An Amish Homecoming

by Amy Clipston

  He headed for Thomas’s. If she did fire him, she’d be doing him a favor. Somehow, he’d become too involved with her and her bakery problems. It wasn’t the work he minded, but he couldn’t get her out of his thoughts while he was in Barton. Why did she seem so isolated? So defensive?

  More puzzling, why did he care?

  When he reached Thomas’s driveway, he paused. He had to apologize to her, something he seemed to be doing often. But he had no one else to blame. She hadn’t asked him for a single thing, other than the inspection, and that was after he inserted himself into her business. Why, Lord? I spent twelve years keeping mei distance. Why can’t I do that with Carolyn Yoder?

  He turned, and a few minutes later he was on the Yoders’ front porch, wondering what he was going to say. Before he could knock on the door, it opened. A boy—around ten years old, he guessed—stepped onto the porch and looked at him. “Hi,” he said.

  “Hi.” Atlee shifted on his feet. “Is, uh, Carolyn home?”

  The boy poked his head inside. “Aenti! Some mann is here to see you.” Then he ran past Atlee and down the porch steps.

  Through the screen he heard footsteps. He swallowed, still unsure what to say. Carolyn appeared, and after hesitating she opened the door. “Judah could have at least invited you in.”

  “That’s okay. I just wanted to apologize.” Once he started talking, the words came tumbling out. “I should have minded mei own business. I usually do. Actually, I always do. I don’t know why I kept on talking . . . or why I’m still talking now.”

  She stepped outside. “It’s okay. I’m sure from the outside looking in, mei decisions seem nonsensical. And some of them are.”

  He didn’t respond. He’d already made a big enough mess as it was.

  She walked over to a small two-seater porch swing. She gave it a small push before she turned around. “I guess I should clear up a few things. You are mei employee, after all.”

  “Right.” Although this was the strangest working relationship he’d ever been in.

  “I left Birch Creek when I was twenty-seven.” Her voice was low, and he had to move closer to hear her. “I planned to live here all mei life, but the bishop at the time . . .” She looked up at him. “He made it impossible.”

  He nodded. He knew all too well how difficult bishops could be, how they brought out helpless and conflicting emotions when they acted contrarily to God’s Word. Carolyn hadn’t said as much, but Atlee could read between the lines.

  “He wanted me to marry a man of his choosing. All I wanted was to run a bakery.”

  “He tried to arrange a marriage for you?”

  “He didn’t get that far. Anyway, that’s in the past. When Freemont became bishop, he asked me to come back. I thought I could make a fresh start here, but I have to do it on mei own terms. And I hope you can accept the way I’m doing things, even if you don’t agree with them.”

  “Carolyn.” Atlee saw the pain in her eyes. Whatever went on between her and the former bishop hurt her deeply. “It doesn’t matter what I think.”

  She didn’t say anything as she went to the front door.

  “I’ll see you in the morning, then,” he said, wishing he could go after her, knowing he couldn’t, not understanding why he continued to be drawn to her.

  “Ya,” she said in a quiet tone. She opened the screen door. Unlike the one at the bakery, this one didn’t squeak. She looked at him through the gray mesh. “It matters, Atlee.”

  “What does?”

  “What you think. It matters to me.” She went inside, the screen door shutting behind her.

  Atlee had arrived in Birch Creek on Monday, and by Saturday morning he was ready to finish the landscaping. It wasn’t an expert job by any stretch, since May had always done the gardening, but it was much better than it used to be. He’d even added a couple of hanging baskets from the eave, a big pot filled with impatiens for the large front stoop, and two window planters with more colorful annuals. They had cost a little more than what he quoted Carolyn, but he made up the difference, a little fact she didn’t need to know.

  As he worked on the repairs, painting, and landscaping, Carolyn had spent most of her time in the bakery, except when she was visiting the phone shanty to make calls. A couple of young English women had stopped by, and he assumed they were applying for the cashier job. But he didn’t confirm that with Carolyn, and she didn’t volunteer any information.

  The only time they really talked was at lunchtime. Carolyn always brought enough packed lunch for them both, even though he said she didn’t have to. Yet he looked forward to her delicious sandwiches made with fresh bread she baked herself. There was always a treat for dessert too—chocolate chip cookies, lemon meringue pie, banana bread—all of which she made in her bakery in the mornings. “I have to test all the recipes,” she said, but he wondered about that. Not only had she admitted earlier in the week that she shouldn’t be spending so much time testing recipes, but her baked goods were perfect. She worked so quickly and efficiently he thought she could bake in her sleep.

  Then he realized baking was more than a job to her. It was a passion. Her customers would be happy to enjoy the fruits of her labor. He enjoyed her company during their lunches, and he’d also taken to walking her home after the workday.

  When he arrived at the shop on Saturday morning, he was surprised Carolyn wasn’t there. She was always there before him, even though he arrived early, eager to get started on the day.

  He inserted the key she’d given him into the front door lock, and when he walked inside, he gave the bakery a quick survey. While the outside showed the most progress, he and Carolyn knew what he had done to get the inside ready for opening day next Saturday. The store was spotless, since Carolyn insisted on cleaning every evening before they left. Two empty glass cake stands stood on top of the larger display case, and a stack of small, handmade cards lay in the middle. He thumbed through them. Chocolate Whoopie Pies. Apple Cinnamon Muffins. Sugared Date Rolls. Orange Bliss Cake. He’d had breakfast with Thomas’s family, but the cards were making his mouth water.

  He set the cards back on the display case. Carolyn’s tidiness and attention to detail reminded him of May.

  A burst of guilt ran through him. He hadn’t thought about May much this week, or the fact that he’d promised her he wouldn’t be gone long. Now he found himself reluctant to leave Birch Creek, at least not until after Carolyn’s opening day. I’m sorry, May.

  The front door flew open, and Carolyn rushed inside. “I’m so sorry I’m late. I’m never late. But I overslept—I have nee idea why. I can’t let this happen when I open the bakery—”

  “It’s okay.” Atlee went to her, concerned that she was so frazzled. “Carolyn, you’ve been working hard, and you’re tired. Nee one’s going to blame you for oversleeping one time.”

  “You don’t understand.” Her chest heaved as she gasped for breath, walked to the worktable, and set her purse on it. She bent her head for a moment, as if she were praying, and then she looked at him, her harried expression replaced with a smile.

  He couldn’t help but smile back, even though he was still concerned. There was something about Carolyn Yoder when she was happy. Her face shone, like the sun on a bright summer day. Her plump cheeks always turned a tiny bit rosy, which made her even prettier. But he knew her well enough to realize her positive disposition wasn’t completely genuine—whether enhanced for him or for her own benefit, he wasn’t sure. Yet he didn’t hesitate to play along, especially if it made her feel better.

  He stood by the table. “I have only a few things to finish up today,” he said. “It shouldn’t take more than an hour or so.”

  “Everything’s done?” At his nod she let out a low whistle, which was as out of tune as her singing. He almost smiled again, but caught himself. “Even the landscaping?” she asked.

  “Ya. You didn’t see it when you came in?”

  “Nee.” She moved past him and headed toward the door.
“I was in too much of a hurry.”

  He followed her outside. When she stopped in front of the bakery and turned around, her hand went to her mouth. “Oh, Atlee.”

  Pleased by her reaction, he practically skipped toward her. “You like it?”

  “Ya. It’s beautiful.”

  “I’ve got a surprise for you.” He grabbed the sign he’d left leaning against the side of the building. Holding it in both hands, he went to her, unable to contain his grin.

  “Yoder’s Bakery,” she said, her pretty eyes growing wide.

  “I ordered it while I was in Barton. I didn’t think it would be here until next week, but they finished it early.”

  She touched the wooden sign. It was simple, but the name of the bakery was prominently displayed. There would be no doubt about this building’s purpose now. “I . . . I don’t know what to say.” She looked up at him, her eyes shining.

  He swallowed, surprised by the depth of his own emotion. It was as if the place was part his, too, in a way. “Do you want me to hang it up?”

  “Ya,” she said with a laugh. “Please do!”

  Atlee gathered the hardware he’d purchased for the sign and hung it from the eave to the right of the front door. “How does it look?” he said, turning around.

  “Perfect.” She pressed her knuckles under her chin. “Absolutely perfect.”

  When he finished the last of his work two hours later, he found Carolyn in her usual spot, behind the kitchen table, going through a box of index cards. From the food stains on them, he could tell they had recipes on them. “Find anything gut?”

  “These were mei grossmutter’s, so they’re all gut.” She shut the box and beamed at him.

  “That’s nice.” For some reason he couldn’t find the words to tell her he was finished. There was no reason for him to stop by now. For them to have lunch together. For him to walk her home. His job here was done, and nothing was keeping him from leaving right that minute. Yet not only wouldn’t his mouth work, but his feet seemed stuck to the floor.

  Her smile disappeared. “You’re finished, then?”

  He nodded. “Ya.”

  “Oh.” She ran her finger across the table, something he noticed she did when she had something on her mind. “I didn’t realize you’d be done so soon.”

  “There wasn’t much left to do.”

  She looked up at him. “So I’m ready to open?”

  “Ya. I think so.” He looked toward the empty display cases in the front area. “Although you might want to put out some desserts to sell before you do.”

  “Already on the list.” She patted her apron pocket. “That’s for next week, though. I want mei customers to have the freshest baked goods possible.”

  “I know they’ll be delicious.” He looked down at the shiny table, and he found himself mimicking her earlier movement. He ran his finger across the edge of the cool steel.

  “What are yer plans now?” Carolyn asked.

  “I guess I’ll go back to Fredericktown on Monday.”

  “I mean right now.”

  With a shrug he said, “I’ll head back to Thomas’s. He and the buwe are planting the fall vegetables today. I might give them a hand if they need it.”

  “Or . . .”

  He glanced up and saw her sly grin.

  “I could give you that baking lesson.” She opened the recipe box and flipped through a few cards before pulling out one that was well-worn. “Peach fry pies happened to be mei grossmutter’s favorite.”

  “Interesting.” He smiled back, glad for the chance to stay a little longer. “They happen to be mine too.”

  CHAPTER 7

  I have some lovely canned peaches from Benton’s Orchard—they’re a few miles outside of Birch Creek,” Carolyn called to him as she headed for the pantry. She couldn’t stop smiling. For the first time since she’d returned home, she had confidence that everything would turn out fine. Other than hiring an employee—the two English girls she interviewed for the cashier job weren’t interested when she told them the pay—and baking what she needed for opening day and the week following, there wasn’t anything to do. Thanks to Atlee. She hadn’t expected the landscaping to be so perfect. And the sign . . . She let out a long sigh.

  “Need some help?” she heard him call out from the kitchen.

  “Nee, I’ll be right there.” She grabbed two cans of peaches and hurried out of the pantry. She turned on the deep fryer, and as she passed the oven, she turned it on, too, knowing she’d be baking something in the afternoon. It had behaved for her all week, and now she was certain she wouldn’t have to worry about it.

  She set the peaches on the counter and looked at Atlee. He was thin and wiry, something she noticed when he was inspecting her roof a few days ago. She also noticed he eagerly ate the lunches she prepared, which made her think about him spending his evenings alone, eating supper for one. The thought saddened her. She wanted him to have delicious hot meals every night.

  “I already washed up.” Atlee rubbed his hands together, but there was doubt in his eyes. “What do I do first?”

  “You put this on.” She handed him one of her aprons that had the least stains.

  He eyed it dubiously. “I have to wear that?”

  “Ya. You don’t want to mess up yer clothes.”

  “In all mei years of working, I’ve never been worried about mei clothes.”

  “Well, you should, because food can stain.” She held it out further. “Step number one.”

  After a moment’s hesitation he took it and wrapped it around his slim body, circling the ties around his waist twice and then tying the top of the apron around his neck. “There,” he muttered. “Now what?”

  “I’ll teach you how to make the dough.”

  Half an hour later, Carolyn wondered what she’d gotten herself into. For someone who was so nimble with his hands, Atlee was a disaster in the kitchen. Flour was everywhere, and he was attempting to roll out the dough for the fifth time. He mashed the rolling pin on the dough as if in battle, as if it were an enemy to be conquered.

  “Nee, nee.” She sighed and scooted in front of him, putting her hands over his. “Be gentle with it. If you overwork the dough, it will be tough.” She didn’t add that he’d already overworked the dough and then some, but she’d set a bit aside just in case. “See?” She moved the rolling pin back and forth. “Like this.”

  Carolyn was so focused on making sure the dough was rolled out correctly that she was surprised to hear Atlee clear his throat, then see him pull back his hands and move away.

  “What’s wrong?” When she looked up at him, her breath caught. He seemed different to her. They weren’t as close as they’d been when they were rolling the dough together, but he also didn’t move any farther away from her. His blue eyes took on an even darker hue, which made her stomach flutter.

  “Carolyn,” he said, his voice low and husky. That made not only her stomach but her heart seem to flip. “I think I’ve got the hang of it.”

  “Oh. Of course.” She stepped away. “Geh ahead and finish.” She put her hand on her chest, feeling the racing rhythm of her heart. Why was her pulse racing? Why couldn’t she stop looking at him? Why didn’t she care that he ripped another hole in the dough?

  He set the pin aside. “I’m hopeless.”

  “Nee. You just need to practice.” She moved past him, her pulse skipping again as her shoulder brushed against his chest. “I’ll finish this up. Hand me the peaches, please.”

  “Sure thing.”

  She blew out a breath and pulled up the ruined dough. Setting it aside, she took her spare ball of dough and quickly rolled it out. Her pulse was slowing, but she could still remember the look in Atlee’s eyes when their gazes met.

  “Here you geh.” He set the peaches next to her.

  She nodded, unable to look at him, afraid he could hear her heart pounding. “I think you can handle this part,” she said, taking a round cookie cutter and cutting the flattened
dough into circles. “Just put a spoonful of peaches in the center of each circle.”

  “Got it.”

  To her relief, he managed that fine. Then she showed him how to fold each pie and crimp the edges. By the time the pies were ready to be dipped into the hot frying oil, she was back to her normal self. Thank goodness. She felt like a fool for even experiencing what had to be a lapse in . . . in something. What that was exactly, she didn’t know.

  “The oil must be at 400 degrees,” she said, now sounding professional as she carried the plate of raw pies to the stove. She dropped a tiny piece of leftover dough into the oil. It immediately sizzled. “Perfect.” She picked up the basket strainer by its long handle and put one of the pies in the oil. “Lay it in gently,” she said before handing him the strainer.

  “Gently,” he repeated.

  To her delight he managed to put three more pies into the fryer without mishap. “After a little while you’ll turn them,” she said.

  “When?”

  “When they’re ready to be turned.”

  “And when is that?”

  “Three or four minutes. I usually know by looking.” She frowned. He might have thought he was failing as a student, but maybe she was failing as a teacher.

  “All right.”

  They stood there, watching the fry pies float in the oil. Carolyn thought she should say something, but Atlee kept his concentration on the fryer. “Now?” he said after what seemed an eternity.

  “Ya. Flip one over and see if it’s brown on the other side.”

  He did, and it was perfect. He turned to her and grinned. “They smell delicious.”

  Again, her heartbeat accelerated. Oh, this wasn’t good. She was out of her depth here. She didn’t want to feel like this with a man who was still grieving his late wife. He’d mentioned May only in passing, but she had seen the love in his eyes and heard the tenderness in his voice when he did. Besides, he was going back to Fredericktown on Monday. She wouldn’t see him again.

  That brought her to her senses. She focused on the pies, and when they were all done and draining on a wire rack, she showed him how to sprinkle them with powdered sugar. “There. Now they’re ready.”