The Sugar Haus Inn

by Serena B. Miller

  Joe thought this over. “If they meet in one another’s homes, how do they keep track of where they are going? With no telephones, how do they pass the word around?”

  “You’d be surprised at how organized they are. They mail a bulletin several pages long to every family. Each church district is listed, along with each bishop and minister. ‘A’ districts meet on one Sunday. ‘B’ districts meet on alternate Sundays. The bulletin tells who will be hosting.”

  “So they never have the expense of church buildings.”

  “No. Nor do they have the expense of a paid staff. Each church has one bishop and three ministers—all chosen from within the church by a sort of combination voting process and casting of lots. When a new bishop is needed, one is chosen from the three existing ministers.”

  “If they don’t have buildings or paid staff, what do they do with their contributions? They do take up a collection, don’t they?”

  “Only twice a year, when they have their communion and foot-washing ceremony. As to what they do with the money, that’s simple—they take care of their own. It’s called ‘alms,’ and the church votes as a body on who receives it.”

  “So who receives it?”

  “Primarily widows and orphans. Or families that have fallen on hard times because of illness. Of course, if there is farmer who can’t work his crops because of illness, the other men will help him out.”

  “It sounds like a good system.”

  “It’s worked for hundreds of years.”

  He turned to look at her. “Why did you choose not to accept your aunts’ religion?”

  “I am like so many others who have grown up in this area.” She chewed her lip before she continued. “I respect the connectedness of the Amish, the network of support, and the integrity of their beliefs, but there is a dark side to the Amish religion as well. It is not all dumplings and prayer kapps, as my father used to say.”

  “A dark side?”

  “If one doesn’t comply with all tenants of the Ordnung, one can be shunned into obedience. I find it hard to accept a religion where a woman as brilliant as Bertha was banned by her church because she wanted more than an eighth-grade education. I am no biblical scholar, but even I know the difference between man-made traditions and actual scripture. The Amish try so hard to have unity in all things that it seems they sometimes lose sight of the spiritual reasons behind the rules they create.”

  “You’ve given this a lot of thought.”

  “It would be impossible to live in Sugarcreek otherwise.”

  “So Lydia doesn’t cook on no-church Sundays, huh?”

  She smiled. “Hard to imagine, isn’t it?”

  “I went to church,” Bobby piped up from the backseat, “but I didn’t get any cookies.”

  “Are you getting hungry, buddy?” Joe asked.

  “Uh-huh.”

  “You know what?” Joe turned toward Rachel. “I have two of Eli’s twenty-dollar bills burning a hole in my pocket—and the promise of permanent employment. How about we go to that Homestead Restaurant over in Charm? Eli tells me they make the best chocolate pie in the world. I’ll pay. You can consider it my peace offering to you for being here.”

  She ignored his comment about a peace offering. “Homestead’s pies are wonderful, but that restaurant isn’t open today.”

  “No?”

  “It’s Sunday, Joe. This is Amish Country. Most family-run businesses are closed.”

  “What about Beachy’s?”

  “Beachy’s is closed too.”

  “Interesting.” He thought this over. “It’s a different world here, isn’t it, Rachel?”

  “You have no idea.”

  “I like it, though.” He gazed out at the rolling countryside. “It’s peaceful.”

  “I try to keep it that way.”

  “So, do we just go home or what?”

  She thought that over. Going back to an empty house with Joe didn’t seem like such a good idea. She could just drop him off at the farm and go back to her own empty cottage…but that didn’t hold a lot of appeal, either.

  Ed’s words came back to her. The fact that her boss had met this guy and decided he was legit gave her pause. Maybe she should take this chance to actually get to know him.

  “I suppose we could drive to New Philadelphia or Dover. There are restaurants open there. Or…”

  She looked at the sky. It was a gorgeous fall day. “We could stop at the IGA here in town. They’re open on Sundays. We could pick up some lunchmeat and have a picnic. There is a table beside the creek, near where the buggies tie up.”

  “That sounds really good.” He turned to look at his son in the backseat. “Do you want to have a picnic, Bobby?”

  “Yay!” the little boy answered.

  Rachel smiled. For an hour or two today, she was going to obey Ed and hang up her mental weapons and enjoy herself. A picnic with Joe and Bobby sounded surprisingly appealing. Especially since they would be out in public. She still didn’t feel entirely comfortable being alone with this man, but perhaps if she spent some time with him, she would learn something about him.

  She was impressed that even though he had so little, Joe insisted on paying for their simple meal. They carried the grocery sack out to the empty picnic table beside the creek and set out the bread and bologna while Bobby threw rocks into the shallow stream from the small footbridge.

  “Is that the famous Sugar Creek?” Joe asked.

  “The one and same.”

  He seemed much more relaxed around her than he had the previous two days. Maybe it was because she was no longer in uniform. Or maybe it was because he now had a paying job and a roof over his head. She wasn’t thrilled with the fact that it was probably her mother’s money funding his new job, but it was a relief to have some of the responsibility of the farm off her shoulders.

  She wondered if his newly relaxed state might somehow pay off for her. Perhaps he would let down his guard and let something slip about his past if he could forget she was a cop for a moment.

  You’re looking for boogeymen, Rachel.

  Ed’s words came back to her. Okay, so she was doing it again. She willed herself to relax. She had the right to enjoy this day off with the autumn sun on her face and a handsome man sitting across from her.

  Whoa. Handsome?

  How could she think Joe was handsome when she couldn’t even see his face for the beard?

  It was his eyes, she decided. It was the way they lit up every time he looked at Bobby. The way they crinkled at the corners when someone said something funny. The way they followed Anna with such compassion. Yes, there was a lot of depth in those gorgeous blue eyes.

  Gorgeous? She sat up straight at the direction her thoughts were taking her. She didn’t know this man. She didn’t even want to know this man. Not really.

  Unfortunately, the sad fact was, having this impromptu picnic with Joe as they watched Bobby throw rocks into the stream was the most fun she’d had in months. Or had it been years?

  Ed was absolutely right. She definitely needed more in her life than police work.

  Joe had had one goal and one goal only, when he’d suggested they go out to eat. If he was going to stay here awhile, he wanted to normalize things between himself and Rachel. Bobby needed some stability in his life, and Joe was willing to do almost anything to keep his son in the middle of this oasis of gentle people—even if it meant making friends with the resident cop.

  During the church service, he had decided to be charming enough—and engaging enough—that Rachel would drop her suspicions and leave him alone.

  He had not expected to enjoy it.

  Dressed in a rust-colored sweater and khaki slacks, she seemed like an entirely different person than the one he knew when she was in uniform.

  He liked how well she answered his questions about the Amish. He was finding her to be an intelligent, thoughtful woman. He also appreciated the way she cut Bobby’s sandwich into little squares and took off the cr
usts without being asked…as her hair shone in the autumn sunlight in shades of light brown to reddish gold.

  Sitting at the picnic table, enjoying what Rachel informed him was a sandwich of the delicious, locally made Trail bologna, he realized with surprise that he was having a really good time.

  And he wasn’t at all pleased about that.

  He sternly reminded himself of Grace and the grief he had been carrying. He told himself that he had no business enjoying the company of another woman.

  Bobby ate a few bites of his sandwich and a handful of potato chips then immediately went back to splashing rocks in the water.

  “How did the creek get its name?” Joe asked. “Is the water especially sweet, or does it have white, sugarlike sand somewhere?”

  “Some people say it got its name when a farmer from Ragersville came to town for groceries and accidentally dumped a couple sacks of sugar into the creek when his wagon tipped over the bridge. Some people think it more likely that it got its name from all the sugar maple trees that grew around here. Of course the town took its name from the creek.”

  “Was Sugarcreek a good place to grow up, Rachel?”

  She smiled at the memories. “It was a wonderful place to grow up. Practically no crime, everyone watching out for one another. Have you noticed how Main Street has that long, steep hill? They used to block that off on snow days when the weather was just right for sledding, and every kid in town would show up. It was so much fun. Once when I was little, my dad grabbed a toboggan, and he and my mom and me slid down the hill together, over and over.”

  “Was your father shunned for leaving the church and becoming a cop?”

  “No. Dad left before he was baptized into the church. Bertha left to get her nursing degree after she joined. Baptism is the line of demarcation for the Amish.”

  “Why?”

  “It’s what they were martyred for back in the 1500s. The state church was baptizing babies, and the Amish believed in adult baptism only. They were hunted down and burned at the stake for their beliefs. Baptism is a very big deal to the Amish. Their ancestors died because of their belief in its necessity.”

  “They were burned at the stake for a point of doctrine?”

  “A scriptural point of doctrine considered a matter of salvation. Don’t ever think that because they are a pacifistic people they are pushovers. My father’s people are strong. They’ve endured persecution, withstood the pressures of progress, lived daily with the world’s ignorance of their ways, preserved their culture, and are presently doubling in size every twenty years—even though their lives are not easy or convenient. Many wrest a living out of the soil using not much more than a horse and plow, while non-Amish farmers with giant farm equipment are giving up.”

  “No wonder you are the way you are.”

  She glanced up at him. “And how is that?”

  “Tenacious. Loyal. Hardworking. Self-sacrificing.”

  “There are worse attributes.”

  “Absolutely—but what traits did you get from your mom’s family?”

  “Oh, Mom’s folks were Swiss cheese makers. My grandfather on my mother’s side bought lots of land around Sugarcreek during the Depression…and sold it later at a profit. They were frugal people. Invested and saved what they had. Dad and Mom met when she was clerking at a grocery store near here. Dad always said that for him it was love at first sight. Mom said he bought so many candy bars, trying to court her, that she had to go out with him.”

  “So both parents were homegrown Sugarcreek kids.”

  “My roots go deep. What about you? What kind of childhood did you have?”

  He watched Bobby struggling to unearth an especially large rock. The little guy succeeded and tossed it into the creek with a satisfying splash. The antibiotics were doing their job. His son was immeasurably better.

  “Joe?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “What kind of a childhood did you have?”

  How much should he reveal? “We traveled a lot.”

  Rachel began to clear the picnic table. “Overseas?”

  “Yes.”

  “I thought so. You handle your knife and fork like a European.”

  “I picked up that habit in boarding school. Never lost it.”

  She walked over and tossed the crumpled papers into a trash can near the creek. “Is your mother still living?”

  “No.”

  “What about your father?”

  “I think so.”

  “You think so?”

  He sighed. “We’ve been estranged for years.”

  “Why?”

  Joe traced around a knothole in the picnic table with his finger. “He had plans for me—plans I didn’t go along with.”

  “What were they?”

  Joe hesitated for a long time. “He wanted me to become a preacher.”

  Rachel sat down directly in front of him. “You could not possibly have said anything that would have surprised me more.”

  He pretended offense. “You can’t see me in the pulpit?”

  She seemed to consider the idea. “You might look more the part with a haircut and shave.”

  “Maybe they would accept me into the Amish church. I have the beard for it,” he teased.

  “You’d never make it as an Amishman, Joe.”

  “And why not?” He drew himself up. “I can milk cows with the best of them now. Give me a straw hat and suspenders, and I could pass.”

  “Joe, you could speak fluent Pennsylvania Dutch and dress in handmade Amish clothing, but no Amish person would ever mistake you as one of them.”

  This interested him. “Why?”

  “You don’t move or stand like an Amish person, and you never will. I’ve seen outsiders attempt it. They always fail. One of my aunts’ Englisch guests once wanted to try Amish dress. She put her hair in a bun and put on Lydia’s clothes. Everything was technically correct, but everyone could see that the woman was not Amish. It’s impossible to describe the difference, but you just know. Anyone around here would know.”

  “Then I won’t ever try to disguise myself as an Amishman.”

  “Good idea. Especially since you’re already wearing a disguise.”

  Her words jarred him, which had likely been her intention. “It’s the shoes, Joe. Their price doesn’t match the rest of your clothing.”

  He lifted one foot and regarded it sadly. “I’ve always loved these shoes.”

  “Are they as comfortable as I’ve heard?”

  “More so.”

  Rachel looked him straight in the eyes. “Who are you hiding from?”

  “Honestly? Pretty much everyone.”

  “Why?”

  He looked over at Bobby. “I’m just trying to give him some normalcy.”

  “The past three days have been normal?”

  “Compared to the life we were living, yes.”

  “You aren’t going to tell me any more than that, are you?”

  He scraped a thumbnail into the seasoned wood of the picnic table. “No.”

  She sighed and gathered her purse. “I had convinced my aunts to close down their inn until you showed up.”

  “I don’t think they were ever convinced it was the right thing to do.”

  “Stubborn old women.”

  He laughed. “In fifty years, you’ll be exactly like them.”

  A grin grudgingly spread across her face. “I sincerely hope so.”

  Chapter 9

  The daadi haus was a modest two-bedroom cottage attached to the farmhouse by a short, well-worn path. When Bertha opened the door, a musty smell assailed them.

  “It would probably be best to stay at the cabin until you get this aired and cleaned,” she advised.

  Joe set the bucket, scrub brush, soap, and rags Lydia had given him on the floor. Dark brown, cracked leather furniture was pushed against a smoke-stained wall. The small living room was dominated by a large, blackened fireplace.

  “My father lived here af
ter our mother passed on. He had lost patience with all the hustle and bustle of guests. In his later years he lit a fire every day, summer or winter. He said it helped his arthritis.” Bertha’s voice held a note of apology. “I never had the heart to rent it out before we hired you.”

  The kitchen was only slightly smaller than the living room, and not as dark. A silent gas-powered refrigerator sat in a corner. Joe opened an oak cabinet hung high on the wall. Ancient, thick china plates were stacked neatly inside. Another cabinet revealed a few drinking glasses and cups. A small gas cookstove sat beside the sink. And an oak table with four chairs rounded out the sparse kitchen furnishings.

  “There are two bedrooms and a study,” Bertha said, “as well as an attic for storage.”

  “I don’t have much to store,” Joe said, as he took stock.

  Abraham Troyer didn’t appear to have collected any clutter. With soap, water, and some paint, these rooms would be quite livable. The wooden floors were scuffed, but they would shine up nicely. Joe’s spirits lifted. With a few days of hard work, this cottage could feel like a real home.

  The two bedrooms were as sparsely furnished as the kitchen and living room—bare mattresses on twin beds in each, along with a chair, a kerosene lamp, and a bedside table. Nothing else. Abraham could have been living in a monastery, for all the comfort he had afforded himself.

  “This is my father’s study.” Bertha led him to the back of the house. “Daett spent a great deal of time back here.”

  Joe was pleasantly surprised when they entered the room. There was a wooden desk facing large, bare windows. The windows overlooked a tangled rose garden and the pasture where the sisters’ one horse stood munching grass.

  He wondered if his duties would ever include harnessing and hitching this horse to the buggy he had seen in the barn. If so, they were all going to be in a world of trouble. He had no earthly idea even how to even ride a horse, let alone hitch one.

  Joe turned around and took an involuntary step backward. The entire wall opposite the bank of windows was filled with shelves, and on those shelves, he estimated several hundred volumes to read.