Free The Amish Seamstress by Mindy Starns Clark

circles of blue in a soft round face etched with smile lines.
    Still, as bright as her features shone, the rainy day had cast a pall through the rest of the room. Everything was in order and clean, of course, but the house was old, probably close to two hundred years, and the windows were small and the glass warped. The wood floors had grayed with time, and the sofa and straight-back chairs in the living room were worn.
    â€œShe’s thinking about coming regularly,” Susie said to Verna.
    I took a deep breath, but the older woman didn’t seem to notice my reaction. “Oh, goodness. I’ve been praying for some company during the day. That would mean so much to me.”
    â€œMaybe,” I said, not wanting to get her hopes up. “I’d like to, but I am awfully busy with the handwork I’m doing for Susie’s shop.”
    â€œBring it along and work on it here,” Verna said. “Although I can’t do much myself anymore, I’d love to see what you’re doing.”
    I glanced at Susie.
    â€œHow about if Izzy and I talk some more?” she said to Verna, and then, catching my eye, she nodded toward the front door. “Right now we need to go over to the shop and look at her things.”
    Verna squeezed my hand and let me go. Shifting in her chair as she did sent the quilt and the book tumbling to the floor.
    I picked up the quilt and quickly repositioned it, tucking the soft fabric in around her legs.
    Then I knelt for the book, which had slid under her chair. Colonial Pennsylvania . It looked ancient with a torn cover, yellow pages, and a binding that was falling apart.
    I handed it to her. “It was my father’s,” Verna said. “I love history.”
    â€œSo do I.” I grinned.
    â€œIzzy?” Susie was at the front door now.
    â€œComing.” I patted Verna’s hand. “I’ll see you soon.”
    â€œThat would be lovely.”
    Even if I ended up not taking on the job, I decided I would at least stop by now and then, especially when I made deliveries to the shop.
    I followed Susie back into the rain, holding my bag of handwork under my cape to keep it dry. We scurried across the alley and then ducked under the grape arbor, heavy with vines, to the back of her shop. She opened the door quickly and ushered me inside.
    Before even taking off her cape, she hurried to the front, unlocked the door, and flipped the sign.
    When she returned to the counter, she said, “What do you have for me today?”
    I began pulling out what I’d made, starting with white doilies crocheted with red and green edges.
    Susie fingered one of the doilies. “Nice,” she said. I was always sur-prised Englisch customers bought them. Didn’t they have a grossmammi or a favorite aunt who gave them doilies at Christmas? Susie had assured me most people who weren’t Plain didn’t, but I couldn’t fathom that.
    Next I pulled out four linen placemats, each embroidered with a scene from one of the four seasons, and then a table runner that included all four scenes. Her customers bought plenty of quilted placemats and table runners from her, but many liked the more delicate work I did, which was a mix of sewing and embroidery and crocheting. At least, that’s what Susie said.
    â€œI’m trying to increase my inventory for Christmas,” she said now, running her hand over the winter scene. Simple figures, embroidered in white against red fabric, skated across a pond. “Can you make more of these?”
    â€œ Ya . I’ll get started this afternoon.”
    She swung her cape from her shoulders and went over to the peg by the back door to hang it up. She straightened her kapp and then turned toward me again. “If you agree to sit with Verna, you really can do your work while you’re here. Mostly she needs someone to visit with her. And fix her lunch. And read to her when her eyes tire.”
    That seemed