A Path Made Plain (8 page)

He started on the contents of his “haystack” piled on his plate. Layer after delicious layer danced on his taste buds. The food might have been prepared in humble kitchens throughout the village, but the flavors rang true and the quality of food, while simple, rivaled a gourmet. Love, the best ingredient of all, permeated each bite.

Some might call it silly, but Thad knew the passion he carried for food was shared by many present today. How else could people from such varied backgrounds come together here in one place? As a child, when visiting Pinecraft he’d taken the relative harmony for granted. Now as an adult, after seeing the ugly parts of his
Ordnun
g, he’d kept his distance with good reason.

Here, though, in Florida with hundreds of miles between him and Ohio, he reminded himself that Pinecraft’s standards were different. People did things here they’d never imagine doing back home.

Thad saw the blonde Amish woman, Miss Yoder, step away from the dessert table, then go through the line with the other servers to make their owns stacks of what remained. She nodded and said something to a familiar-looking woman—Rochelle Keim—the same woman who’d let him use her computer the other day.

Rochelle slipped her arm around Miss Yoder in a slight hug. Miss Yoder’s expression held admiration for Rochelle Keim. No, not sisters. Cousins, maybe? Although Rochelle Keim was closer to his mother’s age than Miss Yoder’s youth.

“What’s caught your attention, Thaddeus?”
Mammi
asked, a lull in conversation making her voice ring out across the tables.

“Oh, I saw Mrs. Keim, the woman who let me use her computer.”

“Miss Keim, she is.” Another woman at the table said. “Never been married. She’s one of the old maids of Pinecraft.”

“Ah, I see.” He took another bite of his food.

“Her great-niece is following right behind her, from the looks of things,” someone else said. “She turned her nose up at Gideon Stoltzfus, but then Jacob Miller married another.”

It sounded like a reality TV show Stacie liked to watch. So, he took it Miss Yoder was the niece.

Nah, her marital state didn’t matter to him.

But he did like teasing her about ganache.

* * *

“Stop hedging me, Thomas.” Pete Stucenski had the young pastry chef right where he wanted him: sweating, and literally in the corner. The young man across from him in the booth almost shuddered.
Good
. “I promise, I’ll make a few phone calls and you’ll find it hard to get work. Maybe as a busboy, or maybe a waiter. But kiss the culinary scene good-bye.”

Thomas, twenty-one years old if he was a day, cracked his knuckles. “Look, I want to keep my job. I told you. Thad told me once he used to be Amish. Used to live in the something-burg area. Wait. Millersburg. I started laughing because we were drinking Miller Lite and the name Miller is Amish. He didn’t think it was too funny.”

“Good. See, I’m trying to get the staff back together, and I realize people have to live, to make money. Dish and Spoon hit a rough spot financially, especially after what happened to Mitch.”

The young man’s posture relaxed, almost wilting. “Yeah, money comes in handy. I’m interested, if you need me back.”

“Out of curiosity, did you see anything out of the ordinary at the restaurant? I know the police talked to you, but you know they still haven’t found who killed Mitch.” Pete took a sip of his Merlot.

“No, not really. People came and went all the time, having meetings and stuff. But you did, too. I was too busy carving up dough most of the time. Some of us gotta help make the money around here.” Thomas grinned at him with the cheeky confidence of youth.

“That’s the spirit, son. If your number’s the same, I’ll give you a heads-up on a reopening date. We’re going to have a media event, invite all the local bigwigs. The future Senator Bright is talking about making it his election night headquarters, if we open in time.”

“Wow, we’ll have to open soon.”

“Right. We’re talking with his PR reps now. So keep your phone handy. We’re going to need a good cake from a good head pastry chef.” Pete slapped a ten-dollar bill on the table. “See you around.”

He left Thomas grinning in the booth. Millersburg, Ohio, huh? Time for a road trip. It would be easy enough to take a day trip with his girlfriend to see some quilts and cheese and furniture. And, hunt down the elusive Thaddeus Zook.

Chapter 9

9

B
etsy hoped the Applebaum’s elixir gel tabs would start to work soon. Nine days after taking them twice a day as instructed, and she still had to drag herself out of bed. Worse, more strands of hair fell out in the shower this morning.

Her hair now dry, she pinned it up and set a fresh head covering over the twisted bun. She used a few extra hairpins, to keep any stray hairs from flying away and to secure the
kapp
.

If not for her tiredness and the hair issue, she almost wanted to skip out to her bicycle. The Pinecraft Pies and Pastry building looked more like a shop every day, with the plumbing updated and the electrical work inspected and passed. Today, Henry and his small crew would lay tile for the kitchen floor. The older, what some called “vintage,” linoleum would be too slick for the kitchen, but would give a charm to the front of the store.

Aenti
Sarah, true to form, would meet her there to help “supervise.” Likely, she’d bring a basket of sandwiches and fixings for the workers’ lunch.

Winston sat by the front door, his head hung low. She guessed he was pouting because she’d been leaving him home whenever she went to check on progress at the store. After his visit to the vet, he’d been found free of any microchip.

“All right, come on.” She scooped him up. “Just don’t jump out of the basket.” She went to the garage where her bike sat until she needed it. Soon they were off, cycling toward the shop and squinting from the Florida sunshine.

Word had started to get around about the bakery, with a few interested individuals stopping by to see progress. Betsy didn’t want anyone to see the inside until everything looked fresh and new, and the scent of baking pie hung in the air.

Ganache . . .
Aenti
Chelle had even helped her look up a recipe. The idea of the concoction made her mouth water. The memory of the exchange with the mysterious stranger made her heart beat just a little faster.

Warning signs screamed at her. He wasn’t Amish. Even if he used to be, it didn’t count. Clearly, he knew something about baking, making him extremely interesting. What man liked to bake? And clearly the man had nothing else in common with her. He’d covered one entire arm in a tattoo. The others didn’t seem to stare much at him during the haystack supper. The year-round residents saw enough of the
Englisch
every day.

But for an Amish man to leave, and do such things to himself? Yes, people left, all the time. People were shunned, and the degree and manner of shunning depended on their district and family. Even
Aenti
Chelle had been shunned, to a point, by the family, and her parents had been the ones to leave.

They ate together, but at separate tables—although those tables were put together to form one long eating space. A technicality, but still shunning. Sometimes the idea seemed silly to Betsy. How could someone exclude a person as loving and Christlike as
Aenti
Chelle?

There was a family story behind it all that no one would tell her.

She pondered the man in black and
Aenti
Chelle all the way to the shop. Part of her wanted to ask and discover the man’s identity. And there was something about his eyes, a loneliness there, a restlessness.

She understood both feelings. Both had brought her here.

Winston barked as they pulled up to the shop. She couldn’t wait to see the sign, which would be ready to install in one more week. With renovations drawing to a close, Betsy knew she needed to prepare a shopping list for the menu, another area where
Aenti
Sarah’s expertise would come in handy.

She would call her father at the phone shanty tonight, and let him know about the shop, and how helpful
Aenti
Sarah had been.

“Good morning,” Betsy called out as she freed Winston from the basket’s confines. She stepped partway into the shop.

“Morning, Betsy.” Henry stood at his worktable, covered with boxes of tile. Today, he wore a pair of dark trousers, stained by paint and held up with suspenders, topped by a faded tropical print shirt. “Thaddeus and I are about ready to start tearing up the kitchen floor. He’s getting the rest of the tile from the van.”

“These are the last two boxes.” The man in black stood behind her in the doorway. His strong arms held two boxes of ceramic tile.

“Oh, excuse me.” She stepped out of his way.
So his name is Thaddeus
.

He entered the shop and placed the boxes on the worktable. “Just tell me what to do, Henry.”

“You know I will.” The older man picked up a tool resembling a garden hoe. “Grab the other one, and we’ll see about getting this floor covering peeled up, then see what we’ve got underneath.”

Thaddeus flicked a curious glance in Betsy’s direction. “So, Miss Yoder, have you worked on a ganache filling?”

Henry darted a look between them. “Oh, so you’ve met. I should have introduced you.”

“We’ve not exactly met,” Betsy hurriedly explained. She studied the box of tiles. He’d told her he’d pick up something with texture, that wouldn’t grow slick with spills yet be easy to clean.

Winston skittered over in Thaddeus’s direction. The man sank down onto one knee. “Hey there, little guy.”

Winston licked his hands, then did his submissive flop onto his back for a belly rub. Betsy tried not to roll her eyes.

“This is Thaddeus Zook, from Ohio. He’s here in the village with his
Mammi
for a bit. I picked him up for some work in the meantime. I’ve got several projects going, as you know, so I have workers at each one.”

Betsy nodded. “I’m Betsy Yoder, and this is my bakery.”

Thaddeus nodded in return. “I knew the Yoder part, and Henry told me all about your shop. I think it’s a good idea. If the rest of your baking is like those cupcakes, you’ll have people lining up at the door on the first day.”

Her cheeks flamed and she looked away. “I’m thankful you’re here. I mean, here to help. Once the floors go in and the painting’s done, I can get appliances ordered.”

“I’m a pastry chef by trade. So if you need any tips, just ask.”

“Thank you.” A male pastry chef? Maybe it wasn’t strange in the
Englisch
world, but she could see how the oddity might be perceived in Ohio. Some men knew how to cook a few dishes, even do simple sewing repairs or darning, but generally anything home-related the women saw to.

Likely his district—hers, too—might not smile upon such a twist of occupation. Or maybe it was his family’s disapproval? She’d had a few friends who left the Order or at the least had never been baptized into the church, all because they wanted to further their education in something besides basic medicine.

Henry interrupted her musings as she let herself stare at Thaddeus, who picked up the tool. “It’ll take us a few days to get the kitchen finished. Rather than tile over the old linoleum, I thought we’d try pulling it up and checking the sub-floor, just in case there’s any hidden water damage. Will save us headaches later.”

“Thank you. It’s a good idea. Please, let me know if you need anything.
Aenti
Sarah said she’d bring some sandwiches for lunch.” She snapped her fingers. “Winston, come. Let the men work. You’re too small to help and you don’t have thumbs.”

“He can be moral support.” Thaddeus grinned at her.

Neither Jacob Miller nor even Gideon Stoltzfus had ever grinned at her like that.

* * *

Rochelle Keim sat at her computer, grateful for an afternoon of quiet. No client appointments, yet she spent her time online, editing her business web page. She knew the dangers of the Internet, and kept herself accountable. Accountability meant safety, protection, for her and those she loved.

Yet she decided to read the story again about her former best friend from childhood, Belinda Fry, who’d been the one to marry Silas. Part of her mourned not just Belinda’s passing, but for the friendship lost many years before.

She picked up a recent copy of
The Budget
newspaper, the national edition. Jolene had dropped off the issue and tucked it into the screen door while Rochelle had been out seeing to clients.

Rochelle opened the newspaper and paged to the section for her home district. Or former district.

Mrs. Silas Fry, age thirty-eight, succumbed to injuries received in a van rollover accident outside Millersburg. Mrs. Fry was returning home from a trip to visit cousins in Sugarcreek when the rented van she traveled in was struck by an eighteen-wheeler on the highway. Her husband of eighteen years and two children mourn her loss but are thankful for the support shown them by the community.

Two children? Silas had two children. Those poor young ones must be devastated.

Married eighteen years. Had it been so long? Were Rochelle to look in the mirror, she’d see the confirmation in her eyes. A lifetime.

Betsy had been not quite a toddler when things fell apart for Rochelle, and she’d consoled herself by spoiling her eldest sister’s first great-niece via marriage, the granddaughter of her husband’s Amish brother, whenever her brother-in-law’s extended family visited Pinecraft. They’d maintained a special friendship over the years as Betsy grew, in spite of the wide branches of the grafted family tree.

When Betsy had come to live with her last winter, Rochelle wanted to warn her young great-niece with everything inside her being not to pin her hopes on Jacob Miller. She’d seen the signs herself as the relationship between Jacob and Natalie had grown from a small seed, then blossomed.

In fact, during her conversation with Jolene the other day at church, she’d mentioned the newlyweds were due back in Sarasota any day. The children from Jacob’s first marriage, Rebecca and Ezekiel, had already returned and were staying with Jacob’s
mammi
and were already back into their school routine.

Meanwhile, Rochelle knew Betsy’s heart still bore a healing wound, not inflicted merely by Jacob’s marriage to Natalie, but by her own dream of what couldn’t be.

Nobody else heard the soft sobs from under Betsy’s door in the evenings all those months ago, when she realized Jacob was lost to her forever. Afterward, Betsy had squared her shoulders and dove headfirst into planning her bakery.

Rochelle understood because the same pain had chased her away from Ohio and caused her to set roots in Pinecraft. She touched the newspaper, the black-and-white evidence of grief. Although she’d left Ohio not long after Silas made his choice, she hadn’t left her faith and she still considered herself Plain.

She closed the newspaper, bowed her head, and said a prayer for Silas, for Betsy, and for herself.
Please, Gotte, a new beginning for all of us.

* * *

Thad reminded himself that his work for Henry Hostetler was temporary, only until he knew what to do next. He mopped his damp brow with a clean rag Henry lent him. He’d been tempted to apply at one of the restaurants near Siesta Key Beach, but thought better of it. The feeling of needing to look over his shoulder was fading the longer he remained in Florida, but still . . . The culinary world was wide and vast, and although his work could speak for itself, a reference check would alert some people to his location.

He’d called Pete Stucenski back last night and the call went to voice mail. He left his own message: He’d received Pete’s message, had considered the possibility of returning to Dish and Spoon, but he wasn’t interested at this time. He hoped the message would satisfy Pete’s curiosity, if Mitch’s business partner were truly interested in reopening the restaurant.

“You about ready to call it quits for the day?” Henry leaned on the scraping tool as they stood in the middle of the future kitchen, its sub-floor now revealed.

“I think so.” No, he would have been useless on the farm or in the cabinet shop, or swinging a hammer as a contractor. “Good thing you decided to rip up the linoleum. Looks like there was a leak around the sink at one time.”

“Right. We can get the rotten wood pulled up first thing in the morning, then get the barrier laid down, and the tile put in place.”

“All in one day?” Thad couldn’t believe it.

“All in one day. Call me a little ambitious.”

“Okay, a little ambitious.” Thad grinned at Henry. Who didn’t like the amiable Mennonite with his tropical shirt and suspenders? Thad had never met anyone like him. He’d have remembered meeting the man years ago. At least he thought he would.

Henry tilted his head back and let loose with a laugh. “C’mon. Let’s get the rest of this cracked excuse of a linoleum floor into the dumpster and shut down for the night.”

Thad helped lug the rest of the broken-up flooring to the Dumpster now parked in the driveway. A trio of Old Order men stood by the edge of the lawn, chatting and watching the activity. One of them waved Thaddeus over in their direction.

He hesitated, then headed toward them. “Hello.”

“Hello, young man,” said the one with the longest beard. “I understand this is to be a bakery?”

“Yes, sir, it is.” Thad glanced over his shoulder. “I heard it might open around November tenth.”

“Ah, good, very good,” said the shortest man. He rubbed his chin. “It’ll be nice to have another place to visit when we want conversation, a good cup of coffee, and dessert.”

“I’m sure Miss Yoder will appreciate it.” Thad nodded. “I’ll let her know, when I see her.”

“Young man.” Long-beard addressed him again. “Are you familiar with the Anabaptist faith?”

“Uh, why, yes I am.”
All too familiar.

“It’s never too late to return to your roots. God always accepts a repentant one back into the fold.”

“So I’ve heard.” The men were kind and well-intentioned, but right now Thad’s body cried out for a shower, a couple pain relievers, and some quiet. Not a theology discussion. And how did they know he used to be Amish, anyway? He could be just some Joe off the street.

“I once had many questions, and I found answers,” said the shortest man. “I traveled the world far and wide, and I could find no peace for my soul, until I found rest in the Lord, in hard work much like you’re doing, and the refuge of community.”