Читать книгу Family Blessings - Anna Schmidt - Страница 9

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’s Creamery 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.

Her eyes—definitely one of her best features—went wide with what Jeremiah could only interpret as shock. “What are you doing?” she demanded.

“I thought that as long as you wish me to wait until your father arrives that I could help you.”

“Oh, so now you are a baker as well?”

Out of any other woman’s mouth the words might have sounded teasing, even flirtatious. After all, Jeremiah was not blind to the fact that from the time he reached eighteen years and suddenly filled out the gaunt body that his earlier illness had left behind, he had attracted female admiration. His easy smile and determination to be everything his uncle was not had always resonated with females of all ages. But when Pleasant Obermeier spoke these words, they were no less than a condemnation.

Hoping to disarm her, he chuckled. “I’m afraid you would need to teach me that, Frau Obermeier. I had only thought I might move the trays to the ovens when you are ready.”

“Thank you, but no. I can manage.” She turned her back to him as she checked the heat coming from the large wood-fired ovens. “I’ll let my father know that you wish to speak with him,” she said.

“And you,” he added as he retrieved his hat. “As the baker, you must have an opinion.”

Her back still to him, he saw her shoulders slump slightly as if he had finally defeated her—or perhaps simply tried her patience beyond her ability to be polite. “Herr Troyer …”

“Jeremiah,” he interrupted.

She turned to face him. “Herr Troyer,” she repeated emphatically. “This is my father’s business. If he asks me to be at this meeting, then I will be there. Until he makes that decision, I bid you a good day.”

He had been dismissed. With nothing more to say, Jeremiah put his hat on and left the shop. But then the streak of impishness that had gotten him in trouble numerous times throughout his youth blossomed. He waited until a count of ten and then re-entered the shop, the bell announcing the arrival of a customer. He filled the time it took Pleasant to clatter a tray of breads into the oven and call out, “Coming,” by considering the sparse but luscious selection of baked goods displayed in the shop’s cases.

There were apple dumplings, whoopee pies that leaked their vanilla cream filling from between the chocolate cake sandwich like mortar from a freshly set brick wall, and the most mouthwatering-looking lemon squares that Jeremiah had ever seen.

The woman he assumed was responsible for all this temptation emerged from the back room with a welcoming smile that faded the moment she saw him. “Did you forget something, Herr Troyer?”

“I’d like a dozen of these, half dozen of those, and if you could add in a loaf of that rye bread you’re baking.”

“It won’t be ready for …”

“I realize that. I thought perhaps you might be so kind as to drop it off on your way home later today. I’m right next door.”

Pressing her lips together in a thin line of disapproval that did nothing to add to her appearance, Pleasant started filling his order. She packed two boxes, tied them with string and set them on top of the bakery case. When she had finished, he noticed that the small display of pastries he’d admired was almost completely gone.

“Will that be all?” she asked.

“I seem to have wiped out most of your …”

“I can always bake more,” she said. “Would you like anything else?”

Jeremiah pretended to consider that question by looking around the shop. He plucked a bag of day-old rolls from a small table near the door and added it to the pile. “How much do I owe?”

When she punched in the amounts on the heavy brass cash register he thought she might actually bend the keys with the force of her strokes. He watched the numbers tally in the small window on top of the register and just before she hit the total key, he reached across the counter and stopped her by touching the back of her hand. “Did you add in the rye bread?”

“You can pay my father for that when he delivers it later today. At Goodloe’s Bakery we make it a habit not to take payment until we are certain we can deliver what has been ordered.”

“Meaning?”

“I might burn the bread,” she said. “Or it might not have risen properly.” She hit the key to total the sale and the cash register drawer sprang open. “Anything is possible,” she added. “I might drop it on the floor or …”

The color that flooded her cheeks suddenly told him that they were sharing the memory of when she had dropped the doughnuts. He smiled and handed her the money. Without meeting his look she made change, slammed the cash drawer shut and dropped the coins into his outstretched hand. “Good day, sir,” she said as she presented him with his parcels.

“And a pleasant day to you, Pleasant,” he said as he accepted his order and headed for the door. Then he paused and sniffed the air. “I can see that I found a premiere location for my shop as well as my home if every morning I’m to be awakened by such wonderful smells.”

Finally, the thin line of her mouth softened as her lips parted but she did not go so far as to actually smile. Pity, Jeremiah thought. Her smile was lovely.

Outside he found that he was in an even better mood than he had been upon first awakening that morning. Yes, he was going to enjoy life in Florida. It was impossible not to be in a good mood when practically every day was filled with sunshine. He closed his eyes and thanked God for the many blessings he had already found by moving to Celery Fields.

In spite of her determination not to surrender to her curiosity about Jeremiah Troyer, Pleasant edged toward the front window of the bakery and peeked out through the muslin café curtains to see where he might go next. To her surprise he was standing almost directly in front of the bakery, his eyes closed and his face raised to the sky above.

Was he praying? In the middle of the street?

And then with no warning, he opened his eyes and raised his hand in greeting to the Hadwells who owned the hardware store. He set the bag with the day-old bread and the larger box that held an assortment of pastries on the porch of his shop and carried the smaller box—the one that held six apple cider doughnuts—over to the hardware store.

He offered a doughnut to Mr. and Mrs. Hadwell and then called out to Harvey Miller who ran the machine shop to come and join them. Within ten minutes they had each taken a seat on one of the many nail barrels that lined the porch to enjoy the doughnuts. Gertrude Hadwell brought out tin cups and a pot of coffee and served the men. Jeremiah had his back to her but Pleasant could tell by his gestures and the rapt interest on the faces of the others that he was telling them some story.

“A tall tale, no doubt,” she huffed as she dropped the curtain back into place and returned to the kitchen. The man had a way of taking over whatever space he might occupy. One might expect that of someone like Levi Harnisher, for example. Levi had once owned one of the largest and most successful circus companies in the country. And Pleasant would never forget the day he had walked right into this very bakery while she and Hannah were working and announced that he had sold the circus in order to return to his Amish roots and court Hannah.

Never in her life did Pleasant think she had ever witnessed anything so romantic as that. The love that shown in Hannah’s eyes as she looked at Levi and his love for her that was reflected there was nothing short of breathtaking. And the memory of that devotion naturally brought to mind her relationship with Merle. Of course, she and Merle were very different from Hannah and Levi, who were romantics by nature. To the contrary, both she and Merle understood and respected the hard realities of life.

Jeremiah Troyer is a romantic, she thought and bit her lip as she focused all of her attention on rolling out crusts for pies instead of dwelling on the handsome newcomer who was to be their neighbor—and perhaps business associate. Neighbor and business associate, Pleasant sternly reminded herself, and nothing more.

If there was one lesson she had learned, it was that men were rarely as they presented themselves to others. Or perhaps it was that she was a poor judge of the male species. After all, she had foolishly thought that a young man from Wisconsin was flirting with her, calling at the bakery day after day just to see her. More to the point, the man she had thought Merle was before they married and the man he had turned out to be were not at all the same.

Hannah and others had tried to warn her, but she had insisted that they simply did not understand people like Merle and her—serious people who were devoted to their work and who understood the hard realities of life. But even she was not prepared for day in and night out of living with a man who saw little good in anyone or anything—including her and his own children.

The shop bell jangled and Pleasant sighed heavily as she wiped her hands on her apron and headed to the front of the store. “Did you need more doughnuts, Herr Troyer?” she asked as she stepped past the curtain separating the kitchen from the shop and saw Hilda standing there with all four of Pleasant’s children.

“Pleasant, you must do something with this girl,” her sister-in-law said as she pushed Bettina forward. “I am quite at my wit’s end.”