Ruth bustled up. “Ja, that looks good. Do you want to start hanging quilts?”
“As soon as the men are done.”
“A few curious people have already poked their noses in. Always some of those, there are.”
Julia laughed. Her mother had held garage sales a few times, and invariably people—probably dealers—would show up at the crack of dawn expecting an early peek.
“Are dealers likely to come?” she asked.
“To look maybe, but not to buy. They like to get quilts cheap, when no one else is bidding against them.”
That made sense.
Looking at the boxes full of gently folded quilts, she said, “Ocean Waves first,” and found she was talking to herself.
The men had moved on, but left the ladders. Another woman Julia didn’t know, perhaps her own age, saw her lifting the first quilt from a plastic tub and hurried over. “I’ll take one side.”
“Thank you. I’m Julia Durant.”
“Ja, I saw you Sunday. I’m Mary Brenneman. Abe’s Mary.”
Julia nodded even though she didn’t have any idea who Abe was. They were in the same church district as the Bowmans, which was identification enough. She was doing reasonably well at remembering people she’d met, but large Amish families meant that no more than a dozen last names were shared by nearly everyone in the county, and favored first names like Mary and Rachel and Daniel and Jacob popped up confusingly often.
Julia carried a bagful of clips up the ladder with her. They’d hold the quilt to the slat for this temporary display. She wouldn’t want to use them for more than a few hours, since the weight of the quilt pulling against the clips could damage the fabric. This should be fine, though, she decided, once they’d secured it. Obviously, this group of women had held similar auctions before, and knew what they were doing.
She and Mary worked quickly and in harmony, getting nine quilts hung. Six other queen-size quilts and two king-size were being hung behind the stage. Full- and twin-size were on the far wall, or draped over bedsteads or quilt racks. The Bowmans, father and son, had also donated six quilt racks, although she knew their inventory was getting low. These would be auctioned off halfway through the afternoon.
She itched to see the setup for the other auction, where Eli, Elam, and Luke were helping. They had agreed to close the store today, hanging a sign on the door suggesting potential customers come to the auctions, a bold map providing directions.
Not all the stores on the main street were closed today, but most Amish-owned ones were. Their entire focus was on raising money for one of their brethren. Julia hadn’t heard even a hint that anyone worried about lost revenue.
She and Mary wandered around to admire quilts throughout the hall, her new friend talking about the makers, almost all of whom she knew. There were a few exceptions, including old quilts. They stopped to admire a nineteenth-century Texas Star quilt and a crazy quilt in red and purple velvets that were only slightly faded. Mary had made two quilts, one full-size and one crib, both gorgeous, and she admired the ones Julia admitted as her own.
Eventually Julia couldn’t resist the good smells coming through the wide-open doors and went out to buy lunch before the rush of people arrived for the auction. She threw caution to the winds and had a pierogi followed by a gooey slice of shoofly pie. Wouldn’t you know, she was wiping her chin when a deep, amused voice said, “Tastes good, does it?”
She wrinkled her nose at Luke and Eli, who had stopped by the picnic table. “You know it does. Deborah made this, didn’t she?”
Eli laughed. “She cooked all day yesterday and got up early to start again this morning. Pies, cakes, chili, cinnamon bread.”
“I love cinnamon bread. Is it being sold at the bake table?”
“Ja, but you’d better move fast.”
“I’ll do that. Once I can heave myself to my feet.”
Both men laughed. Luke asked if the crew working here were ready for the sale, and said at the barn they were well on their way, too. Food wasn’t to be set up by the barn until later, though, so they’d decided to get some lunch.
Luke said, “Unless you’re needed, why don’t you wait and keep us company?”
Startled, she managed an “Oh. I can do that.”
Eli returned a few minutes later with a sausage smothered in chili, Luke with a pierogi like she’d eaten.
“I hope word got out,” Julia worried. A few cars were bumping their way across the field, directed by teenage Amish boys, but not enough.
“We’ll be busy,” Eli said placidly. “You’ll see. They’re just starting to arrive.”
“Except for the nosy early birds.”
“We had those over at the barn, too,” Luke agreed. “One generous fellow offered to buy a dining room set right then and there, for about a third of its value, and thought we’d be smart to take his offer because then we could use the space for something else.”
“Did he know he was talking to the furniture maker himself?”
The skin beside Luke’s eyes crinkled with a smile. “Not until I thanked him kindly, but said no. I suggested he bid on it, but I don’t think he hung around.”
Eli shrugged. “Trying to get a steal.” His tone was more tolerant than Julia felt.
In truth, many bidders at a charity auction were hoping for a steal. They could help a good cause and still get something they wanted for less than value. But if enough people came, some of the quilts and furniture might go for well above value.
“Look at the traffic now,” Luke murmured.
She swiveled on the bench. “Oh, my. Oh, I can hardly wait!”
The two men clearly thought she was funny, but she didn’t mind. She’d never done anything like this before. In fact, she’d spent too many years enmeshed in fear to extend herself for the sake of others.
Well, that was going to change.
* * *
* * *
LUKE WAS SURPRISED when his father made no comment about Julia at all as they walked back across the field, dodging slow-moving traffic.
Both worked for another couple of hours, allowing themselves to be directed by those organizing the auction. Looking around at last, Luke judged that they were very nearly ready. Given how much effort Julia and Miriam had put into the quilt auction, he wanted to watch part of it.
Not seeing his father, he shrugged and slipped out, only leaving word where he’d gone.
The field was almost completely full with row upon row of parked cars. If most people stayed, and more arrived for the evening auction, they might have a problem.
Even before he reached the hall, he heard the auctioneer working the crowd. “I have sixteen hundred, sixteen hundred. You know you want this quilt. If you don’t want to go a hundred, I’ll take a raise of fifty. What’s fifty dollars?” Pause. Triumph. “I have sixteen hundred and fifty now. Who’ll go seventeen hundred?”
Luke knew that voice. Jerry Ropp, one of Luke’s first cousins. Four or five years younger than Luke, Jerry had talked eagerly about becoming an auctioneer by the time he was fourteen or fifteen, to his father’s disapproval if not the bishop’s. It seemed he’d achieved his dream.
And today, who could dispute that he did good work?
Luke smiled. Outsiders said the Amish didn’t change, but they were wrong. And glacially slow change was fine with him, now that he’d lost his youthful impatience.
The room was jam-packed, the rows of folding chairs full and spectators or bidders lining the walls. Conversation hummed even while the bidding went on. By the time he stepped inside, the quilt had sold to buyer number two hundred two for seventeen hundred and fifty dollars. Jerry had eked out another hundred and fifty there by the end, and every little bit helped.
Luke decided to stay by the open doors, given the heat and closeness in here.
With barely a pa
use, volunteers had hung another quilt behind Jerry, and he’d started his patter already. This one wasn’t an Amish quilt. The colors were downright garish, the patches deliberately uneven. An old quilt, maybe?
The bidding started briskly and rose fast.
“Seventeen hundred, I have . . . eighteen hundred, now nineteen. Who’ll give me two thousand?”
Luke had just seen that Julia was here at the back wall watching, close enough he’d look unfriendly if he didn’t acknowledge her. Keeping his distance would be smart, but she could tell him how the event was going. He knew she’d donated quilts, and hoped they had sold for good money. He hadn’t closed the ten feet between them, though, when a man said, “Ugly, that one is, but old, Jerry says.”
Amos must have come in right on Luke’s heels.
“It is ugly,” he agreed. “Who would want that on his bed?”
“I don’t think anyone would use it. It’s supposed to be from 1890,” the bishop said. “It’s put together with fancy embroidery.”
“Twenty-three hundred . . .”
One of Jerry’s assistants waved and gestured at a raised bid card.
“Twenty-four . . .”
Amos shook his head.
“It’s for a good cause,” Luke said piously. “We must be grateful to whoever donated this . . . this . . .”
Amos finished his sentence. “Crazy quilt. That’s what it’s called.”
Both listened until the quilt finally sold for twenty-seven hundred dollars.
“Ah,” Amos said, straightening. “This next one is Miriam’s. I heard her telling someone earlier.”
It was a crib quilt, a pattern that looked like the pinwheels he’d seen at fairs. This one was yellows and greens and blues, made for a boy, he guessed. Miriam made many crib-size quilts, he had noticed, claiming she liked to try new patterns, pick out new fabric, and the smaller size kept her from getting bored. But he wondered about his sister, still mourning the man she’d loved, refusing to consider marriage, seemingly fixated on turning out quilts for other women’s babies.
This one went for nine hundred dollars. Luke thought that was a good price for a crib quilt, more than Ruth charged for the ones in her store.
In the brief lull, Amos gazed keenly at Luke and said, “I’ve meant to talk to you, to tell you what people have been saying.”
Luke hoped he didn’t noticeably stiffen. “Ja?”
“People think it’s wunderbaar what a good daad you are, and you a single man.” There seemed to be a delay up front, so the bishop wasn’t drowned out, much as Luke might wish that would be so. “They say how lucky Abby is that the Englisch woman found you. Looks like Miriam, I’ve heard people say, and her eyes the same color as yours.”
The lie almost choked him. He managed to say, “She’s so small for her age. I worry.”
“Your mamm and sister are not tall women.”
“That’s true. Miriam was so pudgy, though. Do you remember?”
“Ja, but she was given the best from birth. Your Abigail will catch up, God willing.”
Luke nodded.
“That’s all I had to say.” Amos glanced toward the front. “Looks as if they’re ready to start again, ain’t so? What a blessing so many people came to buy.” He mentioned finding someone else he needed to speak to—had Luke seen Isaac Kemp? No? Ach, he must be here somewhere. Amos mixed with the crowd and was out of sight in a moment.
Nothing could have stopped Luke from turning to see if Julia was still there, so few feet away.
She was, and something in her expression told him she’d heard Amos’s every word—and her Deitsh was good enough now for her to have understood it. Julia, the only other person who knew that Abby did not have his blue eyes or look like Miriam, because she wasn’t related to either of them.
Her lips parted . . . and then pressed firmly together.
Needing to clear his head, he turned his back on her and the continuing auction, walking out.
* * *
* * *
LUKE AVOIDED JULIA through the evening. She knew it was deliberate; a couple of times he turned abruptly and went the other way when he saw her.
It hurt her feelings, of course, but she knew why he was doing it. She must have assumed the corporeal form of his guilty conscience, like Charles Dickens’s ghost of Christmases past. Did he think she was trying to hunt him down to issue a lecture?
No, he couldn’t believe that. It was just his guilt making him uncomfortable with her, because she was the only person who knew what he felt and why.
A magnificent bedroom set Luke and Eli had donated was the final item to be auctioned off that evening. As exhausted as she was, Julia wanted to see what it went for.
She knew from the inlay that it was Luke’s work. His father’s was as fine, just . . . different. A little more traditional, maybe.
Hoping to get away before the crowd, she stood at the back of the barn. Sweat trickled down her spine and stung her eyes. There were too many people packed in here, and the diesel-operated portable lights didn’t help. Miriam and Elam joined her just before the auctioneer asked for an opening bid.
“We’ve made so much more than we could have hoped for.” Miriam sounded dazed. “Did you see how much Katie-Ann’s Postage Stamp quilt sold for?”
Her brother rolled his eyes. “You’ve told us three times.”
Julia had seen, all right. Five thousand dollars. She hadn’t been surprised, though, because of the extraordinary work involved in piecing the incredibly tiny squares—and the flow of the colors. The full-size quilt had been a masterwork, and three bidders had fought until the very end.
Miriam was right; they had earned far more in the quilt auction, and Julia thought this one as well, than she, at least, had dreamed. She felt . . . blessed to have had a part in it, however small.
Tuning in, she heard the auctioneer say, “We have an opening bid of seven thousand dollars. Will somebody give me eight—?”
Somebody would. And nine and ten and eleven thousand. Julia thought her mouth fell open at some point.
She’d compared the Bowmans’ prices with those of furniture stores online that sold Amish furniture, and thought Eli and Luke ought to ask more. Much of the Amish furniture out there was beautiful in a classic way—mission, for example—but didn’t compare to the pieces Luke crafted, using the sheen of finely finished wood in imaginative ways that still spoke of the generations of Amish furniture makers before him.
At eighteen thousand dollars, the room fell silent but for Jerry Ropp. She marveled that he hadn’t lost his voice by now. The two remaining bidders didn’t speak as they lifted their bid cards. The woman with one of the men whispered something to him just before he held up his number again.
Nineteen thousand.
Twenty.
The entire room broke into spontaneous applause at such a staggering addition to the night’s total.
The shake of a head, and the lucky bidder would be paying twenty thousand dollars and, no doubt, shipping for his glorious bedroom set.
To the roar of additional applause, Julia slipped out into the strikingly cooler air of evening. Hurrying away from the barn, she hoped she could escape before the mob. She was desperate to flop down on her bed and maybe not move for two days. Her entire body ached. She wasn’t sure she’d ever been on her feet for so many hours before. Or cared so much for the result.
Just before she plunged into almost complete darkness, a young Amishman approached. “I can help you find your car.”
She didn’t know his name, but felt sure she’d seen him Sunday. He had the friendly, earnest expression on his face she’d come to expect from the Amish she’d met.
“I know where I parked, but . . . would you mind walking me to my car?” she asked. “It’s awfully dark.”
“Ja, I’m happy to.” As t
hey set out down the first row of parked cars, he asked eagerly, “Did it go well in there?”
“Very well. Extraordinarily well.” Julia could still scarcely believe it. She told him about the bedroom set and enjoyed hearing his voice crack when he repeated, “Twenty thousand?”
“Twenty.”
“I wish I’d seen that.” He was quiet, following her as she slipped between two monster SUVs to the next row. Then he said quietly, “David was a friend of mine. He would have hated to see his daad and bruder so hurt.”
She wanted to turn and hug him, but he wouldn’t accept that, not from an Englisch woman he knew only because she’d been a guest at one church service.
“No,” she said, just as softly. “I hope he was watching.”
“Ja.”
Neither said another word until she found her car, unlocked it, and thanked him. Once she’d climbed in and locked the doors, she watched him disappear in seconds.
Her hand shook as she put the key in the ignition. What had she been thinking, heading out alone like that? What if the boy hadn’t seen her and she’d met up with somebody in the darkness? She was never that foolish. Never.
With her lights on, she drove slowly the short distance to the country road that would take her into town. Bump, bump, bump, and then she reached smooth pavement.
Tension curled in her stomach.
That boy who had walked her to her car might have been sixteen years old. Boys that age assaulted women. She’d only been nineteen when it happened to her, and she’d always wondered if he was another student.
Yet tonight, it hadn’t occurred to her to worry about the boy.
Was Nick right, that she’d made a huge assumption about the Amish? Was that what drew her to them?
No. It was so much more than that. So much that today had epitomized. The generosity and the warmth and the faith, in all meanings of the word.
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