“The food’s okay—and seeing how my uncle has paid my rent ahead, the price is right,” Pete remarked. “It’s putting a cramp in my style, though. Living alongside two maidels is different from having an apartment where nobody was aware of my comings and goings. It beats living with Uncle Jeremiah and Mammi Margaret, though,” he added emphatically. “That was the alternative he offered me if I didn’t sign the contract.”
Gabe had wondered if there was more to the story behind the contract than Bishop Jeremiah had mentioned. Pete was old enough to go his own way, however, so Gabe was surprised that Bishop Jeremiah thought he could control his nephew’s lifestyle . . . unless Pete was too broke to get by without his uncle’s help.
Regina was standing in the aisle, waiting for Lydianne, so Gabe set aside his musings about Pete. “Hey there, Red!” he called out. “Did you convince your artist friend to rent a stall at The Marketplace?”
Her eyes widened as though the question had startled her. “Jah, I—I turned in his form at the meeting.”
She seemed eager to get to the kitchen to help set out the meal. Gabe felt compelled to ask more questions about this English guy she might be dating, so he followed her closely along the crowded aisle. “I’m looking forward to meeting this fellow,” he said. “His paintings are so lifelike—”
“Oh, I doubt you’ll ever see him,” Red put in quickly. “He—Hartley’s very shy. He doesn’t like to be around when folks are talking about his work.”
Hartley? What kind of a name is that? Sounds like a rich English snob, Gabe thought. He noticed how Red’s auburn bun was quivering beneath her kapp.
“If he hears any criticism, he curls up in a ball and can’t paint for days,” Red continued with a shake of her head. “Artists are sensitive that way, you know.”
“Who could possibly criticize the way he paints?” he asked in a puzzled tone. “I’m no expert, but those pictures you showed us Wednesday were—well, they seemed like perfection on paper. His subjects appeared almost better than the real thing.”
Regina’s head swiveled quickly. When she looked at him, her hazel eyes were wide and her mouth was an O. “I’ll tell him you said that,” she whispered.
Gabe was suddenly aware of how close Red was standing—and how, when she hurried forward with the other women, he wished she hadn’t seemed so intent on setting out the meal.
“So this artist’s name is Hartley?” Glenn asked from behind him. “Do you suppose that’s his first name or his last name? I’m curious about him—and about how Regina knows him.”
“I have no idea,” Gabe replied as he watched Red disappear into the kitchen. “You know as much about this guy as I do.”
But I intend to find out more.
* * *
Regina clutched the baskets of bread she was carrying to the tables, hoping not to drop them and call more attention to herself. Her cheeks felt so hot, they surely had to be blazing red.
Perfection on paper.
Never had she heard such glowing remarks about her work—but then, she hadn’t shown it to anyone since she’d completed her art classes years ago. She had to get a better grip on her emotions, and she had to keep track of what she told folks about her imaginary artist, Hartley Fox.
This wouldn’t be a problem if you hadn’t rented a space in the stable—and if you weren’t lying to cover up your secret.
Gabe was setting up tables on the far side of the front room, and Regina made sure not to look at him. She remained among the other women before the meal and sat among her maidel friends, who were happily chatting about how they’d organize the bookkeeping and keep track of commissions when The Marketplace opened.
Jo seemed especially excited about their dream coming true. “I think I’ll keep the larger items—like loaves of bread, and pans of cinnamon rolls, and cakes—in the shop on display racks,” she said, “and I’ll serve separate items like cookies and pastries out in the center area. I’ll have to keep a big pot of coffee hot—”
“You should get one of those thirty- or sixty-cup coffee makers like we’ve seen in the bulk store,” Marietta suggested. “The bishop says we’ll have electricity—”
“And that way folks could serve themselves at a coffee counter,” Molly put in. “It would leave you free to serve your goodies and collect all the money you’re going to make!”
Jo waved the twins off. “Let’s don’t count our cash before it’s in our hands,” she said with a laugh. “We have a lot of logistics to figure out between now and June first.”
Regina sighed inwardly. Her girlfriends had asked a few casual questions about Hartley, but they had no idea how many answers she had to make up before her shop opened, or how she’d have to control her facial features whenever she talked about him.
When she got home, Regina went up to gaze at the paintings hanging on the strings that crisscrossed her attic—and at the many bins of her older pictures. How much should she charge for her work? Which pictures should she take to the shop first? How would she keep explaining to her customers—and her friends—that she was selling these paintings on behalf of an artist who was too reclusive to face his customers?
Lord, I know You don’t approve of what I’ve set myself up for, but I hope You’ll help me keep my stories straight so I can earn a lot of commissions for the new schoolhouse, Regina prayed earnestly. And then I hope You’ll guide me out of this web of deception before anyone—especially me—gets caught in it.
Chapter Seven
On the following Saturday, Jo convinced her mamm to ride to the stable with her to see how its reconstruction was progressing—and to help with the snack and the lunch the churchwomen were serving the construction crew. When Jo first caught sight of the stable, she sucked in her breath. The rumble of generators and the zap-zap-zap of nail guns filled the air as she drove their wagon through the open gate. Riley bounded out to greet them, barking exuberantly.
“Look at all the men up there! They’ve removed the old shingles and they’re already putting on the new roof,” she said excitedly. “They must’ve gotten an early start.”
“Hush up! Stop that barking!” Mamm cried out, pointing at the golden retriever.
Riley’s face fell, but he sat down quietly and let them drive past him.
Jo’s mother gazed up at the men silhouetted against the morning’s bright sky. “Some of those men are awfully old to be climbing around like monkeys,” she remarked. “If somebody falls and gets hurt—”
“Let’s figure that Pete has assigned the elderly, unsteady fellows to jobs on the ground,” Jo said quickly. “See? Glenn’s dat and Martin’s older brothers are at the side of the stable, shoveling the torn-off shingles into that wagon. Everyone here’s excited about this project, Mamm, so let’s be excited with them, shall we?”
Her mother shook her head as she determined that Reuben Detweiler and the Flauds—all of them in their seventies and eighties—were indeed cleaning up the debris. Jo parked beside the other flatbed wagons, where women were setting out a midmorning snack.
“Fine,” Mamm muttered as she stepped down, “but I’ll never understand why the church wants to take on all the responsibility of running shops in this old place. What if you can’t get rid of the smell of horses and manure? Who’ll want to buy all those pastries you’re planning to bake, Josephine?”
Sighing inwardly, Jo focused on the smiles of the friends who’d already arrived. “Hey there, Anne! And Rose, it’s gut to see you this morning—and you too, Gracie!”