Martha clutched her stomach as another wave of nausea hit her. She was sitting in the waiting room of the broker for several candy store franchises, waiting for her meeting, and it was already twenty minutes past her appointment time.
“You’ll be fine,” Moses said. His tone was reassuring, and it did offer Martha a small measure of relief. Still, the situation was daunting. Martha felt completely out of place and entirely foolish for even thinking the broker would be interested in anything she had to say.
Mercifully, the broker’s offices were close enough to the motel to walk. It had been a long walk, and Martha suspected that an Englischer might have caught a cab. Nothing was going to make her catch a cab. She would rather walk five miles than even attempt to catch one.
The offices were even fancier than the motel. And while the receptionist had smiled at her, the smile did not reach her eyes. The woman’s make-up was impeccable, and Martha had never seen anyone with such tightly stretched skin. Martha wondered what sort of herbs the woman applied to look like that. Her eyes were heavily made up and the blush on her cheeks was overpowering. She was impeccable in every way, even down to her impossibly long fingernails. I bet she doesn’t feed any chickens or chop any firewood with nails like that, Martha thought.
The door opened, and Martha sat up straight. A tall, well-dressed woman hurried out. Her face was red and she brushed tears from her eyes. Martha caught her breath in alarm.
After a moment, the secretary looked up at her and said in a cold tone, “You may go in now.”
Moses gave an encouraging nod. Martha walked into the large room showcasing the city skyline through expansive glass windows, but all she saw was the man sitting behind the desk. He exuded power and authority. His head was down, and he was making notes. He did not look up as Martha crossed the room to stand in front of him. She was entirely intimidated.
Finally he did look up, gave a cold, tight-lipped smile and stood up, extending his hand. “Miss Miller.”
“Yes.” Martha shook his hand. His grip was firm. His aftershave, smelling of vanilla, raisins, and cedarwood, was overpowering.
“I’m Rory Gauge. Please have a seat.” He indicated the cold, hard desk chair opposite his desk.
Martha sat down, her stomach tight with nerves. Rory Gauge looked at his notes, and then up at Martha. “You wish to sell a range of hand-made chocolates as a specialty item. Is that correct?” It sounded to Martha like an accusation.
“Yes.” Martha tried to stop her knees from shaking.
“Tell me about them.” He leaned back in his chair, and flicked a pen through his fingers, a look of concentration on his face.
Martha took a deep breath. “I do miniature shell molded pieces, and all sorts of chocolate coated products: butterscotch corn flake candy, butter crunch toffee, almond brittle, caramel pecans, cashew crunch, caramel candy, and my main one is the chocolate coated cherries. I have photos here.” Martha opened the folder and handed the photos to Mr. Gauge. He took out a photo of a chocolate coated cherry, and stared at it for a while, turning it this way and that.
Martha pushed her feet into the ground to stop her knees from shaking.
After what seemed an age, Mr. Gauge looked up at her. “Very good.” Martha smiled widely, but he continued. “They are well presented. They look good and I have no doubt they taste good. However,”—he waved his finger at Martha—“so do many chocolates on the market. What’s your USP?”
Martha had been researching small businesses on Sheryl’s computer, so knew a USP was a Unique Selling Point. She was prepared for this. “They are all genuine Amish chocolates.”
Mr. Gauge leaned forward, his eyes glittering with interest. “They are all Amish recipes?”
Martha nodded. “Yes.”
“And how did you come by Amish recipes?”
“I’m Amish.”
Mr. Gauge narrowed his eyes. “You don’t look Amish.”
“I’m on rumspringa,” Martha said. “Do you know what that is?” She hoped he wouldn’t be offended by her question, and she also sent up small prayer of apology to Gott for her white lie for, while she was technically on rumspringa, she had no real intention of returning to the Amish.
Mr. Gauge did not appear offended at all. “Yes, I know what rumspringa is,” he said. “So you’re a real, genuine Amish person?”
Martha squirmed under his scrutiny, feeling like an exhibit in a museum. “Yes.”
“You were brought up Amish? You have Amish parents and live on an Amish farm?”
Martha nodded. “Well, I was brought up Amish and have Amish parents, but my daed is a carpenter and has a furniture making business.”
“And he’s Amish?” Rory Gauge rubbed his hands together.
“Yes,” Martha was a little put out as she’d already said that. She wondered where this conversation was going.
At once Mr. Gauge’s whole demeanor changed. “Excellent,” he exclaimed. “My clients don’t have a line of Amish chocolates in our stores, and the tourists will love them.” He rubbed his chin and looked over Martha’s shoulder—she presumed at the wall—with a faraway look on his face.
“Are you attached to any particular name for your products, or if I offered you a contract, would you be prepared to listen to my suggestions for a name?”
Martha tried not to show her excitement. “Yes, I’d be prepared to listen to names,” she said as evenly as she could, when all she wanted to do was scream with delight and jump up and down with excitement.
“And I’ll want to have professional photos taken of you in full Amish costume for marketing purposes.”
Martha winced at the word costume, but spoke up. “Amish don’t believe in having their faces photographed.”
Rory Gauge rubbed his chin again. “Ah, I see. Is there a known Amish symbol that we could use instead on the packaging?”
Martha shook her head.
“What about a model dressed in an Amish costume?”
Martha did her best not to wince again. “Yes, that would be fine.” She was relieved that the photo issue wasn’t going to be a deal breaker. She realized all at once that she was no longer an Amish person; she was becoming an English. Why had said she was Amish? Maybe it was force of habit, she thought.
“All right then, I’ll set up a meeting with the buyer and we’ll go through the figures and the supply numbers, but if that all works out, Miss Miller, you have yourself a deal.”
Martha stood up and shook Mr. Gauge’s hand. She could not believe how blessed she was to land a contract for her handmade chocolates. Well, there was no signed contract yet, but there soon would be.
Martha was on cloud nine. The powerful Rory Gauge had thought her chocolates had merit, and all being well, she would soon sign a contract to supply his stores with specialty chocolates. Her chocolate business was well on its way. It was beyond her wildest dreams.