Family Blessings

Hannah squeezed her hand. “Thank you, Pleasant.” She finished slicing the last loaf of bread, then added, “Bishop Troyer’s great-nephew seems quite … nice. Is he … does he have a family?”

Pleasant knew the look her friend was giving her. It fairly shouted Hannah’s idea that perhaps there might be a potential for romance for Pleasant here. “He is single and I’m sure there will be any number of our younger unattached women who will be happy to learn that.”

Hannah watched Pleasant take ears of corn from a large pot and stack them on a platter. “It’s been two years, Pleasant.”

“You know my feelings on this matter,” Pleasant reminded her.

“But why not at least open your heart to the possibility?”

“I have been married, Hannah.”

“But have you ever truly been in love?”

Pleasant looked at Hannah for a long moment. Hannah had been twice blessed with true love—first with Pleasant’s brother and then again with Levi. But other women—women like Pleasant—were called to other things. “Shh,” she whispered and nodded toward one of the other women who had moved in closer to hear their conversation.

Then Hannah picked up two platters of sliced bread. “You’ll bring the corn?”

Out in the side yard the men had just set the last of the benches for serving the meal. Hilda organized a parade of women, each carrying some platter, bowl or pitcher and headed across the yard. Pleasant looked at the stacked ears of sweet corn on the platter, but found herself remembering the plate of doughnuts and the ones that had fallen, and the touch of his hand.

And the way he had looked at her. Had he felt what she felt, if only for an instant?

She pushed the back door open with her hip, and although she heard the music of Jeremiah’s laughter, she battled the temptation to glance his way. She refused to surrender to an old maid’s fantasy that a man like that could ever be interested in one so plain.

Chapter Two

On Monday morning, after attending services with his great-uncle and aunt, Jeremiah stood at the front window of his shop. Along the unpaved road that stretched before him lay acres of celery fields on one side and a line of boxy houses—some of them little more than wooden shacks but every one of them pristine—on the other. At the far end of the street stood the large white house where services had been held. The home of the baker.

There was no reason that he could define about why he had been drawn to her like a moth to light. In the brief encounters he had had with her, he had noticed something in her eyes—a sadness and resignation that this was the life she’d been given and she needed to make the best of it. Jeremiah understood that feeling. He’d dealt with it from the day his father had died and he and his mother and siblings had moved in with his uncle. Watching Pleasant as she stood a little apart and observed the gathering of church members standing around her yard after services, he had wanted to tell her that things could change. She could change them. It was a feeling he’d had before when meeting people for the first time, but never more intensely than he did in meeting Pleasant Obermeier.

Jeremiah shook off the thought and continued his survey of his new community. At his end of the street a town center of sorts had cropped up. There was a small wooden shack that served as the community wash house where the migrant workers who came to plant and later harvest the fields could wash themselves and their clothing. Next to that was a larger building that housed the local hardware store, and next to that was a building made of cement blocks and surrounded by a hodgepodge of machinery and parts. Next door to his property stood Gunther Goodloe’s bakery. Yoder’s Dry Goods occupied the largest storefront and the Yoders’ modest house stood behind the store.

He lifted his face to the sun and thought that the small community in Ohio on the shores of Lake Erie that he’d left the day after his uncle’s funeral seemed very far away. After years of living in the shuttered and isolated world that his uncle had fabricated as a proper Amish family household, he had sold his share of the family farm to his younger brother, packed his belongings and announced his intention to move to Florida and start fresh.

And the moment he stepped off the train at the base of Main Street in Sarasota and heard the rustle of palm branches high above him as he gazed out on the calm waters of the bay, he knew he’d made the right decision. He had gone immediately to the home of his great-uncle John who was his uncle’s opposite in every way. Where Jeremiah’s uncle had been a stern, unforgiving man, John was a jovial and kind soul who, along with his wife, Mildred, welcomed Jeremiah with open arms.

He told them of his business plans and to his delight John had not only been enthusiastic about the idea, he had offered his financial support as well. In addition to serving as the community’s beloved bishop, John had a furniture-making business that had attracted the attention of several wealthy businessmen and their wives in Sarasota. He had done very well for himself and Jeremiah respected the support and counsel his great-uncle could provide.

He explained to John how the advent of the chemical compound called Freon had made refrigeration commonplace in Englisch homes, but obviously because the Amish continued to avoid electricity and other modern conveniences, a source of ice to run their ice boxes and preserve their meats was essential.

“There’s an ice packinghouse in Sarasota,” John had told Jeremiah. “I know the owner and could speak to him on your behalf. After all, you’ll be needing a paying job until you can get this ice cream business up and running.”

Within a week of his arrival Jeremiah had accepted a job with the ice company and had finalized the purchase of the building next to the bakery as well as the small barn that came with it where he could set up his business and live in back of the shop. The ice packinghouse would, of course, be his main source of income, but he was looking forward to getting the ice cream shop up and running. Already his great-aunt Mildred had helped him furnish his living quarters with the essentials for getting settled.

“You need to concentrate on establishing yourself,” she had insisted when he thanked her for everything she was doing for him. “You’d do well to focus your attention on your paying job first. An ice cream shop in these times … well, I don’t know.” Mildred was a sweet and gentle woman but had made it clear that she and John both questioned anything that smacked of frivolity. They were plain people—simple not only in their faith but in their daily routine as well.

“I believe there’s a place for such a business even in these times, maybe especially in these times,” Jeremiah replied.

“Your Uncle Benjamin taught you to make ice cream?” Mildred asked, her surprise evident as she laid out a handmade quilt on his single bed.

“In a manner of speaking. He was certainly responsible for my learning.” He thought about the years spent working with Mr. Osgood. In addition to learning the business, his times at the shop had been some of the happiest of his life. The Osgoods had provided him with the encouragement and love that was often missing from his uncle’s house. Indeed, the only person who had come to see him off at the train station was Mr. Osgood. The pharmacist had pressed an envelope into his hands. “An investment,” he’d said.

Inside the envelope had been the recipes for all of Osgood’s various ice cream concoctions and five crisp one-hundred-dollar bills. Jeremiah had arrived in Sarasota feeling like a rich man in every way.

Shaking off the memory, Jeremiah turned back to his work and finished taping the large sign that Mildred had made for him against the window. Troyer’sCreamery and Confection Shop—Opening Soon. Then he stepped outside to make sure the sign was straight and saw a woman coming out of Yoder’s Dry Goods. She looked vaguely familiar but with the sun behind her, he couldn’t be sure. He shaded his eyes with one hand and waited for her to come nearer. After all, Peter Osgood had taught him that the best way to build a business was to befriend as many people in the community as possible.

But then he saw that it was the baker’s daughter. Pleasant, he thought and in looks she was all of that and far more. Her hair—what he could see of it under the starched white kapp—was the pale gold of freshly cut hay. At their first meeting it had surprised him that in sharp contrast to her fair skin and hair, her eyes were the color of the dark chocolate he used in making his ice cream. She moved with a natural grace worthy of royalty—or at least how he had always imagined titled people moving. And yet there was purpose in her step. She was carrying a satchel in each hand filled to the brim, her shoulders perfectly balanced by the weight of them.

Her expression was passive as she fixed her eyes on her destination—the bakery—and covered the ground necessary to reach it in long purposeful strides. She wore a solid blue ankle-length dress with the usual black apron and short cotton cape covering most of it. Most surprising of all, she was barefoot.

She was almost even with his shop before she saw him standing on the small wooden porch watching her.

“Guten morgen, Frau Obermeier,” he said easily, falling into the German-Dutch dialect of their shared heritage.

“Guten morgen,” she replied but she kept walking. No time for visiting apparently, not even a moment.

“May I help you with those?” Jeremiah asked as he stepped off the porch and fell into step beside her. “They look quite heavy.”

“I’m fine,” she replied. “But thank you.”

He bounded up the steps that led to the bakery entrance and opened the door for her. A bell jangled but no one came out to greet them or relieve her of her burden.

“Danke,” she murmured as she entered the shop and headed immediately for the back room.

Everything about her posture, her failure to meet his eyes or smile, her single-mindedness about the contents of the satchels told Jeremiah that he should simply close the door of the bakery and go back to his own shop. Instead, he followed her into the large and spotless kitchen that held the lingering scent of yeast.

“Did you have the opportunity to look at the recipe I left with you on Saturday?”

“I did,” she replied as she bustled around the kitchen putting things away.

Jeremiah decided to make himself useful by unpacking the satchels for her and handing her items such as cans of baking powder and bottles of vanilla. He did not miss the way she hesitated at first to take the items he held out to her. And then to his surprise she almost snatched them from him as if he might decide to run off with them. And not once did she look directly at him.

“We could go over it now if you have a few minutes,” he said. “The recipe,” he added when she glanced back at him over one shoulder.

“I have shown it to my father. He’ll be here later. You can discuss it with him then.”

“But you are the baker, are you not?”

“Yes, but …”

“Then I would like to discuss it directly with you.” He had removed his straw hat and laid it on the long worktable that dominated the center of the room.

Still not looking directly at him she folded the cloth satchels and stored them in a basket under the table then began transferring a series of large flat pans, each covered with a cloth, to the table. The string ties of her kapp swung to and fro with the motion of her actions. She handed him his hat and went back to the side counter for another tray. It was clear that this was a process she had repeated hundreds—perhaps even thousands—of times. When she removed the cloths he saw that they held unbaked loaves of bread—rye from the looks of them.

“Frau Obermeier?”

“When my father returns, then we can discuss your order, Herr Troyer. Until then, I have bread to bake.”

Jeremiah saw a series of hooks on the wall near the doorway that led to the front of the bakery and made use of one of them to hang his hat. Then he rolled back the long sleeves of his shirt.