Martha sat reading her book, doing her best to ignore her aenti Irene’s glare.
“Must be nice to have no darning that needs done.” Irene stabbed a needle through the heel of a sock that had to be older than she was.
“You’re right. It is.”
“Though we are expecting three babies before Christmas.”
“Real blessings.”
“Blessings that will need blankets and booties and sweaters.”
Martha doubted that. Babies born into an Amish church were showered with gifts—not to mention the items used by the previous newborn were often still in good condition. No, she didn’t think any baby would be suffering because she chose to read instead of knit. But she kept that thought to herself. She was learning that it was an exercise in futility to try to change Irene’s opinion about a thing.
Her aenti’s attitude did continue to puzzle her. It was another one of those mysteries that she wondered about when she couldn’t sleep at night. Remembering Eli’s words made her smile. Obviously he had not read any Julianne Deering or Lorena McCourtney or Mary Ellis—all fine Christian mystery authors whose books their local library carried. If he had, he would understand the importance of solving a mystery.
She laughed at something in her book and turned the page.
“Humph. I don’t know how you can be laughing when there is so much hurt in the world.” Irene carefully folded the darned socks and pulled out her knitting needles. The yarn she pulled from a basket was black and gray. Martha hoped she was not using it to make a baby gift.
Martha read.
Irene rocked and sighed dramatically from time to time. Finally she said, “When I think of poor Charity and Joseph, and how they have suffered.”
Martha stared at the page in front of her, but rereading the words wasn’t helping. She simply could not focus on the book in her hands. She’d completely lost the thread of the story, and to think that two pages ago she had thought she had the mystery figured out. Sighing, she carefully placed her marker into the book and set it aside.
“Would you like some herbal tea?”
“I suppose, not that I expect it to help any. My arthritis will be the death of me yet.”
Martha had never read of someone dying from arthritis, but she didn’t think saying so would cheer up Irene. Instead she went into the kitchen, made the tea, and arranged some of the cookies she’d bought on her way home onto a plate.
Irene accepted the tea, but sniffed when Martha set the plate of cookies between them.
“One would think that a woman with your figure would learn to resist sweets, especially at this hour.”
Martha bit into the peanut-butter chocolate-chip cookie, closed her eyes, and relished the taste. When she opened her eyes, Irene was once again knitting.
The Mysterious Ways of Aenti Irene.
It might make a good book title. Irene was only twelve years older, being Martha’s mother’s youngest sister. She’d had five children, all of whom were scattered about the country—Colorado, Kentucky, and even Maine. No doubt they had invited Irene to come and live with them when her husband passed. But Irene was intent on staying put, or it was possible that she simply enjoyed being unhappy. Another letter had come the week before from her husband’s family who were now living down in Sarasota.
She’d read it aloud, and the description of beaches, cottages, and ice-cream shops sounded quite pleasant to Martha. Irene’s reply had been, “They will probably all suffer skin cancer, though I pray it isn’t so.”
She wasn’t a bad-looking woman with a slim figure, good skin, and few wrinkles except for the frown lines around her mouth. It was her demeanor that was the problem.
While Martha had been studying her, she’d been complaining about the young man who was leasing her land. As far as Martha could tell, Simon Miller was hardworking and courteous.
Irene paused in her monologue to sip the nearly cold tea. Martha took advantage of the moment and jumped in with the question that had been on the tip of her tongue all night. “What do you know of Jacob’s woodworking?”
“Jacob Weaver? God bless his soul. To think that man was churning out furniture this time last year and now he can’t even speak.”
“So his woodwork was well regarded?”
“My yes, though Jacob didn’t let pride enter his heart. No, like many of my generation, we understand and abide by the ways of the Ordnung as well as the admonitions in Scripture . . . ‘Pride goeth before destruction, a haughty spirit before a fall.’ Those are words your generation would be wise to heed.”
Martha knew that once Irene started quoting Scripture, she could become quite carried away with it. While she appreciated hearing a Good Word, she had specific questions she needed answered.
“Was any of your furniture made by Jacob?”
“Lands no. We were always careful with our money and never bought anything new. Used is good enough.”
“Eli auctioned the last of Jacob and Charity’s things today.”
“A real shame.”
“Someone purchased the large items, but paid more than they were worth.”
“How people use their money is a mystery to me.”
“They paid more than they needed to in order to win the bid. It was very strange.”
“I’m not sure you should be working at that place. It was the bishop’s idea more than mine. I suppose he was worried about the financial burden you would be on me.”
Martha happened to know that Bishop Abram had been more concerned about her spending too much time cooped up with Irene. “Gotte makes all sorts—apples and plums and lemons. I can tell by your sunny attitude that you’re an apple.” It went without saying that he considered her aenti a lemon. Martha had thanked him for the job recommendation and gone down to apply that day. The next week she’d begun working at the auction house.
“But why would someone pay more than something is worth? What could it be about Jacob’s furniture that would cause a man to do so?”
“Englisch or Amish?”
“Dressed like Englisch.”
“Which means nothing. Children these days. Did I tell you that I saw the younger Miller boy texting while he was driving his buggy? Irresponsible if you ask me . . .”
Martha tuned out her aenti and tried to figure out how to get the conversation back on track, but what specifically did she think Irene could tell her? It wasn’t like she had a picture to show her of the man in the ball cap or the woman in black. But there had to be something about those specific pieces of furniture, something that would cause a person to spend more than they were worth.
Irene continued to give examples of youth who had gone astray in their community, though she paused now and again to sample the cookies on the tray.
“Then after Peter had left, Jacob had all of these orders to fill and no one to help him. He was in a real pickle, I’ll tell you that. And all because youth do not understand the consequence—”
Martha’s mind belatedly caught up with what Irene had said.
“Who was Peter?”
“Jacob’s apprentice.” Her aenti paused in her knitting to shoot her a reproving look. “If you paid attention to me even half as well as you pay attention to those fairy-tale stories of yours, you wouldn’t have to ask me to repeat myself.”
It was a fair criticism. Martha silently vowed to do better.
“What can you tell me about Peter?”
“That depends. What would you like to know? Why he fought with Jacob? Or why he left the Amish?”