The Amish Baker. Marie E. Bast

the phone. “I’m happy. I don’t want an ehemann.”

      “Ach! I told you that I heard the bishop had a habit of pressuring some of the widows into remarrying. Now do you believe me?”

      “Hannah, that’s gossiping and a sin.” Sarah shook her head.

      “It’s only a sin if it’s not true. This is true.”

      “Shame on you, Hannah Ropp. You’re looking for loopholes in the Bible.”

      “Jah, jah. Gotta go. Hang on ’til I get there, and we’ll talk about it.”

      “Don’t hurry. I’m managing.” Sarah hit the end button.

      She grabbed a wet dishcloth and started wiping off the crumbs she’d spilled on the counter. As her hand zipped across the Formica, it bumped the walnut papa and mama bears Samuel had carved, knocking them over with a bang. Sarah jerked her hand back.

      Slowly, she picked each one up—holding her breath—and surveyed for damage before setting it upright. She heaved a long sigh.

      Both fine.

      The bears were one of the few things she had left to remind her of Samuel. They brought her comfort and served as a good form of advertisement for the Amish artisans in the area. Many Englischers had admired the walnut carvings and asked for directions to the woodcraft shop.

      The bishop’s words flitted through her mind again. Working fourteen hours a day in the bakery gave her little time to care for a family. Would an ehemann allow her to keep the shop? The bakery was her life. It was all she had. She couldn’t give it up. Not to mention, she had an obligation to the town—Kalona—and to her customers.

      When Samuel had died three years ago, she had stumbled through those first few weeks as if she were groping her way around a dark house without a lantern. Nothing made sense, she couldn’t make a decision and she had no desire to bake. She had promised to liebe, honor and cherish Samuel “’til death do us part,” but she’d figured that meant after fifty years of marriage and seven kinner.

      Her heart had shattered as if it were a crystal dropped upon the floor. Hannah had helped her plow through the sorrow of Samuel’s death.

      But life had had no meaning after Samuel died until she returned to the bakery and continued with her cookbook that she would dedicate to her parents and the bakery they loved. Some of their recipes mingled in with her recipes.

      Nein. She couldn’t give up the bakery. She wouldn’t. The bishop couldn’t make her remarry.

       Could he?

      She didn’t believe Hannah’s gossip. Surely the bishop was only matchmaking those who wanted a spouse.

      After grabbing a set of pot holders, she opened the oven door to a steamy whiff of white bread, mingled with the aroma of fresh cinnamon rolls and buttered buns. She set the pans on racks to cool. Pivoting, she glanced at the clock.

      Ach. Almost time to unlock the front door.

      Sarah pulled out the medium-roast and the decaf beans and started the coffee. While it brewed, she wrote the daily special on the chalkboard, then scooted to the front door, pulled the dead bolt back and flipped the sign to Open.

      She puttered around the shop, setting out foam cups and filling the napkin holders. When the doorbell jingled, she stashed the napkin bags behind the counter and looked up into the face of an Amish man she’d never seen before. Judging from his trimmed beard and hair, he was New Order Amish. In her Old Order community, men didn’t trim their beards.

      “Welkum.” Sarah whisked out her best smile.

      “Danki.” His voice was as quiet as his footfalls. Glancing at the pastries, he smiled and shook his head as if the decision were too much for this early in the morning.

      “Can I help you?” Sarah’s gaze locked with his sage-green eyes, which were set against sun-bronzed skin. A handsome face for sure and for certain. Ach. She stared. He’d think her a forward woman. Her cheeks heated like roasting marshmallows and she glanced away.

      He removed his straw hat and twirled it around in his hands as he studied the rolls, cookies and pies. Each received a generous amount of time.

      “Gut morgen. I’m Caleb Brenneman. How do you do?”

      Sarah’s stomach tickled as he looked at her. “Fine, danki. I’m Sarah Gingerich. I own the bakery.”

      “Nice to meet you. I’ll have a cinnamon roll and a cup of that gut-smelling coffee.”

      She handed him the roll and coffee, then gestured to the five tables and chairs by the windows. “Feel free to have a seat.”

      After serving the others who’d trailed into the bakery behind Caleb, Sarah refilled the display case but sensed the newcomer’s eyes watching her work. Did he know her? She couldn’t place him. Because of the bakery, she was acquainted with most of the Plain community around Kalona, at least by sight. Still, the Amish were scattered in seven counties in Iowa, so there were plenty she hadn’t met.

      She glanced his way at the exact moment when he looked at her. Ach—caught! A smile brewed deep in her chest and crept onto her lips. “Do you live around here, Caleb?”

      “I bought a farm north of town.”

      “You’re from Iowa then?”

      “I grew up here. When I met my frau, I moved to Seymour, Missouri. After Martha got cancer, I moved her and our family back, so she could have treatment in Iowa City, and we’d be closer to my bruder Peter and his family.”

      The doorbell jingled and Sarah reluctantly peeled her eyes away from Caleb and focused on her customer. “Gut mornin’.”

      “Morning, Sarah.” Mrs. Wallin smiled as she entered the bakery. “Just a loaf of white bread today.”

      Caleb finished his cinnamon roll and coffee, tossed his cup in the wastebasket next to the counter and tipped his hat to Sarah. “Have a gut day.”

      Sarah gave a nod. “You, too.” As she was bagging the white bread for Mrs. Wallin, she peered up and caught his wink, and had to steady her hands.

      Her pulse jumped. Her mind raced in a hundred different directions, but only for a few seconds. What was she thinking? She didn’t want to remarry. The bakery was her life.

      * * *

      Caleb strode toward his buggy, his heart pounding like a blacksmith’s hammer. Sarah’s chocolate-brown hair and cinnamon-brown eyes had stolen his attention. He’d tried to refocus but couldn’t keep his eyes from following her. He could have sat in the bakery all day, staring at her as she worked.

      Still, it was unmistakable with her navy blue dress and the shape of her prayer kapp. She was Old Order Amish. If she were single, where could the relationship go? He enjoyed the liberties his church allowed—shorter beard and hair, Sunday school and Bible study. The Old Order wanted only the church to interpret Scriptures, while New Order encouraged small group study.

      His church even believed in church outreach and helping the non-Amish. They also permitted electric conveniences, such as the tractor, mechanical milker and refrigerator, rototiller, lawn mower, chainsaw and propane gas. Without grown sohns to help Caleb, he needed such things on the farm.

      He must chase thoughts of the beautiful baker out of his head. A relationship between Old Order and New Order would never work. Jah, he must forget about Sarah with the cinnamon-brown eyes and concentrate on his farming and crops.

      Caleb climbed into his buggy and tapped the leather straps against Snowball’s back. “Giddyap, slowpoke. I have chores waiting at home.”

      As the horse trotted along, Caleb gawked at his neighbors’ fields and mentally compared theirs to his.