Family Blessings. Anna Schmidt

still to him, he saw her shoulders slump slightly as if he had finally defeated her—or perhaps simply tried her patience beyond her ability to be polite. “Herr Troyer …”

      “Jeremiah,” he interrupted.

      She turned to face him. “Herr Troyer,” she repeated emphatically. “This is my father’s business. If he asks me to be at this meeting, then I will be there. Until he makes that decision, I bid you a good day.”

      He had been dismissed. With nothing more to say, Jeremiah put his hat on and left the shop. But then the streak of impishness that had gotten him in trouble numerous times throughout his youth blossomed. He waited until a count of ten and then re-entered the shop, the bell announcing the arrival of a customer. He filled the time it took Pleasant to clatter a tray of breads into the oven and call out, “Coming,” by considering the sparse but luscious selection of baked goods displayed in the shop’s cases.

      There were apple dumplings, whoopee pies that leaked their vanilla cream filling from between the chocolate cake sandwich like mortar from a freshly set brick wall, and the most mouthwatering-looking lemon squares that Jeremiah had ever seen.

      The woman he assumed was responsible for all this temptation emerged from the back room with a welcoming smile that faded the moment she saw him. “Did you forget something, Herr Troyer?”

      “I’d like a dozen of these, half dozen of those, and if you could add in a loaf of that rye bread you’re baking.”

      “It won’t be ready for …”

      “I realize that. I thought perhaps you might be so kind as to drop it off on your way home later today. I’m right next door.”

      Pressing her lips together in a thin line of disapproval that did nothing to add to her appearance, Pleasant started filling his order. She packed two boxes, tied them with string and set them on top of the bakery case. When she had finished, he noticed that the small display of pastries he’d admired was almost completely gone.

      “Will that be all?” she asked.

      “I seem to have wiped out most of your …”

      “I can always bake more,” she said. “Would you like anything else?”

      Jeremiah pretended to consider that question by looking around the shop. He plucked a bag of day-old rolls from a small table near the door and added it to the pile. “How much do I owe?”

      When she punched in the amounts on the heavy brass cash register he thought she might actually bend the keys with the force of her strokes. He watched the numbers tally in the small window on top of the register and just before she hit the total key, he reached across the counter and stopped her by touching the back of her hand. “Did you add in the rye bread?”

      “You can pay my father for that when he delivers it later today. At Goodloe’s Bakery we make it a habit not to take payment until we are certain we can deliver what has been ordered.”

      “Meaning?”

      “I might burn the bread,” she said. “Or it might not have risen properly.” She hit the key to total the sale and the cash register drawer sprang open. “Anything is possible,” she added. “I might drop it on the floor or …”

      The color that flooded her cheeks suddenly told him that they were sharing the memory of when she had dropped the doughnuts. He smiled and handed her the money. Without meeting his look she made change, slammed the cash drawer shut and dropped the coins into his outstretched hand. “Good day, sir,” she said as she presented him with his parcels.

      “And a pleasant day to you, Pleasant,” he said as he accepted his order and headed for the door. Then he paused and sniffed the air. “I can see that I found a premiere location for my shop as well as my home if every morning I’m to be awakened by such wonderful smells.”

      Finally, the thin line of her mouth softened as her lips parted but she did not go so far as to actually smile. Pity, Jeremiah thought. Her smile was lovely.

      Outside he found that he was in an even better mood than he had been upon first awakening that morning. Yes, he was going to enjoy life in Florida. It was impossible not to be in a good mood when practically every day was filled with sunshine. He closed his eyes and thanked God for the many blessings he had already found by moving to Celery Fields.

      In spite of her determination not to surrender to her curiosity about Jeremiah Troyer, Pleasant edged toward the front window of the bakery and peeked out through the muslin café curtains to see where he might go next. To her surprise he was standing almost directly in front of the bakery, his eyes closed and his face raised to the sky above.

      Was he praying? In the middle of the street?

      And then with no warning, he opened his eyes and raised his hand in greeting to the Hadwells who owned the hardware store. He set the bag with the day-old bread and the larger box that held an assortment of pastries on the porch of his shop and carried the smaller box—the one that held six apple cider doughnuts—over to the hardware store.

      He offered a doughnut to Mr. and Mrs. Hadwell and then called out to Harvey Miller who ran the machine shop to come and join them. Within ten minutes they had each taken a seat on one of the many nail barrels that lined the porch to enjoy the doughnuts. Gertrude Hadwell brought out tin cups and a pot of coffee and served the men. Jeremiah had his back to her but Pleasant could tell by his gestures and the rapt interest on the faces of the others that he was telling them some story.

      “A tall tale, no doubt,” she huffed as she dropped the curtain back into place and returned to the kitchen. The man had a way of taking over whatever space he might occupy. One might expect that of someone like Levi Harnisher, for example. Levi had once owned one of the largest and most successful circus companies in the country. And Pleasant would never forget the day he had walked right into this very bakery while she and Hannah were working and announced that he had sold the circus in order to return to his Amish roots and court Hannah.

      Never in her life did Pleasant think she had ever witnessed anything so romantic as that. The love that shown in Hannah’s eyes as she looked at Levi and his love for her that was reflected there was nothing short of breathtaking. And the memory of that devotion naturally brought to mind her relationship with Merle. Of course, she and Merle were very different from Hannah and Levi, who were romantics by nature. To the contrary, both she and Merle understood and respected the hard realities of life.

      Jeremiah Troyer is a romantic, she thought and bit her lip as she focused all of her attention on rolling out crusts for pies instead of dwelling on the handsome newcomer who was to be their neighbor—and perhaps business associate. Neighbor and business associate, Pleasant sternly reminded herself, and nothing more.

      If there was one lesson she had learned, it was that men were rarely as they presented themselves to others. Or perhaps it was that she was a poor judge of the male species. After all, she had foolishly thought that a young man from Wisconsin was flirting with her, calling at the bakery day after day just to see her. More to the point, the man she had thought Merle was before they married and the man he had turned out to be were not at all the same.

      Hannah and others had tried to warn her, but she had insisted that they simply did not understand people like Merle and her—serious people who were devoted to their work and who understood the hard realities of life. But even she was not prepared for day in and night out of living with a man who saw little good in anyone or anything—including her and his own children.

      The shop bell jangled and Pleasant sighed heavily as she wiped her hands on her apron and headed to the front of the store. “Did you need more doughnuts, Herr Troyer?” she asked as she stepped past the curtain separating the kitchen from the shop and saw Hilda standing there with all four of Pleasant’s children.

      “Pleasant, you must do something with this girl,” her sister-in-law said as she pushed Bettina forward. “I am quite at my wit’s end.”

       Chapter Three