A Churn for the Worse

by Laura Bradford

  “Perhaps you can put that one”—Hannah pointed at the house in Claire’s hands—“in the same spot.”

  “And I will as soon as I record these new items in my book.” She carried the birdhouse over to the counter, with Hannah close on her heels. Setting it down, she reached for the baby blanket and held it to her face. “Wow, this is so soft.”

  “Mamm does good work.”

  “She does, indeed.” Claire lowered the blanket to the counter, plucked a pen from its holder, and flipped open the notebook tasked with keeping track of her inventory. Once the new items were recorded in the section set aside for Martha King, she closed the book and focused on the woman’s second daughter.

  Unlike Esther, who had soft brown hair, Hannah’s coloring was lighter. Her hair, which was also parted neatly down the middle and secured beneath a white kapp, was more of a sandy blonde, like her uncle’s, and her eyes leaned more toward a hazel than a true brown. Though, in just the right light, Claire could almost pick up the same hint of amber flecks that both Jakob and Esther sported in their eyes.

  “I stopped at Esther’s first, to see if she had any items she wanted me to bring to you, but she said she did not. She said you visited last night.”

  “We—” She felt the color drain from her face over her choice in pronoun and stopped speaking long enough to collect her thoughts. The last thing she wanted to do was rat out Esther’s Ordnung infraction. If Esther chose to share details of her evening with their uncle, that was for Esther to do, not Claire. “We are running low on girl dolls at the moment, but Esther already knows about that and she’s working on making more.”

  Nice save . . .

  “Did you see Carly?”

  Grateful for the change in topic, Claire jumped right in. “I did! She’s precious! And I hear she has a penchant for one of the hard candies you make.”

  Hannah’s mouth spread wide with a smile just before the girl’s hand disappeared inside the plain-colored satchel hanging from her shoulder. Seconds later, it reemerged with two small wrapped mounds in the center of her palm. “Here.”

  “Are these them?” she asked.

  “Yah. Please. Have them.”

  Taking the candies from the girl’s outstretched hand, Claire unwrapped one and popped it in her mouth, the instant burst of root beer flavoring on her tongue making her wish she’d inquired about the flavor before partaking.

  “They are good, yah?”

  She almost said something about her dislike of root beer but kept it to herself when she saw the hopeful expression on Hannah’s young face. “Yes. Good.”

  “That is why I gave you two.”

  “And that is why I will save this second one for later.” She slipped the wrapped candy into the front pocket of her summer slacks and tried not to give in to her natural gag reflex. Instead, in an effort to buy herself a little unnoticed time with a napkin, Claire directed Hannah’s attention back to the shelf on which Martha’s first birdhouse had been situated. The second the girl fell for her diversion, she rescued her taste buds from the offending candy and tossed it into the trash can with lightning speed. “Um . . . if your mother’s new birdhouse sells as quickly as the first one did, I may be asking for more.”

  “I will let her know.” Hannah turned back to Claire and flashed a smile nearly identical to one of Esther’s. “The next time I am to bring items from Mamm, I will bring you three candies.”

  She felt her mouth begin to gape in horror, but managed to cover it with a quick shrug. “I don’t want to take them away from you and Carly. I mean, from what Esther says, that horse is crazy about them.”

  “I can make more. I like to make candy.”

  “D-do you make other flavors?” she asked only to wince at the unmistakable note of hope she heard in her words.

  “Yah.” Hannah peeked out the window overlooking the alleyway and then headed toward the front door, glancing back at Claire as she walked. “Do you have a favorite one?”

  “Butterscotch, cherry, strawberry . . . You know, anything like that.”

  “I gave a butterscotch candy to the man who asked Mamm for directions to the Lehmans’ vegetable stand. He said it was very good.”

  It took a moment for the girl’s words to register, but when they did, Claire sucked in a breath. “You mean the Englisher who was at your farm on Monday?”

  Hannah stopped briefly to study the string of bells attached to the back of the door, then turned the knob and pulled. “I think it was Monday, yah.”

  “You gave him a candy?”

  “Yah. When I brought him his drink of water. He said it was very good.” Hannah stepped onto the front stoop and then turned to wave at Claire. “I will bring you a butterscotch next time. Perhaps you will think it is very good, too.”

  Chapter 29

  Claire palmed the last bit of dough into a ball, placed it alongside the others, and then carried the baking sheet over to the preheated oven.

  “Oh good, those are ready to go in now.” Diane came around the center island and opened the oven door for Claire. “By the time they come out, the roast beef will be carved and ready for the guests.”

  She slid the sheet onto the top rack, then turned and smiled at her aproned aunt. “Now what?”

  “You take a break.” Diane lifted the egg timer off the counter and set it to twenty minutes. “And tell me about your day while we wait for the baked potatoes to finish baking.”

  “Sounds good to me. After I wash my hands, that is.” Claire displayed her floured palms for Diane to see and then stopped at the sink.

  A good thirty minutes had come and gone since she arrived home, yet, in all that time, she’d only entertained the notion of asking about Bill. Somehow, every single time she found a way to inquire without sounding too nosy, she chickened out.

  She suspected some of that was because she’d opted not to call Diane after her conversation with Bill at the store. At the time, she’d rationalized her last-minute decision with her aunt’s age and not wanting to be a meddling niece. Yet as the afternoon wore on, she’d second-guessed herself for not calling.

  “Bill told me he stopped by the shop and said good-bye to you this afternoon,” Diane said.

  “So you were here when he left, then?” Hearing the shrillness of her voice, Claire forced herself to act casual. She could mull over her aunt’s mind-reading ability later, when she was alone.

  “I was. We had some tea and cake together before he headed out.”

  Claire shut off the water, grabbed the hand towel from its rack under the sink, and used the time it took to dry her hands to try to decipher whether the change in her aunt’s tone was tied to the act of carving or talk of Bill’s departure. When her hands were bone dry, she turned and made her way over to the counter, the sight of the first piece of cut beef reminding her of her minimal lunch and the hunger she’d failed to abate with a handful of pretzels.

  “That’s nice.” Claire pulled a stool out from under the counter’s eave and cozied up within arm’s reach of the cutting board. “That looks really, really good, Aunt Diane.”

  Pointing the tip of her knife alongside the first piece, the woman scooted it across the board to Claire. “Here. Nosh on this.”

  “You don’t have to tell me twice,” she quipped. With clean fingers, she extracted the piece of beef from the board and took a bite, the flavors her aunt was so gifted at enhancing popping inside her mouth. “Oh. Wow. That’s even better than it looks.”

  Diane brought the knife to the top of the roast again and began to cut, her focus moving between the meat and Claire. “You skipped lunch again, didn’t you?”

  “Not intentionally. We were just really busy. I did eat a few pretzels, though.”

  “Pretzels aren’t a meal, dear.”

  “I beg to differ.” Then, holding up her hands in surrender, she brought t
he conversation back to Diane . . . and Bill. “So how was tea?”

  “It was quite lovely. Bill is a very interesting man. He really loves pairing people up with the vacation destination that’s best for them.”

  “Maybe he could pair you up with one.”

  “Oh, he tried, dear. He thinks I’d love Paris since I enjoy cooking so much. He said it would be a chance to let others cook for me.” Diane paused her knife above the roast and looked at Claire over the top of her glasses. “He asked me if that was something I thought I’d enjoy, and I honestly don’t know. I love being the cook. I love being the innkeeper.”

  “I wonder what Bill’s ideal place would be.”

  “I asked him that.”

  “And?”

  “He said Paris. He said he finds it magical.”

  She couldn’t help but grin at the notion of her aunt being squired across the ocean by a man who put stock in magic.

  Diane pointed the tip of her knife at Claire. “You’re smiling . . .”

  Uh-oh.

  “I guess I like the idea of you taking some time off and going somewhere special.” She guided her aunt’s focus back to the meat and then smiled even wider as another tiny scrap was pushed in her direction. “You never do anything special for yourself.”

  “Meeting all these lovely people is something special,” Diane protested. “I love what I do, Claire. You know that.”

  “I do. But everyone needs a vacation once in a while. Even people who love what they do.”

  “I can’t just shut the inn down, dear.”

  She stopped chewing and brought her hands to her hips in dramatic indignation. “I’m fully capable of running this place for a week.”

  Diane resumed her cutting and then placed the slices onto a waiting platter. “You have your own business to run.”

  “And a very capable employee to cover for me.”

  Reaching down to the waistband of her apron, Diane pulled out a towel, wiped her hands, and glanced toward the egg timer. “Looks like the rolls will be done in about five minutes. Can you pull the potatoes out and get those ready to go?”

  “Sure.” Claire slid off her stool and crossed to the oven. “But, just so we’re clear, we’re not changing topics. You really ought to think about a vacation. Maybe even Paris, like Bill said.”

  “I’m not going to go by myself.”

  “Go with Bill.” More than anything, she wanted to peek over her shoulder and gauge her aunt’s reaction, but to do so might look too obvious. Besides, she had potatoes to rescue from the oven . . .

  “Good heavens, Claire, I can’t just go gallivanting to Paris with a man I’ve only known for a little over a week!”

  Holding the now-filled bowl of potatoes against her side, she closed the oven door and headed straight for the plate of butter and the salt and pepper shakers. “I don’t think Bill would mind.”

  “Claire!”

  She slit open each of the potatoes and shook a smidge of salt and pepper into each one. When she was done, she set the shakers down and met her aunt’s widened eyes. “You don’t think it’s curious that he suggested you go to Paris, and then told you that’s where he would go, too?”

  “No. He was making conversation, dear.”

  “You don’t think it’s curious he wanted to have tea with you before he checked out?”

  “He’s a nice man.”

  “He’s a nice man who just happens to be interested in you, Aunt Diane.”

  Diane’s mouth opened, closed, and opened again. But no words, no sound came out.

  “I take it you didn’t pick up on it, either?”

  The egg timer chirped and sent Diane scurrying for the oven. “It’s time to focus on dinner.”

  “But—”

  “Please, Claire.” Diane pulled the golden rolls from the oven, covered each with a slice of butter, and then carried them over to the waiting bread basket. As she transferred them from the pan to the basket, she took control of the conversation once again. “Hank and Jim are both leaving Friday morning. Hayley and Jeremy are still up in the air as to when exactly they’re checking out.”

  Looking up from the potatoes now stretched across a wide serving plate, Claire watched her aunt for several long moments. Diane was, without a doubt, the happiest, most cheerful person Claire had ever known. As a little girl, it had never really registered with her that her aunt wasn’t married. All she knew was that this wonderful woman she got to visit a few times a year fawned all over her as if she was something special. As a teenager, it registered on occasion, but she never thought to ask. Then, as a newly divorced adult who’d sought solace in the woman’s arms, she’d simply accepted her aunt’s “too late” admission every time the concept of marriage had come up.

  But was it too late?

  Diane was only sixty-two.

  Maybe, instead of “too late,” her aunt’s never-married status was simply a case of not having found the right man . . .

  “I’m going to bring the rolls and the potatoes out now. I’ll be back in a moment.” Diane’s voice snapped Claire back into the present in time to see the woman exit the kitchen through the open doorway leading to the dining room.

  Shaking herself back into the here and now, Claire readied the vegetables and the meat platter and carried them out to the table and the four guests eagerly waiting for their meal. Like the well-oiled machine that they were, Claire and Diane moved around the table serving the meal, filling water and wine glasses, and answering any questions that popped up.

  Once everyone was situated and happily eating their meal, the pair retreated back to the kitchen and the assorted cooking pans and utensils that represented the next part of their evening. “Shall I wash, dear?”

  “I can wash if you’d—” She startled as her hand came down against her pocket and the odd little mound it housed. Reaching inside, she slowly pulled out the item and winced. “Oh. Yuck. I almost forgot about this thing.”

  Diane leaned forward. “It looks like a homemade candy.”

  “It is. Esther’s sister, Hannah, made it.”

  “I take it it’s not very good?”

  She looked down at the dark candy and felt a wave of guilt wash over her from head to toe. “It would be unfair of me to say, either way, on account of the fact it’s root beer, and you know how I feel about root beer.”

  “Let me try, dear.”

  Guilt morphed into relief and she handed the candy to her aunt. “Be my guest . . .”

  Diane unwrapped the candy and popped it into her mouth. Seconds later, the woman closed her eyes and moaned. “Oh, Claire, it’s definitely you. This is delightful!”

  She watched in amusement as her aunt abandoned the notion of washing dishes and, instead, took a rare break against a nearby counter. “It’s that good, huh?” she teased.

  “To a root beer fan such as myself, yes, it’s that good.” Diane ran her hand along the top of the counter and then followed the motion with a dish towel. “You know who would have loved this candy?”

  Claire carried the pots and pans over to the counter beside the sink and then turned back to her aunt. “Who?”

  “Carrot Thief.”

  “Is that the horse who went missing after the trailer accident?” she asked.

  “Yes.” Diane spotted a saucepan on the stove and brought that over to the counter, too. “Didn’t you read about her in the magazine you borrowed last night?”

  “No. I started to read it last night, but, just as you predicted, I fell asleep. Hard.” She stepped up to the sink, retrieved the dish soap and strainer from the cabinet below, and turned on the faucet. “It was still on my stomach when I woke up this morning.”

  “Good. You need your sleep.”

  “I did look at a few of the pictures near the front.”

  “Then you saw C
arrot Thief. She was the main feature in that particular—”

  Claire sucked in her breath so hard and so loud, all background chatter from the dining room ceased, along with the rest of Diane’s sentence.

  The majestic gray coat . . .

  The beautiful black mane . . .

  The black curly tail . . .

  The penchant for root beer . . .

  “Claire? Is everything—”

  Spinning around, she covered her cheeks with her wet hands. “Diane! I think I know where Carrot Thief is!”

  “What are you talking about, dear?”

  “I think Carly is Carrot Thief!”

  Diane grabbed hold of Claire’s hands and guided them away from her face. “Slow down, dear. Take a deep breath.”

  She tried to do as she was told, but all she could think about was Esther . . .

  “Claire? Who is Carly?”

  Slowly, she made herself focus on her aunt and the answer she didn’t want to give.

  “Claire? Who is Carly?” Diane repeated.

  Breathe . . .

  Answer . . .

  “She’s Esther and Eli’s new horse.”

  Chapter 30

  Claire took the steps two at a time up to her room and shut the door. She’d tried to convince herself she could put Carly’s true identity on the back burner of her thoughts until after the kitchen was cleaned, but she couldn’t. Her only hope now was that she’d persuaded Diane to wait on contacting the magazine until after Claire had a chance to talk to Jakob and Esther.

  Esther . . .

  The pure joy on both Esther’s and Carly’s faces when they were around each other was unmistakable. Knowing she was about to strip that away from both of them was making Claire’s head pound.

  Still, it had to be done. Carly didn’t belong to Esther. She belonged to a woman named Valerie Palermo—a woman who’d been searching for her racehorse for nearly two weeks. The good news, of course, was that the horse was fine, save for a sprained tendon in her leg. The bad news was that Esther had grown attached to the animal.