Annabelle bit back a smile. Leave it to Beulah to state her case so Bishop Clayton and Phineas couldn’t possibly miss her meaning. The two older men kept their remarks to themselves, although Clayton rolled his eyes.
“And corn bread! My favorite,” Jonathan piped up. “Let’s hope there’ll be some left for the rest of you folks after I help myself.”
“I’ll fetch a big jar of honey,” Ruby put in, patting the young man’s shoulder. “My little bees love working for folks who enjoy it the way you do.”
By the time Irene had handed Clayton his place setting—rather than putting it in front of him, Annabelle noted—she felt more positive about the way the visiting bishop had come in unannounced. Phineas, after all, was paying for his meals, but he apparently thought better of reminding Clayton about that.
After the women had taken the chairs interspersed among the men, silence filled the dining room during their prayer. Annabelle was grateful to her friends for sitting beside Phineas and Clayton, leaving her a spot between young Cyrus and Christine.
Help us remember, Lord, that we’re all Your beloved children, she prayed with her eyes squeezed shut. If we start acting out, remind us that You’re in charge here. And denki for these fine ladies who love You—and me—with all their hearts.
When Annabelle opened her eyes, Clayton was gazing at her like a cat perched beside the canary cage. Phineas smiled at her—that same casual, knowing smile that had always signaled his awareness of her as a woman. She busied herself with filling her plate as the side dishes came around, and then passed it to Beulah, who was dishing up the sausage and bean stew for everyone.
Bishop Clayton cleared his throat as though the silence in the room needed to be filled. “How’s the wedding meal coming along, ladies?” he asked cheerfully. “I’m looking forward to chicken and stuffing roast, and creamed celery, and mashed potatoes, and all those other wonderful-gut foods with which we celebrate a happy couple.”
Mattie and Beulah exchanged smiles. “Well then, Bishop, you’re going to be disappointed,” Mattie replied, “because Allen, our groom, has asked for venison roast—always a favorite of his and his dat’s—”
“And my Phoebe’s been partial to chicken spaghetti since she was a wee girl,” Christine chimed in. “So we’ve been baking the chickens and making the cheesy sauce for that dish today. None of that chicken and stuffing for these two.”
“We’ll also have a nice assortment of veggies that Mattie’s grown in her produce plots,” Ruby said, “such as mashed yams, zucchini and yellow squash casserole, and fresh green beans cooked with onions. Phoebe has never cared for celery, so there you have it.”
“Chocolate wedding cake, too, instead of white,” Beulah added with a chuckle, “because everyone here loves Ruby’s chocolate cake with mocha frosting. And Irene’s pies, of course. At least those are traditional.”
The expression on Bishop Clayton’s face was priceless, even if it signaled an oncoming lecture. “Have you people held on to nothing that is sacred?” he asked in a terse whisper. “Am I to assume you’re holding the wedding here in the lodge, too, instead of in the bride’s parents’ home? You might as well be Mennonites, if you hold your worship services in a designated place such as the meeting room!”
Mattie set down her forkful of casserole to focus on Bishop Clayton. “Keep in mind that when we first came here, we had no homes to meet in—so we congregated in the lodge,” she pointed out in a deceptively calm voice. “And for the life of me, Bishop, I can’t see how a menu of the bride and groom’s favorite foods would displease God or reflect in any way on our faith in Him. Are you suggesting that every way we differ from tradition makes us more heathen and even farther from attaining salvation than you already believe we are?”
Annabelle’s eyes widened. She understood Mattie’s frustration, but she also thought her friend might have overstepped the bounds—especially because Mattie was a preacher’s wife. Indeed, Clayton was glaring across the table at Mattie as though he might bore holes through her head with the intensity of his gaze.
“Our faith is no laughing matter—not a topic to make light of,” the bishop began in a coiled voice. “If you can show no better respect than—”
The shrill ringing of the telephone interrupted Clayton’s diatribe, and Annabelle was happy to head for the kitchen to answer it. She hadn’t even made it to the door before the bishop was demanding, “Why do you have a telephone in here? Of all the—why do you women think you’re above going to a phone shanty like your neighbors do?”
“Our first bishop, Floyd Lehman, asked the same question when he arrived,” Rosetta quickly pointed out. “But he allowed us to keep it because all of the apartment and cabin residents use it as a group phone, and several of us run businesses with it.”
“And how did you convince him to let you keep the electrical outlets? Is this place still wired?” Clayton came back at her.
Annabelle reached for the receiver and stepped into the mudroom with it, hoping the caller couldn’t overhear the escalating conversation in the dining room. “Jah, hello?” she asked breathlessly. “You’ve reached Promise Lodge and this is Annabelle—”
“Oh, but it’s gut to hear your voice, Annabelle! It’s Edna Schlabaugh,” the caller interrupted. “I would’ve called back sooner but we’ve been up to our ears with canning tomatoes and we’ve had folks coming down right and left with an early run of the flu and—”
“Edna!” Annabelle said, turning her back toward the dining room. It was just like old times, with her neighbor flapping on and on like a chicken in a dither. “I’m sure sorry to hear about folks getting sick with the flu already. How are you?”
Heart pounding with anticipation, she listened to an answer that required several minutes. Annabelle hoped Edna would soon remember why she was calling....
“—and you know we’re gearing up for the fall festival, collecting consignment items to sell,” she rambled on, “and everywhere we went around the county, we asked about Bishop Clayton King. It’s the oddest thing, Annabelle. Nobody’s ever heard of him—not even at the grocery warehouses where we stopped. And don’t you think Clayton is an odd name for an Old Order Amish man? Sounds more Mennonite—and of the younger generation—if you ask me!”
Annabelle couldn’t breathe. She gripped the receiver, staring at the deep freeze and the laundry sink and the back door—anything to keep herself focused on what her neighbor from Lancaster County had just said.
Nobody’s ever heard of him.
“Annabelle? You still there?”
“Jah, I’m here,” she murmured into the phone. But who’s that man sitting at our table?
“Tell you what, Edna, you’ve caught me in the middle of things,” Annabelle continued. “You’ve been a tremendous help, and denki so much for asking around for me. I’ll call you back soon, okay?”
When Annabelle returned the receiver to the phone cradle, her hand was shaking. At the sound of footsteps, she turned nervously.
“Annabelle, you’re as white as a sheet,” Christine said as she hurried over. “I came in for more corn bread—but also to see about you. Is everything all right? Bad news?”
“Well . . . odd news,” Annabelle murmured, quickly making a decision. “The sort of thing I can’t tell just anybody. Is Monroe home today?”
“Jah, if he’s not at the house he’s working with his horses.” Christine frowned, leaning closer. “Annabelle, what is it? You can tell me—”
“I—I really think Bishop Monroe needs to be the judge of that,” she said. “If anybody asks, just say I—I took him a slice of his favorite pie while it’s still warm,” she stammered. “Please don’t ask me to say more, and please don’t let on to anybody at the table that I’ve had a bit of a fright. Make it sound as though Monroe called to tease one of us into bringing him some pie, and I’m the one who picked up the phone.”
Christine nodded doubtfully, but she didn’t ask any more questions. By the time she’d
loaded her basket with more golden squares of corn bread, Annabelle was hurrying up the road with an entire peach pie. She figured that was the least Monroe deserved, considering the news she was about to drop on him.
* * *
Monroe sat down hard on a kitchen chair, gesturing for Annabelle to do the same. “Now tell me this again to be sure I heard you right,” he said. “Your friend from Lancaster County called you back—”
“And she said that she and her husband—who’s a preacher in our district—couldn’t find a single soul who knew of anybody by the name of Clayton King,” Annabelle repeated slowly. “I called her a few weeks ago, because neither Phineas nor I had heard of him, either, and I was just curious, you know?”
Monroe rubbed his hand over his eyes. He felt a headache coming on, and aspirin wasn’t going to touch it. “So who is he?” he whispered. “And why is he here pestering us?”
Annabelle grasped the bishop’s hand in sympathy. “I wish I knew,” she replied gently. “I’m still waiting for letters from a couple of friends back home, so maybe they’ll have different answers—or more details that’ll help us figure him out. Phineas and I haven’t mentioned to him that we used to live just down the road from Paradise—”
“That shouldn’t matter, if he’s telling the truth.” Monroe shook his head, totally baffled. “So why does King think he can fool us? What’s in it for him?” he muttered with a sigh. The peach pie Annabelle had set on the table was still warm and it smelled like absolute heaven, yet he’d lost his appetite. One thing seemed prudent, however. “Annabelle, I’m asking you not to breathe a word of this to anybody—do you understand why?”
“Oh, jah, I figured you’d say that,” she replied solemnly. “I won’t tell Phineas for sure and for certain, because he’ll just use this information as bait and wave it in front of Clayton’s nose. Or whoever he really is,” she added with a shake of her head.
“I’m not even going to mention this to the three preachers yet,” he continued, “because the more folks who know, the more chance this information will slip out. Something’s telling me to keep this tidbit under our hats until the time comes when we can best use it.”
Annabelle nodded. “I couldn’t go back into that dining room with him sitting at the table,” she murmured. “Your wife thought I looked mighty upset, and if Clayton had started quizzing me about that phone call, I don’t know if I could’ve kept this information to myself.” She scowled. “He was on his high horse again anyway, about what we’re serving at the wedding meal and the fact that the ceremony’s being held in the lodge instead of here at your place.”
Monroe sighed, rubbing his temples. “I suspect he’ll use the occasion to preach at us again about how we’ve fallen short. We need to be ready for whatever he says—because Allen and Phoebe’s wedding is not the proper place for him to pontificate, or to hold the loss of our salvation over our heads.”
“I’ll let you know what those other friends write to me,” Annabelle assured him. Then she let out a short laugh. “When I made my way to Promise Lodge, I thought I was escaping a confrontational situation—but here I am, smack in the middle of another one!”
Monroe focused on the woman sitting beside him. Annabelle was blond and attractive—in her early forties, but didn’t look it—and she’d picked up on the spirit the other women in the lodge exuded. She deserved the life of peace and healing she’d come here for, and he intended for her to find it no matter what Phineas and King might do.
“By now you’ve had a chance to consider the ins and outs about this, so what are your thoughts about Phineas coming back for you?” he asked softly. “Do you want him to stay, or to go on back to his English way of life without you?”
“What are your thoughts, Bishop?” she countered quickly. “The Old Order spells out what’s supposed to happen when somebody forsakes his vows to the church. Clayton King may be showering us with more fire and brimstone than we’d like, but most of what he’s said about Phineas’s situation is true. In most Amish communities, anyway.”
Monroe’s heart softened. Annabelle knew she was in a tough spot, and she wasn’t trying to wheedle her way out of it. “All of us at Promise Lodge came because we wanted a fresh start—a second chance at happiness,” he murmured. “I believe that with God, all things are possible—just as the Bible tells us—and to me that now means there’s no such thing as an unforgivable sin. If Phineas sincerely wants to make amends and reconcile with you and the church, I’m inclined to give him that chance. But I’m placing your welfare—your wishes—ahead of his.”
Annabelle’s mouth dropped open. “You’d do that for me?” she whispered.
“I would.” Monroe considered the consequences of his decision, and decided to clarify it. “If you want Phineas to go, you’ll still be married to him—and you can’t marry anybody else until he passes, because we don’t allow divorce,” he said. “But you’ll have a home here as long as you want one, so you won’t be alone. At this point, I can’t think any of us wants you to leave, Annabelle.”
Her hand fluttered to her heart. “Oh my, that’s—that’s such a blessing you’ve just granted me, Bishop Monroe,” she whispered. “It’s so comforting to hear.”
He smiled. “You’re a blessing, too, to all of us here. I appreciate you coming to me with your information—and this fine pie! It was probably baked for the wedding, but I intend to enjoy every bite of it over the next couple of days while I figure out this situation we’re in. The mystery of Clayton King.”
Chapter Fourteen
As Gloria sat on the front pew bench of the women’s side of the congregation, she thrummed with excitement. The regular church service had just ended and it was time for the wedding. Phoebe stepped up in front of Bishop Monroe, and Allen joined her. The bride blushed with eager happiness in her wedding dress of royal blue with a white organdy apron that shimmered in the morning sunlight. Allen’s black church pants, matching vest, and white shirt appeared stiff with newness because Annabelle had just sewn his clothing this past week. He, too, appeared ready to promise himself to his mate forever.
An expectant hush fell over the crowd. Everyone knew the ancient wedding vows by heart, yet each bride and groom brought fresh energy to the ceremony.
Not a word had been spoken, but to Gloria, this wedding felt vastly different from the previous one, when her mother had married Preacher Marlin. Her heart stilled when Phoebe and Allen exchanged a nervous smile. They were set for life, with everything to look forward to: a lovely new house situated on a double-sized plot of ground that surrounded Rainbow Lake, not to mention Allen’s burgeoning tiny home business and Phoebe’s productive pie shop.
Or will Bishop Clayton change all that? What if he tells them they’re too well-off and forces Phoebe to close her business?
Glancing around the roomful of folks in their Sunday clothes, Gloria knew that many of them had the same questions. Their smiles seemed tight for such a joyous occasion. Some folks glanced toward the burly man who sat on the preachers’ bench amid Amos, Eli, and Marlin as though wondering if he’d nudge Bishop Monroe aside—or even take over the ceremony, the way he tended to disrupt any conversation he joined.
“Phoebe and Allen,” Bishop Monroe began with a lilt in his rich voice, “you’re ready to take the second most important vow of your lives, and I must ask you one final time if you’re doing the right thing. If you have doubts, or if you have secrets or intentions that will compromise your life together, now’s the time to back away from the lifelong commitment you’re about to make.”
Bishop Monroe glanced at the crowd, speaking a little louder. “If anyone else in this gathering knows of a reason these two should not become husband and wife, speak now or forever hold your peace.”
Absolute silence rang in the big room.
Bishop Monroe flashed his boyish smile. “Very well, then. We stand before God with open, loving hearts and minds attuned to His will for us.”
Laura grabbed Glo
ria’s hand, her face alight with excitement. Gloria squeezed back, delighted that Phoebe had asked the two of them to be her side-sitters—and that Allen had invited his best buddies Cyrus and Jonathan to serve in that capacity.
When Gloria looked across the small center space where Phoebe and Allen stood, Cyrus was waiting to hold her gaze. A smile eased across his handsome face. With his hands in his lap, he subtly pointed first at her, then at himself, and then toward the place where the happy couple gazed raptly at the bishop who was conducting their wedding.
Gloria stopped breathing. Was Cyrus hinting that he wanted to be the next groom at Promise Lodge, and that he wanted her to be his bride? She’d dreamed about that happening sometime in the future, yet surely—well, if Cyrus wasn’t giving her a sign, what could he possibly be doing?
Cyrus repeated the motions, pointing at her, then at himself, then at the bride and groom. And then he raised his eyebrows in a question.
Oh my word, is he asking me to—
Jonathan elbowed his brother. He probably considered Cyrus’s gestures inappropriate—especially because the women’s side of the congregation, along with the preachers, could see him if they weren’t focused on the bishop as he led Allen in his vows.
For Gloria, the rest of the ceremony was a blur. During dinner, she and Cyrus would be seated together up on the raised eck table in the corner. Would he dare whisper his proposal there, in front of everyone? Or would he wait until they could be alone? Cyrus had a knack for finding places around Promise Lodge where they could spend time together away from prying eyes—over the past couple of weeks they’d gone on several evening walks. And each time he’d kissed her—
Oh, but his kisses hold promises that I so want him to keep!
Gloria’s cheeks got so hot that Laura might think she had a high fever, so she again focused on the ceremony. She needed to pay attention, so her own wedding would go just right when she and Cyrus stood before the bishop. What color would her dress be? Where would she shop for the high-topped black shoes brides traditionally wore, and for the special white fabric for her apron?
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