“Jah,” Rachel agreed as they stepped toward the tables, “some days the surprises are better than others.”
Chapter 22
Obedience ... submission ... patience, Miriam reminded herself as she rode in the bishop’s carriage on Monday morning. Obedience ... submission ... patience. Wait on the Lord and leave this all in His hands ... the Lord is my light ... whom then shall I fear?
“You’re awfully quiet this morning, Miriam. Considering the overwhelming support you received after your confession yesterday, I expected you to be more pleased. Happy to be in good standing with God and the church again.” Hiram fixed his dark eyes on hers as they rolled down the highway toward New Haven. He was a master at waiting out people’s answers—making them fill a silence that grew more uncomfortable as the seconds ticked by.
It was a skill she was learning, too: Obedience. Submission. Patience. And she refused to carry on about how pleased she was to be making this trip to the bank, or how he’d been right to take her down a peg or two by selling her building. Lying was a sin, after all.
“I didn’t expect anyone to speak out against you, of course—nor did I believe anyone would fault you for reuniting with your daughter,” he finally remarked. “What’s her real name, again?”
“Rebecca,” Miriam murmured.
“Ah, the three R ’s—but much more personable than reading, writing, and ’rithmatic.” He steered the horse left at the four-way stop, into New Haven. “You have a fine family, Mrs. Lantz. Truly a pity you can’t have more children.”
Was he toying with her? Trying to win her favor by tugging at her heartstrings? As he helped her down, in the lot reserved for horse-and-buggy customers behind the bank, Miriam focused on making a graceful landing rather than meeting his gaze. She wanted no part of the hands that lingered at her waist, nor would she give him the least bit of encouragement. This was her livelihood Hiram was messing with! It was one thing to beg forgiveness in church—obeying the bishop’s command—and quite another to submit to this man’s whims.
Obedience ... submission ... patience, she repeated as they entered the modern brick building. To a point.
Miriam let her eyes adjust to the cool dimness of the air-conditioned lobby. She was pleased to see Derek Shotwell, the same bank officer who’d made her the loan for the Sweet Seasons building. As he approached, she reminded herself that while she dared not challenge Hiram’s decision, she didn’t have to roll over and play dead, either. Derek was several years younger than she, very businesslike in his long-sleeved yellow shirt and striped tie. She clutched her ledger as he shook hands with her.
“A pleasure to see you again, Mrs. Lantz,” he said as he gestured toward his office door. “Although I confess I was surprised when Mr. Knepp asked me to draw up the papers for the sale of your building. Anytime I’ve ever driven by, your parking lot’s been full!”
Obedience ... submission ... patience, she repeated as she took a chair in front of his heavy desk. Let the situation speak for itself—and let the Lord speak through it, too.
Miriam smiled at him, liking him even more for the colorful photos of his three young children displayed on the credenza behind him. “Jah, we do a boomin’ business with the bakery, and we’re gettin’ a steady clientele eatin’ our meals, too.”
Derek’s high-backed leather chair bobbed when he landed in it, the obvious question in his eyes. She continued to smile at him, straight on but silent, as he took the paper clip from the documents he’d prepared.
“Just as the ownership of an automobile is considered worldly, the sale of this building is an exercise in humility: placing our faith ahead of the success that deters our progress on the path toward salvation,” Hiram replied smoothly. “This is why, once the sale’s arranged, we want no signs in front of the building. Word has spread through Willow Ridge already, and we prefer to give our members the opportunity to keep this property in Amish hands.”
“I can understand that, yes, sir.” Once again, the loan officer met her gaze as he turned the paperwork toward her so she could read it. “Our appraiser kept that in mind when he visited the property.”
When had that appraiser been to the café? Didn’t such dealings take time ... require a certain amount of research into titles and records? Miriam sat forward, skimming the legal description of the Sweet Seasons, its size and location and then the asking price. “A hundred thirty thousand?” she gasped.
Hiram grunted and snatched up the paperwork. “How can this be? The original loan was only for—”
“A vacant building, sir. And with its custom finishing, its prime location on the highway, plus the installed appliances, it’s worth much more than when Mrs. Lantz purchased it.” Derek focused on her again. “Am I to assume you’re moving your business, Mrs. Lantz? Does all that beautiful Amish-crafted furniture stay in the dining room? That would increase the asking price by quite a bit.”
Oh, but she was liking the sound of this! “Depends on what the new owner wants to do with it,” she replied, fighting a smile. “I’d love nothin’ more than to keep workin’ there—as would the quiltin’ ladies in the other half of that buildin’. And jah, all that finishin’ work and the furniture was done by our local Brenneman boys. Best quality ya can buy anywhere—ain’t so, Bishop?”
Hiram looked up from the paperwork and then fixed his facial expression. “True enough. But the tables and chairs could be sold at auction—as could the kitchen equipment—if the new owner has something else in mind.”
Miriam maintained her pleasant expression but her mind was racing over these details ... the way the bishop had apparently arranged the appraisal—maybe let the fellow inside one evening while she was gone. Hiram’s surprise at the asking price told her the appraiser had researched the contents and furnishings; had gone beyond what the bishop anticipated, either out of ignorance of the market price, or ... personal interest?
Obedience ... submission ... patience. They seemed to be working in her favor, but she couldn’t jump to any conclusions: too much was at stake here, and no one had signed on that line yet.
As the men discussed the contract terms, fees, and a possible time frame for when the building might sell in the current market, Miriam sat quietly. She wasn’t pretending to be ignorant, exactly ... just realizing her place in this conversation and staying there, for once. The men haggled over the asking price and the value of the building’s contents—and wouldn’t Micah be awestruck to know the retail value of his finishing work and his furniture? A sudden silence made her look up.
“Here’s a pen, Mrs. Lantz. It’s the line with the sticky note arrow beside it.”
The price hadn’t gone down. Her heart thundered as she dutifully looked to Hiram for his go-ahead. As he nodded, she signed her name to the biggest amount of money she’d ever dealt with.
“You realize, of course, that depending upon the market, we might lower the asking price to entice potential buyers,” Derek informed her in a low voice. His gaze didn’t waver. “But we’ll contact you first. And we’ll let you know the minute we have offers you might wish to consider, even if they don’t meet the asking price.”
“Jah, des gut,” she said, nodding.
Derek glanced at her signature and began stapling and folding the duplicates. He flashed an easy smile at the bishop as he finished up. “I hear your Belgians and Percherons took top dollar at a couple recent auctions, Mr. Knepp. Always good to learn about clients making good in this tough agricultural market.”
Hiram brightened immediately. “Yes, my stallions and draft horses are rated among the best in the country, not just around here.”
“And while I know you Plain folks don’t use computer technology, that ad I saw online—with the photo of your horses and the new barn—surely must generate some business,” Mr. Shotwell went on.
Miriam’s eyebrows rose at the mention of a computer ad and a photograph—both forbidden, although some of their local craftsmen had English or Mennonite friends handl
e advertising for their businesses. Hiram Knepp was as keen on his fine horses as she was on her cooking talents, yet he seemed unaware that his attitude could be construed as pride: the same sin as the one he’d instructed her to confess yesterday.
Instead of bringing this up, however, Miriam glanced at the two chatting men and slowly slipped her ledger onto a stack of manila folders on Derek’s desk. If her figures could speak for her, perhaps they would compensate for her not talking much today, in deference to Hiram.
A few minutes later, she and the bishop were on their way home. While Miriam was even more convinced that this shrewd Amish man had made some arrangements behind her back, she felt a little better about the sale situation. She could leave it to the Lord and not believe she was forfeiting all she’d devoted to the Sweet Seasons. They arrived at the café minutes before noon, so she clambered down from the buggy as soon as he pulled his horse to a halt. “Appreciate the ride, Hiram,” she remarked. “Gotta jump in on the lunch rush. Ya know how busy my girls and Naomi’ll be about now.”
His expression suggested he had other things to discuss. “Just be mindful of getting too involved—so busy with worldly pursuits that you have no time for the twins. Or to find a husband, like we’ve discussed.”
Already halfway to the building, Miriam turned to look pointedly at him. “All three of my girls are at the top of my to-do list, Hiram. If you’re not too busy sellin’ the services of those prize stallions, you can join us for their twenty-first birthday party in a couple weeks.”
As he adjusted his black hat, his nostrils flared like a horse’s. “What’re you implying, Miriam? Breeding draft horses is my livelihood.”
“Jah, like bakin’ is mine. And I’m guessin’ those stallions of yours could find themselves a nice mare without you doin’ the choosin’ and takin’ the credit, ain’t so?” She’d crossed the line again, but she couldn’t unsay the words. “Far be it from me to suggest you’re actin’ prideful and could use a dose of the same humility you’re dishin’ up to the Brennemans and me, Bishop.”
Miriam fully expected him to follow her into the kitchen and deliver a sermon, but she had no time to fret over it: Naomi was forking hot, crispy chicken pieces from three cast-iron skillets while Rhoda scurried to remove pans of fresh biscuits from the oven. Rachel saw her first, over the tub of dirty dishes she’d hefted onto the counter beside the sink.
“Mamma! How’d it go?” She wiped her hands on her white apron, concern furrowing her flushed brow. “Did the banker think we’d be movin’ out soon? Mary Schrock’s been in a dither about where they’d display all their quilts and—well, we’re gettin’ a lot of questions! And I can’t answer them!”
Miriam smiled at her daughters and Naomi, the three faces she loved most, here in the kitchen that had become her second home. Surrounded by the crackling of grease and the fragrant steam from the tastiest food to be found anywhere in these parts, she caught each of her girls in an arm and hugged them hard. “Not our job to answer all the questions, honey-bugs,” she replied. “Wasn’t my favorite trip, goin’ to put this place up for sale, but I believe Mr. Shotwell will do his best for us.”
Naomi finished filling the biscuit basket for the buffet. “I see them out there waitin’ for more chicken. It’s like they can’t get enough of our food, now that the grapevine’s shakin’ with the news of the place goin’ up for sale.”
Glancing out into the crowded dining room, Miriam nodded. “I’ll carry that for ya. Then I gotta get crackin’ on those fifteen fruit pies for Zook’s, and refill our front case, too. Hated bein’ gone this mornin’, but ya do what ya have to do.”
As she approached the steam table, the Kanagy boys and the three blond Brennemans stood waiting to stab some chicken before she could put the pan in its place. “Can’t have ya passin’ out from hunger now, can we?” she teased as she stepped out of their way. Then she tapped Micah on the shoulder. “Can I have a word?”
“Jah, sure.” He quickly grabbed two large chicken breasts and two more biscuits. “How’d it go at the bank? Was thinkin’ about ya, Miriam, wonderin’ if I should’ve come along.”
“You’ve got your work, Micah. And I just wanted to tell ya—” She waited for Nate and Bram to go back to their table, and then lowered her voice. “I feel real gut about this situation now, bein’s how Mr. Shotwell’s appraiser adjusted the sale price way up from what I paid—on account of your fine finishin’ work and furniture, mostly. I want ya to go ahead and finish off the apartment in the smithy.”
Micah nodded, listening closely as the crowd chattered around them. “Jah, probably not a gut idea to leave it half-done.”
“When the buildin’ sells—and ... jah, I believe it will,” she said with a hitch in her voice, “I’ll pay ya for the materials and whatever ya want for your labor, outta the money I get for it. Investin’ my profit in that upstairs apartment’ll save me some income tax—and I still wanna live there when you and Rachel marry.”
“And how was Hiram durin’ all this? Ya think he’s gonna buy it and turn ya out?”
Miriam’s heart fluttered as she allowed herself to imagine a happier ending. “It snapped his suspenders but gut when he saw the askin’ price!” she whispered. “I was flabbergasted myself, but it was the appraiser’s say-so and we’ll go along with that. This was Hiram’s way of tonin’ me down, remember. But he’s gonna pay a perty penny if he sees this through.”
Chapter 23
Rachel stopped halfway up the stairs to the smithy’s loft, her heart pounding as steadily as Micah’s hammer. She was glad he’d decided to finish these rooms: surely it would put an end to any thoughts about his moving out of Willow Ridge to live among the Mennonites. While all had been forgiven concerning his visits to Rebecca, as he’d said during his confession, there was still the matter of the café being for sale ... the possibility that his mamm might lose her income. Kneeling before the People hadn’t settled Micah’s feelings about the bishop and his decisions, had it?
She breathed deeply to gather her courage, savoring the scents of sawdust and paint. Amish women didn’t tell their men what to do or make their decisions for them—and she’d learned well enough that complaining got her nowhere except into trouble.
So it was time to act—and speak—like a woman mature enough to marry and raise a family. Because that’s exactly what she intended to do. With Micah.
Rachel waited for a pause between bursts of nail pounding to holler into the open doorway. “Micah? Ya gonna show me how it’s all comin’ together?” she asked in a teasing tone. “Or do I have to sneak up here after ya leave?”
“Only folks I’m lettin’ up here’ll get put to work!” came his reply.
“How soon ya forget!” she teased. “I was born to work, Mr. Brenneman. A hand that fits an oven handle and a broom can hold a paintbrush, too, ain’t so?”
“Bring some of those brownies you were makin’ this afternoon! Left home before dessert so’s I could work here while there’s still light.”
Rachel snickered. Truth be told, Micah had even more of a yen for chocolate than she did. But who could fault a man for leaving Naomi’s table to build her sister and Mamma’s new home? Or at least she hoped it would be ...
She galloped down the stairs barefoot, then crossed the café’s back parking lot. Mamma looked up from making a batch of pastry for tomorrow’s piecrusts as Rachel put half a dozen fresh brownies on a plate. “Don’t follow me, now!” she teased her mother. Then she bounded back over to where her man was working, hoping to maintain this lighthearted attitude as she spoke her peace.
Micah was bent over to check a hardwood floorboard. When he grinned at her from between his sturdy legs, spread in an A shape, she giggled. “You’re a fine sight, Micah.”
“So’re you and your brownies, Rache. Just what a man needs to get him through maybe two more evenin’s of work.”
“Me? Or the brownies?” She bit into one, to watch him react.
“Jah.”He ri
ghted himself, playing along ... watching her chew with obvious interest, yet not moving toward her.
Will he look at me this way a year from now? Ten years? She swallowed the bite of chewy chocolate studded with walnuts. “Lookin’ real gut,” she murmured as she pulled her gaze away to check his progress.
“Me? Or the apartment?”
She snickered. “Jah.”
“Watch this.” Micah stepped over to the shelves he’d built on the outside wall—except he pulled them effortlessly along tracks in the ceiling to reveal a wall about twelve feet long that rolled into the center of the big open room. It clicked into place. Then he went to what was really the outside wall and pulled down a panel that contained a bed. “Try the other one. If ya can reach it—and handle the weight okay—your mamm and Rhoda’ll be fine with it. And we’ve got us two instant bedrooms, ain’t so?”
Gaping, Rachel set aside the brownies and approached the opposite wall. She grabbed a decorative crosspiece carved at eye level in the paneling. When a second bed came down, her giggle echoed in the open, unfinished space. “Micah, this is—this is amazin’! Bedrooms that fold up and roll away when you’re not sleepin’!”
“Jah, like the old Murphy beds they used to install in Craftsman houses. Great space savers, and both rooms have shelves, too. And here, for the bathroom—” Micah walked in front of the kitchen sink and rolled out a smaller wall segment that revealed a tub and shower unit. “Had to arrange these water pipes and drains to work with the ones in the smithy bathroom below us,” he explained. “But this way, ya can use the toilet and hand sink here in the corner without takin’ up the usual space for a full bath.”
“And you’ve got the towel racks and whatnot on the movin’ wall,” she murmured. With a gentle push, that wall segment rolled silently along its ceiling tracks. It clicked into place near the stairway, to not only enclose the tub but provide privacy for using the stool, as well. Fascinated, Rachel tugged on it to see exactly how the wall system transformed this end of the apartment into a small kitchen with a full bath. “If you’d’ve tried to tell me about this, I couldn’t’ve imagined it.”
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