A Little Bit of Charm (27 page)

“I didn't know you had a million bucks lying around, Frank.” Ken grinned with pleasure.

“A million dollars. What did you pour in your orange juice this
morning?” His friend picked up the glass and sniffed. Both men laughed good-naturedly.

“Wait until after the Florida yearling races, Mr. Holt. That price is bound to go up,” Jake added in a far more serious tone.

“Anything is possible in this industry.” After another hearty backslap, Mr. Holt returned to his breakfast table.

“Bob brought me a copy of today's sale program while you were in the shower—hot off the presses.” Levity faded from Ken's face.

“Good morning, gentlemen. Ready to order?” asked a sweet-faced waitress.

“I haven't looked at the menu yet,” said Ken, “but I guess I'll have what I get every year.”

“Why mess with a winner?” She punctuated her question with a wink.

“Two eggs over easy, rye toast, two buckwheat cakes, country ham, and keep the coffee coming.” Ken handed her the menu and flexed his knuckles.

“I'll have the blueberry pancakes and coffee. Thanks.” Once the woman left, Jake added, “You're mighty brave when Mom's not around.”

“She does keep me on a short dietary leash, but there's something we need to discuss before we're interrupted by more Eager to Please admirers.” Ken tapped the closed program with his finger.

“What's that?” Jake took a gulp of juice.

“You seem to have omitted an important detail when listing the particulars for that coal-black colt.”

He kept his gaze steady. “At the registration table I read from my notes prepared at home.”

“There's no mention about the difficult delivery. You didn't say that the dam died giving birth to that colt.” Ken watched him over his coffee mug.

“Why on earth would I reveal that? You don't write a short story
about every horse for sale. You just list their physical description and give complete details of the bloodline.”

His father set his jaw. “There's a line for other significant information. Buyers have a right to know that the horse might have suffered oxygen depletion until we were able to get him out. That could affect his neurological development and temperament down the road.”

Jake glanced around to make sure they weren't being overheard. “Please, Dad, keep your voice down. No way would any other seller list that fact.”

Ken stared at him. “Then those other sellers would be unethical.”

Jake sighed. “If I would have listed possible oxygen deprivation at birth, the price would drop significantly. We need these yearlings to fetch decent prices this year, especially since I gave in and let Keeley keep the brindle filly.”

“The price they bring should reflect the potential of the horse these people are buying—nothing more and nothing less.” His dad sounded like a mystical sage sitting high in the Himalayas, dispensing wisdom.

Jake's mouth dried out as his irritation grew. “We have no idea if the colt was adversely affected during birth. Some horses and people survive oxygen loss with no lasting effects. The vet thoroughly examined that horse and pronounced him sound.” He leaned across the table. “People would think us foolish to list that detail.”

Ken's face darkened. “Those who would think our integrity foolish must possess none themselves.”

Jake gritted his teeth. They were two bulls squaring off in the pasture. “Rich folks can afford to take that kind of high road.
We
can implement the high road once we put Twelve Elms on the right track.”

“I can't believe I'm hearing you right. This isn't how your mother and I raised you—”

“Here you go, boys. Breakfast is served.” Their friendly waitress set down two steaming plates of food. “More coffee?”

“Yes, ma'am.” Father and son spoke simultaneously.

“Why don't we eat and think this over carefully.” Ken picked up his fork and knife.

Jake stared at his pancakes dripping with melted butter and maple syrup with a waning appetite. His dad had a point. And they were
family
besides business partners. He forced himself to eat half the stack before continuing their discussion. “I know you raised me to have a strong code of morals. And I should be grateful, but in this business how will we survive following the Good Book letter for letter?” He set down his napkin. “We don't have a choice.”

“There's always a choice, son. God's way…or the other.”

For a full minute in the busy hotel restaurant, time stopped like in one of those silly romantic comedies when two people in a crowd reach some impasse.

Ken sipped coffee, wincing from the hot temperature. “I would like you to talk to the director. Tell him some details were inadvertently omitted.”

Jake slouched in his chair. “You realize that since the program has been printed, any additions, deletions, or changes must be announced before the auction starts. Instead of a one-line memo in a program filled with trivia, now they'll broadcast the information over the loudspeaker, giving the detail far more importance than it deserves.”

Ken shrugged with nonchalance. “That's on you, son. But I'll feel better knowing the colt will bring exactly what he's worth. And so should you. Now, let's eat up and get to the sale. I want a good seat.”

And so should you
…

No doubt he should, but at the moment that wasn't the case.

They finished breakfast, checked out of the hotel, and drove to the auction site. Little was said on the way other than comments on the weather or Lexington's heavy traffic.

Bob greeted them with his customary cheeriness. The man always stayed overnight with a cousin, sparing Twelve Elms the expense of his hotel room. “I've given all five sale horses a final brushing. They look good, don't they? There's been talk around the barns about Eager,” he said. “Grooms gossip like old women at a quilting bee.”

“So I've noticed,” said Jake. “Excuse me, Bob. I need to stop at the registration counter before we sit down.”

“Didn't you get the program I left at the front desk for you?”

“Yeah, thanks, but I forgot something about one of the horses. Save me a seat in the arena.” Jake strode off to discourage more questions. Let his dad tell the manager about his bad decision.

Although he possessed little ability for fortune-telling, his prophecy about the black colt had been correct. The horse brought half the selling price he should have. All told, the annual auction disappointed Jake in more ways than one. Every business required a concise plan of action, yet he wasn't remotely on the same page with his father.

During the next few days after the rodeo, Rachel lived the normal life of an Amish woman. She attended church services on Sunday with Isaac and Sarah, arriving and departing in their horse and buggy. On Monday, she and Sarah washed clothes and ironed shirts and dresses. On Tuesday they cleaned house from top to bottom, and then they baked bread and desserts for the rest of the week in addition to their regular farm chores. They got along fairly well because Sarah made few comments and asked only one question regarding Saturday. Her comments amounted to: “I suppose
you're not hungry after all the gourmet food at the fancy shindig,” and “I hope young Mr. Brady isn't getting any big ideas about you.”

Her sole question consisted of: “Where did all of these scented beauty products come from?” Picking up the basket, Sarah turned it left and right to study.

Rachel pulled off the ribbon and cellophane. “I'll unload it in the bathroom linen closet. There's enough to share, so take whatever you like.” She explained the silent auction at the fund-raiser and the bidding process, neglecting to mention the final price paid by Jake. Charity or not, that would have branded him as reckless in Sarah's eyes forevermore.

Her placid life changed abruptly on Wednesday. When she came in from work, Rachel found a letter from home on the kitchen table…opened.

“
Grossmammi
has a few things to say to you,” said Sarah. The delicious smell of chicken soup filled the room as she stirred the pot. “I suspected she would.”

“You've already read my letter?” Surprised, Rachel picked up the two sheets with her grandmother's fine, neat script. Sarah had never invaded her privacy before.

“It was addressed to both of us, so of course I did.” Sarah dropped more vegetables into the soup.

Sure enough, two names were written on the face-up envelope: Mrs. Sarah Stoll and Miss Rachel King. Rachel carried the letter into the living room to read, where a warm fire burned in the potbellied stove. A strange sensation of dread lifted the hairs on her neck as though she'd been caught shirking chores as a child.

Dear Rachel
,

I pray this letter finds you in good health. Your grossdawdi, Beth, and I are well and happy to have the harvest behind us. I will let your schwester fill you in on the Lancaster news
since Beth hears more gossip than me. And because I have a more important bone to pick with you
.

Rachel slumped onto a chair close to the fire. The heat felt good in the cooler-than-average weather.

Your cousin says you wear English clothes at your new job. I don't understand why you don't work for Sarah and Isaac—those who put a roof over your head and food on your plate. Sarah told me their chicken farm keeps growing. Isaac must build another new barn before next spring. And if you must work with horses, can't you find a Mennonite horse farm? Too much time spent with Englischers only leads to too much worldliness. You know what happened to Amy's brother-in-law. His job on the English logging crew led nowhere but to his downfall. Do not wander foolishly from the path of righteousness
.

Come home. We miss you.

Grossmammi

Rachel buried her face in her hands as a wave of sorrow washed over her. She visualized her mother and grandmother rolling out pie dough at the kitchen table. She and her sisters had always been in charge of the fruit fillings. They would eat more blueberries, cherries, or apples than ended up baked in any pie.

But
grossmammi
was wrong to blame
Englischers
for Elam Detweiler's fall from grace. Amy's brother-in-law had been smoking, drinking beer, and sneaking out at night long before he worked on the logging crew. No one knew where Elam had gone after he left Paradise, Missouri. Nora had been his last tie to the Amish lifestyle. When she married Lewis, nothing remained to keep him in town.

Rachel folded the letter and jammed it into her apron pocket. She would wait for a cooler head before writing back. Was she like Elam? Absolutely not. He was rebellious, contrary, and opinionated
besides being fascinated with
Englischers
. She merely wanted to ride Thoroughbreds. That did not put her on the road to ruin.

At least Sarah hadn't told their grandmother she was courting Amish and English alike.
Grossmammi
probably would board the next Greyhound bus headed west. She smiled, picturing the white-haired matriarch marching up Sarah's driveway with her satchel in one hand and shaking her index finger. How she loved that woman. Sarah probably didn't want to panic loved ones back home until Rachel refused to come to her senses, but one of her two Amish beaus had already dropped from the competition. Last Sunday after church, Becky told her that John Swartz had returned home. That left only Reuben Mullet who had shown any real interest in her. And she spent too little time at Plain social events to meet new people.

Lately she preferred walking the forest paths in the evening or staring out her bedroom window while thinking about a tall, blond-haired man with brown eyes and a tender heart. So maybe, deep under her skin, she wasn't that different from Elam Detweiler after all.