Rosemary Opens Her Heart: Home at Cedar Creek, Book Two (17 page)

Matt closed his eyes. The excitement he’d felt for James’s phone messages drained
out like water from a punctured trough. Why did relationships with women—both Rosemary
and now Emma—have to be so difficult? “No,” he murmured, “it’s because I can’t let
you
keep bringing brownies and—and looking at me with all those wishes in your eyes. I’m
sorry, Emma. Let James know I came by, all right?”

As he stepped out of the doorway, Matt felt her closing the space between them. She
shut the door, probably so her folks couldn’t hear. “Fine and dandy, then!” she said
in a rising voice. “If it doesn’t work out with Mrs. Yutzy, at least you’ll have your
dogs for company. Which is pretty much what you deserve!”

Matt strode across the Grabers’ front yard, knowing that whatever response he gave
would only anger Emma further. He hadn’t heard the last about this issue.

Later that evening, as James sat in the phone shanty playing more than a dozen messages
left for him on the phone, he shook his head in disbelief. Who would have believed
one magazine article—one photograph of the white carriage he’d crafted last fall—would
inspire such an avalanche of calls? All in all, he had three requests for interviews
and potential orders for at least ten more customized carriages. Never had his work
received so much attention. And for an Amish fellow, that became a problem.

It wasn’t only the fact that he, by himself, couldn’t possibly fulfill so many special
orders. Who could he hire to help with the technical details these English customers
expected on their vehicles? Pete Beachey, who had taught him his trade long ago, was
beyond the age when he wanted to work full-time. And while Perry Bontrager and Leon
Mast were good, steady employees, he needed them to keep up with orders for ordinary
farm wagons, courting buggies, and other vehicles his Amish customers depended upon.
His apprentice, Noah, would probably be a fine carriage maker in time, but he’d worked
in the shop less than six months.

And then there was the issue of reporters from national magazines wanting to talk
with him. Apparently the outside world was fascinated by all things Amish these days,
but it went against the
most basic tenets of Plain belief to accept the adulation of anyone—most especially
curious English reporters.

James raked back his hair and put on his straw hat again. It was another warm spring
evening, and since Sundays were intended for visiting, he hitched Mitch to his buggy
and drove down Lambright Lane to seek some advice. True enough, this was the courting
buggy he’d driven Zanna in…but it was too fine a vehicle to leave in the stable just
because he wasn’t courting anyone.
Yet.

He knocked on Abby’s door. While she might be at Sam’s, discussing plans for Paul’s
funeral with Treva, Barbara, and the girls, he was hoping to catch her without an
audience. Right now, with so many phone voices in his head, he could use a quiet chat
with a woman who would see through to the heart of his dilemma.

She opened the door at last, and the sight of Abby’s face settled his churning thoughts.
“Could we go for a ride?” he began. “You won’t believe how many phone messages I just
listened to, all on account of that magazine article I showed you! Some for orders—mostly
for more of those fancy parade carriages—and three requests from magazine reporters
for interviews, and I—”

“Vernon will know just what to do, James,” Abby said. “And no doubt the bishop will
be pleased to hear some gut news after dealing with Paul’s passing all day long. Let
me fetch my shawl.”

Wasn’t it just like Abby to suggest that he go to a higher power? James relaxed all
over. “Denki, Abby. I’ll wait right here.”

The voices, the demands, the requests…they all stopped spinning in his head. He sat
down in Abby’s porch swing, aware of the mild spring evening, of the glow of the sun
in the western sky, and the whisper of the leaves in the maple trees that shaded Abby’s
home. While moments ago he had felt caught up in a whirlwind, he could now put his
trust in Abby, and in Vernon Gingerich—and in God—as he decided how to handle this
unexpected rush of publicity.

Moments later, he and Abby were rolling down the county
blacktop. The
clip-clop! clip-clop!
of Mitch’s hooves created a happy rhythm to accompany the sparkle in Abby’s eyes.
“It was gut to see you at my door, James, and even better to hear of so many folks
wanting your work.”

“Jah, it was nice to hear so many customers telling me they want my carriages,” he
agreed. “But it’ll be impossible to produce those specialty rigs as fast as these
English folks will expect them. They have no idea that my shop employs just two full-time
fellas and an apprentice, besides me, and that we already have a backlog of orders.”

“English apparently have no concept of limiting their businesses, the way we do.”
Abby looked over at him, her face alight with the setting sun. “From listening to
them when they visit Sam’s store, I gather it’s a constant scramble to grow their
companies bigger and to make more and more money.”

“Which doesn’t always improve their lives,” James remarked. “Vernon has always stood
by the Old Ways of working close to home and spending time with family. I have a pretty
gut idea about what he’ll recommend, and I’ll let his wisdom guide me.”

As they approached the corner where the old stone silo marked the Gingerich property,
James grinned like a mischievous boy. “Maybe we could skip our visit with the bishop
and go down that road toward Cedar Creek instead,” he suggested, half serious. “Our
picnic yesterday was one of the nicest times I’ve had lately, Abby. And it was such
a private spot, too…maybe for that kiss I didn’t get last night.”

The gleam in her eyes told him she had been thinking about a kiss, as well, but when
he pretended he might drive past the Gingerich lane, Abby elbowed him playfully. “Better
stick to business first, or all your gut intentions might go astray, ain’t so?”

James gave her a quick peck on the cheek, mostly to watch her blush, and then steered
Mitch into the gravel driveway that led to the bishop’s home. The main house, two
stories high and built of
stone and brick, dated back to when early settlers had come to this part of Missouri,
while the one-story wing Vernon had added when his two aunts moved in was made of
clapboard painted white. Vernon was a retired master carpenter who now devoted his
time to leading the Cedar Creek church district—and to finishing out Angus cattle,
which his nephew Abner then butchered to sell to regional markets and restaurants.

“It’s always a grand sight, looking out over Vernon’s pastures where those black cows
graze,” James remarked as he parked the buggy alongside the house.

“I’m sure Abner thinks so, too.” Abby grabbed his hand as James helped her down. “It’s
been a gut arrangement for Vernon, having his aunts and a nephew here. Remember how,
when Dorothea died, we all thought he’d wither up and blow away without a wife?”

“Jah, especially since they couldn’t have kids,” James agreed. “But with Nettie and
Florence keeping house for him, and Abner to tend to his barns and pastureland, it’s
the perfect setup for a fellow who stays too busy to do such work himself.”

“And would you look at how the ivy and the rose of Sharon bushes have grown!” Abby
exclaimed as they approached the front door. “I’ll have to tell Mamm how well her
cuttings have done.”

As they waited on the front porch for an answer to his knock, James became more aware
of the woman who stood beside him. Was she hoping this trip would end on the same
romantic note as their previous ride? He’d been so focused on his carriage-making
quandary, he hadn’t considered Abby’s expectations. “Denki for suggesting I talk with
the bishop,” he said softly, “and for coming along with me, too.”

Abby lowered her eyes, flushing modestly. What a beauty she possessed, radiating from
the inside out…And wasn’t
that
a thought he’d do well to ponder? When the door opened, however, James focused on
the stout, silver-haired woman who stood before them. “Gut afternoon, Nettie,” he
said. “And how are you?”

“Come in, you two! How nice to see the both of you.” The bishop’s aunt waved them
into the front room. “If it’s Vernon you’re looking for, I’ll fetch him from the barn.
He and Abner are tending a couple of contrary calves who tangled with a barbed-wire
fence—and the fence won.”

“Tell him we’re in no hurry, if he’s not at a gut stopping point,” James replied.

“You can wait for him in the study.” Nettie beckoned for them to follow her. “I’ll
bring you in some tea and sweets.”

James and Abby passed through the large front room, furnished with sturdy sofas and
chairs in soothing shades of blue and green. Beside a large picture window, Nettie’s
older sister, Florence, sat at a quilting frame where the sun shone over her work.
When she straightened in her wheelchair, her oxygen hose became visible. “Gut afternoon
to you. You’ll have to pardon me if your names have slipped my mind.”

“Gut to see you, Florence,” Abby replied as she stepped over to the quilt frame. “This
is James Graber and I’m Abby Lambright, and we live a little way down the county blacktop.
My word, but this is an intricate pattern you’re quilting.”

“Jah, keeps me outta trouble. This one’s for a niece who’s getting married, and another
three quilt tops are waiting for me—from gut friends who don’t have the eyesight for
this close work anymore,” she added. “Mighty lucky, I am, at eighty-five.”

“We’re every one of us blessed,” James agreed. “And Vernon is one of the blessings
that keeps the Cedar Creek district going so strong, too.”

“Jah, he takes gut care of us all,” Florence replied. “Who else would’ve built on
to his house so my sister, my son, and I would have a home after our places washed
away in the flood of ninety-three?”

“And he hasn’t known a quiet moment since!” Nettie preceded them down a hallway to
the study where Vernon often worked on the records he kept as a bishop. A beautiful
carved library table and
four matching chairs occupied the room’s center, while a modest desk filled one corner.
“I’ll be back in a few. Make yourselves at home.”

James pulled out a chair for Abby at the library table and then sat down. “I’m guessing
Vernon built these pieces himself,” he said as he ran his hand over the smooth surface
of the oak table.

“Jah, I did, James—many moons ago, as a gift for Dorothea.” Vernon Gingerich entered,
wearing work pants and a patched blue shirt. He’d brought some barn aroma inside with
him, yet his ethereal blue eyes left no doubt that he was a man who followed God.
“It was a sad morning, learning of Paul’s passing, but we rejoice for him because
the Lord keeps His promises and grants us His grace. I sense, however, that another
matter has brought you here.”

The bishop’s gaze embraced the two of them as though he wondered if they had come
calling as a couple. Once again James wondered how other folks had apparently noticed
how compatible he and Abby were while he had remained oblivious for so many years.
“Something unexpected has come up, Vernon,” he said, unfolding the magazine page that
featured his white princess carriage. “I need advice and objective opinions, so Abby
steered me here to visit with you.”

Vernon’s bushy eyebrows rose as he looked at the photograph. “One of your custom creations,
jah? Not a vehicle we’d drive through the barnyard,” he added with a laugh, “but a
lot of folks would enjoy parading along in this pretty coach. So what’s on your mind?”

James relaxed, grateful for the bishop’s manner. Vernon was as fatherly as he was
friendly, and that made for a nice combination of traits in a community leader. Other
districts didn’t have such an understanding man with whom to discuss perplexing issues.
“They say success breeds success,” James began, “and as of this afternoon, I’ve gotten
a dozen calls from English folks wanting carriages for their horse-drawn tour businesses.
Three others were from reporters wanting to interview me for magazines.”

“Ah.” Vernon nodded. “So you’ve come up against a production
crunch. Not enough fellows in your shop to do all this work and not enough hours in
the day. Unless you expand in a hurry.”

“That hits the nail on the head. Not that I could find qualified employees or increase
my shop space anytime soon.”

“And then there’s the magazines wanting to shine their worldly light on your work—and
on you as the man who does it so well.” The bishop looked up when Nettie knocked.
She held a tray with a ceramic teapot, cups, and a plate of sliced breads. “It’s gut
we have tea to lubricate our thoughts and some of Nettie’s fresh banana bread to fortify
our intentions, jah? Denki, Nettie.”

After her footsteps faded down the hallway, he refocused on the issues before them.
“Your situation brings to mind the story of the Israelites enslaved in Egypt, where
the Pharaoh had them making bricks. When they demanded time off to worship, Pharaoh
stopped supplying their straw, yet he insisted they produce just as many bricks while
having to go out and find the raw materials.”

James nodded at this familiar story, as did Abby. “Jah, Pharaoh was calling out ‘more
bricks, more bricks!’ while giving his slaves less material to work with and less
time to make those bricks,” James replied. “I’m starting to feel that way.”

“And if you take on all the orders you’re receiving, while telling these new customers
you can meet their time frames,” Vernon continued, “you’ll feel as if Pharaoh’s sitting
on your shoulder, making you a slave to your carriage business and to the ways of
the world, as well.”

“This, while you’re helping Emma take care of your parents,” Abby added.

“Jah, there’s that.” James looked at the photograph of his white coach with Miss America
beside it. “And while my sister would never expect to live in the style this young
woman has become accustomed to, she can’t take on all of Mamm and Dat’s day-to-day
care and have any time for herself—either to find a husband or to honor Sunday as
a day of rest. We’re seeing that already.”