Free The Amish Bride by Mindy Starns Clark, Leslie Gould Page B

church. They needed to hear the truth, but maybe this wasn’t the place and time.
    I knew my mother was probably furious, Ezra clearly mortified, and everyone else either scornful or disgusted or just plain embarrassed for me.
    Eventually, once I had gained control of my emotions, I went back to the table. I was still torn between feeling half stubborn and half repentant, but no one seemed to notice either way. They didn’t watch me as I took my seat nor even pause in the conversation. Their discussion had movedon to the topic of cheese making, and they continued with that as if nothing unusual had happened at all. Right or wrong about what I’d done, I was relieved to see that the moment had passed.
    The rest of the meal, right down to Klara’s delicious blueberry cobbler made from filling she said she’d canned last summer, progressed smoothly. Mammi and Alice were tired by the time we were all finished and retreated to the living room, where they settled on the couch. I began clearing the table while Izzy and Christy took Mel and Mat upstairs to put on their pajamas, and Will, Uncle Alexander, Ben, and Ezra, with Zed tagging along, all went outside to check on one of the cows that my uncle thought was in preterm labor. I wished I could go with the men. I really didn’t relish the thought of having to face my mother just yet.
    Ada soon disappeared, I assumed to check on the girls, leaving me alone with Nancy, Aunt Klara, and Mom. I just kept cleaning and ignored all of them until Nancy addressed me directly.
    “So, Ella,” she said as she took a stack of dishes from me and lowered them into the sink of sudsy water, “what are your plans for working now that you’re done with school?”
    “I’ve been doing a lot of babysitting, but I’d like to find a real job, any job. Then, once I’ve saved up enough money, I’ll be going to baking school.”
    Mom gave me a pointed look but didn’t say anything.
    I wasn’t as fortunate when it came to Nancy. “Baking school?” Her voice was incredulous. Amish women invariably learned to bake from their mothers and grandmothers. The thought of going away to school and paying a lot of money for it had to sound ridiculous to them.
    “I’d like to be a pastry chef,” I said, trying not to sound defensive. “But I’d settle for basic classes, if need be.”
    Nancy and Aunt Klara exchanged one of those looks. Fanciful Ella—that was me. I returned to the table for another stack of plates. When I came back with them, Nancy asked if I planned to go away to school or if there was one locally I could attend.
    “I’m looking into both options,” I said, retreating to the table for the glasses. I wasn’t about to tell her I wanted to leave Lancaster County or why.
    Aunt Klara and Nancy began talking about a recipe that had been in last week’s Budget , the Plain newspaper all of us subscribed to, and I continued clearing the table. I’d tried the recipe they were talking about last Saturday. It was for a caramel pie. Aunt Klara said she thought it was too sweet. I kept my mouth shut, but I agreed. I was thinking about experimenting with it, maybe adding a chocolate-and-nut layer, perhaps make it resemble a sundae minus the ice cream. I tuned out the rest of their conversation as I thought about my recipe ideas, but after a while Ada came downstairs and began helping Mom dry the dishes while Aunt Klara continued to put food away.
    At one point, they got on the subject of Zed’s ever-increasing height.
    “He’s getting so tall and strong,” Nancy said to my mother as she slipped a plate into the rinse water. “I think he’s looking more and more like his daed all the time.”
    There was an awkward pause, which caused Nancy to glance around, bewildered. “Did I say something wrong?”
    I placed the butter dish on the counter, near the stove. “It depends on how many people in the room know who Zed’s father is.” Each woman’s face was expressionless. I turned to