Whoopie Pie Betrayal - Book 2 (The Whoopie Pie Juggler: An Amish of Lancaster County Saga series) Read online

  “What a nice man,” I say. “No wonder Beau is so gentlemanly.”

  “He’s weak,” Ruth says with a small but contemptuous snarl. “He’s always been a weakling. If Beau has any manliness in him at all, it’s thanks to me.”

  I look at her and can only think, I don’t doubt that for a minute, lady.

  * * *

  We finally make it out of the Thompson home and let Rosalind pull us down Market Street toward the Lancaster Central Market. The leaves are changing color, red and yellow, purple and magenta bursting from the branches and collecting on the ground. It’s like living in some amazing painting by a long-dead master, brought to life by the hand of the greatest artist of all.

  God.

  But I’m worried. Even the natural beauty of the American chestnuts can’t soothe me. The songs of the tiger swallowtails can’t charm me. The distant clouds are languid as they drift toward the Allegheny Mountains to the north, but they can’t distract me from this nagging in the back of my mind and in the bottom of my heart.

  I say, “Beau is such a good guy, and his father is so nice.”

  “Isn’t he just?” Rebecca says. “I hope we have a son, and that he turns out to be as nice as his daed and granddad.”

  “Yeah, well, I’m sure he will be. But, um, Ruth...she’s, um...“

  “A real pill?”

  We look at each other and then share a surprised and relieved chuckle. Rebecca turns to gaze out over the foothills, the sun catching her cheek. “She hates me. I...I’ve never had anybody feel that way about me before, and I don’t know what I did to deserve it.”

  “Nothing,” I say, “you didn’t do a thing. It’s not about you, it’s about her. I don’t think she’d like any girl her that her beloved Beau would want to marry.” Rebecca shoots me a cold little glare, and I feel it in the pit of my stomach. “Oh, um, I didn’t mean it that way, like he’s not worthy of it, Beau, I mean...”

  “It’s all right, Hannah. You’re right, she’s too...attached to him, too protective; she acts like Beau is her husband, not Samuel.” After a tense little moment, Rebecca adds, “I don’t know what I’m going to do about it.”

  I give it a little thought. I really shouldn’t butt in, but she is my sister and siblings should look out for one another. Now that Rebecca and I are getting closer, that’s one of the things we should be sharing - our perspectives - to inform and protect the other.

  That’s what being a good sister is all about.

  On the other hand, there’s always the risk that she’ll follow my advice and it goes south. That could ruin everything we’ve built between us, not to mention what kind of havoc it could wreak in Rebecca’s personal life.

  I say, “Just give it a little time. Once you’re married to Beau, you’ll be able to assert yourself a bit more if you have to. Maybe in the meantime he or Samuel will step in and explain her new position in the family a little more clearly.”

  Rebecca takes some time to think about it. “You think she feels like she’s getting pushed out of the family, and that’s why she hates me?”

  I take a deep breath. “I dunno, Rebecca, I barely know the woman. But you will be taking a place in her son’s life that, well, that’s been unfilled all this time. Y’know, for a long time, in childhood, a mother is the most important woman in a boy’s life. But when he marries, his wife becomes the most important woman in his life. Some mothers have a hard time dealing with that.” I watch Rebecca think about it, almost able to hear the wheels spinning behind her pretty face. I add, “Still, you may not be the best candidate to explain that to her, eh?”

  Rebecca looks back at me, a grin breaking. “I’d just as soon not be!”

  “Frankly, Sis, that makes two of us.” We giggle a bit more as Rosalind pulls us up to the marketplace and to one of the many parking areas expressly designed for horse-drawn carriages.

  We stroll through the marketplace, admiring the mason jars filled with pre-made soup mixes, oil lamps, hand-crafted leather saddles and other Amish specialties. Finally Rebecca and I find the Whoopie pie booth. There are several platters filled with the individually cellophane-wrapped pies, and several others with unwrapped pies, ready to be eaten.

  The young woman behind the booth smiles at us as we approach. She’s quite lovely, with smoky blue eyes, perfect skin and a heart-shaped mouth.

  “Afternoon,” she says, “haven’t seen you here before. Care for a Whoopie pie?”

  I smile and extend my hand. “Hannah Troyer, this is my sister Rebecca.”

  “Troyer,” she says, “didn’t you just marry last month?”

  “That’s right. And you’re...?”

  She offers up an uncomfortable chuckle. “Oh, I’m sorry, where are my manners? Grace Adler, nice to meet you both.” She shakes our hands. “I’d heard there was a Whoopie pie genius who moved into town and married before the harvest. And now here you are, at my booth!”

  “Word really travels fast around here,” I say.

  Grace nods. “Like you wouldn’t believe! The baking circle is pretty tight, and there’s just not that much news to report, thank goodness. When somebody marries out of season, that’s something to talk about, at least. Anyway, I want you both to have a pie, on the house!”

  She’s so friendly and pretty, I would almost feel rude not to accept. Rebecca and I each take a Whoopie pie. I break a piece off and eat it, my mouth filling with the amazingly moist cake and the fluffy marshmallow cream. A certain flavor tickles the back of my tongue, unexpected yet familiar and very delicious.

  “Is that vanilla?” I ask.

  Grace smiles excitedly. “And just a hint of nutmeg.”

  I can’t help but smile, and I don’t want to help it. “I have to say, Grace, this is the best Whoopie pie I’ve ever tasted.”

  “Oh my,” Grace says with a nervous little giggle, “praise from Caesar! Why not take a few, for your families?” After a moment of brief consideration, she adds, “Please, I insist!”

  Once again, driven mainly by my impulse not to be rude, we each take an additional pie, wrapped in cellophane, and thank Grace for her hospitality. We agree to see each other soon and head back toward the carriage.

  Rebecca says, “My God, these are amazing pies. Are...are you okay?”

  “Am I...? Of course I’m okay, Rebecca, why wouldn’t I be?”

  “No, nothing,” she says, trying to look casually around as we climb into the carriage.

  * * *

  That evening I’m having dinner with Simon and Gramm, but I can’t stop thinking about the events of the day. “What could she have meant by that?” I ask, Simon wisely not answering, merely shaking his head and taking another forkful of venison stew. “Why shouldn’t I be okay?”

  “Not sure, honey,” he finally says, as if compelled to say something just to prove he’s listening. “Why didn’t you ask her?”

  “I didn’t want to start a fight over it, you know how sensitive my sister is. But, honestly, why should I be bothered if there’s somebody who makes better Whoopie pies than I do?”

  Simon looks as if he’s about to say something, but I add, “Not that they are better than mine, necessarily. I mean, they’re quite good, I’m not saying they’re aren’t very, very good. But better and best, those are subjective, right? I mean, that’s got to come down to a matter of opinion. Right, Gramm?”

  Gramm nods and shrugs. “Pie is only pie.”

  “Exactly my point,” I say. “My whole identity doesn’t revolve around making Whoopie pies.”

  “Of course not,” Simon says. “You’re a loving wife, a dutiful homemaker, you’re smart and funny and you’re one of the strongest people I’ve ever met.” He leans over and gives me a little kiss. “And you do make one heck of a great Whoopie pie, no matter what anybody says.”

  “What do you mean by that?” I ask, unprepared for the amount of offense in my rising voice. “People love my pies, you know how popular they were out in Indiana, or did you already forget
how we met?”

  Simon chuckles, resting his hand on my arm. “I’m only teasing, honey, I’m sorry.”

  Teasing? I want to say. You better watch your step, mister, or you’ll be going to someone else for your next Whoopie pie!

  * * *

  Two days later I’m at the marketplace, selling my Whoopie pies. Well, I’m at the marketplace, at my booth, with plenty of Whoopie pies. The only problem is, no customers! It’s not that the marketplace is empty by any means, there are lots of people out buying food and cloth and other goods. And they know me, and they know my pies.

  That seems to be the problem. They look at me as they pass, some glaring and some staring, some sneering and shaking their heads. I smile and wave and greet the people I know by name, and even some that I don’t. But, in return, I get grumbles and grouses, one person even waving me away like I was some kind of wild dog.

  More of this, I have to say to myself. Hannah the outsider, Hannah the new girl. What’s it gonna take to convince these people that I’m one of them, that I belong here? Do they think Jesus would have behaved this way? Judgmental, exclusionist, cliquish jerks.

  And the next thing I think to myself is Speak of the devil as Lilly approaches, her eyebrows arched in fake sympathy. “Hannah, what’s wrong?” she asks, only a question in the strictest sense. “Nobody’s buying your delicious Whoopie pies?”

  I look around, the answer as obvious as the true motive behind the question. “It wouldn’t seem so,” is all I can say.

  “Such a shame,” she says, glancing around. “I’ve tried to tell everyone that you’re not the way they say you are, but, I dunno, people can be so stubborn, can’t they?”

  I ask Lilly, “What are they saying? What are you talking about, Lilly?”

  “Well, everyone’s heard you’re not interested in a bake-off with that Whoopie genius from York.”

  “That’s right, I’m not,” I say. “And I hardly think genius is appropriate. I mean, she’s good, but...”

  “That’s okay,” Lilly says with a deliberate pout. “There’s no shame in being second to a superior craftsperson.”

  “Um, right, no, there isn’t.”

  “And I’m sure that’s nothing to do with why everybody’s being so standoffish.”

  I raise one brow, my mouth a curt curl. “No?”

  “Hannah, you’re so sweet, trying to understand these things.” Lilly’s eyes are nice and wide, to show how innocent she wants me to think she is. “People in Lancaster, we help each other, that’s how we survive. But even your granduncle Zeek wouldn’t participate, and it not only made his life more difficult, people around here found it just a little bit...um...insulting.”

  “Insulting? Zeek didn’t give a whit about your neighbors, what makes you think he’d bother to insult them? He basically just didn’t give a darn.”

  “Right, Hannah, that’s it exactly. He didn’t care. And people around here might be beginning to think that you’re the same way, that you just don’t care about the community.”

  I shake my head a bit, hoping it’ll clear things up in my brain as these confusing facts start to cloud my judgment. “Why does it matter to them if don’t want to compete with some stranger? And why would I want to do that in the first place? My pies don’t define me, Lilly.”

  “No, of course not, silly Hannah.” Lilly looks around as our neighbors continue to walk past the booth, glaring at me. “But these things, a bake-off, that could bring in a lot of money for the community. We could build that new schoolhouse...”

  “Why can’t we just do that now?”

  “Before the end of the harvest? You know our coffers are uncertain. And if it’s a bad season, we’re looking at two more years of lessons in that crumbling wreck. We’ll be lucky if the roof doesn’t just collapse on the kids’ heads!”

  I glare at Lilly. I know she’s not being truthful. I know she has other reasons for wanting me to compete in this bake-off. And I can only assume she wants me to fail, and will probably do whatever she can to see that happen, the way she tried to taint my wedding feast.

  So it’s not as if she’s about to convince me.

  But some of what Lilly’s saying does make sense. Amish communities survive in large part on the money that comes in from festivals, quilt auctions, the marketplace, and fund-raising events like this bake-off. And baking is one of my special skills. If called upon to use that skill in the service of my community, I might not have much right to simply refuse to do it.

  On the other hand, I look at Lilly as she tries to sway me, and everything in my body and spirit wants to refuse.

  I ask, “What if I lose? They’ll turn on me as a failure or, worse, for having thrown the contest.”

  Lilly says, “Well, what are your real reasons for doing it? The money will still have been raised, the kids will still benefit. What’s the difference what a bunch of gossiping neighbors say?”

  “Indeed,” I say, hoping she reads the insult. “Then why should I do it at all?”

  Lilly rolls her eyes, clearly getting exasperated. “Han-nah! The community needs you. These people want...no, they need to know that you’re with them, that you’ll go all in behind our common cause. You don’t understand what kind of lingering impression your granduncle left on us. You’re the person who can correct that, who can set things right between your family and the people of Lancaster.”

  “And what about the people of York, where my sister is about to move and marry? I beat their Whoopie champ and she’ll become a bane there the way I’ve become one over here. I’m not going to put her through that.”

  “Hannah, you aren’t listening? Nobody cares that much about any silly contest, win or lose. They just want to know that you’re willing to play along.”

  “Like it’s all some big game,” I say. “One person moving pieces around a game board, like pawns, hoping she’ll finally win back the heart of...”

  “Hannah, I’m just trying to help,” she says too quickly, obviously not wanting me to say any more about her place in all these maneuvers. “I want to see you get your footing here. And I hope you’ve put all that unpleasantness behind us. We have to look to the future, right? As neighbors and as friends.”

  You two-faced lying little snit! I want to say. Instead I give what Lilly’s saying a little consideration, absorbing the glares and snarls of my neighbors as they slump past my booth, leaving me with a creeping feeling and a tableful of Whoopie pies.

  * * *

  That night, Simon and I receive an invitation to dinner at my family’s house. It’s so hard not to think of their house as my house, since moving in with Simon. I’m still getting used to thinking of his house as our house.

  But of course we accept the invitation and the next night we all sit down to a wonderful meal. My mamm has gone all-out, at first I think it’s to impress Gramm. The jack pot casserole is so delicious, cheese and noodles and beef and vegetables that all work so well together, a warm and nourishing delight. The cabbage casserole goes along with it perfectly, not to mention piping hot fresh-baked corn biscuits, a fresh garden salad and even some Amish wine.

  And it all does impress Gramm (especially the Amish wine) although that’s not what Mamm is shooting for.

  Amid the chat and small talk, my daed finally says, “So, Olaf and the elders mentioned something to me yesterday, regarding a community event.”

  “Oh, you’re kidding,” I say.

  “Worrisomely, I am not,” Daed says, picking at his cabbage with his fork. “They seem to think it’d be a good idea for you to participate.”

  “Daed, I’m sorry you were pressured, but...”

  “It’s not for the like of them to pressure the likes of me,” he says, and I know that he’s right. But his grim mood, reminding me so freshly of bygone, lesser days, gives me pause to let him continue. “However, they are wondering what it is that you so object to about it.”

  I feel my temper rising, but of course I keep a lid on it. Not only a
m I a guest, and at a dinner table, but I know who I’m talking to and I’m in no hurry to see his bad side or inspire his own volatile temper. “Well, Daed, there really isn’t any event for me to object to. It was just something Simon’s friend Lilly mentioned offhand...”

  “Well, some of the best ideas in history began that way,” Mamm says.

  “Mamm, I hardly think a community bake-off is on a par with space travel or the Bible or human rights or any other of our species’ better moments.”

  She asks, “But would any of those things have happened if the people involved had refused to participate?”

  “Why don’t you wanna do it?” Abram asks, his eyebrows high, his question perfectly innocent. “It seems like it might be fun.”

  “And another good chance for you to put your juggling to good use?” Abram shrugs, a little smile curling into his cheek. I add, “I see the way the girls watch you, how much you love the attention.”

  What about being a private investigator, or a government agent? my silent stare asks him. You don’t see James Bond standing around juggling for a bunch of giggling girls.

  Maybe he did when he was fourteen, Abram’s knowing grin answers back silently.

  I look back and notice that all the eyes at the table are upon me, even Simon and Gramm are looking at me, waiting for and expecting an answer.

  I guess I wouldn’t mind a definitive rationale myself, as long as we’re all on the subject.

  I say, “Don’t you all think that a competition is just a bit...I dunno...aggressive? She’s a very nice person, and I don’t think either one of us needs to be made to feel second to the other.”

  They look at me, mouths flat, blinking slowly.

  “And where will it end?” I ask, my voice rising with my doubts. “If I win, I’ll have to keep winning every year, maybe every season. And what if I don’t win? They’ll never forgive me, these people. I’m damned if I do and damned if I don’t.”

  “Well, dear, it isn’t really about you,” Mamm says.

  I turn to Rebecca. “Rebecca, what about you? If I win, you’ll be in Dutch with your new neighbors.”