by Mary Ellis
In the fresh air and sunshine, Leah’s head cleared as her excitement grew with leaps and bounds. “Jah, I’d love to work here very much! It would be my dream come true, but I can’t accept the offer until I talk to my parents.”
The owner shrugged. “No problem. If you decide to join me, let me know either tomorrow or the day after. Then we can set up a schedule for you.”
“I won’t work on the Sabbath,” Leah said.
“Of course not. We’re closed on Sundays.”
“And no Mondays, because my mamm can’t manage the laundry without me because of her arthritis.”
“We’ll be closed that day too, since not many people come to town on Mondays. Anyway, I have my own chores at home with a husband and kids to look after.” April rocked back on her heels, deep in thought. “How about you work Wednesdays through Saturdays here at the diner? Then you’ll be off on Sunday and Monday. I can manage Tuesdays here by myself—all the action is in Farmerstown at the livestock sale. On Tuesdays, I’ll pay you to stay home baking the bread, pies, cakes, and cookies we’ll need for the week. We will open at seven for breakfast and close after lunch—no supper. Our people usually start for home by three o’clock, and the Englischers can eat at the big tourist spot up the road.”
Leah felt as though she might levitate off the floor. Impetuously, she threw her arms around April and squeezed, not considering proper boss/employee behavior. “Danki, that sounds perfect! I’ll be back as soon as my parents give their permission.” She released the hug.
April patted Leah’s shoulder, laughing. “My, goodness. You’re certainly more enthusiastic than my sister has been.”
“April and May? What happened to June?” Leah asked.
“She lives in Baltic with her husband and five children. We have a brother named August too. We assume Mom spent too much time staring at the wall calendar while carrying us.”
Leah wrapped her arms around herself. She knew she was going to like this woman. “We don’t have a phone, so if it’s all right with you, I’ll just show up if they say I can.” She took a step backward, eager to be on her way home.
April offered her hand to shake. “Just showing up sounds fine with me, Leah. I still remember that slice of Dutch Apple-Walnut pie I tasted, and that must have been more than a year ago. I’m glad you were nosy enough to peek in my window. Today is my lucky day.”
Blushing, Leah shook the outstretched hand and murmured a quick goodbye. She ran to her buggy and almost broke the reins trying to get them off the post. She couldn’t wait to put the task of asking her parents behind her.
It was a good thing Jack knew all possible routes home because Leah’s mind was already swimming with favorite recipes, lists of ingredients, and how to approach her father with the opportunity of a lifetime.
Matthew Miller thought there was nothing quite like the first warm day in April, with sunshine so bright it hurt your eyes, a cool breeze tickling the back of your neck, and birds singing from the treetops to bring music to your ears. Clover in the pasture was coming up thick and green for his favorite friends. Black flies would soon hatch to annoy man and beast alike, but today there wasn’t a single thing to swat at. Matthew could certainly get used to days like these after the overcast skies of March. His teacher had once read a poem to the class about spring, but never being much of a bookworm he’d forgotten all but the pleasant memory. At nineteen, Matthew was living exactly the life he had planned.
His sixteen-year-old bruder, Henry, had finished school and possessed few aspirations other than farming. Henry loved to plow and disk even the hardest soil. He would plant seeds during downpours, round up cattle in a blizzard, and could pick sweet corn until his fingers seemed worn down to the knuckles. After chores he would curl up in the hammock with a glass of cider and a book about pirates or Civil War generals whenever Pa wasn’t looking. That boy loved to read.
Matthew’s vocation and great joy in life was four-legged and bushy-tailed, with long dark eyelashes and grass-stained teeth. From miniature ponies to Belgian draft horses, he loved anything equine. He’d once seen Clydesdales in a TV beer commercial at the home of their English neighbors. He had been so mesmerized that Mr. Lee copied the commercial into a black machine, and Matthew had watched it over and over that summer as he helped Mr. Lee paint his house.
Now he didn’t have to sneak around watching somebody’s TV to see all the different breeds. His job at Macintosh Farms gave him access to the Arabians, saddlebreds, and Tennessee walkers of rich Englischers. He worked with racing quarter horses; Kentucky-born thoroughbreds; and standardbreds, the harness-racing trotters. Amish folk often bought this breed for their buggies once their racetrack days were finished. Four years ago Mr. Macintosh had hired Matthew on the spot after a short demonstration of his handling and bareback riding. Mr. Mac said he had the “gift”—an ability to get inside a horse’s head and get it to do your bidding without breaking its spirit. Matthew didn’t know much about that. He just knew the day he was promoted from exercise boy to assistant trainer had been the happiest day of his life.
And it would likely remain his happiest day forever because he couldn’t seem to summon enough courage to take Martha Hostetler home from a Sunday singing. His big sister said if he weren’t careful he would end up an old man with females named Quicksilver, Quiche, and Juniper for his sole company. Emma was probably right, but what girl would want to court someone with freckles and spiky red hair?
At least he now did more important things at work than muck out stalls, clean water troughs, and measure grain into feed buckets. He trained horses on the lunge rope, exercised some around the track, and assisted with foalings. It was such joy to watch God’s hand at work. So wobbly and weak at birth, the colt would quickly gain a thousand pounds of strength and energy within the first two years. He used to fantasize about becoming a jockey and riding a thoroughbred in a real, all-out race. But because he weighed one hundred seventy pounds, some owners didn’t want him astride even for training.
“Hey, Matty!” A voice pierced his reverie. “Stop daydreaming and give me a hand.”
“I’ll finish filling the stanchions and be right there,” Matthew called to Jeff Andrews, the trainer he apprenticed under.
At least the guy no longer referred to him as “Amish Boy.” It had been a long road to earn his respect. Andrews had few friends at Macintosh Farms but many admirers. He knew his stuff. But when Matthew changed a few balky riding horses into mounts tame enough for kids, Andrews had dropped the moniker and started calling him Matty. Now if he would just stop knocking my hat off, Matthew thought as he worked.
Such behavior only happened when Mr. Mac wasn’t nearby. The stable owner respected Amish people and tolerated no foul language, beer drinking, or rowdy behavior anywhere on his property. Jeff Andrews was slowly coming around, so Matthew secured the gate behind him and hurried to catch up. The trainer had headed into the quarter horse barn, one of his special places.
“What should I do?” he asked when he reached Andrews’ side.
“The couple that owns the yearling in stall twelve is driving up from Columbus tomorrow to see how things are progressing.” Jeff spoke softly and not with his usual loud bluster. “Things are going right fine, but that colt might have pulled a muscle yesterday in the ring. Nothing to worry about, but I don’t want them getting upset.” He lifted the latch and they entered the stall. The yearling picked up his head to study them. “The guy’s wife is a bit high-strung. You know how women can get worked up over even a fly bite.”
Matthew nodded his head in agreement. “Jah, my sister Emma is like that. She wants to call the vet each time one of her sheep has a runny nose.”
Jeff met his eye. “And your family lets her? That can get mighty expensive.” He gently scratched the colt behind his ears to settle him down.
“Nah, my pa sends for Aunt Hannah, who comes over with a stack of sheep books. They’ll keep reading until they figure out what’s wrong and how to fi
x it. We almost never need to call Dr. Longo.”
Jeff nodded sagely. “Always best not to get too emotional. I like horses plenty, but this is business. I imagine it’s the same way with sheep and cows.” The colt licked the trainer’s hand. His pink tongue looked comically too large for his mouth. “Women become attached. They want to treat every critter like a new puppy.”
“That’s for sure.” Matthew said, but in reality, other than Emma with her sheep, he knew little about females with animals. His mamm and younger sister stayed as far away from them as possible. Leah’s eyes grew puffy and her nose plugged up if she even walked into the barn.
“Okay, now. You keep rubbing his ears to keep him quiet. I want to tape up these forelegs to make sure he ain’t limping when those Columbus people get here. That and a good night’s sleep will make him good as new.”
Matthew readily obliged. This quarter horse was one of his favorites. He’d just started learning about bloodlines, but this colt’s ancestry must be impressive judging by his characteristics. While he stroked the neck, the trainer wrapped the legs—not too tight to impede circulation, and not too loose to be easily shaken off.
“There, that oughta do it.” Jeff stood and brushed wood shavings off his palms. “Thanks for your help, boy.” He offered Matt a rare smile and slapped him on the shoulder. “Why don’t you go find Mr. Mac and tell him we’re ready for the owners’ visit?”
“Sure thing.” Matthew closed the stall door behind him and strode toward the front entrance of the long barn. He’d almost reached the doorway when he remembered the new leather gloves he’d set on the ledge. His daed always warned he would never save money if he didn’t stop losing things. Turning around, he walked back to the stall quietly, hoping Jeff wouldn’t witness his forgetfulness. No sense giving him something else to tease about now that we’re starting to get along.
As Matthew picked up his gloves, he spotted Andrews down on his knees beside the colt. He was murmuring gentle words to keep the horse calm. Why hadn’t Jeff finished his ministrations while he was there to help? With growing unease, Matthew watched the trainer pull a hypodermic needle from his pocket, remove the cap, and inject a syringe of fluid into the colt’s flank.
Andrews wasn’t supposed to administer medications. He wasn’t a vet or even a licensed technician. Rich folk tended to be nervous about their animals just like that Columbus wife. With an odd feeling, Matthew crept back from the stall until he could turn around and then he hurried from the barn. He went looking for Mr. Macintosh as his uneasy feeling swelled into something downright troubling.
Julia knew something was up the moment she spotted their buggy racing up the lane. Leah never drove fast; she didn’t trust horses enough to let them go faster than a trot. Drying her hands on a towel, Julia hurried onto the porch with a mother’s growing anxiety whenever something wasn’t normal with a kinner.
“Whoa!” Leah hollered. Driveway stones scattered in all directions.
Simon walked out of the barn, frowning at the gravel displaced into the lawn. “What’s the big hurry, daughter? You hear about Mason jars on sale over in Walnut Creek?” He grabbed hold of Jack’s bridle as Leah jumped down from the buggy.
“Better than that, daed!” she exclaimed. “Wait until you hear.”
Even from the porch Julia could see that Leah’s cheeks were flushed with excitement. This was the daughter who seldom worked herself up about anything, unlike Emma, who could be laughing one minute and sobbing the next.
“Henry!” Simon bellowed. “Come rub down this horse and then turn him out in the pasture. Your schwestern has news that apparently can’t wait till supper.”
Henry appeared with his usual calm demeanor, took the reins, and began releasing the horse from the traces. He offered his older sister only a casual glance.
Leah marched toward the house. “Mamm! I’m so glad you’re home. I have great news to tell.”
“Where else would I be?” Julia asked, lowering herself onto the porch swing. “It’s practically suppertime.” She patted the seat beside her.
“I’m too excited to sit,” Leah said, shaking her head. “Hurry, daed!”
Simon stared at her as he lumbered up the steps, breathing heavily. “Were you stung by a hornet? What’s the matter with you?”
“No hornet bites today. Remember that old train car on the railroad siding at the edge of town? Emma and I saw it years ago. This Mennonite lady—her name’s April—tried my apple pie once and said she’d never tasted better. She’s opening up a diner mainly for Plain folk, but her sister doesn’t have time to help and so she quit. April let me inside to take a look around. It’s beautiful.” Leah finally paused to take a breath as she paced from one end of the porch to the other.
Julia and Simon stared at their child in utter confusion. She was looking back at them as though all this should make perfect sense.
Leah slapped her forehead. “I left out the most important part—she offered me a job! She wants me to take her sister’s place.” It would be impossible for her to look happier.
Her parents remained silent.
“That is, if you say it’s all right,” she added quickly. “It would only be four days a week. Well, five, but only four days away from home.” Apprehension began to replace enthusiasm as her news failed to generate the anticipated reaction.
“Sit down, Leah,” Julia demanded. “Stop prancing around and tell us the whole story from the beginning.”
“Oh, boy, what are we in for now?” Simon muttered, lowering himself to the steps.
Leah complied, and after two deep breaths she gave her parents a full account of her trip to Mount Hope to deliver pies. When she had finished, covering every possible objection with a practical solution, Julia and Simon had no choice but to give her their blessing.
After all, how much trouble could a girl get into four mornings a week in a small town like Winesburg?
The new diner in town did not open in three days as the newspaper advertisement promised or in four or even five. But it wasn’t from lack of trying. April and her first employee had showed up the very next day bright eyed and eager, and later returned to their homes weary but undaunted. The two women scrubbed and unpacked and organized. They prepared endless lists and printed menus by hand on colorful poster board. And they shopped for meat at the local butcher’s, fresh produce at farmers’ markets, and paper products from the dollar store. Leah was amazed how much you had to buy just to prepare simple dishes for regular folk. When every square inch of storage space had been filled with staples, condiments, and canned goods, April ordered a storage barn to be delivered to the back lot. They hung fruits and vegetables from the ceiling in wicker baskets on spring-loaded pulleys. The cooking caboose was crowded but cheery due to a large skylight installed during the remodeling.
They filled new salt and pepper shakers, pump-type catsup bottles, and chrome napkin holders. They lined up varieties of bottled juice and soft drinks on the narrow shelf near the ceiling so they could merely point instead of reciting the list of options dozens of times per day. By the Sabbath, they were tired but ready. Leah was grateful it wasn’t a preaching Sunday, and her mamm let her sleep an extra hour before she needed to come down to fix breakfast.
Julia wasn’t quite as agreeable come Tuesday morning—Leah’s assigned baking day. Because April had forgotten to advance Leah a stipend for supplies, she was forced to raid the household pantry for sugar, flour, and eggs. But instead of depleting their stock of home-canned fruit, Leah took the buggy to Wilmot, where an Englischer sold produce from the back of his panel truck. She bought every quart of strawberries he had hauled up from Florida. They were firm and sweet, probably because the first fruit of the season always tasted the best. Ohio strawberries wouldn’t be ready for another four weeks.
When Leah arrived early Wednesday morning with several strawberry pies, muffins, and enough sliced and sugared berries to spoon over shortcake and French toast, April clapped her hands with d
elight.
“Goodness, Leah. We’ll have the first strawberry festival in Ohio and beat the rush. I’m going to cut a giant strawberry out of red poster board and attach it to our ‘Open for Business’ sign down by the road.” She flicked the switch and the giant word “Diner” sprang to life in glowing neon.
Leah grinned the entire time she cut the first pie into eight uniform servings and whipped up a batch of egg salad. Her spirits continued to soar despite the fact the breakfast hour came and went without a single customer.
April stayed busy too, labeling the contents of every package in the chest freezer while whistling an odd tune. “Don’t mind me. I always whistle whenever I get nervous. Can’t help myself.” She glanced at Leah. “What’ll we do if nobody shows up and all those pretty berries turn to mush?”
Leah pulled back the lace window curtain. “You can stop whistling. Our first customer just pulled in.”
The two restaurateurs fussed over the elderly English farmer, despite the fact he only ordered a cup of coffee and knocked dirt off his boots onto their new doormat. He had as much caked mud on his boots as was on his truck’s wheel flaps.
“What happened last week?” he barked after his first sip of coffee. “I know folk stopped by to git some lunch and it was locked up tighter than a drum.” His eyes were ringed with deep, permanent squint lines.
“I sort of bit off more than I could chew.” The dimple in April’s left cheek deepened.
The farmer laughed. “Done that myself a time or two. Maybe I’ll try a slice of that pie. Is it any good?”
Leah refilled his coffee cup. “I don’t know if it is or not. I haven’t sampled this batch yet,” she said shyly.
April nudged her over as she placed the pie in front of him. “It’s fabulous. She’s the one who baked it, but she’s too modest to say so.”
