Morning Star

by Charlotte Hubbard

  In the silence that followed, Gabe again wanted to extend his support instead of making her wait for a response, the way his father was doing. He could understand why she’d balk at living with the Millers, where she’d be under her strict, authoritarian uncle’s constant scrutiny—until she married, anyway.

  You could save her from such a fate.

  Where had that thought come from? He was no more ready to marry than Red was.

  As the silence stretched on, Gabe looked away from Red’s increasingly desperate expression. This was no time to let his emotions drive him to say things he might regret. He couldn’t deny how much better he understood Red—and how much more intrigued he was by her—because he’d overheard her chat with the bishop, however.

  Red understood, as well, that it was best to let Dat have his say in his own gut time rather than to wheedle or plead with him.

  Finally Dat cleared his throat. “You can keep your job until the congregation votes on your penance,” he said. “You’ve always done gut work for us, and we’ve gotten several orders from The Marketplace. I hope our new business venture won’t prove to be a mistake—an opportunity for Amish folks to succumb to the lure of success and greed.”

  Gabe bit back a retort. How many times had his father expressed delight at the increase in sales Flaud Furniture had seen because they’d expanded into The Marketplace? Did Dat think he was above the potential pitfalls he’d just mentioned, immune to the temptation to work an extra day each week so they made more profit?

  “Denki,” Red whispered. “I really appreciate your keeping me on. I’ll do my best to restore your faith in my—”

  “It’ll be a while before folks will trust you again, Regina,” Dat interrupted brusquely. “Even after you’ve served out your bann, the memory of all those paintings and the lies you told us will linger in our minds. For now, be satisfied that you’re employed for two more weeks.”

  Gabe’s brow furrowed. What had happened to the concept of forgive and forget—the idea that once a penitent soul had been forgiven, the slate was wiped clean? When Red retreated to the staining room, Gabe remained seated. No sense in making his dat think he was eager to show her his support—although he was.

  “What do you make of this business, Gabe? I never had an inkling about Regina’s artistic bent,” his father said with a shake of his head. “And I certainly never figured her for such a liar that she’d make up a fake name to cover her identity.”

  Gabe shrugged, answering carefully. “Me, neither. She’s always been more thorough with stain and varnish than any of our men, but I had no idea she could sketch and paint such amazing pictures. She’s got a real talent for it.”

  Dat’s eyes flashed with disapproval. “And she knew she was to put all that away when she joined the church, too,” he said tersely. “She’s painted herself into a proverbial corner, because she’s past due for finding a husband to support her—and what man will have her now? If Regina’s made up a fake name and life story to sell her paintings, what else will she lie about?”

  Gabe let his father leave the office first, to give himself time to cool down. Why was his dat so certain nobody would want to marry Red? Sure, she was thirtysomething and she’d told a few whoppers, but he’d always sensed that Regina Miller had remained a maidel so she could live life on her own terms.

  Would God consider that such a sin, the way Dat seemed to?

  * * *

  “Regina, are you okay?” Lydianne asked softly. She closed the door of the staining room behind her, shutting out the whine of saws and the rumble of generators. “When the bishop headed over to your place yesterday, we maidels didn’t want to barge in. We were worried about you, but we—we didn’t know what to say.”

  “Jah, I can imagine.” Regina looked up from the oak bench she was staining, which fit alongside a dining room table in place of chairs. “Why did I tell so many lies so I could sell my work? If I’d kept my mouth shut—just kept painting in my attic—”

  “We would’ve missed your wonderful pictures,” Lydianne pointed out as she squeezed Regina’s shoulder. “Now we know why you’ve spent so much time by yourself lately. Even though your art’s not considered acceptable, we’re amazed at your paintings.”

  Regina gazed into Lydianne’s eyes, grateful to hear no sign of rebuke in her voice. “Denki,” she murmured. “But I should’ve known to leave it alone.”

  Lydianne leaned closer, to be sure no one outside the door could hear them. “One look at your paintings reveals how much love you put into them, Regina. You must feel such a sense of accomplishment every time you finish one.”

  Regina blinked and kept on applying stain. Lydianne had moved to Morning Star just a few years ago, and she’d never guessed that this organized, analytical member of their maidel circle had such an appreciation for art.

  “When I’m painting, I’m in another world,” Regina admitted. “I don’t think a lot about what I’m doing, or how I’m combining the colors and shaping the elements of the scene. It just happens.”

  Lydianne nodded and poured some of Regina’s oak stain into a separate container. “Jo says it’s that way when she’s up to her butt in cooking, too. She gets lost in the joy of it.” She sighed wistfully as she chose a clean paintbrush. “I don’t have any sort of talent or activity that I get totally lost in. I’m a little envious—which is a sin in itself.”

  “Ach, but look at the way you total up numbers in your head!” Regina protested. “Nobody else has a mind as tidy and organized as yours! You reason things through, while I go with my gut feelings—which is why I’m in trouble,” she added ruefully. “If I’d considered the consequences of opening a shop under a fake name, I wouldn’t be in a world of hurt right now.”

  Lydianne crouched beneath the table that went with Regina’s bench, brushing stain on its trestle. “Did Martin let you keep your job?” she asked in a tight voice. “If you have to leave, I’m not sure I want to be the only female—”

  “He’s letting me stay until we see what folks decide on for my penance. If he fires me after that, I—I don’t know what I’ll do.” To keep from bursting into tears, Regina refocused on her work, brushing oak stain onto the rest of the perfectly sanded seat.

  Lydianne worked silently for several minutes before clearing her throat. “No matter what happens at church, Regina, I’m sticking by you—and so are the Helfings and Jo,” Lydianne insisted softly. “After you left yesterday, we agreed that we maidels need to stick together. That’s what friends are for.”

  Startled by the thrum of emotion in her friend’s voice, Regina looked up from her work. “If I get shunned, we can’t eat at the same table—”

  “So we’ll all sit in chairs on the porch.”

  “—and you won’t be able to accept anything I hand you—”

  “It’s easy enough to pick it up from a tabletop, ain’t so?” Lydianne insisted with a shrug.

  Regina blinked, deeply moved by such loyalty. “You’re forbidden to even talk to me while I’m under the bann,” she whispered hoarsely.

  Lydianne stopped staining to gaze at Regina straight on. “We’ll figure it out,” she stated simply. “Maybe Bishop Jeremiah will convince the preachers that because you’ve already confessed to him, shunning won’t be necessary.”

  “I have no doubt that Ammon, and Uncle Clarence, and Saul will push for the full six-week—”

  “What if we maidels vote against shunning you?” Lydianne interrupted with a twinkle in her blue eyes. “The ayes have to be unanimous, after all.”

  Regina smiled sadly. “Denki for the thought, but after what the bishop—and Martin—have said, I expect the preachers to hold me up as an example of what happens when members get too independent. So the unbaptized girls won’t be tempted to follow in my footsteps, you know.”

  “We maidels still intend to stick with you. None of us wants to forfeit the control we have over our lives.” With a sigh, she added, “If you have to leave the factory and
your home, Regina, I suspect the preachers will be watching me next, because I also live alone and support myself.”

  Regina felt gratified by her friends’ support, but she knew better than to get her hopes up. After years of remaining a maidel so she could paint in secret, she fully expected the congregation—especially the men—to rein her back into ways that were more submissive to God’s will.

  And what exactly is God’s will? How does anyone—even Bishop Jeremiah—know they’re following God rather than their own inclinations?

  Regina didn’t have long to ponder this question, because a few moments later the door opened and Uncle Clarence and Aunt Cora came in from the main workroom. Gabe’s expression was apologetic when he met her gaze.

  “This is our staining room,” he explained to their visitors. “Lydianne and Re—Regina—work in here to keep the sawdust and other impurities from the factory from drifting onto the wet pieces they’re finishing.”

  It sounded odd to have Gabe call her by her full name, but he was keeping everything proper, because her uncle and aunt weren’t here for a social call. When Uncle Clarence dismissed Gabe with a wave, Lydianne knew to cover her stain and brush and leave the room, as well.

  After the door closed, the work space suddenly felt claustrophobic. There was no getting away from her aunt and uncle’s presence until they chose to leave. The hum of the exhaust fan in the ceiling seemed strangely loud, but it didn’t block out the thud of her accelerating pulse.

  “Gut morning,” Regina said as she continued to brush stain onto the bench’s seat. “I can’t stop staining until I’ve finished this flat surface. I didn’t expect to see you here—”

  “We felt it urgent to express our shock and displeasure this morning,” Uncle Clarence said bluntly. “The bishop has told me what he learned at your place, after you ran from the common meal. We need to protect your young, impressionable cousins from the details of your unthinkable situation while we speak with you, Regina. So here we are.”

  She fought fresh tears, slowing her brush strokes. It seemed easier to focus on her work rather than to face her uncle directly. Because both the benches were wet and her aunt and uncle had no place to sit down, Regina hoped they would leave sooner. Aunt Cora fanned the air to disperse the odor of the stain—or perhaps because she was too nervous to speak while Uncle Clarence was chastising her niece.

  “I confessed to Bishop Jeremiah yesterday,” Regina pointed out in the calmest voice she could muster. “I’m sorry I’ve hidden my artwork, and that I deceived folks—”

  “Sorry?” Uncle Clarence demanded. He snatched the brush from her hand and threw it at the opposite wall. “You’ve lived a lie ever since your parents passed, haven’t you? Did they know you painted, Regina, or did you lie to them, too?”

  Stunned by his vehemence, Regina clasped her hands to keep them from shaking. “Mamm and Dat allowed me to take a painting class at the craft shop,” she replied in a quavering voice. “I was still in my rumspringa—”

  “Well, that ended more than a decade ago! Did you intend to remain single all your life rather than giving up your odious habit—your art?” he continued angrily. “That’s wrong, and you know it!”

  “Clarence,” Aunt Cora whispered nervously. “Everyone out in the factory can hear you—”

  “And they should hear me!” he retorted. “There should be no secrets, because we can see exactly how keeping secrets has eroded our niece’s soul. I told Jeremiah long ago that Regina should live with us, but no—he allowed her to have her way. What a mistake that was!”

  Regina prayed for the floor to open up and swallow her. She’d figured her uncle would come to the house to confront her—

  But it’s more his style to humiliate you in public, ain’t so? Just one of the reasons you don’t want to live with him.

  “You will make a full kneeling confession, Regina,” her uncle stated sternly. “And you’ll pay a long and heavy penance for all the ways in which you’ve broken your vows and slapped God—and your aunt and me!—in the face with your lies and your flagrant disregard for faithful behavior.”

  Regina knew not to point out that the congregation hadn’t yet voted on her fate. For lesser transgressions, folks could simply sit on the pew bench in the front as the bishop discussed what they’d done wrong, and the public recognition of their wrongdoing was considered sufficient punishment. Preacher Clarence, however, was inclined to prescribe harsher disciplinary action—to be sure the guilty party fully recognized their wrongdoing and renounced it.

  “I’m sorry,” she repeated. “Until the meeting, I’ve said and done all I can to—”

  “Sorry? You think it’s enough to be sorry?” Uncle Clarence demanded, staring her down with his icy blue eyes. “Why would we believe you, after what we’ve learned?”

  “Clarence, really. That’s enough,” Aunt Cora whimpered.

  “No, it’s not,” he retorted. “We’re putting her house up for sale. We’ll need to prepare her room for when she moves in with us—and we’ll need to find her a husband. Be thinking of single men who live a ways from Morning Star, because any fellow who knows about the tales she’s told won’t marry her.”

  Regina blinked repeatedly, refusing to cry. She found an odd comfort in hearing Uncle Clarence imply that although he felt obligated to take her in, he didn’t want her in his home for the long haul. Scowling at her one last time, he turned toward the door.

  Before they left, Aunt Cora gazed sadly at her. I’m sorry, she mouthed.

  Regina gave a single, silent nod. Aunt Cora was always apologizing, and it was their way to silently acknowledge the pain Uncle Clarence caused them during his rants.

  I’m sorry, too, Aunt Cora—sorry that your marriage is one of the reasons I’ve never looked for a husband.

  * * *

  At the click of the doorknob, Gabe stepped away from the exterior shop wall where a screened, louvered window allowed fresh air into the staining room. He didn’t want the Millers to know he’d been listening to their conversation—and he was so upset, he didn’t dare meet up with them as they left the building.

  Gabe knew Preacher Clarence had expressed the traditional, conservative viewpoint of many Old Order church leaders. But he’d set himself up as Red’s judge and jury before the congregation had had its say about her fate. And, without even discussing it, Clarence had declared he’d be selling Red’s property! He’d also threatened to marry Red off as the antidote to her transgressions, and as a way to remove her from his household—as though he wanted no further connection to her.

  That attitude was just wrong. And it was another reason that Gabe’s dissatisfaction with the Amish faith was churning inside him of late. Where was the spirit of forgiveness that Jesus had taught His followers? Was Red expected to endure the censure of her family and friends for two weeks before confessing in church—only to face another six weeks of separation before folks voted on whether to take her back?

  Sure, she’d made some mistakes. Didn’t everyone sin and fall short?

  He stepped back into the factory through the back door, unobserved. Eventually the whine of the saws and the thrum of the generators settled his rankled emotions. As Gabe watched his father walk the Millers to the front door, however, he sensed he’d be doing a lot of soul searching about Red’s predicament—and about the direction his own future would take, as well.

  * * *

  Friday afternoon Gabe volunteered to deliver a wagon-load of furniture to a customer who lived beyond New Haven. He hated to miss the weekly hymn singing—but he didn’t want to listen to the men rehash Red’s situation, either.

  As he returned to Morning Star that evening, he almost stopped to see Red, but he didn’t want the rumor mill to rev up if anyone passed by and saw the Flaud Furniture wagon parked at her place.

  Feeling extremely limited by his religion, Gabe parked the wagon at the factory, walked the three blocks home, and hitched up his rig. He drove to the secluded spot in the c
ountryside where he often went to soothe his soul, craving the release of his pent-up, jangling emotions. When he’d leaned against the back wall of a deteriorating barn, away from curious eyes and ears, he sang his heart out—sang to Red, mostly. As daylight softened into dusk, he prayed that someday he could share his music with her in this spot that felt sacred to him.

  Would she understand why he came to this place in secret?

  Of course she will, came the reply from deep within him. Who knew the two of you had so much in common?

  Chapter Fifteen

  When Regina entered The Marketplace through the back entrance on Saturday morning, she was greeted by the cinnamon-sweet aroma of Jo’s rolls, as well as the fresh scent of coffee perking in the commons area.

  “Gut morning, Jo,” she said, peeking into the kitchen adjacent to her NatureScapes shop.

  Jo’s face lit up and she stepped out to give Regina a hug. “It’s gut to see you, girl. I wondered if you’d come in today.”

  Regina smiled tiredly. Jo had introduced the topic she’d be dealing with all day, and she hoped she’d concocted some convincing responses. “Just between us maidels, I want to put the next two Saturdays to gut use, because I might not have my job after I confess at church,” she admitted.

  “I can understand that,” Jo replied softly. “If Mamm and I were unable to bake, we’d have a tough time getting by on our egg money and the rent from our dawdi haus. When you don’t have a man’s income to fall back on, you have to be more aware of where your money comes from.”

  The Helfing twins called out their greetings as they each carried a large box of bagged noodles past the shop. When Lydianne showed up a few moments later, Regina began filling the blank spaces on her walls with paintings, gratified by her friends’ support.

  “You look awfully tired,” Lydianne remarked with a note of concern.

  Regina sighed. “I’ve been torn between painting as much as I can before church meets again and giving it up altogether as a sign of my recommitment to Old Order ways,” she murmured. “Painting won out. I couldn’t stand sitting around worrying about what’s going to happen to me after my confession.”