Light Shines on Promise Lodge

by Charlotte Hubbard

  Gloria considered these ideas as they passed Uncle Lester’s house. “Can Bishop Clayton make us change the way we do things?”

  Christine shrugged. “It’s best to leave those details to Monroe and the preachers,” she replied. “They’ll know how to deal with bishops who worship a God who hasn’t changed one iota since time out of mind—since before the Bible was written.”

  Gloria recalled her dat preaching about how God never changed, but she’d been daydreaming during most of the long sermons she’d heard over her lifetime. “So if God never changes, why are we so sure we’re doing the right things by allowing women more freedom?”

  Christine smiled. “After much prayer and listening to God’s response, Monroe—and even Amos, who’s a hard nut to crack—believe that because Jesus respected women and treated them as equals, we can do the same here at Promise Lodge,” she explained. “God never changes, but our perceptions of Him have evolved more than most other Old Order communities feel comfortable with. It’ll be interesting to hear what Bishop Clayton has to say about that—but it won’t be easy to listen to his criticism.”

  As they passed Mattie and Amos’s place, Gloria sighed. She was already tired of the havoc Phineas was creating for poor Annabelle, and she didn’t relish the thought of another newcomer trying to change everyone’s lives. “See you later,” she said as the little white bakery building came into sight. “I’ll tell Phoebe and Irene what’s happening before they take their pies to town.”

  Nodding, Christine strode toward the entrance to the Promise Lodge property, where Mattie’s produce stand sat.

  Gloria opened the door to Promise Lodge Pies and peered inside. Aromas of fruit and sugar and spices filled the air. The tables across the small front room were covered with cooling pies. Behind the back counter, Phoebe and her partner, Irene Wickey, chatted happily as they fitted top crusts onto the pies they’d soon put into the oven. “You ladies have been busy this morning!” Gloria called out as she stepped inside.

  When her friends looked up, both of them slender blondes wearing kerchiefs and flour-dusted aprons, they looked enough alike to be mother and daughter. Irene waved her wooden spoon. “Now that it’s fall, we get up before daylight—but our Saturday’s work is almost done,” she added. “We’re baking a few extra pies from our leftover dough and filling so those ingredients won’t spend the weekend in the fridge.”

  Gloria inhaled deeply, identifying the deep sweetness of the pecan pies on the table as well as the tang of the gooseberry pie Phoebe was putting together. “I don’t know how you do it,” she murmured wistfully. “I’ve never baked a picture-perfect pie—let alone one that’s fit to eat—yet you ladies bake dozens of them in a day.”

  Irene smiled kindly at her. “You’re welcome to watch us anytime, honey.”

  “Maybe we could choose one kind of pie you’d like to bake and help you until you can make that recipe with your eyes closed,” Phoebe suggested.

  “Truth be told, when Truman was a boy, I wasn’t much of a pie maker,” Irene admitted in a nostalgic tone. “But he and his dat were gut sports and they ate my mistakes. I’ve had years of practice now—”

  “And we know that even if a pie gets a little too brown around the edges, or the filling doesn’t set up just right,” Phoebe put in, “folks still think it’s a treat—partly because they didn’t make it themselves.”

  Gloria nodded, even though she doubted pie baking would ever be easy for her. “Say—was everything in gut order when you came in this morning?” she asked, glancing around the bakery. “I saw Phineas prowling the grounds last night, and he came in here.”

  Phoebe’s and Irene’s eyes widened. “I—I didn’t notice that anything had been bothered,” Irene replied.

  “Nothing’s missing, if that’s what you mean,” Phoebe added warily. “Why do you suppose he came in?”

  Gloria shrugged. “He went into Christine’s barn with her cows, too—and he checked out the Kuhns’ cheese factory,” she said. “Maybe he wasn’t able to sleep and his curiosity was getting the best of him—but Annabelle was plenty irritated when she heard he’d been snooping. Phineas was in the kitchen this morning before Ruby and Beulah got downstairs to start breakfast, too.”

  Irene’s brow furrowed. “I suppose it’s best that we know he’s inclined to wander around,” she remarked doubtfully. “Anybody could come in the lodge late at night and the five of us gals living upstairs would probably never know it. Those walls are sturdy. We don’t even hear one another when we’re in our apartments getting ready for bed.”

  “If you suspect Phineas is going where he’s not supposed to—like upstairs—you should tell Monroe and the preachers about it,” Phoebe said firmly.

  Gloria sighed. “I should probably ask Rosetta how to keep that from happening, too. We may have to install dead bolts on the doors—but even locks won’t keep, um, challenging folks from visiting Promise Lodge.”

  Recalling the purpose of her visit, Gloria continued. “At breakfast, as Phineas insisted he was taking Annabelle away from the Old Order, a Bishop Clayton King came in,” she recounted. “He said he was from the Council of Bishops in Lancaster County, and that he was here to set Promise Lodge back on the straight and narrow. He thinks we’ve gotten too progressive for our own gut.”

  “Why would he think that, if he just showed up this morning?” Irene asked with a puzzled frown.

  “He and those other bishops out east have been reading our posts in The Budget,” Gloria replied. She was already tiring of Clayton King’s mission, and she hadn’t even gotten fully acquainted with him. “Beulah asked me to let folks know about it—especially the women running businesses, and Rosetta. When I left, King was doing the talking and Bishop Monroe couldn’t get a word in edgewise.”

  Phoebe and Irene crimped the edges of their piecrusts, cogitating over the information Gloria had just given them. Once again she envied their expertise, their effortless way of creating perfection in a pie pan. When Phoebe had slipped the final three pies into the oven, they gave Gloria their attention again.

  “I suppose the first thing this fellow’s going to jump on is the fact that Rosetta married my Truman, and that all of you Amish are fine with it,” Irene said softly.

  “He’ll have something to say about us allowing single gals to rent lodge apartments and support themselves, too,” Phoebe put in with a shake of her head. “We’ve gotten so accustomed to Bishop Monroe’s more liberal way of doing things, we’ll be in for a real shock if this Bishop Clayton starts flinging our sins in our faces. Like our bishop back in Coldstream used to do.”

  “Bishop Clayton won’t like it one bit that our three women founders sold their farms to move away from that bishop,” Irene pointed out. “He’ll interpret that as the ultimate show of disrespect for the leader God chose to be in charge of them.”

  While Phoebe stacked their dirty bowls and utensils, Irene began to sweep around the worktable. “Once we get our pies labeled and packed into the van, we’ll let you take the three extra ones back to the lodge with you, Gloria,” she said. “Sounds like things there could use a little sweetening up.”

  “That’s a fine idea,” Gloria agreed. “I suspect that by the time word gets around, most everyone will be going to the lodge to meet this fellow. It could turn into a Saturday night potluck in the blink of an eye.”

  “So maybe it was God who whispered in our ears about making those extra pies this morning,” Phoebe said lightly—although she sounded perfectly sincere. “Maybe He already knew we could make a contribution, and we’ve been carrying out His will without even realizing it.” Her expression grew pensive, even as her blue eyes twinkled. “Because really, who’s to say we weren’t doing His will? Seems to me that topic’s open to a lot of interpretations, on a lot of levels.”

  “I think you just hit a big nail smack on the head, Phoebe,” Irene said. “We might need to remind ourselves—and maybe this King fellow—that the leaders of Promise Lodge hav
e been following what they believe is God’s will all along. But then, I’m a Mennonite, so I should keep my mouth shut, ain’t so?”

  “You’re one of us, Irene, and your opinion counts!” Gloria said emphatically. “Truth be told, you two have made me feel better about this whole situation.”

  When she glanced out the window, Gloria saw Bishop Monroe and the preachers—including newlywed Marlin—coming down the lodge steps with Clayton King. Uncle Lester had returned from work, and he appeared pleased to be included in a group of such fine men. Gloria’s heart welled up with hope.

  “You know, we have three fine preachers and a bishop whose hearts are in the right place—and it’s clear that God has blessed us all since we moved here from our previous homes,” Gloria remarked proudly. “How can Bishop Clayton prevail? When he finds out how things work here, he’ll either go back to Lancaster County with a different tale to tell that council, or he’ll want to come and live at Promise Lodge himself!”

  “I hope you’re right, dearie,” Irene murmured. “We’ll leave your pies on the worktable and pray for the best.”

  Chapter Seven

  The tension eased from Annabelle’s shoulders after the menfolk offered to show Bishop Clayton around Promise Lodge—but when she looked through the kitchen window, she saw that Phineas wasn’t among them. Daisy was running toward the group, however, barking and eyeing their newest guest, as well as the strange buggy and the fine horse in the lodge’s side yard.

  “Go on now, Daisy,” Bishop Monroe said, waving her off. “Nothing here for you to get so excited about, girl.”

  Daisy senses more than we do about Clayton King—just as she barked when Phineas first showed up, Annabelle mused. With any luck, Phineas has returned to his cabin . . . but most likely, he’s waiting in the dining room. He won’t let me off so easily.

  Annabelle decided to remain in the kitchen, surrounded by the other women, for as long as she could get by with it.

  “I think we made some points with Bishop Clayton, suggesting we have a picnic for everyone tomorrow,” Mattie was saying. “It’s not a church Sunday, so he won’t be preaching any sermons about our wayward tendencies—”

  “I bet he’ll make the most of being the guest of honor, though,” Christine pointed out. “He’s certainly got a way with words—but tomorrow my Laura turns eighteen, and I don’t want her special day to be eclipsed by a big-wig bishop.”

  “You’re absolutely right!” Ruby said as she headed toward the pantry. “How about if Beulah and I make some pretty sheet cakes, and maybe somebody could bring homemade ice cream to go with them?”

  “What a gut idea! We won’t have many more occasions for homemade ice cream this season,” Frances Lehman put in. “I’ll make chocolate—and I bet my new son, Lowell, will be happy to crank the ice-cream freezer if he gets to be the tester!”

  “I’ll bring vanilla, along with some toppings,” Rosetta offered. “Truman loves homemade ice cream, and we’ve found several jars of flavored syrup on Irene’s pantry shelves that need to be used up.”

  Annabelle opened the deep freeze in the mudroom and took out two big packets wrapped in white butcher paper. “Here’s the shaved ham we bought on sale last week. I could stir up a big batch of barbeque sauce to simmer it in and make some buns for sandwiches.”

  “Perfect picnic food,” Beulah said. “We can keep it warm in the steam table.”

  “I’ll bring a big relish tray and a platter of deviled eggs,” Mattie put in. “I’m glad we’ve gotten this picnic—and Laura’s birthday—off to a gut start. The way to a man’s heart has always been through his stomach, and I can’t think Bishop Clayton’s any different. Especially because I’ve heard no mention of a wife or family.”

  “We’ll ask him about that tomorrow,” said Christine. “We should be ready with all sorts of topics, in case the conversation focuses on our tendency to be too independent!”

  Annabelle laughed along with the other gals, hoping that Phineas was listening. He needed to see that the women of Promise Lodge refused to be any man’s doormat. Everyone turned when Gloria stepped into the mudroom with a double pie carrier in one hand and a dome-covered gooseberry pie in the other.

  “Looks like you visited Promise Lodge Pies at the right time!” Beulah crowed. “We’re planning a picnic for everybody tomorrow at noon, to welcome Bishop Clayton.”

  “Might not hurt to take one of these over to Lester’s place,” Frances suggested as she helped her daughter set the pies on the counter. “Lester stopped in, and he’s offered Bishop Clayton a room at his house. I told them I’d go over this evening with their supper.”

  “It’s a gut thing we cleaned his place last week.” Gloria glanced eagerly around the group. “What’s Bishop Clayton like? What did he say when you ladies all showed up out of the blue?”

  Mattie laughed. “It took some of the wind out of his sails when he learned that we founding sisters all got married this year, like the faithful Amish women we are—and that two of us married church leaders. We didn’t mention the part about Rosetta hitching up with a Mennonite.”

  “Jah, he seemed to be on his gut behavior, just taking in names and faces for now,” Ruby remarked. “But if he’s followed all of your columns in The Budget since the founding of Promise Lodge, he’s sure to mention that part someday.”

  “And our ongoing conversation with him should be a two-way street,” Rosetta said firmly. “It would be interesting—helpful to our cause—to know about the district Bishop Clayton serves, and maybe find out what folks think of him, ain’t so? Surely some of us here have far-flung cousins or friends from out east—”

  Annabelle held up her hand, nodding and then pointing purposefully toward the dining room. The faces around her lit up with the realization that Phineas might be able to hear their conversation. Snatching the lined tablet and pen they used for their ongoing shopping list, Annabelle scribbled, “I’ll write some letters to friends. Our farm was just a few miles from Paradise, where B. C. is from.”

  As the note made its way around the circle of women, they nodded and smiled at Annabelle. She felt good being able to help these women—and it would be wonderful to hear from her friends back home as she satisfied her own curiosity about Clayton King.

  Rosetta had brought along a sack of her goats’ milk soaps to restock her display in the lobby, so—winking at the ladies—she headed through the dining room with it. “Phineas!” she exclaimed, as though she was surprised to see him. “I thought you might’ve gone off with the other men and Bishop Clayton.”

  Annabelle smiled as she listened for her husband’s response.

  “I’ve nothing to say to King,” he said tersely. “I’ve got plenty to talk to Annabelle about, however, yet it seems I’m always waiting for her. Have you women finished your picnic planning?”

  “We have,” Rosetta replied cheerfully, “and we hope you’ll join us for the festivities tomorrow. It’ll be a fine time for you to meet folks, and to share a wonderful-gut meal with us. Here—you might enjoy a bar of this orange and cornmeal soap,” she added. “Most men find it cleans the grime from their hands without making them smell too girly.”

  Annabelle nearly laughed out loud at the thought of Phineas washing with scented soap, yet she appreciated Rosetta’s efforts to soften him up.

  “I suppose you expect me to pay for this?” Phineas shot back.

  “Oh no,” Rosetta assured him without missing a beat. “I sell it to lots of customers hereabouts, but I’m happy for my friends and our guests to have as much of it as they want. My goats and I enjoy being useful, you see.”

  Once again Annabelle felt embarrassed by her husband’s testiness—the chip he’d been carrying on his shoulder since he’d arrived. It was such a blessing that Rosetta and her sisters kept a positive attitude no matter what was going on around them. But all too soon they were on their way back to their homes. As though Ruby and Beulah sensed that Annabelle needed their company, they stayed in th
e kitchen to bake Laura’s birthday cakes. Annabelle was happy to help them.

  She wasn’t surprised when Phineas appeared in the doorway, one eyebrow raised as he looked at her. “Is it finally my turn?”

  Annabelle knew better than to keep her husband waiting any longer, so she set aside the two cake pans she’d sprayed. “Let’s take a walk,” she suggested, figuring to keep Phineas out where other people would see them. “It’s a beautiful day.”

  “Is it?” he demanded. “I’ve spent the entire morning hanging around in the dining room, waiting for you. It’s obvious your priorities have changed since—”

  “Your priorities—and your attitude—could use a change, too, mister!” Annabelle blurted. “For a man who’s come to lure me away, you’re being awfully cranky. Any reasonable woman would’ve stopped listening to you long ago.”

  Annabelle’s blood stilled in her veins. Why had she sassed Phineas? He would only be angrier with her—

  But every word is true! He should know that honey attracts better than vinegar, when it comes to turning a woman’s head . . . and reclaiming her heart.

  “I totally agree,” Beulah remarked as she continued measuring ingredients for the cakes. “Folks here make a point of being pleasant and polite, Phineas, so you’re coming across like a big dill pickle, by comparison. Just saying.”

  Annabelle held her breath, awaiting her husband’s comeback. He remained silent, however, before beckoning her with his hand. “Let’s take that walk, Annabelle. We have much to discuss.”

  Why did she feel like a lamb being led to slaughter as she followed Phineas through the dining room? Annabelle allowed him to open the front door, and as she stepped out onto the lodge’s big front porch she inhaled deeply to steady her nerves.

  Help me out, Lord. Phineas seems to be provoking my mouthy side this morning, and that’s not a gut way to behave right now.