Minerva brightened. “Would you?”
Max wasn’t nearly as thrilled. “Are you licensed in HVAC repair?”
“No,” Timothy admitted. “But I’m a contractor and have worked on heating and cooling before. I still recommend that you have your regular guy out, but at least I can stop the furnace. Your heating bill will be astronomical.”
“I say we do it, Max, and since I’m the president, what I say goes. We’ll show you where everything is right after we finish our little visit.”
Max’s white eyebrows knit together. “As I was saying, Dylan Tanner visited three weeks ago. I was mighty impressed with his knowledge of local history. It’s nice to see young people taking an interest.”
Timothy pushed the sleeves up on his flannel shirt. “What is the history on the house?” Minerva opened her mouth, but Max was faster. “Gerald Tanner, Dylan’s great-great grandfather, built the house in 1910. He lived there until he died in 1945. He was seventy-five when he passed. He was a local boy and by the time he retired was a vice president of the largest bank in the county. Really, though, he was a frustrated architect. He designed and drew up the plans of the house himself.” Max tapped the document on the glass top with his white-gloved finger. “Come take a look. I have the original drawing right here.”
Timothy and I walked across the room. Max stood closer to the fan and it ruffled his mustache. The paper, yellowed with age, had an ink drawing of the interior of my rented house. The plan was rough, however, it did show the location of the walls. The wall in the living room that Dylan marked with an X wasn’t in the rendering.
Timothy leaned over the drawings. “Those don’t look like any blueprints I’ve ever seen. It’s not even to scale.”
“This was Gerald’s first rough sketch of the plans. The real one, the one the workmen and contractor must have used to build the home, is lost. It’s possible the village was never given a copy.”
“It could have been misplaced too,” Minerva chimed in. “The historical society wasn’t formed until 1940. Before that no one really kept track of these pieces of history.”
“This is all you have? You didn’t give Dylan the blueprint?” I asked.
Max’s eyebrow shot way up. “Certainly not. Nothing in the historical society is available to loan. Artifacts may only be viewed in house under the supervision of a board member.”
“So Dylan doesn’t have a copy?” Timothy asked.
“He does,” Max said. “He took a picture with his camera.”
“May I take a photograph with my phone?” I asked.
“Yes,” Max said. “But no flash.”
I retrieved my smartphone from my purse, turned off the flash, and snapped two photos of the blueprint. Within seconds I e-mailed them to my personal and work accounts.
I slipped the phone into my pocket. “When Dylan saw the blueprints of the house, did he know that his great-great grandfather once owned the house?”
“Oh yes.” Minerva nodded. “He knew and asked us to find whatever we had on Gerald. We were more than happy to help.”
“Did you find anything else?” I asked.
“Not much. If the family doesn’t donate to us, we don’t have much record other than what we found in the village newspapers—Appleseed Creek used to have two papers, one English and one Amish—and town photos.”
“Anything in the newspaper?”
“His retirement was announced from the bank in 1928. Close call for him. Had he stayed one year longer he would have lost everything in the crash.”
Timothy’s brows knit together. “The crash?”
“The Great Depression. The stock market crashed in 1929,” I said, surprised Timothy didn’t know about it.
Max gave Timothy a skeptical look. “They aren’t covering the Great Depression in school anymore? This is a travesty. How is the country supposed to move forward if we don’t learn from our mistakes?”
“They didn’t cover it in my school,” Timothy said, leaving it at that.
I tried to steer the conversation back to Gerald. “Wasn’t Gerald’s money in the bank? Wouldn’t he still lose money even if he didn’t work there?”
“He would have if his money was in the bank. Look at these photos.” He pulled three black-and-white photographs from a white acid-free envelope and lined them up on the glass top.
Timothy traced a finger along one of the pictures. Max slapped Timothy’s hand away with his white-gloved hand. “Don’t touch that! You’ll ruin it.”
Timothy retracted his hand. “I wasn’t going to rip it or anything.”
“The oils from your hand will get on the photograph and make it degenerate faster. Only the person with the white gloves can touch the artifacts.” Max held up his hands to show us. “I’m the only one with white gloves. I’m the only one who can touch.”
Minerva rolled her eyes. “Max, don’t be such a fussbudget.”
Timothy glanced at me as if wanting me to translate “fussbudget.” I shook my head.
Max gave us each a beady look. “Now that we have set the ground rules. Look at the second photograph.” He handed me the magnifying glass because the picture was tiny. It was about six inches tall and four inches across. I leaned over the photo holding the glass, taking care not to touch it. The image was grainy but showed an elderly man in a bow tie and full beard looking down at something on a tabletop. I leaned closer. A cloth-padded tray of coins sat in the foreground of the picture. Understanding settled over me. “This was how he preserved his money. Coins.”
I straightened up and felt a twinge in my back. If he leaned over tiny pictures like this all day every day, I could see why Max had a slight arch to his back.
Minerva beamed at me. “That’s right. She’s a bright one.” She winked at Timothy. “I’d keep her if I were you.”
My cheeks flushed. If anyone asked, I planned to blame it on oppressive heat.
“Was he a collector?” I asked.
Max nodded. “Yes. The money he didn’t spend building his home, he spent on coins.” He walked across the room and removed a file from the small writing desk in the corner. He opened the folder on the glass-topped case to an old newspaper clipping inside. “The English paper wrote a feature on the coin collection. The date on this is March 1, 1931.”
The clipping had a photograph of Gerald in front of the house on Grover. It looked much the same from the outside, but clearly the one in the picture was in much better repair than the house falling down around Becky and me. “That date is right in the middle of the Depression,” I said. “Can I take a photo of this too?”
Max nodded, and I snapped another picture. In addition to the photograph of Gerald Tanner and the house, there were three close-ups of coins.
“Look at all those old coins.” Timothy’s finger hovered over the picture. He was careful not to touch it so he wouldn’t get smacked by Max a second time.
“They’re from the Civil War.” Minerva squeezed in between Timothy and me. “Some are Northern and some are Southern.”
“Did he specialize in Civil War coins?” I asked.
Max stepped back. “No. He was an equal opportunity collector. The only criterion was that the coin was valuable. He didn’t waste his time on pennies. His collection would be worth a bundle nowadays, especially with the dollar going into the tanker.”
Timothy rocked back onto his heels. “Dylan knew about the coin collection before he came here.”
“Oh, yes,” Minerva said. “He said the family frequently talked about Gerald and his coins.” She clapped her hands. “Max, take this handsome man downstairs to take a look at Big Bertha.”
Timothy squinted. “Big Bertha?”
“That’s what we named the furnace.”
Max smoothed his mustache with a white-gloved hand. “That’s
what Minerva named the furnace.”
Minerva sniffed. “I figured with all the trouble she’s causing, she earned a name.”
It was Max’s turn to roll his eyes. “Come on, Ken. I’ll show you where the furnace is.”
“My name is Timothy.” He sounded confused again. I would have to explain Ken and Barbie to Timothy later, but I would leave Skipper out of it.
Max shook a wrinkled finger at Timothy. “And know that I’ll be watching you like a hawk every minute to make sure you don’t break anything.”
Timothy glanced over his shoulder and gave me a pleading look as Max led him from the room.
I mouthed, You’ll be fine.
While Timothy and Max went to see about Big Bertha, I scanned the books on the shelves. Most were local and Ohio history. Did Dylan want to restore the house in memory of his great grandfather? Then, why didn’t he just say that? Why give me the story about wanting to restore the house to flip it?
Minerva sat in the wingback chair Timothy had abandoned. “You might as well take a seat. They’re not coming back any time soon.”
I sat on the matching chair.
Her eyes sparkled. “So tell me about that delicious man.”
My face flushed.
A knowing smiled crossed her face.
I scooted as far away from Minerva as I could without actually standing up and leaving my chair. “He’s a friend.”
She tsked. “What a waste. I can tell by the way he watched you that he doesn’t want to be just a friend.” She wiggled in her seat. “He’s a keeper. I can always tell. Good man stock comes from the farm. He’s a farm boy, isn’t he?”
I nodded.
She tapped her teeth with a hot pink fingernail. “And you’re a city girl. There lies the issue. You think the two of you are too different.”
We were different. And there was the whole Amish thing, but I wasn’t going to explain that to Minerva.
“How are you going to snatch him up? Do you have a plan?”
“A plan?”
“Oh yes,” she said seriously. “I’m positive you aren’t the only girl with your eye on him.”
I grimaced, thinking of Hannah. Tomorrow was Sunday, which meant I would see her at church again.
“I see from your sourpuss face, I’m right. You need to tell that boy how you feel before he thinks you don’t care and looks elsewhere. I bet your competition doesn’t have any reservations about making her feelings known.”
Hannah certainly didn’t have any qualms about that. Everyone knew how she felt about Timothy—even Timothy. I wished he’d discourage her more.
Suddenly, there was silence. The constant hum of the furnace, which I hadn’t noticed before, had stopped.
Minerva clapped her hands. “He did it. We are saved.” She winked at me. “Told you, he’s a keeper. If you can find a man who can fix things, string a complete sentence together, and is as easy on the eyes as your Timothy, I say snap that boy up.” A small smile curled her lips. “Trust me, if I was forty years younger, I’d give you some competition.”
Much to my relief, Timothy and Max reentered the room. “Call the furnace man as soon as you can,” Timothy told Max. “He still needs to come and look at it. All I did was turn it off. If you turn the furnace on, it might jump to eighty once again.”
Max nodded. “I will.” Then, grudgingly, he added, “Thank you.”
Timothy smiled.
I jumped out of my chair. “Are you ready to go?”
Timothy’s eyebrows shot up. “I guess you are.”
I nodded and grabbed our coats from the chairs. We thanked Max and Minerva for their time.
“Remember what I said,” Minerva called out the front door behind us.
The cold wind felt good on my overheated skin, so I left my coat off and enjoyed the cool air while we walked to the truck.
Timothy tossed his coat into the back of the pickup, waking Mabel in the process. She opened one eye and closed it again. “What did Minerva mean by that last comment?”
I climbed into the truck. “Nothing important,” I mumbled, even though the opposite was true.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
As Timothy drove the truck around the town square, I asked, “Why didn’t Dylan tell me the house belonged to his family?”
Timothy shook his head. “I knew there was something off about that guy the moment I met him.”
I frowned. Why hadn’t I known?
“Those old photographs made me think.”
“About the coins?”
He shook his head. “I don’t have any pictures of my great-grandparents, my parents, or my younger siblings. Seeing those pictures, I could see how looking at them could bring someone comfort. I see how the picture of your mother brings you comfort. Is that why you keep it?”
“Yes, and I’m afraid I will forget what she looks like.” I scratched Mabel’s head hanging over the front seat.
As Timothy’s truck rolled down our street, I saw a buggy in front of the house. Timothy slowed. “That’s not Daed or Grossdaddi’s buggy.”
I sat up straighter. “Who else would it be? We aren’t particularly popular among the Amish right now.”
Timothy pursed his lips. “That’s why they’re here.”
“They?”
Before he could reply, I saw who he meant. Both Deacon Sutter and Bishop Hooley stood in the middle of my front lawn watching the house.
“It’s probably best if you wait in the truck,” Timothy said.
“But—”
He squeezed my hand. “Chloe, please.” Timothy stepped out of the truck and walked over to the two men. I rolled down the window, but the trio spoke in Pennsylvania Dutch. Their words were meaningless to me.
Deacon Sutter pointed his gloved index finger at the truck, but more specifically at me. Mabel whimpered in the backseat. “I know, Mabel. I don’t like them either.”
Guilt twisted in my gut. I knew going to the Troyer farm had been a mistake and attending the funeral had been a worse one. What would this mean for the Troyer family?
The conversation became more heated. The deacon threw up his hands and shook his fist at Timothy. The bishop said nothing and didn’t move. Timothy listened to the deacon with his arms folded across his chest.
“Mabel, you stay here.”
I stepped out of the pickup. The cold air, welcome after being inside the historical society’s house, chilled me to the bone. I walked to the back of the truck to stay out of the men’s way while fumbling with the zipper of my coat.
“Psst, Chloe!” Aaron waved from the backseat of the buggy.
I hurried around to the other side of the buggy so that the deacon and bishop couldn’t see me. “What are you doing here?”
He arched an eyebrow at me. “Paying a call to you, I guess. I thought I was headed home after another day at Young’s, but Daed decided on the detour.”
“The bishop came with you.”
“I should have realized we weren’t going straight home since the bishop was riding along.”
“What are they saying to Timothy? What’s going on?”
“They are yelling at him for attending the funeral today.”
“Did Ellie get in trouble?”
Aaron shook his head. “The bishop believes she was misguided by grief.”
“What else are they saying to Timothy?”
Aaron shrugged. “The usual. The deacon tells him to stay away from the Troyer family because his presence, oh, and yours and Becky’s too, are leading them from the Amish way. He says this is the final warning. The next time you all are seen with the family, they will be shunned.”
I bit my lip.
Aaron frowned. “I feel so useless. I’m stuck up here. I can’t
even climb out of the buggy to defend my best friend to my father.”
“It’s not your fault.”
Aaron shooed me. “They are coming back to the buggy.”
I waved and hurried around the back of the buggy only to run smack into Deacon Sutter. We both stumbled back after the impact.
“You need to watch where you’re going,” the Amish leader hissed, reminding me of a snake.
I straightened my shoulders. “What are you doing here?”
Timothy stepped around the deacon’s horse and stood beside me. “Come on, Chloe. They both said everything they needed to say.”
The deacon glared at me. “Not everything.” He pointed a finger at me. “I don’t know how you’ve been able to worm your way into the affections of the Troyer family, but rest assured that’s the only family you will lead from the Amish way.”
“I didn’t . . .”
Timothy squeezed my elbow as if telling me to stop, but I couldn’t. A question which had been plaguing me popped into my head. “Deacon, what were you doing Friday talking to Collette Williams?”
The deacon glowered. “What are you talking about?”
“When I was on the float, I saw you speaking with Collette from the college. I want to know why.”
Deacon Sutter clenched his jaw. “You mean the Englisch woman who wanted me to tell her how wonderful the college is to my community. The college does nothing for my district. We do not want or need Englischer help. I’m offended by the idea of it. You were the one who put her up to it, then?”
I felt my cheeks grow hot. “No.”
His glare darkened. “I don’t believe you. The college has had no interest in us before you moved here.”
“I—”
Ding, ding! The bell on Becky’s bicycle announced her arrival. She cruised down the street and slowed as she saw Timothy and me squaring off against the deacon and the bishop on the road side of the buggy.
It was dusk. The temperature seemed to fall with each inch of sun that disappeared behind the houses to the west. Becky jumped off her bike while it was still in motion and dropped it in the middle of the driveway. Seeing how she treated it, I knew why her chain broke so often.
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