Uncovering Her Amish Past
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Patrice Lewis
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16
Chapter One
Penelope Moore peered through the swishing windshield wipers. The tiny town of Pierce, Montana, was no longer visible in her rearview mirror and she was driving on a gravel road through alternating forests of pine trees and broad fields. The summer day was warm, and this rainstorm broke the increasing humidity and offered freshness to the air.
She was on her way to her first assignment of the new job she’d landed two weeks ago as a franchise scout for a company called QuirkyB&B, a bed-and-breakfast franchise. They needed people to research unusual or unique B&Bs around the country and bring them under their corporate umbrella, she was told, and her background in advertising and marketing was especially valuable. They said they were always hiring enthusiastic scouts such as herself.
During her training, Quirky B&B had recommended using an excuse as to why she was booking an extended stay at each location, and Penelope had volunteered that she was an amateur landscape painter. She was told that was the perfect front.
As an added measure of interest, she would be working incognito. Her job was to assess the potential for the B&B to become a franchise location. The only downside of her training was the unrelenting pressure to convince the independent B&B businesses to franchise.
Even accustomed as she was to the competitive marketing and advertising world, QuirkyB&B’s tactics seemed...well, aggressive. However, the rewards were high, with impressive commissions for every new franchisee she brought in.
And Penelope desperately needed the commission she would earn from this assignment.
The only fly in her ointment was her refusal of the corporate requirement that she have a smart phone. Penelope knew she was one of the last urban holdouts against the convenience, but she didn’t like the constant connectivity and preferred to keep her communications options simple. The cheap basic flip phone she used didn’t permit texts, and her boss didn’t push when she dug in her heels on the issue. She promised him she would keep up with emails instead.
So—armed with her simple flip phone and a suitcase full of art supplies—she’d flown from Boston to Montana, rented a car and made her way toward the remote town of Pierce.
This corner of Montana seemed pretty enough. The town wasn’t much to see—the sign on the outskirts said the population was 3,500—but she was startled to see one or two Amish buggies on the roads. She had no idea the church had spread this far west, though she’d seen enough of the distinctive sect while growing up in Pennsylvania.
On the long drive, she had thought long and hard how best to approach this undercover assignment. Should she act naive? Haughty? Gossipy? What was the best way to extract the information she needed?
“There it is,” she murmured, slowing down. A homemade wooden sign proclaiming Mountain View Bed and Breakfast directed her through an open gate and down a gravel driveway through a tunnel of coniferous trees. Then the foliage opened up and she saw a large and charming two-story board-and-batten home perched on a broad green lawn. The structure had a generous front porch wreathed with Virginia creeper, with homey rocking chairs taking advantage of the view. The house was old, but clearly renovated and well-loved.
Her boss at QuirkyB&B said initial research of the establishment painted a portrait of a business that was amateurish and not well-run, but its location was prime and it had the added novelty of being off the beaten path, which was an attraction to many people. On the downside, apparently it did not have internet service, which would deter some people...unless the lack of internet was itself an attraction for those who needed a break from hyperconnected daily life.
Doubtless, she was told, the owner wouldn’t have any problem franchising it. Start-ups were often grateful for a chance to be pulled into a professional organization to expand their marketing...or so her boss assured her. In fact, it was a shoo-in for her first assignment. Easy-peasey.
Penelope parked the car and turned off the engine. In the sudden silence, the rain drumming on the roof was almost deafening. She pressed a hand to her midsection and debated making a run for it through the rain or waiting for the storm cell to pass. She shrugged, got out of the car and dashed for the porch.
She shook her head to dislodge some of the water and wiped the rain from her face. Then she took a deep breath, lifted her chin and knocked on the door.
No answer. The rain pounded on the roof of the porch.
She knocked again, louder.
From inside, she heard footsteps approaching and a man opened the door. He had dark curly hair and cheerful blue eyes, and he was dressed in classic Amish attire of broadfall trousers with suspenders over a green shirt. He was only a few inches taller than her, which would put him at a compact five-foot-nine, but wiry. He gave her a casual glance and said, “Guten tag, Sarah. Heute hat es ziemlich geregnet, nicht wahr?”
Penelope was thrown for a loop, and her greeting died on her lips. She had taken German in high school and had tried to keep up with her studies afterward, but hadn’t spoken the language in years. She was able to recognize the greeting as Hello, Sarah. Quite a rain today, isn’t it? But her brain couldn’t work fast enough to formulate a reply.
Suddenly the man did a classic double take and stared at her. “S-Sarah?”
“Good afternoon,” she replied. “My name is Penelope Moore. I’ll be staying here for the next few weeks as a guest of your B&B.”
He snapped shut his open mouth, then peered at her more closely. “Excuse me, I thought you were my sister-in-law Sarah.” He scratched his head in a gesture of confusion. “I was wondering what she was doing in Englisch clothes.”
“Yes. Well.” The man seemed positively dazed. “What do I need to do to check in?”
“Please come in. I’m so sorry. You just threw me for a moment.” Still appearing confused, the man moved to a small desk area and shuffled around for some paperwork.
She’d had no idea the B&B proprietor was Amish. No wonder it had no internet service. It would also go a long way toward explaining the limited and clumsy online presence of the establishment. Certainly he didn’t use a computerized check-in process. Everything was done by ledger.
While the man prepared the paperwork, she glanced around at the room, clearly the home’s living room that now doubled as a lobby. The hardwood floors gleamed, the simple wooden furniture shone with polish, the upholstered chairs looked comfy, the cream-colored walls were bare of any artwork and wall sconces held a variety of what were unmistakably oil lamps. Along one wall, a well-stocked bookshelf offered a selection of reading material for guests. A set of stairs at one side led to the second floor. It was hard for her to see anything wrong with the lobby. In fact, she appreciated the simple lines and clean furnishings.
“Sign here, please,” the man said, interrupting her inspection and presenting a piece of paper on a clipboard.
Penelope scrawled her signature, then handed over her credit card, which he processed—she was amused to see—using an old-fashioned manual credit-card imprinter. She desperately hoped QuirkyB&B was prompt in reimbursing her expenses, because at the moment she was in far more debt on her credit card than she was comfortable with.
“Danke,” he said when she finished. “I mean, thank you.”
“Bitte,” she replied. “I’ve had some German when I was younger, though I don’t know if I could keep up with a conversation anymore.”
He offered her a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “I simply can’t get over how much you resemble my sister-in-law. Oh, and I should have introduced myself earlier. I’m Simon Troyer. Is this your first time in Montana?”
“Yes. I’m an artist and wanted to stay here for a few weeks to get some painting done.”
He didn’t blink an eye at her ready-made excuse. “I have your room all ready, but you’re the only guest at the moment, so if you need a larger room to set up your art supplies, just let me know. Meanwhile—” he glanced out the front windows “—it looks like the rain has eased. I’ll help carry in your luggage. I’m sorry you arrived on a day with such bad weather.”
She followed him outside, down the porch steps and toward her vehicle. The sky still dropped a bit of moisture, but the worst of the rain had passed. She handed out two suitcases, then gathered up her fold-up easel and her valise of art supplies. “I’ll come back for the canvases later,” she said, then glanced around at the dripping trees and grass. “Seems nice out here.”
“It is,” he agreed. “It’s been a wet summer so far, but the rain is always welcome.”
“I grew up in Pennsylvania, so I’ve seen plenty of Amish,” she couldn’t help but remark. “But I had no idea there was an Amish church in Montana.”
The man gave a rusty chuckle. “We’re fairly new here. Myself, I’ve only been here less than a year, and this community has only been around five years or so.” He climbed the steps back onto the porch, shouldered open the front door and held it open for her. “Your room is on the second floor.”
He climbed the stairs and she followed. The upstairs had a long hallway running the length of the house with numerous closed doors, all beautifully trimmed in golden wood. He opened the nearest door and led the way in.
She almost gasped. The room was lovely. A large window showed a beautiful view of a huge raised-bed garden in the backyard, with pine trees and distant mountains visible. The room was very basic, but clean as a whistle, with cream-colored walls and hardwood floors, bare except for a small rug beside the bed. A bedside table held a lamp. The room had two doors—Simon demonstrated how one was a closet and the other held a small bathroom. The furniture was simple and made from pine—bed, dresser, bedside table and rocking chair. A colorful quilt covered the bed and a vase of flowers sat on the dresser.
“The lamp is battery operated,” Simon said, pointing. “This is a Plain establishment, so we’re off-grid. I have solar panels, which provide some electricity for the convenience of my guests, and I’m required by law to have refrigeration. However, whenever possible I prefer to use nonelectric options.” He set down the suitcases. “If you need internet access, I’m afraid you’ll have to go into town.”
“I see.” Penelope hadn’t expected the facility to be quite as primitive as this, but she would make do. “Well, I’m here to paint, not surf the web.”
“Also...” Simon hesitated. “Since this is a bed-and-breakfast—” he emphasized the last word “—I don’t advertise that I usually offer an evening meal for a small additional cost. Do you have any food allergies or aversions I should know about?”
“Well, I hate tuna. No allergies.”
“Tuna.” He nodded. “I’ll let you think over the offer. I usually just eat in the kitchen, but there’s a small dining room for guests,” he added with a bright smile.
“Thank you.” Penelope made a mental note of the dinner option, wondering if it was a feature QuirkyB&B would want to know about. “I might take you up on that. It’s either that or I have to go into town each evening for a restaurant meal.”
“Ja, that’s why I offered. I find myself doing this regularly for other visitors. Well, I’ll let you get settled in. Let me know if you need anything.”
“Thank you.” She watched as he retreated from the room and closed the door behind him.
She looked around and smiled. According to the QuirkyB&B guidelines she was following, things looked promising. What could possibly go wrong?
Simon descended the stairs toward the lobby, still feeling shocked. The resemblance of his newest guest to his sister-in-law was uncanny. She had the same dark brown eyes of his brother’s wife, the same dark hair—which Penelope kept in a long braid down her back—the same slim figure and long neck, even a tiny mole above her eyebrow, though it was not the same eyebrow as Sarah’s. And this new woman had signed in using her left hand. Sarah was right-handed.
Aside from that, it was almost like Penelope and Sarah were twins, something he knew was not the case. Sarah didn’t have any siblings—a matter of some sadness to her parents, he remembered. He knew her mudder und vader had not been too happy when their only child had decided to immigrate to Montana from Ohio with her hutband, looking for better land prices.
He would definitely have to introduce the two women. Imagine finding a stranger that looked just like you! The Germans had a word for it: doppelgänger.
Meanwhile, he had work to do. He had managed to get the upstairs and lobby areas of this building finished in time to open for business, but his personal living quarters and the kitchen still needed work. He had a lot to do...and a lot to prove.
He resumed what he had been doing before his newest guest’s arrival, glazing a windowpane for a refurbished back door.
His private quarters were, frankly, a mess. None of the perfection from the front of the house carried through to the back, where he maintained his bedroom, a small parlor space and a private back porch leading out into the vast raised-bed garden area where he grew much of what he served at mealtimes.
Here, the walls were bare studs—he had only just finished installing insulation—and tools were scattered everywhere. Simon picked his way amid the chaos and reached for the window-glazing putty. He frowned as he continued his task, thinking over the last year or so, praying his business would succeed.
When he’d come across this battered old farmhouse on three acres just outside the boundaries of the Amish settlement, he knew it was meant for him. Against his father’s wishes, he’d bought the property and started the long road toward fixing up the building.
Now he was in a position to accept guests. He had focused on the cosmetic areas visitors were likely to see first, but he was nowhere near finished with the renovations.
As he worked, his mind felt unsettled. All his life, he had felt the weight of his father’s disapproval over his choices. If this business venture failed, he would be forced to crawl home, humiliated that his daed had been proved right...
“Excuse me?”
“Ja?” Startled, he jerked his head up from his work. Penelope stood in the doorway of his private quarters, eyeing the chaos of the room with what seemed like distaste. He stood up, a pot of glazing in one hand and a putty knife in the other, and felt both irritated and embarrassed at the intrusion into his private rooms, especially in such a state of disarray.
“I wonder if I could look through your gardens behind the house?” She gestured.
“Ja sure.” The words came automatically. He’d given tours of his garden in the past, and felt it couldn’t hurt to show this long-term guest around. After all, she was helping to contribute to the financial success of his establishment. “Would you like a tour?”
She inclined her head. “Thank you.”
She was certainly as pretty as his sister-in-law, he decided, but Sarah would never act so standoffish. Simon laid aside his tools and brushed off his hands. “If you’ll excuse the mess, you’re welcome to come through this back door.” It wasn’t as if she could unsee the construction debris at this stage anyway. “As you may have noticed, I refurbished the front of the house first so I could make it ready for visitors, but I’m still working back here.”
“I can see that.” She sidestepped around a sawhorse and nodded as he held the door open for her. “Most hotel rooms are so bland and uniform, so this B&B is certainly...different.”
He stiffened at the implied criticism. “Do you travel a lot?” he inquired, keeping his tone pleasant. He snatched his hat and plopped it on his head.
She hesitated a moment. “More and more,” she said. “Since I’m an artist, I tend to go where the painting takes me.”
“I have no artistic talent,” he remarked, striding toward the tall deer netting that protected the vegetable garden. “I admire those who do.”
“This is nice,” she admitted, stepping through the garden gate he held open for her.
“Danke.” Simon smiled. It might be hochmut, but he was proud of his garden.
The verdant area—still wet from the rain—consisted entirely of tidy rectangular raised beds. In several locations, archways connected two beds, under which he could walk to pick beans or peas or other climbing vegetables. Fruit trees grew along the edges. From this space, he harvested almost everything he needed to create the meals he served. In fact, he was trying to make it a selling point to serve foods grown or raised within the church settlement.
“And you have chickens!” Penelope gravitated toward a huge enclosed yard where a rooster kept an eye on his flock.
“Almost everything I serve at meals comes from here,” he said, gesturing to take in both the chickens and the garden beds. “I purchase meats from other church members, so everything is organic and raised within just a mile or two.”
She raised a single eyebrow in a manner remarkably like his sister-in-law. “I see.” She looked around. “Would you object if I were to set up my easel and do some paintings out here?”
“Nein, of course not. Where do you sell your paintings?”
He didn’t expect her to look cornered, but suddenly she did. Somehow he assumed that if she could afford to spend several weeks at his B&B, then her art must be very successful. But she seemed shocked at the question.
“Oh, h-here and there,” she stuttered, and waved vaguely with her hand. “I’ve... I’ve built up a clientele who enjoy my work.”
“I see.” He didn’t see, but could think of no other response. He knew nothing about the art world or how it worked. For all he knew, she had a patron who supported her lifestyle. It was none of his business, as long as she paid her way at his establishment.
He walked her around the garden, pointing out its features. “If you have a favorite vegetable,” he ventured, “I can let you know if it’s ready to harvest and prepare it for tonight’s dinner.” He pointed at some beds of broccoli, where the crowns looked full and inviting.
“Do you grow tuna?” she asked, a gleam of humor in her eyes.
Simon laughed outright. He had a feeling Penelope would be a gut guest. He liked her sense of humor.
