Simple Secrets (The Harmony Series 1)

by Nancy Mehl

  I waited while Sam went up to the register to pay our bill. Mary said something to him that seemed to upset him. She tried to grab his arm, but he gently wrestled it away from her. As he turned to walk back to where I sat, the look Mary shot me was one of pure anger. Her expression shook me. I certainly wasn’t after her boyfriend. In fact, I had no intention of starting a relationship with anyone in Harmony. Not even a man as nice as Sam Goodrich.

  “Let’s take that tour,” he said when he reached the table. I stood up and was headed for the front door when he put his hand on my shoulder. “Wait a minute,” he said. “I just thought of something.” He pointed at some pictures against the far wall of the restaurant. “There are some old pictures of Harmony here. I think your Jacob Glick might be in one of them.”

  I followed him to a grouping of black-and-white photos. Sure enough, they appeared to be photographs of the town down through the years. I began to scan them. Sam pointed to a shot taken of a dry goods store on what must have been opening day. The proprietors stood proudly in front of their business. Off to the side stood a bearded man in dark clothing. He stared straight at the camera. His fierce expression chilled me, and I shivered involuntarily.

  “Amil Angstadt,” Sam said. “I’m sure he had no idea he would show up in the picture, but there he is. Sweetie showed me this photo years ago, but she won’t talk much about him. Pretty scary, huh?”

  I nodded my agreement. So this was the man who had caused so much pain in my family.

  “Here,” Sam said triumphantly, pointing to a picture a few spots away. “Ever since you mentioned this Glick person, I kept thinking I’d seen the name somewhere. This is a picture of the church building in 1980. That’s Glick standing in front.”

  I looked closely. Sure enough, someone had written “Jacob Glick” in the margin of the photograph.

  “Glick wasn’t actually a part of the church.” I jumped at Abel Mueller’s voice coming from behind me.

  “Then why is he shown in front of the building?”

  “He worked around the church,” Abel said. “I have some old memoirs written by people who attended Bethel down through the years. They refer to him as a church custodian. Appeared to be a rather solitary fellow. No family. Not well liked. He was asked to leave town—more than once.”

  “And why is that?”

  Abel shrugged. “According to what I’ve managed to glean though some old letters and diaries, Glick was very interested in finding a wife. Mennonite women are encouraged to marry within the faith. Since he refused to join the church, church leaders rebuffed his efforts. He finally gave up and left town. And that was the end of Jacob Glick.”

  I wished with all my heart that a bus out of town had signaled the end of Glick, but unfortunately, unless my uncle had taken leave of his senses, a rock in the side of the head had been his actual means of departure.

  Glick was an unusually unattractive man. I assumed his looks hadn’t helped him in his quest for companionship. Dark hair, bushy eyebrows that had grown together, and an unusually long nose worked together to produce a rather frightening visage. His beady, black eyes held an odd hint of wildness to them. This was a man most women would run from instead of toward.

  “Not what you’d call a good-looking guy is he?” Abel asked.

  I shook my head while Sam snorted his agreement.

  Abel cleared his throat. “I don’t mean to pry, but is there some reason you’re interested in Mr. Glick? I mean, he’s not part of your family. He wasn’t even part of the church.”

  Wishing I’d come up with a reason for asking about Glick sooner, I blurted out the only thing that came to my mind. “I found his name on something at my uncle’s. I was just curious. It’s no big deal.” Well, at least I hadn’t out-and-out lied. I wasn’t sure about the “big deal” part, but maybe that would prove true, as well. I decided to change the subject before I was asked more uncomfortable questions. “Sam said Old Order Mennonites didn’t believe in having their pictures taken. Is that why there are no pictures of the church members or the families here?”

  Abel nodded. “Yes, but there are a few. Ida Turnbauer told me that the cousin of one of the church members was a photographer. It seems a few folks contacted the man privately and had family pictures taken. They weren’t normally shown to anyone outside of the family, but I know they were treasured mementos.” He pointed to a grouping of family photos showing people dressed in the same kind of clothing depicted in the picture at Benjamin’s.

  “Why are these here? I would think the families would have kept them.”

  “Most of them did. These were either left behind when the families moved away or donated by relatives who still live in Harmony.” He directed our attention to one of the photographs. A very handsome young man stood next to an older man and woman. “That’s Levi Hoffman. He owns our candle shop. Lived here all his life.” He motioned toward the other photos. “The rest of these folks moved away. Levi’s the only one who still lives in Harmony.”

  I glanced around at some of the other pictures on the wall. “Kind of sad that there aren’t more images of the early Mennonite settlers. Wouldn’t they help to keep their memories alive? Help people remember what they accomplished?”

  Abel chuckled. “I understand your point, Gracie. But we have no photographs of Christ, and He changed the world. I’m not sure how important pictures really are.”

  I wanted to tell him how special the portrait of my family hanging in Mama and Papa’s room was to me, but I kept my mouth shut.

  I looked closer at the face of Amil Angstadt. There was something burning in those eyes—and it didn’t reflect the heart of the loving God I’d come to know. A rush of emotions churned inside me. The depth of my feelings surprised me. Being in Harmony, the place where my parents had grown up and fallen in love, was affecting me in ways I hadn’t anticipated. It made their experiences so real. I could almost sense their fear and heartache.

  While I fought to bring my feelings under control, I studied Jacob Glick again—the man who was buried somewhere on property that now belonged to me. I had a strange urge to blurt out the truth to Abel. I felt strongly that he had the heart of a pastor and would want to help me. But I had to remind myself that I really didn’t know him—or anyone in this town. Besides, until I’d prayed more about it, I couldn’t risk sharing anything with anyone. I turned around and ran right into Sam. I put my hands on his chest to balance myself.

  “Oh, s–sorry,” I stammered. Still touching him, I looked up into his eyes. What I saw there made my toes tingle.

  “Th–that’s okay,” he said in a husky voice.

  I forced myself to step away from him. Without planning it, my gaze swung toward the back of the restaurant where I’d last seen Mary. She was still there—staring at me. But I saw more than just jealousy in her face. There was hurt.

  “We’d better get going,” I said more forcefully than I meant to. I was almost to the door when I remembered Abel. I looked back to find him watching me. “It was nice to meet you. I guess we’ll see you tomorrow ... about one?”

  He nodded. “See you then, Gracie.”

  Mary watched as Sam and I walked toward the front door. I thought he’d at least say good-bye, but he seemed to have completely forgotten about her. Although I’d never been in love, I knew the signs. This woman was head over heels for Sam Goodrich, but he didn’t reciprocate her feelings. I felt sorry for Mary. I hadn’t come to Harmony to cause anyone pain. Maybe two weeks was too long to stay—and then I remembered Uncle Benjamin’s secret. I was trapped here until I could find a way to resolve my family mess.

  Sam and I stepped out into a bright spring day. “Let’s start on this side of the street. Then if there’s time, we’ll hit the other side.” He shrugged. “If not, we’ll come back next week. There’s no rush.”

  I nodded and followed him to Ruth’s Crafts and Creations. The little store was housed between the restaurant and Menlo’s Bakery. At Sam’s recommendation, we
decided to save the bakery for last. Good idea since I was so stuffed I couldn’t even think about food.

  A bell tinkled above the door when we walked into the sunny yellow building with cream-colored trim. A gray-haired woman with a wide red face looked up from something she was working on behind her counter.

  “Why, Sam Goodrich. It’s been a month of Sundays since you’ve come to see me. What’s going on?” She fastened her inquisitive expression on me. “Well, goodness gracious. Who is this?”

  Sam put his hand on my elbow and gently guided me toward the counter. “Ruth Wickham, meet Grace Temple, Ben’s niece.”

  The woman’s hands flew to her ample chest. “Oh my. Grace, I’m so happy to finally meet you. I’d heard you were coming. I wish Benjamin had let someone contact your family so you could attend his service.”

  A thought struck me. “Is—is my uncle buried near here?”

  Ruth’s round face softened into a smile. “Yes dear. In the cemetery outside town.” She pointed her chubby finger at Sam. “Sam can show you where it is.” She wiped her hands on the calico apron she wore over jeans and a bright red sweatshirt. “I’ve got some lovely flowers in the garden out back. You come by here whenever you want, and I’ll give you a nice bouquet to put on his grave.”

  “Thank you.”

  She waved her hand at me. “It’s nothing. As persnickety as Benjamin was, we thought a lot of him. Such an honest and ethical man. You should be proud of him, Grace.”

  “Please call me Gracie,” I said. I realized as I said it that Sam kept introducing me as Grace. In fact, I couldn’t remember him calling me Gracie once.

  “Gracie it is,” Ruth said. “Now let me show you around some.” She came around the corner and took my arm. “I’ve got several of your uncle’s birdhouses and feeders over here.” She sighed heavily. “I can hardly believe there won’t be any more.”

  “Joyce can still paint birdhouses for you, Ruth,” Sam said. He reached up and ran his fingers along the smooth side of a beautifully carved house. “I guess no one makes a house quite like Ben, though.”

  “No. No they don’t.” Ruth put her hands on her hips and stared at the birdhouses displayed on her shelves. “Benjamin took pride in everything he did. Never rushed the job. Never sacrificed quality for speed, yet he met every order on time.” She brushed at her eyes with her hand. “Aren’t many men like Benjamin Temple anymore.” A quick smile chased the sadness from her face. “Except you, Sam. I swear, if I didn’t know better, I’d believe you two were related.”

  Sam’s easygoing expression faltered for a moment, and something dark crossed his features. I wondered what was behind it. Why did he live with his aunt? Where were his parents? He’d mentioned living in Harmony for most of his life. My curiosity was aroused. Sam Goodrich was an interesting man. I found myself wanting to understand him.

  Besides my uncle’s creations, Ruth’s shop was filled to the brink with handmade items: beautiful quilts, dried flower arrangements, pottery, and bolts of cloth. On one wall, I discovered several framed paintings. Most were landscapes; several were of horses. Each one was striking, painted by someone with remarkable natural talent. And every single painting was set into a carved frame that highlighted the scene perfectly. One particular picture really caught my eye. It depicted a man plowing a field, with a storm brewing in the sky behind him. Dark clouds boiled with moisture. The farmer’s urgency to beat the impending rain showed in his taut muscles and stalwart expression. I realized the style was familiar.

  “These are outstanding,” I said. “I believe my uncle has two paintings by this artist hanging in his house. Who...” I leaned in and saw the signature. H. Mueller. I couldn’t hold back a gasp. “Hannah Mueller painted these?”

  “Hannah painted all of them,” Ruth said, bustling up next to me, “and the pictures in your house. She’s a very talented young lady. Hard to believe she’s only fourteen. You know, painting used to be frowned upon by many in the Mennonite community. This kind of art was considered useless.”

  I shook my head. “That’s a shame. I’m glad Hannah’s family doesn’t believe that.”

  Ruth smiled. “Well, you can still see influences from those beliefs in Hannah’s work. You’ll notice that most people are either seen from a distance or their faces are turned away. Landscapes are the prevalent theme, and almost every picture is of local life and community.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  Ruth shrugged. “I’ve seen some paintings I wouldn’t allow into my house, haven’t you? I guess it’s just an attempt to keep the subject wholesome and free of vanity. Like it says in Philippians: ‘Finally, brothers, whatever is true, whatever is noble, whatever is right, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is admirable—if anything is excellent or praiseworthy—think about such things.’”

  An image from a lurid art show I’d accidentally stumbled upon during a downtown art crawl in Wichita flashed through my mind. It had left me feeling disgusted. “I—I see what you mean, Ruth. Painting the kinds of things that honor that verse makes sense.”

  She nodded. “Abel and Emily see Hannah’s painting as a gift. They encourage her, but they also make certain she uses it in a way they believe will please God. I think she does that admirably. She’s never had any formal training, you know. Unfortunately, the school she attends has no art teacher.”

  “Her technique is very advanced. I’m surprised.” I leaned in closer and inspected the painting a little closer. “Are these for sale? How much for this one?”

  “The watercolors are twenty dollars, and the oil paintings are thirty.”

  “That’s not enough. These are worth much more. Goodness, the frames alone...”

  “These frames don’t set Hannah back a penny,” Ruth said, chuckling. “They’re donated by a very talented man who loves to help other people.” She smiled at Sam.

  “You?” I said to him. “You carved these frames?”

  He shrugged. “No big deal. Something I do while I watch TV.”

  “Well, it is a big deal. They’re beautiful. You could sell them.” I fumbled in my purse and pulled out my pocketbook. “Here,” I said to Ruth. “I won’t give Hannah less than fifty dollars for this painting. And it’s worth much more.”

  Ruth put her hand up to her mouth. “Oh, she will be so thrilled. We haven’t sold many.” She noticed the surprised look on my face. “Not because people don’t love them,” she said. “It’s because Hannah gives them away to everyone. The only people who pay for them are out-of-towners, and we don’t get that many. Of course, there is one person in town who’s bought quite a few.” She crooked her thumb at Sam.

  I grinned at him. “So let me get this straight. You give her frames—and you buy the paintings and the frames back?”

  He flushed just as he had at the restaurant. “I never had brothers or sisters. Helping Hannah kind of fills the void, I guess.”

  Ruth chuckled and looked at him fondly. “You’re a good man, Sam Goodrich. You know that? I’m proud to know you. I really am.”

  Sam turned an even deeper red, causing Ruth and me to laugh. He shook his head and walked over to a display of colorful plates, feigning disinterest in our attention.

  Still giggling, Ruth grabbed a bag and some newspaper from under her counter. While she wrapped up the painting for me, I poked around the shop a little more. I found lots of wood carvings and a table full of embroidered towels and pillowcases. I grabbed four of the pillowcases—two for me and two for my mother. A nicely decorated box of homemade fudge called my name, and I added it to my selections.

  On the other side of the room sat a table with the most artistically designed stationery, cards, and envelopes I’d ever seen. “These are lovely,” I said to Ruth. “Where did you get them?”

  She toddled over to see what I meant. “Oh, you mean Sarah’s paper.” She picked up a sheet of stationery with green and yellow leaves that wrapped around the top and one side. Each leaf was intricately designed.
“Sarah Ketterling is one of our few Old Order residents. She and her father live on a farm outside town.” She fingered the eye-catching design. “This is called wood-block printing. Do you know anything about it?”

  A faint memory from one of my college classes flashed through my mind. “I’ve heard of it, but this is the first example I’ve seen. She carves the design into wood, right? And then rolls paint across it. Then the paper is put on top and the design is transferred.”

  Ruth smiled. “That’s the basic idea, but it’s a little more complicated than that. I have these patterns in right now, but I sell out pretty quick. People love this stationery. I also have several customers from outside Harmony who order it regularly.” She ran her hand over the paper again. “Sarah’s about your age. A lovely young woman.” She sighed. “But her father keeps her on a pretty tight rein, so I don’t get to speak to her often. Her father, Gabriel, was very close to Bishop Angstadt when he ran the church here. He’s never cottoned to Abel Mueller—thinks he’s too liberal.” She touched my arm. “Even though Benjamin was part of that Old Order group, he wasn’t too thrilled with Gabriel’s brand of parenting. He and Ida Turnbauer tried talking to him more than once. Never did any good. Just made him mad.”