The Amish Seamstress Read online

  Books by Mindy Starns Clark and Leslie Gould

  THE WOMEN OF LANCASTER COUNTY SERIES

  The Amish Midwife

  http://bit.ly/AmishMidwife

  The Amish Nanny

  http://bit.ly/AmishNanny

  The Amish Bride

  http://bit.ly/AmishBride

  The Amish Seamstress

  http://bit.ly/AmishSeamstress

  Other Fiction by Mindy Starns Clark

  THE MILLION DOLLAR MYSTERIES

  A Penny for Your Thoughts

  Don’t Take Any Wooden Nickels

  A Dime a Dozen

  A Quarter for a Kiss

  The Buck Stops Here

  A SMART CHICK MYSTERY

  The Trouble with Tulip

  Blind Dates Can Be Murder

  Elementary, My Dear Watkins

  STANDALONE MYSTERIES

  Whispers of the Bayou

  Shadows of Lancaster County

  Under the Cajun Moon

  Secrets of Harmony Grove

  Echoes of Titanic

  HARVEST HOUSE PUBLISHERS

  EUGENE, OREGON

  Scripture verses are taken from the

  Holy Bible, New International Version®, NIV®. Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984, 2011, by Biblica, Inc.™ Used by permission of Zondervan. All rights reserved worldwide. www.zondervan.com

  King James Version of the Bible

  Cover by Garborg Design Works, Savage, Minnesota

  Cover photos © Chris Garborg

  The authors are represented by MacGregor Literary, Inc. of Hillsboro, Oregon.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the authors’ imaginations or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  THE AMISH SEAMSTRESS

  Copyright © 2013 by Mindy Starns Clark and Leslie Gould

  Published by Harvest House Publishers

  Eugene, Oregon 97402

  www.harvesthousepublishers.com

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Clark, Mindy Starns.

  The Amish seamstress / Mindy Starns Clark and Leslie Gould.

  pages cm. — (The Women of Lancaster County Series ; Book 4)

  ISBN 978-0-7369-2626-3 (pbk.)

  ISBN 978-0-7369-4171-6 (eBook)

  1. Amish—Fiction. 2. Women dressmakers—Fiction. 3. Lancaster County (Pa.)—Fiction.

  I. Gould, Leslie, 1962- II. Title.

  PS3603.L366A87 2013

  813'.6—dc23

  2013012257

  All rights reserved. No part of this electronic publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, digital, photocopy, recording, or any other—without the prior written permission of the publisher. The authorized purchaser has been granted a non-transferable, non-exclusive, and non-commercial right to access and view this electronic publication and agrees to do so only in accordance with the terms of use under which it was purchased or transmitted. Participation in or encouragement of piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of author’s and publisher’s rights is strictly prohibited.

  Mindy:

  For my niece Gabriella Rose Clark,

  who is a ray of sunshine in my life,

  and

  Leslie:

  For my father, Bruce Egger,

  a gentle man who still stands for those in need.

  “I lift up my eyes to the mountains—

  where does my help come from?

  My help comes from the LORD,

  the Maker of heaven and earth.”

  PSALM 121:1-2

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Mindy thanks

  My husband, John, who never ceases to amaze me with the depths of his love, care, and support. Truly, I couldn’t do it without him.

  Our daughters, Emily and Lauren, who are always there for me—and who were especially helpful on this one.

  Jonathon Stutzman, for information about cameras and filming, especially in an academic setting; Kim Alexis and Ron Duguay, for help with hockey lingo.

  Leslie thanks

  My husband, Peter, and our children, Kaleb, Taylor, Hana, and Thao, for their support and ongoing practical help. Laurie Snyder for all of her encouragement through this process. And Mary Hake for always answering my questions about Anabaptists with such grace and love.

  Jeff Kitson, executive director of the Nappanee, Indiana, Chamber of Commerce, for his assistance and direction; the many good people of Elkhart County that I encountered while researching this story; and the staff of the Menno-Hof Amish/Mennonite Information Center in Shipshewana, Indiana, for an outstanding experience.

  Mindy and Leslie thank

  Our agent, Chip MacGregor, for his vision for this series; our editor, Kim Moore, for her dedication to our stories; and the exceptional folks at Harvest House Publishers for giving such care and attention to every detail of the publishing process.

  Also, thanks to Dave Siegrist for his expertise; the Mennonite Information Center in Lancaster, Pennsylvania, for their invaluable resources; Erik Wesner, author of amishamerica.com, for his insightful view of the Amish; and Richard A. Stevick for his book Growing up Amish: The Teenage Years. For more information about Native Americans in Lancaster County, we recommend A Clash of Cultures: Native Americans and Colonialism in Lancaster County, Pennsylvania, by Darvin L. Martin.

  CONTENTS

  Books by Mindy Starns Clark and Leslie Gould

  Other Fiction by Mindy Starns Clark

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Epilogue

  Discussion Questions

  About the Authors

  The Amish Midwife

  The Amish Nanny

  The Amish Bride

  Ready to Discover More?

  About the Publisher

  ONE

  Was that Zed, already?

  The generator powering my sewing machine was right outside the window, and it was so loud I couldn’t hear much, but I felt sure I was picking up the sound of his voice coming from the kitchen.

  Smiling, I finished the seam, cut the threads, and carefully folded up the half-finished dress I’d been working on. Then I stood and slid open the window, leaned down, and turned the generator off. In the looming silence that followed, the noises of the household came through to my little side room much more clearly. Sure enough, it was Zed, and though I couldn’t make out the words he was saying, his familiar tones were warm and sweet as always.

  I pulled down the screen and hurriedly straightened my work area so we could be on our way. Though it was a hot August afternoon I grabbed my wrap, knowing the temperature might drop if we were still out in the woods when the sun began to go down. I did a quick chec
k in the mirror on my way out of the room and saw that my hair was a mess. Brown strands hung loose and framed my face, as usual, thanks to the busy morning I’d spent in a caregiving class at a local nursing home, followed by several hardworking hours here at the sewing machine at home. I made a halfhearted attempt to smooth everything back down before moving into the hallway. At least my kapp was still on straight.

  Zed had told me to wear shoes I didn’t mind getting “disgustingly muddy,” so I paused to slide my feet into the giant pair of work boots I had put there earlier. You would think with so many siblings—nine total, five of us still living at home—that I could have come up with a decent pair of boots, yet the only thing I’d been able to find that wasn’t currently in use were these pontoon boats that once belonged to my much-larger-footed older brother Melvin.

  Feeling ridiculous, I clomped into the kitchen. Zed was leaning against the counter near the door, his frame lanky and long, and his blond bangs hanging nearly to his eyes. When he saw me, he stood up straight and gave me a broad smile. His smile was so big, in fact, that at first I thought he was reacting to the sight of me in these stupid boots. But then I realized it wasn’t that. Something was up, something much more exciting than just a friendly late afternoon hike between friends.

  I looked at him questioningly, expecting him to explain, but instead he just gave me a wink and returned his focus to my mother. She was at the counter, helping my youngest brother, six-year-old Thomas, drop spoonfuls of biscuit dough onto a cookie sheet. Clearly, whatever Zed was beaming about, he wanted to wait to tell me in private.

  Despite my curiosity, I knew it would be rude to rush out, so I forced myself to relax and tune into their conversation. Mamm was in the middle of giving Zed some advice—no surprise there. He would be leaving for college at the end of the week, and every time she’d seen him lately, she had taken it upon herself to relay some point of encouragement or word of warning. Not that she had ever been to college herself, of course. We were Amish, not Mennonite like him. But Peggy Mueller was a sharp, no-nonsense woman who had always seemed to have a clear picture of what the outside world offered, both the positive and the negative. At the moment she was going through a mental checklist, asking if he had remembered to pack this and that.

  “Oh, and of course,” she added, “don’t forget to bring along a list of everyone’s addresses and some stamps so you can stay in touch.”

  “Yes ma’am. I have the stamps already, and some stationery my mom gave me.”

  “Gut.”

  “No need for a list of addresses, though. Just about everybody is already in the contacts app on my cell phone.”

  My mother seemed neither embarrassed at her lack of knowledge about the current technology nor impressed that Zed was in possession of it. “Imagine that.” Turning back to Thomas, she tilted the bowl as he spooned out the last bit of dough. I watched them both for a moment, thinking what a lovely, homey scene they made.

  Thomas was as cute as a button as always, his round cheeks dusted white with flour as he worked. Beside him, Mamm was the very picture of patient, maternal efficiency.

  She was a little shorter than I and nearly as slim, despite having given birth to children. She looked younger than her age, especially considering that her oldest child, my sister Sadie, was twenty-eight. Mamm had a way about her—an independence I didn’t see in many of the other mothers in our community. She was also, quite frankly, beautiful. Her large brown eyes were full of life, and her dark brown hair, without a streak of gray, contrasted with her clear, creamy skin. The funny thing was, she’d passed on her eyes, hair, and skin to me. I just didn’t wear them all as well as she, I felt sure.

  “So where are you two off to this afternoon?” she asked, glancing our way.

  “We’re going out near the old Conestoga Indian Town,” Zed replied. “I want to show Izzy a potential shooting location for my next film.” He was an aspiring filmmaker, something my family tolerated but didn’t understand in the least.

  Mamm had just picked up the cookie sheet, but she paused, her eyes wide. “Your next film? But you just finished the last one. Can’t you take a break from all of that before you start again?”

  “Oh, c’mon,” he teased, “that’s like saying…” His voice trailed off as he glanced around the room, his eyes finally landing on me. Then he looked back at my mother. “Well, you’ve pretty much finished raising Izzy here. Didn’t you want take a break from all that mothering before you moved on to the others and started again?” With that, he stepped forward and mussed the hair on Thomas’s head.

  I knew Zed was just kidding around, but I stiffened, holding my breath until my mother laughed in response.

  “Point taken,” she replied, clucking her tongue at his audacity as she slid the biscuits into the oven and closed the door. Somehow Zed could always get away with saying things to her no one else ever could.

  Certainly, with ten kids Mamm had done her share of mothering—and she wasn’t finished yet. At six, Thomas was the youngest, but there was also Stephen, who was eleven. I was nineteen and the oldest still living at home, but I wasn’t much help to her as my time was mostly spent sewing and caregiving. My younger sisters, Linda and Tabitha, were both home as well, and though Linda frequently pitched in around here, Tabitha was gone a lot, working for another family as a mother’s helper.

  As for our older siblings, Matthew, Mark, Becky, and Sadie were all happily married and living in homes of their own. Only Melvin was single, but he lived across the county, where he worked as a farmhand.

  Now I watched as Mamm wiped little Thomas’ cheeks clean with her apron and then directed him to wash the dough from his hands.

  “Go out and check with your daed,” she added, “to see if he needs any help in the barn until supper’s ready.”

  “Okay!” He climbed down from his perch atop the tall stool and went to the sink. When I was his age, I would have been expected to stick around and help clean up the mess we’d made from all that cooking first, but it was different for boys.

  As Thomas washed his hands, I looked to Zed, ready to go, but his eyes were still on my mom. When it came to the topic of making movies, the man had a one-track mind. “You know, even if I did want a break from filming—which I don’t—I’m leaving for school in four days, so there’s no time to lose. I want to do as much location scouting as I can before I go because I won’t have another chance until I get back here at Thanksgiving.”

  Thanksgiving. Three whole months away. I tried not to think of how empty my life would be between now and then as I absently watched my little brother rinse the soap from his fingers.

  “Most people don’t realize how much prep work goes into making a movie,” Zed continued as Thomas turned off the faucet and raced through the mudroom and out the back door, banging it loudly, without even stopping to dry his hands. The screen door fell shut behind him with a thwack, one tiny wet handprint glistening on the wooden frame.

  “Oh?” my mother asked, but I could tell her focus had shifted to the mess their meal preparations had left behind.

  “Filming won’t start till next summer, but I’ll need the time between now and then to plot out and write and storyboard the whole thing. The sooner I have an idea of my location options, the easier that process will be.”

  My mother turned to him, one eyebrow raised. “Seems to me that your time in Indiana should be devoted to your studies, not to getting ready for some movie you won’t even start filming for months. Don’t forget, Zed, academically speaking, Goshen may be far more demanding than you’re used to here.”

  She was right about that last part. Since graduating from high school two years ago, Zed had been attending a local community college in Lancaster, where he had cruised through almost every class with straight A’s across the board. But now he was off to Indiana, where he would be entering Goshen College as a junior and would spend the next two years finishing out his degree in communications. Fortunately, he was a super
smart guy and totally up to the challenge, but I had a feeling this new school was going to require a far more balanced effort than was his norm. Not that he was lazy by any means. He just tended to focus on his film classes and little else.

  On the other hand, Zed was being himself. When it came to creativity, he could be as obsessed as I was. Filming wasn’t my area, but sewing and embroidery and other handwork were. Far too often I would ignore more important tasks that needed doing in order to press on with some creation that consumed my every thought. This tendency drove my parents crazy, but sometimes I just couldn’t seem to help myself.

  “Fortunately, this film preparation stuff is for a class,” he said to Mamm, interrupting my thoughts. “Two classes, actually. This semester I have scriptwriting, and in the spring I’ll take storyboarding. So I’ll be able to do both—course work and prep work for my new film—at the same time.”

  He grinned, but she just shook her head in bewilderment. As world savvy as she was overall, my mamm had trouble understanding how someone could make an entire college career out of moviemaking. In fact, on her scale of useful occupations for a grown man to have, I felt sure that “film director” fell somewhere near the bottom, right between “hairdresser” and “videogame designer.” In her life, at least, there simply wasn’t any point.

  “Speaking of location scouting,” I blurted out, “we need to get going while we still have some sunlight. Oh, and we may be a few hours, so don’t hold supper for me.” With a surge of guilt, I added, “Though I can do these dishes for you when I get back, if you want.”

  “We’ll see,” she said, her hands on hips as she surveyed the pile. No doubt, every single item would be washed and dried and put away before Zed and I even reached our destination. “You two have fun.”

  Smiling, I headed outside, grateful she and my daed both seemed to understand the depth of my friendship with Zed. Better than that, they accommodated it, even if he was Mennonite, not Amish, and a college student besides. As families went, I was usually the odd one out around here—a square peg to the round holes that were my parents and siblings—but at least they respected my judgment enough to give me this.