The Amish Bride

by Mindy Starns Clark

  “Ella,” Kendra called out. “A word in the kitchen?”

  I followed her, feeling like a naughty puppy. She’d guessed right and explained what was going on to Wes, that Rosalee Neff had come here to offer me a job in her bakery—and that I was thinking about taking it.

  “I thought you were going back to Pennsylvania, to your Amish beau,” he said.

  “I thought so too,” I replied. “But then this popped up. So now the question is, do I stay here for a while and get the experience in a bakery I’ve been needing? Or go back home where my boyfriend is?” Feeling like that volcano inside was about to blow, I looked from one to the other and cried, “I don’t know what to do!”

  “Whoa.” Wes turned to Kendra. “Babe, I’m going to let you handle this one.” Looking to me as he held the spatula in front of himself, as if for protection, he added, “I don’t do drama.”

  I smiled in spite of myself. “I’m sorry. I’m all worked up into a dither. At least, that’s what my mom calls it.”

  “Yeah.” His eyebrows shot up. “Good word.” He turned back to the stovetop and started scraping the grill.

  Kendra put her arm around me and led me aside. “Don’t worry about working the two weeks, if that’s what this is. I have a couple of gals coming in for interviews later this afternoon. I can have one of them start tomorrow as your replacement if this is really what you want to do.”

  “I…I don’t know if it is or not.”

  “You’re not sure?”

  I swallowed hard. “No. Well, kind of. Maybe…maybe not.”

  Kendra chuckled. “You really are confused.”

  Glancing toward Wes, I lowered my voice and explained a little further, saying that while on the one hand living at the family home and working in a bakery were both dreams come true, on the other hand, the only reason these opportunities came up in the first place was because Ezra’s family and mine were trying to keep us apart, thanks to our differing religions. So while I really was excited about the opportunity, I was reluctant to give in to the manipulations of others.

  Kendra listened intently, her big sister face on. When I was finished, she thought for a moment and then spoke. “If I were you, I’d stick around and take that job no matter how I got it. The people back there may be trying to manipulate you, but the way I see it, you’re the one who makes out in the deal. Swallow your pride, accept the job, and go home in a month or two, once everybody’s had a chance to calm down.”

  She made a lot of sense. Wavering, I said softly, “But what about Ezra? I miss him so much.”

  She gave me a sympathetic smile. “So go home in a few weeks instead of a few months. Really, hon, in the big scheme of things, does it matter all that much? If your relationship is as strong as you think it is, this time apart will only make it stronger. Haven’t you heard the saying? Absence makes the heart grow fonder.”

  I was quiet for a long moment, and then I looked over to Wes, who was still at the stove.

  “How’d your wife get so wise?” I called out to him.

  “Years of running interference on all the drama, I guess.”

  “Listen, don’t be a stranger,” Kendra said. “Check in with us from time to time until you go back home.”

  I thanked her and gave her a hug, called out another thanks to Wes, and I returned to the dining room, coming to a stop at Rosalee’s table.

  “Okay,” I said. “I’ll do it. And I can go with you today, if Luke will take me by Penny’s on the way so I can collect my things.”

  I waited as Rosalee put the exact change for the coffee on the table. Then I led the way out, straight toward Luke and the buggy.

  She climbed in first and I followed.

  “Go to where Ella is staying,” she said to Luke.

  He looked straight ahead as he eased the horse toward the street. As we rode along, though this had probably been the right decision, the truths surrounding that decision began to close in on me.

  My mother didn’t want me.

  My boyfriend was six hundred miles away.

  My whole family had conspired to enforce what had simply started out as an impulsive whim.

  It was as though they were all saying, Okay, Ella. You made your bed, now lie in it.

  Thus, lie in it I would.

  Or maybe I would smother in it instead.

  Once we reached Penny’s house, I told Luke and Rosalee to wait in the buggy. I found my landlady and friend at the kitchen table, leafing through a French cookbook. I quickly explained my situation, saying I was only stopping by to collect my things.

  “Oh, I’m so disappointed,” she replied. “I was at least looking forward to the next two weeks. We got along so well.”

  I agreed. “It’s not you. It’s just that—” I wasn’t sure how to say it without sounding as if I were in junior high.

  She smiled. “I can see this will be a good situation for you.” She stood. “I’d still like to take you to South Bend to check out the cooking school.”

  I was touched, although there wouldn’t be any reason for me to go to cooking school now. I wasn’t going to stay in Indiana that long—just long enough to serve my sentence for being impulsive, just until Mom agreed it was a good idea for me to come home again. Maybe just until I’d solved Mammi’s mystery—though more for my sake now than hers. She’d probably been the one to suggest the arrangement with Rosalee in the first place. Once my secret ally, it now seemed that even my own grandmother had turned against me.

  I thanked Penny and said I would call her sometime and then hurried up to my room. It only took me a few minutes to gather my belongings. With my backpack over my shoulder, and a cardboard box full of my toiletries and the carved box wrapped in its pillowcase in my hands, I walked down the stairs.

  Penny went out onto the porch with me and then gave me a hug, reaching awkwardly around my things. She made me promise to call her once I was settled in with Rosalee. She stayed put as I hurried toward the buggy. Luke took the box and backpack and stowed them in the back while I climbed up on the seat next to Rosalee with the carved box. I waved to Penny. Just before we left she called out to me.

  “Ella, take the bicycle.”

  “Oh, no. That’s too much—”

  “Luke, come get it,” she said. “It’s right where you left it.”

  He glanced at me. I shrugged and then looked at Penny. “I’ll pay you for it.”

  “Hogwash,” she said. “It’s yours.”

  Luke did her bidding as I called out a thank-you. Soon he had the bike wrangled into the back and we were on our way. Neither of my companions spoke, and I, surprisingly, didn’t know what to say.

  My stomach churned, wondering what I’d gotten myself in to. Rosalee obviously had a bakery business, but that could mean just about anything. Maybe she made bread out of her kitchen. And maybe she had an outhouse instead of a bathroom. Even if Mom didn’t change her mind soon, I might still go home anyway. It wasn’t as though she could stop me, any more than she’d been able to prevent me from coming out here in the first place.

  As we plodded along through town, I took the carved box out of the pillowcase and handed it to Rosalee.

  “Look what you have,” she said. Obviously she’d seen it before—her voice was a little more animated than it had been. Luke glanced down at it as he drove.

  “My grandmother had it. There are three altogether. My cousin Lexie has the one with a carving of Amielbach, a big house in Switzerland. And my cousin Ada has one of the Frutigen bakery, which is also a place in Switzerland.”

  Rosalee ran her finger over the top. “They were carved by Abraham Sommers. This one is from a drawing by my grandmother.”

  “That’s right. So you’ve known about the boxes all these years?”

  “I remember two of them from when I was little—the place in Switzerland and this house. My father must have told your grandmother to take them when she left for Pennsylvania. But the third one is news to me.”

  “T
here’s a book too.” I took the box back and opened it, figuring she might know a thing or two that could help me break the code. “It was your grandmother’s. She recorded recipes, drew all sorts of stuff, and wrote in a secret code.” I handed the book to Rosalee.

  “I’ve never seen this,” she said, flipping through it carefully. “What a treasure.”

  “The pictures are symbols. They represent different people in her life. That I’ve figured out. I’m not so sure about the other stuff though, the odd code. Then there’s her handwriting in general—it’s so small and old fashioned. Some of the recipes I can read—and others I can’t. Same with the entries.”

  “Oh, my,” she said, lingering on the page with the maze. “Isn’t this something? I wonder what she meant by all of it.”

  “I think it’s a maze of her life.”

  “Could be,” Rosalee said, squinting in the afternoon light.

  “My mammi said Sarah did other artwork. Drawings and paintings.”

  Rosalee continued through the book. “I remember her drawing when I was little. I hadn’t thought of it in years.”

  “Is any of her work still around? In the attic? Or somewhere else?”

  The woman shook her head. “I haven’t come across anything.”

  “Could I look around while I’m there?” I blurted out, and then I felt embarrassed for my blunder. That was far too forward, even for me.

  But she didn’t seem offended. “Sure. But I bet my daed got rid of all of it years ago after Sarah died. He didn’t think it was right for her to be drawing.”

  My heart sank. I could see an Amish son cleaning out his mother’s art, especially if he’d felt all along that it was too prideful.

  “I’m so excited I’m finally going to be able to see the Home Place.”

  “The Home Place?” Rosalee gave me a sideways glance. “No one’s called it that in years.” She handed the book back to me.

  “That’s what Sarah called it. And my grandmother calls it that too.”

  A somber expression fell across her face. “She’s probably the last one to do so since Mammi Sarah passed on.”

  As the horse picked up speed on the outskirts of town, heading toward Goshen, I carefully tucked the book inside the box and then slipped both of them back into the pillowcase. I held it securely against my chest, wondering at Rosalee’s response as we rode along in silence.

  Luke turned on the road past the one I took on the bicycle. At the next intersection was a simple sign that read “Plain Treats” and an arrow directing us up Willow Lane.

  He made another turn, onto a gravel road this time, so the going was a little slower. In about a quarter of a mile, the lane curved. Ahead was a small building with a “Closed” sign in the window. I smiled at the sight of the bakery. A row of poplar trees partially hid the rest of the property. Even if Penny had been out this way before, she wouldn’t have seen the house. The trees blocking it from view had probably been there for more than a hundred years.

  FOURTEEN

  As the buggy passed the bakery, the lane turned sharply to the right, and in the distance a large white house came into view. My first sight of it wasn’t at the same angle as the image carved on the box, but it was definitely the Home Place. My heart raced. To think I’d actually been invited to live here! Sure, I would only stay a short time, but the very thought lifted my spirits immeasurably.

  I could see one of the wings of the house and the front porch. A moment later the barn, off to the left, came into view. It was large, with a rounded roof and whitewashed, although in need of a fresh coat. Off to the right was a root cellar, dug into the slope of a slight hill, and then a small orchard of apple trees. The trunks were worn and gnarly, while the leaves were a tender green.

  As we neared the house, Luke brought the horse to a stop. There were more outbuildings in back of the farmhouse and also a vegetable garden. Beyond were the woods and past that, I knew, the Klines’ dairy farm.

  Luke set the brake, and I jumped down, stepping around to the rear. Luke was already there, pulling out the bicycle. He handed me my cardboard box and backpack before turning toward the barn. I followed Rosalee.

  The main house was big, two stories in the middle, with a one-story wing on each side.

  On the way to the back door, I got a closer look at the outbuildings behind it. One was likely a toolshed and another was definitely an old smokehouse. I’d seen a few of those in Lancaster County, and they always intrigued me. I loved imagining the smell of smoking bacon and hams and the months the process took.

  Seedlings poked up through the rich, dark soil of the garden plot. Beyond it was a chicken coop. In the middle of the side lawn was a tulip tree, already budding with blossoms. For years I’d wanted Mom to plant one by our cottage, but she’d never been interested.

  I spotted an herb garden close to the house and stepped toward it. “Sarah wrote about drying herbs,” I said. “And lots of her recipes and remedies use them.”

  Rosalee shuddered a little. “I remember those remedies well. When I was sick, my daed would send me down to the daadi haus for one of her ‘treatments.’ Ugh.” She stepped toward the side door of the house.

  A brown vine, probably clematis, wound its way around the railing and up the weathered steps. The roof above it sagged a little and was covered with moss. Rosalee led the way into a mudroom and then through that to a large kitchen. Pine cabinets lined the walls all the way around, and in the middle of the room was a table covered in a blue-checkered cloth with an old kerosene lantern sitting at the center. I was pleased to see a small propane refrigerator and stove. So at least Rosalee’s district approved some modern conveniences, thank goodness.

  “The bathroom is down this hall,” Rosalee said, and then she smiled, probably at the look of relief on my face. “And where you’ll sleep is too.”

  I followed her, poking my head into the bathroom. It had a toilet, sink, and shower, nothing fancy but more than adequate. To my relief, there was a propane lamp to the side of the sink.

  Rosalee motioned toward the next open door, and I joined her in a few more steps. There was a twin bed, covered with a quilt. On the dresser was a set of sheets, two towels, and a washcloth. It was obvious she’d expected me to come. There were three pegs on the wall, next to a window with simple white curtains. I peeked out and could see the garden, the barn, and the woods in the near distance. It was a lovely room.

  “Thank you.” I slid the box on top of the dresser and set my backpack on the floor, wondering who all had slept in here through the years.

  Rosalee turned toward the door. “I’ll be finishing up in the bakery. Come join me after you’ve put your things away and had a look around.”

  I placed the torn pages from the bridal magazines and my jeans in the bottom drawer of the dresser. I knew I wouldn’t need those for a while. I hung my dresses, coat, and cape on the pegs, and then I set my second pair of shoes next to the wall.

  Once back in the kitchen, I headed around to the foyer, past the open staircase and over to the second wing, which was a large living room. It was as big as the kitchen and sparsely furnished with a sofa, a cabinet, a recliner, and three straight-back chairs. As with most Amish homes, it could easily hold a church service or even a wedding. There were two bookcases, both full, and a small table under the window facing the front porch.

  I wondered if Rosalee had any children and where they lived, surprised one of them didn’t live with her. Most Amish women her age would have a son running the farm and a houseful of grandchildren to help with.

  Rosalee had said I could check out the place, so I headed up the open staircase. Nearly every step creaked, and I couldn’t help but notice the dust bunnies in the corners. On the landing, I stopped to look out the window. It faced the woods. I was eye level with a canopy of new leaves, each one a different shade of brilliant green, contrasting with the dark needles of the fir and pine trees. Down the hall was closed door after closed door. Reminding myself that
Rosalee had said it was okay, I opened the first one.

  The room was empty. The walls were painted an off-white, as was the trim. The closet was completely empty as well. The next room had a bed and bureau, but it was obviously vacant. The next one was sparsely furnished too, but there were dresses and kapps hanging on the pegs. Realizing it was Rosalee’s room, I shut the door in a hurry. I was surprised she slept upstairs and not down, closer to the bathroom.

  Then the next door I opened dispelled that notion. It was a fairly new bathroom, probably added within the last ten years.

  There were two more completely vacant rooms and then one filled with a bed, several bureaus, and two desks. Judging by how they were piled, she used it as a storage room. At the end of the hall was another door, which I opened and saw that it led to the attic staircase. I ventured upward. There was enough light coming in from a small window at the far end for me to make my way. I stood on the last step, squinting, and could make out several trunks and cardboard boxes. I opened the closest box to find a set of white dishes. The next box had a couple of quilts in it. And the third was full of clothing, mostly trousers and shirts. The trunks were all empty.

  Puzzled, I decided I’d snooped around enough for now. If the drawings were in the house, they weren’t in plain sight. One thing was obvious—Rosalee wasn’t a pack rat. For the house being in the family so long, the place was practically bare. Mammi’s tiny daadi haus had more things crammed into it than this entire building did.

  I went downstairs and then outside. As I walked toward the bakery, I noted again the entrance to the underground cellar, a stone staircase leading down to a wood door. I would visit it later. Off to the side were raspberry and blueberry bushes and, beyond that, the orchard. Clearly, Rosalee raised far more produce than she needed for herself. I wondered how much of it she used in her bakery.

  I walked around to the front of Plain Treats, impressed again with the clever name. The sign in the window still read “Closed,” but the door was unlocked.