Soon she was out the door and zipping along the vacant streets of Pinecraft, Winston sitting in the basket, his ears drifting back on the light air. He sneezed.
Lights glowed in a few homes as Betsy passed through the neighborhood. She could walk these streets blindfolded, and would probably know the streets she passed by name. Fry, Kaufman, Graber, Miller, all names of her people. The sweet taste of freedom here, she’d never felt anywhere else. Yet with the freedom came security. In spite of the city and all the distractions it offered, these snug streets made her feel protected and sheltered.
She didn’t wonder what would have become of her if she’d stayed in Ohio, yet breathed a silent prayer of thanks. On days like today, she could see the hand of God working in spite of her questioning. Yes, she had chosen to stay here, mostly because of Jacob. But many months ago, as she’d become convinced of the harsh truth Jacob would never love her, not as she deserved, he’d said, she realized she had to choose. Stay here, or return to Ohio?
Betsy took the curve around the corner of Graber and saw the kitchen lights on inside Pinecraft Pies and Pastry. Aenti Sarah was already there, mixing up fresh pie crust and lighting the ovens. She cut across the pair of parking places beside the bakery and glided to a stop outside its back door. Winston put his paws on the edge of the basket.
“Be careful, I don’t want you tumbling out.” She took him from the basket and set him down inside a little pen Thaddeus had somehow constructed out of wooden scraps and painted white. It resembled a short picket fence, enough to keep Winston inside and out of trouble.
“No dogs in the kitchen,” she warned Winston, before turning her back on him and entering the back door. She left the storm door open so the morning breeze could help cool the kitchen. And so Winston wouldn’t feel quite so left out.
“I’ve lit the stove already.” No “good morning” from Aenti Sarah, who already had four pie crusts rolled out, and now cut shortening into the flour mixture for more crust.
Betsy smiled at the phrase “lit the stove.” No wood or propane stoves here to cook on, mostly electric. The allowance was made for vacationers who probably either rejoiced at the convenience or lamented the quality of cooking with electricity. An electric stove in some ways didn’t bake the same as an open flame-heated stove. She’d learned to manage, like they all did, and the elders let small conveniences slide. There were far, far worse compromises people could make than using an electric stove.
She entered the sales floor and stepped around the display case. On went the coffee pot so the water in the brewing tank could heat. They’d already moved the microwave into the kitchen after the first morning, after Aenti Sarah pointed out customers might not like seeing the appliance prominently displayed in an Amish-owned and operated business.
Betsy didn’t argue. Some visitors might be easily offended. Maybe it was her youth, but she didn’t see what the problem was in using a tool to help her in her job. Still, she complied and now the microwave sat just inside the door to the kitchen on a work table, in easy reach to help customers wishing a warmed-up slice of pie.
“We should make homemade ice cream, too,” Aenti Sarah announced as she formed a section of pie dough into a rounded shape before rolling it out. “People like ice cream on their pie.”
“Or, we could buy some from Big Olaf’s. Just vanilla. They’re already doing the hard work for us.” Big Olaf’s ice cream shop lay but a block or so away, and Betsy couldn’t recall the last time she’d passed through its doors to enjoy a sundae made with her favorite flavor, maple walnut, drizzled with chocolate sauce, and topped with whipped cream and a cherry.
“Hmm, I suppose we could.”
Betsy had quickly learned that one of her own ideas had surpassed her aenti’s, when she replied, “I suppose,” to whatever Betsy had said. She smiled at the response.
“Good. I’ll pay them a visit and see if it’s possible. But only vanilla.”
Betsy checked the apple slices she’d prepared the evening before, still basking in their juices and coated with cinnamon and sugar. Along with the apple mix, she stirred the other flavors she’d prepared, blueberry, cherry, and blackberry.
The next two hours passed with much rolling, cutting, and shaping of crusts. Then came the doughnut mix and dough for fried pies. Betsy turned the sign to “open” promptly at seven a.m. and flipped the switch for the lights.
Henry had suggested some pot lights, or recessed lights, in the ceiling, along with small electric lamps hanging over each table along the wall. The effect gave a peaceful atmosphere instead of the harshness of fluorescent light. The kitchen, however, glowed with the help of bright-white fluorescent bulbs, all the better to work by.
Within five minutes, the brothers Peter, James, and John arrived for their “morning cuppa” and fresh doughnuts.
“This are gut, very gut, Elizabeth,” James said around a mouthful of glazed doughnut.
“Thank you, thank you very much.” Betsy gestured to the coffee pot. “Help yourselves to coffee refills.” She’d decided to keep the same policy as opening day: free coffee for all. However, she put a glass jar beside the pot for donations. Any donations, she’d give to the Haiti relief fund. The idea warmed her heart to help collect for a good cause. It was worth forgoing whatever funds a ninety-nine-cent cup of coffee might earn her.
After one week of trying the idea, the money in the donation jar amounted to nearly fifty dollars, and no one complained when they saw the jar. Or, if they couldn’t pay, it was all right, too.
An unfamiliar man entered the shop and stepped up to the counter. He yawned, the expression almost comical as his face stretched. He removed his straw hat and rubbed his forehead, then stroked his beard.
“New shop, I hear.”
“Yes, Mr… .?”
“Troyer. Daniel Troyer.” He scanned the menu, then glanced her way. “I’ll have a slice of apple pie, please.”
“Certainly. The coffee’s free, so help yourself.”
He nodded, then headed over to the pot. He inhaled the brew as it streamed into his cup. “Smells good. I always welcome a strong cup of coffee. After all, it’s the best part of waking up.”
Daniel Troyer returned to the counter. “How much do I owe you?”
“Three-seventy-five.”
He pulled out his wallet and gave her a five-dollar bill. “There you are. You can keep the change.”
“Why … why thank you. If you’d like, you can go ahead and put it in the donation jar by the coffee pot.”
“I’ll do that.”
“Would you like your pie warmed up?”
“Yes, it would be nice.”
She slipped into the kitchen, grateful for the Dutch door she’d had Henry install. A few seconds in the microwave, the pie warmed up, then she pulled out the plate of pie. The bell over the door made its bright jingle. Another customer. This made her smile as she pushed through the door.
Gideon Stoltzfus. She kept her smile in place and nodded to him. He grinned and helped himself to a cup of coffee.
“Here you are, Mr. Troyer.”
Gideon swung around. “Ah, my new next-door neighbor. I didn’t get to greet you when I saw you arrive last evening.”
Daniel Troyer nodded. “It’s all right.”
“How long you here for?”
“The winter. I find the weather is much better here. Truth be told, I resisted coming to Pinecraft. But here I am. I fell ill and couldn’t work for a time. I’m getting to the age now where I’m not quite as fond of the Indiana winters.”
“Ah, so you’re from Indiana.”
The two men kept chatting, Gideon and Daniel comparing places they knew, and finding mutual friends and a possible distant cousin relating them both. Such was the case in Pinecraft. If you spent a little time with a presumed stranger, you might find a connection you never imagined.
Good. Betsy smiled as she placed the serving pie back into the case. Daniel Troyer kept Gideon from peppering her with
questions and bestowing too much attention on her. Part of her wished, though, that Thaddeus would pay her a little mind. Part of her, too, wished to learn more about Thaddeus and his journey outside the Ordnung. She banished those thoughts from her head and instead planned some possible adjustments to her pie and pastry menu.
A crash and shriek from the kitchen made them all look toward the kitchen door.
Aenti Sarah! Betsy pushed through the Dutch door with such force it smashed open against the stainless steel worktable.
*
Thaddeus whistled a long-forgotten tune as he strolled the street from Yoder’s fresh market. He held a bag of vegetables for Mammi—fresh beans, some snap peas, and sweet corn. On her last trip to the store, she’d forgotten them, and she planned to bring marinated vegetables as a side dish to the potluck and singing tonight at Birky Square.
She’d invited him to come with her, and, of course, he’d turned her down. Although she’d extended an invitation to similar activities, this was the first time a disappointed expression had crossed her face. He tried not to let it niggle at him. Maybe him fetching the vegetables for her would ease some of her disappointment.
He approached Pinecraft Pies and Pastry and saw a small group clustered in front of the building. An ambulance, lights flashing and engine running, blocked part of his view. What on earth? Had something happened to Betsy? Or her aenti?
Thad stepped to the rear side of the ambulance just in time to see the small group part. Aenti Sarah, her face ashen and wearing an oxygen mask, was the one strapped to a gurney and covered with a blanket.
Betsy followed the EMTs, her own face pale. “I can’t ride with her?”
“No, but you can meet us at the ER,” said one EMT, a bulky fellow who looked like he could carry Aenti Sarah under one arm without much difficulty, if he had to.
Rochelle Keim’s van rolled up a safe distance from the ambulance. She shot out from behind the driver’s seat. “What happened?” She glanced Thatddeus’s way as she reached the others.
Betsy met her aenti at the edge of the grass. “She fell, somehow, in the kitchen. And she couldn’t get up. I didn’t know what to do, so I called the ambulance. She got a little angry at me, said I was making a fuss over nothing.”
“Ach, you did the right thing.” Rochelle hugged her great-niece. “I’ll drive you to the hospital.”
“I’ll close the shop. It’ll only take a moment.”
“Betsy,” Thad spoke up. “I can take care of the shop for you. Show me what you have, and I’ll run it until closing, or until you get back, whichever comes first.”
“I can help, too,” said another voice beside him. A woman, not quite Plain yet not quite Englisch, stood by his right elbow. She wore a kerchief on her head, not a bandana, and looked almost old enough to be a mammi herself. A Nikon digital camera hung from a strap around her neck.
“Thank you, thank you both.” Betsy glanced from Thad to the other woman, then turned her focus to the ambulance.
The EMT worker slid the gurney into the back of the ambulance, and two EMTs climbed inside to join Sarah. The driver trotted around toward the front of the vehicle, and it pulled away from the edge of the street, lights flashing. The siren’s wail began as they reached the edge of the block and bustling Bahia Vista.
The crowd dispersed, some of the people offering Betsy words of comfort and promises of prayer. She nodded, then entered the bakery, with Thad and the photographer behind her. Betsy continued into the kitchen where she faced them both.
“Thaddeus, have you met Imogene Brubaker yet? She’s a fixture here in Pinecraft.”
“No, I haven’t.” Thaddeus set the bag of vegetables on the stainless steel work table in the center of the kitchen. Its surface was crowded with pie pans filled with crusts, the crusts’ edges neatly crimped.
“Imogene Brubaker, part of the woodwork,” the woman said, offering her hand, which Thaddeus shook. She shook his hand like working a water pump. “Nice to meet you, Thaddeus …”
“Zook. Thaddeus Zook.”
“Ah, of the Zooks. Where are you from?”
“My family’s not too far from Millersburg.”
“Here for the winter, then?”
“Here for now, anyway.”
They stopped the small talk and pleasantries so Betsy could prepare to leave for the hospital.
“Well, Thaddeus, you know the menu,” Betsy said. “I do have a few pies, ready to bake in case you need one. I have some doughnut mix prepared too. Those are in the freezer. If you need to cook a few more doughnuts, or fried pies, the cooking oil is in the cast-iron Dutch oven on the stove.” Her words had the tempo of a woodpecker’s peck.
“Betsy, Aenti Sarah is going to be all right.” Rochelle held the Dutch door open to the kitchen. “Thaddeus and Imogene will keep things in hand here for you as well. Come, let’s see to Aenti.”
Betsy stopped in front of Thaddeus before leaving the kitchen. “Thank you. I know you’ll take good care of things here.”
“You know I will.” He reached out and squeezed her hand. “Let us know how she is.”
At his touch, she colored, but didn’t pull away. “Thank you. I will.”
He released her hand, and then she and Rochelle left. As they passed through the front of the bakery, a few customers who had entered gave their messages of encouragement to both of them.
Thad glanced at Imogene. “Time to get busy.”
“Hold on just a second. We ought to talk for a minute.” She stepped into the front of the bakery, and her voice rang out clear enough for Thad to hear through the Dutch door. “Hi, everyone. Thaddeus Zook and I’ll be keeping an eye on the shop for Elizabeth. If anyone wants coffee, get some coffee and we’ll be right out in a moment if you want pie or anything.”
Imogene came back into the kitchen. “So, like I said, we should talk.” She took the camera from around her neck and set it on top of the microwave oven.
Thad squared his shoulders. “Okay.”
“What’s with you and Betsy? I know you’re a Zook, and you’re obviously not part of your Ordnung. She is.” Imogene crossed her arms over her chest.
“Are you part of your Ordnung?”
“No. But I’m not taking someone by the hand and looking at them with a certain look in my eye.” The lady didn’t seem angry. More protective, if anything. “I’ve seen young women led away from their Order with visions of romance with a handsome Englisch stranger dancing in their heads, and the idea all the things forbidden to them are now within reach.”
“I’m not Englisch.”
“But you are handsome. And you’ve had years of unbridled freedom, I’m sure.”
Thad almost chuckled. Unbridled freedom? “Miss Brubaker, I care about Betsy. I’m not going to hurt her. It would be the last thing I’d want to do. I’m fully confident she’ll soon meet a suitable man from her district who’s devout, plain as pepper flakes, and they’ll marry and she’ll go on to have a wonderful family.”
“Well,” she said, her demeanor softening, shoulders lowering. “Okay. You keep it in mind.”
“Oh, I do. Probably more than most people know.”
“All right, then, Mr. Zook. You’re the pastry chef. Show me what to do. I’ve been meaning to stop by here for some pictures, but I wasn’t planning on running the place. But I don’t mind at all.”
“How about you take orders and run the register, and I’ll be your gofer.” He liked this lady and her feistiness.
“As long as you’re not a weasel, it’s fine by me.” Imogene grinned. “Get it? Gofer? Weasel?”
“I got it.” He laughed.
The morning clicked by with a steady stream of customers, some of them wanting to know what had happened to Sarah, and when Betsy would return. Most had a cup of coffee or tea, and some selected a slice of pie or doughnut.
Thad kept to the kitchen as much as possible, not wanting to create more curiosity than already existed about who was running Pinecraft Pies an
d Pastry while Betsy and Sarah were absent. His hands knew exactly what to do in the kitchen, popping pies into the oven, frying fresh doughnuts. Betsy and her aenti had done the hard work. Even with what little he did, being back in a kitchen again felt great. He fulfilled his real purpose, not fumbling with tiles and carpentry work.
A lull in traffic left the bakery empty, with Imogene humming behind the counter. Thad joined her at the counter but didn’t hum. Instead, he wiped his hands on a black canvas apron he’d found hanging on a peg by the back door.
“Well, I say we did a good job.” Imogene, her camera back in her hands, surveyed the supply of pies and pastries in the case. Then she glanced at the wall clock. “No wonder the place is empty now. The Pioneer Trails bus is arriving soon. I bet it’s pretty full.”
“Why?”
She half-squatted, then zoomed in on a trio of pies in the case. “There. I need to write about Betsy’s pies on my blog … Thanksgiving’s coming.”
Ah, right. Next week. He hadn’t thought much about the date. Back in Columbus, he’d only thought if it in terms of pastries and desserts at Dish and Spoon, and if he would have the next day off to sleep.
“I wonder if we’ll get any more customers once the bus arrives.” Which included his family, although Mammi said they wouldn’t arrive until the first part of December.
“We’ll wait and see. We can always close shop and then reopen after dinner. Last time I talked to Betsy, she said afternoons were the slowest. And you have some vegetables in the bag on the counter.”
He touched his forehead. “Ah, Mammi’s probably wondering what happened.” As if she’d heard his thoughts, Thad looked through the front window of the bakery to see his mammi bicycling up the sidewalk.
Thad went out the front door. “Mammi, I’m sorry. I saw Betsy’s aenti being taken to the hospital, and then I offered to help at the bakery.”
She nodded as she parked her three-wheeler, then latched it to the bicycle rack with her padlock. “I know. I figured as much. I was out weeding a moment ago when someone stopped by and told me. I decided not to go to quilting anyway. But I thought I would come pick up the vegetables so I can get them marinated for tonight.”
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