A Place to Call Home (Stepping Stones #2)

Chapter 1

C HAPTER 1

T RAFFIC CREPT ON COUNTRY ROADS, DRIVERS PEERING ANXIOUSLY over steering wheels clutched in fingers stiff with tension. The snow was piling up at an alarming rate, driven in by the force of a New England nor’easter predicted to scour the eastern coast from Canada to the Carolinas. Lancaster County was a few hundred miles inland, but the fury of this January storm was unabated. Horses and buggies clipped along in the blinding snow, the drivers confident in the grip of the well-shod horses’ hooves, the weight of the steel-clad buggy wheels cutting through the snow with remarkable efficiency.

Mary Glick was upstairs in her Aunt Lizzie’s home, a cozy throw wrapped around her legs on the footrest of the recliner, a battery lamp casting a white light on the book she was reading. She had no idea what the subject of this chapter was all about, as her mind was busy replaying scenes of her past. It must be the storm creating a restless vibe , she mused, though really, she knew it was far more than that.

She laid her book on the small table beside her chair, flung the throw on the loveseat, and got to her feet. She shivered and pushed her feet into silky furred Uggs, a gift from one of her customers at the bakery.

Going to the window, she hoisted the pleated blind, taking in the whitened countryside, the picturesque houses and barns, the whirling white snow and wind as far as she could see. It was beautiful, but nothing could compare with her home in Pinedale, New York, the home of her father, stepmother, and ten siblings, all married, their homes dotting the beautiful mountainous area.

In her twenties, she’d had her share of life knocking her around. Unmarried, without prospects, she felt a deep sense of restlessness, despite owning a successful bakery in the city of Lancaster and having every material thing she could possibly want.

She propped her arms on the windowsill and watched the clattering snowplow slice a curtain of snow from the road, an oncoming horse rearing its head before mincing past in terrified steps, the driver yanking his window open to gain control. Sighing, she turned from the window and made her way downstairs. Lizzie was at a quilting somewhere in the neighborhood, which in Mary’s opinion was unwise. She hoped those fur-topped overshoes, as she called her boots, would bring her efficiently through the ever deepening snow.

She put the kettle on for a cup of tea and searched the cupboard shelves for honey. As she unwrapped the Twinings chai tea bag, her mind went back to the evening with Paul Beiler, the amputee.

Why couldn’t she have just appreciated his strengths, his ability to relax and enjoy a game of Scrabble, a challenge they both loved? He was a super nice guy, his parents like family, but all she could feel was an ever deepening sense of insecurity, as if she had slipped the anchor of a boat and realized she had lost the oars.

It wasn’t that absent arm, was it? She had never thought herself shallow, but who knew the secrets and sins of their own heart? God knew she did not want to live a single life, but maybe that was her destiny. Three times she’d dated, three times she’d been in love, and three times she’d lost them.

There had always been a spark, that familiar thrill of being in a suitor’s presence, knowing he was attractive and found her attractive as well. A little flame of recognition.

With Paul, they’d been together like comfortable siblings, devoid of the tiniest bit of romance. She poured boiling water into the white mug and upended the honey jar, shaking her head at the memory of his yawning, the casual handclasp as he told her goodbye.

And nothing, absolutely nothing since.

She sipped the scalding tea, thought of the coconut macaroons in the white box in the pantry, but reminded herself of the need to reduce her wide, soft girth. The numbers on the scales had caused her to frown repeatedly until she’d finally sworn off sugar and white flour.

Her weight was a constant concern. She knew she was turning to food to complete her, to comfort her when life gave her a battering. Running a bakery didn’t make it easy to avoid eating sweets. But the bakery was her passion, her heart and mind occupied with perfecting the everyday menu, scouring cookbooks for new recipes to astound. She reveled in the praise from appreciative customers who stopped every morning for breakfast sandwiches, pastries, fresh doughnuts, carrot muffins, and cookies. And she was always there, nibbling, grazing. A freshly glazed doughnut hole here, half a chocolate chip muffin still warm from the oven there, a sip of coffee laced heavily with French vanilla creamer. The calories added up. She tried to restrain her reach for fresh bits of warm sugar-laden food, but was never very successful, justifying the delicious bites by her constant moving about the bakery. All the walking between the oven and the counters, rolling out the pie crusts, kneading bread, wiping down the tables—it all burned calories, she reasoned.

She winced at the tight fabric stretched across her chest, hooked a finger in the belt of her bib apron, and tugged. Tight. Everything was tight. Ugh. What, exactly, was one to do in the middle of winter? Live on limp salads with tasteless, low-calorie dressing?

But she couldn’t help wondering if her size was the reason for Paul’s lack of interest. He’d never tried to contact her since, and she’d never really wanted him to. But still, she couldn’t help wondering about his sudden and lasting silence.

She had closed the bakery for the duration of the storm. She should have opened her sewing machine, cut out a dress or a few bib aprons, but she found herself in a state of lethargy. She was stuck in a tired, restless funk, her bones reduced to a wet sponge, her mind the only active thing remaining. Afraid of burnout, of finally cracking under the pressure of running the bakery, she paced, then settled into Aunt Lizzie’s recliner and reached for the book sitting open.

Now what was she reading?

Another God book. Seriously, was that the only type of book she ever read? Surely she knew every single thing there was to know about God. Her eyes scanned the pages, but she felt no need to go into deep spiritual learning.

Her father had always warned her to stay away from anything explaining the Bible from an English man or a woman’s point of view. It was all misleading, and no daughter of his would ever be caught up in that dangerous rubbish. The book, like countless things in her life, was viewed through the stern eyes of her father, an ultra-conservative man caught up in the ordnung (rules) of the Old Order Amish faith.

He adhered to the law of the forefathers to the letter, teaching his children well, the ten married ones following his admonitions wholeheartedly, living lives in the approving light of their father.

Their mother had suffered and died, buried beneath sighing fir trees, a plain granite stone to mark where she lay in her wooden casket. Her father had remarried in the allotted time, to a single maiden lady by the name of Jemima Peachey from Belleville, Pennsylvania.

That was when Mary returned to Lancaster, to Aunt Lizzie and a more liberal lifestyle. She visited family infrequently, well aware of carrying the questionable label of the black sheep. Her father lamented her state of worldly living, wrote long, tear-filled letters containing every judgment against her, the chance of her entering Heaven constantly becoming slimmer.

His voice was in all her decisions, unless she took a great deal of effort to block his threats, to mentally align her own conscience with God’s will for her life. The bakery was his greatest concern now. The money, the traveling in cars along city streets . . . it was all a deadly slide into worldliness. So far, she’d successfully batted his warnings aside, but she could never be completely free of the weight his words placed on her.

Mary sighed, closed her eyes, the slow hum of crawling traffic creating a drowsiness. The tea in her mug turned cold as she fell asleep in the middle of the day.

B ACK AT WORK the following day business was slow, so Mary’s four employees were put to work cleaning the refrigerator, the supply closets, and the floor. Careful to keep the inspector’s rules, they kept cleaning fluids and buckets away from the food.

The girls were young, vibrant, ambitious, and energetic. They chatted happily amongst themselves as they worked. Most of their conversation was about boys, clothes, or weekend plans, exactly in that order. Confident, secure in their upbringing in homes with loving parents, they were often the delight of Mary’s own life.

Whistling, singing snatches of songs, checking their phones behind her back, they were interesting and pretty young women whom she truly loved. And they were skilled, able to follow instructions and forge ahead with all manner of different foods, humble enough to accept correction where it was necessary.

This morning, the conversation centered on Karen, the short, blond-haired girl who had just turned seventeen. Mary’s ears perked up.

“Yeah, Karen, you’re going to have to decide,” Marianne quipped, stopping to drape an arm around her shoulder.

“Hush. Just hush. He said he’ll give me time.”

“Who?” Ruthie asked, pausing between her swipes across shelves.

“What? Who asked you?” LeAnna asked, getting up from the floor and smoothing her skirt.

Karen waved a hand, her eyes shining.

“It’s Christian Beiler. You know him,” Marianne said in her competitive tone.

A collective gasp, squeals of congratulation.

“Oh man, Karen!”

“Seriously, girl!”

“Dude!”

Mary smiled to herself but stayed out of the fray. Once, she had been seventeen and had felt the thrill of being attractive. But she lived a much more cloistered way of life, a lifestyle preserving the old ways, where young men wore hats and homemade black coats, drove roofless courting buggies, and kept all romance top secret. Where dating was done only on Sunday evening, surreptitiously sneaking into a dimly lit kitchen, drinking coffee, and talking in low undertones. Where faces turned red at the mention of having had someone bring them home from the singing.

No, she had never wanted any of these obedient, God-fearing young men, had found their conversation childish, their square cut hair and pimply faces disgusting. She had gone through stages of feeling abnormal, as if she needed an adjustment, but could no more help herself than she could change the amount of flaming, copper-colored hair on her head.

“I don’t know. It was between Christian and Kevin. I don’t know if Christian is going to cut it. Kevin is . . . Mm!”

Karen curled her fingers into fists and shoved them under her chin, her eyes rolling to the ceiling.

“He’s so-o cute!”

“Christian is better looking,” Ruthie piped up.

“Oh, come on, Ruthie,” LeAnna groaned.

“Looks aren’t everything,” Mary said quietly.

“You sound like my mom,” Karen said, rolling her blue eyes.

“It’s true, though,” Marianne said soberly, her eyes going to Mary’s.

“Customer.”

Mary hurried to the register, putting on her business smile, offering a bright good morning, how are you? They ordered and she rang up the chai latte and a black coffee with two bacon and egg sandwiches on whole wheat toast.

These customers were thin women, dressed to the nines. The bacon surprised Mary. Usually, it was an egg white and spinach wrap for this type. Whatever was wrong with eating an egg yolk, really?

She took the order to the grill, and Marianne stepped up, peeled on plastic gloves, popped the bread into the toaster, then poured a splash of oil on the grill.

Mary turned away, knowing Marianne would have the order done in record time. She was good with her hands, very swift, her movement all efficiency and management. She was grateful for all her workers, but could only smile and shake her head at the differences in what was normal for this young woman compared to what was “normal” for the rest of Mary’s family in Pinedale Valley.

But who was she to judge? Who was she to compare the dress code of her upbringing with that of these liberal girls who lived by the rules their own parents set for them. How could both be labeled Amish when they were so very different from each other? She mentally shook away the voice of her father, the dire premonitions of his judgment, the way of perdition for the ungehorsam (disobedient). She had wrestled internally with his strict views for years, the turmoil of it all causing the beginning of an acidic stomach that would drive her to the Prilosec, the Maalox, anything to settle the pain and discomfort.

For years, she’d shuttled back and forth, her mind deciding on one thing, then another, a restless hovering ghost never quite leaving her alone. “Respect your elders.” “Children, obey thy parents, so the time may be long and blessed in the land you live.” She’d pondered it. If she strayed off the narrow path, did it mean God would send metaphorical fire and brimstone on her life now, and actual hellfire and eternal misery in the life to come?

Sometimes she could stuff these fears into the backseat of her conscience, other times they were all-consuming. She could never be quite sure she was saved, that grace was sufficient. She longed to move on earth with complete assurance of God’s love for her, but that sort of confidence eluded her.

She listened to heartfelt sermons in the same German language she heard as a child, and always felt the load of guilt. Somehow, at the end of every church service, the peace she longed for was out of reach. She had learned to live with it, to blame herself for the roiling doubts, and to go ahead with her life as best she could.

“His car is in the garage, he said,” Karen was saying, waving an impatient hand. “It’s always somewhere.”

“Well, he can’t help that.”

“I know, but you should see Kevin’s new ride. Oh my word. It’s, like, unbelievably cool. A Mustang.”

Mary listened half-heartedly, feeling old and pinched and bitter.

Shake it off , she told herself.

“Customer.”

She hurried out. “Yes. Good morning. How may I help you?”

“Good morning to you.”

The man was in his early thirties, maybe late twenties. Hair cut neatly. He wore a navy blue winter coat. No hat, a round pleasant face.

Not someone who would stand out from a dozen others.

She smiled, made eye contact.

He smiled back. “Are you Mary?”

He didn’t wait for an answer, but turned his back to point to the sign hanging from the sturdy wrought iron arm above the large window.

“I am.”

He turned. “You’ve been quite successful. I’m impressed. God has blessed you abundantly, has He not?”

She stammered some ordinary reply, lowered her eyelids.

“Well, at any rate, this little bakery is the talk of the town. Literally.”

His eyes went to the menus.

“Are you eating in?” she asked.

“I would like to.”

“Then you may be seated wherever you choose, feel free to take a menu. Would you like coffee?”

“Certainly.”

He turned away, and Mary took up the signature heavy white mug and brought it to him. He looked up at her and asked if she had time for a short interview. His name was Chester and he was writing an article for the church paper, the Glorious Messenger .

Instantly, Mary’s warning flag was waving, a red splotch of burning conscience. What had her father said? To own a business in the city would thrust her into every temptation imaginable, the worst among them the wolves in sheep’s clothing, the wiley ravenous marauders who would present God in misleading ways. She tried to swat the voice aside, but found her breath coming in gasps, little fish like puffs of air that caused her to go hot all over.

She shook her head. “No, I can’t. I’m sorry.”

“That’s alright, I understand. I won’t pressure you.”

She took his order, her mouth compressed, her heart beating wildly. Pancakes with bacon and scrambled eggs.

“That sounds perfect on a snowy morning,” he said.

Mary smiled, nodded, jotted the order, and left.

The bell tinkled, admitting more customers. Ruthie came out, a bright, happy smile on her elfin face.

“Oh, Chester. Hi there. Good to see you,” she said, as she passed the man’s table.

“Hey, Ruthie. How’s it going?”

“Great.”

When she had a moment, Mary asked her how she knew him.

“Chester? That’s Chester Nolt. He goes to my sister’s church. They left the Amish a few years ago and go to this Mennonite church. Not sure what they’re called. The women wear those little watchamacallits.”

She circled a finger along the back of her head.

Mary nodded.

The following week, Chester was back. He was actually standing outside waiting till opening time, hurrying through the door after Mary opened the lock and stepped aside to allow him entry.

“Brr, is it freezing or what?” he boomed, laughing.

Mary couldn’t help smiling in spite of herself.

“Seat yourself.”

“I will. I’ve been dreaming of your pancakes all week. Plus, I’ll take a dozen doughnuts to my workers. Cold morning, warm hearts.”

The seating area was filling up rapidly, with others standing in front of the showcase, bent double to study the array of homemade doughnuts. The scent of coffee was rich and earthy, the sun streamed through the large plate glass window, illuminating the fresh white paint and the gleaming antiques hung tastefully on the wall. She’d bought fresh flowers to put in small glass pitchers for every table, which added a bright, natural touch.

She loved this part of her day, when adrenaline was coupled with real energy, when she felt the challenge of keeping up with everything and knew she was up to the task. She had a great crew, respectful girls who did a wonderful job. She was thankful and felt the stirring of a song in her heart.

Chester came over to the showcase, asked which doughnut was best.

Mary told him for a mixed crowd it was best to stay with the plain glazed or the filled and powdered. He nodded in agreement.

After he paid, he leaned forward only slightly and asked if she’d changed her mind about the interview.

“Not really. I’m sorry. I suppose I’m a bit old school, but . . .” She shrugged.

He caught the anxiety in her eyes, the raised eyebrows and worried lines across her forehead. He noticed the way she caught her lower lip in her teeth, the swallowing and blinking.

“Mary, it’s okay. No worries.”

His gaze was so patient and kind, she responded with visible relief.

“Thank you,” she murmured.

“Your convictions are respected, Mary.”

He took his box of doughnuts and left without another word, leaving Mary mulling over the word “conviction.”

Was she really convicted? Did she personally believe relaying her story to a Christian man to be printed in a church paper was wrong?

Not really. But what if the joy and gratitude she had felt only moments before was based on a lie? Could she experience blessing at all while blatantly disobeying her father?

It was impossible to know whether running the bakery was right or wrong, but there was no sense drawing attention to herself through an interview. She didn’t need to add pridefulness or vanity to her list of potential sins.

She tried to enjoy the remainder of her morning, putting aside any thoughts of right or wrong. She listened to the girls on break; obviously, Karen had decided to hold out for Kevin.

“I mean, Karen and Kevin? How cute is that?” she trilled.

Mary smiled to herself. With those looks and that sweet personality, there would be more Kevins and Christians, no doubt. She loved it, though. Loved to listen to the lives of these energetic young girls, and she genuinely wished them well.

She made a salad for herself, drew a Diet Pepsi, then gave in and used up the leftover bacon in a thick BLT with potato chips. She sat at a corner booth and pored over a Restaurant Store catalog. Lost in the wonders of available items, she finished her lunch and felt the need for something sweet, just a few bites of chocolate.

Her chocolate croissants were new and one of the best things she’d ever made. Just a few bites. She grabbed one from the showcase and returned to her table, trying to stabilize her guilt, as always.

Before she knew it, the croissant was gone. She crumpled the square of waxed paper, sighed deeply, and told herself she wouldn’t eat supper. She would tell Aunt Lizzie she wasn’t hungry. It would all balance out.

Besides, that croissant was worth the guilt.

But by evening, she was ravenous. She caught the scent of hot tomato sauce as soon as she stepped through the door and figured Lizzie had made lasagna or spaghetti, her favorite pasta. She groaned.

Aunt Lizzie welcomed her warmly, set a plate of perfect lasagna in front of her, the cheese browned and melted, the rich sauce like ambrosia.

Aunt Lizzie told her of the quilting, the neighborhood news.

There was a new baby at Jesse Riehl’s, a daughter named Rachel Jane.

“Why they would name a girl Rachel Riehl is beyond me,” she finished, dabbing at her nose and mouth with the napkin she kept by the side of her plate. She always used a napkin, saying old folks with dentures were sloppy eaters, that was simply a fact of life.

“Rachel Riehl. It has a certain ring to it,” Mary answered, happily halfway through the wonders of her lasagna.

“And, get this. Chonny Esha ihr Jonasa left the church. Imagine. They’re in their forties, have married children. I tell you, the world is coming to an end. It can’t be far away. They say she doesn’t even have her head covered. Oh, it’s terrible.”

Mary nodded, reaching for another slice of garlic toast.

“But judge not lest ye be judged, right? Ach , we are all sinners. But still, we can pray to remain steadfast to our promise we made to God and man.”

Mary wanted to ask, “What? What did we promise?” but decided to hold her peace. Sometimes joining the church in Pinedale Valley seemed like one big question. She had not understood much at sixteen, only knew she’d obeyed her parents and was expected to live a godly life, help build the church, and always dress according to the rules.

“Oh, and Mary, there’s a letter, from your father, looks like.”

She felt the familiar thud of her heart slowing with a thud, then speeding up with an erratic rhythm. Suddenly, the lasagna went cold and congealed, leaving her without appetite.

She left the table, found the rectangular white envelope with the round post office seal from New York, bit her lip to steady it, and went to her room. She took a few deep breaths before she allowed her shaking hands to open the seal.

What was it this time? What act of immorality, what gross overreaching sin had she managed to carry out? And how much had she grieved her father with her disobedience?