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Authors: Vannetta Chapman
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afternoon decided to visit a local herb farm.
What would it hurt to start a small container garden?
She’d always wanted to have one in the city, but she’d never been home enough to take care of plants, let alone a dog. Max nosed his way into her lap as she sat cross-legged on the ground in her yard and potted the nursery plants.
Thyme, sage, oregano, and dill.
She could envision cooking with every one of them.
Monday evening she even had time for a little reading—something she hadn’t done in years. Perusing her aunt’s shelves in the tiny apartment above the shop, she was surprised to find a very good collection of old Agatha Christie novels.
So her aunt loved a mystery did she?
Pulling one off the shelf, Callie curled up in the recliner with a light blanket across her lap and Max at her side.
“Dumb Witness
was published in 1937, Max. Now why do you think Aunt Daisy would have ordered a new copy of it?”
She pulled out her aunt’s bookmark, turned back to the beginning, and began to read.
Tuesday dawned clear and sunny. Callie was actually looking forward to going back to work. She dressed to match Max again. Might be silly, but it was fun. What was wrong with a little fun? This time she chose a blue-jean skirt with a short-sleeved red sailor sweater. She’d found a bandana that was red with white ship anchors at the warehouse, and she tied it around Max’s neck. He looked at her rather sadly, but he didn’t argue.
“I know. I’m pitiful, but you’ll learn to like me.” Adding a white headband to her hair was a nice touch. “We look like we’re ready to go sailing, not to work.” Still, it gave her a bit of a lift for the day. That—and some very strong coffee—was all she needed.
This time people did start arriving as soon as she unlocked the door, and surprisingly the crowds were as large as Saturday’s. She’d expected things to be a bit slower, but as Deborah hadpromised sales were brisk. Then she remembered that Tuesdays were market days. The streets were bustling.
She was pleased to see that every time she glanced up, a customer was logged in at the eBay terminal, and her bookmarks went quickly. In fact, she had to sneak into the small office at lunch and print off additional copies.
Callie didn’t want to get her hopes up, but she thought word might be circulating about the quilts, even among the Amish community. As she was checking customers out at the register, she overheard snippets of side conversations—nothing specific, but it had to be about the auctioned quilts.
“Do you think these are the ones?”
“Must be …”
“And the auction is on the In-ter-net?”
Callie finished ringing out the customer and approached the two Amish women standing in front of the nine-patch quilt.
“Did you have a question about the quilt?”
“Oh, no.
Danki.”
Both women glanced down at the ground, and it seemed as if the heavier one began to fidget.
“All right. Well, I’ll be at the register if you have any questions.”
They murmured their thanks, then hustled off to look at the spools of thread.
It went that way all morning.
Even a few Amish men stopped in, claiming they needed to pick up supplies for their wives. Though she saw many English couples on Saturday, Deborah had explained that in general, Amish men took care of their shopping at the feed store or hardware store while women shopped for sewing supplies. Today seemed to be the exception.
Most customers were open and friendly, but not all. Callie looked up a little before lunch to see one middle-aged English woman practically hiding behind a newspaper. (Even she was beginning to split the customers into two categories—English and Amish.)
She had noticed the Amish customers tended to buy only supplies—fabric, thread, and notions. No doubt they sewed their own quilts, though several did stop to admire the finished quilts. Probably they knew Deborah, Melinda, and Esther.
When Callie approached to see if she
What would it hurt to start a small container garden?
She’d always wanted to have one in the city, but she’d never been home enough to take care of plants, let alone a dog. Max nosed his way into her lap as she sat cross-legged on the ground in her yard and potted the nursery plants.
Thyme, sage, oregano, and dill.
She could envision cooking with every one of them.
Monday evening she even had time for a little reading—something she hadn’t done in years. Perusing her aunt’s shelves in the tiny apartment above the shop, she was surprised to find a very good collection of old Agatha Christie novels.
So her aunt loved a mystery did she?
Pulling one off the shelf, Callie curled up in the recliner with a light blanket across her lap and Max at her side.
“Dumb Witness
was published in 1937, Max. Now why do you think Aunt Daisy would have ordered a new copy of it?”
She pulled out her aunt’s bookmark, turned back to the beginning, and began to read.
Tuesday dawned clear and sunny. Callie was actually looking forward to going back to work. She dressed to match Max again. Might be silly, but it was fun. What was wrong with a little fun? This time she chose a blue-jean skirt with a short-sleeved red sailor sweater. She’d found a bandana that was red with white ship anchors at the warehouse, and she tied it around Max’s neck. He looked at her rather sadly, but he didn’t argue.
“I know. I’m pitiful, but you’ll learn to like me.” Adding a white headband to her hair was a nice touch. “We look like we’re ready to go sailing, not to work.” Still, it gave her a bit of a lift for the day. That—and some very strong coffee—was all she needed.
This time people did start arriving as soon as she unlocked the door, and surprisingly the crowds were as large as Saturday’s. She’d expected things to be a bit slower, but as Deborah hadpromised sales were brisk. Then she remembered that Tuesdays were market days. The streets were bustling.
She was pleased to see that every time she glanced up, a customer was logged in at the eBay terminal, and her bookmarks went quickly. In fact, she had to sneak into the small office at lunch and print off additional copies.
Callie didn’t want to get her hopes up, but she thought word might be circulating about the quilts, even among the Amish community. As she was checking customers out at the register, she overheard snippets of side conversations—nothing specific, but it had to be about the auctioned quilts.
“Do you think these are the ones?”
“Must be …”
“And the auction is on the In-ter-net?”
Callie finished ringing out the customer and approached the two Amish women standing in front of the nine-patch quilt.
“Did you have a question about the quilt?”
“Oh, no.
Danki.”
Both women glanced down at the ground, and it seemed as if the heavier one began to fidget.
“All right. Well, I’ll be at the register if you have any questions.”
They murmured their thanks, then hustled off to look at the spools of thread.
It went that way all morning.
Even a few Amish men stopped in, claiming they needed to pick up supplies for their wives. Though she saw many English couples on Saturday, Deborah had explained that in general, Amish men took care of their shopping at the feed store or hardware store while women shopped for sewing supplies. Today seemed to be the exception.
Most customers were open and friendly, but not all. Callie looked up a little before lunch to see one middle-aged English woman practically hiding behind a newspaper. (Even she was beginning to split the customers into two categories—English and Amish.)
She had noticed the Amish customers tended to buy only supplies—fabric, thread, and notions. No doubt they sewed their own quilts, though several did stop to admire the finished quilts. Probably they knew Deborah, Melinda, and Esther.
When Callie approached to see if she
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