Chapter Eleven
The next two Saturdays, Gabe marveled at the continuing customer traffic at The Marketplace. During a lull at the furniture shop, he headed outside to chat with Nelson and Michael Wengerd—very pleasant fellows who arrived each week with lush hanging baskets in a riot of colors that attracted folks in from the road. They had some pint boxes of produce on a table in the shade as well.
“Has it been worth your time to sign on here in Morning Star?” Gabe asked them. “It’s a bit of a drive from Queen City, jah?”
Nelson shrugged amiably. “We come in on Friday afternoons so we have time to unload and arrange our stock,” he explained. “Makes it pretty handy that we can stay in the Fussners’ dawdi haus—”
“And we get much better meals than we would cook for ourselves at home!” Michael put in with a laugh. “We were happy to see the posters Martha Maude’s going to put around town advertising our first produce auction on the twenty-ninth. By then our garden plots will be putting out a lot of veggies.”
“What with other area farmers bringing produce as well, it should attract a lot of buyers,” Nelson remarked as he watched cars turn in off the county highway. “Might depend on the weather, as to whether we drive in for every Saturday during the winter. We’ve decided to build some special greenhouses for hothouse tomatoes and other fresh produce you couldn’t otherwise grow in the colder months.”
“It’s gut to try something different,” Michael remarked, waving as folks approached them. “And we like meeting all these new people as well.”
Nodding, Gabe let the Wengerds greet their customers. Back in the building, he saw Bishop Jeremiah and his dat sipping coffee and eating brownies at one of the tables in the commons area. He was glad one of the men from the shop was coming in to help for a few hours midday, so his father wouldn’t be on his feet for so long. Gabe waved as he passed Glenn’s wood shop. His friend appeared pale and drawn, which made Gabe wonder if Dorcas or the new baby might not be doing so well.
He told himself to return to the furniture shop—so Red wouldn’t think he’d rather spend time with her—yet his feet went their own way. As Red and Lydianne rang up a nice four-seasons collection featuring a buck, a doe, and a fawn, Gabe admired the artwork on the shop’s walls. When the bishop came in to stand beside him, he glanced up.
“This guy’s paintings are really something,” Jeremiah said, stooping for a closer look at a pair of wood ducks on a pond. “If I were one to hang artwork on my walls, I’d certainly buy a few of these watercolors.”
“Dat says the same thing,” Gabe remarked. Amish folks didn’t display a lot of decorative stuff in their homes. They hung calendars and clocks, mostly, along with a list of family members beside the front door, because those served a purpose and reinforced the importance of each and every member of a family. “For a guy who’s got health problems and is confined to a wheelchair, he has a real talent—and he gets a lot of painting done.”
Bishop Jeremiah nodded, scrutinizing a few of the pictures. “I don’t know much about art, but I thought it was customary for the artist to sign his work.”
Gabe recalled mentioning that subject to Red, and the way she’d acted as though she wasn’t aware of such a tradition. He didn’t respond to the bishop—because he was too engrossed in watching the animated way Red’s hands moved and the radiance of her face as she spoke to a customer.
How does Red seem to know every little thing about these watercolor paintings—and the way Fox portrays his nature subjects—yet she’s not aware of the signature thing?
Gabe’s doubtful thoughts flew from his mind when Red caught him watching her. He waved, hoping he didn’t look like a lovestruck puppy.
“Gut afternoon, Bishop—and Gabe,” she added breezily. “Looks like we’re all having another great day.”
It would be an even greater day if you’d join me for dinner—
Gabe caught himself before he could say those words out loud. He’d have to be very careful if he wanted to come across as a fellow worth dating instead of a clueless kid. “We haven’t moved as much furniture today as we did that first Saturday,” he remarked, “but I figure any exposure to potential customers is gut exposure.”
Was Red chuckling at his choice of words, maybe getting private ideas about exposure? Why had he used that word twice? Or did she look so fetching in her rust-colored dress and her fresh kapp that he’d been temporarily ferhoodled ? “So how’s it going for you today, Red?” he asked quickly. “You’ve had a constant stream of folks in your shop—well, Fox’s shop—all day.”
“Are you sure we couldn’t convince your artist friend to make an appearance?” Bishop Jeremiah put in. “Everybody’s eager to meet him.”
Red flushed, shaking her head. “I—I asked him about that earlier this week when I went to pick up more of his pictures,” she replied quickly. “Now that he’s selling so much of his work, he—he says he has to stay home and paint more!”
“Ah. Well, give him our best,” the bishop said.
Gabe sensed he should get back to his own store before he said something moronic. “See you, Red,” he murmured. He waved at Lydianne, who was placing more paintings on the walls.
What was it that didn’t seem right? Why did Red’s responses feel half a beat off?
And why have the lights been burning in her attic every evening you’ve walked past her house? What’s going on with her?
It was a question Gabe couldn’t ask aloud, because Red would know he’d been acting like a schoolboy with a big crush on her. And if he admitted that his evening strolls had become more frequent—and that they always took him past her home on Maple Lane—she’d think he was spying on her. Or stalking her.
After he’d closed up shop and handed the day’s receipts to Jo, Gabe drove Dat home. They had church the next morning, so his mamm and two sisters were in the kitchen preparing a couple of dishes to share at the common meal while they put the finishing touches on a supper of pork chops, fried apples, and baked potatoes.
Lorena and Kate looked up from the fresh snickerdoodles and brownies they were arranging in lidded containers. “How’d you do today? Was The Marketplace busy?” fourteen-year-old Lorena asked.
“One of these Saturdays we want to come and shop!” Kate declared, glancing at their mother. “Mamm kept us busy washing the rugs and curtains today.”
Gabe chuckled, snatching a cookie from Kate’s bin. At nearly thirteen, she was a younger version of their plump mother, while coltish Lorena favored their tall, slender dat. “We did well, and we were glad to have Harvey Shetler spelling us for a few hours this afternoon,” he remarked. “Maybe come winter, when the customers thin out, you girls can be our helpers—”
“We’ll discuss that before we get anybody’s hopes up,” Mamm interrupted him in a purposeful tone. “I don’t like the idea of young girls working amongst so many English—at least not until they’re out of school.”
When his sisters’ faces fell, Gabe winked at them. “Mamm’s probably right about that part,” he admitted. “But there’s no reason you couldn’t go in with Dat and me for a while some Saturday to look around, and then somebody could bring you home.”
“Or we girls could all ride in with you men some Saturday, see the new shops, and then take the buggy into town to buy dress fabric before school starts,” Mamm said as she removed the big skillet of pork chops from the stove top. “No reason for the mare to stand around all day waiting for you.”
Dat took his place at the head of the table. “She won’t. The shopkeepers’ horses graze in the pasture under some shade trees,” he explained, “and Pete’s putting up a pole barn for them soon. We’ll put that barn to gut use during our auctions—and when the scholars drive their ponies to school, too.”
Mamm set the platter of sizzling chops near Dat’s place and fetched the bowl of fried apples. “Sounds like you figure to be at The Marketplace every Saturday for a long time to come,” she remarked. “Do you really want to spend so much time there after you’ve put in a full week at the furniture factory, Martin?”
As Gabe took his seat, his parents continued their conversation. Mamm had been hinting for the past few months that Dat should retire, but his father was having none of that—because he preferred spending his time with the men in the factory to being at home, where his wife would come up with chores he didn’t really want to do.
After their prayer, Gabe filled his plate and ate without saying much. Dat was regaling Mamm and the girls with gossip he’d heard at The Marketplace, so Gabe’s mind wandered to what seemed to be his favorite subject of late. What would Red be eating for supper? Would she spend her Saturday evening alone—or had she taken Hartley the money he’d earned on his paintings? If Gabe stopped by her place, would she welcome him in for a glass of lemonade? Or would she beg off, finding reasons not to spend time with him after hours?
Only one way to find out.
After he’d eaten a couple of his sisters’ brownies, Gabe slipped into the bathroom to check his appearance in the mirror. He doubted Red would care if he put on a clean shirt, but on the off chance that he’d see her, he did it anyway. He slipped through the front room, where Dat was absorbed in the Budget, and out the front door before Mamm noticed he was leaving. Living at home with his family meant he couldn’t come and go in total privacy—and sooner or later, he’d have to answer some questions about his after-supper destination.
What would his parents say about his strolling past Red’s place, hoping to see her? Would Dat insist it was bad business to date an employee? Would Mamm bombard him with questions about whether he was courting Red with the intention of marrying her? His mother was eager to see him hitched and starting a family—
And what would Red say to that? She doesn’t seem to hanker for the traditional Amish lifestyle, or she wouldn’t work in the furniture factory, right?
Gabe strolled quickly toward the county blacktop that marked the city limit of Morning Star, which bustled with car traffic and folks going out for Saturday night supper. He turned down Maple Lane and stopped when Red’s house came into view. It was a red brick bungalow—a single-story home with a pillared front porch beneath what was most likely an attic.
It had been an English house in the countryside when Red’s father, Fred Miller, had bought the place, and it sat on a couple of acres of land, which he’d fenced as a pasture for the horses. Because Fred didn’t farm—and because the babies that had come after Regina hadn’t survived long—the house and the property had been just the right size for the three of them. After Fred and Edna had died in that horrific bus accident, Red’s insistence on remaining in her home alone had been yet another choice that set her apart from most young Amish women.
Gabe recalled that Preacher Clarence and Cora had made quite a fuss about their niece keeping her house, because it gave her too much independence—and because living in the country alone left her vulnerable. They’d objected to her holding a job at the furniture factory, too. Preacher Clarence, as Regina’s closest male relative, felt responsible for her and believed her place was with them until she married. As Gabe recalled the situation, Clarence would’ve forced Red to move to his house, had Bishop Jeremiah—and Dat—not taken her side and agreed to assist her shortly after her parents’ funeral.
Red stood her ground—has lived life her own way. Maybe she thinks you don’t have much to offer, without a home of your own . . . or maybe she’d be content to remain at her place after she married—
Gabe started walking again. Where were these thoughts about marriage coming from, when he hadn’t even kissed her?
Hah! She might run screaming in the other direction if you tried that. This is Red we’re talking about, after all. Quiet, blend-in-with-the-furniture Regina Miller.
As he approached her house, he noticed that the lights above the porch were on again, and the attic window was open. Why would a woman alone need any more space than she had on the main floor? Surely her bedroom wasn’t in the attic—the spacing of the back windows suggested two bedrooms downstairs. And in the summertime, it would be uncomfortably warm for sleeping up there. As he wondered about these things, Gabe felt compelled to call her name, to see if she’d come to the window.
But he kept quiet. He didn’t knock on her door, either, which would’ve been the normal thing for a guy to do if he wanted to see a woman. Gabe had so many questions for Red, yet he hesitated to ask them. Was that due to the shyness and uncertainty he’d never felt around other young women—maybe because the relationship might turn out to be special?
Or are you afraid of what you’ll find out about her?
After a few more moments of indecision, Gabe headed back toward town. On the chance that Red might come to the window for a breath of air, he hurried past. He didn’t want her to spot him staring up at her, after all. Dusk was turning the sky to a pale, pearlescent gray as he crossed the county highway and headed into Morning Star’s business district.
When he spotted a Mennonite guy he knew outside the bulk store, he called out to him. “Hey there, Nick—long time no see! How are you and the wife doing?”
Nick looked up from his cell phone. “Can’t complain,” he replied. “Just finished a pizza, and Mary Beth wanted to shop for a couple things before we headed home.”
Gabe glanced at the screen of his friend’s phone. “You’re watching a baseball game—on your phone?”
“Checking to see how the Cardinals are doing. While we were in the pizza place, they had a no-hitter going.”
Gabe blinked. He was way behind, tech-wise, and he marveled at how quickly Nick was flipping from one image to the next with his dexterous thumb. As faces flashed by on the screen, a thought popped into his mind. “You can look stuff up about people on that thing, jah?”
Nick chuckled. “It’s called googling them, Flaud,” he teased. “You want me to do a search for hot, single girls willing to date a knucklehead like you? I could sign you up for a dating service—”
“Forget that noise,” Gabe interrupted playfully. “Look up a painter named Hartley Fox. He’s surely got a website, and maybe a photo of himself on there.”
“Hartley Fox,” Nick murmured as he brought up a screen with a search line. “Does that end in Y or I-E ? And is it Fox like the animal, or with an E on the end?”
Gabe spelled the name he’d seen in the shop at The Marketplace, watching closely as Nick typed it in and tapped the little magnifying glass beside it. Almost immediately, several lines of print and some photos popped up.
Nick slowly drew his finger upward as he scanned them. “Hmm. Stuff about Fox News . . . people with the last name of Hartley. Here’s a Hartley Fox who lives in Canada. Would that be him?”
“Nope, this guy doesn’t live very far from here,” Gabe replied. “He paints nature scenes like you wouldn’t believe—”
“No sign of anyone like that. He must not have a website—and he’s never made the paper or done any local showings, apparently.” Nick looked up with a shrug. “Sorry.”
Gabe’s brow furrowed. Before Nick quizzed him about why he wanted such information, he said, “Well, denki for looking. Gut to see you, Nick. Tell Mary Beth hi for me.”
As he headed down the sidewalk, Gabe’s mind clouded over with questions. Why wouldn’t a painter who supported himself with his work have a website? Was Fox so reclusive that no one around the area knew who he was?
Red knew about him. But she’s never mentioned how they met. Wait—check a phone book!
Gabe paused on the corner of Morning Star’s main street, where a steady stream of cars was going by. With pay phones being a thing of the past, large directories weren’t easy to come by around town. If Fox had a cell instead of a landline phone, a print directory wouldn’t help anyway, but Gabe turned back toward the bulk store. The owner there might have a newer, more complete listing than the small one in the phone shack at home.
He walked quickly past the produce section and jars of locally made jellies, toward the deli counter in the back. “Hey there, Clem. Got a phone directory I can look at real quick?” he asked the beefy fellow behind the glass display case.
“Sure—on the desk in the office.” Nodding toward the doorway, Clem kept slicing sandwich meat from a large block of ham.
“Denki. Won’t take me but a minute.”
Gabe entered the small room and sat down in the wooden swivel office chair. As he flipped through the large regional directory with white and yellow pages, he had the unsettling feeling he was on a wild goose chase. And why would that be?
Mumbling the alphabet, he finally arrived at the name Fox—five listings. Three of them had only initials for first names, and all of them were on the far side of North Haven, several miles away.
“No Hartleys. No H ’s, even,” he muttered.
As Gabe thought back to the questions he’d asked Red about her reclusive artist friend—and recalled the sketchy answers she’d given—he frowned.
What’s going on here? What’s this guy got to hide?
When he left, Gabe ambled along the crowded sidewalk, lost in thoughts that circled like suspicious dogs. The Methodist Church, with its high white steeple and its empty parking lot, beckoned him like an old friend. The back chapel door was always unlocked for those who wanted to pray, so he stepped inside the cool, unlit room to soothe his soul . . . to indulge in the comfort he could confess to no one.