Morning Star

by Charlotte Hubbard

  “So this friend,” she began with an expectant smile, “is he a nice Amish fellow who makes a gut living from what he sells?”

  Regina kicked herself. Why had she blurted out that the potential stall renter was a male? Why had she even opened this can of worms, which was leading her into deeper spiritual quicksand than she already struggled with?

  As Cora’s three daughters smiled at her, carrying trays of sandwiches, Regina reminded herself that she was setting an example for her cousins Emma, Lucy, and Linda—and that her well-meaning aunt deserved a straightforward answer. Aunt Cora and Uncle Clarence had helped Regina recover after her parents died in a nasty bus accident ten years ago, and she was grateful for all they’d done. Where would she be if they hadn’t helped her through her grief?

  But you can’t tell them the truth.

  Regina put a patient smile on her face. “No, Aunt Cora, he’s an English fellow. Merely an acquaintance whose paintings I’ve admired.”

  Her aunt’s smile fell. “Oh. I was hoping—”

  “Sorry,” Regina put in softly. “No need to plan a wedding.”

  As her aunt carried the pitchers toward the front room, Regina regretted disappointing her aunt yet again. Even though she was content living her maidel life—and had remained in the house on her parents’ acreage and supported herself with her earnings from the furniture factory—traditional women like Cora Miller didn’t understand how a woman of thirty-two could possibly feel fulfilled without a husband and kids.

  If you had any idea why I insisted on staying in my parents’ home rather than coming to live with you, Aunt Cora, you’d be appalled—and you’d find my secret much more unsettling than my decision to remain single.

  During the course of the common meal, if anyone asked about her “friend,” Regina stuck to the sketchy details she’d given about the mysterious artist so she wouldn’t incriminate herself further. The meeting with Bishop Jeremiah only took a few minutes, because when he suggested they hold their first organizational talk at his place on the following Wednesday afternoon, everyone agreed. After she bid her maidel friends goodbye, Regina pedaled her bike to her single-story home on Maple Lane, situated at the edge of town. She’d firmly decided to call her masquerade to a halt—to announce on Wednesday that her artist friend had no interest in renting a stall.

  What was I thinking, exposing myself this way?

  She entered her bedroom, stepped onto her large metal trunk, and then opened the short, narrow door in the wall so she could climb the wooden stairs to the attic.

  What if nobody wants my paintings, or, worse yet, people ridicule them? And what if folks figure out that I’m the artist—and that I’ve been living a lie for years? Best to nip this in the bud before I have to tell any more whoppers and get caught in them.

  And yet, as Regina stood in the center of her secret studio, something deep inside her longed to display the work that so satisfied her soul. Nearly every evening, after a day of staining furniture, she spent a few hours in her hideaway, painting nature scenes. Her more recent paintings hung from strings suspended across the studio, except where her easel sat by the small windows on the front of the house. Her older work was carefully stacked upright in bins—and the bins covered half the attic’s plank floor.

  Regina needed to paint the way most folks needed to eat and breathe. Her schoolteacher had complimented her artwork when she’d been young—and because composing scenes and working with color had come so naturally to her, her parents had allowed her to take a short watercolor class at Koenig’s Krafts when she’d entered rumspringa. Dat’s brother Clarence was a preacher, however, so he’d been adamant about Regina’s joining the church at an early age. She’d secured her salvation at seventeen by being baptized, but she’d forfeited her innermost soul: in the Morning Star district, members were forbidden to create art for art’s sake. Unless her painting decorated something useful like milk cans or housewares, it was considered worldly, something that called attention to the artist.

  Regina had obediently tucked her paints and brushes into her wooden trunk, but she’d felt the loss of her art acutely. After her parents had died when a train collided with the bus they were all riding in on the way home from a wedding, Regina had kept herself sane by taking up her paints again, setting up her easel in the attic—where it would be out of sight when anyone came to visit. At twenty-two, she’d been rather young to live alone on her family’s small acreage, but she’d instinctively known that moving in with strict, stern Preacher Clarence, Aunt Cora, and their young daughters would kill her spirit forever.

  Bishop Jeremiah had taken her side and had dropped in on her often until she’d gotten a little older. Martin Flaud had hired her because her father had been one of his finest craftsmen—and because Regina had proven herself to be more meticulous at staining and finishing than any of his male employees. She’d survived the rough, lonely times by working hard at the factory, and by surrounding herself with the quilts and curtains Mamm had made and the furniture Dat had built for their cozy home.

  And so the last ten years had passed . . .

  Regina had willingly given up any chance for marriage—because she couldn’t reveal her sinful pastime to a husband. Her solitary state bewildered Aunt Cora and Uncle Clarence. Her three nieces, however, were intrigued by her relative freedom and independence, which made family dynamics difficult when she spent time at her aunt and uncle’s house on visiting Sundays.

  Gazing at the nature paintings that surrounded her on that Sunday afternoon, Regina felt torn. Why had God given her a keen eye and the talent to render woodland scenes, flowers, and wild creatures on paper if He wouldn’t allow her to paint pictures of His creation openly and without guilt?

  She flipped through the paintings in the nearest bin . . . a pheasant on the riverbank; a collapsing barn surrounded by the first wildflowers of spring; an enlarged study of a dogwood blossom. Each scene brought back the wonder and awe she’d felt as she’d sketched and painted it. It saddened her greatly that she lived a double life that was unacceptable to God and to her family and friends, but painting was a habit she couldn’t seem to kick.

  Once again she told herself to back away from displaying her work at the new marketplace—to preserve her secret rather than risking exposure that would surely get her shunned. Wasn’t it exciting enough to be helping Jo, Lydianne, and the Helfings by creating new shops in what had been a dilapidated stable?

  Regina sat down at her easel. She brushed water on a section of the painting in progress and added a few more ribbons of pink and peach to a sunrise she’d begun. Watching the colors run together and take on the delicate hues of an early-morning sky caught her up in the magic of creating. If it was a sin for her to paint, picking up her brush on Sunday surely compounded her transgressions in God’s eyes, yet she was in such a quandary she didn’t know any other way to handle her opposing emotions.

  She should tell her friends that her artist friend had declined the offer to display his work. And she should pack up her paints and dispose of the evidence of her wayward nature.

  But then what would she do?

  Chapter Three

  Jo felt downright bubbly as she approached the bishop’s front porch on Wednesday afternoon. “Hey there, Margaret,” she said as Jeremiah’s mother opened the door for her. “Denki for allowing us to invade your kitchen when you’re most likely starting dinner.”

  “Sounds like you businesswomen have a lot to discuss if that old stable’s to become a place for shops,” she said. “I’ve got a chicken casserole in the oven, and if your meeting runs long, I’d appreciate it if you’d take it out.”

  “Will do.” Jo smiled, recognizing the same undertone of disapproval in Margaret’s voice that her mother had expressed several times since Sunday’s Members Meeting. “The final decision on buying the Clementi place rests with the entire congregation—”

  “Puh! Martin and Saul have been here to have their say about it, so I already k
now how the vote will go,” Margaret remarked as they entered the kitchen. “You’ve got coffee and a few cookies on the counter, so I’ll leave you to your planning.”

  Bishop Jeremiah chuckled as he came in from the front room with a stack of papers. “It’s no secret that God’s will and church business proceed faster when the movers and shakers put their influence behind it,” he remarked. “Gut to see you, Jo. I was hoping to speak with you before the others arrived.”

  “I’m early,” she admitted, intrigued by what she’d just heard. “I’ve sketched some plans for the arrangement of the shops and—well, I’m excited, so I couldn’t wait to get here.”

  “Your enthusiasm and organizational skills will go a long way toward helping this project succeed, too.” Jeremiah laid out his armload of papers on the kitchen table. “I hope you don’t mind that I didn’t give you credit for this marketplace idea on Sunday. Saul had been eyeing the Clementi place as additional pastureland for his cattle, and Clarence had remarked about how crowded the schoolhouse has become. When I suggested that we could build a new school on higher ground if the church acquired that property, Ammon jumped on board. Please don’t think I was downplaying your part in this project—”

  “Our church leaders are much more invested in it now because they think it’s mostly their idea—and yours,” Jo put in.

  The bishop met her eye gratefully. “Denki for understanding that. With you and your friends planning the shopping area, I believe we can create an appealing attraction that will benefit our district and the whole town of Morning Star. It’s an exciting way to support the schoolhouse, and an opportunity for women and men alike to be involved in the growth of our community.”

  As Margaret greeted more folks at the front door, Jo glowed with the bishop’s compliment. Because he’d lost his wife a few years ago and his widowed mamm kept house for him, Jeremiah had more time to devote to new projects—although everyone sincerely hoped he’d find a second wife. Jo had never entertained fantasies that he would ever want to court her, so she and the bishop worked well together on church matters without the complications of a potential romance.

  Within the next few minutes, the Helfing twins and Lydianne arrived, and so did Glenn Detweiler and Gabe.

  “How’s Dorcas doing? And your new baby boy?” Jo asked as the two men took their seats.

  Glenn composed his answer carefully. “Levi’s better now that we’re supplementing Dorcas’s milk with some goat milk,” he replied softly. “The doctor says she’s extremely anemic. He’s put her on vitamins and told her to stay off her feet until she’s stronger. Having this baby has really depleted her body and her strength, so Mamm and Dat are helping us out. Denki for asking.”

  “She’s in our prayers,” Jo murmured as the front door opened again.

  In the front room, Martha Maude Hartzler exchanged pleasantries with Margaret before joining them in the kitchen, and Regina slipped in last. She was clutching a large brown folder to her chest, and her freckled cheeks appeared flushed.

  “Sorry I’m late,” she murmured. “What have I missed?”

  “We’re just getting started,” Bishop Jeremiah said as he took his spot at the head of the table. “I asked Pete to stop by before he went in for his shift, so we’ll see if he makes it. Considering how unreliable he can be, I hope I haven’t set us up for delays with the stable renovation—”

  “But our other carpenters can help,” Gabe pointed out. “Pete’s a whiz at plumbing and ductwork, though.”

  “He is,” the bishop agreed. “And I hope you understand why I’d like to guide him away from his apartment in Higher Ground and his after-work pool hall habit by involving him on this project. Shall we open with a prayer?”

  Jo and the others bowed their heads as Bishop Jeremiah invoked God’s guidance. Higher Ground was a new town a few miles down the road from Morning Star. It had been hastily founded by a renegade bishop who’d been excommunicated from Willow Ridge—and who’d subsequently died—so for the local Amish, its reputation was overshadowed by a black cloud. The residents weren’t part of an organized church district anymore, which was another strike against Higher Ground.

  “Amen.” The bishop held up a stack of pages. “Since our meeting on Sunday, Martin has provided for us these forms from Byler Printing, where Flaud Furniture gets their invoices and receipts. He’s also suggested that we could have them handle our advertising, both print and online.”

  Glenn took a packet of forms before passing them along. “I’ve had the Bylers design flyers and a simple website for my carving business,” he remarked. “Couldn’t hurt to involve them and other Mennonites in our new project, for better exposure.”

  “Jah, because it’s English shoppers we’re trying to attract,” Gabe pointed out. “Probably three-quarters of our custom furniture orders come from our online presence. We wouldn’t have nearly the reach if the Bylers weren’t maintaining a site for us.”

  Jo listened carefully as she took a packet of the forms and then handed them to Molly and Regina. She was quickly realizing that her enthusiasm for the new shops wouldn’t be enough to make them successful. “I’m grateful that you fellows are sharing your experience,” she said. “These ready-made forms are helpful. How much commission do you think we should collect on our sales?”

  “The shop in Willow Ridge gets ten percent,” Glenn replied as he took a pen from the center of the table. “I’ve sold several rocking chairs and toys there, and adding ten percent doesn’t raise the prices enough to discourage folks from buying them.”

  “And it would equate to a tithe, if you want to get biblical about it,” Bishop Jeremiah said with a chuckle. “The tougher question is what to charge vendors for renting space with us. I’d hate to cut into their income too much, but we’ll have to cover utility payments and building upkeep, not to mention advertising expenses. Would forty dollars a month be fair? Hopefully everyone will sell enough on four Saturdays to afford ten dollars a week.”

  Jo stilled. She sensed the Helfing twins were doing some mental calculations as well. She would have to sell a lot of pastries, bread, and refreshments to cover that amount and make any profit—and Mamm would consider forty dollars an exorbitant sum, because their little roadside stand didn’t cost them anything.

  “Is everyone okay with me managing the refreshment area instead of paying stall rent?” she asked softly.

  “And what if Marietta and I take charge of the building’s cleaning and upkeep in lieu of paying rent?” Molly asked. “I’m excited about having a shop, but we’ll have to sell several bags of dry noodles to clear forty dollars. Just saying.”

  “We have other commitments to bulk stores for orders, too,” Marietta put in. “And they don’t charge us for display space.”

  “I think that’s only fair,” Martha Maude stated with a nod. “You gals are supporting yourselves with your homemade products, and you’ll be investing quite a lot of time and effort to keep your shops going. Rose Wagler, Anne, and a couple of other ladies are going in on our quilt shop, so it’ll be no burden for us to come up with rent.”

  “Jah, quilts sell for a lot more than noodles and cinnamon rolls,” Bishop Jeremiah agreed. “I’m fine with this arrangement. How about the rest of you?”

  Jo felt greatly relieved when Glenn, Gabe, and Regina nodded their consent. It was a plus to have Deacon Saul’s mamm and his wife running a shop, because their beautiful quilts were sure to sell well—and even if they didn’t sell a single quilt, the family would still have food on their table.

  Lydianne cleared her throat. “Regina mentioned something earlier that we should probably clarify before we go any further,” she said. “Bishop, you and the preachers seem very positive about opening a marketplace, but you’ve often warned us about expanding beyond the work we can do while still having time for our families. Do you see a problem with adding the commitment of this new venture to our workloads?”

  “Someone has actually listened to my sermons
!” Bishop Jeremiah teased before he resumed a more serious demeanor. “You’ve asked an important question, Lydianne.”

  He sat back in his chair, pondering for a moment. “Because we’re setting up our marketplace to fund a new school, and as a place to hold the auctions and mud sales that support our firemen and other community causes—and because several members will be involved—I don’t feel any one family will be burdened by extra work,” he finally replied. “If the shops succeed, we Amish all benefit. If they don’t, we’ll still have a better place to build the new schoolhouse and host our outdoor auctions.”

  “Even if we weren’t setting up these shops, our members would step up to cover the cost of a school,” Gabe pointed out. “We’ll be sharing the work, but nobody will lose his shirt if it doesn’t work out.”

  Folks around the table nodded, and Jo agreed. She, the Helfings, and Glenn would still be supporting themselves with their handmade items even if they gave up on the shops after a while. “Chances are we could rent out the stable for parties and special events if the marketplace doesn’t succeed—or even if it does,” she added. “English and Plain folks alike would benefit, since Morning Star doesn’t have any other large halls available.”

  “That’s a fine idea!” Martha Maude said as her face lit up. “It could be a place for family reunions, or even weddings and funerals for families who’ll have bigger crowds than they can handle at their homes.”

  Encouraged by their progress, Jo reached into her tote bag. “I, um, sketched out my idea for how the interior of the stable might look when it’s been renovated,” she began nervously. “I envision the shops being positioned along the outer walls around an open central area, where we could maybe have tables and chairs for serving refreshments. We’ll need restrooms, of course—”

  “Pete can install those for us, as well as the water lines and such,” the bishop put in with a nod.

  “—and we’ll need an office for keeping our records,” Jo continued. “I’m also hoping for a small kitchen in my stall, so I can bake those refreshments I mentioned on-site. I think the aroma of homemade goodies and fresh coffee will be a big draw.”