“You do not know Mamm.”
“That’s about to change.” Beckoning for Esther to follow, Claire made her way out of the stockroom and into the main shop, the shelves lining the walls showcasing a smattering of Amish crafts, many of which had been made by Esther. As she rounded the corner, Claire couldn’t help but do a double take. For there, in the middle of the room, stood a virtual carbon copy of the young woman at her heels. The hair was the same soft brown shade, the hazel eyes a nearly perfect match, and their height was no more than a centimeter off from one another.
And, like her daughter, Martha King was dressed in typical Amish dress, though, as an older woman, her apron was black and her dress color a bit darker. But the burgundy hue the mother had chosen did little to mute the pretty face that peered back at Claire.
“Mrs. King, I’m Claire Weatherly. I’m honored to finally meet you.” She stuck out her hand only to pull it back and opt for a smile instead. “Esther has told me so much about you.”
Martha’s gaze moved to a red-faced Esther. “She has?”
Claire rushed to explain, for fear the woman would think her daughter had spoken in a boastful manner. “She tells
me you taught her how to quilt and how to make many of the items my customers love so much.” She pointed toward the shelf that, only yesterday, had been filled with candles of varying sizes and shapes. “Esther’s creations are some of our most popular items.”
“We are grateful for the money you send home with Esther each week. It has made up for some of what Mr. Snow took when …” Martha’s words trailed off as she seemed to realize what she was saying. Such matters were not for the women to pay any worry.
“It’s money Esther has rightfully earned.” She flashed a smile in Esther’s direction, hoping some of the tension that seemed to hover around the young woman’s shoulders would dissipate. “In fact, your daughter is quite a businesswoman, if I must say so myself. She comes in with a price in mind and holds firm.”
Martha eyed Esther closely but said nothing.
Flushed, Esther toed the wood-planked floor.
“I was hoping that maybe you might consider showcasing some of your own crafts here at Heavenly Treasures as well.”
A peaceful silence blanketed the room as Martha appeared to consider Claire’s request, her eventual response catching both Esther and Claire off guard. “My daughter told me you were interested in speaking to me about this, but I put it off, certain that you would lose interest … in this shop and the Amish way. But I have listened to Esther these past few weeks, listened to the things you have told her, and I have changed my mind.”
Esther’s mouth gaped. “You mean you’re going to bring your painted milk cans and wooden spoons here, too, Mamm?”
“If Miss Weatherly will allow, then yes.”
“Yes?” Claire echoed.
“Yes. You can pick up some items on Thursday.”
It took every ounce of strength Claire could muster not to jump up and down, squealing. Suddenly, the shop she’d opened with little more than hope was showing the kind of potential she’d only dared to imagine.
This time, when she reached outward, she didn’t stop, her hand closing over the top of Martha’s in a gentle squeeze. “Thank you, Mrs. King. Thank you so much.”
“Esther, it is time to go.” With barely more than a nod at Claire, Esther’s mother marched toward the front door, stopping midway with a glance over her shoulder. “Miss Weatherly? If we are to work together, you shall call me Martha.”
And just like that, Claire felt the familiar sting in her eyes. For five long years, she’d been Mrs. Peter Ross—the Wall Street wife who existed simply to attend company dinners and sit home alone the rest of the time. But now, thanks to a healthy dose of courage and her aunt Diane’s offer of solace à la Heavenly, Pennsylvania, Claire was making a life of her own.
With people who wanted to be friends with her because of who she was, not who she was married to.
Swallowing over the lump that threatened to render her speechless, she eked out the only reply she could. “And I’m Claire.”
“I will have these things ready for you on Thursday.” Taking hold of her daughter’s arm, Martha continued on her path to the door, her black-stocking-clad legs freezing in motion mere inches from their destination.
“Mamm?” Esther nibbled at her lower lip. “Mamm, what’s wrong?”
Martha stepped to the left and leaned toward the large plate-glass window that overlooked Lighted Way—the road that linked Heavenly’s Amish and English communities.
Here, the two worlds met, as cars shared the roadway with buggies, and sidewalks were traveled by the hatted and unhatted. Slowly, Martha’s finger rose into the air, pressing against the window. “Who is that?”
Claire moved in next to Martha, her gaze following the path indicated. “Oh. I believe that’s the police department’s new detective. I’ve not met him yet, but my aunt says he’s from New York City, like me.” Claire took a moment to study the tall man with the sandy blond hair and broad shoulders she’d seen in the newspaper over breakfast just that morning. More handsome in person, he moved with a sense of quiet authority befitting his new title. “Had I moved to a place like Washington, D.C., or Chicago, I’d have thought nothing of meeting others from New York. Yet here in Heavenly, it always takes me by surprise.”
“Do you know his name?” Martha asked.
She searched her memory for the name she’d seen captioned under his photo, her aunt’s running commentary on the latest happenings in Heavenly helping to fill in at least part of the answer her mind seemed unable to recall on its own. “Jakob. Jakob something or—”
“Fisher,” Martha finished. “Jakob Fisher.”
Esther gasped. “
Fisher?
Mamm … Wasn’t that your last name when you were—”
Grabbing hold of her daughter’s arm once again, Martha’s gaze dropped to the floor, a flash of pain skittering across her face before disappearing behind a facade that could only be described as stoic. “Esther, we must go.
Now
.”
S
he’d always been of the notion that life changed in bits and pieces, small course variations that allowed a person to navigate more effectively. But now, after the way things had changed in the past few months, Claire knew that wasn’t always the case.
Not in her life, anyway.
One minute, she was holed up in the Manhattan apartment she’d shared with Peter, waiting—as she always did—for him to come home from work. The candles had burned themselves down to their bases, the anniversary dinner she’d prepared had gone untouched, and her heart had been broken for the very last time.
Six months later, after caving in to Aunt Diane’s offer for some much-needed solace, she was living at Sleep Heavenly, the bed-and-breakfast her aunt owned on the outskirts of Heavenly, Pennsylvania.
She’d come out of desperation and loneliness.
She’d stayed after finding something she’d thought she’d lost forever.
And in the process, she’d learned more about herself than she ever thought possible.
Some of the things were little—like the fact that she enjoyed live music and wandering through bookstores for hours on end. Some were more eye-opening—like the kinds of things that she could use to make life decisions.
Top on the list of things learned, though, was her unearthed passion for simplicity and tradition. She liked counting on herself, and learning to believe she could count on others as well.
Aunt Diane had taught her that. And so, too, had the quiet, God-fearing people who lived their lives in a place as far from New York City and her life with Peter as she’d ever dreamed possible …
“Good heavens, Claire, you look as if you’re a million miles away.” Diane Weatherly breezed into the kitchen, waving a dish towel in her niece’s direction. “You’re not thinking about that buffoon you were married to, are you?”
Claire ducked out of the towel’s path and returned to the dishes in the sink, the warm soapy suds soothing against her skin. “Guilty as charged.”
Diane took a rare moment to stop, her meaty shoulders drooping. “You’re not thinking about going back, are you?”
The soup bowl slipped from her fingers at the notion of ever returning to her previous life. “Aunt Diane, there are no circumstances under which I’d ever go back. This is my home now.”
The sixty-two-year-old clapped her hands, releasing a happy squeal as she did. “I’ve been hoping you’d decide to live here with me on a permanent basis.”
Claire reclaimed the bowl from the sudsy water and
placed it in the water-only side. “I don’t necessarily mean here as in the inn, Aunt Diane. I just mean here in Heavenly.”
Diane’s chin rose upward a notch. “What’s wrong with the inn?”
Realizing she’d offended, Claire rushed to explain, pausing from her dishwashing duties long enough to wipe her hands on the cloth she’d tucked into her apron. “I love the inn, Aunt Diane, you know that—”
“I thought I did.”
“And I do. But, at some point, once the shop is on solid footing, I’ll want to get my own place.”
Horror widened Diane’s eyes. “But you can’t. You’re still so young … so fragile.”
She had to laugh. “I’m thirty-one, Aunt Diane.” Stepping two feet to the right, she peered into the mirror her aunt had nailed to the wall above the dish drainer, her blue-green eyes finally void of the wounded quality they’d reflected upon her arrival in Heavenly six months earlier. Even her auburn hair featured a more relaxed look, its former bob cut giving way to one that slipped below her shoulders. “And as for fragile, not so much anymore.”
Diane spun on her soft-soled shoes and headed back toward the dining area, a tray of turkey, dressing, and mashed potatoes balanced atop her shoulder. “We’ll see about that moving-out part when it’s time. Seems silly to get your own place unless you find a nice man. The guests always love you … even the odd ones.”
Taking once last peek in the mirror, she followed her aunt through the series of doorways that led to the dining area where the paying guests ate each night. As she passed through the final opening, she took a deep breath, commending the scene to memory for use later on, when she was in bed, and her mind started wandering back to darker days.
It was a technique that served her well and allowed her to sleep on nights she might not otherwise have slept.
She supposed some of that was simply the vibes that a group of people, seated together around a table and enjoying a home-style meal, tended to give off. She knew, too, that some of it came from the feel of the room—the dim lighting cast about from the wall-mounted sconces, the large colonial-style table capable of seating twelve during the busy season, the framed black-and-white photographs of Heavenly over the years. It was, in fact, her favorite room in the inn, rivaled only by the parlor, with its full-wall fireplace, floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, and cozy upholstered reading chairs.
“Miss Weatherly, I was hoping you’d come back out.” Arnie Streen, the anthropology student who’d taken a room at the inn some two weeks earlier, reached across the table, helping himself to five slices of turkey before Claire’s aunt had finished removing all of the platters from her tray. After plunking the meat onto his plate, he exchanged his fork for a spoon and dove into the serving bowl of mashed potatoes as a scrap of his red hair fell forward against his freckled cheek. “I’d like to interview that young woman in your shop tomorrow morning. Say around nine thirty or so? I’ve got some questions I need her to answer.”
Claire wrapped her hands around the dressing bowl and made her way down one side of the table and then the other, scooping generous helpings onto the other guests’ plates before stopping at Arnie’s spot. “You mean Esther?”
It was a rhetorical question, of course, since Arnie knew the young Amish woman’s name by heart. But like his many other socially inept ways, he seemed to be clueless to the way he rubbed people. Including Claire.
Coughing across the turkey platter, Arnie shifted in his
seat, a move Claire had come to recognize as discomfort or embarrassment—awkward emotions the man tended to exhibit in tandem with talk of Esther.
He was an odd man, a self-proclaimed outcast who was fascinated with the Amish.
She supposed it made sense on some level. The drastically different lifestyle of her Amish neighbors probably touched some sort of kindred place in his soul. At least, that’s what she and Diane had managed to come away with after sharing a roof with the man for the past fourteen days.
Officially, he was there to observe the Amish culture as part of the thesis he was writing for his master’s degree—an education milestone he’d funded by shucking oysters near his Maryland home. The fact that his vast interest in the Amish seemed to stall on Esther the minute he caught his first glimpse of her was apparently beside the point.
“Yeah … Esther.”
Diane removed the platter of turkey from Arnie’s reach and headed back into the kitchen, returning just as quickly with a second, cough-free platter for the rest of her guests. As the robust woman moved her way around the table, she addressed Arnie. “Ruth Miller, the woman who runs ShooFly Bake Shoppe, might be a better person for you to talk to, Mr. Streen. Her brother Benjamin is a very respected member of the Amish community despite his relatively young age. Perhaps she can introduce you. I’m quite certain you could learn a lot about the Amish from him.”
Then, with a wave of her hand, Claire’s aunt dismissed the idea as quickly as she’d said it. “On second thought, with the little problems that keep occurring at the bake shop and Ruth’s intense shyness around men, maybe it’s best if you find someone else.”
Lifting the pitcher of ice water from the center of the
table, Claire topped off everyone’s glass. “I take it you heard about the shipment of pie boxes that were stolen from Ruth’s store this morning?”
A soft
tsk
emerged from Diane’s lips. “I did, indeed. Between that and yesterday’s broken milk bottles, the poor thing must be beside herself over all of her bad luck.”
“Broken milk bottles?” Arnie asked between bites of turkey.
Claire nodded. “Ruth’s brothers deliver fresh milk to her store every morning just before sunrise. But yesterday, all four bottles were smashed when she arrived.”