A Path Made Plain (3 page)

Chapter 3

3

T
hey crossed the Florida state line Thursday morning in the Pioneer Trails bus. Somewhere in its underbelly was a pair of suitcases crammed with the remainder of Betsy’s belongings and a few items her mother gave her especially for her bakery kitchen. They’d both shed tears when she boarded the bus, and she watched out the window as her parents grew smaller and the distance between them increased.

Leaving Ohio by bus with
Aenti
Chelle had cut an invisible cord between her and life in Ohio. More than once she’d prayed,
Gotte, what have I done?
A cashier’s check was tucked safely in an envelope pinned inside the waist of her dress. The amount made her heart pound and her stomach curl. They’d notified
Aenti
Sarah that Betsy was returning with the family’s blessing. And, their money.

She shifted on her pillow and pulled the small quilt closer to her lap.
Aenti
Chelle sat across the aisle, her head bobbing gently in time with the sway of the bus.

Betsy didn’t know how
Aenti
Chelle did it, sleeping peacefully as they careened along the highway, faster than any horse and buggy could take them. The first time she’d ridden the bus as an adult, she’d fought to conceal her fear as the landscape zipped by faster and faster while the vehicle picked up speed. Why she’d ever enjoyed the trip as a child, she never understood.

The murmurs and chatter grew louder as every mile they covered brought them closer to Sarasota, palm trees, sun, and sand. The peaceful side streets would be filled with bicycles and vacationers in a little more than a month. Betsy allowed herself a smile at the idea.

“. . . gave her thousands of dollars, I heard,” she heard a female voice say.

“You don’t say?” another voice echoed.

“And her not married. It’s not right. But it’s their money, not ours.”

“Whatever is it for?”

“A pie shop.” The woman clicked her tongue.

“But we can make our own pies. I know the
Englisch
buy our pies, but a shop would be out of place in our village. And there are the other restaurants on Bahia Vista.”

“Like I said, it’s not our family’s money being shelled out to a young girl.”

“Indulgence, bad business.” More tongue clicking.

“Well, I might just try one. When I’m on vacation, I sometimes want a break from baking,” a third voice interjected.

Betsy sat up straighter on the cushioned seat, and grasped the armrest. She half-stood. Maybe she could catch a glimpse of the speakers. Or perhaps it wasn’t the best idea. She shouldn’t have expected everyone to approve of her idea of a shop, or the idea of someone her age running one. It sounded as though she did have one potential customer.

Aenti
Sarah, though, was the one stipulation her father and the rest of the family had put on her shop.

“We’re almost there.”
Aenti
Chelle punctuated the statement with a yawn. “Ach, but I was sleepy. I should enjoy the chance to nap. Once we’re back in Sarasota, it’s back to the same routine.”

Betsy nodded. “I expect I’ll have many hours of work ahead.”

“
Aenti
Sarah’s meeting the bus today, so I hear.” Her aunt shifted to the aisle seat.

No one had told her that. “I—I shouldn’t be surprised.”

“Your
daed
,
daadi,
and
oncles
only want you to have some guidance and help when you need it.”

“I wish you could help me. You know how to run a business, after all.”

“True. But baking and desserts aren’t my specialty. You’ll need extra hands to help bake and prep and serve, especially if you get busy.”
Aenti
Chelle paused. “Also, and please don’t take this the wrong way, but you’re . . . young.”

Betsy kept her features even, without letting a grimace appear on her face. “I know I’ll need help. I don’t see what my age has to do with anything. If my desserts are good, then they’re good.”

“Of course they are.”
Aenti
Chelle shifted on the seat and faced Betsy. “But some might want to take advantage of you, assuming because you’re young you’re not smart.
Aenti
Sarah will be a good, ah, buffer.”

“I couldn’t imagine anyone in Pinecraft wanting to take advantage of my youth.”

“It may be. We do look for the best in people, but we’re also to be ‘wise as serpents and harmless as doves.’ ”

Betsy nodded. Then the Sarasota city limits sign blipped past the bus. Despite Betsy’s mixed emotions over the snippets of conversation she’d just heard and her aunt’s words, her heart leapt. Her new home, her new venture. Even with
Aenti
Sarah and feeling everyone would be looking over her shoulder.

Then came the stop-and-go traffic until the bus swung a left onto the most familiar stretch of road for Betsy in Sarasota, Bahia Vista Avenue. A lone three-wheeled bicycle sat padlocked to a bus stop sign. The sight made her smile. Soon enough, the tricycle would be joined by others when the vacation season began.

A few more blocks, and the Tourist Church came into view, with a glimpse of Yoder’s not two blocks away. The bus slowed, and Betsy braced herself with her feet as the bus turned into the parking lot.

Like the other passengers, she craned her neck to see out the window. As was the custom of many in Pinecraft, clusters of people showed up to meet the bus. It didn’t matter if you were expecting anyone to arrive or not, because it was a thrill to see who—and what—would arrive on the massive travel bus.

They glided onto the surface of the parking lot at the rear of the church building. Bearded men in suspenders and dark trousers mingled with women wearing cape dresses and prayer coverings. A few people wore clothing designating they were either
Englisch
, or liberal Mennonites. Some men wore knee-length shorts, and other women wore capris.

Aenti
Sarah stood with three other women, all elderly like her, all in a similar pose. They chattered and gestured as they spoke, stopping for a chuckle. She’d never seen
Aenti
Sarah laugh like that before, ever.

“We’re here!” someone shouted to no one in particular as the bus ground to a stop.

Then came a flurry of gathering bags and bundles. They’d all had plenty of room on the trip, with the bus being not quite half full.

“It feels good to stretch my legs,” Betsy said as she grabbed her tote bag and reached to press her hand on her waist. The envelope crackled, still there, still secure.

Inside of two minutes, they’d left the bus and the welcoming brigade surrounded them. Smiles, greetings, handshakes, and a few swift hugs.

Aenti
Sarah left her group and met Betsy and
Aenti
Chelle beside the bus.

“You’re here, you’re here. And we have so much to do. So much to do.” She tugged on Betsy’s sleeve.

“Yes,
Aenti
Sarah. I want to show you my ideas.”

The older woman aunt waved away Betsy’s words like a swarm of mosquitoes “We’ll see about that. I heard you want to bake some non-Amish recipes, like some Italian and French desserts.”

“Well, yes—”

“We’ll see, we’ll see. I’ve been told to keep an eye on you.”

Betsy didn’t groan. Any protests, verbal or otherwise, wouldn’t work. The driver opened the luggage compartment and began the process of tugging out boxes, rolling suitcases. A large box took up a good part of one of the storage compartments.

“Ah, a casket.”
Aenti
Sarah nodded. “A fresh order from up north.”

Betsy shivered.

“Are you chilled, child? You must be, after being in Ohio. Well, you’re home now. It won’t take long for you to warm up.” Another pluck on Betsy’s sleeve.

“Oh, there’s one of my bags.” Betsy pulled up the handle on the wheeled suitcase. It dawned on her she’d have to drag both of them to
Aenti
Chelle’s house.

“I’ll walk with you both,”
Aenti
Sarah said.

* * *

The office of Dish and Spoon was, for lack of a better term, a mess. And Pete Stucenski hadn’t even touched it yet. He’d spread the news that the restaurant would stay closed indefinitely. Good thing. The last thing he needed was someone sniffing around, wondering why Pete was rummaging through Mitch’s things.

“Mitchie, old pal, if you’d only told me where you put it.” Pete shook his head at the stacks of papers on the desk, boxes in the corner of the room. Something smelled. Dead mouse? He wouldn’t be surprised.

Mitch, the wiseacre, was mocking him from the grave. Too smart for his own good. Pete’s throat tightened at what could happen to his own hide if he didn’t find what Mitch hid. Lives were at stake. Shoot, an election was at stake.

The police had noted a few missing video surveillance files over the last six months. Server error, Pete and Mitch had told them. Mitch had made some of those “disappear” until an opportune time.

But Mitch had to get greedy, had to open his mouth to the wrong person at the wrong time, and nothing Pete could say would save his friend. As soon as Pete had heard the news about Mitch, he knew Mitch had forced their boss—and future senator’s—hand.

Pete sank onto the office chair and it groaned. “Yep, me too.”

He pulled out the top drawer of the desk. It might as well have been someone’s junk drawer, with all the doodads inside. Rubber bands, sticks of gum, staples, pens, pencils, packets of sugar and sweetener—no wonder the place reeked of mice. What would he be looking for? A DVD, a digital memory card, USB drive—what had Mitch done with the video feed from those key nights? Pete had already made one of the files disappear—the night Mitch was gunned down.

His phone bleeped. The boss, Channing Bright.

“Well? Did you find it?”

“I just sat down. As in, just five seconds ago.”

“I don’t have time for this. Go through the office. Then start talking to employees.”

“No problem.”

“Of course, it’s not a problem.”

Pete pushed away a few drops of sweat beaded on his forehead. “I’ll let you know what I find.”

“Be quick about it. Time’s ticking away. Mitch either stashed it or gave it to someone else for safekeeping. Did the police mention anything about it?”

“They asked about the missing days of security videos. But I think Mitch made some other files disappear, too.”

“Just find the files.”

“I won’t let you down.”

“Of course you won’t. No one is going to be able to tie anything about this back to me.” Channing Bright was used to getting his way from childhood to one of Ohio’s top businesses. Now he was poised to win the biggest game of his life—a United States Senate seat.

Pete debated about sneaking to the kitchen and brewing a cup of coffee. It didn’t seem right, even though the police had released the restaurant after clearing the crime scene. But if Mitch were around, he wouldn’t care if Pete, his old pal, made himself a fresh cup of joe.

In a twisted way, Pete was doing Mitch a favor, ferreting out this secret. No one else needed to die because of Mitch’s folly. Especially not Pete. Channing Bright had better remember the little people, after all Mitch and Pete had done to help him.

Chapter 4

4

T
had slowed his motorcycle down and let the vehicle glide onto Kaufman Avenue, off the bustling Bahia Vista. One sign made him pause, and it wasn’t the sign for Yoder’s Restaurant and Gift Shop, nor the sign for Big Olaf’s Ice Cream.

Village Pizzas by Emma? Pizza. In Pinecraft? Maybe there was hope for a prodigal baker yet. The idea almost tugged a grin from his lips. Almost.

He yawned. After his night on the road, then sleeping on the lumpy mattress in a cheap motel off the interstate, he hoped his
mammmi
would welcome him. He hadn’t written, hadn’t called. Of course, she had no phone. But Thad knew where her home was. As soon as he’d entered the neighborhood, it all came back to him. Pinecraft had changed a little from what he remembered in childhood.

Pizza. The thought made his stomach grumble.

Arriving at
Mammi’s
would wait for a few minutes. He parked in an empty parking space and noted the pizza shop was open for business now. The late morning sun felt good on his skin. He’d shed his jacket in the morning, and it was strapped to his duffel bag on the rear of his bike.

Thad entered the tiny shop behind Big Olaf’s. The chilled air made the hair on his arms rise up, and he rubbed it back down.

The young lady—probably Mennonite, he judged by her hair and clothing—stared at the tattoo on his arm, then snapped her gaze to his face.

He smiled at her. “One slice of pizza, pepperoni. And a bottle of pop from the case.”

“Right away.”

Thad stepped over to the glass-doored cooler holding the pop. While the young lady dished up his pizza, a pair of older women entered, chattering about the bus that just arrived. They stopped short when the saw him, then continued past him to the counter.

Thad gave them a nod as he stepped up to pay for his pizza. “I can just grab the pop on the way out?”

“Right. Help yourself,” the young lady replied with a smile.

He grabbed a Mountain Dew for a caffeine jolt. He’d have plenty of time to sleep. If
Mammi
let him in.

Once outside, he settled down at a table on the deck and munched on his pizza. He didn’t need to gulp down the whole slice in four bites, but did anyway. The motel had promised a hot breakfast, but it included frozen waffles resembling warmed-up plastic.

Amish and Mennonites selling pizza. He shook his head over the idea, even as his taste buds soaked up the flavor of the cheese.

The two older women left the shop. One carried a pizza box, the other two small bottles of pop and a stack of plastic-wrapped sandwiches. The sight made him smile.

He took a swig of his Mountain Dew, then replaced the cap on the bottle. Time to see
Mammi
. He revved up the cycle, then passed the ladies who strolled along the street. The neighborhood was relatively deserted, which suited him fine for now.

One block over from Pinecraft Park, he turned onto Good Avenue and headed for
Mammi’s
house. A neat little flower garden gave the simple white cottage some color. A minivan sat in the driveway, with five three-wheeled bicycles clustered around it.

So, she had company.

So, he couldn’t arrive quietly.

He parked his bike in the sliver of remaining parking space, then unfastened his jacket and duffel bag from the rear of the bike. Then he slung the bag over one shoulder and stepped up to the storm door. He could see inside through its large glass pane.

A quilting frame filled the living room, and no fewer than six figures were huddled around it. One of them sat up straight and looked in his direction, then rose from her seat. She wore a cape dress of deep sapphire blue, covered by a navy blue apron. She stopped at the door and spoke through the glass.

“Thaddeus. Thaddeus Zook?”

“Yes, yes
Mammi.
It’s me.”

“Well, come in, come in.” She opened the door and tugged him inside, probably to get the sight of him off her front step before someone happened by and saw him standing there.

Five pairs of eyes regarded him from around the quilt frame. But his attention was focused on his
mammi
. When had she grown so . . . old? Wrinkles lined her face. The fingers smoothing her apron had age spots. But her eyes were warm. Inside them, he saw a bit of the hurt he’d inflicted on his family by leaving the Order.

“
Danke
,” he replied to her, taking care to wipe his boots on the mat just inside the door. Funny, how the language he knew and had left behind him came so readily to his lips. He let the duffel slide to the floor beside a pair of clogs.

“We’re quilting today,”
Mammi
said, gesturing to the work-in-progress filling most of the small front room, along with the frame, chairs, and five other women.

“I see.”

No, she wasn’t about to say much in front of her friends. No questions, no sermons. None of it yet.

“Would you like some orange juice, fresh squeezed this morning?”

“Yes, please.”

“Come, come.” She waved him along toward the kitchen, where she fetched a clean glass from the cupboard. “The juice is in the refrigerator, so help yourself.”

“Thank you,” he said, reaching for the glass with one hand and stifling a yawn with the other.

“You’re tired.”
Mammi
paused in the kitchen doorway separating it from the dining table.

“It’s been a long ride.”

She continued their conversation in
Dietsch
. “Well, drink your juice. You can nap in your old room. Do you remember where it is?”

“Yes,
Mammi
.” He was six years old again, with newly chopped hair just above his ears, his feet dangling a few inches from the floor when he sat at her table.

“
Gut, gut
. Will you stay for a while?”

He nodded.

“
Gut
.” She headed back into the front room.

He tried not to guzzle the juice, but at first taste he remembered the freshness of real juice, straight from the orange. He emptied the glass, then set it inside the gleaming sink. A coffee pot gurgled on the counter, and the sound of laughter echoed from the other room.

Thad yawned again and left the kitchen, his boots taking him to the other side of the house where three bedrooms and the bathroom made a square, with the master bedroom getting the larger chunk of the area. Last door on the right, and he entered the room he used to pile into every winter with his brothers and sometimes a cousin or two.

The bed looked smaller. Or maybe
Mammi
had downsized to a twin bed for this room. A simple chest of drawers stood against a wall. A lamp rested on a nightstand to match the chest. A calendar, two years old, hung on the wall. The irony made him smirk. Yes, the place might as well be stuck in time. But time didn’t matter if you were Amish. Which he wasn’t, anymore.

He sank onto the quilt, then tugged off his boots. He stretched his aching feet and caught the pungent aroma from his socks. Yep, he’d been on the road all right. As he stretched out onto the quilt without pulling it back, he thought of his duffel bag and jacket in a heap near the front door. He’d pick them up, in just a few minutes.

Nice, soft pillows. A quiet place to close his eyes.

Someone cackled in the front room.

Well, mostly quiet.

* * *

All Betsy wanted to do was curl up in bed, pull her favorite quilt over her head, and get a few hours’ sleep. She found herself in Yoder’s Restaurant, tucked next to
Aenti
Chelle in a booth, with
Aenti
Sarah across the table from them.

The restaurant, a fixture in Pinecraft since the 1970s, also had a gift shop nearby, which Betsy had walked through once and left before she succumbed to a sudden urge to purchase a beautiful pin. In the building on the other side of the restaurant stood a fresh market stocked with Florida produce and a shop selling various Amish items and baked goods.

With their suitcases and other luggage now back at
Aenti
Chelle’s, they studied the menu. Rather, Betsy and
Aenti
Chelle studied the menu while
Aenti
Sarah studied Betsy’s folder marked “Pinecraft Pies and Pastries.”

“After we eat, I want to stop by the market to get some fruit, vegetables, and bread,” said
Aenti
Chelle. “I’m sure my fridge is barren.”

Betsy nodded. “I’m so tired.”

“When I was younger, we had more stamina.”
Aenti
Sarah shook her head.

Betsy ignored the remark. Thankfully,
Aenti
Chelle had driven them to the restaurant in her van.

Would it be wrong of her to order pie from the competition? The peanut butter pie was her favorite and more than once she wished she could put something like it on her menu. But she wasn’t planning to copy Yoder’s.

She didn’t think of her business as competition. She wasn’t sure if the other food service businesses nearby would think so either. Her mouth watered, and she yawned. Her two weeks away might as well have been two months.

“You have a shopping list of display cases, a cash register, a triple oven—electric?”
Aenti
Sarah shook her head. “If only we could bring in a good wood-burning stove to bake with. Using electric or gas isn’t the same.”

Aenti
Chelle chuckled. “Imagine, a wood-burning stove, in Florida.”

Betsy glanced from her Mennonite aunt to her elderly Old Order aunt. “I certainly never have.”

“This is why I wanted to be part of your shop,” said
Aenti
Sarah. “We need to do things the right way.”

The waitress came and took their orders, but only after
Aenti
Sarah had changed her mind three times, finally settling on the chicken pot pie.

“You’ll see the list I made,
Aenti
Sarah. Besides the equipment list, I mean.” Betsy pointed at set of photos of the building, taken by Imogene Brubaker. “I need to get the inside painted, the electricity turned on . . .”

At the mention of the word
electricity
,
Aenti
Sarah rotated her head from side to side. “First, it’s electricity. Next, you’ll be bringing a television set in so customers can watch shows while they eat their desserts.”

“Of course not.” They’d only been discussing the plans for a few moments, and already Betsy wanted to scream.
Aenti
Sarah had electricity in her own snug little rental in the village. But
Aenti
Sarah was her elder. She could probably teach her a few things about making many pies at a time. Her hands would be a big help, too.

However, if at every turn,
Aenti
Sarah kept throwing out comments, Betsy wasn’t sure what she’d do. She didn’t want her reporting back to her
daed
,
daadi
, and
oncles
about her attitude, or being careless with money, or worse, losing her Plain ways.

Pinecraft was definitely a lot more relaxed than back home in Ohio. She thought of the saying, “What happens in Pinecraft, stays in Pinecraft.”

Aenti
Chelle smiled. “I have confidence in you, Betsy. There might be obstacles to overcome while you prepare the store, but God willing, all will come out right.”

Ach
, there was the rub.
Gotte
willing.

She’d thought it
Gotte’s wille
she and Jacob would be together. Immediately, she chided herself for the wayward thought, even as she nodded at her
aenti
’s encouragement. No more thoughts of Jacob Miller. Gideon Stoltzfus had approached her once while home in Ohio, but she wasn’t interested in the least. Surely,
Gotte
had someone more suitable for both of them.

Anyway, who would go walking with a young man who told her the reason he wanted to escort her home was because of her good apple pie? His ample frame told her how much he like pie. She frowned at her glass of iced tea. Her parents, especially her mother, would have likely preferred she see what happened with Gideon, as it might bring her home to them. She’d been taught her parents knew what was best for her, what
Gotte
wanted for her.

Yes, she wanted to do
Gotte’s wille
and please Him, but sometimes she wasn’t sure her elders knew best. But as far as the shop was concerned she’d do her best to bend to what they wanted. Everything except for a wood-burning stove, which even
Aenti
Sarah ought to know was impractical and silly in Pinecraft.

“Thirty days,” she said aloud.

“What?” asked
Aenti
Sarah, as their waitress and another server delivered their hot meals to the table.

“I want to open in thirty days. After I sign the lease at the real estate office tomorrow morning, Mr. Hostetler is meeting me at the store to go over plans.”

“Henry Hostetler is an excellent contractor, even for a Mennonite.”
Aenti
Chelle took a bite of her pot roast. “I know he’s excited about the idea of your shop.”

“
Gut
. I will call him when we get home later, to make sure he remembers he’s meeting me.”

More head shaking from
Aenti
Sarah. “Telephones. Personal private telephones.”

Betsy opened her mouth, but
Aenti
Chelle beat her to the response. “It’s a business tool, Sarah. People can reach him anytime and leave a message about work.”

“A little leaven, leaveneth the whole lump.”
Aenti
Sarah bowed her head to pray silently over her meal, so Betsy continued to hold her peace and did the same.

Please, Gotte, bless this meal, and bless my shop, if it be Your will. And, help me deal with
Aenti
Sarah.

Thankfully, Sarah seemed to forget about the folder on the table and ate her chicken pot pie, talking about upcoming plans to work with her friends to put in more quilts to sell at auction in January, along with the state of a yard in a nearby mobile home park. She asked if Betsy had noticed the advertisement for herbal energy pills in the latest issue of
The Budget
.