A Churn for the Worse

by Laura Bradford

Returning his smile with one of her own, she leaned across his plate and popped a second grape into his mouth. “So how was Henry? Is he holding up okay?”

  “He feels bad. He can’t shake the thought that his dat was checking on his horse when it happened. So, therefore, in his eyes, he’s responsible for what happened to his dat.” Jakob set his half-eaten sandwich down on his plate and stared out over the water hole he’d frequented as a child. “I’ve tried, many times, to tell him it wasn’t his fault. That distinction belongs to the person who did this to his dat and no one else. But with the Amish, there is no blame. Only God’s will.”

  “Then if there is no one to blame, why is Henry blaming himself?”

  “Because the heart isn’t always in sync with the head,” Jakob said.

  “Maybe it will help when you find the person who did it.”

  “If I find the person who did it.” He shook his head, flashed a half smile at Claire, and got back to his sandwich and her grapes. “You know what? Let’s not do this anymore. Let’s just enjoy the rest of this time. We’ve earned it, you know?”

  Claire slid her plate to the side and sidled up next to Jakob, the feel of his arm as it encircled her body making her smile. “You do have grapes on your own plate, you know . . .”

  “I know. But yours taste better.”

  “Yeah . . . okay.” She settled against his chest and allowed herself a moment to breathe, to really take in the beauty of their surroundings—the occasional croak of a frog, the flutter of a butterfly, the welcome shade of the tree at their backs, and the blessed privacy afforded by the grove of trees encircling the pond. It was, in a word, idyllic. “I wish I could have seen you and Martha playing here as kids. It must have been so special.”

  “It was. And it’s one of the main reasons why I wouldn’t trade my childhood for anything.”

  They sat in silence for a while, enjoying their surroundings and each other. Eventually, though, Jakob pulled his arm from around Claire and pointed at the rocks she’d gathered. “So? Shall we see how accomplished you’ve gotten?”

  At her nod, he rose to his feet and helped her onto hers. But just as he bent over to retrieve the rocks, the whinny of a horse made them both turn.

  There, on the other side of the tree, making its way down the makeshift path worn into the ground from years of foot traffic, was Annie’s buggy, with Katie dutifully leading the way.

  “I thought she was at the shop,” Claire said, stepping forward. “I hope there’s nothing wrong.”

  Jakob pulled out his phone, checked the display, and shoved it back in his pocket. “It’s five fifteen. And a Saturday. She’s done for the day.”

  Together they approached the buggy. Annie pulled to a stop and smiled. “I am just here to tell you we had a good afternoon at the shop. We sold many, many things. I knew you would be pleased to know.”

  “And I am. Thank you.” Claire hooked her thumb in the direction of the blanket. “We have some food left if you’re hungry.”

  “That is kind of you, Claire, but I will not stay. I must get Katie home and in her stall before I am to make dinner. Dat will be late this evening, so that will help.”

  “I understand from Henry that you have been a good friend to him,” Jakob said, running his hand along the side of Annie’s horse.

  Annie’s face reddened just before her barely perceptible nod.

  “It is important that he tells me everything he can about the man who came to his house the night his father was killed. If he remembers something, please encourage him to speak to me.” At Annie’s obvious hesitation, he added, “Or tell Claire and she’ll tell me.”

  Carefully avoiding direct conversation with the banned detective, Annie kept her eyes on Claire. “The man who stole from the Gingerich farm . . . is it the same man?”

  Jakob gave Katie one last stroke and then stepped back. “I believe so, yes.”

  Annie’s throat moved with a deep swallow, but she said nothing. Instead, she gathered Katie’s reins in her hand and prepared to leave.

  “Annie?”

  Slowly, reluctantly, Annie looked at Jakob, a mixture of curiosity and fear dimming her normal sparkle.

  “Be careful,” he warned. “Don’t let any strangers into the house when your dat is not home.”

  Chapter 13

  Claire looked from the numbered tiles still left in her rack to the center of the table and waved her napkin in the air. “Okay, okay, so this isn’t my game.”

  Diane tucked her crochet needle into her ball of unused yarn and scooted forward on the upholstered lounge chair she’d retreated to after losing to their returning guest one too many times. “See? I told you . . . Judy is a master of that game.”

  “Would you like to play again?” The seventy-year-old widow flashed a wide smile at both Claire and Hank. “I’ll try to go a little easier on you this time.”

  Hank teed his hands in the air and then pushed his chair back from the card table. “Six losses are enough for me for one night, but maybe Jeremy or Bill would like to sit in for me.”

  “As tempting as it is, I’m going to decline,” Bill said from his spot in front of the parlor’s large picture window and its view of Amish country. “I’m just kind of soaking everything up right now—this room, its vibe, this”—he gestured toward the farms in the distance—“whole place. It really has the kind of charm so many of my older clients are looking for.”

  Nodding, Judy bobbed her head to the left to address the dark-haired young man eating his way through one of the three cookie plates Diane had set around the room after dinner. “Jeremy? Would you like to play?”

  “I can’t,” Jeremy said around what had to be his sixth or seventh cookie. “The slave driver over here doesn’t believe in post-work fun.”

  Hayley lifted her gaze from the notepad on her lap, repositioned the almost empty plate of cookies just outside of Jeremy’s reach, and then smiled at Judy. “My partner here doesn’t realize that the concept of post-work fun only comes into play if you’ve actually worked.”

  “Hey! I’m working.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yeah, I . . . I, uh, wrote my piece to go with today’s picture . . .” A triumphant smile spread across Jeremy’s face despite the eye roll he aimed at his coworker. “It’s not my fault you need to plan out the next three days in one sitting. I mean, take it as it comes, you know?”

  “Take it as it comes,” Hayley repeated. “Oh yes, because that’s worked so well for us in the past.”

  “I have to agree with Hayley on this, Jeremy,” Hank said, rising to his feet and heading toward the sofa. “I see it with my students all the time. The ones who think ahead do better. The ones who don’t tend to flounder a bit more.”

  “I guess. But you can only plan so much. Sometimes, you have to be able to operate without one, you know?”

  “See, now I tend to lean more toward Jeremy on this one.” Jim craned his head around the edge of his laptop. “Don’t get me wrong, a lot of planning goes into my marketing ideas, but sometimes things go a different way, and you’ve got to be able to adjust.”

  Hayley pushed a strand of blonde hair off her face and waved a dismissive hand at Jeremy. “You want to play a game? Go ahead and play—”

  A familiar television jingle cut the photographer’s sentence off and had Judy scurrying for her purse. “Oh. My. That’s my phone. I’ve been waiting on a call from a dear friend and I bet that’s her now.” The woman’s face dipped from Claire’s view just long enough to seek confirmation of her guess. “Oh yes, it’s Greta. I’ll have to take a rain check on that game, young man.”

  Jeremy shrugged and returned to the plate of cookies. “So, Hank, you teach college kids about owning their own business?”

  “I do. And it’s becoming more and more popular each semester.”

  Jim closed his laptop and st
retched his legs across the oval-shaped hook rug in the center of the room. “Why is that?”

  Hank eyed the cookie plate closest to the sofa but stopped short of actually taking one. “I’d like to say it’s because of my teaching—and maybe for some, it is. But really, it’s more a reflection of this generation. They’re not really keen on answering to anyone, so they think that by owning their own business they can do things their own way all the time. They just don’t realize, until we get into things, that being your own boss and therefore responsible for everything isn’t all fun and games.”

  “I wouldn’t mind owning my own business,” Jeremy mused. “Though, what I’d do, I’m not exactly sure.”

  “You already own your own business, don’t you, young man?”

  Hayley’s head popped up again, her gaze ricocheting between Jeremy and Jim before finally landing on Jeremy with a glare. “He doesn’t seem to get that. If he did, he’d plan ahead a little better.”

  Jeremy’s answering groan was drowned out by Hank and his passion for the topic at hand. “In a business like Hayley and Jeremy’s, they need to always be thinking of ways to build readership, and thus, entice more advertisers to their site.” Swiping at a spot on his left leg, Hank continued, “The key to success for any business—virtual or otherwise—is to grow. That doesn’t mean locations, necessarily. Or even employees. But it does mean growing one’s customer base.”

  “Are you hearing this, Jeremy?” Hayley snapped.

  Jim began nodding before Jeremy could even respond. “That’s exactly what I’ve been telling the mayor, the council members, and the handful of business owners I’ve been talking to these past few days. In order for Heavenly’s tourism industry to grow, they have to start looking at ways to appeal to other demographics. The senior set is great—and it’s served this town well. But expanding beyond that group will enable the revenue to grow across the board.”

  “I would imagine that’s a fine line, though,” Claire said, crossing the rug and perching at the bottom of Diane’s chair. “The seniors flock to this town because of the peace and quiet that is Heavenly. It seems to me that if you start changing that draw in order to appeal to a different crowd, you risk losing the very group that put you on the map in the first place.”

  Bill left his post at the window and wandered over to the framed photographs of Heavenly. “Claire is right. You start opening up bars along Lighted Way and bringing in the kind of crowds that need that sort of entertainment, and, well, the seniors stop coming.”

  “But they’re on a fixed income, right? How much money do they really have to spend, anyway?”

  Claire and Diane turned, in unison, to look at Jeremy. “Plenty.”

  “And they come back, again and again,” Diane added, swinging her focus back to Jim. “Sometimes they bring friends. Sometimes they just tell their friends. Either way, seniors are masterful at word-of-mouth advertising.”

  “And that word-of-mouth advertising works in both ways.” Bill moved down the line of pictures, stopping as he reached Claire’s favorite—a black-and-white shot of an Amish buggy meandering down a snow-covered country road. “They enjoy themselves, they tell people. They don’t, they tell people that, too.

  “This is a gorgeous photo, Diane. Did you take it?”

  Diane’s cheeks flushed red just before her shy nod. “Almost twenty years ago.”

  “I love the way you managed to capture the horse’s breath on what was obviously a very cold day.”

  “See, Diane?” Judy said as she strode back into the room, her cell phone now closed inside her hand. “You really need to enter that photograph in a contest one day. It’s spectacular.”

  Diane waved the suggestion aside. “Oh, I don’t know. I’m sure Hayley, here, could take a far better picture than anything I’ve snapped over the years. And as it was, I had no idea I’d even captured that effect until after it was developed. All I was focused on at the time was trying to document the proud way in which she pulled that buggy despite the difficult weather conditions.”

  “You really do love horses, don’t you, Diane?”

  Dropping her hand to her aproned lap, Diane smiled at the man seated on the sofa opposite her own chair. “Oh, Hank, I’ve loved horses since I was a child. I remember hearing my folks saying I’d outgrow my fascination, but I never did.”

  “I’m like that with fire trucks.” Hank took a sip of lemonade and then returned the glass to the coffee table between them. “Most people equate a fascination with fire trucks to children. But I’m coming up on forty-five and I still stop and stare anytime I see a fire truck go by.”

  Diane stood and made her way around the back of her lounge chair to stand beside Bill and the black-and-white photographs that had graced the wall of the parlor for as long as Claire could remember. “In the living room, I have a photograph of a Heavenly fire truck with an Amish farmer riding in the back. I didn’t capture his face, of course, but the hat and the suspenders and the beard tell the story.”

  Hank, too, stood and made his way over to the pictures. “I knew I was coming here to gather research on small businesses, and I have. But one of the things I always tell my students is to become involved in their community. It grounds you. Makes you an integral part of a place and its people. I just hadn’t expected to find that the Amish do that, too.”

  “No one offers assistance in times of trouble faster than the Amish.” Claire gathered up the empty cookie plates and mugs from around the room and placed them onto the serving tray her aunt had used to pass them out. “You should see how quickly they can raise a barn after a fire. I saw it with my own two eyes at the end of winter, and it still boggles my mind.”

  “I’ve heard that.” Hank gestured toward the photograph that had commanded Bill’s attention. “So whatever happened with that horse you were telling Claire and me about the other day? Any luck finding him?”

  “Carrot Thief is a girl, and no, as of the latest update that came out yesterday, there’s still no word on the mare’s fate. That poor woman is beside herself with grief.”

  “Poor woman?” Judy asked.

  “Valerie Palermo. Carrot Thief’s owner. They had a really special bond, the two of them, and not knowing what happened is obviously weighing on her. You could almost hear the tears in her answers to the reporter’s many detailed questions about the horse. Heartbreaking, really.”

  Chapter 14

  It didn’t matter how many nights Claire spent looking out over the moonlit farms, she still felt an overwhelming need to pinch herself just to make sure she wasn’t dreaming.

  “I know I say it a lot, Aunt Diane, but moving here was truly the smartest thing I’ve ever done.” She picked her foot up off the slatted floor and hiked it up onto the swing with her other one; the motion she’d managed to build up over the past ten minutes enough to keep her swaying for a little while, at least. “I mean, listen . . . It’s just so utterly quiet and peaceful.”

  Hank shifted in his spot at the top of the short staircase and peered at Claire over his right shoulder. “Where did you live before this?”

  “New York City.”

  “I can’t picture you in the big city.”

  “That’s because I never should have been there.” She stretched her arm along the back of the bench swing and rested her face against the inside of her upper arm. “But then again, if I hadn’t experienced that, maybe I wouldn’t appreciate this quite as much as I do.”

  “What brought you to the city in the first place?” he asked.

  “My then-husband. It’s the only place he ever wanted to be.”

  He stretched his long arms above his head and then settled against the post at his back. “I’m sorry it didn’t work out.”

  “Peter didn’t realize what he had in Claire. But he will. One day.” Diane lifted her face to the same breeze that rustled the trees along the drive
way and smiled. “His loss was my gain. Detective Fisher’s, too.”

  Claire yanked her head off her arm and shook it at the sixty-two-year-old. “Aunt Diane, please. Hank and anyone else who may be hearing this conversation from their open bedroom window doesn’t need to hear the details of my love life.”

  “Diane didn’t have to say a word,” Hank said, laughing. “I’ve seen the detective with you in town. I’d have to be mighty blind not to know he’s crazy about you.”

  There was no denying the heat infusing its way into her cheeks or the gratitude she felt for the dimmer switch her aunt had opted to have installed on the porch light. Still, she did her best to take the helm of their conversation and steer it in a very different direction. “So, Diane, what do you think of Jim’s recommendation that Heavenly should start targeting the twenty- and thirty-something crowd as a way to increase our tourism revenue?”

  “I think it’s akin to you living in the Big Apple—it doesn’t fit.” Diane brushed a piece of gray-streaked hair from her face and then took a sip of lemonade. “Heavenly is a tourist destination because of the Amish. People drawn to them are drawn to peace and quiet—to a simpler time when things weren’t so hectic. Bars and movie theaters are part of today’s landscape, not yesteryear’s. That age demographic wants something very different than we can—or should want to—provide.”

  Claire took in everything her aunt said and found it to be a veritable match of her own thoughts on the subject. But maybe those feelings were simply a reflection of their own personal taste. Maybe other people could see it differently . . . “Hank? What about you? I mean, I know this is your first time here and that you came for work reasons, but as an outsider looking in, what do you think? Are we missing something in Jim’s recommendation that we really ought to see?”

  Hank extended his legs across the top step and pillowed the back of his head with his hands and the post. “Generally speaking, from a business standpoint, any opportunity to reach new customers is a good idea. But in this case, with this town and the reason it’s an attraction, I think making some of the changes Jim is recommending would end up hurting the bottom line.”