The Amish Bride

by Mindy Starns Clark

  When the silent prayer was over, Eddie started toward the door, but Luke called out, “Don’t go anywhere yet except to fetch the Bible for me.”

  Eddie changed direction, hopped on one leg over to the hutch, and returned with a worn Bible.

  “We didn’t read last night,” Luke said.

  “Ach, I don’t know how that slipped by,” Rosalee said.

  I was sure it was because of me. I’d upset their predictable world.

  Eddie handed Luke the Bible, and, in English, he said he was reading out of Isaiah 40. But then he began to read—in German. I tried to follow along, but could only make out a few words. If Zed were with me, he would have comprehended the entire passage.

  When Luke finished, Rosalee put her hand out flat on the tablecloth.

  “There’s something we need to talk about. We need to find a ride for Ella to South Bend so she can visit the cooking school.”

  I shook my head. “Actually, there’s no need. Penny, the woman I lived with, will take me. I’ll call her.” I still wasn’t sure if I would be attending the school or not, but I decided it couldn’t hurt to pay it a visit. Maybe God was working in my life after all, even if He had chosen to do so through my manipulative, meddling family members.

  Looking relieved, Rosalee instructed Millie to clean up the breakfast things, and Luke said he’d take Eddie with him for the morning and see how it went.

  After I helped clear the table, Rosalee and I started toward the bakery. The morning was cold, and I was happy to have my cape around my shoulders.

  “Today is pie day,” she told me when we entered the bakery. She flipped the sign to “Open,” and I followed her into the kitchen. The smell of cinnamon greeted us. Rosalee said she had popped sticky rolls into the oven before breakfast. She began pulling them out.

  “The berries for the pies are in the cooler, and the recipe for the pie filling is on the board. Please prepare that, Ella.” She motioned with her head toward a bulletin board on the far wall. “Wash your hands first.”

  I nodded, thankful to be here and not back at the house washing the breakfast dishes. Having a job at the restaurant had been good, but working in a bakery was truly what I wanted to do. Of course, I knew Rosalee’s bakery wouldn’t offer me the variety I craved. There certainly wouldn’t be anything fancy here, but at least it was a start.

  After I washed my hands I searched the board for the recipe. Finally I found it written on a card nearly hidden by several others. I took the tack out of the board and pulled the recipe card free. It was written in an old-fashioned hand and I held it carefully.

  I turned toward Rosalee.

  “This isn’t Sarah’s, is it?”

  She squinted to see what I was talking about and then shook her head. “No. My mother’s. Most of the recipes I use were hers.”

  “Oh.” I started back to the worktable. “Did she get her recipes from Sarah?”

  Rosalee wrinkled her nose. “No, she probably got them from her own mother. Though I imagine many of their recipes were the same—or at least similar. Sarah was my mom’s mother-in-law, but they didn’t get along very well.”

  My eyebrows shot up.

  “’Tis true, I’m afraid. My father either. He and his mother weren’t exactly what you might call close. It was a bit complicated for me, when I was a child, because I loved my parents and my grandmother, but there was always a lot of conflict between them.”

  “How about your dad’s sister?” I asked, referring to my own grandmother. “She got along okay with her mother, right?”

  From the wistful way Mammi always talked about Sarah, I had a feeling that was a stupid question.

  “Oh, yes. Frannie and Sarah were very close. In fact, if you just went by the two of them, you would think we were all one big happy family. Sadly, we were not.”

  Surprised, I wasn’t sure how to respond. Finally I said, “I’m sorry.”

  Rosalee chuckled. “Whatever for?” But then her voice grew serious. “By the time I married and moved to Michigan, it didn’t matter anymore.” She sighed. “But that’s all water under the bridge. Now I’m back and happy to be here. The past is the past. I wasn’t able to have children, so Darryl and Cora’s brood is an extra blessing. But to keep all this going we need to concentrate on work now—and pray for customers.”

  The recipe in front of me was for blueberry pie and was written in English, thank goodness. It called for lemon juice and rind, just like the one I used at home. The ingredients had all been increased, enough to make five pies. Rosalee pulled uncooked shells from the refrigerator and delivered them to the worktable. She must have rolled them out before breakfast too.

  A bell dinged.

  “Customer,” Rosalee said, wiping her hands on her apron before picking up a tray of the warm sticky buns. “Come with me.”

  She went through the door, pushing it open with her hip and holding it for me. An English woman stood on the other side of the counter.

  “Hello,” Rosalee said, sliding the tray into the display case.

  “Oh, good,” the woman said, a wave of relief passing over her face. “Everyone at my office will be thrilled. I’ll take a dozen sticky buns, please.”

  Rosalee showed me where the boxes were stored under the counter. I put on latex gloves, grabbed a set of tongs, and started filling a box while Rosalee rang up the order. The register was similar to the one at the café, and the bakery took credit cards, which didn’t surprise me. So did the Amish shops in Lancaster.

  In just a few minutes the woman was out the door, and I was back in the bakery, washing my hands. Every time the bell rang I hurried out front. A couple of times I had to ask Rosalee for help, but after a while Millie arrived and she took care of the orders. Relieved, I concentrated on my task. I wasn’t sure that we needed Millie—we weren’t actually that busy—but it was nice that I didn’t have to keep running out front.

  After I finished scooping the pie filling into the shells, Rosalee told me to roll out dough for lattice tops for three of the pies and make a crumb topping for the other two. I had to ask where the brown sugar was stored, but I was able to complete the rest of the job without asking anything else. I knew she was keeping an eye on me as she worked on making lemon cream pies.

  As I rolled out dough for lattice tops, Millie poked her head into the kitchen. “Need any help back here?”

  Rosalee frowned. “Is it slow out there?”

  Millie nodded. “Not as slow as yesterday morning, though.”

  “How about if you clean out front? Give all the tables a good scrubbing. Then the walls.”

  Millie nodded and headed for the storage room. I craned my neck to see in the door as she entered, knowing I wanted to get a closer look in there later. Because the bakery had once been the daadi haus, I thought perhaps Sarah had stashed her paintings here in some secret spot. Millie emerged with rags and a spray bottle filled with blue liquid and headed back out front.

  Once she was gone, Rosalee whispered, “She’s great with the customers but not so good with the baking.” She sounded so matter-of-fact that it didn’t even sound critical. I sorely hoped she would never say I wasn’t good with the baking.

  I finished the crumb toppings and then wove the lattice design over the rest of the pies. Rosalee whisked them into the oven before I reached the sink to wash my hands.

  “Now start on another batch of sticky buns,” she said.

  The recipe was also on the board but written in a hand easier to read—Rosalee’s, I assumed. As she and I worked together, I asked her about what businesses in the area she’d approached about carrying her product.

  “None. The bread distributor approached me. Other than that, I haven’t been doing any selling—except here, on site. We have a big order from time to time, but we’re just starting to distribute.”

  “Why haven’t you before now?”

  She scraped the metal bowl of lemon cream with a spatula. “I’d rather build up the business by word of
mouth and get people to come out here.”

  “Do you have a brochure? Or a card?”

  “Ya, a card. But that’s all.”

  “Could I get some of your cards and take them around in town? Starting with the café?” I was pretty sure Wes would be happy not to have to make his own pies, and once he tasted Rosalee’s other delicious items, it would be hard for him to resist those too. “Maybe we could offer a free sticky bun to business owners just to get them to come out and sample your products.”

  “How would you get into town? I can’t spare Luke to take the time off to drive you.”

  “Penny’s bike.”

  “What about deliveries?”

  She had a good point. Maybe I could get a little trailer to pull behind the bike. I smiled at the thought. “We could see how many orders we get. I could drive the buggy.” I knew I could, even though I hadn’t ever driven one before. Once again wishing I had a license and a car, I added, “Or it might be worth it to hire a driver.” I thought of Penny again. Delivering baked goods around Nappanee might be right up her alley. I smiled at the thought of her in her Volvo SUV delivering for Plain Treats.

  Rosalee was quiet, but then she said, “It would be fine for you to pass my card around and try to drum up more business. It’s no secret we need it.”

  We worked quietly after that until ten thirty, when she said I needed to go in the house and start our lunch.

  “What should I fix?”

  “It doesn’t matter,” she answered. “Take a look around. Make sure it’s enough to feed the five of us, though, in an hour.”

  My stomach had started growling a while ago. I could only imagine, with breakfast at five, how hungry Eddie was by now. And Luke too.

  “And then after lunch you can weed the garden while Luke finishes in the field.”

  “What about going into town?” I hoped my voice didn’t sound whiny.

  “Wait a few days, until you can talk about the bakery with more knowledge. But call the Penny woman about taking you to South Bend. Do that now—on your way to the house.”

  I left the bakery a few minutes later, checking my phone as I walked. I had a text from Zed. Mom said to tell you she got your message and that she and Mammi both think the baking course is the best option for you right now. I didn’t bother to text back. Instead, I dialed Penny’s number as I walked. She answered after the first ring. When I told her I needed a ride to visit the baking school after all, she answered she would love to drive me to South Bend.

  “We can go tomorrow,” she said.

  “How about in the afternoon? After two?” That would give me time to do more weeding, if that’s what Rosalee asked of me.

  “Perfect.”

  I gave her the address of the Home Place.

  I thought through lunch as I walked, feeling as if I was on one of those cooking shows where they give you three ingredients to make a meal. That perked me up a little. I knew there was leftover ham and hash browns. I would make a ham hash.

  I pinched several stems of chives and a few sprigs of thyme on my way to the house, washed them clean, and then found stewed tomatoes and onions in the pantry. After chopping up the herbs and ham, I melted the butter in the cast iron skillet and then cooked the onion until it was soft. I added the leftover potatoes, ham, corn, and the jar of tomatoes, heating the hash until it started to bubble, and then I added the herbs and salt and pepper. While the flavors mixed, I sliced a loaf of homemade bread and placed it in the oven to toast. I needed something more, maybe applesauce or—I looked at the fruit bowl on the small table under the window—just apples. I cut four up quickly and then sliced white cheddar cheese I found in the fridge. It was more of a breakfast, but the astonished and delighted looks on everyone’s faces as they took their first bites confirmed what I suspected.

  It was delicious, even if I did say so myself.

  SIXTEEN

  The next afternoon, Luke and Eddie were on the tractor and on their way to the field when I headed back down to the bakery after cleaning up from lunch. The little guy waved enthusiastically while Luke just nodded at me.

  His shyness was getting a little old. He definitely wasn’t my type. Just being around him made me miss Ezra.

  As I turned the corner to the bakery, I saw Penny’s car in the parking lot. She was early. I hurried through the door and found her at the counter, the only customer in the store, buying a blueberry pie.

  Millie was boxing up one with the crumb topping, and when I told Penny I had made that one myself, she gushed, “It looks incredible!”

  Rosalee said I was free to go, so Penny and I started for South Bend. We zigzagged our way over to Highway 119 and then headed north, running parallel to the train tracks. The day was overcast and was growing more and more dreary as the miles ticked away. We chatted about the bakery.

  “It looks like a wonderful place to work,” Penny said. “I’ve always dreamed of owning something like that.”

  I shared my idea about marketing the bakery to local restaurants and stores, though I didn’t mention the part about her being our delivery person. She suggested we stop by the café on the way home.

  “I’m sure Wes and Kendra are approached by all sorts of home-based businesses, but you never know.”

  We rode along in silence after that, which made me drowsy, and then I fell asleep. When I awoke we were in South Bend. Penny drove right to the downtown area and then parked the car. Across the street was a sign with a fleur-de-lis on it that read “Petit Paris, Boulangerie and Patisserie.” Underneath in smaller letters was another sign. “Culinary and Baking School, Classes by Pierre Baptiste and Elizabeth Elgin.”

  There were a few customers sitting at tables when we entered. The scent of coffee was strong and a hint of cinnamon hung in the air, mixed with the aromas of chocolate and baking bread. A waitress passed us with a bowl of soup in one hand and a salad in the other. The dining room was painted in warm golds and yellows, with a border of brown tiles. The display case was filled with rustic breads and fancy pastries. It was an absolute feast for my eyes.

  A middle-aged woman was behind the counter. She wore a white apron, and her hair was covered with a net.

  “May I help you?”

  “I’m interested in the school.” I held up the packet.

  “Oui.” The woman smiled. “I’m Elizabeth. I’m in charge of the culinary school. And Pierre teaches the baking classes.”

  “I’m interested in baking,” I said, glancing at Penny.

  “Likewise,” she chimed in.

  A look of disappointment passed over the woman’s face as she said, “I’ll get Pierre.” She spoke without any hint of an accent and looked more like a regular Midwest mom than a French chef.

  She disappeared through a door, and I glanced around again. The ceiling was high with crown molding around the top. The tables and chairs were dark wood, and the floor was stone tile. Tall, leafy plants graced two corners, and black-and-white photos of loaves of bread, pastries, and cakes hung on the walls. There was also a series of group shots of people holding up what looked like diplomas.

  The woman returned. “Pierre is busy right now. He wants to know if you can come back tomorrow.”

  “We’re from out of town,” Penny said, smiling hopefully.

  The woman frowned.

  For a moment I wondered if there was a Pierre at all. Maybe there was a Midwestern man named Peter. Maybe it was some sort of scam. But then she said, “Bien. Come with me.”

  We followed her through the door and into a cavernous kitchen. “He’s back here, teaching.”

  My jaw fell. There was stainless steel table after table. Each had a mixer, a hot plate, and a set of utensils. On the far wall was a row of ovens. Back in a corner of the room, a group of people gathered around a table. As we neared it, I saw each had a round cake.

  It seemed to be a school after all. As I stepped closer, I recognized Pierre from his photo on the website. He was shorter than I thought he’d be,
though, shorter than me and rounder too. His brown eyes were lively as he spoke. He had his dark hair pulled back in a short ponytail, and he wore a double-breasted white coat with brass buttons.

  “Everyone, hold up your cake.” He spoke with an accent. “This is your canvas. Think very carefully about what you want to create on it.”

  The woman nodded toward Penny and me. “They can’t come back tomorrow.”

  Pierre made an exasperated face and stepped toward me. “Where are you from?”

  “Lancaster County, Pennsylvania.”

  “Why do you want to come here?”

  I wanted to tell him I wasn’t sure I did.

  “I’m staying in Nappanee but not for long. This is the closest cooking school, and everything I’ve read about it sounds wonderful.”

  He turned toward Elizabeth again. “Do we not have an information sheet you can give her?”

  “You said you were going to update it.”

  “I have a packet.” I held up the envelope. “And it seems my mother has already enrolled me. I just wanted to see the place. And to meet you.”

  He touched the top of his paper chef’s hat. “Oh, I see,” he said. “And your name is?”

  “Ella Bayer.”

  “Oui.” He grinned and shuffled his feet. “Welcome. You start with the next group, non?”

  “It seems that way—”

  “We begin with bread. Then pastries. Finally we do cakes. I will insert lectures on the business side of things—bookkeeping, insurance, employee matters, those sorts of concerns—along the way. Just a general overview, you understand”

  I nodded, hoping I could supplement the information from that one session with what I’d be learning about the business from Rosalee.

  “Unless you are interested in Elizabeth’s cooking school.” A concerned expression settled on his face.

  “Oh, no. Baking. That’s what I want.”

  “Are you sure?” He laughed, and pointing at me, he said, “I would take you for a cook instead. With your apron and head thing you look as if you are ready to make a big farm dinner.” He chuckled again.