Family Blessings. Anna Schmidt

glancing away again. “A friend then? Could we—you and your children and I—not be friends?” He arched a quizzical eyebrow and the corners of his mouth quirked into a half smile.

      “Neighbors,” she corrected.

      He grinned and put on his hat. “It’s a beginning,” he said. “Good day, Pleasant.”

      “Good day,” she replied without bothering to correct his familiarity. She watched him hop off the end of the porch closest to his shop and thought, And perhaps in time, friends.

      There had been one reason and one reason only that Jeremiah had gone to the bakery for a third time in the same morning. He had been sitting outside the hardware store sharing doughnuts with the Hadwells when Mrs. Hadwell had noticed Hilda herding Pleasant’s children down the street. The girl was in tears and the three boys lagged behind her and their aunt, looking distraught.

      Mrs. Hadwell had cleared her throat, drawing her husband’s attention and then she nodded toward the little parade passing their store. Roger Hadwell glanced up and then turned back to the conversation he and Jeremiah had been having about remodeling Jeremiah’s shop. But Jeremiah knew that look. He’d seen similar glances pass between neighbors and friends of his family his whole life. Louder than a shout it was a look that warned, “This is none of our business. Stay out of it.”

      And to his surprise, Jeremiah found it easier to comply with that unspoken warning than to call out to Hilda Yoder and ask if there was a problem. To his shame he lowered his eyes until Hilda had passed by on her way to the bakery, her fingers clutching the thin upper arm of Pleasant’s daughter. But the scene stayed with him even as he headed back to his own shop and even after he forced himself to focus on the plans for remodeling the space. And when he heard one of the children cry out, he could stand it no more and headed for the bakery.

      With no real plan in mind, he was a bit taken aback when he passed the bakery window and saw Pleasant thrust a bucket under the nose of one of the younger boys. Perhaps the child was ill. Perhaps he had misread the entire situation. He entered the bakery, closing the door with an extra force that he knew would cause the bell to jangle loudly. It worked. Everyone turned to him. Instinctively, he focused his smile on Hilda Yoder who scowled at the interruption while Pleasant said something about milk and took advantage of his arrival to take the children into the back room.

      “What is it now, Herr Troyer?” Hilda snapped.

      Jeremiah had no idea what he should say. He racked his brain for some reason why he might have needed to have dealings with the woman.

      “I saw you come down the street earlier and then it occurred to me that you might be just the person to give me some advice.” He suspected that giving advice was Hilda’s stock in trade and when her scowl shifted from irritation to suspicion, he was pretty sure that he had guessed correctly.

      “What sort of advice?”

      Jeremiah chuckled. “I may know how to manage a business and make a decent ice cream, but when it comes to decorating the premises …” He shrugged. “I am quite at a loss.” He could practically see the wheels turning in Hilda’s brain and hurried on to press his advantage. “Clearly, I’m going to need tables and chairs and a serving counter and …”

      Hilda nodded, her small light eyes flitting back and forth as if typing up a list. “Have you colors in mind?”

      Jeremiah shrugged.

      Hilda huffed out a sigh that, when translated, meant, “Men are hopeless,” and set to work ticking off what he was going to need. “The place is a mess. You’ll need cleaning supplies and then paint—a lemon-yellow I would think. Stop by the store this afternoon and I’ll have Herr Yoder pull together those initial supplies. In the meantime, you can order tables and chairs and the counter from Josef Bontrager. He’s an excellent carpenter.”

      “Frau Yoder, you are a blessing in disguise. How will I ever thank you?”

      “You can pay your bills in cash and at the time of delivery,” she informed him without a trace of humor.

      “Of course. Thank you. I’ll be by right after lunch if that’s convenient.”

      Hilda nodded and headed for the door. She appeared to have forgotten all about the business that had brought her and the children here in the first place.

      “I’ll need a helper,” Jeremiah said as he hurried to open the door for her. “Perhaps you know of a young boy who …”

      “My older boys all work in the celery fields,” she said, making the assumption that her sons would be at the top of Jeremiah’s list. She glanced toward the kitchen. “Perhaps Rolf—he’s too small for field work.”

      “Another excellent suggestion. Thank you,” Jeremiah said as he ushered her out and closed the door behind her.

      It had been a stroke of genius or more likely God’s divine guidance that had made him ask her advice on a helper. The one thing he understood was that Hilda Yoder took great pride in seeing herself as invaluable to others when it came to handling their affairs. He did not consider what he might do if she were to suggest that he hire one of her seven children. But as things turned out that should have been the least of his concerns. He had been totally unprepared for Pleasant Obermeier to reject his offer. He had seen the dead and baked fields behind her house. Surely she could use the money the boy could bring home.

      He stood for a moment looking down the road at the large white-washed house with its tin roof and wraparound porch where she had lived with her late husband and where she now lived with his four children. He glanced back at the bakery where, according to his great-aunt Mildred, she had spent a good portion of her life helping her father run the business even after she had married Merle Obermeier.

      Jeremiah had lived most of his life in a house where dreams were frowned upon and only hard work was respected. And until he had gone to work for Peter Osgood, he had followed that regimen, burying his dreams in order to try and please his uncle. Now he could not help but wonder what dreams Pleasant had put aside in order to care for first her widowed father and then her half sisters and finally the widower and his four motherless children.

      He remembered how, after his father had died, his own mother had abdicated the raising of the children to her brother-in-law. That was to be expected for Jeremiah’s father—a kind but timid man—had always bowed to his older brother’s wishes as well. How many times had Jeremiah wished that his mother would stand with him when he tried to challenge his uncle’s rigidity?

      Oh, Pleasant, he thought, do not make the mistake my mother made.

      But it was hardly his concern, he reminded himself. He had a job to attend to as well as a business to get up and running. His fascination with the baker and her children was nothing more than that—idle curiosity, and as his uncle had reminded him more than once and emphasized with the back of his hand, idle thoughts were the devil’s workshop.

       Chapter Four

      Pleasant had underestimated the amount of time she would have to devote to creating the ice cream cone recipe. In spite of the fact that the bakery’s business had dwindled to the basics—breads, rolls and the occasional pie or dozen cookies—she was still busy from dawn to well after dusk. Merle’s house was a large one and required constant cleaning to keep it presentable. With four growing children there was a great deal of washing and ironing to be done on top of the cooking she did at home and the upkeep of the kitchen garden she relied upon for fresh produce to feed herself and the children.

      Then there was the celery farm itself. Over the years, Merle had acquired a great deal of land—land that needed to be plowed and planted and harvested. Land that this past spring had barely produced a saleable crop and that now in the fall was nowhere near ready to be planted. After her husband’s death, Pleasant had turned the management of the farm over to her brother-in-law. Hilda’s husband, Moses, was a shy, quiet man—nothing like Hilda. But he had a head for business and managed the farm as well as his dry goods store with