Free Falling to Pieces by Vannetta Chapman

could help, the rather hefty woman stuffed the paper in her bag, murmured something that sounded like, “Well I never would have thought—” then hurried out of the store.
    Staring after her in disbelief, Callie wondered if perhaps she’d heard her wrong. With a shrug, she picked up the bucket of dirty coffee mugs and carried them to the kitchen, but she’d barely made it into the little room when the bell over the shop door rang again.
    “Maybe she remembered what she never would have thought,” Callie muttered, wiping her hands on a dish towel. Hurrying around the corner, she nearly plowed over Deborah.
    Deborah was wearing a pale blue dress with a white apron and her customary flip-flops. All the Amish women seemed to wear flip-flops, except the very old ones who wore the black laced up shoes.
    “I didn’t expect to see you back in town today.”
    “We need to talk.”
    “I know. I thought about driving out to see you tonight, but I didn’t know where you live. Of course I could have asked someone, but—”
    “We need to talk now.” Deborah reached out and grabbed her hand, pulling her toward the counter. “Are there any customers in the store at the moment?”
    “Not unless they’re hiding behind the bolts of cotton. Is something wrong?”
    “Yes. I’m afraid so. I take it you haven’t seen today’s paper.”
    Deborah opened the
Shipshewana Gazette
and placed it on the counter, smoothing it with her hand.
    They both stood there, gazing down at the front page. The top half was covered by a picture of colorful plants, set up in a pattern to resemble a quilt, and now in full bloom.
    “Am I supposed to be upset about The Living Quilt picture? Because I think the gardens are quite beautiful.” Callie didn’t touch the paper, didn’t open it, but she did look Deborah in the eye and wait for her response.
    “Page three, right column. You better sit down.”
    Deborah went into the small kitchen while Callie read. She pulled down two coffee cups, placed a lemongrass and spearmint tea bag in each one, and poured hot water over the top.
    “You must be kidding!”
    Deborah didn’t walk into the main room immediately, opting instead to snag a few of the cookies off the refreshment table, hoping to give Callie time to finish the article, and perhaps calm down a bit.
    “He can’t write this! He can’t say these things. There are slander laws against this. We’re in Shipshewana, not a third world country. Do you realize how much damage this can do to my business?”
    Deborah carried the mugs of tea, each topped with a saucer filled with several cookies, over to the counter.
    “Perhaps you should have some tea.” She hoped her voice sounded calm; after all, Callie had never dealt with the editor of the
Gazette
before—calmness worked best.
    “Tea? You want me to drink tea?”
    “Ya,
it’s nice and hot.” Deborah removed the saucer from the top of the mug and pushed it toward her. She knew the lull in activity wouldn’t last, and she wanted to calm Callie down before any customers arrived. Perhaps she should have waited until the store closed, but she didn’t want to risk her hearing about the article from someone else.
    “He can’t say these things, Deborah.” Callie folded the paper in half, then in half again, until only the offending editorial showed, then she whacked the counter with it—as if she meant to kill a fly. “He can’t, and he won’t. I’m going to make him take it back.”
    “But Mr. Stakehorn is the editor of the paper.”
    “I don’t care if he owns the paper. He still can’t print lies.”
    “Callie.” Deborah again nudged the tea toward her as she glanced out the window at two English women who had paused outside the store to gaze up at the medallion quilt. One woman was holding a copy of the
Gazette
in her hand, and the other was pointing at the eBay sign. “I’m sure if we give it a few days, the story will—”
    “Disappear? Do you think it was typed with