Material Witness Read online

  Material

  WITNESS

  VANNETTA CHAPMAN

  In memory of my grandparents:

  John and Rose Allen

  THIS BOOK IS DEDICATED to my grandparents John and Rose Allen. My grandfather was raised on a Choctaw reservation in Oklahoma. He met my grandmother just across the Texas border. They married and raised their family in the town of Paris. Grandmother Rose had one brother, Walter Vernon, and three sisters: Daisy, Lily, and Gertrude. When I was in grade school, we lived a few blocks away from my grandparents. Those were precious years. They let me sleep over often, cook my own eggs in the morning, and spoil their old dog. They even had a rusty barrel they burned trash in out back, and I was allowed to help. We watched HeeHaw and the nightly news together. I loved them dearly.

  I would like to thank my team at Zondervan, including Becky Philpott, Tonya Osterhouse, Alicia Mey, and Sue Brower. This book also wouldn’t be possible without the help of my agent, Mary Sue Seymour.

  Cindy Barkley helped with equestrian matters. Suzanne Woods Fisher and The Budget freely provided Amish proverbs. Many folks from Shipshewana were willing to answer questions, including Lynn Bontrager and Kris Stutzman. You have made me feel like a welcome citizen of Shipshe!

  My pre-readers have been with me through this entire series. Thank you to Donna, Kristy, and Dorsey. We need to visit Ship-she together. Family — I love you. Enough said, right? William, Kylie, Yale, and Jordyn, you make me very proud. Bobby, you know I adore you.

  And finally … always giving thanks to God the Father for everything, in the name of our Lord Jesus Christ (Ephesians 5:20).

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Families in Material Witness

  Prologue: SHIPSHEWANA, INDIANA MID-SEPTEMBER

  Chapter 1: LATE SEPTEMBER THURSDAY EVENING

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Epilogue

  Discussion Questions

  Glossary

  Also by Vannetta Chapman

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Share Your Thoughts

  WHILE THIS NOVEL is set against the real backdrop of Shipshewana, Indiana, the characters are fictional. There is no intended resemblance between the characters in this book and any real members of the Amish and Mennonite communities. As with any work of fiction, I’ve taken license in some areas of research as a means of creating the necessary circumstances for my characters. My research was thorough; however, it would be impossible to be completely accurate in details and descriptions, since each and every community differs. Therefore, any inaccuracies in the Amish and Mennonite lifestyles portrayed in this book are completely due to fictional license.

  Families in Material Witness

  Prologue

  SHIPSHEWANA, INDIANA MID-SEPTEMBER

  “AM I LATE?” Callie pushed the door closed against the September wind, grateful to see her three best friends waiting for her.

  Deborah, Melinda, and Esther surrounded her like the fall flowers in her garden circled the pavestone walk.

  “Bishop Elam wouldn’t have started without you,” Deborah said. Thirty-three years old, three inches taller than Callie’s five foot, three inches, and weighing somewhere around 140 pounds, Deborah was healthy and beautiful. Her blondish-brown hair was neatly tucked into her prayer kapp, and her amber eyes nearly always expressed her calm, pleasant character.

  Callie had begun to think of Deborah as her sister, but she understood they looked like complete opposites. Callie tried to gain weight but couldn’t, had dark hair that refused to behave — especially now that she was growing it past her collar — and large eyes such a deep brown someone had once told her they looked black. No amount of makeup could minimize Callie’s eyes — she’d tried. They still dominated her face.

  She often found herself glancing at Deborah, wishing she could be like her. She’d confessed that once, and Deborah had reminded her God had a reason for making each person exactly as they were. Perhaps one day he’d let her in on the secret.

  “Did you have trouble finding the place?” Melinda reached forward and patted down Callie’s hair, which Callie imagined now resembled something out of a punk-rock video. Melinda was small and precious like a bird — a bird who wore glasses that always managed to slip down her nose.

  “No. No problem. Your directions were good. Max treed a squirrel and refused to come inside. I finally left him in the side yard barking as if he hadn’t a brain cell in his head.”

  Esther cradled her infant in her arms. Tall, dark blonde, with beautiful blue eyes, she looked happier than Callie had ever seen her.

  “May I?” Callie reached for baby Simon before Esther had time to answer. Six weeks old, he smelled of powder and warm blankets and love. She wanted to find a chair and stare at the miracle of his little face.

  “We should move to the kitchen.” Esther nudged her toward the dining room table.

  “Ya, Bishop Elam is gathering everyone,” Deborah agreed.

  Callie barely heard, she was so focused on the infant. Truthfully she didn’t know why she’d even been included in the reading of Mrs. Hochstetler’s will.

  Melinda was closest to the elderly woman. Glancing over at her friend, Callie noticed that her eyes seemed misty behind her glasses. She didn’t know the entire story behind Melinda and Mrs. Hochstetler’s friendship; when she’d asked, Melinda had only said, “She was special — very special to me.”

  Callie had known Mrs. Hochstetler, though not well. The elderly Amish woman was nearly ninety, but she’d still stopped by the shop regularly, purchasing fabric and thread — never kits. She claimed that the day she needed a kit to piece together a quilt, she’d stop sewing.

  Personally Callie liked the quilting kits. She was now working on her second quilt, and she’d chosen one of the new baby quilt kits that had appliqués of farm animals. It was to be a present for Simon. With a little luck she’d finish it before he got too old.

  Somehow everyone fit around the table — all seven of Mrs. Hochstetler’s grown children; Deborah, Esther, Melinda, and Callie; the banker, Mrs. Barnwell; and the bishop. To Callie, it seemed they made an odd group. The bishop was saying a few words about Mrs. Hochstetler, so Callie used the time to glance around the house.

  Like most Amish homes it was clean and unadorned — the countertops free of clutter. No curtains hung on the windows, but there were shades that could be pulled down against the night. A big cast-iron stove sat between the sitting room and the kitchen, no doubt used for heating the rooms. A newer gas-powered stove sat against the east wall of the kitchen, opposite the gas-powered refrigerator.

  Callie was so busy admiring the rooms, thinking of how little she knew about her customers, she didn’t realize Bishop Elam had begun reading the final will and testament. But she did notice everyone around her sit up straighter.

  The bishop read from a single sheet of paper.

  Mrs. Hochst
etler had left simple and direct instructions — the house to one son, the animals to another, some money to a third. No one was left out. As the bishop continued in his soft German accent, Callie found herself focusing again on the infant in her arms. She forgot about dying and wills and stopped wondering why she was there. She focused on the miracle of life in her arms. For a moment.

  Until she was suddenly jarred from the tranquil place she had slipped into by the sound of her name.

  “Daisy Powell’s niece, Miss Callie Harper, is to receive the three quilts in the chest next to my bed. Once restored, they may be sold at Callie’s discretion. Money from the sale of the quilts will be split five ways — one portion each to Esther Fisher, Deborah Yoder, and Melinda Byer, who will each help with the restoration, and one part to Callie, who will oversee the sales. The final portion of money will be deposited in the previously established account at First Bank Shipshewana to be used as arranged with my banker, Mrs. Barnwell.”

  Bishop Elam removed his reading glasses and set them on top of the single sheet of paper on the table. “If there are no questions, I suggest we all share a cup of tea.”

  Chairs were scooted way from the table, and conversations slowly started back up again.

  Callie glanced from Deborah to Esther to Melinda. “Quilt restorations?”

  “It’s hard work,” Esther admitted.

  Deborah reached for the baby. “And not always worth the time.”

  “She never mentioned old quilts to me.” Melinda pushed up her glasses. “I’ve been to see her many times, but I never —”

  “What type of quilt could possibly require its own bank account for a mere twenty percent?” Callie gazed around at her friends, wondering for the first time if perhaps Mrs. Hochstetler had suffered from a touch of dementia. Before she could think of a way to tactfully raise the question, Sadie Hochstetler, the wife of Levi Hochstetler, walked over to their group.

  “I’ll take you to see the quilts if you’d like.” Sadie was in her early fifties, a little on the heavy side, quiet and shy. Though she regularly came into the shop, she rarely said more than good morning and thank you.

  Restoring quilts? Splitting the profits five ways? Would there even be profits? And as to those specific instructions, why a separate bank account? What made these quilts special? So many questions swirled in Callie’s mind, colliding together, that they stirred up quite a cloud of confusion.

  Callie, Esther, Melinda, and Deborah followed Sadie to the bedroom and gathered around the cedar chest at the foot of the old bed. Silently they waited as she raised the lid on the chest … and tenderly pulled out one family heirloom after another.

  By the time she reached the third quilt, Callie still had plenty of questions, but as to why the quilts were special — that she definitely understood.

  Chapter 1

  LATE SEPTEMBER THURSDAY EVENING

  DEBORAH UNROLLED THE BOLT OF FABRIC: a fall calico print of small pumpkins intermingled with leaves and cornstalks. It wasn’t something she would purchase. Amish only quilted with solid colors, but she could certainly see why it was a hot seller tonight.

  “Four yards?” she asked.

  The woman from Chicago tapped her manicured nail against her lips, both painted a dark rose. “I’m not sure. Nancy, what do you think? Three or four yards?”

  Nancy Jarrell wound her way through the crowd gathered in Callie’s shop. Though Nancy was also from Chicago and definitely clung to her big-city ways, Deborah felt closer to her since she and Callie had visited the museum last month. God indeed worked in surprising ways. She never would have imagined that quilts sewn by herself, Melinda, and Esther would be exhibited in the textile rooms of the Chicago Museum of Arts.

  At first, the bishop had decided it would be prideful to do so. Upon hearing that, Callie had asked to meet with him personally and argued that considering the women’s work too good for others to see was more akin to pride. The humble thing to do would be to allow Nancy Jarrell to show the quilts. It was a backwards sort of logic, but it worked. As a result, the quilts had sold at a high price — money that helped Deborah and her freinden. And Deborah had grown closer to the woman standing in front of her. She wouldn’t call it friendship exactly — it wasn’t that strong — but definitely closer than mere acquaintances.

  Nancy smiled and nodded toward Deborah. “Tell her what you’re making. She’ll know how much you need. Deborah’s the one who sewed the quilt you purchased. She and her friends.”

  The woman’s eyes widened and her hand flew to her neck, fingers resting on the diamond necklace around her throat. “You’re the one who stitched the diamond-patterned masterpiece that Nancy showcased a month ago? Oh my. I was hoping I would have the chance to meet you, but I had no idea you’d be working in a shop. Your quilt was exquisite. I had a special frame made and hung it on the wall in my family room.”

  Deborah smiled politely, though the thought of her quilt — their quilt — hanging on a wall made her a tad uncomfortable. Quilts were for warmth. They belonged on beds to give comfort, not on walls to be gawked at. She thanked the woman and turned the conversation back to her purchase, even as her eyes caught sight of Melinda and her oldest boy helping Lydia out at the register. Matt had turned eleven this year, the same age as Deborah’s oldest child, Martha.

  The Fall Crafters’ Fair — or Fall Festival as old-timers called it — had begun a few hours earlier. It was Shipshewana’s largest festival of the year. Tonight was a warm-up of sorts and the reason Callie had extended her hours. Normally stores in Shipshe closed their doors and tucked in the welcome mat at six p.m. sharp, but for festivals, hours were extended. If the number of people in the shop was any indication of the crowds they would encounter, they were in for a record-setting weekend.

  Who would have thought quilting could be such a profitable business? Yet it had become one for her and her friends. God had answered their prayers and had provided for their needs. He’d brought Callie, with her energy and inventive methods for attracting customers, and he’d blessed Deborah, Melinda, and Esther with the gift of piecing quilts in unique ways.

  It brought them money they all needed. Deborah’s gaze fell on Aaron, Melinda’s middle child, who was waiting near the door in his wheelchair, and she breathed a quick prayer of gratitude. The money earned from the quilts they’d sold in Chicago had helped pay for testing Doctor Bernie insisted Aaron needed.

  Aaron had been diagnosed with chicken breast disease when he was very young. It was a muscular disorder among the Amish. Children with chicken breast disease lacked a structural protein, and most eventually became too weak to breathe. The great majority didn’t live past the age of two. Doc Bernie called Aaron a miracle child.

  The woman Deborah was helping thanked her for the fabric and murmured again about how much she loved the diamond-patterned quilt she’d purchased.

  Who was Deborah to criticize how the quilts were used? So what if this woman enjoyed displaying them on a wall rather than huddling under them on a cold winter night? It wasn’t for her to judge.

  Martha rushed to her side, cheeks pink and slightly breathless. “Mamm? Aaron and Matthew are going to watch the chain-saw carvers who are giving an early demonstration in the central tent. May I go with them?”

  Deborah placed the bolt of cloth on the pile of items waiting to be reshelved and turned to help the next customer. “Your dat doesn’t need you?”

  “No. He took the boys home.”

  “Why would he take them home before we were ready to leave?”

  “They fell in the mud. All three of them. Mary’s clean, but she wanted to go with them. She was tired.”

  Deborah closed her eyes. She tried not to picture what happened all too often, but in a flash an image of her seven-year-old twins and two-and-a-half-year-old son covered in mud came to mind.

  “They were watching the musicians practice for tomorrow, and the boys —”

  “Don’t tell me anymore.” Deborah held up a ha
nd. “I’d rather not know the details. He took the large buggy?”

  “Ya. I asked to stay and help with Max. Miss Callie said he needs a walk. We thought we’d take him along with us if you agreed we could go to where the booths are.”

  Deborah glanced toward Callie, who was winding her way through the crowd in the shop, weaving her way toward Deborah. She was wearing the new dress they’d sewn together. Made of harvest-green fabric, a very popular color this season, it accented her dark hair and light complexion. Callie looked beautiful and more than a little harried.

  Had the shop ever been this full of people before?

  Market days were always busy, and the Labor Day sale had been very successful, but this was over the top, as her friend liked to say.

  Losing three children, a wheelchair, and one rather large dog would probably help.

  “All right, but be back before dark.”

  “Yes!” Martha bounced away, but Deborah snagged her arm before she was out of reach. Leaning down, she whispered in her ear, “Take special care with Aaron.”

  “‘Course we will.” Martha’s brown eyes turned solemn for a moment.

  Deborah almost regretted robbing her daughter of that moment of sheer childhood delight. Then she glanced over at Aaron, realizing again how fragile the seven-year-old was. Nearly eight. He was nearly eight, and they would be celebrating that birthday with prayers of thanksgiving. She released Martha, knowing she’d done the right thing.

  “Where are they headed?” Callie asked as she began sorting the bolts of fabric Deborah was finished with.

  “Out to see the preparations for the festival. It’ll be gut for them to play a while and give us more room.”

  “This crowd is amazing, isn’t it?” Callie’s eyes sparkled. “Wanna bet old lady Knepp doesn’t have nearly this many customers?”

  “Callie —”

  “I strolled by Quilts and Needles this morning. Her display wasn’t as cute as the one Lydia fixed up for us.”