She supposed she’d have to find a way to mow it.
Who was she kidding? A mower wouldn’t cut through this grass. She’d have to find a machete.
After she’d securely fastened the gate behind her, she unclipped Max, then trudged through the tall grass to what must have once been a sitting area. Sighing in relief, she sank into the Adirondack chair under the tall shade tree.
Maybe if she sat there long enough she’d think of some answers. It had been nearly a week, and still she had no idea what she needed to do next. Truth was, she couldn’t make a real guess as to what day it was without booting up her computer or turning on her phone.
Which was when she remembered she’d lost her phone. Maybe she should have ordered a new one when she’d realized it was missing, but it had seemed so pointless. No one would be calling her anyway. What friends she’d had in Houston had slowly distanced themselves since Rick’s death three years ago. That wasn’t really fair. Perhaps she’d been the one to choose distance. Immersing herself in her work had been easier than pretending to be comfortable among her friends, people she suddenly found she had nothing in common with. Now she didn’t even have her work. The final argument with her boss had been her last one. No, she wouldn’t be needing a phone anytime soon—which was good, because her aunt’s service had apparently been disconnected some time ago. She was lucky the electricity had been automatically paid each month from her checking account.
From the looks of things, Max was nearly done with his business though.
They could go back upstairs.
Take a nap.
No doubt life would make more sense to her later in the afternoon, after a few more hours sleep.
The Labrador made a final lap around the yard, then skidded to a stop at her feet, head tipped to the side, ears alert, eyes expecting answers—or at least breakfast.
“Let’s find you some food.” Callie leaned forward, clipped the leash back on his collar, and was headed out of the gate when she remembered that she had no dog food. She’d used the last of it the evening before.
A sinking feeling came over her as she realized the full measure of her predicament.
She couldn’t actually let Max starve. She’d have to shower, dress, and then venture out on foot to the grocery store. She had seen a grocery store when the cab had dropped her off last week. Hadn’t she? Was it close enough to walk to?
Then Callie remembered seeing a chicken dinner in the freezer. Dogs could eat chicken. Maybe she’d warm up the dinner and go to the store later.
Relieved to have found a way out of going out into public, she started toward the opened door, then paused to push the pile of newspapers out of the way.
She heard the clip-clop of horse hooves and the unmistakable clatter of buggy wheels, which was not an unusual sound in a town that was largely Amish.
What was unusual though was that the buggy was turning into her parking area, and the woman driving—unless she was greatly mistaken—was waving as if they knew one another.
Callie was sure of so little these days, but she was absolutely sure she did not know anyone in this town.
Chapter 2
CALLIE WATCHED as a young Amish woman stepped out of the buggy. She tethered her horse to one of the antique hitching posts installed in front of each parking space, then turned back toward her buggy and stuck her head inside, pulling out a stack of quilts—piled nearly to her chin.
“Gudemariye,” the young woman called, closing the space between them.
Callie’s heart sank.
Despite the quilts, despite the fact that she was staying above her aunt’s store which was in fact named Daisy’s Quilt Shop, she’d held on to an irrational hope that the woman might be visiting the furniture shop next door.
No such luck.
Cinching the belt of her robe more tightly, Callie moved closer to the Labrador. “Stay, boy.”
“Oh, you don’t need to worry about Max. He and I are old friends.”
Max thumped his tail, but didn’t move. He did gaze up at Callie as if he were waiting for something.
“He wants your permission. Max never greeted a customer unless he had Daisy’s consent.”
Callie had been looking down at the dog, but at the sound of her aunt’s name, her head snapped up and blood rushed to her cheeks.
Who was this person? She knew Max. She knew Aunt Daisy, and she was apparently well acquainted with the store.
Callie shaded her eyes against the sun and stared at the woman in front of her.
Slightly older than she first thought—mid- to late-twenties. Amish, of course, given the long, gray dress, white apron, and matching hat with strings. What did they call it? Callie searched her memory for the word … a cap, no a prayer kapp. Blondish-brown hair was pulled neatly back into a bun, though a few strands had escaped.
Amber-colored eyes studied Callie calmly. The young woman wore no makeup, but she didn’t need any either—her complexion was beautiful. The general impression looking at her was one of health and quiet energy.
Callie couldn’t stop her hand from patting down her own hair. She’d not bothered to run a comb through it, which was a tad embarrassing. Now she found herself wishing she’d at least brushed her teeth and splashed some water on her face.
“I’ve caught you at a bad time,” the woman said. “I’m sorry. I heard you were here, living upstairs, and I thought I’d bring these by.”
“They look heavy; let me help you.” Callie took the top half of the stack, smelled the clean cotton cloth, and wanted to lie down on top of them right there in the parking lot. “They’re beautiful.”
“Danki.”
Callie had been studying the quilts, but she pulled her gaze away and toward the woman at the sound of the unfamiliar word. “I don’t understand.”
“I’m sorry. You haven’t been here long enough to understand German Dutch. Danki means thank you.”
“I guessed as much. What I don’t understand is why you’re here, with these quilts.”
“I’m bringing them to you.”
Callie took a step backward, bumped into Max and nearly tripped.
The woman moved forward as if to help, but Callie shook her head. “I’m fine.”
“I haven’t even introduced myself. I’m Deborah Yoder—”
It was habit for Callie to shake hands. “Callie Harper. Listen, Miss—”
“Yoder.”
“Miss Yoder.” Callie pulled in a deep breath, tried to think clearly, but she hadn’t had coffee in, well in days and a headache throbbed in her temples.
“Call me Deborah, please. We’re not very formal in Shipshewana. The thing is I had an agreement with Daisy to sell quilts I made. I don’t make them alone of course—two friends and I make them.”
Callie shifted from one slipper-clad foot to the other. “Deborah, I don’t know what arrangement you had with my aunt, but Daisy’s Quilt Shop is closed.”
They both turned to stare at the little shop. Unread newspapers lined the walk. Weeds fought with flowers for space in the beds, and the weeds were definitely winning. Mud from recent rains splattered the front windows, and yellowed MAY SALE flyers remained in the display case outside the door.
Daisy’s Quilt Shop was definitely not open for business.
“This all must be very difficult for you,” Deborah said softly.
Tears stung Callie’s eyes. She blinked rapidly, shifted the quilts so she could maintain a better grip on Max’s leash, though he had decided to lie down at her feet, in the shade of the raspberry-colored awnings and study the two women.
Callie glanced again at the stack of quilts in her arms and noticed a diamond-in-a-square pattern, solid dark blue surrounded by purple and bordered in black. It reminded her so much of a quilt which once covered her mother’s bed. A deep ache started from somewhere in the middle of her chest, and she thought she might drop to the pavement right beside Max.
“Are you all right?” Deborah moved forward
, juggled the quilts, reached out, and touched her arm.
“I’m, I’m fine. I was wondering, what do you call this, this pattern?”
Deborah smiled, readjusting the quilts in her arms. “It’s called a medallion quilt. I’ll tell you about it, but let’s go inside first. I think you could maybe use a cup of tea or some kaffi. You looked a bit pale there for a minute.”
Callie hesitated, then realized she was standing outside in her robe, and Main Street traffic was beginning to pick up.
“All right. I suppose we could go inside long enough to straighten this out.”
Walking in through the back door, she looked longingly at the stairs that led up to the apartment, but instead she continued down the hallway and led Deborah through the side door that opened into the shop.
Fifteen minutes and one cup of tea. Let the woman have her say, then she’d send her back outside to her buggy, and she’d send all the quilts with her.
Deborah walked to an empty counter where they could set the quilts. Her heart sank as she gazed around at Daisy’s shop.
A fine layer of dust covered every shelf, countertop, and even the quilts she had left to be sold two months ago. The plants which Daisy had so lovingly tended now lay brown and wilted in the front window. Even from across the room, she could see that a few cobwebs had settled on the displays of cloth.
Less than a month had passed since Daisy Powell had died; yet her shop showed the neglect of each and every day. It occurred to Deborah then that a shop was like a living thing. It required constant care and maintenance.
From the way Callie was looking about in confusion, it seemed as if she hadn’t even stepped into the shop before this moment. She had been here for a week and done nothing? And why had it taken so long for anyone to show up in the first place?
Who was Callie Harper? She claimed to be Daisy’s niece, but she was nothing like the woman. Perhaps there was a slight physical resemblance—the pert nose and the dark chocolate-colored eyes.
But any comparison ended there.
Daisy’s dark eyes had been warm, calm, and of a normal size.
Callie’s were large like a doe’s, and looked somewhat frightened. In fact, her eyes were her most striking feature, seeming to take up most of her face. Dark hair barely reached the collar of her robe, spiking in several different directions around her head. Shorter than Deborah—barely five foot, three inches if she were to guess—and thinner. Like many of the English women Deborah knew, Callie was probably afraid to eat.
Deborah could say with certainty that Callie Harper was unlike any Englisher she had ever met.
Was she still grieving the sudden death of her aenti?
Deborah realized Englishers regarded death differently than the Amish.
But there was something more wrong here.
Past noon and the woman was still in her pajamas.
Jonas had told her the woman moved in nearly a week ago. The only reason news of her arrival hadn’t traveled around their small community was because she hadn’t stirred from the little apartment above the shop.
What was she doing up there?
What was amiss?
And when did she plan to reopen Daisy’s Quilt Shop?
“I don’t know if there’s tea down here,” Callie confessed. “And I’m fairly sure there’s none in the apartment.”
“There’ll be some in the store’s kitchen.”
“Kitchen?” Callie set the quilts on the dusty counter, squinted at her in confusion.
“Daisy kept the kitchen well stocked.” Deborah moved around the counter, past the little office, to the pocket kitchen tucked across from the customer bathroom. “She liked to be able to pop in here for a quick cup of tea. Often she would set hot beverages and cookies out for customers as well.”
“I didn’t realize any of this was here.”
Opening the cabinet to the left of the sink, Deborah pulled out a plastic container, opened it, and turned to show Callie a variety of tea bags. “What do you prefer?”
“Anything is fine.”
“There’s chamomile, lemongrass and spearmint, ginger, or Earl Grey.”
“Lemongrass and spearmint sounds all right.”
Deborah pulled two of the bags out, smiled again, and filled the little coffee pot with water. “She only ran water through this percolator. So it stayed clean. If customers wanted kaffi, she had different flavors of instant.”
“I thought Amish weren’t allowed to use electricity.”
“At work we may. I helped out in the shop from time to time.”
“You seem to know a lot about my aunt,” Callie murmured.
“I counted her among my closest freinden.” Deborah had begun to wipe the counter, but she stopped, turned and studied Callie before continuing. “I found Daisy in the garden, the evening she passed. She looked as if she’d laid down among the flowers to rest.”
Callie’s eyes widened. When tears began to pool there, Deborah reached into her pocket and pulled out a freshly laundered handkerchief, and pushed it into Callie’s hands.
“You found her?”
“Ya. Max was there, waiting by her side. I had brought her a casserole for her evening meal. Actually I came by several times a week since she started carrying my quilts. But truthfully Daisy, and this store, had been a central meeting place for women in our community as long as I can remember. We all felt very close to her.”
Callie nodded, busied herself with removing the tea bag from the package and setting it in the cup Deborah had placed on the counter.
At that moment, Callie’s stomach growled loudly.
“I believe there are some cookies here as well,” Deborah said. She wondered when Callie had last eaten.
“Oh, I’m not—”
Max wedged his way between their legs and uttered a pitiful whine.
Callie smiled sheepishly. “We, uhh, ran out of food for Max this morning. I was on my way to buy some more when you drove up.”
Deborah’s eyes widened and she purposely did not look at Callie’s night clothes.
“After I dressed, that is.” Callie sank onto the single stool in the small kitchen. “I’m a terrible pet owner. Max knows it. I know it. Soon all of Shipshewana will know it.”
Callie looked up at Deborah with big brown eyes. Max, beside her, had the same expression. Deborah tried to hold in the smile, but a giggle escaped. In a moment, she was laughing out loud, and trying desperately to stop.
“It’s not funny.” Callie stood, cinched the belt on her robe, and pushed the cup and saucer away.
“Of course it’s not. I’m sorry, Callie.” Deborah managed to get herself under control. She hoped she hadn’t offended Daisy’s niece. Too much depended on their relationship. “I just—I don’t know—I just enjoy your honesty.” Deborah poured hot water over the tea bag and handed it back to her.
Callie accepted the tea, focused on dunking the bag in and out of the hot water. She shrugged, as if ready to move on. “I do feel bad about Max,” she said. “He ate the last of the dog chow last night. Do you think we could give him the cookies?”
“I think Daisy kept some extra dog food here in the kitchen.”
Deborah began going through the counters on the right, and Callie opened the ones on the left. They met in the middle where they found a rather large bin of dog chow. Max let out a full-blown woof, then sat, his tail beating a happy rhythm on the linoleum floor.
“Found a dog bowl in this one,” Callie declared.
It took no time for them to put water and food out for Max, and he was soon eating with gusto.
“One problem solved,” Deborah said with a smile, as she found an unopened package of cookies and set them on the counter as well. “How’s your tea?”
“Good, thank you.” Callie nibbled around the edge of a shortbread cookie, then set it back down on her plate. “Miss Yoder—”
“Mrs. But please call me Deborah.”
“Mrs.?” Callie looked at Deborah’s
left hand.
Deborah nodded. “I’m married, though we don’t wear rings. It often confuses Englishers. My husband Jonas comes into town with me when he can, but today he is working in the fields and the barn. He was able to keep my youngest boppli—”
“Your what?”
“Oh.” Deborah had forgotten that some of her words were different than Callie’s. “Boppli. We say boppli, it means—”
“Baby.”
“How did you know?”
“If it’s your youngest, it would have to be baby, or farm animal, and why would he keep your youngest farm animal?”
“Right.” Deborah nodded and realized Callie would learn their ways quickly. “Jonas had finished his field work by the time I needed to leave, so he offered to keep the boppli. Joshua behaves quite well in the barn, though he’s barely fourteen months old.”
“Look—” Callie said, and Deborah knew her welcome had worn out.
“I know,” Deborah said, standing up. “It’s time for me to go.”
Callie looked guilty and started to apologize.
“It’s okay,” Deborah said. “I’m glad we were able to visit for a little while. Already I feel like we’re old friends.”
“But we barely know each other.” Callie stared at her in amazement, and again Deborah wondered if she had gone too far. But something told her this was exactly what Callie needed to hear.
“Sometimes it isn’t merely how long two people know each other,” Deborah said. “It’s also the times they’ve shared. We’ve shared a cup of tea, and the searching of food for Max.” They both turned to look at the dog, who had finished licking his bowl clean. “And now we’re going to share a business relationship.” She smiled a little, hoping Callie would hear the friendliness in her voice.
Callie began shaking her head, moved to the small sink and rinsed out her cup. “No, no I never said that.”
“But my agreement with your aenti—”
“Was just that, an agreement with my aunt. It wasn’t with me.”
Falling to Pieces Page 2
