Their Surprise Amish Reunion
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Jocelyn McClay
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18
Chapter One
“He ordered what?” Elizabeth Beiler scowled as she deftly seasoned the pot of green beans she was stirring. “Scrapple is not on the menu. It’s never been on the menu.” At least, not in the twenty-five or more years she’d worked at the Dew Drop restaurant. She hadn’t made scrapple since... Her hand flexed around the lengthy spoon. Well, since a long, long time ago.
“He insisted.” The young waitress, Rebecca, shrugged and spread her hands in a “what do you want me to do?” gesture.
“He what?” No one insisted in her restaurant. Well, it wasn’t hers, actually. But in the months since the Englisch owners had moved out of state to be closer to their grown children’s families, leaving the management of the Miller’s Creek restaurant in her hands, it seemed like it was. Enough to dream it would soon be so. Enough that the savings she’d slowly, steadily been growing in those twenty-five-plus years, from when she’d started working here as a teenager, were now specifically earmarked “Dew Drop” instead of being just savings in general. The longer the restaurant remained unsold, the closer she figured—hoped—the gap between what she’d saved and what the owners would sell for would continue to diminish.
Elizabeth tapped the stainless steel counter, drawing Rebecca’s attention to where prepared plates waited under lights that kept pending orders warm. Wrinkling her nose at being caught not hustling as normal, the dark-haired waitress scooped up the plates with experienced hands and headed back through the swinging partial doors into the dining area.
Was it really going on two years that the restaurant had been for sale? Furrowing her brow, Elizabeth bent to open the oven door and check on the pans containing the daily special. A rush of heated air and the savory scent of roasted chicken and stuffing greeted her as she nodded in approval, gently closed the oven door and straightened, already moving to the next task. There was always another task.
Elizabeth had been frightened—ach, nee, not frightened. She didn’t allow herself to be frightened. But she’d been considerably unsettled when the Englisch owners had informed her first, as their longest-serving employee—initially as a waitress and then as cook and baker with ever-increasing authority and responsibility—that they were planning to retire and were selling the restaurant.
Nodding stoically, she’d gone back to work, her hands steady as she’d diced and sliced, stirred, sifted and sautéed for the short remainder of the day. But driving home that evening, she’d felt her palms dampen the leather with sweat, and her fingers had been shaking on the reins. The restaurant for sale? Who would buy it? What would that do to her situation? Would the new owners give her the same authority and responsibility she’d worked for and earned over her years there? Easygoing and loose in their management style, the Englisch owners had been gut to work for. What if whoever bought the restaurant turned out to be overbearing? She’d have a hard time working in such an environment. She knew she was a little—ach, perhaps more than a little—assertive. She didn’t like to be controlled, and when folks tried to do so, it seemed everyone was unhappy with the results.
For a long time following the announcement of the sale, she’d gone to work every day braced for news of a buyer and the ensuing disruptions in her life.
But months had passed, now edging into years, with no sale. The scope of her job hadn’t changed, but instead had increased to full management in addition to her other duties with the absentee owners. The prospect of the restaurant’s sale, rather than causing a continuous knot in the pit of her stomach, was the source of excitement that grew with every additional dollar in her savings. The restaurant’s availability was now the center of possibilities, opportunities, achievement, security—things Elizabeth had never before envisioned until the restaurant went up for sale.
She discounted the recent rumor that an out-of-town buyer had shown interest in the Dew Drop. Similar rumors had bubbled up before, only to fizzle out. In two months, maybe three, she’d have enough saved to broach the topic of buying it with the owners. Once they were in agreement, she’d approach Bishop Weaver about the subject. Surely he wouldn’t object. He knew how well she ran the restaurant. It wasn’t like she was a married woman and had a home and family to manage. Owning the restaurant, she’d have—outside of Gott, of course—control over her life.
“The special smells particularly gut today,” Sadie, one of the other cooks in the collection of Amish and Englisch manning the kitchen, called from where she was prepping for the upcoming lunch rush. “I wouldn’t have thought of making Amish Wedding Casserole.”
Elizabeth inhaled deeply of the kitchen fragrances. It did smell gut. She knew the ovens worked more efficiently if she didn’t open them, but doing so allowed aromas to escape and find their way into the restaurant’s dining area. As to what had prompted her to plan the roasted chicken and celery-based stuffing dish as a special this week, she didn’t know. It wasn’t a usual choice, although ubiquitous at weddings—ergo its name. She’d helped prepare the dish in others’ homes, frequently for a crowd. She’d supervised the preparations for it, along with homemade noodles, mashed potatoes and gravy, creamed celery and pepper slaw, when her twin sister had married last year.
Though as a spinster, it was a meal that’d never been prepared in her honor.
And why would that come to mind? Tucking a strand of dark brown hair that had dared escape back under her kapp, Elizabeth scowled. Maybe because of the scrapple. She’d made it, or Pannhaas, as it was sometimes called—a blend of pork scraps, trimmings, cornmeal and wheat flour that was molded, sliced and fried—for someone years ago. Someone she thought would be more...well, more than he’d ended up being.
Surely the requester wasn’t... Hissing in a breath, Elizabeth jerked her hand from the hot surface she’d inadvertently rested it on. She darted a look at the door to the dining room before snorting softly. Nee, he’d never come back. If he’d cared enough, he’d have returned for her decades ago. Her stomach clenched at the memory of the days, months after his departure that she’d waited and hoped. Adamantly shaking her head, she adjusted the temperature under the pot of green beans. So what if he hadn’t come back? She’d done fine without him.
Rebecca came through the swinging door, wearing a bemused smile that disappeared when Elizabeth’s gaze sharpened on her.
“He’s still requesting scrapple.”
Elizabeth frowned. “Are they regulars?”
Miller’s Creek was a small town. Most all of the Amish and Englisch who frequented the restaurant were known by name. Except for the daily special, several of the regular customers were so familiar with the Dew Drop they didn’t even need a menu to order. It was doubtful they’d be requesting scrapple, which, while popular in Pennsylvania, wasn’t so much here in Wisconsin. Besides, it was a time-consuming dish to make, and if they did have a hankering for it, they’d have put in an earlier request instead of ordering it out of the blue.
Rebecca shook her head. “Nee, I’ve never seen them before. It’s two men in one of the booths, one older and one younger.” Her dreamy smile reappeared. “And handsome.”
Elizabeth rolled her eyes at Rebecca’s words. The waitress, whom she’d worked with since the young woman had finished her Amish schooling a number of years ago, was like the daughter Elizabeth had never had. “We’re interested in their appetites, not their looks.”
Rebecca’s smile expanded to a grin. “Ja, well, they look hungry. At least, the younger one does. They’re Amish.”
“I figured, with the scrapple request.”
“Though I don’t recognize the style of their hats.”
Elizabeth grunted in understanding. To outsiders, all Amish hats, men’s and women’s, might look alike. But they weren’t. Different Amish districts had different rules for apparel, including headgear. The kapps the women wore varied—material, length, stiffness, size or number of pleats, heart-shape versus straight-sided, etc. For men, hats from various districts differed in the height or shape of the crown—rounded or flat—and the assorted width of the brim. If Rebecca didn’t recognize the hat style, the men weren’t from any nearby Amish communities.
“Well, out-of-towners wouldn’t know any better, I guess. Suggest something else and get on with their order.” Elizabeth pulled one of the pans of daily special from an oven, grabbed a plate from a nearby pristine stack, scooped a steaming dollop onto it and handed it to Rebecca. “Have him try this. Tell him sorry, but no, on the scrapple and to quit asking about it.”
She looked up in time to catch the young woman’s smirk. “That’s why you’re out there and not me. You can be sweet. The only thing sweet about me is my baking.” But there was a faint twinkle in her eye at the gruff comment. After watching Rebecca whisk back out the swinging door, Elizabeth shook her head as she turned in time to pull a pan of rolls out of another oven. No one would ever accuse her of being sweet. Having dealt with the rolls, she cast a quick glance around the smoothly running kitchen. Everything was well in hand for the upcoming rush.
Sweet? Nee. What she was was efficient. Industrious. Capable. Good things for a business owner, Elizabeth reminded herself as she adroitly plated an order. And why shouldn’t she be one instead of just its manager? Her twin sister was a business owner. Granted, Emma’s hat shop was a considerably smaller enterprise than the restaurant. But unlike what Emma now had, Elizabeth didn’t have a husband and family at home to distract her. Since Emma’s recent marriage, there was only Elizabeth at home. Emma had even taken the cat.
Elizabeth frowned as she gave the green beans another stir. Coming home to an empty house, where the glass of water she might’ve left on the counter in the morning was in its exact location when she walked in the door at the end of the day, was kind of lonely. Her frown deepened to a scowl. If one had time to be lonely.
It wasn’t like she was truly alone. Emma still came a few days a week to work in her hat shop in the refurbished garage connected to the house the sisters used to share. But her hours were shorter and the days she worked fewer, so she could be home with her new husband and step-granddaughter. Elizabeth seldom saw her. Since Emma moved out, Elizabeth had increased her hours at the restaurant, spending even more time there. She liked it. She’d learned with Emma’s romance and departure, albeit to just across the creek, that while she couldn’t always control her personal life, she at least had control over her work one.
And she wasn’t lonely. But maybe she’d give some thought to getting her own cat. Perhaps ask around to see if anyone had a kitten available. She hadn’t paid much attention to her sister’s cat, Willow, until the black-and-white tuxedoed feline had gone out the door with Emma. But now it would be nice to come home to...something in the house.
Rebecca burst through the swinging half doors.
“Did he like the chicken and stuffing?”
“Ja, but he asked what kind of restaurant refuses to take care of its customers. He still wants scrapple.” Her eyes rounded and she took a step back, bumping into the doors and sending the hinges squeaking. “Um, if you’re coming out to the dining room, you probably better leave the big spoon here.”
“It’s got a nice feel. Homey. Clean. Appropriate traffic flow. Decent crowd for this time of day. I’m still surprised you bought something sight unseen and I’m apprehensive about the distance from home. But as an operation, it could be a gut choice.” The young man rested an arm along the back of the maroon vinyl booth as he scrutinized the restaurant’s interior.
Moses Glick raised an eyebrow at his son’s comment. “I’m surprised you noticed the surroundings. I was afraid all your attention was lost once your eyes latched on to the waitress.”
“Well...” Daniel flashed a grin that, along with the younger man’s brown hair and green eyes, Moses had been told was a replica of his own. Except, he grunted, for the gray that now streaked his own wavy locks. “She is a pretty one.”
“You wouldn’t want any of your sisters ogled like that when they waitress.”
“My sisters don’t look like that.”
“Hmm. Maybe not to you.”
Daniel winced and a flush crept up his cheeks as he glanced out the nearby window into the town’s main street. “Seems like a nice community. Weather is cold, though. Things were blooming down in Ohio, but here they’ve still got a bit of snow on the ground.”
Moses hid a smile at his son’s abrupt change of subject. “It is. Or at least it was.” He stroked a hand over the beard that indicated he was, or had been, a married man. “I have wunderbar memories of growing up here. Before my family moved to Ohio and...responsibilities took over.”
“Why didn’t you and Mamm ever come up to visit?”
“Ach, your mamm wasn’t interested. I don’t think she ever left Ohio in her lifetime.” But here he was, a year after becoming a widower, returning to the area where he’d grown up. His lips twitched as Daniel’s gaze again landed on the young waitress efficiently serving a nearby table. Tipping his head, Moses studied the girl himself. Her deft movements and quick smile reminded him of someone else he’d seen waitress years ago in this restaurant. Except for the quick smile. His girl hadn’t been a smiler. More a scowler. He’d always loved to tease her and make that scowl appear. Then he’d work on coaxing a smile out. As they’d been rare, and sincere, they’d been very precious.
Was that why he’d come all this way? Because of a woman he couldn’t forget? Moses scowled at himself. He’d come because of a business opportunity too good to pass up. If it happened to be in a community in which he had fond memories, well, that was even better. He’d worked many years taking care of others. Was it wrong to take this chance for himself?
He pressed a hand against a stomach that churned with tension rather than hunger. It might be, if the financial risk he’d taken to do so affected his other operations. Because failure wasn’t an option. He’d never failed before, even when times were difficult. Too many were depending on him to continue to succeed.
The waitress returned, still smiling but more apprehensively as she whisked a plate from in front of him.
“What’s with the scrapple?” Daniel, reluctantly tearing his gaze from the departing waitress, frowned. “I’ve never seen you order it before. We don’t serve it in our restaurants.” His eyebrows rose until they disappeared under his bangs. “And that was pretty rude. I hope our customers never treat us like that.”
“I haven’t had scrapple in a long time. I’ve kind of had a...hankering for it lately.”
Moses straightened at the bang from the back of the restaurant. He grinned, the creases in his cheeks matching the fine lines at the corners of his eyes, as a woman, sturdy and on the short side, came sailing from the kitchen area. He pivoted in his seat, resting one elbow on the smooth wooden table and the other on the booth’s back, as he watched her approach. When she saw him, her pace halted so abruptly the young waitress trailing in her wake dodged to keep from running into her. His grin expanded as the older woman’s chin lowered, her still-smooth skin stretched over an obviously gritted jaw, and she surged forward again to stand, fists on hips, in front of their booth. Her brown-eyed gaze locked with his.
“Hello, Beth. So you don’t make scrapple anymore?”
His heartbeat, surprisingly loud—and galloping like a runaway horse—ticked off the moments as she stared at him. As she stepped closer to the table, Moses drew in a breath. He held it, mesmerized, as a hint of a smile touched her lips. Focused on that promising expression, he neglected the hand that reached for his glass of ice water. His eyes widened as the water, cold as the reluctantly departing winter, splashed into his lap.
