Morning Star. Charlotte Hubbard
“He’ll be out working, after all. It’s not as though he’ll be underfoot while we’re busy in our noodle shed each day.”
The bishop nodded. “I’m fine with everything you’ve said, ladies, and I appreciate your willingness to help me out. We’ll settle up before you leave, all right?”
The twins nodded together, and Jo chuckled as she got back to filling out her rental agreement form. The Helfings’ conversations reminded her of playing a game of leapfrog, and their innate understanding of each other’s ideas amazed her.
Martha Maude signed her form with a flourish and put it in the center of the table. “What if I post notices on the bulletin boards of Plain stores, asking for more shopkeepers and letting folks know about our new marketplace?” she offered. “I’d wait until the vote at church is official, of course, but meanwhile I could be writing out the note cards.”
“I think we should have the Bylers print out some posters about our opening, too,” Gabe put in. “We want our advertising to look professional, so English shoppers take us seriously. Maybe you could put those around in May, when we’re sure the stable will be ready on time.”
Folks were nodding, finishing their forms—and taking a last look at the delightful paintings Regina was gathering up.
“We’ve covered a lot of ground, even if Pete apparently couldn’t join us today,” Bishop Jeremiah said. “Shall we meet next Wednesday, same time, to check our progress before I conduct a vote the following Sunday? I predict we’ll get a lot of enthusiastic response when folks around Morning Star see what we’ve cooked up for this property.”
Everyone agreed as they rose from their chairs. The aromas of chicken and cheese reminded Jo to take Margaret’s casserole from the oven. “Here’s your dinner, Bishop,” she said as she set the steaming glass pan on a trivet. “Be sure to thank your mamm again for tolerating us as we talked everything through.”
“Denki to all of you for your ideas and your enthusiasm,” Bishop Jeremiah called out to everyone. “We’re off to a fine start.”
Jo agreed wholeheartedly. She couldn’t help smiling as she descended the porch stairs. It was sprinkling, and Mamm would be pleased that her garden was receiving God’s gut rain. Jo decided not to mention that she’d saved them from Pete Shetler’s presence in their dawdi haus all summer. It was best to enjoy her mother’s rare good mood without bringing up any extraneous details.
Chapter Four
Thursday morning, Regina was applying walnut stain to a hutch, a large table and its eight leaves, and the twelve chairs that went with it. As she focused on keeping her brush strokes smooth and even across the table’s top, her thoughts buzzed like bees. After hearing her friends’ exuberant admiration of her paintings, she was floating on clouds of euphoria.
Yet her heart thudded heavily. Displaying her watercolors at The Marketplace would shift her private sin to a public one. Not only would she still be defying the rules of the Old Order—she’d be lying to Bishop Jeremiah and her closest friends about who’d painted those pictures.
Lord, I’m in a bad place, she prayed as she worked. You really should give me an unmistakable sign—like that proverbial thunderbolt coming through the roof—that I’m on the wrong road with selling my paintings, before I get myself into deeper—
“That’s a mighty serious expression on your face, Red. Are you finding flaws in the table you’re staining?”
Regina blinked, raising her wet brush from the table’s surface. How long had Gabe been watching her?
“No, no—just lost in thought,” she stammered. She was suddenly aware of the dark walnut stain lining her fingernails, and her faded gray dress, and the brown kerchief she wore at the factory so she wouldn’t splatter stain on her white kapps. “This is going to be quite a nice roomful of furniture when it’s done.”
“It’s for a family in St. Louis,” Gabe remarked as he assessed her progress. “You’re such a patient and thorough finisher, Red. It was a gut decision when Dat and I hired you—and then Lydianne—for this job.”
Regina sucked in her breath, unaccustomed to such praise. “I—I’m happy to have the work,” she admitted. “Cooking and keeping house were never my callings, I’m afraid.”
When Gabe chuckled, dimples came out to play on either side of his clean-shaven face. “Seems we’ll have a new calling when The Marketplace opens. I wasn’t too fired up about it at first, but now I think that renovated stable will bring a breath of fresh air to Morning Star. And on that note, what do you think about these tables and chairs for Jo’s refreshment area?”
Even though the designs were very basic, Gabe’s sketches were precise and refined—as artistic in their way as her watercolor paintings. “I like them,” she replied. “They’re simple and compact.”
“And they fold up, so we can pull extras from the storage area when we need them—like for those family gatherings Martha Maude mentioned,” Gabe explained. “Dat was so taken with the idea of renting the stable for events, he thought Flaud Furniture should provide several of these tables and chairs as a contribution to the community’s new venture—with our business cards attached for some advertisement, of course.”
“That’s a generous gesture,” Regina said.
Gabe nodded. “I suspect my parents are looking ahead to a family wedding, thinking it’ll be easier to host the dinner in that big stable instead of at home. Well, carry on, Red.”
As suddenly as he’d appeared, Gabe strode away. For a moment Regina stood in a daze, wondering what had just happened. Martin’s son was a hardworking shop foreman, but when had he ever complimented her work or asked her opinion about anything? She’d worked in the Flaud factory for nearly ten years, and Gabe hadn’t seemed to know she existed.
As Regina resumed her work on the dining room set, however, she wondered about what Gabe had said. His sisters, Kate and Lorena, were too young to be dating. If Delores and Martin Flaud anticipated a wedding in the near future, did that mean Gabe was courting a young woman who lived somewhere else?
She’s probably very pretty, and a fine cook and seamstress, and most likely she comes from a family that’s well-off. What other kind of wife would Gabe want, after all?
* * *
Gabe focused for a moment before humming the pitch he heard in his head—which was not too high for the basses, and would also keep the tenors from becoming shrill during the song the men were practicing. On Friday nights, the fellows from church who enjoyed music often gathered at Bishop Jeremiah’s place to sing. As the group’s unofficial leader, Gabe usually suggested a few hymns from the Ausbund as warm-ups, then directed them in the finer points of harmonizing gospel songs.
As he and Glenn Detweiler carried the melody of “I’ll Fly Away,” Gabe’s spirit soared. Everyone enjoyed this tune—which was much snappier than a hymn—and it was a joy to hear his father and Glenn’s dat, Reuben, pulsing along on the bass part that came in on the chorus. Bishop Jeremiah began to clap to the beat, and Deacon Saul joined in, and soon the front room rang with the song’s enthusiasm about leaving this earthly life behind for a heavenly home. As the tune ended, Gabe directed its slowing down and reveled in the four-part harmony that resonated so clear and sweet on the final note.
“Jah, that’s how you sing that one!” Matthias Wagler called out when they’d finished. Matthias had relocated to Morning Star a little more than a year ago with his harness-making business—and then he’d married Rose, acquiring her little Gracie as a daughter. “Just think how folks in church would smile if we sang from the gospel songbook we men are using, instead of ancient German hymns.”
“I think that’s a fine idea,” Gabe chimed in, already knowing what the church leaders’ response would be.
Preacher Ammon raised his bushy eyebrows. “It’s