Emma Blooms At Last (22 page)

E
mma stirred chunks of cooked chicken into the broth and homemade noodles that were bubbling on the stove. Behind her at the kitchen table, Dat's hammer went
tap-tap-tap
against a few more black walnuts before he picked the nutmeats out of the shells. With the sky looking so heavy and gray, both of them were feeling a little slow and cranky . . . at loose ends, without anything to talk about. Christmas was only three days away, and Emma supposed she should mix up some cranberry bread and coffee cake for when they drove to Queen City to see her two sisters' families, but she wasn't in the mood to dirty more dishes or—

“Emma! Emma, you'll never guess what!” Abby called from the front room. The door closed behind her with a loud
whump
as she jogged into the kitchen, her cheeks aglow from the cold air. “I sold every last one of your crocheted hats today and took orders for two more! Didn't I tell you they'd be a hit?”

Emma's spoon came to a standstill in the pot. “My stars, you just took them to the mercantile this morning—”

“And I've got to get back over there, too, after I grab a quick bite. I'm taking an early lunch break so I can cover the checkout while Sam's out on preacher business.” Abby laid some money and a scribbled note on the counter beside Emma. Then she strode over to the refrigerator, bussing Dat's temple as she went.

“Uh-oh,” Emma's father murmured as he pried a large chunk of nutmeat from its shell. “Nobody likes getting a visit from the preacher. It means he's strayed off the path.”

“Nope, it's not that kind of visiting,” Abby replied as she carried sliced ham, bread, and cheese to the table. As she sat down, she was smiling. “Vernon's bought some hams and other groceries so he and Abe and Sam can deliver them to a few families who're struggling. Christmas kindness rather than correction.”

“And I'm grateful that they don't need to stop at our place.” Dat had quit shelling walnuts to watch Abby fold a slice of fresh bread around some ham and cheese. “I don't suppose you'd make
me
one of those, Abby-girl? Just half a sandwich to hold me over until Emma's chicken and noodles are ready?”

“I could probably do that, jah,” Abby teased.

As Abby sliced more bread, Emma opened her mouth to protest about Dat spoiling his appetite for dinner—but then the realization struck her.
Isn't that exactly what Mamm would've said? And didn't you get tired of her fussing at him, while he did what he pleased anyway to frustrate her?

Emma blinked. While she ached for her mamm something fierce, she did
not
miss the way her parents had bickered over every little thing, and maybe she didn't have to perpetuate that pattern. Dat looked perfectly happy, letting Abby fuss over him. And
she
had hats to crochet—orders from folks who wanted to
pay
her for doing something she enjoyed. Now
that
was something worth thinking about!

When Emma picked up the money, counting two twenty-
dollar bills, her eyes widened. That came out to ten dollars per hat—and it more than covered what she'd spent for yarn. Abby's note was an order for two more earflap hats, one with a big flower and one with a lamb face.

Turning toward the stove again, Emma grinned like a kid at Christmas. She didn't have
time
to feel lonely for her mother. Once she completed these two orders, she might even post a card on the mercantile bulletin board so anyone who shopped at Sam's store would know whom to call for afghans or baby blankets or more hats. What with keeping Sam's ledger and orders current, and crocheting items for the store, her winter days would pass a lot faster. While she hadn't liked it when Vernon and Sam had told her she could no longer work in the store's back room, Emma had to admit that she was glad to be at home again with Dat, keeping meals on the table for the four of them.

“Oh! And there was a phone message from Sharon,” Abby said as she got a plate for Dat's sandwich. “Seems she and Iva caught a stomach bug, so she wants us to stay home over Christmas rather than traveling all that way and maybe catching whatever they have.”

“I'm for that,” Dat agreed quickly. “Truth be told, that ride to Queen City's getting mighty hard on my backside. But I know how you girls and James would rather spend the day amongst all those folks instead of being stuck here with me.”

“Merle! Don't you ever say such a thing again,” Abby scolded. “If we're confessing secrets here, I've spent enough time in a buggy these past several weekends, making our wedding visits, that staying home for Christmas sounds like a dream come true.”

“And I have hats to crochet,” Emma murmured. Then she let out a giggle. “I have
hats
to crochet! Denki, Abby, for such a gut suggestion that'll help me get through this holiday without Mamm. What would we do without you?”

Dat grabbed Abby's hand. “We don't want to know the answer to that question,” he replied. “So it's settled! We'll stay home and do whatever we please for Christmas Day—and Second Christmas as well, if you like. I can wear my baggy old brown sweater and my slippers all day without anybody fussing at me!”

“And since we're not going anywhere,” Emma mused aloud, “I might wear that new green dress you made me, Abby. While black's still the proper color for being out and about—”

“What a wonderful-gut idea,” Abby crowed. “I'll wear green, too.”

“Maybe this first Christmas without Mamm will be easier to get through in a brighter color,” Emma finished in a pensive tone. “Working with those perky shades of pink and aqua yarn has really improved my mood, you know?”

“I can see that, and I'm
glad
,” Abby affirmed. “After I come home this afternoon, we'll figure out what-all we want to cook for our Christmas dinners.”

Emma nodded happily. Despite the gray sky, she felt as though a door inside her had opened to let in a beam of warm, golden sunshine . . . the sense that she could spend each day exactly the way she
chose
to. Dat was getting along well, and he wouldn't stop her from crocheting or working at anything she enjoyed. And she had a feeling Jerome might pay her another visit sometime soon.

Maybe I'll kiss him if I have another chance—but I'm leaving that up to You now, Lord
.

A
s Wyman sat with Ray in Graham Lock's nicely decorated law office, he inhaled deeply, trying to settle his nerves. He'd just shown the Clearwater attorney their estimates for the elevator costs and told him how Reece Weaver had demanded more money yet had stopped working on his elevator—and how Reece wasn't returning his calls anymore, either.

“Your timing's perfect,” the portly attorney said, “as you're not the only area businessmen asking for legal advice about Mr. Weaver's business practices. You can take him to court, but I have a suggestion that might get you better results—faster and cheaper than filing a civil suit.”

“Reece was threatening to take
us
to court if we didn't give him another hundred thousand dollars,” Wyman said with a sigh. “I've given him too much of my trust and my money—I can see that now. My family will get by this winter, but I can't afford for this elevator not to be completed by spring.”

The attorney took a sheet of paper from his desk drawer. “A regional television station has just started working on a piece about this situation. Ever heard of the program
Eight Gets It Straight
?”

Wyman shrugged. “We don't have a television.”

“We do, but I rarely watch,” Ray added. “What do you have in mind?”

“It's called investigative reporting,” the attorney explained in a businesslike voice. “A reporter named Cole Calloway, from the Channel Eight TV station, will be interviewing customers who've gone through these same difficulties with Reece Weaver, and meanwhile a video crew will film the construction projects he hasn't completed. The idea behind this sort of news story is to expose unscrupulous or illegal business practices and get restitution for the consumers who've been defrauded.”

Wyman glanced over at Ray, who seemed as befuddled by this information as he was. Words like
unscrupulous
,
illegal
, and
defrauded
made Reece's behavior sound a lot more serious and widespread than he'd been thinking, which confirmed that he and Ray weren't the only fellows who'd taken Weaver at his word and regretted it.

“Thousands of northeast Missouri viewers will see what Reece is doing,” Graham went on, “and because he's been bilking people who might be their neighbors, he'll be out of business unless he makes good on what he's promised his customers. It's an added twist that Weaver's cheating so many Plain customers when he's Plain himself, so this story will get a lot of attention.”

“
Used
to be Plain,” Wyman clarified. “He's jumped the fence, I hear.”

“TV reporters can
expose
guys like Weaver?” Ray asked.

“It's considered a public service. And in this rural area, viewers realize how important it is for family men like you to stay in business,” Lock continued. “After all, if your grain elevator goes
under, Lord forbid, your family will be adversely affected, yes, but so will the farmers who store and sell their crops with you. That's
news
here in our neck of the woods.”

Lord forbid, indeed,
Wyman thought. He wasn't in the habit of telling God what to forbid and what to allow, but he felt a tiny ray of hope because he wasn't facing this uncomfortable situation alone. “And this Calloway fellow's going to have Reece talking about his unfinished projects on TV? I can't see him doing that.”

Lock chuckled as he clasped his hands on his massive desktop. “I doubt Weaver will confess his wrongdoing on camera, but if he's
smart
—if he wants to clear his name and stay in business—he'll complete his customers' construction and get squared away with them,” he replied. “That way, on the final segment of the show, viewers will see film clips of the finished projects while the reporter announces how Weaver has fulfilled his contracts.”

Wyman listened intently, hoping he fully understood what the attorney was telling them. “So . . . what if Weaver
doesn't
make good with his customers? What'll we do then?”

“Excellent question,” Mr. Lock said with a nod. “Your best recourse would be to file a civil suit—probably together with the other unsatisfied plaintiffs. I sincerely hope the situation doesn't get that far,” he added emphatically. “I've seen and heard enough to suspect that Weaver's been demanding additional money from one customer so he can buy materials for other customers' jobs.”

“Robbing Peter to pay Paul,” Ray murmured.

“Yes, sir. Quite often, these cases will be settled out of court, but if Weaver reaches the point where he no longer has the money to complete some of his projects”—the attorney shrugged, his expression glum—“some of his customers will get burned. I hope, for your sakes, it won't come to that.”

Wyman let out a long sigh as he exchanged a glance with Ray. “So what do we need to do to get in on this TV investigation?”

“I'll give you Cole's number,” Lock explained. “He'll want to shoot film footage of your elevator site, and maybe interview you—”

“Nope, can't do that,” Wyman insisted as he raised his hands. “We Amish don't believe in going before a camera.”

“But Tyler could.” Ray's voice rose with excitement as he smiled at the attorney. “Our Mennonite fellowship allows the use of technology, and my son Tyler handles the computer end of our business. It's okay for him to be filmed.”

“And Tyler would be a gut one for explaining anything the reporter wanted to know,” Wyman agreed. “When would he need to be ready?”

The attorney smiled as though Wyman and Ray had just unlocked the door through which he'd been hoping to enter. “Since this project is getting under way and I don't want you to miss out on it, would you like
me
to set up the interview? Might be quicker and easier.”

Wyman's mouth dropped open. “If you'd do that for us, I'd be mighty grateful. This is way out of my league, far as knowing what to expect or what to do.”

“Unfortunately, Weaver's using your lack of legal experience to his advantage, which is why I'm happy to help you fellows. I'll call the station right now,” Lock said as he grabbed his phone. “Meanwhile, here's the list of other folks who are already part of this investigation. Since their participation is a matter of public record now, you might be interested in whom you're joining forces with. You probably know some of them.”

Ray took the piece of paper the attorney slid across his glossy desk, and Wyman scooted his chair closer to his partner's so he could read it. “Uriah Schmucker?!” he blurted when he saw the name at the top of the list.

Graham Lock chuckled, still waiting for someone to take his call. “Mr. Schmucker got this whole ball rolling. Apparently
Weaver completed his hog-confinement building in a hurry and hasn't returned to make the final adjustments Mr. Schmucker requested several months ago. Schmucker suspected Weaver was also shortchanging some of his Amish friends and church members, so he met with several area bishops about it a few weeks ago. They gave him the go-ahead to pursue the investigation, as long as he stayed off camera.”

Lock swiveled in his chair and began to speak into the phone, so Wyman turned his attention to the other names on the paper. “Jah, there's your cousin Josiah . . . and doesn't this Schwartzentruber fellow live over toward the Illinois border?” He let out a low laugh. “When Uriah brought our Pete home the other day, he railed at me for being so stupid as to work with Weaver. Told me not to put up with his shenanigans too long but didn't let on that he'd gotten a television station involved.”

“Well, I've never been able to figure out Uriah's methods,” Ray replied. “Maybe he didn't tell you because he's still peeved about you Brubakers leaving his district after selling your farm to us Mennonites.”

“Jah, there's that.”

“Are you okay with what we're getting into here?” Ray murmured. “We'll be publicly broadcasting how much money Weaver took us for, and how we've been duped, when it's mostly English folks who'll be watching the show. Some of them already think we Plain folks are a brick or two short of a load.”

“True enough, but it's not like we'll be the only ones revealing that information. I should've
known
to pay the suppliers for my elevator materials myself, and to keep their receipts, rather than figuring Reece would manage that much money like he was supposed to.” Wyman's tone was rueful. “
My
mistake . . . and jah, thousands of folks will know it now—some of them the farmers we do business with.”

Wyman considered his partner's question again, putting it into Old Order perspective. “Jesus himself exposed crooked tax collectors and overturned the tables of the money changers in the temple,” he murmured. “He took a big risk, pointing a finger at the corrupt religious leaders of His day, but it was the right thing to do. I believe God led us here today for a gut reason. We won't be helping only ourselves by taking Weaver to task, after all.”

“And the price is right. Won't cost anything unless we have to go to court later.”

“Jah, I heard that part loud and clear,” Wyman murmured. “And I think our customers, Plain and English alike, will respect us for taking action rather than losing out on the major investment we've made.”

Just then Graham Lock turned around to face them again, still holding the phone to his ear. “Can your Tyler meet the crew at the elevator site on Monday the twenty-eighth? Middle of the morning?”

“We'll both be there,” Ray replied.

“I'll go, too,” Wyman confirmed. “I'm really curious as to how all this will play out, while he's shooting the film and afterward.”

The attorney spoke briefly into the phone again and then hung up with a satisfied smile. “You're all set up with Cole. He'll have some legal and informational statements for you to sign—think of them as permission slips—when you arrive. And he's just told me that Reece Weaver has gotten word about this investigative report and has threatened to sue Channel Eight if they broadcast it.”

Wyman let out a short laugh. “Of course Reece would say that. Is there any way he can stop the interviews and the filming?”

“Cole Calloway and his station are dedicated to running this sort of story,” Lock explained, “because it'll attract thousands of
viewers to their program and because everyone wants justice to be done. If Weaver's to keep his dirty laundry off the air, he'll have to make good on a lot of botched jobs awfully fast, because Cole's already begun filming.”

“We really appreciate your help with this,” Wyman said. “I had no idea, when we came in here, how we might salvage this situation. You've given me a mighty fine Christmas gift, Mr. Lock.”

The attorney hefted himself from his chair and extended his hand across his desk. “Honest, hardworking men like you two are the backbone of America, and of our local economy as well. I'll be glued to Channel Eight while this story runs. You never know what interesting details might be revealed,” he added with a grin. “Local investigations are always more interesting than the fictional crime-show series on national TV because they involve folks we know.”

After they exchanged a few more pleasantries with the attorney, Wyman stepped outside into the brisk December day. As he and Ray walked toward their vehicles, he filled his lungs with crisp, cold air and savored the sunshine on his face. “Well, I never saw
that
coming,” he remarked.

“It's like Lock said,” Ray replied. “Timing makes all the difference. And it's like you said, too—the gut Lord got us to Lock's office right when we were supposed to be there. I have a feeling the situation's going to get worked out now.”

“Jah, I feel a lot better about it, too. Merry Christmas, Ray, and may God bless your family in the New Year as well!”

“The same to you, old friend. And we'll see you Monday—I wouldn't miss this filming adventure for anything!”

On the drive back to Bloomingdale, Wyman reflected on the amazing turn of events. When Christmas arrived on Friday, he would have much to thank the Lord for during their day of quiet
reflection. And if the Grabers joined them on Saturday to celebrate Second Christmas, he would have this wonderful news to share with them.

Instead of heading toward Cedar Creek, Wyman took the back roads that ran alongside the railroad tracks. He passed several wooded English hobby farms used mostly for hunting, as well as Plain farms where the fields had been cleared for the season. The simple white homes and red barns looked tidy against the snow, and he waved at each horse-drawn buggy he met. When he reached his property on the outer edge of Bloomingdale, he halted his horse beside the sections of foundation that had been poured for his elevator.

Wyman now believed that the round metal walls of his new grain bins would indeed rise, section by section, until they stood like silver towers in the sunshine. He had a hunch that once the Channel Eight reporter convinced Reece Weaver that his unethical business practices would be revealed to thousands of viewers, those costly problems concerning the EPA and blasting through bedrock would disappear like snowflakes in the wind. He drew a deep, easy breath. Somehow, with God, Cole Calloway, and Graham Lock assisting him, Reece Weaver
would
be held accountable.

Wyman continued down the gravel road toward home. Through the bare branches of the trees, he could see the tall white farmhouse on the hillside—and now that it accommodated four adults and eight kids, wasn't it the warmest, coziest place on God's good earth? As he pulled the rig up into the lane, a brown UPS truck lumbered off the county highway, coming toward him. This was the only residence for a long way down the gravel road, so he halted the horse and hopped out of the buggy. Maybe Amanda had ordered more clay and pottery supplies.
Or maybe it's a baby!
he thought with a hopeful grin.