Where Secrets Sleep. Marta Perry
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value. How could she mourn a relationship that had never existed?
Sarah turned to Nick Whiting. “Did you know about this, Nick?”
He shook his head, frowning a little. He seemed honestly confused, although Allison wasn’t inclined to take anything at face value where Nick was concerned.
Seen in daylight, her impression of his rough-hewn good looks was confirmed. Attractive enough to cause a quiver in the stomach, if you went for men who wore jeans and flannel shirts to work. She didn’t.
“Evelyn always was wily about keeping her secrets.” His frown dissolved in a reluctant smile. “She certainly put one over on all of us this time. Including you, I guess.” His smile included Allison, but she thought she detected an edge of malice in the curve of his lips. “Evelyn tied your hands, did she?”
Sarah gave him a quelling look. “That’s enough, Nick. This is no way to get acquainted with the new owner.”
Somewhat to Allison’s surprise, he took the reproof with a nod. “Right you are. Guess I’ll get to work and let you two sort it out between you.”
Before she could deny there was anything to sort out, he had turned and crossed the hall to his showroom.
And little though Allison wanted to admit it, she was trapped in a situation she hadn’t foreseen, with no knowledge of who she could trust. She needed information before she could attempt any decisions, and Sarah might be able to supply it.
At the moment, Sarah was watching her with a slightly anxious expression. “Will you come into the shop?” She gestured to the quilt store. “Ach, it seems strange to invite you in when it’s half yours, anyway.”
Allison responded with a smile. She’d already broken her cardinal rule several times with Nick Whiting by letting him see her reaction to him. There was no point in compounding the problem by letting Sarah see her as anything but pleasant and professional. She’d realized when her father walked out on her and her mother that there was a lot to be said for being independent, and a big part of independence for her had meant hiding her emotions, especially the negative ones.
“I’d love to have you show me around the shop. There’s so much I don’t know.”
“Komm.” Sarah led the way, a tiny bell jingling as they opened the door. They moved into an aura of bright colors and soft textures that seemed to envelop and comfort at the same time.
The shop was in what must have been a parlor in the original mansion. The front windows were angled to form a bay with a bench under them. Sarah must have been responsible for the quilted cushions that turned it into an inviting seating area. The wallpaper, if not original, was a good copy of the flowered style so common in Victorian homes. Allison hadn’t had much occasion to decorate homes of this period, since most of Diane’s business had been with the busy young corporate execs who moved into a house, decorated in the latest style, then sold and moved on when they reached the next step of the corporate ladder.
But she knew something good when she saw it, and the fireplace was a masterpiece of High Victorian with its intricately carved and mirrored mantelpiece that dwarfed everything else in the room. Sarah had wisely not tried to change the intrinsic charm of the room but allowed her quilts to make their own statement.
“Didn’t you know that your grandmother intended for you to have this?” Sarah’s gesture took in the quilt shop and beyond it, the whole building.
“I hadn’t the slightest idea until her attorney called me.” It was pointless to hide the fact, since probably everyone in town would know the details before long. Evelyn Standish had apparently been someone important in Laurel Ridge. “As far as I know, she never saw me or attempted to make contact.”
Sarah’s blue eyes darkened with sympathy. “I’m so sorry. I can’t understand any grossmammi doing that.” She flushed slightly. “Ach, I’m sorry. Sometimes the Deutsch word just comes out when I’m talking Englisch. And the other way around, too.”
That little tidbit caught Allison’s imagination. “You mean you use Englisch words when you’re speaking dialect?” The instant she’d asked the question she wondered if Sarah would take offense, but Sarah responded with a quick smile that showed a dimple in each cheek.
“For sure. I guess you could say Pennsylvania Dutch is an old dialect. Dates from when the Amish came here in the 1700s. So when new things come along and we don’t have words for them, we just use the Englisch words.”
Allison nodded, relaxing in the face of the other woman’s friendly attitude. It would be foolish to let herself be put off by the fact that Sarah’s clothes were old-fashioned and her hair pulled severely from a center part and confined under a white covering at the back of her head. Those externals didn’t affect the warmth of her smile.
“You haven’t seen much of the Amish, ain’t so?” Sarah’s tone was matter-of-fact.
“Am I being obvious? To be honest, you’re the first Amish person I’ve ever talked to.”
Sarah’s dimples showed. “You’re not the first Englischer I’ve talked to, that’s certain sure. Mostly around here the Englisch and Amish know each other pretty well.”
“I could see that you and Nick Whiting know each other.” She hoped her tone didn’t give away her impression of him.
Sarah paused, her hand on a double bed in the front of the shop. It was completely covered by colorful quilts laid one on top of another. “Nick’s family lives on the property next to my parents’ farm, so we’ve been friends since we were small.”
So naturally her sympathy would be with Nick. She’d spoken to him as she would to a brother.
Well, that was enough of betraying an interest in Nick Whiting. He’d already made his attitude toward her presence plain.
“These quilts are all for sale?” she asked, touching the blue-and-white one on top.
“Ja, this is what we have in stock now.” Sarah seemed happy to turn her attention to the quilts. “I always display them this way so folks can see how they look on a bed.” She flipped the top quilt back to display the next, an intricately designed one that glowed in jewel tones. “The maker’s name and the price are on a numbered tag in the corner of the quilt, and I keep a card file with all the information about it.”
It seemed a simplistic method of keeping track of stock in the twenty-first century, but maybe that was what Sarah was comfortable with. “They are beautiful.” Genuine admiration filled Allison’s voice. “Works of art.” She stroked the detailed quilting on the border, each stitch put in perfectly by hand.
“You have that in common with your grandmother, then,” Sarah said. “Even though she didn’t do much in the shop, she really loved the quilts.”
Somehow she was surprised that they’d had anything at all in common. “How did the two of you become partners?”
Sarah’s smile became reminiscent. “I worked for Mrs. Standish when I was a teenager—cleaning the house and such. When I didn’t marry...” She shrugged. “Well, most Amish are pairing off by the time they hit their twenties. Evelyn was...” Again she hesitated. “Evelyn asked me what I wanted to do, and I told her my hope was to start a shop to sell the things Amish quilters made.” Sarah lost her hesitancy, her blue eyes sparkling. “Women like my mamm, who didn’t have a gut place to market their quilts. And she offered me this.” A sweep of her arm encompassed the shop.
“So you became partners.” That argued a generosity on the part of her grandmother that surprised her. Evelyn Standish might have been more complicated than Allison’s impression of her.
“She put up the money to get started, and I paid her back out of the profits.” Sarah sounded more knowledgeable than Allison would have expected. “I have my copies of our agreements if you want to see them, but I’m sure