by Naomi King
Wyman pressed the number pads on the phone, hoping he and Reece could settle this matter immediately rather than playing telephone tag. After assuring Amanda that he could support her, her mother-in-law, Jemima, and their blended family of eight kids, he did not want any more details about money left on the phone, where she might hear them and start to worry. Finally, on the fourth ring, someone picked up.
“Jah, Weaver Construction Company,” a woman answered.
“Wyman Brubaker here, and I need to speak with Reece about—”
“He’s out on a job. I’ll take your message.”
Wyman frowned. More than likely this was Reece’s wife, because the company had been a small family-owned business since Reece’s dat had started it more than thirty years ago. “He just called me not five minutes ago, asking me to call right back,” Wyman replied. “I’d rather not discuss the details of my elevator with—”
“Oh. You’re that Wyman Brubaker,” the woman interrupted. “I’ll page him, and he’ll call you back as soon as he can.” Click.
And what did she mean by snipping and snapping at him that way, as though he were an inconvenience rather than a customer? Wyman’s stomach tightened around his breakfast as he hung up. There was nothing to do but wait for Reece to call back, even as every passing moment allowed him to think of things that didn’t set right about this situation—
The phone rang and he grabbed it. “Jah? This is Wyman.”
“Reece Weaver. So you see where I’m coming from, far as your job costing more?” he demanded. “How about if I stop by, say, around noon? Another hundred thousand should cover the blasting and the—”
“A hundred thousand dollars?” Wyman closed his eyes and curled in around the phone, hoping his voice hadn’t carried outside the barn. It took him a moment to corral his stampeding thoughts. “I don’t understand why you didn’t know—before you started digging—about that bedrock, and why you didn’t call me—before you started digging—about maybe changing the location of the elevator,” he said in a low voice. “That’s a huge difference from the price you quoted in your estimate.”
“Jah, well, the excavation crew I use is only available this week, before they go to jobs with other contractors,” Reece replied hastily. “Can’t get them again until the middle of January, see, so I didn’t think you’d want to wait that long.”
The middle of January? Nobody poured concrete then, so his facility would be delayed by months if he waited that long. Wyman drew in a deep breath, trying to compose himself. “It seems to me that bedrock would be the ideal foundation for an elevator anyway,” he said. “It’s not like I need a basement—or even a crawl space—under the silos or the office building.”
“Yeah, but see, the new EPA regulations are making us do a lotta things different these days,” the contractor replied. “Nothing’s as easy as it was when Pop put up your elevator in Clearwater. That was about twenty years ago, after all.”
Wyman blinked. Norbert Weaver’s friendly, reliable service had been the main reason he and his partner, Ray Fisher, had wanted Weaver Construction to build their new facility, but it seemed that some of the family’s values had died with the company’s founder. Wyman heard the hum of equipment in the background. Could it be that Reece was pushing for more money because he had several big projects going on at once? The founder’s son had acted quite accommodating and professional last week when they’d discussed the plans for this new elevator . . . and Wyman realized that because he, too, was feeling pressured, he wasn’t handling these details well over the phone.
“Tell you what, Reece,” he said, trying to sound reasonable and relaxed. “I need to discuss this situation with my partner before we proceed. How about if I meet you at the elevator site tomorrow morning?”
“I’ll be outta state on another big job. Won’t be back around Bloomingdale until Friday.”
Wyman caught himself scowling yet again. But he would not be pushed into paying out more money until he’d talked with Ray about this new development. “What time on Friday, then?”
“You really want to wait? My excavation crew’ll most likely be gone by then, or they’ll charge me double time for squeezing your job in over the weekend,” the contractor replied. “You know what they say. Time is money.”
No, time is time, and this is my money we’re talking about. Wyman let out the breath he’d been holding. “Three o’clock this afternoon, then. But don’t come to the house,” he insisted. “Meet me at the elevator site so we can talk about our options.”
“See you then. With at least half of that hundred thousand bucks.” Click.
Wyman sank onto the wooden bench near the phone. How had this opportunity for his future changed so radically? Just a few weeks ago the details of his move to Bloomingdale had effortlessly come together because, he believed, God was directing him to start a new life with his new blended family on Amanda’s farm. He’d sold the Brubaker home place to the Fisher family for less than market value because he and Ray had been best friends since childhood, and so that Ray’s son could move there to expand his dairy operation when he got married.
The transaction with the Fisher family had been seamless, on a handshake. Wyman had felt confident that he could afford a new facility—in addition to the elevator he and Ray had run since they’d been young and single—or he wouldn’t have dreamed of stretching his family’s finances so thin. They had agreed that Weaver Construction would do the work, because they wanted to support other Plain businesses in the area.
Had they made a mistake? Maybe they should’ve gotten a bid from another construction company . . . but it was too late for that now. They had already put down more than half the money up front.
Wyman punched in Ray’s phone number, hoping his levelheaded Mennonite partner would offer him some advice. Because Ray had already borrowed a large amount to buy the Brubaker place, Wyman had insisted on financing the new elevator with the money from that sale and the Clearwater business account, without expecting Ray to kick in any more. Out of sheer Amish tradition and principle, Wyman refused to get a loan from an English bank to make this deal work—or to feed his family. Generations of Brubaker men had remained staunchly self-sufficient, supporting one another rather than going to outside sources for funding.
The phone clicked in his ear. “Hullo?”
“Jah, Ray. How was your weekend?” Wyman relaxed, knowing he could trust his partner’s feedback, his sense of perspective. “I suppose you and Sally and the boys are gearing up for Trevor’s wedding . . .”
* * *
On the other side of the barn wall, Amanda listened as her husband chatted with his partner. She and the twins had been gathering eggs in the adjoining henhouse, and when she’d heard Wyman holler, “A hundred thousand dollars?” she’d sent the girls outside to scatter feed. It wasn’t Wyman’s way to raise his voice. His calm demeanor and sensible approach to problems were two of the traits that had attracted her when they’d courted.
“Got a call from Reece Weaver this morning, and I don’t know what to make of it,” Wyman was saying into the phone. “He’s telling me he needs another hundred thousand dollars—half of it today—because he ran into bedrock and some other unexpected issues . . . Jah, this is on top of the seven hundred thousand on his bid.”
Amanda sucked in her breath at such a large amount of money. Wyman was a careful planner, a solid businessman, and his rising voice said it all: he was upset about this new development—and very concerned about where so much additional money would come from.
“When we were going over the items on his bid, didn’t you think Reece had covered all the angles?” Wyman asked. “I can’t have him coming by the house or leaving any more phone messages about needing money, so I’m meeting him at the elevator site this afternoon . . .”
Ah. So Wyman was protecting her from this situation, was he? Amanda understood t
hat because, like any Amish husband, he believed it was his responsibility to support their family. But she knew firsthand about making their pennies stretch far enough . . . about the fear that she might not be able to pay the propane bill or buy shoes for her three young daughters. For four years after her first husband had died, she’d been their sole support by making pottery to sell in area gift shops.
Wyman sold his home place, left everything he’d loved all his life, so you could be happy here in Bloomingdale, Amanda reminded herself. You can’t let him face this crisis alone . . . even if he won’t tell you about it. He may be the head of this family, but you are in charge of keeping everyone fed and together, body and soul. Better get back to work at your wheel!
Amanda stepped away from the wall as the twins bustled into the henhouse with the empty feed bucket. In the cold air, the wisps of their breath framed their precious faces. “Let’s take the eggs to the house, girls. Maybe Vera or Mammi will help you bake your cookies,” she said gently as she stroked their pink cheeks. “Your mamma’s going to start making her dishes again.”
Chapter Two
Always a bridesmaid, never a bride.
It was barely five o’clock in the morning, not nearly daylight yet. As Emma Graber peered at the white-draped tables in the greenhouse, where the wedding feast for her brother James and Abby Lambright would take place later today, the familiar saying made her sigh. This traditional Thursday ceremony in mid-November marked the fourth wedding Cedar Creek had celebrated this fall, and now that her brother was finally marrying her best friend, Emma felt her inner clock ticking.
Life was passing her by. She’d always pictured herself wed to Abby’s nephew, Matt Lambright, but he’d married Rosemary Yutzy in September, leaving Emma to lament all those years she’d spent pining for an unrequited love and caring for her aging parents. Was she now doomed to remain a maidel? She’d been paired with Jerome Lambright as a sidesitter at Amanda and Wyman Brubaker’s wedding, and she’d spent most of that day—and a few occasions since then—avoiding his flirtatious looks and remarks. He’d be around all day today, too, and Emma was feeling edgy about his presence. Jerome seemed awfully flashy, showing off with his mule teams . . . acting way too full of himself. But was she a fool to shy away from his attention?
Emma told herself such concerns had not kept her awake half the night—that she’d been dressed for the wedding at four this morning because the local women had agreed they’d prepare the food early, to discourage Abby from helping at her own wedding. Indeed, the back door of the glass-walled greenhouse swung open, and the bride stepped inside as though she intended to work while no one could catch her at it.
“Gut morning, Abby! All ready for your big day?” Emma called out.
Abby’s startled laughter rang in the large high-ceilinged room. “Jah, and I don’t know what to do with myself, Emma!” she admitted as she strode between the tables. “Mamm and Barbara and the rest of them keep insisting I’m not to cook or cut pies or—”
Emma caught her best friend in a hug, reveling in the way Abby returned her embrace. “See there? It’s not as easy as you think, accepting help from other folks,” she teased. “Consider this whole day—all the food and the work your friends want to do—as their gift to you, Abby. I expect to see you smiling alongside James, enjoying yourself until the last guests go home tonight.”
“I’ve heard that a time or two.” Abby glanced across the road toward the Graber house, which was as lit up as the Lambright place. “And how’re your folks doing this morning, Emma?”
“Dat’s spinning like a top and Mamm’s fussing over every little thing. What with having our two sisters’ families staying over last night, I’ve been reminded how large gatherings are getting harder for Mamm to handle.” She let out a sigh.
“Jah, we’ve got a houseful, too,” Abby murmured. “But I’m so glad both of your folks are alive to celebrate this day with us. Mamm’s not saying as much, but I suspect she’s wishing Dat were here to—”
Hoofbeats and the rumble of wheels made them turn to watch a wagon and two other horse-drawn rigs pull into Lambright Lane. Their lanterns and headlights glowed in the indigo sky as the horses’ breath rose from their nostrils. “This’ll be Beulah Mae bringing the steam tables, no doubt,” Emma said as she rebuttoned her coat. “Makes it mighty handy, having her restaurant and Lois’s bakery in town to do most of the cooking for these big events.”
“Jah, that’s Preacher Abe climbing down from the first wagon,” Abby confirmed. “I’ll get Sam so the menfolk can assemble our serving line.”
Emma went outside with her, waving as the Nissleys, Lois Yutzy’s family, and Amanda Brubaker and her girls emerged from the various vehicles. Even though these ladies had prepared most of the food ahead of time, they still had a lot to do before they’d be ready to serve nearly three hundred people. Guests would start arriving around sunup for the eight o’clock church service that preceded the wedding. As one of Abby’s sidesitters, Emma was hoping to help with some of the work before she spent the entire morning seated beside the bride.
The next couple of hours sped by. The ladies from around the neighborhood had cooked for so many weddings that the flurry was well organized. Lois Yutzy carried in the white tiered wedding cake she’d made in her bakery, where several women had also helped her bake the bread for today’s feast. While Lois arranged the cake on the eck, the raised corner table where the wedding party would sit, Beulah Mae Nissley was supervising her husband, Preacher Abe, and Abby’s brother, Preacher Sam Lambright, as they constructed the metal steam table. Amanda Brubaker’s two older daughters were setting silverware bundles and glasses on the dinner tables, while other women began slicing loaves of fresh bread.
Emma looked up from the silverware she’d been wrapping in paper napkins and hurried over to open the greenhouse door. “That’s quite a load of pies!” she said as Rosemary, her neighbor, pulled her tall-sided cart inside. After marrying Matt Lambright a couple of months ago, Rosemary was already off to a busy start with her home-based baking business.
“Jah, my new oven can handle a dozen pies at a time,” Rosemary replied pertly. She smiled as her toddler, Katie, and her young sister-in-law, Beth Ann, burst in to help set the table. “It seems that no matter how many pies I make for Lois’s shop, they sell out every day. And, of course, Matt, Katie, and Titus work hard at being my taste testers.”
When Rosemary wheeled her cart toward the dessert table, Emma felt a stab of jealousy. After having learned the hard way that Matt didn’t love her, Emma was wishing he hadn’t moved his sheep to the farm next to her house when he’d partnered with Titus Yutzy. All of them seemed so happy—and that rubbed her the wrong way, too.
Get over it, Emma chided herself. It did no good to regret the years of affection she’d wasted on Matt. When she realized it was after seven o’clock, she decided to go home to be sure Mamm and Dat were dressed and almost ready to head over to the Lambrights’. What with her two sisters’ families staying with them, her parents were easily distracted.
When Emma stepped outside, however, she spotted James walking between their parents. He called to her with a knowing grin, “The folks were ready early, so they wanted to come on over—to greet folks as they arrive, you know. Our sisters and their tribes will be along shortly.”
There was no missing the bright excitement on Mamm’s and Dat’s faces. They’d been waiting for years to see their only son married, and they couldn’t be happier that he was so in love with Abby Lambright. “Jah, better claim your seats early,” Emma teased as she met up with them. “It might well be standing room only at Sam’s place today.”
“It’s the wedding everybody hereabouts has been waiting for,” her dat exclaimed as he clapped James on the back. His dark eyes sparkled in his wrinkled face. “And we’ll be planning for your wedding next, Emma. Ain’t so?”
“Just saw the Brubaker fellows c
oming up the road, matter of fact,” her mother chimed in. “And sure enough, Jerome’s driving a matched pair of Percheron mules. Looks like a successful man come courting, if you ask me.”
Well, I didn’t ask you! Emma almost blurted. It was bad enough that Abby and James had paired her with Jerome Lambright to serve as their sidesitters today—another obvious matchmaking ploy. There was no time to respond to her parents’ remarks, however. She guided them off the lane and onto the frosty grass to make way for some other families’ incoming rigs.
Then two tall black mules trotted up alongside them, and the windows of the large enclosed buggy came down. “Gut morning, you Grabers!” Jerome called out, as Wyman Brubaker and his three sons, seated beside and behind Jerome, joined in with their own greetings. “It’ll be a little chummy, but we’ve got room to take you folks on up to the house if you’d like a ride.”
“Jah, this is the man rig!” five-year-old Simon crowed. “But we’d let you ride, Emma!”
“And you, too, Eunice,” Jerome added quickly. He smiled at Emma’s mother, and then his eyebrows rose playfully as his gaze lingered on Emma.
Could these people be any more blatant about coaxing her into Jerome’s company? For the past month, Jerome had been showing off his mules and making eyes at her, and meanwhile befriending her gullible parents. After all of her refusals of his attention, why didn’t they realize that Jerome just wasn’t her type? Emma kept hold of her mother’s elbow and worded her response as politely as she could. “I’ve got pies to cut,” she insisted.
