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The next morning was a perfect day for the bake sale: sunny, bright, and not too hot. At nine o’clock, Jemima was helping her mother set up a table at a neighborhood plant nursery. The owner had agreed to let their congregation hold the sale outside his shop.
Summer weekends were always good sale days, since those were the days that both locals and tourists came to the nursery to buy big, beautiful Amish garden plants.
And Amish-produced confections.
The congregation was holding the bake sale to raise money for little Adam Yoder who had fallen down a well and had broken a half-dozen bones. He had been in the hospital for days, and his medical bill was, reportedly, astronomical.
Jemima carried a sheet cake to the table and set it carefully between a basket of yeast rolls and a plate of blueberry muffins. Her mother had worked all day yesterday, and lots of other people from their congregation had as well.
But Jemima was depressed. She gazed out over the groaning tables and couldn’t help thinking that it was a wasted effort. Even if the bake sale was a huge success, it could hardly raise the money that Adam’s parents needed.
She thought of the letter gathering dust in the bank vault, and was pierced by guilt. The proceeds of that letter would be more than enough to relive Adam’s parents of that crushing debt, and maybe, the debts of a lot more sick people, besides.
And here she stood, with all their neighbors, selling cakes that would bring ten dollars, at the most.
Jemima scanned the sale tables sadly. They had set them up outside the store, and those tables were now laden with every kind of temptation imaginable: her mother’s mouth-watering blackberry pies and peach cobblers, friendship bread still warm from the oven, sticky buns, sugar cookies, and all manner of cakes. Some local farm families that made their own cheeses and hams were also selling their wares.
Including Mark’s.
Jemima’s expression lightened at the sight of him. Mark was a welcome distraction from her guilt and her confusion. It was a comfort to see him. He was as strong and reliable as her father’s watch.
He was already there, helping some of the other vendors unload their heavier boxes, since he was young and strong and – and muscular.
Jemima allowed herself the pleasure of watching him – discreetly – as he worked. Samuel was taller, and Joseph was more handsome, but Mark was by far the most well-built of her suitors. His arms were strong, his chest was broad, his hips were narrow, and his stomach was so flat that it actually curved in slightly.
He was almost a man now; he certainly didn’t look much like her old childhood tormentor. But an old longing surged up inside her suddenly as she watched him – she longed to talk to Mark, like she had when they were children. She longed to get him alone and pour out her heart to him.
Mark didn’t talk much, but he was a wonderful listener. She knew he would never betray her, not to anyone.
Of course she couldn’t tell him about the letter, or the crazy Englischer, but – maybe she could just ask him what he would do – if something unexpected and – and difficult happened.
Mark had always been so practical and down to earth. He had so much common sense – and after the craziness of the last few weeks, she yearned for that.
Jemima looked around for her mother, and to her relief, she was facing in the other direction talking to some of the other women.
Jemima backed away from the table, and disappeared into the nursery, shielding herself behind racks of seedlings and big potted trees. She peered out, looking for Mark. He was unloading boxes about ten feet away.
She moved closer, still keeping herself out of sight, and when he passed close by, she called softly from behind a ficus bush.
“Mark!”
He stopped, and looked around in puzzlement.
“Mark, here!”
He stepped closer, frowning slightly. “Mima? What are you doing hiding in the bushes?”
Jemima felt her face going red, but she was committed now, and she had to follow through. She looked up at him pleadingly.
“I-I wanted to talk to you. Alone, someplace. Away from all these people,” she begged. “Can you get away – just for a few minutes?”
He looked at her eyes, and his expression softened. “Of course,” he said, and put the box down on a table nearby. “Where do you want to go?”
Jemima was embarrassed to feel tears pool in her eyes. “Oh, anywhere,” she told him, “just away from everybody. Just somewhere we can be alone!”
He looked at her again. “Okay.” He put a hand lightly under her elbow, and guided her out through to the farthest edge of the nursery. He led her to a little nook, mostly hidden behind a row of potted evergreens, and they sat down together in a garden swing.
He looked into her eyes with a concerned expression. “What’s the matter, Mima? Has something upset you?”
Jemima felt her lip trembling, and she looked away, irritated by her own weakness. She shook her head, and strove to control her voice. “It’s just – something strange has happened, Mark,” she said, keeping her eyes on a nearby tree. “Something very strange. And I don’t know what to do.”
She turned her eyes back to his, and looked into them pleadingly. “And I thought, maybe, you could give me some advice.”
Mark took her hands in his and nodded. “Of course, Mima. You know that. Anything.”
Jemima looked up at him. “Mark, I-I have a decision to make. A very important decision. I think, I believe, that I have guidance from God about what to do. But something just happened that – that has confused me, very much, and I-I’m not so sure anymore.”
He was watching her intently, but at this, his eyes burned. “Has someone...has someone done something they shouldn’t, Jemima?” he asked.
Jemima felt a wave of fire roll over her cheeks. Mark clenched his jaw, nodded angrily, looked up at the sky, and then back at her.
“I think I know what I should do, Mark,” she whispered, looking up into his eyes, “but now I’m – I’m scared.”
Mark was frowning now, and looked angry. “No one’s hurt you, have they, Mima?” he demanded. “Or threatened you? Because if they have–”
Jemima shook her head. “Oh, no, Mark,” she shrugged. “It’s just that I’m so confused. If I do what I think I should, it will be wonderful and good things will happen, but it may also be unpleasant, at first, and some people might not understand, or...or be – upset, as well.”
His expression changed. The anger faded, and was replaced by puzzlement – and then, dawning certainty. He pressed her hands warmly between his. “I think I know what you’re trying to tell me, Mima,” he said intently. “And I think you should do what you think is right, no matter what. And you don’t need to be scared, not of anything. Not while I’m around.”
He pulled her hands toward him. “Can’t you tell me what you’re afraid of, Mima? What – what decision you have to make?”
Jemima shook her head unhappily. “I-I can’t, Mark. I’m sorry, not yet. But it’s preying on my mind so. I don’t like what I’ll have to do.”
His eyes were full of compassion. “Of course not. But you shouldn’t let that keep you from doing what you think is best.”
Jemima looked up into his eyes. “Oh, Mark, it’s such a comfort to talk to you,” she cried. “I haven’t been able to talk to anyone about this – it’s been all bottled up inside me, until I think I’m going to–”
But it was as far as she got.
Mark simply pulled her hands behind him, and then put his own around her, and before she knew what was happening, he was kissing her.
His lips were warm, and tender, almost reverent, but she shook her head and pulled away. She looked up at him almost in despair, and opened her mouth, as if to say something, but then shook her head.
“Just kiss me, Mark,” she told him. “Kiss me hard!”
