side, Gabe Flaud sang the first phrase of the concluding hymn in his clear, melodious voice to establish the pitch and the tempo.
I could listen to Gabe sing all day, Regina thought as she joined in with the others.
She would never tell Gabe that, of course. Five days a week she worked as a finisher in the furniture shop his dat owned, staining and varnishing the dining room and bedroom sets the male employees built in the factory. Gabe was the foreman and he was single, but he looked at Regina as though she were a fixture in the shop—just one of the boys. She’d heard rumors that he dated English girls despite the fact that he’d joined the Old Order, yet the church leaders had never called him on it.
He’s way too adventurous to give a mouse like me a second glance, she mused as she looked at the stained hands holding her hymnal. Why do I waste my time thinking about him? Must be that springtime thing Jo was talking about, wanting something different—something more—in my life.
Regina had a more compelling reason for not entertaining notions about Gabe, but it was a secret she didn’t dare think about during church. God was undoubtedly displeased with the part of her life she kept hidden away. She’d probably be inviting a visible sign of His judgment—perhaps a lightning bolt shooting through the roof to strike her down—if she allowed her mind to wander to her sinful pastime while she was supposed to be worshipping Him.
Regina sang louder, focusing on the words. As the congregation plodded through the thirteenth verse at the methodical pace with which they sang their hymns, Regina’s stomach rumbled loudly. She often wondered what had possessed the Amish songwriters of the sixteenth century to ramble on at such length.
Beside her, Jo Fussner rolled her eyes as they began verse fourteen. Regina stifled a laugh. In front of them, Lydianne Christner rubbed the small of her back while the Helfing twins leaned into each other and began to sway subtly to the beat. The five of them often joked about having calluses on their backsides from a lifetime of endless Sunday services—it was another detail that bound them together as the maidels of Morning Star, a bit of irreverent humor they shared only among themselves.
Regina and her friends let out a sigh of relief as the final note of the hymn died away. When Bishop Jeremiah stood to give the benediction, they bowed their heads to receive his blessing. The five of them took their Old Order faith seriously, even if they sometimes muttered about its inconveniences.
“I know you’re ready to devour the common meal,” the bishop said after the benediction, “but I’m calling a Members Meeting. An opportunity has presented itself in the form of property that’s gone up for sale.”
Regina’s eyes widened. Had the old stable caught the bishop’s eye? If he’d decided to buy the land for himself, he wouldn’t be bringing it up at church—yet she couldn’t imagine Preacher Ammon Slabaugh or her uncle, Preacher Clarence Miller, buying that dilapidated building or the pastureland surrounding it.
“You’re all familiar with the Clementi place at the edge of town,” Bishop Jeremiah continued, “and I’ve heard an intriguing idea about how the stable might be turned into shops where our members and other Plain folks could rent space to sell their wares, as well as a suggestion to use the pastureland for mud sales, produce auctions, and other events.”
Regina elbowed Jo. “You talked to the bishop?” she mouthed in amazement.
Jo’s tight, hopeful expression confirmed Regina’s assumption.
“When I approached our preachers and Deacon Saul, they hesitated—until I suggested that our church could collect a commission from the shops’ sales, which would go toward building a new schoolhouse,” the bishop continued as he looked out over the crowd. “Preacher Ammon pointed out that we often run short of parking space at our mud sales—”
“Are you saying our church district would buy the property?” Elva Detweiler asked loudly. She was hard of hearing, and she spoke as though everyone else was, too. “Won’t that deplete our emergency aid fund?”
“Why would we waste money rebuilding that rickety old stable when we could build a new one cheaper?” Gabe’s dat, Martin Flaud, challenged.
“What with that big Plain gift shop just down the road in Willow Ridge, why would we open the same sort of store here?” Gabe asked.
Bishop Jeremiah held up his hands for silence. “I’m pleased that you’re questioning this idea, rather than rejecting it flat out,” he said. “I’m surprised the Clementi family doesn’t want more money for this property. They’re hoping to unload the place quickly to settle the estate, and because we could pay cash up front, they’ve agreed to accept less than their listing price. Deacon Saul feels it would be a gut investment—”
“Jah, I’d sell my pastureland for twice as much,” Saul Hartzler chimed in from the preachers’ bench. “We wouldn’t be out anything but some grass seed to make it look better. Mowing it before mud sales and auctions would be the only other maintenance.”
“I’m in favor of refurbishing the stable rather than tearing it down because the main structure is basically sound, and we wouldn’t have to replace much wood,” Preacher Ammon replied to Martin. “It also has a character about it you don’t see in modern-style stables.”
“I’m hoping to hire my nephew Pete to do that carpentry work for us,” the bishop said with a knowing smile. “Maybe it’ll set him onto a straighter path than working at the pet food factory. And maybe it’ll get him to church more often, too.”
Regina and several other folks chuckled. Pete Shetler was in his late twenties, seemingly stuck in perpetual rumspringa. He tended to frequent the pool hall after working the night shift, so he sometimes came to church wearing clothes that reeked of grease and cigarettes.
“I also believe English shoppers will flock to a quaint stable with cupolas on top, and colorful shutters and flower boxes—not to mention plenty of parking space,” Bishop Jeremiah continued, painting them a bright picture. “And because our shops would be individually operated by folks selling their own products, only on Saturdays, I don’t think we’d be competing against the Simple Gifts store in Willow Ridge.”
“Sounds like you’ve got this all figured out and you’re ready to put money on the table, Bishop. So why’re you bringing this up to us?” Elva asked. “We pay you such a princely sum, you can surely afford it on your own.”
The room erupted in laughter. Because Amish bishops serve without pay, Bishop Jeremiah was laughing the loudest of all.
“The preachers, Deacon Saul, and I are bringing this matter before the congregation because we see it as a possible way to support the construction of a new schoolhouse—to replace the current one, which is becoming too crowded,” Bishop Jeremiah replied patiently. “We could even build it on the new property, where we wouldn’t face flooding like we had last spring.”
Several parents of school-age children nodded. They all recalled the terrible mess they’d had to clean up—and the days of school the scholars had missed—because several inches of water from the Missouri River had inundated the little white building.
“Is there more discussion, or shall we vote about whether to buy the Clementi property?” the bishop asked.
Martin Flaud quickly spoke up. “With all due respect, Jeremiah, I can’t imagine that you will take charge of these shops—or that you came up with the idea for them. Who’s going to manage this place?”
“Jah,
