Dear Diary,
I can’t believe it’s been nearly a year since we moved from Lancaster to Marigold. And what a year it’s been! Dad and I have been working hard to make our grocery store a success after we took it over from the Burkholders, and thankfully our efforts have paid off. Some days there’s more business than we can handle! I even mentioned to Dad that we should find out who owns the empty building next door and see if it’s for sale so we could expand. He said no. Not a surprise. He doesn’t like taking risks, even though it didn’t take much to convince him to move to Marigold. I wish he would reconsider expanding, though. I think it would be good for our family and for the growing community.
I also wish he’d do something about Junia. She’s not pulling her fair share—no surprise there either—but he won’t say anything to her. She keeps complaining about being homesick for Lancaster, but that’s not an excuse to shirk her job and chores, and it’s driving me ab im kopp. She’s not the only one who’s missing home. I do too . . . sort of. I miss all the farmland and my friends. But I don’t miss the busyness of the tourists or my aunts’ and cousins’ unwanted advice, especially when they say they’re not surprised I’m still single because of my “personality.” I’m only twenty-six. There’s plenty of time to find a husband, right? Besides, they’re being hypocritical. Neither of them is married.
Ella lifted her pen from the page and looked at her last paragraph. She should mark it out in case anyone discovered her diary and read it. She didn’t write anything about her aunts and sister that wasn’t true, though. Aenti Tabitha and Aenti Cora had always been critical of her, and for some reason they never could resist throwing a dig or two at her lack of suitors. Junia was a dreamer and a flirt, and unlike Ella, she was obsessed with getting married. In fact, her sister had complained more about the lack of single men in Marigold than her yearning to go back to Lancaster. She should just go back if she’s so unhappy here.
But Junia didn’t actually seem to be unhappy. Just lazy and completely uninterested in helping her and Dad run the grocery store. And their father kept indulging her slothfulness. Anytime Ella pointed out her sister’s lacking work ethic, Junia just scoffed. “You’re so bossy, Ella. And seltsam. No wonder you’re not married yet.” It was the same thing her aunts had always said.
Ella tossed her pencil onto the diary page. She shouldn’t let Junia or her aunts get to her. Aenti Tabitha and Aenti Cora were in Lancaster and couldn’t influence her anymore. Instead, she should ask God to bring her sister a husband. Then she and Daed could hire someone who would do some work. More than once over the past three months, she’d proposed hiring another employee, but her father had vetoed that suggestion too. “We’re doing just fine,” he said in his usual slow, measured tone. And they were. But Ella didn’t want their business to be “just fine.” Not when it could be a huge success.
“Ella!”
She cringed at the sound of Junia’s whiny voice coming from downstairs. “What?” she hollered from her room.
The thudding sound of her sister’s fast footsteps grew closer. Ella quickly shut her diary and stuck it under the mattress of her twin bed.
Junia burst into the room. “Guess what?”
“You finally cleaned out the storage room at the store?”
Junia frowned, her large, round brown eyes growing wider. “Nee. Why would I do that?”
“Because I asked you to?”
“When?”
“Yesterday.” Ella stood up, adjusting the ties of her white apron and fighting the urge to roll her eyes. Junia only seemed to forget something when it was related to work. Otherwise, her mind was a steel trap. “It’s almost opening time,” she said, slipping on her navy blue cardigan. “Hurry up and tell me whatever you have to tell me.”
“Why are you always so crabby?” Her sister pouted, something else that drove Ella crazy but always made her father cave. She lifted her chin. “I’m not going to tell you now.”
“Fine.” Ella shoved her feet into her black tennis shoes and knelt to tie the laces.
Junia squatted beside her. “It looks like someone’s moving in next door.”
Shortly after they bought the store and arrived in Marigold, they purchased the Burkholders’ four-bedroom home across the street from the store. There wasn’t another house for at least two blocks or so. “Next door to our house?”
“Nee. The building next to the store. I saw two men get out of a taxi a few minutes ago. One of them—he’s kind of burly—had a key and opened the door. The other one . . .” Junia let out a dramatic sigh. “He’s so schee.”
Oh brother. Ella had never sighed over a man, schee or otherwise. She also didn’t appreciate her sister’s “burly” comment. What did it matter what the men looked like anyway?
Then her sister’s words sank in. The building had sold? Uh-oh. There went her plan for expansion. She bustled by Junia.
“Where are you going?” Junia trailed after her.
Ella bounded down the stairs, through the kitchen to the mudroom. She picked up the keys off a hook and tossed them to Junia. They hit her sister in the chest and dropped to the floor.
“What’d you do that for?” She bent over and snatched up the keys.
“You’re in charge until Daed finishes up the chores.” Ella cringed. “Don’t make me regret this. Fridays are always busy.”
She huffed. “I’m not a child, Ella. I know how to run the store.”
“Now you can prove it.” She opened the door. A cold draft of wind hit her in the face.
“Where are you going?” Junia called out from the doorway.
Ella whirled around. “To meet our new neighbors.”
* * *
Nelson shoved his hands into the pockets of his jacket and looked around the empty room. His brother Jesse, who had moved to Marigold almost a year and a half ago, told him about this place and encouraged him to check it out. But as had been his habit for more than a year now, he wondered if he was doing the right thing.
“Well? What do you think?”
His nephew Malachi appeared next to him. At twenty-four, Nelson was only two years older and considered Malachi more of a brother—and he had plenty of those. He looked around the area again. He’d learned from the Realtor that it used to be a warehouse and was a decade older than the grocery store next door. Pale morning light beamed through dusty windows into an expansive, empty room. The stairs in the back led to a loft, also covered in dust and cobwebs. There wasn’t a visible shred of evidence that anything was ever stored here. From what he could gather, the current owner bought it from the original one and had intended to turn it into a small house to rent out but never got around to it.
“Needs work,” he said, turning to Malachi. “A lot of work.”
Malachi nodded. His straw hat was pushed back from his head—wavy dark-blond hair curled around the bottoms of his ears. “Agreed. But nothing wrong with hard work, ya?”
“Ya.” The uneasiness increased. What did he know about running a butcher shop? About as much as he did when, right after his relationship with Norene imploded, he started apprenticing with an Amish butcher in Fredericktown where his family was originally from and where his oldest brother, Devon, currently lived with his wife, Nettie, and their three children. During that time, he’d not only learned butchery, but he also discovered he enjoyed doing it—even going so far as to experiment with making and seasoning sandwich meat and sausage. His boss, Samuel, was impressed. “Best smoked turkey I ever had,” he’d said.
He couldn’t take all the credit. Samuel was not only the best butcher in Fredericktown, but he was also an excellent teacher. In a way, he had Norene to thank for his new occupation. He was so eager to get away from her and his broken dreams that two days after he discovered her with Ben Miller, he’d moved in with Devon. But now he was back in Birch Creek. He’d never been fully settled in Fredericktown, and he couldn’t run away from the past. He just wasn’t sure what his next step would be.
“You gonna make an offer?” Malachi asked.
Nelson blew out a breath. So much had changed in a short time. He never thought he’d leave his family’s farm, much less have a new career and consider opening his own shop. But one thing hadn’t changed—his need for a fresh start. Moving to Marigold had been good for Jesse. His brother was happily married and worked in a successful buggy shop. Maybe moving here would give Nelson a new lease on life too. He turned to Malachi. “Possibly—”
The door flew open, and a young Amish woman burst into the room. When she spotted Nelson and Malachi, she made a beeline toward them. “Are you the new owners?”
Nelson blinked while Malachi took a step back. Her breath came out in puffs in the cold warehouse, and she put her hands on her hips and stared them down. There was barely enough light for him to see the determination in her dark-blue eyes. Or were they gray? He couldn’t tell, and he didn’t care. “Why do you want to know?” he said, staring straight back at her.
She didn’t flinch. “You’re not answering my question.”
He grimaced. After the disaster with Norene, he was through letting women push him around, and this woman in front of him was one of the pushiest females he’d ever met. “That’s because it’s none of your business.”
Malachi stepped forward. “Hi. I’m Malachi Chupp. This is my uncle, Nelson Bontrager.”
There was a flicker of recognition in her eyes. “Are you related to Jesse?”
Malachi nodded, but Nelson didn’t respond. Putting his hand on Nelson’s shoulder, he said, “He’s interested in buying the building.”
“Maybe,” Nelson added. He didn’t want Malachi to think he’d made his decision.
She turned to him. “For what purpose?”
“For my purpose.” He shrugged off Malachi’s hand. What was with this woman? And where did she come from? There was a house across the street from the grocery store. She probably lived there, but that didn’t give her the right to interrogate him.
She crossed her arms and lifted her chin. “You haven’t bought it yet?”
He moved closer to her. Nelson wasn’t a small man. He was downright brawny, a stark contrast from his brother Jesse, who was thin and wiry. She was about his chin level, and he felt a little satisfaction peering down at her. “Like I said, it’s not any of your business.”
She pointed in the direction of the adjacent grocery store. “That’s my business,” she said, her tone holding a challenge. “If you’re going to be my neighbor, I need to know about it.”
At some point Nelson must have moved again, because now he was only about a foot away from her. Against his will, a thought ran through his head. She would be kind of cute if it weren’t for her sharp tone. He immediately dismissed it. Noticing a woman’s looks was also verboten to him now. When it came to females, he was done.
“That’s a big if, now that I’ve met you.”
“Nelson,” Malachi said. “You’re being—”
He held up his hand, forcing Malachi to stop talking. He knew what his nephew was going to say. He was being rude. Again, he didn’t care. She’d started it, and he was going to end it. Any second now, she would burst into tears and go running off, probably to cry to her husband about the mean man in the warehouse.
Instead, her lips twitched. A spark appeared in her eyes. She moved a few steps to the side and lifted her arm in a sweeping motion toward the door. “Feel free to leave.”
“Oh boy,” Malachi muttered. “Nelson, we should go . . .”
When he didn’t finish his sentence, Nelson turned around. His nephew was literally slack-jawed and staring at the warehouse door. A slender, lithe Amish woman stood there gazing at Malachi. He looked from her to his nephew, who had finally closed his mouth.
“Junia, why are you here?” The sharp-tongued woman hurried over to her. “You’re supposed to be opening the store.”
“We’re not busy. Daed’s there anyway.” She leaned closer, continuing to stare at his nephew. “Ella . . . Who is he?”
“That’s Malachi. And this is”—she rolled her eyes—“Nelson.”
She sounded like she was explaining a contagious disease. Ella—nice name. Unfortunately, she was the exact opposite.
Junia went to Malachi. “Hi,” she said, smiling, then looking up at him.
“H-h—” Malachi cleared his throat. “Hi.”
“Do you live close by?” she asked. “I’ve never seen you before.”
“I live in Birch Creek.”
“Oh, I’ve been meaning to visit Birch Creek. I just haven’t had the time. I’ve been working so hard in our store—”
“Give me a break,” Ella muttered.
Junia whirled around and frowned at her, then faced Malachi again, her flirty smile back in place. “Maybe someday you could show me around your town.”
He gave her a dumbstruck grin.
Now it was Nelson’s turn to roll his eyes. He’d never met anyone more girl crazy than Malachi, and that was saying a lot, considering his own history.
Ella inserted herself between Malachi and Junia, her back to him. “Geh back to work,” she ordered.
Junia lifted her chin. “You’re not mei boss.” A slow smile spread across her face. “Daed is.”
Ella fisted her hands at her sides, her lips pressed together. But she didn’t say anything, turning on her heel and blowing past Nelson without a single glance.
“Just ignore mei schwester,” Junia said, her voice dripping more sweetness than a warm peach pie straight from the oven. “She’s always a grouch.”
“You’re schwesters?” Malachi marveled.
“Ya. But we don’t look alike at all, do we?”
Now that Nelson knew they were siblings, he noted a slight resemblance. They both had round faces, and the same dark-brown hair peeked out from underneath their white kapps. Otherwise, they were opposites.
“And we have totally different personalities, thank goodness.” Junia batted her eyes at Malachi. “Now, where were we?”
“We were leaving.” Nelson headed for the door. “Malachi, let’s geh.”
But his nephew remained in place. “You geh on,” he said, staring at Junia again. “I’ll catch up with you later at Jesse’s.”
Nelson paused, then shook his head. Well, Malachi would have to find out the hard way that women, especially pretty ones like Junia, weren’t to be trusted. He’d had to learn his own harsh lesson. And he’d be there to help his nephew pick up the pieces when this girl inevitably crushed his heart.
He walked out of the warehouse, got into his buggy, chirruped to his horse, and headed to Wagler’s Buggy Shop where Jesse worked. One thing was for sure—he wasn’t buying that property. He’d start his butcher shop somewhere else. Or he’d stick with working on his family’s farm in Birch Creek. Either would be preferable to working next door to Junia. And Ella. Especially Ella.
* * *
Wendy Pearson resisted the urge to rub her temples as the couple in front of her continued to bicker. She wasn’t a divorce attorney, but the way these two were carrying on, she thought they might need one.
“We’re not leaving anything to the dog in our will, Judy,” the man said. “We’re only in our sixties. He won’t be around when we kick the bucket.”
Judy sucked in a breath and stroked the Chihuahua in her lap. “He’s only five, Harold. He’ll probably live longer than you.”
“That’s what you’re hoping for, isn’t it?”
“You said it, not me.”
They turned away from each other in their chairs, Judy cuddling the dog. Wendy internally counted to ten. At least they stopped arguing long enough for her to get a few words in. “Mr. and Mrs. Warren, we’ve been at this for nearly an hour. Maybe you should go home and have some further discussion about the beneficiaries of your estate.”
“I already told you. I want Claude to inherit everything.” Judy cradled him closer. “You deserve it, don’t you, Mr. Claudy Claude?”
“See what I have to deal with?” Harold pointed at her with his thumb. “She’s nuts.”
Wendy suspected he was right, but it wasn’t her job or place to judge. “Mr. Warren, it’s not unheard of for pets to be beneficiaries. Your wife obviously loves Claude—”
The dog bared his teeth at her. Wendy pulled back. She usually liked dogs. Her mother had one—Monroe—and he was a great pet and companion. But this little monster . . . Yikes. She needed to get the couple back on track before they spent another hour arguing in her office. “However—”
“We do have six kids to consider,” Harold said.
Wendy stilled. “You have children?”
“Yep. Four boys, two girls. One son-in-law—used to have two, but he’s the ‘ex’ now.” Harold made air quotes. “Three of our sons are married, and one is still ‘finding himself.’” More air quotes. “We also have thirteen grandchildren. But Claude trumps them all.”
“Here.” Judy thrust her phone at Wendy. “This is from last week, when I took Claude to see Santa.”
Wendy glanced at the photo of a man in a sagging Santa suit holding Claude, who was decked out in an elf costume. This woman was certifiable. No judging, remember? She glanced at the clock on the wall of her office. Almost four thirty. They wouldn’t figure this out today. “Considering this new development, we should schedule another meeting for next week, if you’re both agreeable.” She opened her laptop and pulled up her calendar. “I’m free on Tuesday at three. Does that work for you?”
“Yes,” Harold said, pulling his coat off the back of his chair.
“Claude has a playdate, remember?” Judy looked at her phone. “Can we make it four?”
“Sure.” Wendy tapped on the keyboard. She added the date and a note: Bring dog treats. That always worked for Monroe. She stood up and held out her hand to the Warrens.
Harold was already standing. Looking eager to go, he shook her hand while Claude bared his teeth at him. Harold looked at Wendy and twirled his finger near his temple.
She almost laughed but managed to stifle it as the Warrens left her office. When they were gone, she plopped back down in her seat and pinched her nose. Three months ago, she decided to open a small law office in Barton, about thirty minutes from Marigold, where she lived with her mother and Monroe. She had taken a nine-month sabbatical from her high-stress job as a corporate lawyer at a firm in Manhattan, ultimately quitting that position with zero regrets. But she couldn’t imagine doing anything else, and when she learned there was an office space available to rent, she jumped at the chance to have her own firm, ready to go back to the career she’d dedicated her life to—to the exclusion of all else.
The trouble was . . . she was starting to hate being a lawyer. Well, she didn’t exactly hate it, but now that she was back at work, she didn’t want to be here.
Pushing away from her desk, she glanced around the office. Her intention had been to grow her practice, perhaps bringing on one or two attorneys and eventually getting a larger office space. She didn’t know any other way to work. Her entire career had been spent climbing the ladder to the top. Or in her case, almost to the top. She’d been passed on for partner many times over the years, which was one of the reasons why she quit. Now that she was her own boss, things would be different. She would only take on the cases she wanted, only work the hours she chose, and make a name for herself in small-town Ohio. So far that hadn’t happened.
Instead of being concerned, she felt relief.
She got up, put on her coat, and shut off the light, then locked the door. Part of her grandiose plans had been to hire an admin as soon as possible. She’d have to be able to pay a decent salary, but that hadn’t materialized yet. How could it when she dreaded every single moment she was here? So much so that she’d cut her workweek down to three days, barely making enough to cover the rent. Good thing she still had plenty of savings from selling her apartment in New York City. Still, that money wouldn’t last forever.
Cold wind hit her as she got into her mother’s silver sedan. Wendy had sold her Mercedes on a whim a little more than two months ago and had taken over the sedan since Mom couldn’t drive anymore. Again, zero regrets.
Once she left the Barton city limits, she fully relaxed, something that was happening more and more regularly. When she first took her sabbatical, she was sure she’d miss the hustle and bustle and sophistication of what she’d always considered the greatest city in America—NYC. Surprisingly, she hadn’t had a moment of homesickness since she left.
She called her mother on her cell. The call went to voicemail, and Wendy automatically tried her again. Sometimes it took two or three times for her mother to answer, mostly because she forgot where she put her cell since she wasn’t one for chatting on the phone. Maybe it was time to get a landline.
“Hi, honey,” Mom said when she finally answered. “Are you on your way home?”
“Yes. Did you need anything while I’m out?”
“No. Oh wait. Some of those sweet rolls from Yoders’ would be good. Ella’s an excellent baker. “
“And you’re a diabetic. But nice try.” She smiled. “How about some sugar-free pudding as a compromise? I’ll make some when we get home.”
“We’re out.”
“That’s okay. Yoders’ has some.”
“You don’t have to go to the trouble,” Mom said, disappointment lacing her tone.
“But it was okay to go to trouble for sweet rolls?”
“Sweet rolls are always worth the trouble.”
Wendy laughed. “I’ll get the pudding. There are a few other things I need to pick up too.” Some vegetables for salad and a bag of those delicious croutons Ella made fresh every week. She used to avoid carbs of any kind, but there was something about home-baked bread that she couldn’t resist. “What did Charity make for supper tonight?”
“A quiche of some sort. She’s been looking through her French cookbooks again.”
Salad would be the perfect accompaniment. “Sounds delicious. See you in a bit.”
“Bye. Love you.”
“Love you too.” She smiled. For years she’d been too busy to call her mother, and when she did, she was too distracted to pay full attention, sometimes even neglecting to tell Mom she loved her. She’d always been worried about her, though, ever since her parents moved to Marigold. Her father died shortly afterward, and then Mom had a stroke. Thankfully she recovered, and they had hired Charity Raber—now Bontrager since her marriage to Jesse—to be her live-in companion. Charity and Jesse lived next door, and six days a week she either came over to cook supper for her and Mom or brought a prepared meal from her house. Wendy had wanted to put an end to that, but her mother enjoyed Charity’s food and her visits. Wendy did too. But I really do need to learn how to cook something other than salad and sugar-free pudding. She’d always ordered takeout when she lived in New York.
After a battle with some unexpected traffic, she arrived at E&J’s Grocery five minutes before closing time. She rushed out of her car and into the store. The owner, Barnabas Yoder, was sweeping the floor near a display of Christmas candy. Hard to believe the holiday was only three weeks away. “Hi, Barnabas,” she said, grabbing a shopping basket. “I just need to pick up some lettuce, carrots, and croutons. Oh, and sugar-free pudding. I won’t be but a minute. Traffic was awful on the way over.”
Barnabas smiled. “Take your time,” he said in his low, patient voice. “I’m in no hurry.”
“Thank you.” She went to the baked goods aisle. She liked shopping here, not only because it was convenient, but because it wasn’t hectic. There were times when they had a lot of customers, but even then there wasn’t the stressful energy she felt when she was shopping in Barton.
She knew the store layout well, so it didn’t take long for her to gather her groceries and go to the counter to check out. Barnabas met her there and began calculating her bill using an adding machine. He didn’t have a beard like most of the Amish men she’d met in Marigold. She did know he was a widower but had no idea when his wife passed away. Wendy visited the store quite regularly, sometimes when she was on one of her long walks and she didn’t bring Monroe, so she knew him and his two daughters, Ella and Junia, better than any of the other Amish in Marigold. It was pretty obvious who the store was named after. The only other people she knew in town were Charity, Jesse, Jesse’s boss, Micah, and his wife, Priscilla, and their daughter, Emma. But that didn’t mean she knew any of them on a personal level.
“Ten fifty.” He tore off the receipt tape and handed it to her. She put it in her wallet with her other receipts. Later she would go through them and make notes in her ledger. She might have growing doubts about being a lawyer, but she wasn’t about to give up her meticulous recordkeeping. As Barnabas bagged her groceries in a calm and methodical manner, she let out a sigh, tension falling from her shoulders.
“Everything okay?” he asked, glancing up at her.
She started to say yes, but when she met his eyes, she stayed silent. Even though she enjoyed the slow pace of Marigold life, often she was still living like a rushed city dweller. Had she ever taken the time to look at this man—really look at him? He had clear, bright eyes, and they were an unusual grayish-blue color. He didn’t have on a hat today, and his dark-brown hair was streaked with gray. She wasn’t sure how old he was, but his daughters had to be in their twenties, and between the grays in his hair and the creases around his eyes and forehead, she guessed he was in his forties—the same as her. Most of all, he had a stoic steadiness about him. She’d never seen him upset or heard him raise his voice or seem rushed. She found that quite appealing.
She blinked, realizing he was expecting an answer. “Just glad to be off work,” she said. “Sorry I’m keeping you at yours.”
“Like I said, I’m not in any hurry.” He set the bag of croutons on top of the vegetables. “Ella got a late start on supper, and Junia . . . well . . .” He shrugged, slightly smiling. “She’s off somewhere, like she usually is.” He handed her the bag. “Tell Shirley I said hello.”
“I will.” She took the bag from him and started to walk away. Then she turned. “How old are you, Barnabas?”
Surprise crossed his face, and she wanted to kick herself for asking. She could have found a more appropriate way to discover his age, and she normally didn’t go around asking men, or anyone else, how many years they’d been on planet Earth. “Sorry, I don’t know what got into me, asking you that. You don’t have to answer.” When he didn’t say anything, she turned to leave, her face heating like charcoal briquettes under a grill.
“Forty-six,” he said as she touched the door handle.
She looked over her shoulder. “Same age as me.”
His eyes widened. “Never would have guessed that. You look like you’re in your thirties.”
Wendy laughed and faced him. “Makeup and hair dye help.”
He paused for a long moment. “I think you’d look just fine without all that fancy stuff.”
She smiled at his unexpected compliment. “Thanks, Barnabas.”
He nodded and straightened up the paper bags at the end of the counter.
She turned and went out the door, still soaking in his kind words. She was a plain woman, and compared to her contemporaries, she wore very little makeup and a simple blunt haircut that she hadn’t changed in over twenty years. Her former boyfriend, a cretin of a man, had never complimented her looks. From what she’d been able to glean about the Amish since moving here, they weren’t ones for flattery.
Wendy glanced at the door and smiled. There was something about Barnabas. About all the Amish, really. Then she got into her car and went back home for some French quiche made by an Amish woman. I love living in Marigold.