Page 34 of A Gathering of Secrets

“Ina Yoder.” She offers a good-natured smile. “We don’t see too many police in here,” she says as we shake.

“Evidently, they don’t know what they’re missing,” I return. “Coffee, quilts, and pastries all under one roof.”

“This old barn has been in the family for almost a hundred years,” Neva tells me. “Took some doing to restore everything. Now Mamm wants to turn that old round barn out back into a café. That’s going to be our next big project.”

She motions toward the other two girls. “Viola and Ina work here part-time.”

I let my eyes rest on Viola. “You’re the quilter?”

Nodding, she offers the quilt. “It’s my first.”

“She’s been working on it six months,” Ina whispers.

“Five,” Viola corrects.

Humility, or demut, is a core belief of the Amish. To exhibit hochmut, or pride, is frowned upon. I discern pride in the eyes of this young woman, but it’s a good kind of pride I hope she holds on to.

Taking the quilt, I run my hands over the fabric. It’s a sampler quilt, a mosaic of burgundy, cream, and brown. I see the requisite seven stitches per inch, straight and perfectly spaced. Again, I think of my sister’s birthday, but these heirloom-quality quilts are a tad out of my price range.

“Is it for sale?” I ask.

The girl shakes her head. “I’m giving this one to my grossmudder. She taught me everything I know about stitching so I thought it only right. She’s going to be seventy-two years old in November. Can’t sew as much as she used to because of her rheumatism.”

“I’m sure she’ll treasure it.” I pass the quilt back to her. “Not only because it’s beautiful, but because her granddaughter made it.”

“Thank you,” she says quietly.

I take a moment to look around, giving them a moment to get used to me; then I glance at Neva. “Your parents did an amazing job with the place.”

“They poured their hearts into it, especially Mamm,” Neva replies. “But it was a labor of love.”

“Who knew work could be so much fun,” Ina says.

“And we get a discount on all the merchandise,” Viola adds.

“One-stop shopping for Christmas.” I shift the conversation back to the subject at hand. “I understand Emma Miller used to work here.”

The mention of their deceased coworker dims what had been a buoyant mood. Glances are exchanged and then their eyes are lowered.

“Our sweet Emma,” Neva says.

“Did you know her well?” I ask.

“We were best friends.” She makes eye contact with the other two women, including them. “The four of us, I mean. We were like sisters. Practically grew up together. Went to school together.”

“Emma worked here part-time,” Viola says.

“She made the candles,” Ina adds.

Neva shakes her head, smiling. “Emma and her candles.”

“For the longest time after she died, I kept expecting to see her rush through the door, all excited to tell us about some new fragrance she’d concocted.” This from Viola.

“She was so creative,” Neva tells me. “A good girl and an even better friend.”

“We all loved Emma,” Ina says. “She was a gentle soul and…” Sighing, she looks around. “It’s not the same around here without her, that’s for sure. I miss her every day.”

There’s a sweetness inherent to teenage girls and young women. That innocence and incorruptibility seems to run even deeper in the Amish. In the back of my mind, I wonder if I was ever that young. If I was ever that innocent …