Falling to Pieces Page 7

  Chapter 8

  DEBORAH PUT BOTH HANDS on her hips and nodded toward the front seat. “It’s only a horse and buggy. What’s there to be naerfich about?”

  “I realize it’s a horse and buggy. And I don’t know what nar-fitch is.” Callie tucked her dark hair behind her ears and crossed her arms. She looked for all the world like Martha, Deborah’s oldest, when she didn’t want to do something.

  “Naerfich, you know, a little green in the face. Maybe you haven’t ridden a horse before? I promise, buggies are perfectly safe.”

  “We have horses in Texas.” Callie’s voice hardened and her eyes darted from the horse to the little blue car and back again. “I don’t see why we can’t take my car. It would be faster.”

  “Sometimes slower is better.”

  Callie shook her head, as if Deborah’s reasoning made no sense at all.

  “I’m a gut driver,” Deborah added.

  “I’m a good driver too.”

  “Ya, I’m sure you are, but Cinnamon is tired of standing here, and I know where the newspaper office is.”

  Callie’s look softened a bit. “Her name is Cinnamon?”

  “The children named her, because of her light brown color. We’ve had her three years now, and she’s a very good mare.”

  Callie looked doubtfully at the mare. “All right, but next time we take my Ford, which I haven’t named yet.”

  “Sure. Next time you drive. Where are we going next time?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe to pick up the retraction Mr. Stakehorn is going to write. Or to dinner to celebrate the awesome price you ladies will receive from your quilts.”

  “That’s a wunderbaar idea.”

  Deborah clucked to the mare and they started off, out of Daisy’s Quilt Shop’s parking area. Callie clutched the seat, obviously still agitated about Stakehorn’s editorial.

  “Buggy riding is generally soothing. Might help settle you down a bit.”

  “What makes you think I’m unsettled?” Callie let go of her grip on the seat and turned around to look at the two cars slowing down behind them on the road.

  “Possibly the way you slammed things as you were closing up the shop.”

  “I slammed things?”

  “Or maybe the fact that you’ve been muttering under your breath since the minute you read the first line of his editorial.”

  “He called me a robber.”

  Deborah flicked Cinnamon’s reins, pulling her to the right when the road broadened to four lanes. The cars behind her sped up and passed, but she maintained a steady, even pace.

  “Ya, Stakehorn had quite a few inaccuracies in his editorial.”

  “The title alone was enough to make my blood boil.” Callie sat back against the buggy seat, slapping the folded paper against her leg. “New Shop Owner Robs Amish—what was he thinking?”

  “He was thinking about selling papers, and no doubt he sold quite a few.” Deborah’s voice was an extension of her thoughts, calm and quiet like the summer afternoon’s breeze. Its effect on Callie was mild but evident nonetheless.

  She stopped slapping the paper and closed her eyes for a moment as they completed the drive down Main Street.

  Deborah breathed a quiet prayer of relief. She’d been a bit concerned with the way Callie had first slammed the paper on the counter, practically thrown the mugs into the sink, even banged the door shut when she locked up the shop. Deborah didn’t doubt Callie was a good driver, but she had no desire to ride in the little blue car with her driving in her current state.

  Even Max had scampered to the far end of the yard and sat gazing at his new mistress, head cocked, ears perked—as if he could somehow hear what was wrong by listening more closely.

  “You’re awfully quiet over there. I suppose it takes a lot of concentration to drive one of these?” Callie’s voice went up at the end as Deborah pulled Cinnamon to a stop in front of the red light on Main Street.

  “Oh, it doesn’t take as much focus as you’d think. Cinnamon is very used to the traffic. Now if we’d brought our other mare—Lightning, I would need to pay very close attention.”

  “You have a horse named Lightning?” Callie’s eyes widened, and she cornered herself in the buggy so she could study Deborah more closely.

  “Ya, she’s midnight black with a white streak between her eyes. Jonas brought her home a few months ago. I didn’t think we needed another, but he made a good trade, and he likes to ride in the buggy races.”

  “You have buggy races?”

  “We’re not all work and no play, Callie. We even have volleyball games. I was going to ask you to join us sometime.”

  Callie’s eyes lit up instantly for what seemed to Deborah like an unguarded moment, but then she turned and stared back out over the front of the mare. “Sounds like fun, but I don’t know how long I’ll be here. Depends on when the shop sells.”

  “Of course. If you’re still here on Sunday though, perhaps you could come by.”

  A smile played on Callie’s lips. “Don’t you have church on Sunday? I thought Amish were very religious.”

  “We do take our commitment to the church and our faith very seriously, but we only gather together for services twice a month. This Sunday there is no service, so several families are meeting at our home for lunch and some games.”

  Callie cut her gaze sideways, but didn’t turn. “Maybe we should try that in Texas.”

  “Try what?”

  “Alternating Sunday church with a week off now and then for food and games.”

  Deborah laughed as she pulled the buggy to a stop in front of the Shipshewana Gazette. “It’s been our way for a long time.”

  Callie was out of the buggy before Deborah had come to a complete stop. By the time she had Cinnamon tied to the post, Callie had already disappeared inside the small newspaper office.

  “Mr. Stakehorn has already left.” Mrs. Caldwell sat at the front desk, plainly closing up for the day.

  “We need to talk to him though.”

  Mrs. Caldwell had been the receptionist at the Gazette for as long as Deborah could remember. She was in her early sixties, with short gray hair cut in a bob, and glasses perched on her nose. She was also close to two hundred pounds—not in a soft grandmotherly way, but in a tough no-nonsense way. Deborah had often wondered what the woman had been like in her younger years, but it was difficult to imagine her as anything but what she was now—the guardian of the Gazette. No one seemed to remember a Mr. Caldwell.

  She looked at Deborah and nodded. “Afternoon, Deborah.”

  “Afternoon, Gail.”

  She turned her attention back toward Callie, looked over the top of her glasses, and pursed her lips together. “You’re welcome to come back tomorrow. Mr. Stakehorn’s always in the office by nine.”

  “I have to be at my store at nine. I’m Callie Harper, the new owner of Daisy’s Quilt Shop.” Callie offered her hand. Mrs. Caldwell looked again at Deborah, then back at Callie with a look of impatience, but she finally shook her hand halfheartedly.

  “Nice to meet you,” Callie said.

  Mrs. Caldwell glanced pointedly at her wristwatch.

  Deborah stepped forward, her instincts telling her it would be best to intervene before there was a problem, and placed a hand on Callie’s arm. “We’re sorry to bother you. Perhaps Callie could have Mr. Stakehorn call her tomorrow.”

  “Actually I want to talk to him tonight.”

  Mrs. Caldwell released an exasperated sigh, blowing up her bangs which were cut straight across her perfectly arched gray-blue penciled eyebrows.

  The bell on the door behind them rang again, and Mr. Hearn walked into the room. Nearly Deborah’s age, he was the only welder in town. Over six feet and lanky, he had dark black hair cut short and dark eyes to match.

  “Afternoon, Baron.” Mrs. Caldwell looked put out with the three of them, but stated the obvious anyway. “We’re closing in case you haven’t noticed.”

  “No problem. I’m
here to drop off my ad for Saturday’s paper.” Baron Hearn handed her a large envelope, then turned to smile at Deborah, lifting off his ball cap as he did. “Mrs. Yoder.”

  “Mr. Hearn.”

  “I need to know where he is,” Callie insisted. “There’s a matter I need to clear up in today’s paper—he grossly misstated what we’re doing at Daisy’s Quilt Shop, and I’d like him to print a retraction.”

  Baron Hearn stepped back, stuck his hands in the back pockets of his jeans as if to enjoy the show, or the view of Callie, Deborah wasn’t sure which.

  Mrs. Caldwell all but rolled her eyes. “Sweetheart, you obviously haven’t been in Shipshewana very long.”

  Callie uncrossed her arms, and lowered her hands to her side, but her voice lost some of its forced politeness. “What does how long I’ve been here have to do with anything?”

  “See this sign behind my desk?” Caldwell pointed to a cheaply painted corrugated tin that read—I can only please one person a day, and today’s not your day. Tomorrow’s not looking too good either. “Came to work for Mr. Stakehorn twenty-seven years ago. First six months I was here, so many people came in here asking for retractions—I had to purchase this.”

  “She the new owner of the quilt store?” Hearn asked Deborah, jerking a thumb toward Callie.

  Deborah nodded, but didn’t take her eyes off Callie and Mrs. Caldwell. She could sense a buggy wreck when it was about to happen, but she had no idea how to stop it.

  “She talking about the editorial in today’s paper?”

  Deborah nodded again.

  “That was a bad one, even for Stakehorn.” Hearn sat down, legs stretched out in front of him and crossed at the ankles, apparently caught up in seeing how this was going to play out.

  “So this is the way ya’ll operate a paper here?” Callie took a step closer to the desk.

  “Don’t include me in the group, little miss. I don’t own stock in the company.”

  “You work here, don’t you?” Callie put her hands on the desk, actually leaned over it.

  “I do, and I’d appreciate it if you’d step away from my desk before I call the sheriff.”

  “Call the sheriff?” Callie’s voice rose, like a baby bird calling to its mother.

  “You heard me.”

  “But I’m the one with a complaint. What Stakehorn wrote was pure lies. He had no right to say those things.”

  Caldwell pointed to another plaque, this one under the Shipshewana Gazette banner. It read “The First Amendment—don’t like it, move to a different country.”

  She stood, pulled a large black purse out of the bottom drawer of her desk. “Unless we voted it out, the First Amendment still stands. Doesn’t it, Baron?”

  “For better or worse, I believe it does.” Baron tugged again on his Indianapolis Colts ball cap.

  Deborah stepped forward. “Why don’t we go, Callie? We’ll talk to someone about this tomorrow.”

  “You bet we will. You haven’t heard the last from me. Stakehorn is going to regret he ever started this.”

  Deborah linked her hand through Callie’s arm, attempted to pull her toward the front door of the newspaper office.

  Caldwell was staring at her now, as if she was seeing some odd sort of farm animal, perhaps a newborn calf with two different-color eyes. Baron Hearn was still grinning from ear to ear—no doubt ready to run out and tell what he’d witnessed to everyone at the Main Street Café. Deborah knew how gossip spread in their town—this scene would feed the rumor mill for a good twenty-four hours.

  “Maybe Shipshewana is used to this type of poor reporting, but in Texas we get retractions—” Callie nearly stumbled over the lip of the doorway. “Or we get even!”

  Callie stood in front of the buggy, in front of the horse, who shook her head a bit, then resumed reaching for the green grass growing beside the sidewalk.

  She turned and looked back into the front window of the Shipshewana Gazette.

  Mrs. Caldwell had picked up the phone and was talking into it.

  The man she had referred to as Baron walked out after them, smiled, and murmured, “Afternoon, ladies.” He then sauntered down the walk.

  “I think he enjoyed that.” Callie narrowed her eyes after him.

  “I have little doubt. Baron Hearn enjoys a scene as much as he enjoys a good wager on a competition, and trust me he’s been known to take pleasure from both.”

  Callie shook her head, hoping to clear it. “You know him?”

  “I do,” Deborah said with a nod.

  “Will he report what he just heard?”

  “He will.”

  “You’re not doing much to cheer me up here.”

  Deborah untied the mare, patted her gently, and smiled at Callie.

  “How do you remain so calm, Deborah? I feel as if I’ve finished running a marathon.”

  “Put your hand on Cinnamon.”

  “Why?”

  “Try it.”

  Callie stepped closer, placed her hand on the side of the mare. Her body warmed by the afternoon sun, she felt snug, satiny, and solid. She allowed her hand to travel the length of her neck, then repeated the process two, three times.

  “Better?”

  “A little.”

  “Gut.”

  “I still want to find Stakehorn, and I will.”

  “I don’t doubt it, but perhaps you should think about how you’re going to handle the situation when you do.”

  They both climbed into the buggy, and Deborah turned the buggy back toward Daisy’s Quilt Shop.

  “That didn’t go so well, did it?” Callie leaned forward, placed her forehead in her hands, massaged at her temples.

  “At least she didn’t actually call the sheriff.”

  “Does Shipshewana even have a sheriff?”

  “Yes, we do, and let’s hope you never have cause to meet him.”

  Two hours later, Callie rose from a nap she had not intended to take. Max stretched, yawned, and pushed his nose into her hand.

  “Message received.” After making a pit stop herself, she clipped his leash and walked him to the side yard. Once there, she realized there was enough light left for the short walk to the deli down the street.

  Of course she could take the blue car, but perhaps Deborah was right—perhaps slower was sometimes better. Leaving Max in the yard to enjoy his romp with the birds, she started down Main Street.

  Her nap had helped her to realize another thing: She needed to approach this situation more calmly.

  Reacting like the high-pressured salesperson she had been would not work with the people of Shipshewana. She would only make enemies—and though she didn’t plan to stay here long, she needed all the friends she could possibly accumulate.

  Or as her mother had been fond of reminding her, “You can accomplish more with a big glass of sweet tea …” A bit of a twist on the traditional saying, but for Stella Harper it made perfect sense. She knew her daughter, knew her tendency was to storm in, and often reminded her that in the South, patience and manners was the better way to win someone’s favor.

  So she should try sweet tea.

  Sweetness, Mr. Stakehorn, and the Shipshewana Gazette seemed incompatible, but perhaps not.

  Chapter 9

  CALLIE SAT DOWN at a table to wait on her order. Probably owing to the fact that it was a Tuesday, a market day, the deli was quite busy. Plus, Shipshewana didn’t offer many places to eat in the evening.

  The thought brought a smile to Callie’s face. In Houston, many places stayed open until well past midnight. But in Shipshewana, most places closed up when the sun went down. She was grateful the deli stayed open an hour later than the others.

  She seemed to be the one person waiting on a to-go order.

  More than a dozen people sat at various tables or at the old time soda-fountain bar.

  Some sat with their families, talking about the day’s events as they enjoyed their meal.

  Some sat alone, like her. She’d be
en eating alone since Rick died.

  Her gaze traveled to the window, to the twinkly lights in the trees lining the walk outside. Summer had been Rick’s favorite time. He loved everything about it—water-skiing, hiking, bike riding. He was a bit of an outdoors enthusiast. A lump filled her throat until she was sure she wouldn’t be able to swallow past it.

  Two years, nearly two years now. Shouldn’t something as simple as eating her evening meal be easier?

  On the other hand, if it became easier what would that say about her? That she didn’t really love him? She did though. She loved him, and she missed him more than she’d miss her arm if someone were to walk in and cut if off at this very moment.

  “Can I get you some iced tea while you wait, Miss Callie?” Beth, a young Amish girl, smiled as she stopped at her table. Blonde hair peeked out from the prayer kapp Callie was growing accustomed to seeing. A dark blue dress was covered by a white apron which matched the kapp.

  “That would be wonderful. Yes, thank you, Beth.”

  “Mango-peach, like before?”

  “I would love that. You have a good memory.”

  “Danki.” The girl blushed slightly, then skittered away from the table.

  Callie pretended to read the menu, though she’d already ordered. In truth, she studied the other customers. Many were people she’d met in her shop over the last few days.

  The thought brought her up short—her shop.

  Was that what it had become?

  Her shop?

  When had she started to feel a personal sense of ownership for the place?

  She’d been numb for so long—since Rick’s death, since her friends had deserted her, since she’d lost her job. Maybe longer. Maybe since she’d lost the baby.

  The words on the menu blurred, but she blinked, forced back the tears.

  Now was not the time to grow sentimental, and certainly not over an old shop that she had no ties to—no ties except Aunt Daisy.

  Daisy had always been such a gentle soul, her monthly letters a balm over the last few years. True, they were short and usually filled with ramblings about her day-to-day life. What old person’s letters weren’t?