the bay, he knew he’d made the right decision. He had gone immediately to the home of his great-uncle John who was his uncle’s opposite in every way. Where Jeremiah’s uncle had been a stern, unforgiving man, John was a jovial and kind soul who, along with his wife, Mildred, welcomed Jeremiah with open arms.
He told them of his business plans and to his delight John had not only been enthusiastic about the idea, he had offered his financial support as well. In addition to serving as the community’s beloved bishop, John had a furniture-making business that had attracted the attention of several wealthy businessmen and their wives in Sarasota. He had done very well for himself and Jeremiah respected the support and counsel his great-uncle could provide.
He explained to John how the advent of the chemical compound called Freon had made refrigeration commonplace in Englisch homes, but obviously because the Amish continued to avoid electricity and other modern conveniences, a source of ice to run their ice boxes and preserve their meats was essential.
“There’s an ice packinghouse in Sarasota,” John had told Jeremiah. “I know the owner and could speak to him on your behalf. After all, you’ll be needing a paying job until you can get this ice cream business up and running.”
Within a week of his arrival Jeremiah had accepted a job with the ice company and had finalized the purchase of the building next to the bakery as well as the small barn that came with it where he could set up his business and live in back of the shop. The ice packinghouse would, of course, be his main source of income, but he was looking forward to getting the ice cream shop up and running. Already his great-aunt Mildred had helped him furnish his living quarters with the essentials for getting settled.
“You need to concentrate on establishing yourself,” she had insisted when he thanked her for everything she was doing for him. “You’d do well to focus your attention on your paying job first. An ice cream shop in these times … well, I don’t know.” Mildred was a sweet and gentle woman but had made it clear that she and John both questioned anything that smacked of frivolity. They were plain people—simple not only in their faith but in their daily routine as well.
“I believe there’s a place for such a business even in these times, maybe especially in these times,” Jeremiah replied.
“Your Uncle Benjamin taught you to make ice cream?” Mildred asked, her surprise evident as she laid out a handmade quilt on his single bed.
“In a manner of speaking. He was certainly responsible for my learning.” He thought about the years spent working with Mr. Osgood. In addition to learning the business, his times at the shop had been some of the happiest of his life. The Osgoods had provided him with the encouragement and love that was often missing from his uncle’s house. Indeed, the only person who had come to see him off at the train station was Mr. Osgood. The pharmacist had pressed an envelope into his hands. “An investment,” he’d said.
Inside the envelope had been the recipes for all of Osgood’s various ice cream concoctions and five crisp one-hundred-dollar bills. Jeremiah had arrived in Sarasota feeling like a rich man in every way.
Shaking off the memory, Jeremiah turned back to his work and finished taping the large sign that Mildred had made for him against the window. Troyer’s Creamery and Confection Shop—Opening Soon. Then he stepped outside to make sure the sign was straight and saw a woman coming out of Yoder’s Dry Goods. She looked vaguely familiar but with the sun behind her, he couldn’t be sure. He shaded his eyes with one hand and waited for her to come nearer. After all, Peter Osgood had taught him that the best way to build a business was to befriend as many people in the community as possible.
But then he saw that it was the baker’s daughter. Pleasant, he thought and in looks she was all of that and far more. Her hair—what he could see of it under the starched white kapp—was the pale gold of freshly cut hay. At their first meeting it had surprised him that in sharp contrast to her fair skin and hair, her eyes were the color of the dark chocolate he used in making his ice cream. She moved with a natural grace worthy of royalty—or at least how he had always imagined titled people moving. And yet there was purpose in her step. She was carrying a satchel in each hand filled to the brim, her shoulders perfectly balanced by the weight of them.
Her expression was passive as she fixed her eyes on her destination—the bakery—and covered the ground necessary to reach it in long purposeful strides. She wore a solid blue ankle-length dress with the usual black apron and short cotton cape covering most of it. Most surprising of all, she was barefoot.
She was almost even with his shop before she saw him standing on the small wooden porch watching her.
“Guten morgen, Frau Obermeier,” he said easily, falling into the German-Dutch dialect of their shared heritage.
“Guten morgen,” she replied but she kept walking. No time for visiting apparently, not even a moment.
“May I help you with those?” Jeremiah asked as he stepped off the porch and fell into step beside her. “They look quite heavy.”
“I’m fine,” she replied. “But thank you.”
He bounded up the steps that led to the bakery entrance and opened the door for her. A bell jangled but no one came out to greet them or relieve her of her burden.
“Danke,” she murmured as she entered the shop and headed immediately for the back room.
Everything about her posture, her failure to meet his eyes or smile, her single-mindedness about the contents of the satchels told Jeremiah that he should simply close the door of the bakery and go back to his own shop. Instead, he followed her into the large and spotless kitchen that held the lingering scent of yeast.
“Did you have the opportunity to look at the recipe I left with you on Saturday?”
“I did,” she replied as she bustled around the kitchen putting things away.
Jeremiah decided to make himself useful by unpacking the satchels for her and handing her items such as cans of baking powder and bottles of vanilla. He did not miss the way she hesitated at first to take the items he held out to her. And then to his surprise she almost snatched them from him as if he might decide to run off with them. And not once did she look directly at him.
“We could go over it now if you have a few minutes,” he said. “The recipe,” he added when she glanced back at him over one shoulder.
“I have shown it to my father. He’ll be here later. You can discuss it with him then.”
“But you are the baker, are you not?”
“Yes, but …”
“Then I would like to discuss it directly with you.” He had removed his straw hat and laid it on the long worktable that dominated the center of the room.
Still not looking directly at him she folded the cloth satchels and stored them in a basket under the table then began transferring a series of large flat pans, each covered with a cloth, to the table. The string ties of her kapp swung to and fro with the motion of her actions. She handed him his hat and went back to the side counter for another tray. It was clear that this was a process she had repeated hundreds—perhaps even thousands—of times. When she removed the cloths he saw that they held unbaked loaves of bread—rye from the looks of them.
“Frau Obermeier?”
“When my father returns, then we can discuss your order, Herr Troyer. Until then, I have bread to bake.”
Jeremiah saw a series of hooks on the wall near the doorway that led to the front of the bakery and made use of one of them to hang his hat. Then he rolled back the long sleeves of his shirt.
Her eyes—definitely one of her best features—went wide with what Jeremiah could only interpret as shock. “What are you doing?” she demanded.
“I thought that as long as you wish me to wait until your father arrives that I could help you.”
“Oh, so now you are a baker