“Why are you really reluctant to have your son work for me?” Jeremiah asked. “Or perhaps it is not just me? Perhaps you are reluctant to let him go?”

Pleasant looked up at him as if truly seeing him for the first time. His dark, wavy hair was the color of chestnuts. His eyes were the gold-and-green hazel of autumn leaves in his native Ohio and they held no hint of reproach, only curiosity. His expression was gentle and reflected only a deep interest in her reply.

“I will think on what you have said,” she replied. “I respect that you have seen in Rolf perhaps some of your own youth, but I would remind you that he is not you—nor your son.”

“No,” Jeremiah whispered, glancing away again. “A friend then? Could we—you and your children and I—not be friends?” He arched a quizzical eyebrow and the corners of his mouth quirked into a half smile.

“Neighbors,” she corrected.

He grinned and put on his hat. “It’s a beginning,” he said. “Good day, Pleasant.”

“Good day,” she replied without bothering to correct his familiarity. She watched him hop off the end of the porch closest to his shop and thought, And perhaps in time, friends.

Remember ye not the former things, neither consider the things of old. Behold, I will do a new thing; now it shall spring forth; shall ye not know it? I will even make a way in the wilderness, and rivers in the desert.

—Isaiah 43:18–19

About the Author

ANNA SCHMIDT is an award-winning author of more than twenty-five works of historical and contemporary fiction. She is a two-time finalist for a coveted RITA® Award from Romance Writers of America, as well as a four-time finalist for an RT Book Reviews Reviewer’s Choice Award. Her most recent RT Book Reviews Reviewer’s Choice nomination was for her 2008 Love Inspired Historical novel Seaside Cinderella, which is the first of a series of four historical novels set on the romantic island of Nantucket. Critics have called Anna “a natural writer, spinning tales reminiscent of old favorites like Miracle on 34th Street.” Her characters have been called “realistic” and “endearing” and one reviewer raved, “I love Anna Schmidt’s style of writing!”

Family Blessings

Anna Schmidt

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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For those who nurture the children—woman or man.

Chapter One

Celery Fields, Florida, Autumn 1932

Pleasant Obermeier dropped small dollops of batter into the oil sizzling over the wood-fired stove and expertly rolled each doughnut around in the oil until it was golden-brown before rescuing each and laying it on a towel to drain. Over the years that she had been the baker in her father’s bakery in the tiny Amish community of Celery Fields, she must have made thousands of these small sweet confections. Like the loaves of egg and rye bread that she had already baked that morning, her apple cider doughnuts had remained a staple of the business in spite of the hard times that had spread across the country.

It occurred to her that little had changed about her daily routine in spite of the major changes that had taken place in her life these past three years. She still rose every morning at four and was at her work by five. Even so, her father, Gunther, still arrived before she did and had the fires stoked and ready to receive the morning’s wares. The two of them had followed a similar routine since Pleasant was no more than a girl of fifteen. Now a woman of thirty-two—middle-aged by some standards—she had already been married and widowed and had taken on responsibilities she could never have imagined a few years earlier.

Three years earlier she had married Merle Obermeier, a man ten years her senior. Then after Merle had died in a tragic accident two summers ago she had taken on responsibility for raising four children from his first marriage as well as responsibility for the large house and farm that he had left behind. But in spite of all of that, she had refused to give up her role as the local baker. There was something very comforting in the routine of the bakery. It was the one place where she could be alone with her thoughts. Even the few customers she was called upon to serve when her father was off making a delivery, or otherwise engaged as he was this morning, did not interrupt her revelry for long.

The bell over the shop door jangled and Pleasant hurried to dip up the last of the doughnuts and drop them onto the towel. “Coming,” she called out in the Dutch-German dialect common to the community as she quickly rolled the still-warm doughnuts in sugar and set them on a cake plate. Before carrying the plate with her to the front of the shop, she automatically reached up to straighten the traditional starched white prayer kapp that covered her hair and smooth the front of her black bibbed apron.

But when she reached the swinging half door that separated the kitchen from the shop, she stopped. Her customer was a man—Amish by his dress—but someone she had not seen before. Celery Fields did not see many strangers. Their customers were mostly the local village residents and the farmers who raised celery in the fields that stretched out beyond the community. Occasionally, someone from the outside world—the Englisch world as the Amish called it—would stop as they passed through on their way to nearby Sarasota. But this was no outsider. This man was Amish. She pasted on a smile. “Guten morgen.” He turned and she found herself looking straight up and into a pair of deep-set hazel eyes accented at the corners by the creases of a thousand smiles. Her earlier feeling of contentment was gone in an instant. Pleasant was wary of strangers—especially handsome male strangers. She had fought a lifelong battle against a streak of romanticism that for a woman like her was sheer folly. Tall, good-looking men like this one were not for her, regardless of how engaging their smile might be. She had long ago faced the fact that she was not only a member of a plain society—the Amish—but also that the face that looked back at her in her brief encounters with her reflection in a storefront glass was plain as well.

The cake plate teetered dangerously as the pyramid of doughnuts shifted and a few of the confections tumbled from the plate to the top of the counter. To make matters worse, both she and the stranger reached to rescue them at the exact same moment. His smile turned to laughter as their fingers brushed. But then their eyes met and his smile faded. He withdrew his hand as if it had been scalded. Certain that it was her expression of horror that had sobered him, Pleasant hurried to restore order. He was, after all, a customer.

“Clumsy,” she murmured as she rescued two doughnuts that had made it to the floor and discarded them. When she stood up again, he had picked up the single doughnut still on the counter and seemed unsure of what to do with it. She held out a trash bin and after a moment’s consideration he popped it into his mouth. Then he closed his eyes and savored the warm sweetness of it. “So you are the baker,” he said.

Unnerved, she set the plate on top of the counter and covered it with a glass cake cover. “How may I help you, Herr … .”

“Troyer,” he said. “Jeremiah Troyer. I am Bishop Troyer’s great-nephew.” He smiled at her as if he expected this to be welcome news. He did have a most engaging smile.

“Are you and Frau Troyer visiting the bishop then?” she asked politely, refusing to permit his charming smile to disarm her while she gathered background information and was clear about what he wanted.

“I’ve just moved here,” he replied. “And I am not married, Fraulein Goodloe.”

“I am Frau Obermeier,” she corrected. “My husband passed away two summers ago.” She forced herself to meet his gaze. “Welcome to our community, Herr Troyer.”

“I’m sorry for your loss,” he said. “Is your father here?”

“Not at the moment. May I be of some help?”

He seemed to consider this and then plunged in to tell her his story. “Perhaps your father mentioned that I intend to open an ice cream shop,” he explained. “I’ve also taken a position with the Sarasota Ice Company and bought the property next door.” He waited for her to speak and when she said nothing, he continued, “I might have use for some of his wares in my ice cream shop, and when I spoke with your father last night …”

“You want to sell our baked goods right next door to us?” Pleasant’s polite smile faded. In many ways Pleasant was a far better business manager than Gunther Goodloe had ever been. Gunther tended to be softhearted when it came to delayed payments or supplies not delivered as promised. Pleasant had no such problems. And when it came to the prospect of a competitor moving in on them, she …

The smile flashed again. “Actually, Frau Obermeier, I need cones for my ice cream and I was hoping that your father might help me concoct a recipe that would make my cones different from those of any potential competitors. But he assures me that you are the expert when it comes to baking.”

“Ice cream cones,” she murmured, fully understanding his interest now. This was business. Well, it would certainly be a change from the basic breads and rolls she turned out day after day. “How many were you thinking of ordering?”

Jeremiah laughed and the sound was like music in the otherwise subdued surroundings. Oh, he was a charmer, this one.

“Why, Frau Obermeier, we are not talking of a single order here. Once we come upon the perfect recipe, I shall need a steady supply of them.”

Pleasant saw Merle’s sister, Hilda, approaching the bakery. Her heavyset sister-in-law huffed her way up the three shallow steps that led from the street to the door and entered. “Pleasant,” she said, addressing Pleasant but looking at the stranger. “I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure. I am Mrs. Obermeier’s sister-in-law, Hilda Yoder.”

“I am Jeremiah Troyer and I’m pleased to meet you, Frau Yoder. Your husband owns the dry goods store?”

“Yes, that’s right.” In spite of the fact that Hilda often made a point of reminding others that pride was viewed as a sin by people of their Amish faith, she couldn’t help preening a bit to have her husband known.

“I was coming to call on him next,” Jeremiah reported. “And since Herr Goodloe is not here at the moment, perhaps I should stop back later this afternoon.”

“That might be best,” Hilda said before Pleasant could answer.

Jeremiah put on his stiff-brimmed summer straw hat and tipped it slightly toward Hilda and then Pleasant. “Give my regards to your father, Frau Obermeier,” he said. “And please accept my deepest sympathies to both you ladies for the loss of your husband and brother,” he added before leaving the shop and heading across the way to Yoder’s Dry Goods.

Pleasant did not realize how closely she was watching him until Hilda lightly touched her arm and cleared her throat. “What are those boys up to now?”

Through the open front door Pleasant could see Merle’s five-year-old twins—Will and Henry—wrestling with each other in the dusty street. “They’ll spoil their clothes,” Hilda chided, but Pleasant only laughed.

“Oh, they’re just playing, Hilda. Clothes can be washed, you know.”

“Of course, you would think that,” Hilda replied stiffly, making it clear that in her view, Pleasant knew nothing about properly raising children—especially a pair of rambunctious five-year-olds. “It just seems to me with all you have to do at the bakery, you are certainly busy enough without adding extra loads of laundry to your chores.” She clicked her tongue against the roof of her mouth. “I understand that Gunther intends to do business with the bishop’s great-nephew and apparently it somehow involves you—some foolishness about needing you to make ice cream cones.”

Before Pleasant could think of any appropriate response to her sister-in-law’s comment, Hilda had left the shop, carefully skirting her way around the boys as she returned to the dry goods store.

“Boys, stop that,” Pleasant called to the twins who rolled to a sitting position and blinked innocently up at her.

“Yes, Mama,” they chorused.

Pleasant felt the familiar tug at her heart to hear any of Merle’s children call her “Mama” without even thinking about it. That triumph—especially with Rolf and Bettina, the older two—had required a good deal of patience on her part and she treasured each and every use of the title. Always shy and withdrawn, even somewhat sickly while their father was alive, the two older children had blossomed under Pleasant’s care. Rolf and Bettina never missed school and were often seen taking care of some chore or another around the large house. The twins—only toddlers when their mother died—had accepted her without question from the day she moved into the house.

Her heart melted as it always did in the presence of the identical boys. “Come here,” she said, stooping down and holding out her arms to receive them. Giggling, they ran to her, colliding with her at the same moment so that they nearly knocked her off balance. “Look at the two of you,” she fussed as she tucked their shirts into matching homespun trousers and slicked down identical cowlicks with fingers she wet on her tongue. “Now please try to stay clean,” she pleaded as they scampered away.

It was at times like these that thoughts of Merle sprang to mind unbidden. He had had such a difficult youth as he often reminded her when he thought she was being too soft with the children. His own father had shamed the family by running away with his wife’s sister when Merle was only a little older than Rolf was now. Merle had been forced to leave school and take a job in addition to managing the small family farm in order to support his mother and siblings. Knowing his painful past made the fact that Merle would never see how well his own children had turned out all the more poignant. And yet, she realized, that in the year she had been married to him, never had she witnessed a moment of such unconcealed love between Merle and any of his children as she had just enjoyed with the twins. Merle Obermeier had been a bitter man and in a year of marriage she had made little progress toward softening his ways.

She was about to close the shop’s front door to prevent the dust from the street from blowing in when she saw Jeremiah Troyer exit the dry goods store and wave to her. She waited until he was in front of the bakery and then asked, “Did you need something more, Herr Troyer?”

“I came back to give you this,” Jeremiah said, his tone easy and calm as he held out a folded piece of paper to Pleasant. “It’s one of the recipes used by someone I knew back in Ohio. I’d like to consider something similar to this for the cones,” he told her. “It’s important to set one’s product apart from that of the competition.”

“You had an ice cream business in Ohio then?” she asked as she stepped onto the front stoop and accepted the recipe.

“Not exactly. You see, Frau Obermeier, as a boy I was ill with rheumatic fever, and my uncle—my father’s eldest brother—thought it best that I take a job in town since I was too weak to work in the fields. The only person hiring was Peter Osgood, the pharmacist. He bought the cream and eggs for making the ice cream he served in the soda shop in the front of his drugstore from our farm. One day he mentioned that he was looking for a young man to help make the ice cream.” Jeremiah shrugged. “I was already making the delivery of eggs and cream. It stood to reason that I might as well stay to do the work, and so I was hired. I was there for ten years.”

Pleasant fingered the rough thick paper he’d handed her for a moment. His childhood held some similarities to that of Merle’s thin and awkward eldest son, Rolf. “Mr. Osgood knows you have his recipes?”

Jeremiah laughed. “I didn’t steal them. He handed them to me himself at the train station when he came to see me off and wish me well. In fact, you may have the opportunity to meet him one day. He’s promised to come for a visit.”

“And your father did not mind that you …”

A shadow of deep sadness flitted across his handsome features. “My father died when I was thirteen. My brothers and sisters and I were raised by our uncle.”

“I see.” Another thing that he and Rolf had in common. She looked up at him.

“And that’s probably a good deal more than you need or want to know of my childhood,” he said with a wry smile.

Pleasant pocketed the recipe and turned to open the bakery door. “I’ll give this to my father when he returns and let him know that you stopped by.” For reasons she didn’t fully understand, she hesitated. “Good day, Herr Troyer,” she said softly.

“And to you,” he replied and he headed down the steps and on to the empty building he’d purchased to turn into an ice cream shop.

Almost as soon as Pleasant had entered the bakery, Hilda was back, her brow knitted into a frown of disapproval. “What was that paper he gave you?” she asked as she ran one finger over the display case and clucked her tongue at the dust she found there.

“A recipe for me to give Papa,” Pleasant replied. “And now if you’ll excuse me, Hilda, I have …”

“That man is trouble,” Hilda muttered as she followed Pleasant into the kitchen. “He has this habit of laughing and smiling far too easily. In these hard times what does he find to be so happy about? You’ll want to stay clear of him,” she warned.

Pleasant decided to ignore this last remark. Ever since Merle’s death, Hilda seemed to have assumed the need to speak for him. Pleasant could almost hear her late husband issuing the same warning to keep her distance. It occurred to her that Merle would not have liked Jeremiah Troyer. Pleasant could not say how she knew that or what the basis for Merle’s dislike might have been. But she knew beyond a doubt that he would have offered her the same warning that his sister offered now. And as Hilda prattled on about the foolishness of even thinking of opening an ice cream shop in the middle of a depression, Pleasant could not help but think that perhaps she would be wise to take heed of such signs.

Amish communities around the country had long ago established the habit of holding their biweekly Sunday services in private homes or barns around the district. In fact, many districts were composed of no more than twenty-six households, making sure that each family would host services at least once during the year. In Celery Fields, they still had a way to go to reach twenty-six families. The community was still growing and for the second time that year, the service was to be held at Pleasant’s house. The simple wooden benches stored on a special wagon and moved from house to house as the services did had arrived on Saturday and now stood lined up in the two large front rooms of the house.

In the two years that had followed her husband’s death, Pleasant had made a number of changes that most everyone in the small community applauded.

For one thing, the citizens of Celery Fields no longer dreaded gathering in the house that Merle had always kept cloistered and shuttered even in the stifling summer heat. On the day of Merle’s funeral, friends and neighbors had arrived to find the windows and doors of the house thrown open, exposing the somber and shadowy interior of the house to the light. Pleasant had stood together with Merle’s four children on the wide front porch, greeting each new arrival. Further, when time came for setting up the benches—usually all crowded into the small front room at Merle’s insistence—Pleasant had suggested spreading them into the adjoining dining room and giving people more room.

Then there was the matter of how she had handled the children—three boys and one girl. It was well-known that she had married Merle more because he was her one chance at ever finding a husband than because of any deep love for the man. For his part, Merle had made it clear that he had chosen her for equally practical reasons. She had managed her father’s house after the deaths of her mother and her father’s second wife. She had practically raised her two half sisters, and even now she continued to help her father in the family’s bakery business. Merle had needed a mother for his four children and someone to manage the impressive house he’d built on the edge of the acres of celery fields he farmed. Theirs had been more of a business arrangement than a marriage. And that had suited them both.

Pleasant thought on all of these matters as she listened to the service, trying hard to keep her focus on the children and the responsibilities God had given her rather than the broad back of Jeremiah Troyer seated just two rows in front of her. When the service finally ended she hurried off to make sure that her oldest son, Rolf, had put out hay for the horses waiting to take the churchgoers home later, and then headed around the side of the house toward the kitchen.

On her way, she was struck by what a truly beautiful day God had given them. She took a minute to pause and close her eyes as she drew in a breath of the sweet warm October air. She could smell the herbs thriving in flowerbeds she’d planted herself all around the perimeter of the house. She almost felt as if she could smell the sun itself as the warmth of its rays bathed her face. She silently offered up a prayer of thanks for all of the blessings that God had seen fit to bestow on her as well as a plea for forgiveness for all the times she had complained about the life she’d been given. If she opened her eyes and turned away from the house and the bounty of its herbs and flowers, she knew that she would find herself looking out to the fields that stretched out for acres beyond the house. Merle’s legacy for his children that had once thrived lay fallow now, the furrows parched and cracked. Still, the land and house were paid for so she thanked God that she and the children had food and shelter and, in these hard times, she felt truly blessed.

In the kitchen Hilda and several women were working in an easy and familiar rhythm. While the men reset the benches, the women prepared platters of fried chicken, mixed up a variety of salads and cut up pies still warm from the morning’s baking. Pleasant joined her good friend, Hannah Harnisher, to help slice the heavy loaves of bread she’d baked the day before and lined up on one counter.

Hannah had once been married to Pleasant’s brother, but after he died she had married Levi Harnisher. The couple had met a few years earlier after Hannah’s son had run away with the circus—a circus then owned by Levi. Pleasant and Gunther had gone with Hannah to Wisconsin to retrieve the boy and the journey had forged a lifelong friendship between the two women—one they had not shared before that journey.

Pleasant had been different in those days. Life had dealt her a number of disappointments early on—her mother’s death, her father’s remarriage bringing two new siblings into the household. And then her brother had married the beautiful Hannah and the two of them had been so very happy. In those days, Pleasant had viewed each event as further evidence that she had been abandoned by those she loved. Then she had gone to Wisconsin with Hannah and along the way had gotten to know a group of women—circus folk—changing her outlook forever. With these new and unlikely friends she had discovered humor in the face of hardship and kindness in the face of the prejudice that is born of ignorance.

“Who was that man Gunther was sitting with?” Hannah asked.

“That’s Bishop Troyer’s great-nephew from Ohio.”

“He’s visiting then?”

“No, apparently he’s come here to go into business.” She could see that several other women—especially those who lived some distance from town and were eager to learn more about the handsome stranger they’d seen for the first time that morning—had leaned in closer to hear what she was saying. “An ice cream shop,” she added, setting off a chain reaction of whispers as the news was repeated from one group to the next. The women were soon occupied speculating about the addition of an ice cream parlor and whether or not that was a good thing or something far too frivolous for an Amish community.

“Yes,” Hilda added, “it seems that the bishop’s nephew—great-nephew that is—has purchased the empty building next to the bakery and the storehouse behind.”

As this new bit of information set off a wave of speculation among the others about whether or not the newcomer would also live in the building, Pleasant moved closer to Hannah and lowered her voice. “He has asked me—well, Father, really—to provide him with the baked cones he will use to serve his ice cream,” she confided. “He expects to be in need of a steady supply.”

Hannah’s eyebrows lifted. “You’ll be working even longer hours then. Hilda certainly won’t approve of that.”

“Well, what can I do? In these times, business has slowed to such a state that we almost never sell more than the basics. This is an order that we can’t afford to decline and frankly, it will be nice to work on something besides rye bread and rolls.”

“Perhaps Greta could …”

Pleasant laughed at the very idea that her youngest half sister might be any help at all. “Greta? That girl is a dreamer and it’s all she can do to attend to the few chores she’s responsible for at home. She would forget to check the ovens and no doubt burn the cones to a crisp,” she said, but there was a fondness in her tone that spoke volumes. “And Lydia has all she can manage with the school.”

Hannah pressed her hands over her apron. “I suppose I could help some,” she said. “At least for a while.”

Pleasant saw how her friend caressed the flatness of her stomach under her apron. “Oh, Hannah, you’re expecting another child?”

Hannah’s smile was radiant—more radiant than it had been even on the day when she had married Levi or the day when she had delivered twins—a boy and a girl, now three years old and the image of their mother. She nodded then put her finger to her lips. “Shhh. I’m fairly certain and I don’t want anyone to know until I have the chance to tell Levi.”

Pleasant could not have been more touched that Hannah was trusting her with this wonderful secret. It was a mark of just how much their friendship had grown.

“Caleb is going to soon feel outnumbered by little ones,” she teased. Caleb was Pleasant’s nephew—the boy who had run away with Levi’s circus. Now as a teenager he was of an age to make one of the most important decisions of his young life. In the Amish faith—as in any Anabaptist group—baptism was an act of joining the church and as such was not performed until the person was of an age to be able to understand the covenant he or she was making with God. To prepare a young person for such a decision, parents often looked the other way while their teenagers took some time to explore the ways of the outside world. That time was called Rumspringa or “the season for running around.” Of course, in some ways, Caleb had done that when he ran away with Levi’s circus.

Hannah did not smile as Pleasant might have expected. Instead, she sighed. “I do worry about how he will feel about another baby in the house. After all, I remember what you said about your feelings after Gunther remarried and then Lydia and Greta came along. What if he decides to run away again?”

“Caleb will be fine,” Pleasant assured her. “It’s not the same at all.”

Hannah’s smile showed her relief. “I certainly have you to inspire me. The way you came into this house and made a true home for Merle’s children. They love you as if you were their real mother, you know.”

Pleasant waved away the compliment. “That was God’s will. And God will show you and Levi the way as well.”

Hannah squeezed her hand. “Thank you, Pleasant.” She finished slicing the last loaf of bread, then added, “Bishop Troyer’s great-nephew seems quite … nice. Is he … does he have a family?”

Pleasant knew the look her friend was giving her. It fairly shouted Hannah’s idea that perhaps there might be a potential for romance for Pleasant here. “He is single and I’m sure there will be any number of our younger unattached women who will be happy to learn that.”

Hannah watched Pleasant take ears of corn from a large pot and stack them on a platter. “It’s been two years, Pleasant.”

“You know my feelings on this matter,” Pleasant reminded her.

“But why not at least open your heart to the possibility?”

“I have been married, Hannah.”

“But have you ever truly been in love?”

Pleasant looked at Hannah for a long moment. Hannah had been twice blessed with true love—first with Pleasant’s brother and then again with Levi. But other women—women like Pleasant—were called to other things. “Shh,” she whispered and nodded toward one of the other women who had moved in closer to hear their conversation.

Then Hannah picked up two platters of sliced bread. “You’ll bring the corn?”

Out in the side yard the men had just set the last of the benches for serving the meal. Hilda organized a parade of women, each carrying some platter, bowl or pitcher and headed across the yard. Pleasant looked at the stacked ears of sweet corn on the platter, but found herself remembering the plate of doughnuts and the ones that had fallen, and the touch of his hand.

And the way he had looked at her. Had he felt what she felt, if only for an instant?

She pushed the back door open with her hip, and although she heard the music of Jeremiah’s laughter, she battled the temptation to glance his way. She refused to surrender to an old maid’s fantasy that a man like that could ever be interested in one so plain.

Chapter Two

On Monday morning, after attending services with his great-uncle and aunt, Jeremiah stood at the front window of his shop. Along the unpaved road that stretched before him lay acres of celery fields on one side and a line of boxy houses—some of them little more than wooden shacks but every one of them pristine—on the other. At the far end of the street stood the large white house where services had been held. The home of the baker.

There was no reason that he could define about why he had been drawn to her like a moth to light. In the brief encounters he had had with her, he had noticed something in her eyes—a sadness and resignation that this was the life she’d been given and she needed to make the best of it. Jeremiah understood that feeling. He’d dealt with it from the day his father had died and he and his mother and siblings had moved in with his uncle. Watching Pleasant as she stood a little apart and observed the gathering of church members standing around her yard after services, he had wanted to tell her that things could change. She could change them. It was a feeling he’d had before when meeting people for the first time, but never more intensely than he did in meeting Pleasant Obermeier.

Jeremiah shook off the thought and continued his survey of his new community. At his end of the street a town center of sorts had cropped up. There was a small wooden shack that served as the community wash house where the migrant workers who came to plant and later harvest the fields could wash themselves and their clothing. Next to that was a larger building that housed the local hardware store, and next to that was a building made of cement blocks and surrounded by a hodgepodge of machinery and parts. Next door to his property stood Gunther Goodloe’s bakery. Yoder’s Dry Goods occupied the largest storefront and the Yoders’ modest house stood behind the store.

He lifted his face to the sun and thought that the small community in Ohio on the shores of Lake Erie that he’d left the day after his uncle’s funeral seemed very far away. After years of living in the shuttered and isolated world that his uncle had fabricated as a proper Amish family household, he had sold his share of the family farm to his younger brother, packed his belongings and announced his intention to move to Florida and start fresh.

And the moment he stepped off the train at the base of Main Street in Sarasota and heard the rustle of palm branches high above him as he gazed out on the calm waters of the bay, he knew he’d made the right decision. He had gone immediately to the home of his great-uncle John who was his uncle’s opposite in every way. Where Jeremiah’s uncle had been a stern, unforgiving man, John was a jovial and kind soul who, along with his wife, Mildred, welcomed Jeremiah with open arms.

He told them of his business plans and to his delight John had not only been enthusiastic about the idea, he had offered his financial support as well. In addition to serving as the community’s beloved bishop, John had a furniture-making business that had attracted the attention of several wealthy businessmen and their wives in Sarasota. He had done very well for himself and Jeremiah respected the support and counsel his great-uncle could provide.

He explained to John how the advent of the chemical compound called Freon had made refrigeration commonplace in Englisch homes, but obviously because the Amish continued to avoid electricity and other modern conveniences, a source of ice to run their ice boxes and preserve their meats was essential.

“There’s an ice packinghouse in Sarasota,” John had told Jeremiah. “I know the owner and could speak to him on your behalf. After all, you’ll be needing a paying job until you can get this ice cream business up and running.”

Within a week of his arrival Jeremiah had accepted a job with the ice company and had finalized the purchase of the building next to the bakery as well as the small barn that came with it where he could set up his business and live in back of the shop. The ice packinghouse would, of course, be his main source of income, but he was looking forward to getting the ice cream shop up and running. Already his great-aunt Mildred had helped him furnish his living quarters with the essentials for getting settled.

“You need to concentrate on establishing yourself,” she had insisted when he thanked her for everything she was doing for him. “You’d do well to focus your attention on your paying job first. An ice cream shop in these times … well, I don’t know.” Mildred was a sweet and gentle woman but had made it clear that she and John both questioned anything that smacked of frivolity. They were plain people—simple not only in their faith but in their daily routine as well.

“I believe there’s a place for such a business even in these times, maybe especially in these times,” Jeremiah replied.

“Your Uncle Benjamin taught you to make ice cream?” Mildred asked, her surprise evident as she laid out a handmade quilt on his single bed.

“In a manner of speaking. He was certainly responsible for my learning.” He thought about the years spent working with Mr. Osgood. In addition to learning the business, his times at the shop had been some of the happiest of his life. The Osgoods had provided him with the encouragement and love that was often missing from his uncle’s house. Indeed, the only person who had come to see him off at the train station was Mr. Osgood. The pharmacist had pressed an envelope into his hands. “An investment,” he’d said.

Inside the envelope had been the recipes for all of Osgood’s various ice cream concoctions and five crisp one-hundred-dollar bills. Jeremiah had arrived in Sarasota feeling like a rich man in every way.

Shaking off the memory, Jeremiah turned back to his work and finished taping the large sign that Mildred had made for him against the window. Troyer’s Creamery and Confection Shop—Opening Soon. Then he stepped outside to make sure the sign was straight and saw a woman coming out of Yoder’s Dry Goods. She looked vaguely familiar but with the sun behind her, he couldn’t be sure. He shaded his eyes with one hand and waited for her to come nearer. After all, Peter Osgood had taught him that the best way to build a business was to befriend as many people in the community as possible.

But then he saw that it was the baker’s daughter. Pleasant, he thought and in looks she was all of that and far more. Her hair—what he could see of it under the starched white kapp—was the pale gold of freshly cut hay. At their first meeting it had surprised him that in sharp contrast to her fair skin and hair, her eyes were the color of the dark chocolate he used in making his ice cream. She moved with a natural grace worthy of royalty—or at least how he had always imagined titled people moving. And yet there was purpose in her step. She was carrying a satchel in each hand filled to the brim, her shoulders perfectly balanced by the weight of them.

Her expression was passive as she fixed her eyes on her destination—the bakery—and covered the ground necessary to reach it in long purposeful strides. She wore a solid blue ankle-length dress with the usual black apron and short cotton cape covering most of it. Most surprising of all, she was barefoot.

She was almost even with his shop before she saw him standing on the small wooden porch watching her.

“Guten morgen, Frau Obermeier,” he said easily, falling into the German-Dutch dialect of their shared heritage.

“Guten morgen,” she replied but she kept walking. No time for visiting apparently, not even a moment.

“May I help you with those?” Jeremiah asked as he stepped off the porch and fell into step beside her. “They look quite heavy.”

“I’m fine,” she replied. “But thank you.”

He bounded up the steps that led to the bakery entrance and opened the door for her. A bell jangled but no one came out to greet them or relieve her of her burden.

“Danke,” she murmured as she entered the shop and headed immediately for the back room.

Everything about her posture, her failure to meet his eyes or smile, her single-mindedness about the contents of the satchels told Jeremiah that he should simply close the door of the bakery and go back to his own shop. Instead, he followed her into the large and spotless kitchen that held the lingering scent of yeast.

“Did you have the opportunity to look at the recipe I left with you on Saturday?”

“I did,” she replied as she bustled around the kitchen putting things away.

Jeremiah decided to make himself useful by unpacking the satchels for her and handing her items such as cans of baking powder and bottles of vanilla. He did not miss the way she hesitated at first to take the items he held out to her. And then to his surprise she almost snatched them from him as if he might decide to run off with them. And not once did she look directly at him.

“We could go over it now if you have a few minutes,” he said. “The recipe,” he added when she glanced back at him over one shoulder.

“I have shown it to my father. He’ll be here later. You can discuss it with him then.”

“But you are the baker, are you not?”

“Yes, but …”

“Then I would like to discuss it directly with you.” He had removed his straw hat and laid it on the long worktable that dominated the center of the room.

Still not looking directly at him she folded the cloth satchels and stored them in a basket under the table then began transferring a series of large flat pans, each covered with a cloth, to the table. The string ties of her kapp swung to and fro with the motion of her actions. She handed him his hat and went back to the side counter for another tray. It was clear that this was a process she had repeated hundreds—perhaps even thousands—of times. When she removed the cloths he saw that they held unbaked loaves of bread—rye from the looks of them.

“Frau Obermeier?”

“When my father returns, then we can discuss your order, Herr Troyer. Until then, I have bread to bake.”

Jeremiah saw a series of hooks on the wall near the doorway that led to the front of the bakery and made use of one of them to hang his hat. Then he rolled back the long sleeves of his shirt.

Her eyes—definitely one of her best features—went wide with what Jeremiah could only interpret as shock. “What are you doing?” she demanded.

“I thought that as long as you wish me to wait until your father arrives that I could help you.”

“Oh, so now you are a baker as well?”

Out of any other woman’s mouth the words might have sounded teasing, even flirtatious. After all, Jeremiah was not blind to the fact that from the time he reached eighteen years and suddenly filled out the gaunt body that his earlier illness had left behind, he had attracted female admiration. His easy smile and determination to be everything his uncle was not had always resonated with females of all ages. But when Pleasant Obermeier spoke these words, they were no less than a condemnation.

Hoping to disarm her, he chuckled. “I’m afraid you would need to teach me that, Frau Obermeier. I had only thought I might move the trays to the ovens when you are ready.”

“Thank you, but no. I can manage.” She turned her back to him as she checked the heat coming from the large wood-fired ovens. “I’ll let my father know that you wish to speak with him,” she said.

“And you,” he added as he retrieved his hat. “As the baker, you must have an opinion.”

Her back still to him, he saw her shoulders slump slightly as if he had finally defeated her—or perhaps simply tried her patience beyond her ability to be polite. “Herr Troyer …”

“Jeremiah,” he interrupted.

She turned to face him. “Herr Troyer,” she repeated emphatically. “This is my father’s business. If he asks me to be at this meeting, then I will be there. Until he makes that decision, I bid you a good day.”

He had been dismissed. With nothing more to say, Jeremiah put his hat on and left the shop. But then the streak of impishness that had gotten him in trouble numerous times throughout his youth blossomed. He waited until a count of ten and then re-entered the shop, the bell announcing the arrival of a customer. He filled the time it took Pleasant to clatter a tray of breads into the oven and call out, “Coming,” by considering the sparse but luscious selection of baked goods displayed in the shop’s cases.

There were apple dumplings, whoopee pies that leaked their vanilla cream filling from between the chocolate cake sandwich like mortar from a freshly set brick wall, and the most mouthwatering-looking lemon squares that Jeremiah had ever seen.

The woman he assumed was responsible for all this temptation emerged from the back room with a welcoming smile that faded the moment she saw him. “Did you forget something, Herr Troyer?”

“I’d like a dozen of these, half dozen of those, and if you could add in a loaf of that rye bread you’re baking.”

“It won’t be ready for …”

“I realize that. I thought perhaps you might be so kind as to drop it off on your way home later today. I’m right next door.”

Pressing her lips together in a thin line of disapproval that did nothing to add to her appearance, Pleasant started filling his order. She packed two boxes, tied them with string and set them on top of the bakery case. When she had finished, he noticed that the small display of pastries he’d admired was almost completely gone.

“Will that be all?” she asked.

“I seem to have wiped out most of your …”

“I can always bake more,” she said. “Would you like anything else?”

Jeremiah pretended to consider that question by looking around the shop. He plucked a bag of day-old rolls from a small table near the door and added it to the pile. “How much do I owe?”

When she punched in the amounts on the heavy brass cash register he thought she might actually bend the keys with the force of her strokes. He watched the numbers tally in the small window on top of the register and just before she hit the total key, he reached across the counter and stopped her by touching the back of her hand. “Did you add in the rye bread?”

“You can pay my father for that when he delivers it later today. At Goodloe’s Bakery we make it a habit not to take payment until we are certain we can deliver what has been ordered.”

“Meaning?”

“I might burn the bread,” she said. “Or it might not have risen properly.” She hit the key to total the sale and the cash register drawer sprang open. “Anything is possible,” she added. “I might drop it on the floor or …”

The color that flooded her cheeks suddenly told him that they were sharing the memory of when she had dropped the doughnuts. He smiled and handed her the money. Without meeting his look she made change, slammed the cash drawer shut and dropped the coins into his outstretched hand. “Good day, sir,” she said as she presented him with his parcels.

“And a pleasant day to you, Pleasant,” he said as he accepted his order and headed for the door. Then he paused and sniffed the air. “I can see that I found a premiere location for my shop as well as my home if every morning I’m to be awakened by such wonderful smells.”

Finally, the thin line of her mouth softened as her lips parted but she did not go so far as to actually smile. Pity, Jeremiah thought. Her smile was lovely.

Outside he found that he was in an even better mood than he had been upon first awakening that morning. Yes, he was going to enjoy life in Florida. It was impossible not to be in a good mood when practically every day was filled with sunshine. He closed his eyes and thanked God for the many blessings he had already found by moving to Celery Fields.

In spite of her determination not to surrender to her curiosity about Jeremiah Troyer, Pleasant edged toward the front window of the bakery and peeked out through the muslin café curtains to see where he might go next. To her surprise he was standing almost directly in front of the bakery, his eyes closed and his face raised to the sky above.

Was he praying? In the middle of the street?

And then with no warning, he opened his eyes and raised his hand in greeting to the Hadwells who owned the hardware store. He set the bag with the day-old bread and the larger box that held an assortment of pastries on the porch of his shop and carried the smaller box—the one that held six apple cider doughnuts—over to the hardware store.

He offered a doughnut to Mr. and Mrs. Hadwell and then called out to Harvey Miller who ran the machine shop to come and join them. Within ten minutes they had each taken a seat on one of the many nail barrels that lined the porch to enjoy the doughnuts. Gertrude Hadwell brought out tin cups and a pot of coffee and served the men. Jeremiah had his back to her but Pleasant could tell by his gestures and the rapt interest on the faces of the others that he was telling them some story.

“A tall tale, no doubt,” she huffed as she dropped the curtain back into place and returned to the kitchen. The man had a way of taking over whatever space he might occupy. One might expect that of someone like Levi Harnisher, for example. Levi had once owned one of the largest and most successful circus companies in the country. And Pleasant would never forget the day he had walked right into this very bakery while she and Hannah were working and announced that he had sold the circus in order to return to his Amish roots and court Hannah.

Never in her life did Pleasant think she had ever witnessed anything so romantic as that. The love that shown in Hannah’s eyes as she looked at Levi and his love for her that was reflected there was nothing short of breathtaking. And the memory of that devotion naturally brought to mind her relationship with Merle. Of course, she and Merle were very different from Hannah and Levi, who were romantics by nature. To the contrary, both she and Merle understood and respected the hard realities of life.

Jeremiah Troyer is a romantic, she thought and bit her lip as she focused all of her attention on rolling out crusts for pies instead of dwelling on the handsome newcomer who was to be their neighbor—and perhaps business associate. Neighbor and business associate, Pleasant sternly reminded herself, and nothing more.

If there was one lesson she had learned, it was that men were rarely as they presented themselves to others. Or perhaps it was that she was a poor judge of the male species. After all, she had foolishly thought that a young man from Wisconsin was flirting with her, calling at the bakery day after day just to see her. More to the point, the man she had thought Merle was before they married and the man he had turned out to be were not at all the same.

Hannah and others had tried to warn her, but she had insisted that they simply did not understand people like Merle and her—serious people who were devoted to their work and who understood the hard realities of life. But even she was not prepared for day in and night out of living with a man who saw little good in anyone or anything—including her and his own children.

The shop bell jangled and Pleasant sighed heavily as she wiped her hands on her apron and headed to the front of the store. “Did you need more doughnuts, Herr Troyer?” she asked as she stepped past the curtain separating the kitchen from the shop and saw Hilda standing there with all four of Pleasant’s children.

“Pleasant, you must do something with this girl,” her sister-in-law said as she pushed Bettina forward. “I am quite at my wit’s end.”

Chapter Three

“Bettina, are you all right? Has something happened?” Pleasant asked, coming around the counter and kneeling next to her daughter whose face was awash in silent tears.

“I didn’t know they had wandered off,” the girl said in a whisper as Pleasant wiped away her tears with the hem of her apron.

“Shhh,” Pleasant murmured. “It’s all right.”

“It is not all right,” Hilda thundered. “For it was your idea to give the child responsibility for making sure the twins are properly brought to my house before she and Rolf leave for school.”

On weekdays, when the bakery was busiest, the twins stayed with Hilda who had seven children of her own. On Saturdays, they spent their day at the bakery with Pleasant while Rolf and Bettina took care of chores at home.

“I wanted to get the wash hung before …” Bettina began.

Pleasant stood up so that she was eye to eye with Hilda. Merle’s sister had first watched over the children after their mother’s death, taking them in so that Merle could tend his celery fields. And even after Merle and Pleasant married, she had continued to insist that the children spend their days at her home, persuading Merle that it was asking too much of them to accept Pleasant right away. But when Pleasant had accepted this arrangement without question and gone back to helping her father in the bakery, Hilda had done a complete about-face, complaining to Merle that Pleasant was ignoring the children, not to mention her duties as his wife and the keeper of his house.

Pleasant kept one hand around Bettina’s shoulder as she tried to assure herself that only fear and panic would make Hilda speak so sharply in front of the children. “Hilda,” she said quietly, “the children are all safe. She’s only a girl and …”

“At her age their father was already working a paying job. At his age …” Hilda gestured toward Rolf. “He was …”

Pleasant touched her sister-in-law’s arm. “Hilda, please,” she murmured and was relieved when the woman swallowed whatever else she had been about to say.

Meanwhile, the twins had eased away from the drama and worked their way behind the counter where they had opened the sliding door of the bakery case and were helping themselves to some of the sweets that Jeremiah had not purchased. Bettina tugged on Pleasant’s skirt and nodded toward the boys.

“Stop that this instant,” Pleasant demanded as she moved quickly around the counter and picked up one twin under each arm like sacks of flour.

When she failed to take away the pastry each boy clutched, Hilda snorted. “You do them no favors by indulging them,” she huffed as Pleasant deposited both boys closer to the door.

“Tell your Aunt Hilda that you’re sorry for causing her worry and then apologize to your sister as well,” Pleasant instructed.

“Sorry,” Henry muttered even as he stuffed the last of his pastry into his mouth.

Pleasant grabbed an empty lard bucket she kept under the counter to collect waste and shoved it under Henry’s chin. “Spit it out,” she said in a voice that brooked no argument. The boy did as he was told and then burst into tears. Within seconds his twin had joined in the chorus and the racket they made was deafening.

Hilda threw up her hands. “Do you see what you’ve done?” she demanded and Pleasant prepared to defend her action until she saw that her sister-in-law had addressed this remark to Bettina.

Pleasant realized that if she didn’t do something at once, her father—or worse—any customer who came in was going to find the shop crowded with crying children. “Let’s all just calm down and have a nice glass of milk in the kitchen,” she suggested just as the bell above the door jangled.

“Ah, Frau Yoder,” Jeremiah Troyer said, ignoring the chaos of the overwrought children. “I thought that was you I saw coming down the road before.”

Beyond caring why Jeremiah Troyer had invaded the bakery for a third time that morning, Pleasant seized the opportunity to herd all four children into the kitchen. She noticed that all sign of tears and protests had abated the minute Jeremiah entered the bakery. The children seemed quite fascinated by him.

“Sit there and be quiet,” Pleasant said, indicating a long bench that ran along one wall. She was glad to see that even the twins seemed to recognize the limits of her patience. While she poured four glasses of milk and handed one to each child, she tried in vain to overhear the conversation taking place in the shop. Then she heard the opening and closing of the outer door and a moment later, Jeremiah stepped into the kitchen.

“May I have a word with Rolf, Frau Obermeier?” he asked.

“What about?” Pleasant asked.

Jeremiah gave her that maddening smile of his and tousled Rolf’s hair. “With your permission, Frau Yoder has suggested that he might be a candidate to help out at the ice cream shop.”

Rolf’s eyes widened with a mixture of such surprise, unadulterated joy and pleading that Pleasant’s heart sank. This was the most difficult part of being a parent. She was going to have to say no.

“I don’t believe that would be a good idea,” she said.

Rolf’s face fell but he said nothing. Jeremiah’s smile tightened. “I see. Perhaps this is not the right time.” He glanced at Bettina and the twins and seemed to focus on their tear-stained faces. “Forgive me for the intrusion, ma’am. We can discuss the matter later.” He nodded to the children and headed for the door.

“Wait a minute,” Pleasant said, hurrying after him.

He had opened the door and the bell was still vibrating when she caught up to him. “I know you mean well, Herr Troyer, but …”

“Are the children all right?”

Pleasant blinked up at him. “Yes, of course they are.” Why would he think otherwise? She saw a flicker of doubt cross his expression and felt her defenses go on alert. “Herr Troyer, please understand that Rolf has his schooling and chores at home and …”

“As do many other children.” The implication that other boys Rolf’s age were working or learning a trade was clear.

“The children are my responsibility,” Pleasant said tightly. “I will decide when the time is right that they should take on more than they must already manage.”

Jeremiah looked away for an instant, out the leaded glass of the bakery door. “Of course, you know best, but if I may offer an observation as someone who was once smaller and not nearly as strong as others my age?” He seemed to wait a beat for her to grant permission and when she said nothing, he continued, “Do not deny the boy the opportunity to find his place in the world.”

“He is only twelve,” Pleasant protested. “Besides, he will one day have his father’s farm to manage and …”

“I am not speaking of his life as an adult. I am speaking of his life now—the things that will surely shape the man he will one day become. There is a tempest building in that boy. A growing view of the world and those around him as unfair. He is fast approaching a crossroads where he will either accept his size as a challenge to be met or he will surrender himself to the belief that he has been unjustly punished.”

Pleasant thought of Hannah’s son Caleb and how he had run away. Everything there had turned out for the best, but Rolf was different. Small and quiet—too quiet, she had often thought. And Merle had been especially hard on the boy.

“Why are you really reluctant to have your son work for me?” Jeremiah asked. “Or perhaps it is not just me? Perhaps you are reluctant to let him go?”

She looked up at him as if truly seeing him for the first time. His dark wavy hair was the color of chestnuts. His eyes were the gold-and-green hazel of autumn leaves in his native Ohio and they held no hint of reproach, only curiosity. His expression was gentle and reflected only a deep interest in her reply.

I am afraid, she thought and knew it for the truth she would not speak aloud. “I will think on what you have said,” she replied. “I respect that you have seen in Rolf perhaps some of your own youth, but I would remind you that he is not you—nor your son.”

“Nein,” Jeremiah whispered, glancing away again. “A friend then? Could we—you and your children and I—not be friends?” He arched a quizzical eyebrow and the corners of his mouth quirked into a half smile.

“Neighbors,” she corrected.

He grinned and put on his hat. “It’s a beginning,” he said. “Good day, Pleasant.”

“Good day,” she replied without bothering to correct his familiarity. She watched him hop off the end of the porch closest to his shop and thought, And perhaps in time, friends.

There had been one reason and one reason only that Jeremiah had gone to the bakery for a third time in the same morning. He had been sitting outside the hardware store sharing doughnuts with the Hadwells when Mrs. Hadwell had noticed Hilda herding Pleasant’s children down the street. The girl was in tears and the three boys lagged behind her and their aunt, looking distraught.

Mrs. Hadwell had cleared her throat, drawing her husband’s attention and then she nodded toward the little parade passing their store. Roger Hadwell glanced up and then turned back to the conversation he and Jeremiah had been having about remodeling Jeremiah’s shop. But Jeremiah knew that look. He’d seen similar glances pass between neighbors and friends of his family his whole life. Louder than a shout it was a look that warned, “This is none of our business. Stay out of it.”

And to his surprise, Jeremiah found it easier to comply with that unspoken warning than to call out to Hilda Yoder and ask if there was a problem. To his shame he lowered his eyes until Hilda had passed by on her way to the bakery, her fingers clutching the thin upper arm of Pleasant’s daughter. But the scene stayed with him even as he headed back to his own shop and even after he forced himself to focus on the plans for remodeling the space. And when he heard one of the children cry out, he could stand it no more and headed for the bakery.

With no real plan in mind, he was a bit taken aback when he passed the bakery window and saw Pleasant thrust a bucket under the nose of one of the younger boys. Perhaps the child was ill. Perhaps he had misread the entire situation. He entered the bakery, closing the door with an extra force that he knew would cause the bell to jangle loudly. It worked. Everyone turned to him. Instinctively, he focused his smile on Hilda Yoder who scowled at the interruption while Pleasant said something about milk and took advantage of his arrival to take the children into the back room.

“What is it now, Herr Troyer?” Hilda snapped.

Jeremiah had no idea what he should say. He racked his brain for some reason why he might have needed to have dealings with the woman.

“I saw you come down the street earlier and then it occurred to me that you might be just the person to give me some advice.” He suspected that giving advice was Hilda’s stock in trade and when her scowl shifted from irritation to suspicion, he was pretty sure that he had guessed correctly.

“What sort of advice?”

Jeremiah chuckled. “I may know how to manage a business and make a decent ice cream, but when it comes to decorating the premises …” He shrugged. “I am quite at a loss.” He could practically see the wheels turning in Hilda’s brain and hurried on to press his advantage. “Clearly, I’m going to need tables and chairs and a serving counter and …”

Hilda nodded, her small light eyes flitting back and forth as if typing up a list. “Have you colors in mind?”

Jeremiah shrugged.

Hilda huffed out a sigh that, when translated, meant, “Men are hopeless,” and set to work ticking off what he was going to need. “The place is a mess. You’ll need cleaning supplies and then paint—a lemon-yellow I would think. Stop by the store this afternoon and I’ll have Herr Yoder pull together those initial supplies. In the meantime, you can order tables and chairs and the counter from Josef Bontrager. He’s an excellent carpenter.”

“Frau Yoder, you are a blessing in disguise. How will I ever thank you?”

“You can pay your bills in cash and at the time of delivery,” she informed him without a trace of humor.

“Of course. Thank you. I’ll be by right after lunch if that’s convenient.”

Hilda nodded and headed for the door. She appeared to have forgotten all about the business that had brought her and the children here in the first place.

“I’ll need a helper,” Jeremiah said as he hurried to open the door for her. “Perhaps you know of a young boy who …”

“My older boys all work in the celery fields,” she said, making the assumption that her sons would be at the top of Jeremiah’s list. She glanced toward the kitchen. “Perhaps Rolf—he’s too small for field work.”

“Another excellent suggestion. Thank you,” Jeremiah said as he ushered her out and closed the door behind her.

It had been a stroke of genius or more likely God’s divine guidance that had made him ask her advice on a helper. The one thing he understood was that Hilda Yoder took great pride in seeing herself as invaluable to others when it came to handling their affairs. He did not consider what he might do if she were to suggest that he hire one of her seven children. But as things turned out that should have been the least of his concerns. He had been totally unprepared for Pleasant Obermeier to reject his offer. He had seen the dead and baked fields behind her house. Surely she could use the money the boy could bring home.

He stood for a moment looking down the road at the large white-washed house with its tin roof and wraparound porch where she had lived with her late husband and where she now lived with his four children. He glanced back at the bakery where, according to his great-aunt Mildred, she had spent a good portion of her life helping her father run the business even after she had married Merle Obermeier.

Jeremiah had lived most of his life in a house where dreams were frowned upon and only hard work was respected. And until he had gone to work for Peter Osgood, he had followed that regimen, burying his dreams in order to try and please his uncle. Now he could not help but wonder what dreams Pleasant had put aside in order to care for first her widowed father and then her half sisters and finally the widower and his four motherless children.

He remembered how, after his father had died, his own mother had abdicated the raising of the children to her brother-in-law. That was to be expected for Jeremiah’s father—a kind but timid man—had always bowed to his older brother’s wishes as well. How many times had Jeremiah wished that his mother would stand with him when he tried to challenge his uncle’s rigidity?

Oh, Pleasant, he thought, do not make the mistake my mother made.

But it was hardly his concern, he reminded himself. He had a job to attend to as well as a business to get up and running. His fascination with the baker and her children was nothing more than that—idle curiosity, and as his uncle had reminded him more than once and emphasized with the back of his hand, idle thoughts were the devil’s workshop.

Chapter Four

Pleasant had underestimated the amount of time she would have to devote to creating the ice cream cone recipe. In spite of the fact that the bakery’s business had dwindled to the basics—breads, rolls and the occasional pie or dozen cookies—she was still busy from dawn to well after dusk. Merle’s house was a large one and required constant cleaning to keep it presentable. With four growing children there was a great deal of washing and ironing to be done on top of the cooking she did at home and the upkeep of the kitchen garden she relied upon for fresh produce to feed herself and the children.

Then there was the celery farm itself. Over the years, Merle had acquired a great deal of land—land that needed to be plowed and planted and harvested. Land that this past spring had barely produced a saleable crop and that now in the fall was nowhere near ready to be planted. After her husband’s death, Pleasant had turned the management of the farm over to her brother-in-law. Hilda’s husband, Moses, was a shy, quiet man—nothing like Hilda. But he had a head for business and managed the farm as well as his dry goods store with an expertise that set Pleasant’s mind at ease. Still, he would not make a decision without first consulting with her and Rolf. For as she explained to Jeremiah, the farm was Rolf’s future, in spite of his father’s doubts that he would ever amount to anything as a farmer or businessman. She worried about Rolf. Merle’s constant badgering of the boy had taken its toll, and of all the children, he had been the hardest to bring closer. Whenever she tried to show her appreciation for some chore he had done without being asked or commented on his high marks in school, his dark eyes flickered with doubt and distrust.

It had been a week since Jeremiah Troyer had stopped at the bakery and asked to interview the boy for a job in his ice cream shop and Pleasant had been unable to forget the look that had crossed Rolf’s face when she’d turned down the offer. Just before he’d lowered his eyes to study his bare feet, she had seen a look of such disappointment come over his features and there had been a flicker of something else. For one instant he had looked so much like his father.

Memories of the rage that had sometimes hardened Merle’s gaze came to mind now as Pleasant rolled out dough and plaited it into braids for the egg bread she was making. She paused, her flour-covered hands frozen for an instant as the thought hit her. What if Jeremiah had been right? What if Rolf turned out to be as bitter and resentful as his father had been? Could such things be passed from father to son like the color of eyes or hair? Or was it possible that circumstances might guide the boy in that direction? Certainly Merle’s resentment had begun early in life and in spite of his success in business and the love he had shared with his first wife, he had remained until the day of his death a man who looked at the world with hostility and ill will.

“Well, not Rolf,” Pleasant huffed as she returned to her task. “Not my son.”

But how to set the boy on a different path?

She wiped her forehead with the back of one hand and blew out a breath of weariness and frustration. How, indeed, heavenly Father?

She walked to the open back door of the bakery, hoping to catch a breeze before she had to face the hot ovens again. Next door she saw Jeremiah Troyer replacing a wooden column that supported the extended roof of his shop. She thought about the Sunday when he had easily lifted two of the heavy wooden benches used for church services—one under each arm. She continued to observe him as he fitted the column in place and anchored it, drawing one long nail after another from between his lips and pounding them in until the column was locked in place.

Who would teach Rolf such things? Her father? Perhaps. But he was getting on in years. He tended to leave the heavy chores to the carpenter, Josef Bontrager, who was always willing to help because it gave him an excuse to see Greta. She thought about the way Jeremiah’s ready smile and easy laughter were so different from Merle’s personality. Might it be enough to simply expose Rolf to this different breed of man? To let him see that not all men were like his father had been? That there were other ways he might decide to go?

Without realizing that she had done so, Pleasant opened the screen door and stepped outside. Jeremiah gave the porch post a final test for steadiness and turned when he heard the squeak of the screen door. The hammer he’d used in one hand, he raised the other hand to his hat and tipped his head in her direction. “Pleasant.” He acknowledged her with a quizzical smile as he squinted against the morning sun. “Was there something I could do for you?”

Flustered to find herself outside and engaged in this exchange with him, Pleasant reverted to her usual defense. She thinned her lips and frowned. “Not at all,” she replied. “The ovens give off such heat. I just needed a breath of fresh air.”

Jeremiah nodded and turned back to his work. He set down the hammer and picked up a broom. Meticulously, he rounded up the wood shavings and sawdust left from shaping the porch column to match its mate.

“You know if you’d like, Rolf could paint that column for you when he comes home from school later,” she called.

Jeremiah stacked his hands on the tip of the broom handle and leaned his chin on them as he studied her. “That would be appreciated,” he said.

Pleasant nodded and turned to go back inside the bakery’s kitchen. It’s a start, she thought.

“I could still use an assistant,” Jeremiah called and her step faltered. “Maybe we could see how painting the porch post works out and then …”

“My offer is simply that of a neighbor wishing to help another neighbor,” Pleasant said stiffly.

“Got that part,” Jeremiah said, moving closer, twirling the broom handle through his fingers and grinning. “But you’ll soon learn that I don’t give up easily, Pleasant.”

It was the second time he had used her given name that morning. It was as if he were testing her. She smiled sweetly, the way she had seen her half sister Greta smile when she was determined to have her way. “And in time you will learn, Herr Troyer, that I do not make decisions lightly and I will always do what I think is best for my children.”

She turned to leave but realized that he was propping the broom against the wall and intended to follow her inside.

“How’s the cone recipe coming?” he asked as he held the door for her and then followed her into the kitchen.

“I expect to have some samples for you to try by the end of the week,” she said. “They would best be tested with ice cream since the flavors will have to mingle.”

He nodded and took a seat on one of the stools that Gunther kept in the kitchen.

Make yourself at home, she thought, exasperated by his assumption that his presence was welcome.

“How about this? You let me know as soon as you have something that you think might work and I’ll make up three different flavors so we can try the various combinations. We can have a tasting party.”

She opened her mouth to refuse, but then thought, Why not? It would be a special treat for the children. “All right,” she replied, placing the braided egg loaves on pans.

His silence was unusual so she glanced up and saw him studying her, a half frown on his forehead and a half smile on his lips. “You do surprise me, Pleasant,” he said and then the smile won and blossomed into a full-fledged grin. “End of the week then.”

And the man actually winked at her as he pushed himself to his feet and left her standing there, a pan of unbaked egg bread half in and half out of the oven.

Jeremiah sat at his desk and watched the Obermeier boy painting the porch column. He was meticulous in the work, going back over a section that did not meet his standards for perfection. Jeremiah remembered his own painstaking attention to detail in the years he’d spent living with his father’s brother. For him it had come from knowing that if he failed to do a job to the exacting standards his uncle had set for him, he would have to do it again or worse, he would be punished.

Had Rolf’s father been a man like Jeremiah’s uncle? Did that explain the boy’s reticence?

“Maybe the kid’s just shy,” Jeremiah muttered as he pushed his chair away from the desk. He had to stop seeing his uncle in every adult and himself in every quiet child. He took down his hat from the wooden peg near the door and went outside. “Good job,” he said.

Rolf stepped away for a moment and surveyed his work. “Missed a spot,” he muttered and bent to cover it before turning his attention to the next side of the square column.

“How’s school?” Jeremiah sat on the edge of the porch.

“Gut.” Rolf lapsed naturally into the Pennsylvania Dutch that Jeremiah assumed was most often spoken at home.

“What are you studying?”

Sticking with his native tongue, Rolf listed the subjects. “Arithmetic, history, geography.”

“Your classes are conducted in English?” Jeremiah assumed this might be the case since it was a common way to prepare young people for dealing with those outside the Amish community.

“Ja.”

“Does your mother use English at home?”

The paintbrush faltered for a moment. “My stepmother does—yes.”

Jeremiah considered the correction. Did it mean that Rolf resented Pleasant or simply that he felt a loyalty to his own mother? “I was about your age when my father died. Tougher on you, I expect, losing both your parents.”

This time, Rolf looked at him as if trying to decide where this conversation might be headed. “Mama is good to us,” he murmured, his tone slightly defensive.

Jeremiah let the silence settle around them for a long moment. “Do you like ice cream, Rolf?”

“Ja.”

“Me, too. I’ve been working on a new flavor. How about tasting it for me and telling me what you think?”

Rolf continued his long brush strokes. “I should ask permission first.”

Jeremiah covered a smile by glancing away toward the bakery. “That’s probably best. Your sister’s helping out at the bakery, is she?”

Rolf nodded. “After school she watches my brothers until Mama gets everything ready for tomorrow’s baking, then we all go home together.”

“Well, then the way I see it we’ve got ourselves a bunch of tasters. You finish up there and go get your mama and sister and brothers while I go get dishes and spoons and the ice cream.”

“You want me to bring them over here?” The kid’s eyes widened.

“Well, sure. I mean that’s where the ice cream is.”

Rolf’s hand shook slightly as he returned to his painting, now going over an area he’d covered adequately.

“Or I could go over and get the others while you clean up here. Looks to me like you’ve finished.” Without waiting for the boy’s reply he headed for the kitchen entrance to the bakery.

Through the open door he could hear the lively chatter of the twins and the clatter of the large metal pans and bowls that Pleasant used for making the breads and rolls she baked each morning. As he got closer, he could hear the low murmur of voices—Pleasant’s and the girl’s. Bettina, he reminded himself.

“Hello?” he called as much to give fair warning of his approach as to deliver a greeting.

Two pairs of small feet padded across the bakery floor at a run while everything else went silent.

“Well, hello there,” he said when the twins lined up at the door and stared out at him. “Is your mother here?”

“Is there a problem, Herr Troyer?” Pleasant glanced anxiously past him to where Rolf was cleaning the paintbrush.

Now why would she automatically assume that?

Jeremiah thought. “Actually, I’ve come to ask another favor.”

She waited, wiping her hands on the dish towel she held while the twins glanced from him to her and back to him.

“If we can be of help,” Pleasant said, “we’re more than …”

“I have this new flavor of ice cream I’ve concocted—vanilla with bits of mango mixed in. I wondered if you and the children might taste it for me and give me your honest opinion.”

The twins did not wait for her reply, but opened the screen door and burst out onto the back porch of the bakery seemingly ready to follow him anywhere as long as he held to his promise of ice cream.

“Boys,” Pleasant chided, then turned her attention back to Jeremiah. “I thought we had agreed on the end of the week. There is no possible way that I will have anything ready by …”

“You’d be doing me a great favor,” Jeremiah continued as if her protests had nothing to do with the topic at hand. “While you’re developing the cone recipe, don’t forget that I need to be working on special flavors for the ice cream. We can’t just offer the standard flavors, after all. Besides, I tend to be far too lenient when it comes to my own tastes for flavors.”

Bettina had joined Pleasant on the porch and she was smiling up at him. “What other flavors have you invented, Herr Troyer?” she asked.

Jeremiah removed his hat and scratched his head for a moment. “Well, let’s see now, there was the time I thought maybe there might be a market for frog’s leg chocolate.”

All three children giggled and miracle of miracles, he was pretty sure that Pleasant was fighting a smile.

“You made that up,” Bettina said.

“You’re right. I did. But I actually did think about adding prunes to vanilla once.” He made a face that had the twins convulsing with laughter. “So you see I’m not always the best judge when it comes to these things.”

“I wouldn’t want to spoil the children’s supper,” Pleasant hedged.

Jeremiah shrugged. “My guess is that you were planning to give them dessert with supper?”

“Well, yes, but …”

“So what if they have dessert first?”

Her mouth worked as she tried to find an answer to this unorthodox logic. “I … without the promise of …”

“They might not finish their peas and carrots?” Jeremiah guessed and Pleasant nodded. He frowned as he studied each child in turn. “Rolf, come over here a minute, would you?”

The boy’s bare feet sent puffs of sandy dust flying as he ran across the dry dirt yard. “Yes, sir?”

“Am I to understand that sometimes you children have to be coaxed to finish your vegetables?”

Rolf and Bettina nodded. The twins studied the ground. Jeremiah sighed.

“So you see, Herr Troyer, ice cream at this hour …”

All four children looked up at her, their eyes wide with protest as they realized they were about to lose this opportunity. “But Mama, if we promised?” Bettina pleaded.

Pleasant folded her arms across her chest and studied each child. “No. There have just been too many times …”

Jeremiah was almost as disappointed as the children were. He didn’t know why it meant so much to him but it did. “Your mother is right,” he began.

“Unless,” Pleasant interrupted, “Herr Troyer would agree to come for supper and bring some of his ice cream along for dessert.”

The children whooped with delight at what they clearly considered an acceptable solution.

Pleasant was watching him though. “You do like vegetables, do you not, Herr Troyer?”

“What kind?” he asked and hoped the answer would be green beans or perhaps carrots.

“Brussels sprouts,” Pleasant replied and he knew that the look of disgust that had flickered over his face for an instant was exactly what made her smile. “May we expect you at five-thirty then?”

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