“Never mind. I heard you say you don’t plan on staying, apparently you didn’t take the time to learn anything about Amish ways either.”
“Mr.—” she waited for the rude little man to fill in his name. When he didn’t she pushed on. “I’m not sure what you’re in a tizzy about, but if you’d tell me perhaps we could work this out.”
“Tizzy? Is that how you speak to your elders in Texas?”
“What?”
“I would have thought Daisy’s niece would have been more respectful.” And with that, he snapped his notepad shut, tucked it into his shirt pocket, and marched out of the shop.
Deborah sat rocking and quilting. She didn’t hear Jonas walk into the living room, didn’t realize he was there until he rested his hand on her shoulder.
“You plan on quilting until dawn?”
Deborah reached up, patted his hand, then continued with her sewing. “I’d keep you awake if I came to bed now. Best that I sew here for a while.”
Instead of trying to convince her otherwise, Jonas walked over to the kitchen, retrieved the milk from the gas-powered refrigerator, and poured two cups. Then he pulled the cookies that Esther had brought by out of the cabinet. Bringing it all to the living room, he sat down near her.
“Kind of late for a snack.”
“Never too late for Esther’s cookies. Wonder what she puts in these things.”
A little of the tension eased from between Deborah’s shoulder blades as she shook her head at her husband, then took a bite of the cookie he held out to her. “You’ll make me fat yet.”
“You look perfect to me, and you know it.”
“What if the bishop says no, Jonas? What if he says Callie can’t auction the quilts on the internet? Then what will we do?”
“You explained to him she’s already placed the quilts for sale?”
“Ya. He only will say there is no hurrying God’s wisdom. How will I explain to everyone if his answer is no?”
Jonas popped one of the oatmeal chocolate cookies into his mouth and considered her question. After he’d chased it with half the glass of milk, he finally answered. “We have to trust Bishop Elam to do what is best for Melinda and Esther.”
“But do you think he understands?” Deborah rocked the chair a bit harder.
“Do you doubt that he understands?”
Deborah paused mid-stitch. Suddenly it occurred to her that she was doing it again—she was taking on the role of provider for her two closest friends.
Jonas reached over, rested his hand on top of hers. “The bishop is a fair man. He promised to think on it, and he will. Perhaps he’ll give you an answer when we meet for church tomorrow.”
“Ya. You’re right.”
“If he decides against this eBay idea, then you’ll go back to selling them in Callie’s shop.”
Deborah felt the tears she’d been holding back all night spring to her eyes. “And what if Callie closes the shop, or sells it? What if Melinda doesn’t get the money soon enough? What if Esther—”
Jonas’s thumb gently strumming up and down the back of her hand stopped the questions, stilled the avalanche of fear.
“Small steps,” he reminded her.
She nodded, blinked the tears back, and stored the pin in her apron.
Small steps, but as Jonas set the dishes in the sink and they readied for bed, she couldn’t help praying that the quilts would sell through the online auction, and that they would sell for a very high price.
Chapter 7
ON SUNDAY, Shipshewana was closed.
Callie rested—a little. She was uncomfortable about the idea of having too much free time, sure she’d end up huddled back under the covers. The feelings of depression she’d been submerged in just a week ago were never far away. So she’d allowed herself only a few hours of downtime before asking Deborah’s driver, Elaine, to take her to Elkhart for the rental car. Elaine was in her fifties with short-cropped gray hair and was definitely an Englisher.
She entertained Callie with stories of her aunt for the twenty-five minute drive—stories that had Callie wishing the drive were a bit longer.
Why hadn’t she come to visit Daisy sooner?
Why hadn’t she made time?
Why had she waited until it was too late?
Pushing the regrets away, she paid Elaine for the ride, then picked up her rental car. She’d arranged with the customer service rep to rent the small Ford on a weekly basis, since she still had no clear indication as to how long it would take to sell the store.
Though it had been only thirteen days since she’d flown into Indiana, not even two weeks since she’d had her own car at her disposal, she realized as she adjusted the driver’s seat and checked the rear view mirror just how much of her sense of independence was tied to a vehicle. It felt odd to be driving out of the parking lot—odd but invigorating.
How did the Amish do it?
Depending on others to transport them around, being locked into a ten-mile radius, it was so confining.
Of course she had managed to meet quite a few of the local people that she probably wouldn’t have otherwise.
Callie set the radio on low as she began the drive back to Shipshe, her mood drastically improved.
A stop at the warehouse discount store located on the edge of Elkhart cheered her even more. She didn’t buy much, but delighted in noting what they carried and that it was only twenty minutes away. She did pick up a giant bag of dog food and more bandanas for Max. No use having a dog if you couldn’t dress him up. She also purchased office supplies for printing her flyers, sales sheets, and bookmarks.
The expenses were adding up, but she’d sat down and made out a budget the night before. If she was going to run a successful business, then she needed to put a percentage of the assets Daisy had left back into the quilt shop. Even though she didn’t plan on staying in Shipshe long, she knew she’d be able to sell the business for a higher price if she could show it was profitable. She actually felt good about investing some of the money she had received from her aunt’s estate.
Once home, she spent the remainder of the afternoon photographing the quilts, then made the bookmarks containing the eBay information. They turned out even better than she’d imagined, thanks to the new color printer her aunt had recently purchased.
As she readied for bed that evening, she reached for Daisy’s journal. It was fast becoming a habit, reading Daisy’s words before sleeping. Usually she opened the journal up randomly. Her aunt didn’t write long entries and often they were about people around Shipshe that Callie didn’t know. Reflecting on small cares, praying for the needs of others, admitting when she’d occasionally lost her temper. It was surprising to read that her aunt could be moody. Maybe she’d inherited more than she realized from her mom’s sister.
Callie was surprised to find herself mentioned in the pages so often. As her aunt’s only niece, she didn’t realize how much time Daisy had spent thinking about her, praying for her. She opened the book to June, five years earlier—
My niece is married now, Lord. And I’m sitting here with Max and this sprained ankle. Can you blame me for fuming? But I’m not writing to complain. It’s my own fault that I was carrying too big a load down the stairs and tripped. No, I’m writing to thank you that Callie has found such a fine young man. She sent me pictures of her and Rick. He sounds very special. I’m so glad you blessed her with a good man, someone who will care for her. You’re a good Father. They look very happy. Since I can’t be there, I’ll use my time to crochet a blanket for them.
The other entries which mentioned Rick or her baby had left Callie feeling as if the deep ache might burst open, but tonight’s entry only brought a smile. “Come on, Max. You can sleep up here.” Max bounded on the bed, settled his head across her stomach.
She still had the blanket Daisy had crocheted them—it was a lovely blue and yellow. When she drifted off to sleep, it was with memories of her first year with Rick sifting through her mind
.
Downtown shops were traditionally closed on Monday, so Callie spent the next morning perusing the internet and in the afternoon decided to visit a local herb farm.
What would it hurt to start a small container garden?
She’d always wanted to have one in the city, but she’d never been home enough to take care of plants, let alone a dog. Max nosed his way into her lap as she sat cross-legged on the ground in her yard and potted the nursery plants.
Thyme, sage, oregano, and dill.
She could envision cooking with every one of them.
Monday evening she even had time for a little reading—something she hadn’t done in years. Perusing her aunt’s shelves in the tiny apartment above the shop, she was surprised to find a very good collection of old Agatha Christie novels.
So her aunt loved a mystery did she?
Pulling one off the shelf, Callie curled up in the recliner with a light blanket across her lap and Max at her side.
“Dumb Witness was published in 1937, Max. Now why do you think Aunt Daisy would have ordered a new copy of it?”
She pulled out her aunt’s bookmark, turned back to the beginning, and began to read.
Tuesday dawned clear and sunny. Callie was actually looking forward to going back to work. She dressed to match Max again. Might be silly, but it was fun. What was wrong with a little fun? This time she chose a blue-jean skirt with a short-sleeved red sailor sweater. She’d found a bandana that was red with white ship anchors at the warehouse, and she tied it around Max’s neck. He looked at her rather sadly, but he didn’t argue.
“I know. I’m pitiful, but you’ll learn to like me.” Adding a white headband to her hair was a nice touch. “We look like we’re ready to go sailing, not to work.” Still, it gave her a bit of a lift for the day. That—and some very strong coffee—was all she needed.
This time people did start arriving as soon as she unlocked the door, and surprisingly the crowds were as large as Saturday’s. She’d expected things to be a bit slower, but as Deborah had promised sales were brisk. Then she remembered that Tuesdays were market days. The streets were bustling.
She was pleased to see that every time she glanced up, a customer was logged in at the eBay terminal, and her bookmarks went quickly. In fact, she had to sneak into the small office at lunch and print off additional copies.
Callie didn’t want to get her hopes up, but she thought word might be circulating about the quilts, even among the Amish community. As she was checking customers out at the register, she overheard snippets of side conversations—nothing specific, but it had to be about the auctioned quilts.
“Do you think these are the ones?”
“Must be …”
“And the auction is on the In-ter-net?”
Callie finished ringing out the customer and approached the two Amish women standing in front of the nine-patch quilt.
“Did you have a question about the quilt?”
“Oh, no. Danki.” Both women glanced down at the ground, and it seemed as if the heavier one began to fidget.
“All right. Well, I’ll be at the register if you have any questions.”
They murmured their thanks, then hustled off to look at the spools of thread.
It went that way all morning.
Even a few Amish men stopped in, claiming they needed to pick up supplies for their wives. Though she saw many English couples on Saturday, Deborah had explained that in general, Amish men took care of their shopping at the feed store or hardware store while women shopped for sewing supplies. Today seemed to be the exception.
Most customers were open and friendly, but not all. Callie looked up a little before lunch to see one middle-aged English woman practically hiding behind a newspaper. (Even she was beginning to split the customers into two categories—English and Amish.)
She had noticed the Amish customers tended to buy only supplies—fabric, thread, and notions. No doubt they sewed their own quilts, though several did stop to admire the finished quilts. Probably they knew Deborah, Melinda, and Esther.
When Callie approached to see if she could help, the rather hefty woman stuffed the paper in her bag, murmured something that sounded like, “Well I never would have thought—” then hurried out of the store.
Staring after her in disbelief, Callie wondered if perhaps she’d heard her wrong. With a shrug, she picked up the bucket of dirty coffee mugs and carried them to the kitchen, but she’d barely made it into the little room when the bell over the shop door rang again.
“Maybe she remembered what she never would have thought,” Callie muttered, wiping her hands on a dish towel. Hurrying around the corner, she nearly plowed over Deborah.
Deborah was wearing a pale blue dress with a white apron and her customary flip-flops. All the Amish women seemed to wear flip-flops, except the very old ones who wore the black laced up shoes.
“I didn’t expect to see you back in town today.”
“We need to talk.”
“I know. I thought about driving out to see you tonight, but I didn’t know where you live. Of course I could have asked someone, but—”
“We need to talk now.” Deborah reached out and grabbed her hand, pulling her toward the counter. “Are there any customers in the store at the moment?”
“Not unless they’re hiding behind the bolts of cotton. Is something wrong?”
“Yes. I’m afraid so. I take it you haven’t seen today’s paper.”
Deborah opened the Shipshewana Gazette and placed it on the counter, smoothing it with her hand.
They both stood there, gazing down at the front page. The top half was covered by a picture of colorful plants, set up in a pattern to resemble a quilt, and now in full bloom.
“Am I supposed to be upset about The Living Quilt picture? Because I think the gardens are quite beautiful.” Callie didn’t touch the paper, didn’t open it, but she did look Deborah in the eye and wait for her response.
“Page three, right column. You better sit down.”
Deborah went into the small kitchen while Callie read. She pulled down two coffee cups, placed a lemongrass and spearmint tea bag in each one, and poured hot water over the top.
“You must be kidding!”
Deborah didn’t walk into the main room immediately, opting instead to snag a few of the cookies off the refreshment table, hoping to give Callie time to finish the article, and perhaps calm down a bit.
“He can’t write this! He can’t say these things. There are slander laws against this. We’re in Shipshewana, not a third world country. Do you realize how much damage this can do to my business?”
Deborah carried the mugs of tea, each topped with a saucer filled with several cookies, over to the counter.
“Perhaps you should have some tea.” She hoped her voice sounded calm; after all, Callie had never dealt with the editor of the Gazette before—calmness worked best.
“Tea? You want me to drink tea?”
“Ya, it’s nice and hot.” Deborah removed the saucer from the top of the mug and pushed it toward her. She knew the lull in activity wouldn’t last, and she wanted to calm Callie down before any customers arrived. Perhaps she should have waited until the store closed, but she didn’t want to risk her hearing about the article from someone else.
“He can’t say these things, Deborah.” Callie folded the paper in half, then in half again, until only the offending editorial showed, then she whacked the counter with it—as if she meant to kill a fly. “He can’t, and he won’t. I’m going to make him take it back.”
“But Mr. Stakehorn is the editor of the paper.”
“I don’t care if he owns the paper. He still can’t print lies.”
“Callie.” Deborah again nudged the tea toward her as she glanced out the window at two English women who had paused outside the store to gaze up at the medallion quilt. One woman was holding a copy of the Gazette in her hand, and the other was pointing at the eBay sign. “I’m sure if we give it a few
days, the story will—”
“Disappear? Do you think it was typed with invisible ink that will fade away after twenty-four hours?”
Deborah bit into the cookie and smiled at her. “You’re kidding, right? I’ve never heard of this invisible ink.”
“Of course I’m kidding. It’s not as if we’re living in a Harry Potter book.”
“Harry who?”
“Oh, never mind.”
Deborah stood and picked up her saucer as the two women outside the shop proceeded around the corner and up the walk. “You have customers. I should go.”
“Do you need to get back to your family?”
“Not right away. The children went to their grossmammi’s today. Why?”
“The store closes in another thirty minutes. I want you to show me where the newspaper office is located. We’re going to have a talk with Mr. Stakehorn. We’re going to set him straight about the quilts and the auction. You can explain to him that it was your idea to auction them on the internet, and that I did not corrupt you!”
“Perhaps it is best if we go to see him together,” she agreed.
Deborah turned to greet two regular customers. It was good to see that Daisy’s faithful customers were supporting the shop.
Glancing back at Callie, she added, “I brought my quilting bag. I’ll sit by the window and stay out of the way until you close. As long as I’m home by six, Jonas won’t worry.”
“You’ll be home by six. We’ll have this cleared up in five minutes. Mr. Stakehorn can print a nice retraction on page one of the next edition.”
As Callie walked off to assist the customers, Deborah wondered if it would be so easy. Shipshewana was a small town, and she’d had dealings with Mr. Stakehorn before. The man wasn’t the most agreeable Englisher she’d been around.
Could be she’d always caught him on a bad day. Or maybe he only had bad days.
She’d find out in a half hour.
For Callie’s sake, she hoped today Stakehorn’s temperament would be different.
Falling to Pieces Page 6
