Chapter Six
As Gabe joined the men gathering outside Elam Stoltzfus’s home before church, all the talk was about The Marketplace—how quickly the plans were coming together, as well as some speculation about whether Pete Shetler would be the lead carpenter.
Everyone liked Pete, and they believed he had the skills to do the stable’s renovation. But they agreed that it was time for him to grow up and accept adult responsibilities.
“We all feel bad that Pete grew up with a dat whose brain disease turned him violent and shattered his family,” Jude Shetler said of his nephew. “But we’ve been helping him as best we can—and at twenty-eight, Pete’s long past the acceptable age for clinging to his rumspringa and his freewheeling bachelor ways.”
Gabe wasn’t surprised by Jude’s remark. Still single at twenty-seven, Gabe was the target of similar remarks—except he’d joined the Old Order nine years ago. He’d been courting a girl at the time, so church membership had been a necessary step toward marriage. After she’d changed her mind, Gabe had often wondered if he’d locked himself into the Amish lifestyle too soon.
But he could never admit his secret doubts or yearnings. It was too late for that.
After the men and women had settled themselves on their respective sides of Teacher Elam’s front room, Gabe sang the first phrase of the opening hymn to set the pitch and the tempo. As the congregation joined in, Bishop Jeremiah, Preachers Ammon and Clarence, and Deacon Saul removed their hats in one sweeping motion. Shortly after that, the four ordained leaders left the singing congregation to gather in another room, where they would decide which Bible passages Deacon Saul would read and who would preach the service’s two sermons.
As they began the fifth verse, Pete slid onto the end of the bench next to Gabe and Glenn. His black broadfall trousers and white shirt appeared clean but rumpled. His blond hair was still wet from his shower.
Gabe flashed Pete a thumbs-up, noting his taut expression as he grudgingly joined the singing. The two of them had been friends since their early grades in school, when Pete had come to live with Jeremiah and his wife, Priscilla, before she’d passed. Pete’s dat, Jacob Shetler, had contracted Lyme disease, and it had advanced into a brain infection that had turned him so violent, Bishop Jeremiah had had Jacob committed to a care facility. Jacob had died there several months later and Pete’s mamm had remarried. Pete had been dead set against leaving Morning Star to live in Indiana with a stepfather he didn’t get along with—so he’d stayed with Jeremiah and Priscilla until he’d moved out on his own.
No one really knew how much emotional and physical abuse Pete and his mamm had suffered at the hands of his dat. At the very least, Gabe figured his longtime friend deserved his continued support, and a chance to do the carpentry work he was so skilled at.
During the second hymn, the church leaders returned to the front room and hung their hats on the wall to signal that the worship service was about to begin. Bishop Jeremiah’s eyebrows rose when he caught sight of Pete, who warily held his uncle’s gaze—as though the two of them had recently exchanged some tough words.
All signs of discord eased from the bishop’s face, however, as he rose to begin the service. “May the grace and peace of our Lord Jesus Christ be with you on this Sabbath day, the fifth of May,” he began in his resonant voice. “Let us never forget that we’re here to worship God and to submit to His will.”
Gabe believed the Morning Star district was particularly blessed to have Jeremiah Shetler as its bishop, because he had a positive, relatively progressive attitude. He could set aside his personal preferences to embrace the wide variety of personalities he dealt with—yet church members knew they were expected to uphold the tenets of the Amish faith, without exception. Pete would receive no special treatment because he was Jeremiah’s nephew.
As Preacher Clarence rose to deliver the opening sermon, Gabe sighed to himself. Clarence Miller spoke in a singsong voice that lulled folks into a daze as he meandered from topic to topic, so after about ten minutes Gabe found himself gazing absently between the older men’s heads to the women’s side of the room.
Red was nodding off. Her head drifted lower and lower until she jerked and sat upright again—and the cycle repeated. Gabe chuckled. What might keep a quiet mouse like Regina Miller from getting her rest? Did she stay up late into the night reading romance novels? Was she a light sleeper, easily awakened by traffic noise?
And how did she come to know the guy who painted those amazing nature pictures? He doesn’t live here in town . . .
The remainder of the prayers, hymns, and the second sermon that Preacher Ammon Slabaugh delivered went by a lot faster because Gabe was speculating about his reclusive redheaded employee. Red had been very quiet during the most recent meeting at the bishop’s house—had she turned in a rental form for her artist friend? It occurred to Gabe that he went for days at a time without talking to her because she worked in the staining room, which was enclosed to prevent sawdust from drifting onto the wet furniture. Before they’d become involved in developing The Marketplace, they’d had little in common, it seemed.
Maybe Red had a date with that artist last night! All this time we’ve thought of her as a quiet, unassuming maidel when she might really have an English boyfriend—which is totally forbidden!
Gabe stifled a laugh. It was far more likely that Red and Lydianne had gone out for Saturday night supper together, considering that they preferred talking to each other during breaks rather than to the male employees.
“May God bless us and keep us and make His face to shine upon us,” Bishop Jeremiah intoned in his benediction. “Amen.”
Folks sat up taller, anticipating the Members Meeting—and the vote about buying the Clementi property. Deacon Saul rose to speak, gazing first at the men and then at the women.
“At our previous meeting, some of you had reservations—and rightfully so—about buying the Clementi place on such short notice,” he began. “Jeremiah was excited about acquiring the property, so he’s asked me to report our findings today, to present a second opinion, as it were.”
Folks around the room nodded. They respected Saul Hartzler, not only because he was in charge of the district’s finances but because he was one of the foremost businessmen—Plain or English—in Morning Star.
“After Ammon, Clarence, Jeremiah, and I looked that stable over closely and walked the pastureland,” Saul continued, “we concluded that the property is well worth the asking price, and that it would be a suitable place to set up rental shops and to build our new schoolhouse. We have also studied Jo Fussner’s proposed floor plan—and in answer to Martin’s request for a commitment from potential shopkeepers, we have already received seven signed rental agreements.”
Saul paused, allowing folks to absorb what he was saying. “Because two of those renters want double-sized spaces, and we’re asking forty dollars a month in rent,” he continued, “those nine stalls would bring in three hundred sixty dollars each month. Assuming these shopkeepers stay for a year, that total rent would be four thousand three hundred and twenty dollars—and in addition to that, our church district will receive ten percent of the shops’ gross sales. The committee is proposing to call this project The Marketplace, and they’ve already devised an advertising plan.”
Bishop Jeremiah rose from the preachers’ bench to stand beside Saul. “Does this satisfy your need for more commitment, Martin?” he asked as he gauged the congregation’s reaction to Saul’s report. “Does anyone else have any questions before we vote on whether to buy the property?”
“Jah, we need a reliable carpenter committed to renovating the stable in time for our June first opening date,” Martha Maude said loudly.
Pete stiffened. He scowled, looking away from the women’s side, where Martha Maude sat near the front.
Bishop Jeremiah picked up some papers from the preachers’ bench. “Pete realizes our opening date is approaching very quickly, so he has signed a contract for installing the plumbing, the restrooms, and the electricity required by the health department, as well as some solar panels. He will also lead a construction crew, which will include volunteer carpenters from the congregation, to refurbish the stable’s main structure,” the bishop announced. “Glenn Detweiler has also signed a contract to head up the interior finishing work, in lieu of six months’ rent on his shop. We don’t usually require contracts for such things, but we felt folks might be more comfortable seeing these agreements in writing.”
“We Flauds and some of our furniture crew will be helping,” Martin put in. “And as you know, Martha Maude, we’re also providing the tables and chairs for the central refreshment area—because we believe The Marketplace will benefit our church and the entire Morning Star community.”
“That ought to shut her up,” Pete muttered.
Gabe elbowed him playfully. “Hey, we all want this to work out—and we’re glad you’re still in on it,” he added softly.
Pete shrugged, frowning. “I get tired of the Hartzlers throwing their weight around just because they’re the wealthiest family in the district,” he shot back under his breath. “I’ll uphold my end of this bargain, but you’d better keep Martha Maude—and Saul—out of my hair. I won’t tolerate them watching my every hammer stroke or telling me my work doesn’t suit them.”
“Not to worry,” Gabe murmured, squeezing his friend’s shoulder. “Dat and Glenn and I will be working right alongside you. We’ve got your back, buddy.”
“Jah, and I’m glad you’re to be the foreman,” Glenn put in, leaning in front of Gabe to focus on Pete. “Saul builds a fine carriage, and his money comes in handy for the expenses a project like this requires—only he’s a man you can work for but not with. That’s the way some of his employees tell it, anyway.”
Gabe nodded. “He told Dat he’s had an influx of orders for buggies and wagons this spring, so I doubt he’ll spend much time around the site anyway. It’s all gut, Pete,” he added with a smile. “You’ll do us proud.”
Meanwhile, folks around them were murmuring as Martha Maude and a few others looked at the contracts. When Bishop Jeremiah called for a vote, the ayes bounced along the rows of the men’s side like a rubber ball and did the same as the women expressed their opinions. A big cheer erupted when the district’s youngest member—Gabe’s teenaged sister Lorena—spoke the final vote in favor of The Marketplace. As folks rose from the pew benches, talking and laughing, a new sense of energy filled the big room.
When Gabe saw Red and her friends heading toward the kitchen, he turned to Pete. “How’s it going, living at the Helfing place?”
Pete rolled his eyes. “It’s a gut thing I still have a full-time job and that Riley goes with me,” he replied. “At ten months, he’s still got a lot of puppy in him, so he’s full of energy. Molly gave him what-for after he snatched one of her dresses off the clothesline on Friday.”
Glenn laughed. “At least he didn’t go after her underwear, jah?”
“I suspect the twins are hanging their skivvies indoors now that I live there,” Pete replied with a shrug. “Or else they don’t wear any.”
As the three of them laughed together, Gabe felt some of the tension draining from Pete’s attitude. “So how’s the breakfast they cook for you? What’s their dawdi haus like?”
“The food’s okay—and seeing how my uncle has paid my rent ahead, the price is right,” Pete remarked. “It’s putting a cramp in my style, though. Living alongside two maidels is different from having an apartment where nobody was aware of my comings and goings. It beats living with Uncle Jeremiah and Mammi Margaret, though,” he added emphatically. “That was the alternative he offered me if I didn’t sign the contract.”
Gabe had wondered if there was more to the story behind the contract than Bishop Jeremiah had mentioned. Pete was old enough to go his own way, however, so Gabe was surprised that Bishop Jeremiah thought he could control his nephew’s lifestyle . . . unless Pete was too broke to get by without his uncle’s help.
Regina was standing in the aisle, waiting for Lydianne, so Gabe set aside his musings about Pete. “Hey there, Red!” he called out. “Did you convince your artist friend to rent a stall at The Marketplace?”
Her eyes widened as though the question had startled her. “Jah, I—I turned in his form at the meeting.”
She seemed eager to get to the kitchen to help set out the meal. Gabe felt compelled to ask more questions about this English guy she might be dating, so he followed her closely along the crowded aisle. “I’m looking forward to meeting this fellow,” he said. “His paintings are so lifelike—”
“Oh, I doubt you’ll ever see him,” Red put in quickly. “He—Hartley’s very shy. He doesn’t like to be around when folks are talking about his work.”
Hartley? What kind of a name is that? Sounds like a rich English snob, Gabe thought. He noticed how Red’s auburn bun was quivering beneath her kapp.
“If he hears any criticism, he curls up in a ball and can’t paint for days,” Red continued with a shake of her head. “Artists are sensitive that way, you know.”
“Who could possibly criticize the way he paints?” he asked in a puzzled tone. “I’m no expert, but those pictures you showed us Wednesday were—well, they seemed like perfection on paper. His subjects appeared almost better than the real thing.”
Regina’s head swiveled quickly. When she looked at him, her hazel eyes were wide and her mouth was an O. “I’ll tell him you said that,” she whispered.
Gabe was suddenly aware of how close Red was standing—and how, when she hurried forward with the other women, he wished she hadn’t seemed so intent on setting out the meal.
“So this artist’s name is Hartley?” Glenn asked from behind him. “Do you suppose that’s his first name or his last name? I’m curious about him—and about how Regina knows him.”
“I have no idea,” Gabe replied as he watched Red disappear into the kitchen. “You know as much about this guy as I do.”
But I intend to find out more.
* * *
Regina clutched the baskets of bread she was carrying to the tables, hoping not to drop them and call more attention to herself. Her cheeks felt so hot, they surely had to be blazing red.
Perfection on paper.
Never had she heard such glowing remarks about her work—but then, she hadn’t shown it to anyone since she’d completed her art classes years ago. She had to get a better grip on her emotions, and she had to keep track of what she told folks about her imaginary artist, Hartley Fox.
This wouldn’t be a problem if you hadn’t rented a space in the stable—and if you weren’t lying to cover up your secret.
Gabe was setting up tables on the far side of the front room, and Regina made sure not to look at him. She remained among the other women before the meal and sat among her maidel friends, who were happily chatting about how they’d organize the bookkeeping and keep track of commissions when The Marketplace opened.
Jo seemed especially excited about their dream coming true. “I think I’ll keep the larger items—like loaves of bread, and pans of cinnamon rolls, and cakes—in the shop on display racks,” she said, “and I’ll serve separate items like cookies and pastries out in the center area. I’ll have to keep a big pot of coffee hot—”
“You should get one of those thirty- or sixty-cup coffee makers like we’ve seen in the bulk store,” Marietta suggested. “The bishop says we’ll have electricity—”
“And that way folks could serve themselves at a coffee counter,” Molly put in. “It would leave you free to serve your goodies and collect all the money you’re going to make!”
Jo waved the twins off. “Let’s don’t count our cash before it’s in our hands,” she said with a laugh. “We have a lot of logistics to figure out between now and June first.”
Regina sighed inwardly. Her girlfriends had asked a few casual questions about Hartley, but they had no idea how many answers she had to make up before her shop opened, or how she’d have to control her facial features whenever she talked about him.
When she got home, Regina went up to gaze at the paintings hanging on the strings that crisscrossed her attic—and at the many bins of her older pictures. How much should she charge for her work? Which pictures should she take to the shop first? How would she keep explaining to her customers—and her friends—that she was selling these paintings on behalf of an artist who was too reclusive to face his customers?
Lord, I know You don’t approve of what I’ve set myself up for, but I hope You’ll help me keep my stories straight so I can earn a lot of commissions for the new schoolhouse, Regina prayed earnestly. And then I hope You’ll guide me out of this web of deception before anyone—especially me—gets caught in it.