The Bishop's Daughter (17 page)

“Maybe I should take one of those buggy rides I saw in a brochure
I picked up on Saturday,” Jimmy said to himself as he snapped on the radio. He had checked into the bed-and-breakfast and had driven around Strasburg and the outlying area, but so far he’d seen no Amish farms selling root beer. He’d talked to a couple of people and asked if they knew about an Amish baby who’d been kidnapped twenty years ago, but no one had any helpful information to give him.

A short time later, Jimmy parked his truck near Aaron and Jessica’s Buggy Rides, outside the town of Bird-in-Hand, and waited on a bench with several other tourists for the next buggy. When his turn finally came, he climbed into the front of a closed-in buggy, taking a seat beside the gray-haired driver whose long beard matched in color. The man said he wasn’t Amish but belonged to some other Plain group living in the area. The couple who had been waiting with Jimmy took the backseat, situating their little boy between them.

Jimmy removed his camera from its case.

“No pictures allowed on this trip,” the driver announced. “We’ll be stopping by several Amish farms and meeting some of the people who live there. It goes against their religious beliefs to have their pictures taken, so we ask that you respect those wishes.”

“I read an article in the newspaper that said their opposition to having their pictures taken has something to do with the scripture about not making any graven images,” the woman sitting behind them said.

The elderly man nodded and picked up the reins, guiding the horse to move forward. Jimmy slipped his camera back into its case.

Once they’d left the parking lot, they traveled at a fairly good pace down a narrow country road. The wind whipped at Jimmy’s body through the open windows, and the rhythmic
clip-clop, clip-clop
of the horse’s hooves echoed against the pavement.

Soon, they pulled onto a driveway leading to a well-kept farmhouse. An Amish woman and a little girl stepped out of the house and approached the buggy, each holding a tray filled with cookies and homemade bread.

“This is Mary and her daughter, Selma,” their driver explained. “They make extra money for their family by selling bakery items to the tourists I bring along my buggy route.”

Jimmy reached into his pocket and pulled out his wallet. “I’d like to buy a loaf of bread and six cookies, please.”

Just before the horse started moving again, Jimmy leaned out the window and said to Mary, “Would you happen to sell any root beer here?”

She shook her head. “Just baked goods, that’s all.”

Jimmy slouched against the seat. He should have known it wouldn’t be so easy to find an Amish farm selling root beer—if there even was such a place.
I’m sure Dad made this whole kidnapping thing up just to throw me off course. He’s been a control freak for as long as I can remember, and I’m almost sure there’s more to my adoption than he’s willing to tell
. He studied the tall barn behind the Amish house as they pulled out of the yard.
Maybe I ought to see about getting a job in case I decide to stay in the area awhile. It will give me a chance to ask around some more before I call Dad again
.

After the buggy ride was over, Jimmy spent the next few hours driving along the back roads, taking pictures of barns, Amish men and boys working in the fields with their draft mules, and children playing in their yards.

By late afternoon, he was tired, thirsty, and thoroughly discouraged, so he pulled into the parking lot of a place called Hoffmeirs’ General Store, hoping he might find something cold there to drink.

Naomi was busy dusting empty shelves near the back of the store when she heard the bell above the front door jingle. Knowing that Caleb and the children had gone out to run an errand and hadn’t returned, she left her job and went to see who had come into the store. She discovered a young English man with light brown hair standing near the counter. “Can I help you?”

He nodded. “I was wondering if you sell anything cold to drink in this store.”

She shook her head. “Except for some candy, we don’t sell any food or drink items. I do have a few bottles of soda in the cooler I keep in the back room, though.”

He moistened his lips with the tip of his tongue. “Would you be willing to sell me some of that? It’s awfully hot and humid today, and I could sure use something cold to drink.”

“I’d be happy to give you some soda. So, if you’ll wait here, I’ll be right back.” Naomi hurried off, and a few minutes later, she returned with a bottle of orange soda, which she handed to him.

“Thanks. What do I owe you?”

“Nothing. Nothing at all.” She studied the man, thinking he looked kind of familiar and wondering if she had met him before. “Mind if I ask where you’re from?”

“I grew up in Puyallup, Washington.” He took a drink and a dribble of orange liquid ran down his chin. He swiped it away with the back of his hand. “This is sure good.”

“So, you’re from out West then?”

He nodded and took another drink.

Naomi’s thoughts went to her days of living in Oregon, and she reflected on how much she had missed her home and family during that stressful time. “Are you here on vacation?” she asked.

“Kind of.” He finished the last of the soda and handed her the empty bottle. “Are you sure I can’t pay for this?”

She shook her head. “No payment’s necessary. Is there anything else I can help you with?”

He ran his fingers through the back of his wavy hair and shuffled his feet a couple of times. It reminded her of the way Matthew acted whenever he was mulling things over.

“I’ve been looking for a place that sells root beer, but I haven’t had any luck so far.”

Naomi opened her mouth to tell him that the ice cream shop down the street sold several kinds of soda and made root beer floats, but she was interrupted when Leona Weaver entered the store with a Dahliapattern quilt draped over her arm.

A
s Leona stepped into the Hoffmeirs’ store, she almost bumped into a young English man who stood near the front counter. He smiled. She returned the smile but then glanced quickly at Naomi, who stood nearby. “I came by to drop off a quilt my mamm finished for Abby. I also wanted to see if you’d gotten those rubber stamps in that you ordered for me awhile back. I’m planning to do some art projects with my students when we start back to school in August, and I thought I’d let them use the stamps.”

“I’m expecting the order any day.” Naomi motioned toward the back of the store. “I’ve got a couple of empty shelves dusted and all ready for them.”

Leona skirted around the Englisher and moved toward the connecting quilt shop. “Guess I’ll stop by another time to check on the stamps. Right now I need to give this quilt to Abby.”

“Abby’s not there, but you can leave it on her desk; when I see her tomorrow, I’ll let her know it’s from your mamm.”

“Where is Abby?”

“She closed the shop for the rest of the day.”

Leona halted. “How come?”

“She had to take all five of her kinner to the dentist for checkups.”

“What about Mary Ann? Isn’t she working today?”

“I talked with Fannie earlier. Seems my little sister’s come down with the flu and is home in bed.”

“I’m sorry to hear she’s
grank
. I’ll either stop by your folks’ place and check on her or drop by here again later in the week.”

The Englisher cleared his throat, and both women turned around. “I didn’t realize you were still here,” Naomi said. “Did you need something else?”

He shuffled his leather sandals across the wooden floor. “I just wanted to say thanks again for the pop—I mean, soda. It was real refreshing.”

“You’re welcome.”

He started for the door but turned back around. “Say, I was wondering if you would know of anyone in the area who might be looking for a painter.”

Before Naomi could respond, Leona stepped forward. “Have you had any experience?”

He nodded. “My dad owns his own painting business in the state of Washington, and I’ve been working part-time for him since I turned sixteen. When I graduated from high school, I painted during the summer when I wasn’t taking classes at our local community college.”

Leona took a few minutes to deliberate as she sized up the English man. He looked nice, dressed in a pair of blue jeans and a light blue, short-sleeved shirt. There was something about his serious brown eyes and the way he smiled that made her believe he was trustworthy. “My daed—I mean, dad—owns his own business, too,” she said. “He mentioned the other day that he has a lot of work right now and might need to hire another painter.”

The young man smiled. “Would you mind giving me the name of your dad’s business or tell me where I might meet him to talk about the possibility of a job?”

“It’s called Weaver’s Painting, and I think Papa’s got his crew working on the outside of a restaurant down the street. So if you head over there now, you might catch him.”

“What’s the name of the restaurant?”

“Meyers’ Home Cooking. Just ask for Jacob Weaver—that’s my dad.”

“Thanks. I’ll go there right away.”

As Jimmy headed down the sidewalk toward the restaurant that the young Amish woman had mentioned, he was plagued with nagging doubts. How long would he stick around Lancaster County? Did he really need a job, or could he manage on the money he’d brought along? Was there even any point to him being here? Since he was here, and since he didn’t want to return to Washington without some definite
answers, he may as well stay awhile and get to know the area. Besides, he found the Amish culture kind of interesting.

Jimmy cleared his throat as he approached a middle-aged Amish man who knelt in front of a can of paint, stirring it with a flat stick. “Excuse me, but do you know where I might find Jacob Weaver?”

The man squinted and tipped his head to one side. “I’m Jacob Weaver. Do I know you from somewhere?”

Jimmy shook his head. “My name’s Jimmy Scott, and I’m looking for a job.”

“As a painter?”

“That’s right. I spoke to your daughter over at Hoffmeirs’ General Store, and she said you might be looking to hire someone.”

Jacob placed the paint stick on the edge of the bucket and stood. “Have you had any experience?”

Jimmy nodded. “My dad owns a paint contracting business out in Washington.”

Jacob pursed his lips and stared at Jimmy. “So you’re not from around here, then?”

“No, I came to Lancaster County to. . .”

“Jacob, can you come here a minute?” A young Amish painter who was working nearby motioned to Jacob. “I’m having some problems getting this new paint to cover.”

“Excuse me a minute.” Jacob nodded at Jimmy. “I’ll be right back.”

Curious to see what the problem with the paint might be, Jimmy followed Jacob around the side of the building, where a couple of other Amish men stood painting with brushes.

“It might go on better if you used a roller rather than the brushes,” he suggested.

“What makes you think so?” one of the fellows asked.

“You can cover a larger area quicker using a roller instead of a brush.”

Before the young Amish man could reply, Jacob stepped forward, placed one hand on Jimmy’s shoulder, and said, “Son, you’re hired.”