The Amish Bride (11 page)

Once I was done reading, I was more determined than ever to leave Lancaster. I would come back eventually, of course, but not until after my father was healthy and had gone on to greener pastures.

I searched the online white pages for a Darryl Kline in Nappanee, Indiana. Of course there would be a gazillion Klines, but I hoped just a handful with the first name of Darryl. There were two. I printed out the names and addresses. I’d have to ask
Mammi
which address was for her old dairy.

Then I searched for Rosalee Neff. There was only one—and she lived on Willow Lane! There was also a business listed under her name, Plain Treats. Was that a bakery? No way could that be possible. I jotted down the phone number, along with the address, wondering if I should call or write.

Next I went to Google Earth and typed in the address for the Home Place. As the image became larger and larger, I saw that the two properties bordered each other and the houses, as the crow flies, were less than a quarter mile apart, just as Mammi had said. I smiled, imagining Ezra working at the dairy and me working at the bakery. It was a possibility that was too, too good to be true. It had to be God’s doing. Nothing less could explain it.

Even though my first choice was the French Pastry School in Chicago, I did a search for cooking schools in Indiana. A pastry school in Indianapolis popped up, and then classes at a Goshen grocery. Next I tried South Bend, which wasn’t too far from Nappanee and the Home Place. The University of Notre Dame offered culinary classes, but that wasn’t exactly what I had in mind. There were a few restaurants offering a series of classes, but none of them were schools.

I kept going down the list, stopping at Pierre’s
Culinaire
Classes. I read the description, which said that Pierre was French, no surprise, and had trained at Cordon Bleu. He had a bakery and restaurant in town called Petit Paris. It sounded as if his cooking school was located behind the restaurant. He only took ten students at a time, and the site said the program was “perfect for those looking to open their own bakery someday. Business plans and practices are covered in the course work.” The program was only three months, running from January through March, May through July, and September through November. It was quite the clever schedule, with time off at Christmas, in the spring, and summer. Maybe someday I would have a bakery and could offer similar classes. It would definitely be a way to generate more income. I couldn’t find a “Tuition” link, but it was probably far more than I could afford.

I clicked on the “More Information” button and requested a packet. Though I was taking a slight risk by having it sent here, Mom had a post office box for her business, and I was the one who brought in the mail
from the box at the end of our driveway. Chances were she would never see it—or, if she did, she would lump it in with all the other cooking schools I’d received info from and not notice the Indiana in the return address. As I logged off the computer, my phone vibrated in the pocket of my robe.

It was Ezra.
Finally.
I hurried up the stairs to my room, not answering until I was behind my closed door, a towel pushed against the bottom to muffle my voice, thinking about when Zed used to sit on the top step and eavesdrop on my conversations.

We chatted for a few minutes before he blurted out, “I can’t imagine my life without you. I don’t know what to do.”

Come away with me to Indiana!
was what I wanted to say, but I bit my tongue. For once I wasn’t going to say too much.

“Really, Ella,” he continued. “You make me crazy, you know? You’re always scheming and pushing and testing.”

I remained silent, hoping there was a “but” in there somewhere!

“But all of that is worth putting up with because you’re also so alive and eager and determined. I’ve never known anyone who keeps coming out and swinging at life the way you do. For such a beautiful girl, you sure are tough and feisty, but you have a big heart. I love that about you. I love you.”

“I love you, Ez,” I whispered, glad I’d gotten my “but” and then some.

“Are you really serious about joining the Amish church?” His voice was a little shaky, which surprised me.

“Yes,” I answered. I asked when he was going to start taking classes to join.

“When I get back.”

The timing could work out perfectly. We could marry after he finished his stint on a dairy farm and I’d finished school.

“When are you going?”

“That depends on what Will finds for me, but probably soon.”

I wasn’t ready to share my crazy Indiana scheme with him yet, not before I had a chance to talk with
Mammi
again. For my plan to work, it would be best for it to look as if it wasn’t my idea at all but hers instead. I didn’t like being disingenuous, but I figured as long as I accomplished what she needed me to once I got there, I didn’t owe anyone the whole
truth about my reasons for wanting to go. Instead, I told Ezra I would check back at our favorite bakery in downtown Lancaster to see if they still had a position open.

He said he was going to be working hard for Will all week in the greenhouses.

I wanted to ask him if he knew who Zed’s birth mother was, but I wasn’t sure how to broach the topic. Finally he asked if I planned to meet my
daed
while he was here.

“No,” I answered firmly, and then I saw my opening. “I’m afraid if I did, all I’d think about was his relationship with Zed’s birth mother.”

“Why? What does that have to do with you?”

“Are you kidding? It has everything to do with me. It has to do with—” I was about to say “with you too,” given that Zed’s birth mother was Ezra’s late sister-in-law, but I changed course and said, “Well, you’d understand if you knew who she was. Do you know?”

There was a long pause. Then he said, “No. Why would I?”

“Because some of the people in your family do. I thought maybe they had told you.”

“Of course not. That’s not any of my business.”

My face grew warm. “So you really don’t know who she is?”

“No.”

“And you don’t want to know?”

“No.”

“Even if it had something—”

“Ella, I said no.”

“Okay.” I grinned

“I’ll try to call tomorrow night.”

I imagined him outside in the barn, in the freezing cold.

“Sounds good,” I said. “I’ll talk to you then.”

I held the phone in my hand for a moment, staring at the screen, overcome with loneliness. For comfort, I grabbed my magnifying glass and opened Sarah’s book, flipping to the first drawing of the hen. The next entry wasn’t dated, but it was after June 1903. She would have been thirteen or older. She wrote in cursive,
I found Alvin looking through this book today. He ran and showed it to Mamm before I could get it back. I can’t draw
in code—but at least I can write in one. I told Mamm I wished Alvin would grow up. She told me I needed to accept God’s will—and accept Alvin too.

Next was a lemon cream pie recipe, then a bread recipe, and then a recipe for cabbage chowder. The next three entries were written in code. I reread the next one, not in code, dated December 27, 1910.

Mrs. Gus Stoll. With no Alvin around, I won’t need to use my code anymore.

What is the recipe for a good marriage? Women have told me to keep the house tidy…to cook a delicious meal every night…to never to go to bed angry… to put my husband before myself…to never criticize him in public. Respect is what Gus needs most, I think.

Then three months later she wrote,
Gus is always on the alert. Always has a plan. Always moving. Sometimes I just want him to sit still, but he is like a hawk, always circling around. Always absorbed in a task.

I sat back, thinking for a moment.

He is like a hawk.

A hawk.

The symbol for Gus was the hawk! I grinned, feeling like a code breaker.

Still smiling, I continued reading, the next entries dated more than a year later.

June 28, 1912—Recipe for a baby... The wise woman near LaGrange told me to use red clover blossom. I’ve been making a tea and drinking it every morning. I am ready to be a hen with a brood of babies. Gus prays for a baby for us. Still no baby.

September 5, 1912—The wise woman recommends black cohosh now too. I’m taking it along with the red clover blossom. Still no baby. Mother Stoll asked me the other day if I had any unconfessed sin. I love my husband, but I have to say I don’t love living on his parents’ farm.

October 10, 1912—Gus was injured in a hunting accident. Please God, I don’t care if You never give me a baby. Just let my husband live. I’ve been caring for him night and day, doing all I can.

October 17, 1912—We buried Gus in the old cemetery outside of town. Alvin feels horrible. I almost think it’s harder on him than on me. His gun discharged as he jumped down from a boulder. He thought Gus was behind him and wasn’t as careful as he should have been, but Gus had circled around in front of him. The bullet entered Gus’s back and then out his stomach. At least
he was conscious until the last day. He forgave Alvin, who is still beside himself with grief. Gus was so kind to him.

I strive to follow Gus’s example, but my heart is so heavy.

I will never remarry. Never be a mother. (I was still hoping, but I know for sure it’s not meant to be, now that Gus is gone.)

November 28, 1912—I’ve moved back to the Home Place. Steeping a cup of sage, hoping it will help me rally. No one has told me to stop feeling sorry for myself, but if I don’t snap out of it pretty soon, they probably should. Alvin mopes around worse than I do.

November 3, 1912—I caught Alvin with my book. He’s twenty-five and much too old for that. I guess it’s back to the code. I do wish he would grow up. I think he feels somehow responsible for me now, but the truth is I’m much more capable than he is.

The next entries were all in code, even the dates. I felt as heartbroken as I did the first time I read it. Her husband, dead, at the hands of her brother. Sure, it was an accident, but what a tragedy. It made me all the more curious as far as Alvin. What was up with him?

I didn’t understand how Sarah could marry again after losing Gus. If Ezra died, I knew I’d never marry. I closed the book, not able to bear going on to read about her second husband again. I fell asleep thinking about the Home Place, longing to visit it more than ever.

The next morning I called Plain Treats, hoping it really was a bakery as I suspected. No one answered, so I left a message, saying I was thinking about moving to Indiana and wondered if they were hiring. I decided not to say I was a relative, afraid Rosalee might spill the beans to someone back here.

In the evening she left a message in return. I was babysitting for a family in our church and changing a diaper when she called, so I couldn’t answer. Her voice was soft and somewhat tentative, typical of an older Amish woman using the phone. She said the bakery wasn’t hiring but might be in a couple of months. She told me to check back then.

The
bakery
wasn’t hiring. While I was disappointed that she had no openings at the moment, I was thrilled to learn that I’d been correct. Plain
Treats really was a bakery, and it was located at the Home Place, right next door to a dairy farm.

Thank You, Lord, for making Your will for Ezra and me so clear.

I spent the next stretch of days looking online for jobs and researching Indiana more when Zed wasn’t home. Mom had two births that week, so she was out quite a bit. When she was home, I mostly tried to avoid her. It was easy to avoid Zed. All I had to do was stay away from the computer, which he monopolized day and night when he was around.

On Thursday Mom had several appointments near
Mammi
’s so I hitched a ride with her and spent the morning with my grandmother. I’d made cranberry scones the night before using a recipe from Sarah’s book, and I brought some along to have with our tea. She was in a chatty mood, telling me about a visit the day before with Ada and the twins.

“Those little girls.” She laughed. “I think they take after their Uncle Ezra. They’re always up to something.”

“Speaking of, I’m not sure you heard, but Ezra’s parents are thinking about buying a dairy, and before they do, they want Ezra to work on someone else’s dairy farm to learn the trade.”

“Yes, I believe Klara and Alexander were talking about that just the other day,”
Mammi
replied. “Alexander has a cousin with a dairy farm down near Chambersburg, and he was thinking that might make a nice option.”

I looked at her, wishing I knew if she’d heard the real reason they were sending Ezra away or not. I hoped not.

“Actually, I was wondering if you thought
your
old dairy farm would be a possibility. Maybe he could go out there and work for the Kline family.”

Her face fell into a frown. “All the way to Indiana? That’s so far.”

“That’s what the Gundys want—to send him far from Lancaster County so he can broaden his horizons.”

“I see. Well, at least that explains why Klara was skeptical of the Chambersburg idea. That wouldn’t take Ezra very far at all.”