Free Wonderful You by Mariah Stewart Page A

use it for electricity?”
    “That they do.” He nodded. “As do some of our Amish neighbors, though many of them have gone to low-volt electric generators these days. They still use the windmills for backup.”
    “I th ought the Amish didn’t use modern technology.”
    “That’s something of a misconception. The Amish thrive because of their ability to compromise with mod ern technology.”
    “In what way?”
    “Well, for example, they don’t own or drive cars, but they very frequently will hire a car and driver. It’s not uncommon to see a telephone at the end of a farm’s lane, but not in the houses. They use tractors around the ba rn s, but not in their fields, which are plowed by modem equipment pulled by mules or horses. They have managed to maintain their own culture, but have adapted to progress when it best suits them.”
    “I’ve seen some Amish buggies on the back roads occasionally,” she noted, “though I didn’t see any Amish folk here today.”
    “You wouldn’t,” he told her. “It’s the Sabbath.”
    The crowd was dwindling, Zoey noticed, the face painter’s line reduced to a mere two or three children, the juggler having packed up his equipment, and many of the craft tables near empty of their offerings. The sun was dropping down a bit, and as they walked past the lake, Zoey noticed that only a few small boys fishing from rowboats and a teenage couple in one of the paddleboats were all that remained of the afternoon’s flotilla, all of the others having been tied to the long dock at the far end on the opposite shore. The day was coming to an end, and unexpectedly, Zoey felt a little stab of regret at its passing. There had been something settling about the afternoon, something she could not define, and she wasn’t ready to let it go.
    “Here we are at Brady’s,” Wally said. “Where did you leave your pumpkins?”
    “Right there.” Zoey pointed to the basket that held her pumpkins.
    “Well, then, let’s see what you’ve got there.”
    Wally bent down and inspected the contents of Zoey’s basket. “Nice,” he nodded. “Now, are you a painter or a carver?”
    “This year I will be both. I think I’ll paint the smaller ones and carve the big one.”
    “Good choice,” Wally nodded solemnly. He hoisted the big one and nodded to her to grab the basket where the small pumpkins still sat. “I’ll give you a hand getting these to your car.”
    “Thanks. That big one’s a two-hand pumpkin if ever I saw one.”
    “Exactly.” He waited for her, then followed slightly behind her down the dusty rows through the cornfield. When she reached into her pocket and pulled out her car keys, his eyebrows rose.
    “This yours? This little sports car?”
    “Yup.” She grinned as she popped the trunk and gently placed her pumpkins inside. “Hop in. I’ll drive you home.”
    “Been years since I’ve had one of these little num bers.” He chuckled.
    “You used to have a sports car?”
    He nodded.
    “Convertible?”
    “You betcha.” He laughed.
    “I just bet you were some hot stuff in your day, Wally.”
    “There are some who might say I’m still hot stuff, missy, and don’t you—”
    He leaned back hard in his seat as Zoey made a quick U-turn in the cornfield and hea ded out toward the paved road.
    He cleared his throat. “They’ve added a few horses since then, it would seem.”
    Zoey grinned and asked, “Which way?”
    “To the right, then take the first left. We’ll have to go around town because the streets are still closed off.” She did so and he pointed up ahead. “Now, you can take that left up there, and it’ll take us to the other end of Main Street. Then you’ll make another left onto Skeeters Pond Road.”
    She did as she was told, turning onto Skeeters Pond Road, then slowing down as the street narrowed slightly at a curve. Wide driveways led to houses of various vintage, from the tidy Victorians and long-slung colonial era houses closest to town, to