The moment was over, it might never come again.
Danny and Mim looked at each other, pretended they hadn’t, and went home.
Brooke sat across from Jon Hoeffner at the Sweet Tooth Bakery. A cinnamon roll and a coffee—with two dollops of cream, just the way she liked it—were waiting for her at her place.
Today was the second time Jon had ordered for her and the first time he had paid for her. Things were definitely progressing between them. He was adept at conversation and peppered her with questions about her work, her family, her upbringing, her plans for the future . . . of which she had none.
“Aren’t you planning to go back to the museum?”
She stirred her coffee. Could she tell him? Should she? “I was . . . let go.”
“Ah . . . the pain of downsizing.”
“Not exactly. There was a . . . ,” she paused, brushing her hand in the air as if to shoo a fly, “. . . tiny misunderstanding.”
Jon’s eyes went soft and she melted. There was just something about his eyes. Mesmerizing. “Do you want to talk about it?”
Actually, she would. She wanted to vent to someone safe, someone outside of the art world, and Jon was the ideal person. She didn’t have anyone else to talk to about the injustice, the humiliation of getting fired. She told him the whole story, starting with her credit card debt, and the meeting with the art dealer who told her about a client, a man who was a devoted lover of Jean-Baptiste-Camille Corot plein air studies.
Jon interrupted, a quizzical look on his face. “Forgive my ignorance, but who is Jean-Baptiste-Camille Corot?”
Brooke tried to mask the shock she felt. Who didn’t know the work of Jean-Baptiste-Camille Corot? “He’s an artist from the nineteenth century who was, and is, enormously popular in America. He was an innovator. He bridged the gap between Neoclassical painters and Romantic painters and inspired the Impressionists.”
She was afraid she might sound too know-it-all-ish and would scare him off the way she intimidated other men, but Jon seemed fascinated. “Go on,” he said encouragingly.
“The Neoclassical painters felt that landscape should have a serious, moralizing purpose. Romantic painters felt the role of nature was to transport the viewer to imaginary places. Corot allowed for both. He responded to nature with his emotions, yet he also was astutely accurate in how he depicted nature—capturing specific weather conditions or the way that light transformed color.”
She pulled out her iPhone and googled a few Corot paintings to show Jon. “Do you recognize any of these?” She scrolled through them, but he didn’t seem to know the artist. “Corot has a signature brushwork. It starts bold, then matures into a feathery, light touch.”
“I don’t know much about art, but I’d like to know more. Meeting you makes me all the more determined to learn.”
Was he flirting with her? Brooke’s heart started to pound. He reached out and took her phone, brushing her fingers with his. He was definitely flirting with her.
“So which of these paintings did you reproduce?”
“None that were well known. When Corot died, it was a surprise to collectors to find over 300 paintings and plein air sketches in his studio. Those sketches became the inspiration for the large, formal works that eventually hung in the Paris salons.” She described how she painstakingly practiced Jean-Baptist-Camille Corot’s soft brushwork, studied the majority of his paintings, honed his light-drenched palette of colors. She paused. “It hadn’t occurred to me before, but I think his landscapes are one of the reasons I feel so intrigued by Lancaster County. The hazy fog we had this morning, the radiance of light—it reminds me of his nature scenes. The topography is light-drenched, luminous . . .” Her voice drifted off. She really needed to start sketching the landscape. It had completely slipped her mind.
“So . . . ,” Jon said politely, in a tone to remind her she had veered off topic. “So . . . you reproduced a painting of Corot and sold it to the art dealer.”
“That’s what was supposed to happen. What actually happened was that the dealer sold it to a collector as an original. When it was discovered, the art dealer had vanished, and even though I wasn’t legally implicated, I lost my job.”
Jon tilted his head. “There must be a little part of you that feels somewhat pleased you had pulled a fast one on the art world.”
Brooke shrugged. It did, indeed.
“And you had absolutely no idea that the art dealer was going to pawn your painting off as the real thing.”
“No.”
“Come on, Brooke. Really?” Jon leaned forward, eyes twinkling, and gave her a charming rascal smile. “No idea at all?”
She had never admitted such a thing to anyone. Not a living soul. “Well, maybe just a teeny, tiny hunch.”
11
As Mim swung along the village road after leaving the Sisters’ House, good feelings tumbled about inside her. Even if she were soaked in a downpour, nothing could dampen her spirits today. Just moments ago, Ella had greeted her at the door with a big smile. “Welcome back, Mim. I’ve missed you.”
“Isn’t Bethany here?”
“Yes, she was here, but she is not you. People are not as replaceable as . . . a pair of boots.”
Ella had missed her! Mim smiled inside and out with pleasure.
Sylvia came to the door behind Ella with a message from Bethany to meet her at the Bent N’ Dent. Mim needed to hand off her finished Mrs. Miracle letters to Bethany to be dropped off at the Stoney Ridge Times. After finding inspiration in her conversation with Jimmy Fisher, she labored long and hard over the right wording in Mrs. Miracle’s response to that vegetarian who didn’t want to work in his father’s butcher shop:
Dear Animal Lover,
Naturally, I believe in showing respect to parents. It sounds as if you do have respect for your father. Due to these unique circumstances, I think you are going to have to follow your own path.
Sincerely,
Mrs. Miracle
Mim felt a sudden chill as a car drove past her and her happy feelings slipped away. It might sound certifiably crazy, but she thought she had noticed that car a couple of times now, driving slowly and then zooming past her. She felt she was being watched. But maybe it just reminded her of today’s breakfast conversation with her grandmother.
As she was spooning out oatmeal into dishes this morning, Mammi Vera had told Luke and Sammy that the devil was roaming the earth, looking for victims, eyes going to and fro. “Do not succumb to the devil’s attempts to lead you into sin,” she had warned them as she handed them each a bowl.
Luke said he had never actually seen the devil so he wasn’t fearful of him, but he was curious about what he looked like. That comment horrified Mammi Vera; she clutched her chest and went to find her Bible.
Sammy’s eyes grew wide and thoughtful as he pondered Mammi Vera’s warning about the devil. Mim, less sensitive than Sammy but more sensitive than Luke, tried to dismiss her grandmother’s caution, but thoughts of the devil stood hovering in the air over her head.
What had happened to the good feelings that were just tumbling about inside her? They were gone.
Mim cut through a field, near where there was a ditch for water irrigation. A strange eerie sound floated up from inside the ditch—the devil himself, perhaps—so she hurried her steps.
The devil was calling, “Is anyone there? Anyone at all?”
Mim sped up. Then stopped. The devil sounded suspiciously similar to the monstrous Jesse Stoltzfus.
“Are you a demon?” she called.
“Mim, is that you?”
She hesitated. “Maybe.”
“Mim, I need your help! The cow fell into the ditch and I can’t get her out. Come and help me.”
She walked slowly toward the ditch and peered into it. There was Jesse Stoltzfus, with his sticky-up hair, pushing the backside of a cow, who refused to budge.
He looked up at her. “I need your help.”
She pushed her glasses up
on her nose. “What should I do?”
“Do you think we could use your apron as a kind of rope?”
Her favorite apron! Used as a cow rope. She unpinned her apron and threw it down to him.
“You pull, I’ll push.”
That would mean she would have to get down near that dirty, smelly ditch water. She frowned and he noticed.
“Mim, there isn’t time to be prissy. I need to get this cow out of this ditch and get her to the barn before milking time. Come down here and help me. You don’t have to get into the water—just stay on the edge. Or go get my dad. He’s at home.”
She had just come from home and didn’t want to go all the way back again. Besides, Bethany was waiting for her at the Bent N’ Dent. She sighed; her happy feelings had thoroughly dissolved. She hid the manila envelope of Mrs. Miracle letters behind a rock, then climbed down carefully into the disgusting ditch. Jesse wrapped the apron around the cow’s neck and twisted the ends, then handed it to Mim who was standing on the edge.
“When I count to three, pull with all your might.” He steadied his legs behind the cow and prepared to push. “One, two . . .”
Mim started to pull as Jesse pushed and the cow stood her ground, bawling an unhappy cow sound. She thought she might go deaf.
“Are you pulling?” Jesse shouted.
“Yes!”
With that, the cow decided she had enough of getting pushed and pulled and she threw her head, knocking Mim into the water before charging up the side of the ditch. The cow stood on the edge, peering down at Mim and Jesse, batting her big black eyelashes, as if to ask what they were doing in a dirty ditch.
Jesse waded over and offered Mim a hand, which she reluctantly took. She smelled disgusting!
“I’ll help you up the side of the ditch.”
“No,” she growled. “I’ll get myself up.”
“Suit yourself.” He grabbed the abandoned apron-turned-rope, squeezed it out, and scrambled up the ditch. “No one would ever accuse you of being a garrulous girl.”
Garrulous? What did that mean? It bothered Mim to not know a word. She collected words. She even read the dictionary. Words were her hobby.
Jesse and the cow peered down at her. He looked at Mim as if she had braved a lion in a den. “You have pluck, Mim.” He tipped his hat. “Mim is no name for a lass who rescues a lad and his cow in distress. What’s your real name?”
“Miriam.”
“You have pluck, Miriam.” He grinned. “And I will never forget your act of selfless charity during my time of need. Just another charming quality to add to your long list of charmingness. You will make any man proud to call you his wife one day.” He bowed, then bobbed up. “And I will be first in line to try to win your hand.”
Wife? Win her hand? Was he crazy?! “I would never, ever marry you, Jesse Stoltzfus!”
He grinned, saluted her, and turned away, leading the cow with Mim’s apron-turned-rope. She tried to scramble up the ditch as fast as Jesse had done, but it took her a couple of tries. By the time she had reached the top, he was halfway across the field.
“I suppose someone will marry you eventually,” she shouted. “But it’ll have to be someone who is stone-deaf so she doesn’t have to listen to your nonsense!”
He waved cheerfully and kept pulling the cow with the rope-apron to keep her moving forward.
She watched him move the cow along until he disappeared beneath a hill. She looked down at her sopping, dripping dress and tried to wring it out. It was very hard to get the last word in with someone as verbose as Jesse. That Jesse Stoltzfus thought he had the world sorted out.
She remembered the manila envelope filled with letters from Mrs. Miracle and ran to the rock where she had hidden it.
It was gone.
Things between Galen and Rose were not as easy as they had been before Paisley arrived. They’d even had sharp words one afternoon, something that had never happened before, when Rose had complained to him that she still hadn’t heard back from Tobe, though he must have received her letter by now. She was anxious to know how he would want her to handle this Paisley person. Should she ask her to leave? Could she do that? Because Paisley was surely not telling the truth about Tobe being the father of her baby.
“Maybe there’s a reason he hasn’t responded quickly,” Galen said.
She frowned at him, knowing what he was thinking. “You’ve made up your mind ahead of the facts.”
“The facts are the facts,” Galen said bluntly. “Paisley is pregnant and Tobe Schrock is to blame.”
Rose was furious! And she was just about to tell him so when she heard someone call her name. It was her new neighbor, David Stoltzfus, walking up the driveway of Eagle Hill with the rope of a milk cow in his hand.
She wanted to finish this conversation with Galen, but what could she do? She went to greet David. With a big grin, he deposited the rope in her arms. “Your boys told me your cow didn’t give much milk. Growing boys need milk.”
“That’s true. But that’s because they forgot to milk her for a few days and she started to dry up. So now milking the cow is Mim’s job. Thank you, David.” Though to be truthful, Rose didn’t want another cow. Milk cows were a heap of trouble. She would have been just as happy to have a bit of extra buttermilk now and then.
But she took the rope from David and watched dumbly as Galen shook his hand, turned to her, and said, “I’d better get back.” Left, without another word, without a backward glance.
“Do I smell coffee?” David said, looking up at the kitchen.
“Of course. Go on inside. I just started a fresh pot. My mother-in-law Vera is in the kitchen. There’s some cherry cobbler from last night’s dinner.”
David grinned. “I’ll cross many a hill for a good cobbler.”
She smiled. David Stoltzfus was a fine man, even if Mim couldn’t abide his son Jesse. Luke, on the other hand, couldn’t get enough of Jesse. He was even starting to talk like him. “I’ll take the cow in the barn and be right in to join you.”
“My youngest named her Fireball.”
“What?!”
He laughed. “She just liked the name.” He patted the cow on her big head. “She’s gentle. Most times.”
The cow seemed as docile as could be, but Rose had been fooled before. “Um, well. Fireball it is. Thank you again, David.”
Before she went down to the barn, she turned back and saw Galen at the privet hole, his eyes resting on David with a slightly puzzled look.
Paisley asked more questions than Rose had answers for. She was certainly interested in anything that had to do with making money, particularly how much Eagle Hill was worth. Finally, it got so that whenever Paisley would open her mouth to start to ask another question, Rose would cut her off and talk about something completely mundane, like exactly what was her baby’s due date and when had she last seen a doctor? Any mention of the impending delivery of Paisley’s baby would cause her to frown and soon she would disappear from the room. It seemed as if Paisley was ignoring the fact that she was about to become a mother.
Vera did not like the way Rose interacted with Paisley and told her so, more than once. “Don’t you understand why she is asking so many questions about the farm? She is planning for her future with Tobe. And you’re making her feel as if it’s wrong to ask.”
Rose frowned. “Doesn’t it seem that a soon-to-be mother should be asking questions about baby care and getting a layette put together? She hasn’t given the baby’s arrival a second thought.”
“She’s anxious about it, that’s all.”
There could be some truth in that. Rose could remember how unsettled she felt before each of her own babies’ births. She should keep trying to withhold her opinion about Paisley until she heard something from Tobe—which should be any day now. At least, she hoped so. She couldn’t silence Galen’s remark that Tobe wasn’t responding because he didn’t want them to know the truth. She still felt annoyed with Galen, but she couldn’t dismiss t
he notion that he might be right. She loved Tobe, but she knew his tendency to avoid difficulties.
And yet, she told herself, wasn’t Tobe serving a prison sentence because he was willing to face a consequence for withholding evidence? Wasn’t that a sign of maturity? It was. Why couldn’t Galen see that? Why couldn’t he be more of . . . a partner, helping her raise children to reach their fullest potential?
It occurred to her that she’d never had a helpmate, a partner. She thought of Fern and Amos Lapp, who worked together on their farm. Or Bishop Elmo and his wife, Dee, who ran a quilt shop together. Two become one. She’d heard it said dozens of times in marriage ceremonies. She and Dean had promised it, but it had never happened.
What if Galen were more like Dean than she had thought? A man who couldn’t change his mind or listen to a woman’s good sense . . . why, that behavior was just like Dean’s. Maybe that’s what all men were like, deep down. Stubborn and prideful.
One thing she had discovered about Dean, early on—he refused to change. After thirteen years of marriage, they were struggling with the same tangled issues: Dean’s pie-in-the-sky dreams, his big promises, and his appallingly poor judgment. He felt she didn’t support him, didn’t respect him, didn’t cheerlead for him. But how could you show support to someone who made terrible decisions, one after the other?
She hated to admit it, even to herself, but Dean’s death brought some relief. Sorrow for what might have been, lost hope that things might have improved in time, pressure for all that fell alone on her shoulders now. But a measure of relief. She cringed. Wasn’t that a terrible way to think about your dead husband?
She remembered the Christmas when Dean told her that he was going to start his own investment business. No more working for others who took all the profit.
“Why do we need it?” Rose had asked.
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