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hurried affair, and Mr. Fisher had been anxious to leave the area. He wasn’t clear on all of the details, but Fisher had left nearly everything behind when he’d gone, right down to the green velvet window drapes and the hand-tooled, massive desk that he now placed a lean hip against. He mentally compared the room to the simplicity and lack of decoration that he ’d seen at the King farm and wondered at the difference. The Fishers had been Amish too, but perhaps they were of a more liberal frame of mind. He glanced down at the scattered papers on the desk and saw receipts for large chain stores, as well as a crushed Avon bag. He mused over this as he thought about Sarah King’s fresh-faced expression and the way the light played across her unadorned, creamy cheeks and brow. Clearly the girl needed no artificial enhancement to improve her beauty. He smiled to himself at his meandering thoughts. He ’d had numerous girlfriends throughout his training, but none ever struck his fancy for any length of time. He decided he must check out the local dating scene if an Amish girl in all her plainness was causing him to think about such a thing as the use of makeup.
    “Women!” he exclaimed and set about clearing out the room.
    B y Thursday, Sarah had begun to get the rhythm of working at the stand and realized that she could do something with her hands in the idle minutes between customers. She decided to begin Chelsea’s baby quilt with some trepidation and had gone to the vast attics of the farm to find fabric scraps, once she ’d chosen a simple patchwork design. She hid her bundle of cloth and needles in a basket, not wanting Mamm to know what she was about—since she would be sure to have something to say about Sarah quilting again, as was proper for any Amish girl, in Mamm ’s viewpoint.
    Sarah had just finished serving her first morning customer and had taken out the quilt squares she had cut beforehand when a buggy turned briskly into the stand’s parking area. Sarah glanced up and felt a sinking in her heart when she recognized her Aunt Ruth and Grossmudder King, obviously out and about for a surprise visit from their farm some twelve miles away.
    Sarah gathered the fabric squares and stuffed them back into her basket, rising to greet the two ladies. Aunt Ruth was about forty-five and patiently kind as she helped Sarah’s grandmother down from the buggy. Grossmudder King was in her eighties but got around reasonably well with the help of a cane. It was her tongue that was as sharp as any young person’s though, and it always gave Sarah grief. The woman could find fault like a dog could find a duck, but none of these thoughts showed in Sarah’s polite smile. She moved to assist Aunt Ruth as she helped the old lady navigate the stairs to the stand.
    “Move off, Sarah King. I can make my own way,” Grossmudder snapped, gesturing with her cane.
    Sarah smothered a sigh. “Of course, Grossmudder .”
    “Sarah, how are you?” Aunt Ruth gave her a hug.
    “She’d be better if she was married,” Grossmudder muttered, poking at some apples with a bony finger.
    Aunt Ruth rolled her eyes at Sarah, who had to suppress a laugh.
    Grossmudder stepped by them both and went to where Sarah’s basket was beneath the small checkout table. She prodded the basket with her cane. “And what are you quilting here? I saw you when we drove up.”
    Sarah felt as young as thirteen again when she faced the shrunken woman from whom she descended, but she reminded herself that she was doing the quilt for Chelsea, who would love it no matter how it turned out.
    “I’m making a quilt for Chelsea’s boppli .”
    “ Ach , that’s nice,” Aunt Ruth exclaimed.
    “Hm . . . ,” the old lady declared. “It’ll only be nice if you’ve managed to improve your quilting skills, which I have to doubt since you’ve not attended a quilting for years.”
    “Well, Grossmudder ,” Sarah returned serenely, “it is true that not everything