Almost Amish (12 page)

Gary shrugged. “Sure, if that’s okay with everyone else.”

Whitney and Angie were quick with their agreement, and Julie followed with, “Even without my son’s need for male companionship, I think it would be nice if you sat with us.”

Susan was the last to respond, and Julie began to wonder if she was going to protest. Finally she said, “If you’re okay with it.”

“Well, I guess that’s settled, then.” He exited the car and came around to the passenger side, but Julie and Susan had already climbed out by the time he arrived.

As they walked across the parking lot, Whitney said, “Why didn’t the rest of the crew come with us?”

“It was the original intention to bring cameras here, or so I’m told. Since a big part of the Amish culture centers around church, it would make sense. However, it seems that none of the pastors whom the show contacted were willing to allow cameras inside their churches.”

“Really?” Brian asked. “Seems to me like it would make for good free publicity.”

Gary nodded. “That’s logical. But Hollywood’s never been friendly to the church, and I’ll bet there was a fear that reality TV might edit things in a . . . less than positive manner.”

“I just wish we could wear our own clothes.” Angie’s voice was so quiet, it was difficult to hear. “It’s bad enough walking into a room full of people we don’t even know, without having to look like we’re on our way to a costume party.”

“Or a hundred years out of style,” Whitney said as she pulled at the green muslin of her skirt.

“I hadn’t even thought of it like that.” Angie’s voice was gaining in volume now. “Maybe they’ll think we’re clueless. No one’s going to want to even come near us.”

Gary smiled. “I wouldn’t worry about that overmuch if I were you. In a town this small, everyone knows that the Lisa Lee show is out there filming in the countryside, and while they may not know the specifics, there are a few things they will know.” He held up his index finger. “One, they’ll know it has something to do with country living—in fact, they may even know it’ll be something Amish-related.” He held up the next finger. “Two, I’m sure everyone in this parking lot recognizes this Suburban as one of the blacked-out cars that the show is using. And three”—he held up his ring finger—“they’ll all know that you are involved in the show, because there aren’t many towns large enough that the teenage male population wouldn’t know it if you two lived here. They’ll put all those points together and realize who you are; then they’ll figure out the wardrobe. I’d be surprised if it takes more than two or three seconds. So they’re not going to think you’re strange. I bet folks won’t leave you alone.”

“I don’t know.” Angie’s voice was back to its lower volume, but something about the way she folded her arms told Julie she was far from convinced.

A set of three steps led up to the entrance, which consisted of three sets of double doors with stained glass windows. The middle set was propped open, and Julie could see people milling around in the vestibule. The brightness of the sun kept them as shadows, but soon enough she could tell heads were turning. Perhaps Gary was right, perhaps everyone did already know that the “show people” were in their midst.

“Welcome.” A middle-aged man in a light gray suit handed Julie a bulletin as they entered. “We’re glad to have you folks visiting with us today.”

“Thank you.” Julie kept walking so the rest of the group could follow her into the noticeably cooler inside. She could hear the sounds of each of them speaking to the greeter.

The auditorium was fan-shaped. The walls behind the pulpit were of brown brick, with dark wood trim. Only the baptistry in the back of the choir loft varied in shade. It was a crisp white paint with a large wooden cross hanging on the wall.
Quite lovely.

Slowly, her attention receded from the building itself, replaced by an uneasy awareness of what was happening
in
the building. People whispered to each other, a quick head turn toward the back—toward Julie’s family—then the head snapped forward. Yes, the word had definitely gotten around this small town about them. She just hoped the reception would be friendly.

“Mom, everybody’s staring at us,” Whitney whispered.

“It’s okay, they’re just curious. Just smile and hang tough. In the end, we’ll all laugh about this moment.”

“Somehow, I kind of doubt that.”

The service started with a couple of announcements, and they sang a hymn Julie didn’t recognize. Then the pastor stood up and said, “Okay, everyone turn to your neighbor and tell them what your plans are for the summer. And if you see someone you don’t recognize, go introduce yourself.”

“Oh no.” Whitney sort of sighed the words.

“Hello there, I’m Debra.” A smiling woman extended her hand to Julie. “You must be that family that is filming for the Lisa Lee show.”

Julie nodded. “Yes, that’s us.”

“Sounds like a lot of fun. It’s awfully good to have y’all with us. I hope you’ll come back.”

“Thank you.”

By the time Debra introduced Julie to a couple more women, Julie turned to see the kids surrounded by a group of teenagers. They were talking and laughing—in a nervous, teenager sort of way, but friendly nonetheless. When they sat back down, Whitney leaned over. “What would you think about us coming to youth group on Wednesday night?”

And just that easily the kids had made acquaintances and were ready to move forward. At least, that’s what Julie hoped.

Susan scrubbed away the last of the stickiness from this morning’s breakfast of eggs, bacon, and homemade biscuits. “I’m going to gain fifty pounds by the end of this summer,” she said, mostly to herself, even though she knew Julie was somewhere in the room behind her.

“It is tasty, though, isn’t it?”

“Tasty fat. Yummy cholesterol. Delicious gluten.”

“Think about it, though. Kendra was right. You’ve never heard of an Amish person on a diet. At least, I never have. Come to think of it, I haven’t heard about them doing much of anything other than farming and having romances in novels. But”—she paused for a moment, wiping at an already dry plate—“we’ve all been up for several hours. We milked our one cow . . . well, Whitney did, anyway . . . and fed a bunch of animals. I’m saying we probably got as much exercise as we would have if we’d gone to the gym. We’re going to start on the vegetable garden today. Even more exercise. See, it’ll all work out. Besides, you’re always talking about the evils of overly processed foods. Well, we’re eating eggs from the chicken coop outside, and biscuits from scratch.”

Sometimes Julie just didn’t get it. This was going to be one of those times. “We’ve got to start being more deliberate about what we’re cooking.”

Julie put the plate away, but as she turned, Susan was pretty certain she saw her roll her eyes. Honestly. How could she not care that she was feeding her kids this kind of unhealthy fare? Did she envision Susan publishing a cookbook filled with recipes full of lard and grease?

“Mom, someone’s knocking at the door.” Brian’s call came from the living room.

“Well, open it and see who’s there.” Julie started out of the kitchen, laying her dish towel in a heap on the counter.

Susan reached over, picked it up, and folded it neatly before placing it squarely on its hanger. She turned and surveyed the kitchen, making certain that it was acceptably tidy before walking out into the living room. She turned the corner just in time to hear Julie saying, “Oh, please, let me help you with those. Come on inside. It’s so nice to meet you.” Julie backed into the room, carrying a large canvas bag.

A tiny woman followed behind. She must have been several inches short of five feet, had white-gray hair and large tortoise-shell glasses that covered about half of her face. She wore light-colored denim pants, white Reebok tennis shoes, and a blue chambray shirt. She was followed by a film crew, one of whom already had his camera rolling.

The kids were all standing around, more or less gawking, when the woman said, “Hello, children. Can you tell me your names and ages, please?”

As the kids went down the row stating their names and ages, it somehow gave Susan a flashback of
The
Sound of Music
when
Fraulein
Maria first met the Von Trapp children. Except, this family was in no mansion, and this woman was no nanny. But then again, what was she? Susan walked forward.

“I’m Susan Reynolds.”

The woman nodded. “Name’s Rosemary. Rosemary Foil. You can call me Rose, or Rosemary, not Mrs. Foil and most certainly not Rosie. I’m here to teach you all a bit about quilting.”

“Quilting?” Brian’s tone was blatantly rude.

“Well, certainly not you, young man. Quilting is for women.”

“Whew. I’m really glad to hear that.”

“That nice young man Gary is down at the barn waiting for you.”

“Yes!” Brian pumped his fist.

“The two of you are going to shovel the manure out of the barn this morning.” Rosemary lifted her eyebrows all the way above her gigantic glasses, leaving Brian with absolutely no doubt about who had gotten the last laugh.

Whitney doubled over with laughter. “Well, I’ve got to say,” she offered, pausing a moment to catch her breath between laughs, “quilting is sounding better and better all the time. Have fun, Brian.”

He shook his head with no display of emotion; then he looked at the camera and grinned. “I’m off to do man’s work. See you ladies later.”

Julie focused on cutting straight edges and tight corners. After the debacle with the pie, she didn’t want to mess up something else. Susan needed her to do this right.

The group spent the morning cutting eight-inch squares out of scraps of fabric. “Normally, you’d cut these much smaller for a fancy quilt, but we’re going to make a patchwork quilt to get started. We’ll get our feet wet with the easy stuff, and then move on as time allows.” Rosemary’s voice was full of authority. “Okay, I think we’ve got enough squares now. Young ladies, now it’s your job to lay out the squares on the floor in the pattern you want your quilt to be.”

Whitney and Angie immediately went to work, with Angie tossing out comments like “That’s too haphazard,” soon to be followed by Whitney’s “That’s too boring.” They finally reached agreement, and the finished product contained a beautiful mix of random and balanced. Both girls smiled with satisfaction as they turned to Rosemary for feedback.

“Nice work. I think you both have keen eyes for this.” Rosemary carefully labeled the back of each square with row and column number and taught everyone the basics of hand-stitching. “You line two squares up, face-to-face, and then sew one edge together.” She showed them the basic principles of a backstitch, which looked easy enough, at least when Rosemary did it. “We need to do a quarter-inch seam so everything lines up. I’ll measure and set the pins for you until you get the hang of it. Okay, now get started; time’s a-wasting.”

Julie held two squares back-to-back, took a deep breath, and plunged the needle through the fabric. She went back through the same holes a couple of times to lock the fabric, then tried her hand at moving forward. Somehow, the spacing didn’t look quite even or straight when she did it. She squinted and focused on making the next stitch better.

Whitney said, “My girl scout troop made a patchwork quilt, back when I was in sixth grade. We did most of the work in a single morning. Remember that, Mom?”

“I do remember. As I recall, though, there were rotary cutters and sewing machines involved. That’s why it went so fast.” The memory of their finished product—a somewhat lopsided collection of mismatched multicolor squares, caused something between a cringe and a smile.

“That was the coolest thing. We all still talk about how great that was.”

Julie looked up at her daughter, stunned. “Really? I always thought you guys were embarrassed that it turned out crooked.”

“Nah. Did you see the other quilts there? At least we tried to do it the right way. I think it was really cool.”

Julie tried to return to concentrating on her stitches, but she couldn’t help smiling at Whitney’s words. One of the things Julie had always considered as a failure on her part was a happy memory for Whitney. She put the needle through the fabric again.
It’s not about perfection; it’s about the experience. I’ll just do my best and won’t worry about it.

“You have a nice, even stitch.” Rosemary leaned closer to check out Julie’s seam. One of the cameramen leaned over her shoulder and pointed the lens at the stitch in question. “Remember to stay lined up just above the pins.” She looked toward Susan. “How are you making it over there?”

Susan’s lips were tight with frustration. “Not so great.”

“Let’s take a look.” Rosemary leaned toward Susan. “You need to relax a little. You’re pulling the stitches too tight, and it’s making your fabric bunch up.”

Susan shook her head. “I don’t know why I can’t get this.”

“You’re not quite the natural that your sister-in-law is, but with some practice, you’ll catch on.”