The Amish Baker's Secret Courtship
Autor:in
Amy Grochowski
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Chapter One
Cassie Weaver plunged her fists deep into the bread dough until her knuckles disappeared into the center of the deflating pillow of yeasty softness. She wasn’t always so forceful with this step of bread making—a task she performed multiple times daily on most days of the week.
Nay, the chore wasn’t the source of her irritation this morning, despite how she channeled her frustration into it. In fact, she loved baking and her job in her uncle’s Amish store. And Uncle Nick understood—encouraged even—her desire to open her own Amish bake shop. But her datt...
“Ach!” She dumped the dough out of the proofing container and onto the countertop, where she’d divide it into portions for loaves. “Why can’t he see what a wunnerbar goot opportunity this is? He’s never been this way before. So...so...”
“Careful, dochter.”
Cassie jumped at the sound of her datt’s voice behind her. She thought she was all alone in the cooking area of the store’s deli.
Tall and lanky, straw hat in his hand and his salty-gray hair parted by the same cowlick she’d inherited from him, Eli Weaver stood half grinning at her with a twinkle in his eye.
“Obstinate. Stubborn. Do either of those words work?” He sighed. And Cassie didn’t dare reply, although both words would have worked. “I’m not opposed to you starting your own business. I believe you’d do a great job at it. Just not in your uncle’s farmhouse.”
“Uncle Nick’s farmhouse is standing empty. He and Fern and their kinner are happy in their new house above the store. I’m sure they wouldn’t offer if it was an imposition.”
Her father stepped closer and placed his hand on her arm with a gentle touch, much in the way he’d soothe an unsettled horse. “I’m not comfortable having you working alone on that large farm off the main road. Even in a small mountain town like Promise, there are dangers for a young woman alone.”
“But there isn’t anywhere else for the bakery.”
“Cassie, let’s not go through it all again. I know you disagree, but I’m your vader. It’s my job to keep you safe. And I’m sure we can find a solution in the end that suits everyone. There’s no rush, is there?”
She shook her head. “Nay, but I don’t want to wait forever, Datt.”
“Forever is so short to the young.” He chuckled, sounding every bit the Amish minister he’d become when she was a young girl. “I won’t make you wait that long before we come up with a satisfactory resolution. Give it some time to see what else might work out. That’s all I ask.”
She didn’t want to wait, especially knowing there wasn’t any other building available, not with a ready-made kitchen to start a bakery. Main Street stretched no farther than five blinks by horse and one by car along the Virginia state road leading up to the Blue Ridge Parkway. Weaver’s Amish Store was the chief attraction, second only to Burkholder’s Hardware and Nicely’s gas station. She had high hopes of adding her own bakery to that list of Promise stores for tourists, but all the other buildings were residential and occupied.
Nay, there were no other options.
But she respected her datt’s wisdom. He’d never given her a reason not to trust him before. Besides, she couldn’t just leave Uncle Nick in the lurch at the store. He needed to find a replacement. Hopefully by then, her datt would reach the same conclusion she had.
“Ya, Datt. That seems fair.”
“Goot.” He gave her elbow a gentle squeeze and dropped his hand.
“But Datt... I just wonder, why now? You hadn’t said anything against this idea before last night.”
He placed his hat back on his head, then spoke in a near whisper. “I think you know.”
Only she didn’t. She knew he had this sudden concern for her safety, but none of the ideas she came up with to remedy the issue had been enough to convince him. She’d spent most of the night and all morning trying to figure it out. It was as if everyone was privy to some secret, everyone but her. Ach, but her head ached from it all.
She rubbed at her temples and pulled in a deep breath.
He offered a sympathetic smile. “It’s not so bad, just a bump in the road.”
A bump that felt more like a mountain.
The familiar swish of the staff door opening shifted Cassie’s attention from her datt. Fern Beiler—nay, Fern Weaver now, Uncle Nick’s new wife—came through the entryway bearing a steaming cup of kaffi in her hand.
Fern smiled at them both. “Goot mariye, Eli. I didn’t realize you were here.” She held the mug out to Cassie. “Nick said you could use this.”
“Denki, Fern.” She gladly accepted the caffeinated drink, even though she usually preferred tea. This morning, she could use the extra boost.
“How about you, Eli? I can get you a cup, too, if you’d like.”
“Nay. No need to bother. I have to get going. But denki for taking care of my girl.” He smiled at them both before slipping out the same way Fern had come in a moment before.
After Cassie’s datt left, Fern raised an eyebrow. “Nick mentioned you appeared tired this morning and maybe a mite discouraged.”
Fern wasn’t necessarily tall. But, like almost everyone else in the world, she was taller than Cassie, who’d inherited her short stature from her mamm rather than her father’s height. At that moment, though, Fern leaned back against the counter and slumped down a few inches to stand shoulder to shoulder with Cassie.
Fern placed a hand on her abdomen in which a new life was growing large enough to spring into the world any day.
“What is it?” Cassie’s concern grew as the woman hesitated to answer. “Is it the baby?”
“Nay. The boppli is fine.” Fern patted her belly.
She’d known Fern all her life. Of course, because they were both Amish in a tiny community, but also because she was Martin Beiler’s older sister. A sudden panic struck at the thought of Martin. Cassie flipped around to face Fern directly. “It’s not Martin, is it? Is everything alright?”
“I think maybe Eli’s change of heart is all about Martin.” Fern shook her head slowly. “No one dares intrude on your privacy. But...”
“My privacy? What does that have to do with Martin? What has happened?” Cassie’s panic rose.
For years she’d worried terrible news would come about Martin. Ever since he left with his brother three years ago, she’d prayed for him each and every day.
Martin was such a gentle soul. To her, it felt as if he’d gone out among the wolves by leaving the safety of their community and the family and friends who loved him. So, when he’d finally come back last summer to help build Nick and Fern’s new house above their store, Cassie had allowed herself the smallest of hopes that he might still come back to Promise to stay.
Only his visits had been short and far between ever since. And now, something had happened to Martin that had his sister’s face scrunched up with concern.
“Nay, Martin is fine,” the woman stated matter-of-factly, much to Cassie’s relief. “What I mean is that I think Martin is the reason Eli doesn’t want you to use the farmhouse for your bakery.”
“That doesn’t make any sense. What does Martin have to do with me using Uncle Nick’s farmhouse for my bakery?”
Fern’s mouth dropped open briefly. “You really don’t know, do you? I thought... I guess we all assumed that he would have told you.”
So, they were all in on some sort of secret, after all.
“You have to tell me, Fern. What is it that no one is sharing with me—including Martin?”
“Relax, Martin.” Uncle Titus flipped the turn signal of his farm truck to show they were exiting the highway onto the mountain road leading to Promise, Virginia. “Your bees are fine back there. It’s still dark, so the bees are sleeping. I’ve gone slow, the air is cool and we’ll be at the farm in twenty minutes.”
“Ya. Ya. I know.” His uncle had systematically gone through the checklist of Martin’s concerns for his precious cargo. Sure, he’d transported beehives many times, but never as far as today. He gripped his fingers around his knees to keep them still. He didn’t realize he’d been stimming.
That’s what the Mennonite counselor called the hand-flapping movements and other tics that soothed him when he was anxious. The problem was they had the opposite effect on people around him. And he’d learned to control them. Mostly.
Martin inhaled deeply to settle his nerves. “I really appreciate your help with this.”
“I’m happy to do it. A quick visit with family is overdue on my part.” His father’s brother had grown up Old Order Amish in the Virginia Highlands, just like Martin had. But he’d moved down to the valley and joined a group of Beachy Amish, who dressed and worshipped Plain but used electricity and drove black, simple vehicles.
Martin had considered joining their church down in the valley until last summer when he’d helped his sister out of a pinch by leasing their farmhouse, even though he had no intention of living in it. After an exceptional honey harvest two years running, it had been something useful he was in a unique position to do. So he had.
He only meant to keep the property in the family until his nieces and nephews grew up. Ever since, though, he’d felt a tug back to his old home.
And it was an odd sensation he didn’t understand or like, in particular. He’d left Promise with his twin brother, Seth, because they’d never felt they belonged there. Trouble was, Seth had moved on down to Florida while Martin stayed with his bees in the Shenandoah Valley.
Being by himself wasn’t so bad, really. In fact, alone worked best for him.
This trip was simply to set up his beehives and give collecting mountain honey a try. And before his mamm or Cassie Weaver got any ideas that he might stay, he’d be on his way back down the mountain.
“Looks like there’s a light on.” Uncle Titus stared ahead at the farmhouse. Martin strained his eyes against the dim predawn in the same direction. Sure enough, a faint glow emanated from the kitchen window.
“Strange. No one mentioned anyone staying here.” He knew non-Amish often left on electric lights when a home was empty, but none of his family would be foolish enough to leave gas lights on unattended. “Well, whoever it is, I need to alert them to what we’re doing. I don’t want someone wandering up on us while we unload the bees. Especially not as we reopen the hives and let them out.”
“Nay. We don’t want anyone getting stung.” His uncle eased the truck to the end of the driveway near the house, rather than through the pasture gate as they’d planned, and shut off the engine.
Martin had planned every meticulous detail of this move. Surprises like this twisted his already frayed nerves into an expanding knot of buzzing loose ends. “I’ll be right back.”
“Don’t get too grumpy with whatever poor soul is in that kitchen. It’s not their fault this job requires so much fussy attention on your end.” Titus chuckled, then removed his seat belt. “Maybe I’ll just come along for goot measure.”
“I’m not that bad.” Although Martin had to admit to himself, he sounded pretty gruff already.
He sighed and reminded himself that everything would work out fine. Probably. Hopefully. Maybe. He kicked at the gravel. Who really knew?
As he crossed the last step up to the porch, the scent of cinnamon, yeast and honey wafted in the air. He hadn’t smelled that combination in years. Somewhere around three years, to be exact.
“Whoo-boy! Don’t that make your mouth water?” Uncle Titus grinned as wide as one of the giant cinnamon rolls Martin had just been reminded of—the ones Cassie used to bake and glaze with a honey concoction just for him.
Martin rapped lightly on the front door, then momentarily the kitchen curtain pulled back, revealing the sweet face of Cassie Weaver, the minister’s daughter and his childhood friend.
“Well, well, what do you know? Seems I could have stayed in that nice, warm truck after all.” His uncle elbowed him right under the rib cage, an altogether unpleasant sensation that made him jump. “Appears to me, some young woman has her kapp set on you. Every Amish woman knows the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach.”
“It’s Cassie.” Martin inhaled a deep breath for patience. Cassie was a friend—once his best friend—everyone knew that. If she’d been more, which she definitely wasn’t, he may have stayed in the first place. “I can promise you that her intention is not anything like that.”
Although Cassie showing up with cinnamon buns was admittedly suspicious.
“I reckon we’re about to find out, aren’t we?” His uncle wagged his eyebrows and Martin looked away. Why did people persist in making comments like that about him and Cassie? They were friends, plain and simple.
While he was confident Cassie had no romantic intentions, Martin couldn’t fathom what her real reason was for being at the farmhouse baking his favorite treat before the sun came up. But he knew it all added up to one thing—namely, she wanted a favor.
And as always, she knew just how to get him to agree with her—before he even knew what she wanted. Those cinnamon buns did the trick. Every. Time.
Cassie let the curtain drop back in place and straightened her shoulders. So far, so good. Gott bless Fern for alerting her of Martin’s plans to bring some of his beehives to Promise for making mountain honey.
She wasn’t sure what made mountain honey different from any other honey, although over the years she’d listened to Martin enough to know the flowers the bees visited affected the flavor of the honey they produced. Whatever it meant, she was just glad it brought Martin back up the mountain to Promise.
A dreadful shiver ran up her spine. Except for the bees. She wasn’t too pleased about more bees. But she supposed the hives would be far away from the house. Out of sight and out of mind, where she preferred they remain.
Carrying a plateful of the cinnamon bun recipe dubbed the Martin Special, she made her way to the front door to greet him and his uncle. How wunnerbar that in less than twenty-four hours since her datt asked her to wait before opening her bakery in this very house, her plans were so quickly about to take a turn for the better.
Ya, Martin’s arrival today was nothing less than providential. If anyone would see things her way about the bakery, Martin would.
With a welcoming smile, she opened the door.
“Goot Mariye, Titus.” Martin’s uncle stood closest to the door. His eyes were round, and he appeared ready to dive headlong into the mound of cinnamon rolls she held before him. She glanced over Titus’s shoulder, making eye contact with Martin. “Hello, Martin. I’ve made your favorite.”
“Ya, I see.” He started to smile then looked away as if she held a plateful of temptation. “I only stopped by the house so as not to frighten whoever was here. We’re just heading to one of the back pastures to set up some hives.” He tugged at his uncle’s sleeve. “Kumm, there’s no time. You’ll have to get one of those rolls after we set up the hives.”
Titus snatched a bun off the plate. “He’s in a dither about them bees. You’ll have to excuse his rudeness.”
Already about to descend the first step off the porch, Martin paused. His shoulders sagged, and he turned back to face her like a wayward child forced to apologize by his mamm.
This was not promising. Not at all. And far from the reaction she had hoped for.
“I’m sorry, Cassie. But we really can’t waste a minute.” He looked down at his feet and shoved his hands in his pockets.
Cassie hated that he felt so uncomfortable. He wasn’t supposed to feel that way with her. Other people made him nervous, but she was his friend. Wasn’t she? More might have changed between them than she thought.
“Of course. I understand.”
Slowly his eyes, green as the new spring grass, came back to meet hers. “I’ll come back.”
His words sounded more like a tortuous concession than the pleasure he normally showed for her treats. And she’d been up two hours early this morning to make them for him. Vell, maybe not just for him. She did have a reason.
Titus had made his way back toward the truck, but Martin was waiting for her reply. She tried to smile over her disappointment. “Just don’t take as long to come back as the last time you made that promise. My cinnamon buns won’t last three years.”
Understanding dawned in his expression. His somber look changed to a smile. “Don’t worry, Cass. Your special recipe is as irresistible as ever.”
Cass—his friendly shortened version of her name—sparked some hope in her heart.
Martin was still her friend, and he’d help her. She only had to get him to stay in Promise long enough to do so. The plate of cinnamon buns weighed heavily in her hands. They may have lost some of their usual instant charm on him, but she wasn’t giving up yet.
