Timothy turned into the entrance of Young’s Flea Market. In front of the market was a large Amish restaurant called Young’s Family Kitchen. It was the domain of Ellie Young, an Amish widow in her late sixties. Ellie had run the restaurant and flea market with the help of her sons since her husband died more than twenty years ago. Young’s was a main tourist draw to Knox County, attracting visitors from all over Ohio who were interested in a great deal and a slice of Ellie’s famous pie.
Normally, dozens of automobiles and Amish buggies crowded Young’s massive parking lot, but today, there were only two cars in the lot and a handful of Amish buggies. The snow stopped for the time being, but the temperature steadily dropped as dusk fell over the county. The horses stood sentinel at the hitching posts with dark-colored blankets on their backs to protect them from the worst of the cold.
Timothy parked, and I placed my hand on the door handle. “It seems late in the year to be doing construction.”
Timothy pulled a green stocking cap down over his ears. “The outdoor market closed for the season at the end of October. We have to finish the project while the market is closed. I want to get all the walls up before the weather gets worse. Unfortunately, winter’s early this year.” He opened his door. “We’re here a little early, so let’s go over to the job site, and I can show you around.”
We climbed out of the truck. Becky shivered. She wore jeans, her faux Ugg boots, and teal ski jacket. “It’s too cold to be outside. I’m going inside the warm restaurant.”
Timothy shrugged. “Suit yourself.” His eyes twinkled when his gaze met mine. My stomach did a little flip. I wasn’t sure what Timothy and I were to each other, but I knew we cared for one another. I knew there wasn’t anyone I’d rather spend time with and suspected he felt the same. Not knowing for certain, however, made me edgy.
There was one complication: I wasn’t Amish. Neither was Timothy anymore, but I doubted his austere father would want his son to marry an English woman who was so far from their roots. Like me. I was a computer geek, a city girl, and the product of a broken family. In his father’s eye, if Timothy wouldn’t marry an Amish girl, a Mennonite would be a much better choice. Hannah Hilty came to mind.
Becky ran toward the restaurant and disappeared through the “Staff Only” kitchen door. Timothy skirted the truck and took my hand, leading me away from the restaurant to the three pavilions behind it. Our fingers intertwined.
Business could not be better for the Young family. To take advantage of their success, they decided to enclose the three pavilions that house the outdoor flea market. This way, the market could be open all year long. Timothy was the main contractor on the project. Although he had been a skilled and sought-after carpenter in Knox and its surrounding counties for years, this would be the first time he tried his hand at running the entire operation. If he was successful, the Young job would catapult him to a whole new level in his career. I knew he was nervous about managing all the subcontractors, plumbers, drywallers, foundation workers, and carpenters, who were both Amish and English.
Timothy subcontracted electricians too. Even though the restaurant and flea market were run by an Old Order Amish family, electricity was allowed because it was a place of business. Home was different for the members of the district. All the lights and appliances in community members’ houses ran on natural gas or propane.
Timothy led me to the second pavilion. He pushed away the plastic sheet that covered the entrance. The door hadn’t been put into place yet. “Watch where you step,” he warned. “Most of the guys are careful, but there may be a stray nail on the ground.”
The floor was slab cement. Orange electric cords and clear air hoses snaked across the floor. The seams in the drywall were still visible. Clear tarps protected us from wind where doors and windows would be. The pavilion stretched the length and width of a basketball court.
Timothy released my hand. “For the most part, this is going to be an empty space with large windows to let the natural light in. The Young family will rent it to any number of vendors as they did before when it was open air, but now it will be open year-round. They will be able to extend rental leases for space and increase their prices. I don’t think they plan to increase the rental price too much, but whatever it is, vendors will be willing to pay. In this county, there aren’t other places like this where Amish can reach so many tourists. Englischers love to spend their money here.”
I knew that. When I first moved to Appleseed Creek, I bought most of the furniture for my new house at Young’s.
He smiled. “For the most part, vendors will bring their own wares to sell and their own tables and booths to display them. If they don’t have the tables or booths, the Youngs will rent those to them along with the space. The pavilions will have central heating but no air-conditioning. It’s too expensive, and the bishop put his foot down on that one.”
“The restaurant is air-conditioned, and all of the downtown Amish shops are too. What’s the difference?”
Timothy shrugged.
“What have you been working on in here?”
“I’ve been crafting the permanent booths for the produce and farmer stands. These Amish farmers will have a prime spot in the market.” He stepped onto a raised platform and stood beside a wooden structure that came up to his chest. “We’re going to stick a refrigerator unit in here to sell cheese and meats. I’m building the frame.”
A huge contraption the shape and size of a lawn mower sat on the platform. “What’s that?”
“An air-compressed nail gun. The carpenters helping me on the project are Amish and won’t use an electric-powered one. This one is powered by diesel.” He flipped on the switch, and the machine came to life. It sounded like an ill air-conditioning unit. He waved me up on the platform.
Since my legs were shorter than his, he gave me a hand up. “We’re going to add some steps,” he assured me. “You should make your mark on the pavilion too. You were the one to convince me to take this project after all.” He picked up the nail gun and pointed it inches from the last nail. “I can show you how to use it.”
“When am I ever going to need to know how to use a nail gun?” I teased.
The corners of his eyes crinkled. “You never know when a lesson like this will come in handy. We can finish this row of nails.”
He held the gun out to me. Tentatively, I took it. It was much heavier than I’d thought it would be, roughly the weight of a dictionary, and my hand dipped under the unexpected heaviness. Timothy covered my hands with his and steadied my wrist. He guided the gun to the wood. In my ear, over the gun’s air compressor, he said, “We’ll hammer in five more nails, four inches apart.”
I nodded, trying to concentrate on the nail gun instead of how close he was to me.
Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! The air compression drove the nails into the wood.
“Perfect,” Timothy said as he removed the gun from my hand and turned off the air compressor.
My hand ached from squeezing the trigger, and I suddenly felt a chill without him next to me. I ran my hand over the new nail heads in the plywood. “Computers are overrated,” I said, feeling unreasonably proud of my work. “Maybe I should consider carpentry.”
He laughed. “Maybe so.”
I closed my eyes, imagining Timothy’s vision for the place. In my mind, I saw the sunlight coming in through the windows and the English visitors from the city buying fresh produce and quilts from Amish men and women. “It’s going to be great when it’s done.” I opened my eyes and found Timothy watching me with a particular expression on his face. Was that the expression he thought Dylan wore when looking at me earlier that afternoon?
I shivered.
Timothy hopped onto the platform. “Are you cold?”
I pulled my cotton gloves from my pocket. “I think it’s colder in here than it is outside.”
Timothy placed my small hands between his two larger ones. He rubbed his palms back and forth over my hands, his rough calluses scratching my skin. Warmth flowed into the small muscles of my knuckles and fingers.
His blue eyes were soft. “Better?”
I couldn’t speak.
A gruff voice disrupted the moment. “Who’s in here?”
Timothy dropped my hands, and suddenly my fingers were freezing again.
Near the door a portion of the plastic tarp moved and a large Amish man stepped into the work area. “Timothy? What are you doing in here? The site is closed on Sunday.” He was at least six feet tall and had a long, brown, wiry beard that fell to the second button of his black wool overcoat. He wore a black stocking cap and wire-rimmed glasses instead of a broad-brimmed felt hat. As the weather got colder, more of the Amish men in town were trading their felt hats for stocking caps.
A fleeting look of irritation passed across Timothy’s typically mild face as he helped me down from the platform.
The man eyed me. “Who are you?”
“I’m Chloe Humphrey.” I held out my hand to him, but he didn’t take it. I let it drop to my side.
“What are you doing on my job site? This isn’t a playground,” the man barked. He eyed me. “Or a courting buggy.”
My face flushed. I knew it was the same shade of red as my hair.
“Relax, Ezekiel.” Timothy stepped between us. “I was showing Chloe around. We’re here for the workmen’s dinner.”
Ezekiel glared at him, his dark brown eyes magnified by his glasses. “That meal is meant for the workmen and their families. Is she a member of your family?”
“She’s a close family friend.”
Ezekiel’s eyes narrowed. “No one is allowed on the job site after work hours—especially a close family friend.”
A muscle in Timothy’s jaw twitched. “It’s my mistake.”
“Don’t let it happen again. My mother might like you and have convinced me to give you a chance, but there are plenty of other contractors in this county who can do your job. I don’t want to have to find a third contractor for this job.” Ezekiel disappeared through the plastic sheeting.
I gawked at Timothy. “Who was that?”
Timothy steadied himself. “Ezekiel Young.”
“Young?”
He nodded. “He’s Ellie’s son.”
“What did he mean by a third contractor?”
Timothy shook his head, clearly not wanting to talk about it. “Come on, let’s go to the restaurant.”
As I followed him out of the pavilion, disappointment washed over me. The moment we’d had, or I’d thought we’d had, was gone.