“I’ll put that card table away,” Mamm said happily. “You show your dat what you’ve been up to while he was gone.”
Gabe perched on the chair to the right of his father. “When I saw how big our scrap pile was getting, I wondered if it would be worth my while to use some of the pieces that aren’t perfect enough for our regular furniture,” he explained, gesturing toward the two knotholes in the table’s top. “What do you think of selling irregular pieces for less money? We could start a department called Flawed Furniture—you know, flawed with a W instead of a U—”
Dat rolled his eyes, but he was smiling. “And you think somebody’ll buy a table with a top that swirls around like a couple of commas instead of having four corners?”
“Jah, I do!” Gabe shot back at him. “And if nobody snatches it up at The Marketplace for, say, fifty bucks, all we’re out is my time, ain’t so?”
His father shrugged good-naturedly. “Why not? If you can scare up some business from the scrap pile, who am I to say no?”
Dat took his time choosing another cookie, and Gabe took a brownie. “The interesting business, however, is that your girlfriend came to see me at the hospital. She’s none too happy about living at the Miller place.”
Gabe nearly choked on his brownie. “No, she’s not,” he said cautiously.
Where was this conversation going? He’d have to mend some serious fences if he expected to get back into Regina’s good graces.
Dat’s laughter filled the kitchen. “A smart man would offer her an alternative,” he said, holding Gabe’s gaze. “You were on the right path when you stood up for her before you confessed, yet I didn’t see any sign of sparkle while she was talking to me yesterday. Does your old man have to give you lessons on how to make a young lady sparkle?”
Gabe was wedged between a rock and a hard place. After his father had so graciously reinstated him to the kitchen table, he could not explain that Red had sent him packing because he’d wanted her to live English. When they heard a loud knock at the door, he rose to answer it—but Mamm hurried out in front of him.
“Keep him talking,” she whispered. “Who knows what other miraculous decisions he might make?”
Gabe nodded. His dat’s turnaround of attitude was amazing, indeed, and he wanted to build upon it. “You’re the one who’s gotten his sparkle back,” he remarked, squeezing his father’s shoulder. “Did the doctor say how long you’re supposed to be off work?”
Dat grunted. “I’ve got a follow-up appointment in a couple days, but I’m feeling too gut to sit around here at—”
“Martin, look at you!” Bishop Jeremiah’s voice filled the kitchen. “I almost didn’t recognize you without all those tubes and cables coming out of your chest. Welcome home, buddy.”
As the two men shook hands, Gabe felt a wave of relief—because the bishop had saved him from explaining why he and Red weren’t seeing each other anymore. And if anyone could convince Dat to follow doctor’s orders, it was Jeremiah.
“Gut to be here,” Dat replied, gesturing for the bishop to have a seat and a cookie. “And you might notice who’s sitting in his usual spot at the table.”
Bishop Jeremiah nodded at Gabe as he chose a brownie. “What brought this on, Martin? You’re a couple weeks early—is your new medication affecting your decision-making skills?” His tone was light, but he expected a straight answer.
Dat cleared his throat. “Maybe that’s part of it, seeing as I’m on heart medication,” he replied. “All that time in the hospital gave me a chance to think things out, and I’ve had a change of heart about the banns on Gabe and Regina.”
Gabe stopped chewing. His father had forgiven him moments ago, so he wasn’t sure what to expect now that Dat was openly challenging Old Order ways.
“Delores tells me Gabe took his guitar to the thrift store—and he’s apologized to me countless times,” Dat continued with a nod toward Gabe. “I want to fully restore my son’s standing in the church now, instead of waiting for his bann to end. Who knows if I might even be around by then?”
Gabe sucked in his breath. He wasn’t ready to think that Dat might be dead in a few weeks. Or was his father trying to soften Bishop Jeremiah?
The bishop didn’t miss a beat, however. “Which of us knows the day or the hour when God might call us home?” he countered matter-of-factly. “I’m pleased to hear about your change of heart, Martin. I believe families should handle the details of a bann’s separation as they see fit.”
“It should go further than that, Jeremiah,” Dat insisted earnestly. “I want my son’s return to the fold acknowledged at church this Sunday—and I want the same forgiveness and acceptance to apply to Regina,” Dat continued before the bishop could respond. “If we turn our backs on our young people—if we shut them out for weeks at a time—we’re telling them we don’t want them around. If their families don’t want to speak to them, they might come to think they should leave the Amish faith.”
Gabe’s mouth dropped open. As far as he knew, Martin Flaud had never questioned Old Order procedures.
Jeremiah’s dark eyebrows rose. “Maybe I should ask you again if your medications are doing the talking, Martin,” he said sternly. “You know full well that if I ask this question on Sunday, the preachers—and most of the congregation—will turn your idea down flatter than a pancake.”
“Ask anyway!” Dat shot back. “These days, it’s a lot easier for our young people to make their way in the English world. My son could start up a furniture shop in a snap—and Regina could make a gut income from her paintings,” he pointed out as he held Jeremiah’s gaze. “I, for one, don’t want that to happen! We should show more concern—more encouragement—so we don’t lose such valuable members of our church.”
The bishop fell back against his chair, gazing at Gabe. “Have you considered leaving, son?” he asked. “You know the consequences of jumping the fence—both from a membership perspective and because of the way we Amish view eternal salvation.”
Gabe sensed he might as well be honest. Dat was sticking his neck out to keep him in the family and in the community, so he felt safe voicing his true feelings. “I’ve had that thought more than once of late,” he admitted softly. “But when Dat could’ve died in the operating room, I realized how important it was for me to stay—and Red told me in no uncertain terms that she was in rather than out, when it came to the Old Order. So I’m still here.”
Dat flashed him a knowing smile. “I was wrestling with my faith at your age, too,” he murmured. “And even though I’ve been immersed in our ways all my adult life, I sometimes wish the noose didn’t feel so tight. Other faiths change with the times,” he pointed out to Bishop Jeremiah. “Why not ours?”
The bishop exhaled slowly. “All right, I’ll do as you’ve asked, Martin, because I respect your concerns—and because I’m mighty glad you’re still around to express them. But don’t expect a welling up of acceptance and agreement from those other fellows seated on the preachers’ bench.”
As Jeremiah rose from his chair, he looked at the coffee table with the asymmetrical top. “Is this a new direction your product line’s taking, Gabe? It’s um, different.”
Gabe laughed. “It’s made from wood we tossed out because of those knotholes,” he explained. “Sort of like Christ was the block the builders rejected, and then he became the chief cornerstone of something bigger than anyone could’ve imagined.”
He hadn’t intended to get preachy, but the bishop smiled as he shook Gabe’s hand. “Point well made—and I’m glad you’re still here to express your thoughts as well, Gabe,” he added. “See you folks on Sunday, if not before.”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
The first thing Regina saw as she approached the shops inside The Marketplace on Saturday morning was a glossy walnut coffee table situated outside the Flaud Furniture store. Its swirling, irregular shape appealed to her immediately. She felt so drawn to it, she ran her hand over its top, which was sanded and stained
to perfection, letting her fingers explore the knotholes.
“That’s Gabe’s latest project, part of a new division he’s calling Flawed Furniture—as in, imperfect,” Lydianne remarked from the shop doorway. “It’ll be interesting to see if it sells, or what folks say about it.”
Regina sighed as she rose to her full height. “If I weren’t moving, I’d snap it up in a heartbeat,” she said wistfully.
“Any news on when you have to be out?” her friend asked. “We maidels will be over this week for that packing frolic we offered you, on whatever evening works best.”
“I haven’t heard anything from the real estate lady, so I should probably contact her,” Regina replied. “Aunt Cora’s been asking me the same question.”
Rather than dwelling on such a downbeat subject, she smiled at Lydianne and removed the contents of the tote bag she’d carried in. “What do you think?” she asked as she unfolded one of the towels she’d been working on and held it up. “Embroidery’s going to be my new—”
“Oh, Regina, this mallard is so—so amazing!” Lydianne blurted as she grabbed the towel’s edges to get a better look. “This is different from any stitching I’ve ever seen! Look at the sheen on his head, and the way his feathers look so real!”
Regina’s heart swelled. This was the first time she’d shown anyone the designs she’d sketched and embroidered on tea towels. “Once I got the idea, it really grabbed hold of me,” she said as she held up towels with cardinals, rabbits, and an old barn on them. “It’s an acceptable way for me to play with colors and designs, now that I’ve pitched my paints.”
“Well, don’t cut yourself short when it comes to pricing these,” Lydianne advised. “It took a lot more time to complete one of these towels than it would the ordinary kind where the picture is just outlined. Show these to Jo—and the twins when they get here!”
“What’ve you got?” Marietta’s voice came from behind them.
“Jah, let me set this box of noodles down so I can see—my stars, Regina!” Molly exclaimed. “That bunny looks so real I want to stroke its fur.”
“These are just like your paintings,” Marietta commented as she studied each of the four towels. “How long does it take you to stitch one?”
Regina laughed. “Well, painting went a lot faster,” she admitted, “but stitching has kept my hands busy these past few evenings whenever I lost interest in packing.”
“And I bet you’ll get faster at the embroidery after you’ve done more of it,” Lydianne suggested. “Let’s show them to Jo before customers start coming in. She’s been a busy bee this morning and she could use a break.”
As Regina walked with her friends, she inhaled the aromas of snickerdoodles, sweet cherry pie filling, and the coffee that was brewing in the central commons. She paused to look around at the shop fronts, and at the Shetler twins as they set sugar, creamer, and napkins on the square tables. “Did you ever imagine The Marketplace would be such a success?” she asked in a faraway voice. “It wasn’t but three months ago that we were walking past this poor, dilapidated stable and noticed it was for sale.”
Lydianne nodded. “Pete’s supposed to start on the new schoolhouse this week, now that the pole barn’s finished,” she remarked. “We’ve already generated so much commission from these shops that we’ve covered the cost of its construction as well as new desks and furnishings. Goes to show you what we can accomplish when we all work together—and when we have this gal running things,” she added as they entered Fussner Bakery
Jo looked up from the pan of cherry pie bars she was frosting. “We couldn’t have succeeded without both of you,” she put in. “Our church folks objected to Regina’s painting, but they sure have benefited from the money her pictures brought in.”
“And look at what she’s up to now!” Lydianne said as she and Regina held up the towels. “Aren’t these the best embroidered pieces you’ve ever seen?”
Jo’s mouth dropped open. “Have you sold that towel with the cardinal on it?” she asked in a rush. “Mamm’s birthday is next week, and she loves cardinals. She tells me every year I shouldn’t get her any presents—but this!”
“It’s yours,” Regina replied. It was gratifying to see and hear another friend’s positive reaction to her new form of artwork. “I’d like to display it today, so folks get an idea of—”
“I predict you’ll take an outrageous number of orders, Regina,” Jo interrupted with a nod. “Better stock up on floss and towels at the craft store!”
Regina’s spirits soared, but one problem remained to be solved. “I know Martha Maude won’t let me display these in Quilts and More, so is there a place I can set up? This is spur-of-the-moment, and I haven’t paid any shop rent—”
“And you’re not going to!” Jo insisted without missing a beat. “You can position a table from the commons between my door and the Helfings’ shop this morning. Is that okay with you, Lydianne?”
“Fine idea!” Lydianne replied. “If you want to, we can figure out which vacant shop stall you can move into—whenever you’re ready.”
Regina left Jo’s bakery with feelings as warm as the fresh snickerdoodle in her hand. She and Lydianne shifted a table and a chair into place just as Jo was opening the front doors for customers. From the back entrance, Gabe and Glenn came in at either end of a beautiful oak buffet, which they were rolling in on a low cart. Was it her imagination, or did both men seem more content, more settled?
When Gabe looked at her, his face lit up—and Regina got butterflies in her chest. His hair appeared freshly washed and cut, and she noticed a spring in his step as he and Glenn wheeled the buffet into the Flaud shop. She didn’t want to ask if he’d driven past her house earlier in the week without stopping—and she felt inexplicably tongue-tied—so instead, she greeted the women who were coming to look at her towels.
As her friends had predicted, many customers ordered sets of two or three towels with designs embroidered on them. One woman was so excited, she asked if Regina could make a set of table linens.
“I’m so glad you’re back, dear!” she said as she studied the display towels. “Three of your paintings hang in my dining room, and if I could have a tablecloth—and eight napkins!—wouldn’t that be totally beautiful?”
Regina felt temporarily overwhelmed by this idea, yet she quickly saw its possibilities. “What paintings do you have?” she asked as she picked up her pen. “It might be best if you provide the tablecloth and plain napkins, so you get the color and fabric you want.”
“That’s a great idea. My name’s Janice Akers,” she said as Regina began to write. Janice grinned like a little girl at Christmas. “I have a raccoon with an apple, and a chipmunk with his cheeks full of food, and a lovely scene with an old red barn in a pasture. If I bring the linens next Saturday, we’ll both have design ideas by then, so—oh! What if each napkin had a different small animal on it?”
Regina was scribbling so fast she could barely read her writing, but ideas for this project were simmering in her mind. “Jah, we can do that,” she replied. “I’m thinking I might put animals and wildflowers on the tablecloth edges, and maybe a pasture scene in the center.”
As Regina wrote some final remarks, Janice reached into her purse. When they shook hands, Regina felt some folded money in her palm.
“A down payment,” Janice said with a smile. “We’ll settle on a final price next week, all right?”
Regina thanked her profusely, slipping the money into her apron pocket. When she took a bathroom break, she was astounded to see that it was a one-hundred-dollar bill—and she had the sudden, impractical urge to buy the unusual coffee table displayed in front of the Flauds’ shop.
But you’ll soon have nowhere to put it, she reminded herself as she walked faster.
So what? Maybe you’ll get a chance to talk to Gabe—
Regina stopped, her mouth dropping open. A hand-lettered sign on the table said, SOLD. FOR MORE FLAWED FURNITURE IDEAS, SEE GABE INSIDE.<
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Deeply disappointed, Regina gazed at the wonderfully quirky piece, trying not to think about the fact that she’d soon be leaving her furniture—and her home—behind. The conversations in the central commons echoed off the building’s high ceiling as customers went from shop to shop or sat chatting over coffee and goodies at the crowded tables—so loudly that Regina almost didn’t hear the woman who was calling out to her.
“Regina, is that you? Can we talk for a moment?”
Expecting it to be another of her previous customers, Regina turned. The tall blond English woman in a flowing red tunic and slacks stood out in the casually dressed Saturday crowd.
“Jessica, it’s gut to see you,” she said as she returned the Realtor’s handshake. “I’ve been wondering when the folks who bought my house want to move in.”
The agent pressed her lips into a line. “We’ve hit a snag, Regina,” she said beneath the conversations that rang around them. “I’m really sorry, but the couple’s loan didn’t go through.”
Regina frowned. “What exactly does that mean?”
Jessica sighed, frustrated. “The bank won’t loan them the money they need—it can happen, especially with first-time home buyers. I’ll remove the sign that says your house is under contract, and we’ll put it back on the market,” she continued in a businesslike tone. “And I’ll contact the other folks who’ve called me about it, too. Don’t worry, Regina, your home’s adorable and it will sell.”
As her pulse accelerated, Regina almost blurted, Let’s take down all the signs and call it gut—no harm done! If her house didn’t sell, maybe she wouldn’t have to move in with her aunt and uncle.
Reality returned in a hurry, however. Uncle Clarence would soon be telling her to move in whether or not her home had sold. “I guess I’ll have more time to pack up my stuff,” Regina replied sadly. “And I’ll need to decide how to get rid of my furniture, too.”
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