An Amish Holiday Wedding. Carrie Lighte
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I have appointments coming up soon. But what I really need you to do is oversee my shop. It’s been closed for the past week, and Thanksgiving and Grischtdaag are just around the bend. They’re my busiest seasons.”
Hunter took a large bite of biscuit so his mouth was too full to respond. His uncle owned a furniture restoration business, with his main workshop at home and a smaller storefront in town. After he died, Ruth converted the space in town into a cannery, where she sold jams, relishes, fruits and chow chow. Hunter knew nothing about canning, and he didn’t particularly care to learn.
As if reading his mind, Ruth explained, “You wouldn’t be expected to do the canning. I’ve put up plenty of jars for now, and harvest season is over. If the shelves run low, your mamm has agreed to help with the canning, although she’ll have to use store-bought produce for the ingredients, which is what I sometimes do in the winter.”
“You want me to serve customers?” Hunter questioned. “I wouldn’t be able to distinguish pickled beets from raspberry preserves!”
“Neh. My employee, Ivy Sutter, waits on customers. She knows everything there is to know about the products. But she has a special way of learning, so when she’s ringing up purchases, she needs supervision—and protection. She’s such an innocent maedel. Our regular customers are fine people, Englisch and Amish alike, but I’m concerned some of the tourists might take advantage or make demands.”
Hunter set down his fork. He was familiar with his aunt’s compassion for anyone who struggled with a difference of ability or who didn’t fit in as well as others did. But Ruth was gifted; she had a way with people. He didn’t. At least, he didn’t anymore. Most days, his pain was so intense it took all of his resolve not to snarl at his own mother. How would he tolerate demanding customers or keep his patience with a girl who had learning difficulties?
“You wouldn’t just be supervising Ivy. You’d also restock the shelves and keep the books. Of course, I’d pay you fairly,” Ruth concluded.
“He wouldn’t think of accepting payment, would you, Hunter?” his mother, Iris, interjected.
Hunter’s ears felt inflamed. He knew it was a sin to be prideful, but his aunt’s offer of a salary wounded his ego—primarily because he was in such desperate need of an income. It had been so long since he’d had full-time employment, he forgot what it felt like to receive an honest day’s wage. Since his accident, he’d taken as many odd jobs as he could get, but they were few and far in between. The leit in his district helped with a significant portion of his hospital bills, but his rehabilitation was ongoing. In fact, he’d prematurely quit physical therapy because he knew they could no longer afford the sessions and pay for his mother’s medical costs. He didn’t want to keep imposing on the church, especially since others’ needs seemed greater than his own.
Most humiliating of all, right before they left for Willow Creek, he’d received a notice from the bank stating they were on the brink of losing the house if they were delinquent with another mortgage payment. To the Amish, making a payment late was considered almost akin to stealing, since it denied the payee their fair due on time. While the payments were very small, Hunter still had difficulty scraping together enough to cover the mortgage. He shielded his mother from their financial woes, but he was so overwhelmed he was tempted to accept a lawyer’s offer to sue the trucking company that employed the driver who hit them. Thankfully, the temptation left him almost as soon as it struck: it was unthinkable for the Amish to engage in a lawsuit for financial gain.
Swallowing the last of his coffee, Hunter decided although he might not be able to provide for a wife and he was floundering in caring for his mother, the least he could do was manage his aunt’s shop without accepting a cent for it. He’d always had an interest in bookkeeping; perhaps the experience would afford him new skills he could use in Indiana.
“We’re family and we’re here to help, Ant Ruth,” he finally stated. “Provided there’s absolutely no more talk of payment, I’ll be glad to oversee your cannery.”
Yet as he hitched his horse to the post in town, he was anything but glad. Rather, his legs were so sore and stiff they felt like two planks nailed to his hips. He tottered down Main Street with a basket of eggs, hoping he didn’t appear as conspicuous as he felt.
Stopping beneath the simply carved sign that read Yoder’s Bakery, Hunter noticed a smaller cardboard sign propped in the window. “Early morning delivery person URGENTLY needed. November 27‒December 24. Willow Creek to Piney Hill. Inquire within,” it said. He wondered how “early” was early. Could he make the deliveries and still return to Willow Creek in time to open the cannery? Would Faith even consider him for the job, given their interaction that morning?
Hunter squinted through the spotless glass window. The bakery contained five or six small tables with chairs. Beyond the cozy dining space was a pastry case and behind that Faith was stacking bread on a shelf. Hunter noticed what had been too dim to see earlier: the fiery red hair of her youth had faded to a richer, subdued shade of auburn.
“Do you see something in there you think you’d like?” a woman behind him asked. “Everything we make is excellent.”
Embarrassed, Hunter turned and stuttered, “You—you work there?”
“I do. My name is Pearl Hostetler. But wait—aren’t you Hunter, Ruth’s nephew?” the tall, thin, silver-haired woman asked.
“I am,” he answered sheepishly. “It’s gut to see you again.”
“It’s wunderbaar to see you, Hunter,” Pearl said, placing her hand on his arm. “Ruth told me about your daed. I was very sorry to hear what happened.”
“Denki.” He coughed, surprised by the emotion Pearl’s sincere sympathy elicited. He extended the basket of eggs. “I brought these for Faith. Hers broke this morning when she was cycling into town. Also, I’m... I’m interested in hearing more about the delivery job.”
Hunter hoped Pearl would simply receive the basket and provide him details about the job, but she pushed the door open and announced, “Look who’s here, Faith. Hunter brought you oier and he wants to be your deliveryman, as well!”
Noticing Faith’s eyes narrow, Hunter didn’t wish to appear too eager. He clarified, “I’d like to hear more about the job, that is.”
“It’s pretty straightforward,” Faith replied, brushing her hands against her apron. “I need someone unfailingly dependable to deliver my baked goods to an Englisch booth at the Piney Hill Festival between seven and seven thirty every morning, Monday through Saturday. The festival begins in less than two weeks, on the day after Thanksgiving, and runs until the day before Grischtdaag. The delivery person would have to commit for the duration of the festival in order to make it worth my while to rent booth space.”
Mentally calculating the distance between the bakery and Piney Hill, Hunter was certain he could complete the deliveries, return the horse and buggy to his aunt’s home and walk to town with a good fifteen minutes to spare before the cannery opened at nine o’clock. And when Pearl blurted out the sum he’d earn for each delivery, Hunter was confident the arrangement was an answer to his prayers.
Looking Faith in the eye, he said, “Beginning Monday, I’ll be managing Ruth’s shop from nine until five o’clock, but I’d be available in the early morning to make deliveries for the duration of the festival.”
Faith nodded slowly. “Jah, I’d appreciate that. The job is yours,” she confirmed. She paused as a mischievous grin crossed her face. “But I do hope you’re more careful about where you steer than you are about where you walk. My sales are very important to me.”
“Your sales will be fine, provided you bake better than you bike,” Hunter retorted, giving her an equally rascally smirk before setting the eggs on a table and exiting the store.
As he stepped into the brightening day, he realized Ruth was right: the trip had been worth his while.