, she heard many similar compliments. A couple of ladies asked for Lena’s name and number because they wanted cookies made for anniversary parties, and a few were ready to shop rather than focus on their rugs any longer—which Nora could understand. Making her three-dimensional banners took time and patience, but they went together quickly because she’d been making them for so long. She wasn’t sure she’d be any good at making rugs.

  Once the class resumed, Nora sat at the checkout counter cutting boy-size straw hats and little kapps in half to use on four new banners she was making. She was pleased with how many of her unique pieces customers had bought, and when she worked on them she entered a pleasant zone of immersion that shut out the rest of the world. When she’d begun making the three-dimensional banners to support herself, working so intently on them had eased the pain of her unexpected divorce.

  Nora smiled as she applied liquid glue to the edges she’d cut so they wouldn’t fray. Her life with Luke, being his wife and running the store of her dreams, more than made up for the rejection she’d suffered because her first husband had found another woman. It was such a blessing to live near her family again, to have their love and acceptance. Living Plain suited her on a soul-deep level that far surpassed the pleasure of driving the red BMW convertible she’d owned at this time last year.

  A burst of conversation in the storage room told Nora the class was letting out. The first few ladies who entered the store’s main room appeared happy to be up and moving—and eager to see the items she had in her shop. As Loretta’s other students ambled out, they carried their rugs and some extra strips of fabric in plastic bags Nora had provided for them.

  “This was really fun, Nora!” Lucy said as she and Margaret passed the checkout counter. “Well worth our time and money. I think I’ve got the technique down well enough to finish the whole thing this week.”

  “Loretta’s a sweetheart for putting up with us,” Margaret said with a chuckle. “I might finish my rug—or I could use what I’ve woven so far as a nice mat to set under a potted plant.”

  Nora nodded. “The best thing about most crafts is that you can repurpose whatever doesn’t turn out exactly as you’d imagined it,” she remarked. “We’re so glad you came. Come see us again sometime.”

  After all the ladies had left the storage area, Loretta joined Nora at the counter. She was smiling, happy to remove tags from the many items her students were buying from the store. When they’d bagged the last set of pot holders and carefully boxed one of the clocks Cornelius had consigned, the store became quiet again.

  Nora slipped her arm around Loretta’s shoulders. “So how was it? From my vantage point, you looked totally comfortable and capable, and your students adored you—even the ones who discovered that rug making isn’t their cup of tea.”

  Loretta laughed. “Jah, a few of them were ready to give up when they couldn’t get the beginning knots and the first round to work out,” she said. “But they were good-natured about it. And right now I feel totally drained.”

  “I bet you do,” Nora said. “It’s amazing how much energy you expend when you’re keeping up with so many students who need your help all at the same time. You handled them like a pro, Loretta. I’m really proud of you.”

  Loretta’s pink cheeks glowed. “It was a lot of work, but really gratifying to see the way some of those ladies got the hang of it. One of the younger ones—Vera—had a twelve-inch circle finished and chose enough fabric strips to complete most of her rug.”

  “Do we need to be making more strips? Or buying more fabric before your Saturday class?” Nora asked. “I’m giving you the rest of the afternoon off—with pay—so if you need to visit the Schrocks’ shop, feel free.”

  Loretta’s hazel eyes widened. “But I still have three more hours—”

  “And the business you brought into the store today more than paid your wage for that time, sweetie,” Nora insisted with a smile. “But then, if you want to work on your fabric strips and stay here where it’s cooler, that’s fine, too.”

  Loretta laughed. “Jah, there’s that. After I drink some lemonade, I’ll go buy fabric and come back. Two of my students ordered rugs this morning and specified the colors they wanted.”

  “See there?” Nora crowed, hugging her. “All that prep work and teaching your class for a couple of hours has really paid off—for both of us.”

  Loretta poured the last of the lemonade into a glass and drank it down. When she smiled at Nora, her face shone with happiness. “Denki for believing in me, Nora,” she murmured. “Working in your shop this past week has been a wonderful-gut way for me to see a world beyond housework and gardening and canning.”

  Nora felt a rush of love—a real sense of accomplishment. It wasn’t her intention to lure Loretta away from her Old Order faith, but what did it hurt to give the girl a glimpse of other life options from the haven of her store? The Simple Gifts shop was providing income and a craft outlet for many area Plain women, so why shouldn’t the Riehl sisters benefit, too?

  “Luckily, Rosalyn understands why I love coming here,” Loretta said softly, “even if it means she has to do more of the cooking and redding up on the days I work.”

  Nora nodded. “Tell Rosalyn she’s welcome to work on her wreaths here in the store. Customers would enjoy watching her, and they’ll snap them up.”

  “We’ll see about that. I can already tell you that Dat won’t go along with it.” Loretta set her glass on the counter, recovering her smile. “I’ll be back after I buy my fabric. Hope you sell a bunch of stuff while I’m gone!”

  When the jingle of the bell above the door had died away, Nora sat in the quiet coolness of her store. She’d known all along that both Riehl girls would catch static from their dat if they spent long blocks of time away from home—but Loretta seemed better able to handle it than Rosalyn was.

  Nora picked up her phone to leave a message for the head of their household. “Hey there, Cornelius, it’s Nora,” she began, choosing her words carefully. “I sold another of your clocks today, so I only have one left. I hope you can bring in a few more soon—and I hope you know Loretta did a beautiful job of teaching her class today. She’s a fine young woman.”

  Nora paused, figuring it was best not to elaborate on Loretta’s attributes. “Hope you’re doing well, Cornelius. Thanks for consigning your clocks in my shop—I’ll send your check home with Loretta today. Bye now.”

  She hung up, wondering what Cornelius’s response would be. It didn’t bother her one bit that he didn’t approve of her Mennonite lifestyle or the way she’d convinced his middle daughter to work away from home three days a week. She didn’t want to make trouble for Loretta or Rosalyn, though. Where Cornelius was concerned, it was best to concentrate on selling his clocks at a profit and to stay out of his personal life . . . even if she still wondered why he made so many trips to the city to buy parts.

  Some folks are just a mystery, Nora reminded herself. And some mysteries are best left alone.

  * * *

  When Loretta arrived for work on Saturday, Rosalyn came along as well. She was pulling a cart with tall sides through the door, and when Nora saw its contents, she was amazed. “How many wreaths have you made?” she asked excitedly. “You picked a great day to bring them, because the twenty ladies taking your sister’s rug-making class will be delighted to see them.”

  Loretta chuckled. “That’s what I told her, Nora,” she said as she carefully lifted out a grapevine wreath decorated with silk brown-eyed susans and sunflowers.

  “Dat went to Kansas City for clock parts early this morning, so I thought it would be a gut day to come over,” Rosalyn
remarked. She breathed deeply, gazing about the store. “Truth be told, it’s nice to come into your pretty, air-conditioned store, Nora. Running the canner really heats up the house.”

  “I hated canning vegetables as a kid, but the past couple of evenings I’ve been helping my mamm put up her tomatoes. It’s a lot of hot work,” Nora agreed. She held up a wreath Rosalyn had decorated with a calico bow, fresh pine sprigs, cinnamon sticks, and baby’s breath, inhaling deeply. “Oh my, this smells gut. What a wonderful kitchen wreath!”

  Rosalyn smiled shyly, unaccustomed to praise. “Once our garden’s more established, I’ll have some thyme and bay leaves and other herbs to dry for my wreaths,” she remarked as she placed the last one on the countertop. “I hope customers won’t mind that I made several with silk flowers this year. Come winter, though, I’ll be making fresh pine wreaths.”

  “They’ll all be quick sellers,” Nora assured her. “Silk flowers stay pretty a long time, and there’s a wide variety of colors, so they’ll sell well, too. And what have we here?”

  Rosalyn leaned over the side of the cart and removed the towel wrapped around a box-shaped object. “Dat’s restored a couple more clocks,” she replied. “This one sits on a shelf, and the other one hangs on the wall.”

  “He’s been finding clocks at flea markets and estate sales,” Loretta put in as she picked up an oval wall clock. “He was hoping to find a few more today while he’s in Kansas City. Here’s his price list.”

  Nora glanced at the invoice with Riehl Clocks—Riehl Service, Riehl Timely printed across the top. It sounded as though Cornelius was now finding clocks he could clean up quickly and consign with her—for higher prices than he’d previously charged, she noted immediately—rather than spending as much time making new clocks.

  “Let’s get these tagged now, before customers come in,” she suggested. “And don’t undercut what you paid for your materials or how much time it takes you to make a wreath, Rosalyn,” she added firmly. “Shoppers gladly pay top dollar, knowing our items are locally made by folks who sell them for an income.”

  As Nora went into her office for tags and string, her thoughts were buzzing like bees. Why did Cornelius always send his clocks with his daughters instead of dealing directly with her? And why was he consigning these two pieces that appeared cheaply made instead of providing her with the same quality of merchandise he’d had when he first moved to Willow Ridge? If he continued sending clocks that weren’t handmade, she would have to remind him of the standards she’d set for her merchandise . . . and perhaps refuse to accept the mass-produced ones.

  Nora glanced out at Loretta and Rosalyn, who were such sweet, decent young women and were delighted to be making money from their beautiful rugs and wreaths. She would keep her niggling doubts to herself rather than upset them with her questions, but once again she had to wonder what was going on with Cornelius.

  Maybe she was too suspicious . . . but she could recall two earlier visits he’d made to Kansas City this month. How many clock parts could he possibly need? It was a wonder Cornelius got any work done on his clocks when he seemed to spend so much time out of his shop.

  Chapter Twelve

  As Wyatt pulled his Lexus out of his new acreage and onto the county blacktop, he fought deep, relentless cravings. He felt like a sugar junkie going to visit a bakery knowing he couldn’t indulge in doughnuts once he arrived. He’d been telling himself for three endless weeks that he should leave Rebecca alone—should cut his losses and hire another person to design his new website. It was Sunday, September 4. Wyatt hoped Rebecca would be in church so he could avoid the temptation of gazing into her beautiful blue eyes and succumbing to the timbre of her voice, the richness of her laughter, while he cut his ties and left her.

  As he drove through the first intersection, he saw a long line of black buggies parked along a lane down the hill from Nora Hooley’s gift store. All of the shops were closed, of course, and Willow Ridge seemed to be taking its Sunday afternoon nap. A rainstorm the previous evening had ushered in a cool front, so riding with his top down was a pleasure—except there’d be no way to hide if Rebecca caught sight of him.

  Wyatt drove slowly past Zook’s Market and the Grill N Skillet, where the windows were dark. Across the road, a couple of hybrid tea rose bushes on either side of the gravel lane burst with large, perfect flowers in a shade of dusky pink he instinctively knew Rebecca would love. On impulse he pulled into the lane and took his Swiss army knife from his pocket. Wyatt helped himself to three of the most perfect blooms, cutting the stems long and carefully avoiding the thorns. The bushes were so loaded with fragrant roses, their owner would never know he’d taken any.

  At least I’ll have a peace offering, he thought as he slipped back into his car. Maybe she’ll give me points for choosing blooms as flawless as her face.

  At the next intersection, the road off to his right ran past the Brenneman cabinetry shop and the newer Detweiler Furniture Works. Rebecca’s house was only a quarter of a mile away. His insides twitched with the adolescent need to chicken out of this challenge, to turn around and return to the new trailer he’d parked on his property, but he convinced himself to keep on driving past the small clinic on the corner.

  A forty-year-old man shouldn’t have to play mind games with himself.

  Wyatt let out a humorless laugh. He should be able to face a woman who was young enough to be his daughter—if he’d sired her in high school, anyway—without fearing that she’d consider him unworthy at best and worthless at worst. He’d dealt with all sorts of women all his life, and people said he had a way with them.

  Yet Rebecca spooked him. After spending only a couple of hours with her, he’d fallen under the spell of her unassuming presence—No, you fell in love with her, the voice in his head taunted him. His mind told him that a relationship with her was an emotional train wreck waiting to happen—for both of them—but his body and soul weren’t listening.

  Here’s one for you: you’ve bought property in a very small town where everyone will know your business. Do you really think you can avoid seeing Rebecca, even if you’re not her client? For all you know, she’s already told everyone you stood her up . . .

  Despite his warring thoughts, the rural landscape soothed him. The tidy patchwork of Amish farms seemed a world away from the old-money establishment and social climbing that pervaded the world of horse breeding and racing in Lexington and Saratoga Springs. In Willow Ridge, the locals were simple and sincere. The air smelled fresh, and only the calling of crows broke the stillness around him. A deer grazing near a small creek lifted its head to gaze at him. Willow Ridge felt like a pristine paradise, and when he’d purchased his tract of land here, he’d known immediately that he wanted to relocate.

  But he had to deal with his feelings for Rebecca. It wasn’t right to put her off so unfairly. Remaining cool and detached when he told her he’d found another website designer was the key. It was a lie—but so was telling himself he could stop wanting her.

  When her cozy red brick home came into view, Wyatt slowed the car. Rebecca was leaning over in her front flower bed, wearing a pink tank top and matching knit shorts that left nothing to his imagination.

  She’s not dressed this way to tantalize you, idiot. If she’d known you were coming, she’d be fully covered—and probably baring her claws.

  Wyatt swallowed hard. He had a feeling Rebecca wouldn’t appreciate his showing up out of the blue, catching her in her grubbies, when he’d tucked a white silk shirt into designer jeans. He pulled into her driveway, though, figuring it was best to settle this situation. Rebecca’s glare and scathing remarks would keep him in his place, and he’d say what he had to before making the most dignified exit she would allow him.

  He deserved her rancor. He deserved to flinch and grimace after Rebecca told him exactly how disappointed she was with him because he’d stood her up.

  At the sound of his car’s approach, Rebecca straightened to her full height. The m
oment she recognized him, her eyes widened with surprise and she tossed her gardening claw down to cross her arms. The set of her jaw told him he would have to speak first, and choose his words well.

  Wyatt smiled, feigning confidence. He’d been handling high-maintenance mares most of his life, so why should this delightfully disheveled filly present any problems he couldn’t handle? Rebecca’s brown hair appeared uncombed and she wore no makeup . . . as though she’d just gotten out of bed. The thought made his pulse pound, and he was so focused on her that when he grabbed the roses on the seat, a thorn punctured the pad of his thumb.

  “Ah, crap!” Wyatt saw the blood seeping around the embedded thorn and kissed his businesslike intentions goodbye. He opened his car door and carefully held his injured hand and the roses away from himself to avoid staining his white shirt. He was at Rebecca’s mercy now. And the way she was glaring at him was anything but merciful.

  Wyatt shook his head, imploring her compassion. “This wasn’t how I’d planned to make my entrance, Rebecca,” he said sheepishly. “It seems I’m going to need a Band-Aid—”

  “That’s what you get for cutting Mamma’s roses,” she blurted out. With one eyebrow raised, she looked dispassionately at his bleeding thumb. “If this is your way of worming yourself into my home—begging for my pity—you’d better go back to wherever you came from. You can do better than this after three weeks of avoiding me, Mr. McKenzie.”

  Wyatt was ready to defend himself, but Rebecca spoke before he could. “Okay, so it’s only been twenty days, but who’s counting?” she protested sarcastically. “Every day of your rude, inconsiderate silence has been piling up like manure. You deserve to be shoveled out, got it?”

  A large drop of blood dripped from his thumb, yet she showed no inclination to take the roses he was holding toward her. Wyatt eased out the thorn, wincing as he pressed the wound hard against his fingertip to stanch the bleeding. “All right, I deserved that,” he murmured.