Katie's Choice Page 5

  Yet only one woman captured his attention. Katie Rose stood in the middle of the chaos, as angelic as last night, as peaceful as a spring breeze. She seemed the epitome of the Amish: serene, composed, and . . . godly. He’d never had a thought like that before about a woman, and it surprised him. She exuded some sort of quality that had him wondering about a higher power. Or was it just the belief in such a being that could make the difference? He shook the thought away. He’d never been one to focus on the supernatural. Katie Rose’s look of serenity came from clean living and lack of cosmetics. That was all.

  He cleared his throat, hoping to gain someone’s attention.

  But not that of the entire room.

  All eyes turned toward him, and whatever the ladies had been doing, forgotten, if only momentarily.

  “I’d like to get something to drink, please.” This would have been so much easier if the kitchen had been empty, even if the lemonade hadn’t been waiting on the table for him. As it was, he was reliant on the women before him since they filled up every available space, leaving him no room to maneuver.

  Mary Elizabeth nudged Katie Rose in the ribs and nodded in his direction. “Aenti, would you get our guest a drink?”

  Katie Rose turned toward the rectangular box in one corner of the kitchen, her expression indifferent.

  Zane shifted from one foot to the other, ignoring the strange looks he received as one by one the women returned to their duties.

  He wasn’t entirely sure why Katie Rose was the one chosen to get him a glass of lemonade. It wasn’t her home, and he certainly wasn’t Mary Elizabeth’s guest since she lived with Gabriel still.

  He watched Katie Rose with hooded eyes as she poured him a tall glass and brought it around the counter toward him.

  “For you, Zane Carson,” she said, handing him the drink, her eyes not meeting his.

  “Thank you.”

  “Danki,” she said quietly.

  “Does that mean ‘You’re welcome’?”

  “It means ‘thank you.’” She turned toward the other ladies, and Zane had to fight the urge to reach out for her like Samuel and tag along behind her. Ridiculous.

  He looked for a place to sit, preferring the company of the busy women to his own. It had nothing to do with the willowy blonde. Nothing at all. He pulled out a chair from the table and moved it to an out-of-the-way corner where he could watch without getting in the way. Four ginormous pots bubbled on the stove, rows upon rows of jars lined every available countertop space, and the table was covered with mounds of cucumbers.

  “Pickles!” he said, sounding so much like the man who hollered “Eureka” that he almost laughed out loud.

  Gideon’s Annie turned to him, her orders put on hold momentarily. “Yes?”

  “You’re making pickles,” he reiterated, only quieter this time.

  Annie nodded. “That’s right.”

  “A lot of pickles.”

  “They’re for Ruth.”

  Zane glanced about the room. Ruth Fisher was nowhere in the fray of busy-bee workers. “I take it Ruth likes pickles.”

  “They’re to help pay for Ruth’s treatment.”

  He knew firsthand that was going to take a lot of pickles. He’d watched his uncle battle cancer and lose, his half-a-million-dollar life insurance policy barely enough to cover burial expenses after the doctor bills had been paid.

  Mary Elizabeth nudged her aunt once again. “Go explain it to him.”

  “It was Annie’s idea,” Katie Rose protested.

  “She’s busy,” Mary Elizabeth explained. “And you know more about the operation than anyone else. Maybe if he puts it in his magazine . . .”

  Mary Elizabeth didn’t need to say anything else. They all hoped that exposure in his story would spur pickle sales, so Katie Rose’s love for her mother convinced her to give him her attention.

  He tried not to appear too pleased. After all, it was only for a story.

  Katie Rose came around the counter again, Samuel watching her from his perch on the corner stool. He had a piece of string in his hands, making familiar designs that Zane remembered from his own childhood. Some things didn’t change.

  She pulled out her own chair, placed it as far from him as she could get and still be heard over the din, and took a moment to rest. He knew that Amish women worked hard, but a pickle-making production as big as this one had to require a ton of energy.

  Finally, Katie Rose spoke. “Well, I guess you could say that it all started when Annie came back to us.”

  “Came back?”

  She nodded, but didn’t elaborate, her gaze fixed on her lap. “She put her car up for sale and gave the money to the community fund. That went a long way to helpin’ pay for mamm’s treatment. But it wasn’t enough.” She looked up and met his eyes, and he tried not to notice how the green of her dress reflected in her gaze. He didn’t need to notice such things.

  He cleared his throat. “And the pickles?”

  Katie Rose shrugged. “It was Annie’s idea. See, grossmammi makes the best pickles this side of anywhere. Annie decided that we could sell the pickles and raise money. So she started us a website. We take orders online, fill them from this kitchen, and ship them out all over the country.”

  “Wait. Online? As in the Internet?”

  She nodded, and Zane sat mesmerized by the gentle sway of the strings on her little white cap.

  “But I thought . . .” John Paul said there was no electricity, that meant no computers and, in turn, no Internet.

  “We don’t have a computer here at the house. Gideon takes Annie into town a couple of days a week. She uses the computer at the library. Bishop Beachy turns a blind eye because she hasn’t joined the church yet. And he knows we need the money.”

  “So you ladies make pickles each week, send them out the following week, and start all over again after that?”

  “Jah.”

  “Those must be some pickles.” He couldn’t imagine. Weren’t homemade pickles supposed to be . . . well, disgusting?

  Katie Rose rose from her seat and wound her way through the other ladies to the refrigerator that sat in the corner of the kitchen. He made a mental note to ask how the crazy thing worked. It seemed that the Amish may not have electricity, but that didn’t mean they were without creature comforts. Or maybe he should say “necessities.” There was a difference, after all.

  She handed him a jar and a fork and waited patiently while he sampled one of Noni’s famous pickles.

  One thing was certain: they did indeed warrant celebrity status. They were cool and crunchy, with just the right amount of everything—salt, dill, garlic, and some unknown ingredient that made them different from any pickle he’d ever tasted. They were . . . perfect. No wonder they had jars spread all over the house. What a great addition to his feature.

  “Let me get my camera and—”

  Katie Rose shook her head. “It is against the Ordnung to have photographs.”

  He studied her face to see if this was another chapter of the Fisher family’s book of practical jokes, but she seemed serious enough. “For real?”

  “I’m not sure what that means, but yes . . . I think. We do not allow our faces to be in photographs.”

  “What about—”

  “You may take a picture of the kitchen, but none of us. Maybe the barn and the animals. Anything more, and you’ll have to speak to Dat.”

  “Okay.” He’d love to get a picture of the kitchen, but what good was that without at least one cook? He made a mental note to talk to Abram about taking a picture of the women as they made their pickles. Maybe if he photographed them from a side angle or from behind . . .

  He’d ask. After all there would be a few more pickle-making days before this assignment was through.

 
“So once the treatments are paid for, the pickles will stop?”

  Katie Rose smiled like Mona Lisa. “We’ll only make enough for our family and any others for trade.”

  “Trade?”

  “Noni makes the best pickles, but Aaron’s Rachel’s Sarah makes the best applesauce. So we swap.”

  He popped the last bite into his mouth. Before he could ask her what that meant and who Aaron, Rachel, and Sarah were, she stood, and with a quick nod, excused herself.

  Zane watched her go and tried not to be so pleased that, despite the fact she lived in another house, he would see her next week. He’d just have to make it a point to be closer to the house on pickle-making days.

  3

  You know today was all in fun, jah?”

  Zane sat on his bed, typing in questions, notes, and anecdotes from the day as quickly as he could. The battery light on his computer blinked out a warning. He probably only had about fifteen minutes left before the thing died, and he’d have to resort to pen and paper to record his thoughts. It wasn’t the worst thing that had ever happened to him, but he could type much faster than he could write in longhand. In cases like that, he often lost the idea before he had a chance to get it down on paper.

  He glanced up, wasting precious electronic seconds as he turned his attention to John Paul. The teenager stood in the doorway of their shared room, a tentative smile on his face.

  “Yeah, but you know what they say?”

  John Paul shook his head.

  “Payback’s a . . .” he caught himself before actually saying the word. How many times had he used profanity and never given it a second thought? It was a harmless word, not meant to hurt or degrade, but saying it in the house of a devout man like Abram Fisher gave Zane pause. “Paybacks are not fun.”

  “What does that mean?”

  Zane shrugged and shot his roomie a cryptic smile. “Whatever you’d like it to mean.”

  John Paul squinted those mossy-green eyes, but didn’t ask any more questions.

  Zane turned back to his dimming screen as the warning light turned from flashing yellow to urgent red. He growled under his breath. He had only seconds left.

  “Somethin’ wrong?”

  “My battery is low. Well, about to die. And I can’t charge it here.”

  “Maybe we could rig up somethin’ with the propane generator.”

  Visions of his computer catching on fire and blowing up flitted thorough Zane’s mind. “That’s okay. I can make do.” Too bad he hadn’t brought his tablet with him.

  “Or I can take you to town tomorrow. After we get the seeds in the ground.”

  That’s right. Tomorrow was planting day for the winter wheat. “How long does it take to get to town in the buggy?” It was probably an hour at least.

  John Paul shrugged and a mischievous grin spread across his face. “Won’t take any time at all in my car.”

  “You have a car? Wait. A real car?” Who knew the Amish could be so much like the rest of the world?

  “I told you, I am in rumspringa. I can own a car, go to the movies, all the things you Englisch do. And that means I can take you to town tomorrow afternoon. I am sure Mr. Anderson will let you charge your computer at the general store.”

  Zane hit Save just before the screen went black. It was nothing but an oversized paperweight now. “Thanks, John Paul. That’d be great.”

  Great was not the word that came to mind as Zane held on to the passenger door for dear life.

  He should have run the other direction as soon as he laid eyes on the ancient Ford. But need and necessity won out, and he’d climbed into the passenger’s seat.

  That was his first mistake.

  “Are you sure you don’t want me to drive?” Zane asked for the third time in not so many miles as John Paul rounded a particularly sharp corner. Gravel flew in all directions as he spun into the grate at the edge of the road.

  John Paul shot him a grin that said much more than words. “I only get to do this for four years. I’m not missin’ any chance I got.”

  Four years with this guy behind the wheel? Lock up your children and dogs. No one was safe.

  “What happens in four years?” Zane asked, focusing his attention on something other than flat-out fear for his life.

  He immediately regretted the question as John Paul slid his gaze from the road to study him. “I’ll join the church.”

  Zane pressed his feet against the floorboards as if sheer will alone could slow the car. “You might want to, uh—” He nodded back toward the road and the creature that had unfortunately ambled out of the woods and into the path of John Paul’s car.

  John Paul swerved toward the other side, sucking Zane off the door and throwing him against the driver’s seat. He grinned as if to say, “What’s a guy to do?”

  “I thought rumspringa was a chance for you to decide whether or not you wanted to join the church,” Zane asked, once John Paul straightened the car from its death spin.

  “It is.”

  “But if you already know you’re going to join, what’s the point?”

  “I would not miss this for the world.”

  Zane braced himself again as John Paul took a turn too fast, but at least now they were on blacktop. Or did that just make it worse?

  Suddenly, a familiar white sign came into view, and Zane uttered a few words of gratitude to whoever was listening. They had made it to Clover Ridge without an accident. But the trip had taken longer than he thought it would. Or maybe the imminent threat of death and maiming made it seem that way.

  John Paul probably took him the long way around out of sheer orneriness, but Zane wasn’t convinced the crazy driving was anything other than that—a man who had no business behind the wheel. Four more years. Thankfully he’d be back in Chicago soon.

  His Amish roommate pulled to a stop in front of the general store, a few slots down from a hitching post where two buggies were tied. The horses neither shied nor glanced in their direction, a testament to their training. Or maybe the horses were as crazy as John Paul.

  Zane unfolded himself from the car, making a mental note to not challenge the powers that be by getting into the car with the crazed teenager again. He grabbed his laptop case and followed the laughing John Paul into Anderson’s.

  As he stepped into the cool interior of the store, Zane felt as if he’d slipped back in time. Only the hanging lightbulbs and the gently whirring fans were testament to the age of electricity. The planked floor beneath his feet had been swept clean and lightly polished to show off the beautiful oak grain. Merchandise climbed the sidewalls, but in the center of the store, wares were displayed on shelves no more than shoulder high. Across the back stood a candy counter straight out of the ’40s with jars of sweets and a soda fountain lining the wall behind. A pretty young Asian girl sat at one end of the counter, flipping through a magazine, her face hidden by the dark curtain of her hair.

  “Oi,” John Paul said by way of greeting. He waved to a man in a white butcher’s apron. “Coln Anderson, come meet our Englisch guest.”

  The proprietor wiped his palms on his apron then reached out a hand to shake with Zane. “You must be Zane Carson.”

  Zane nodded, a bit taken aback. Small community if news of his arrival had already gotten to town and included his name. “Nice store you’ve got here.”

  Coln smiled, nodding his thanks. “It’s a joy and a blessing.”

  “Mr. Anderson, Zane Carson needs to charge his laptop. We were wonderin’ if’n you would allow him to do that here.”

  “Of course, of course. Right this way.” He led them to the back of the store and behind the candy counter.

  Evidently this wasn’t the first time the request had been made. Someone had set up a table next to the outlets. A cell phone and a Nintendo
DS lay side by side, and Zane wondered if they were part of someone’s rumspringa splurge. He thanked Coln for his generosity and plugged in his laptop and cell phone. “What do I owe you?” he asked, turning to face the man.

  “Not a thing,” Coln answered. “I’m just glad you came to help.”

  Zane wouldn’t exactly call what he was doing “help,” but many believed that his stories would bring business into the community. He made a mental note to provide some sort of thanks in his articles when a jar of candy caught his attention. Candy he hadn’t seen in ages. “Are those . . . Astro Pops?”

  If Coln was surprised by the question, he didn’t show it. “Yes, they are.”

  “I used to get these when I was a kid.” Wonderment and memories filled his voice. On the infrequent trips they made to town, his father would take him to the apothecary and get him an Astro Pop. Just the thought of them brought back memories of his dad, his childhood, and all the good they had shared before his parents died.

  Without hesitation, he reached into the jar and pulled out a handful of the tri-colored suckers.

  “Where to now?” John Paul asked as they walked back out into the fall sunshine.

  Zane reached into the brown paper sack containing the Astro Pops and retrieved one. He offered the bag to John Paul, who shook his head. “Danki.”

  That’s when Zane realized that he was stranded in town with no way home except the deathtrap car and John Paul, NASCAR driver in training.

  He unwrapped one of the candies. “How far is it to the school?”

  The words popped out of his mouth before he had considered them. He was interested in seeing the one-room schoolhouse he’d heard about for the novelty of the visit. Not because of a certain jade-eyed teacher.

  “It’s a couple of miles that-a-way.” John Paul pointed in the direction they had come from.

  “It might be fun to see. For the feature,” he added.

  He popped the sucker into his mouth, hoping it would stem the flow of inerrant words. The Astro Pop tasted even better than he remembered—pure corn syrup with just a touch of flavoring. It was kind of like eating a candied apple without the apple. Zane smiled at the memories that something as simple as candy could evoke.