Keys of Heaven (5 page)

“I am not, not really,” Silas said with becoming modesty. “I am just describing the wonderful things God has made.”

“Do you think you'll go back?” Amanda finally managed to ask. “You said there was a church established near there?”

“There are a few, but I don't know what God has planned for me,” he said. “At the moment, I have a farm and enough work to keep two men busy, so another trip west is probably not going to happen for a few years yet.”

Caleb leaned over to see him better past Sarah's shoulder. “When you get married and have a family, you could take them there on a holiday.”

Silas laughed. “I could, when God reveals the woman He has planned for me.”

For some reason, Amanda blushed, but since everyone was looking at Silas, Sarah was pretty sure no one noticed.

And then her boy put his foot in it for sure. “You could marry Mamm and then we could all go.”

“Caleb Yoder!” Sarah exclaimed, and dropped her fork. Creamy gravy spattered down the front of her cape.

While everyone got a good laugh out of it, Sarah dabbed at the fabric, thankful that it was a good, sturdy polyester crepe that repelled liquids and wiped off easily. She wished his words could be wiped away as easily. Honestly, the things he got into his head!

By the time she got her clothes looked after and was mopping up the last of her supper with a piece of Corinne's homemade bread, the conversation had moved on to the likelihood of a thunderstorm and some rain to give the knee-high corn a boost.

When Sarah glanced at her mother-in-law to see if she wanted to begin clearing, there was a look on Corinne's face that she had never seen before. She was gazing at Silas Lapp as though that new idea had occurred to her in the last minute or so.

Sarah did not want to know anything about it.

She stood and began to clear the dishes herself.

I
n its niche next to the barn door, the telephone rang. Not for the first time, Henry was glad he spent most of his day in the barn, where he wouldn't miss the calls that came more often now. Eventually he'd get around to letting the phone company know he wanted a jack in the house, but until then, it was working out not too badly, having the only phone on the place this close to where he worked.

“Henry, this is Dave Petersen at D.W. Frith. Is now a good time for a conversation?”

He wiped the grit off one hand on his jeans and switched the phone to the other ear. Petersen was the vice president of procurement, which sounded like too grand a title for a guy who spent his days scouting for things that people might like to buy. It must be important if he was calling at the tail end of the week instead of getting on the train to commute back to his home in Connecticut.

“Hi, Dave. Sure. I was just putting some green ware out to dry. That makes six batter bowls so far, out of the twenty-five you ordered for the initial launch.”

“Glad to hear it. Say, I just got out of a meeting and the marketing guys had some questions.”

Platters and batter bowls were pretty straightforward in Henry's mind, but considering what they'd offered him for this commission, whatever the East Coast luxury housewares chain wanted, he'd provide. He made himself comfortable, leaning on the barn door. “Go ahead.”

“Well, it's this whole Amish thing. The catalog girl figures she can get you a two-page spread in the fall book that goes to a million DM subscribers, and that automatically means a slide on the home page of our site.”

“That's great news.” More than he'd ever expected, in fact. “What's DM?” Definitely money?

“Direct mail. Glad to hear you're pleased. They just need a short paragraph about you—not a bio exactly, but more like a two-liner on who you are. So I was working on it and thought I'd run it by you.”

“Better you than me. Marketing gives me hives. Shoot.”

“How's this: ‘Amish potter Henry Byler creates his pieces in the barn that his ancestors built a hundred years ago, finding his inspiration in the flowers and fields his family has cultivated for generations.' Huh? Sound good?”

Henry hesitated. “It sounds like marketing copy, all right. I like the flowers and fields part.” For some reason, that reminded him of Sarah Yoder.

“Great! That was easy. So we'll run with it.”

How to put this in a way that a guy from New York City could understand? For once, Henry was glad to have had the experience with the reviewers in Denver, which had taught him all too well the power of the written word.

“Are you going for accuracy or for atmosphere?” he asked, hoping Petersen wasn't about to hang up.

“Both,” Dave said promptly. “Did I get something wrong? Is it the farm? You told me when I was there that it had been in the family since the turn of the last century.”

“Well, it has—the extended family. My own family is out in Ohio.”

“Oh, well, family's family. That all?”

“No. About the Amish part, Dave…”

“What about it? It's an Amish farm, right? You grew up Amish?”

“Well, yes, but—”

“Then we're good to go.”

“But I'm not Amish now. You can't say ‘Amish potter Henry Byler' when I'm not. Not since I was nineteen.”

A heavy sigh came down the line. “You're splitting hairs here. It's one word in one sentence in one catalog. Are you going to hold up production over that?”

“I don't like misleading people.”

“Who's misleading? You were once Amish. That's good enough for me—and good enough for the customers who will be buying your bowls.”

“Just take out that one word. Maybe ‘Pennsylvania potter,' or ‘Longtime potter,' or—”

“But Amish sells. That's the marketing hook, my modest friend. We're trying to differentiate ourselves from the noise out there. I can tell you this, Pottery Barn and Pier One don't have real Amish potters making their pieces.”

“Neither do you.”

“What's that supposed to mean? Don't tell me you're going to do something drastic, like pull out of the deal over an adjective?”

Henry's stomach plunged, and he steadied himself with his back against the sturdy door. He could feel the warmth of the sun coming through the wood from the other side. “No, of course not. Not when I've already signed and sent back the contract and begun the order.”

“Good. That's good. Because I've got this check ready to send out and I'd hate to think you'd changed your mind.”

Was Petersen
threatening
him? Who said anything about changing his mind? He needed that money to eat and buy clay.

“So we're good to go on this copy, then? Amish and all? Because I need to get this in before close today if you're going to get the spread. Those spots in the catalog book up months in advance, and I'd hate to see you lose it because we gummed up the works over wordsmithing.”

You say wordsmithing, I say truth.

But what did it matter whether it was the truth or not? How much advertising was actually truth? It was a fact that the reviews of his own work back in Denver hadn't held any truth, and that hadn't stopped them from being published—or people from believing what they said.

“Fine,” he said, pushing a hand through his hair and gazing at the green ware, which needed to be attended to. “Run with it, if you think it will do the job.”

“That's the spirit, Henry. That's all it is, right? Copy doing a job. My job is to sell your pieces so you have a job making them. And what's it going to hurt? You were once Amish, and you live on an Amish farm. Close enough for government work, eh?”

“Sure,” he said.

“Great. I'll get this check in the mail today. Nice talking to you. You take care now.” And Dave hung up before Henry could even say good-bye in return.

He pictured the other man in his suit and expensive tie, dashing off to take the check down to the mailroom himself, and then shook his head at the image. Pushing a shoulder off the door, he walked over to the drying boards and picked up where he'd left off, setting out today's work so that the air could circulate around the pieces and dry them out.

There was probably as much truth in the existence of that check as there was in his currently being Amish. Maybe Dave had just been blowing smoke, holding payment over his head so he'd agree with whatever the marketing guys wanted.

Well, it wasn't his catalog, and no one was going to drive out here to see if he was really Amish before they bought a batter bowl. Half those catalogs would probably go straight into the recycling bin anyhow.

Meanwhile, he still had some work to do on the final glaze design, which he kept playing with, dissatisfied. He didn't really have six bowls ready to ship. They were still at the green ware stage, waiting for the first of their two firings, while sketches lay all over his kitchen table, and a few attempts at molding organic forms sat here on the workbench in various stages of completion.

After pulling plastic over the wedged clay waiting to go on the wheel, he washed his hands and forearms at the deep, two-bay porcelain sink and dried them on an old towel. Then he set off in the direction of Willow Creek along the path that Caleb had worn into the hill between the Yoder place and this one.

He needed some inspiration from the flowers and fields on this warm summer evening—in that way, at least, he could put some truth into the marketing copy.

There was something beguiling about moving water. Henry climbed down the slope into the creek bottom, where a path meandered along a grassy bank. Alders, maples, and willows leaned over the water, which chattered and bubbled along in its course, turning rocks over and cutting the channel infinitesimally deeper every day. Clusters of purple flowers grew among hillocks of wide-bladed grass, and hummingbirds and sparrows flitted among them. Two swallows dove and swooped after mosquitoes, no doubt with the aim of taking them back to a barn somewhere to feed hungry young before night fell.

The water had scoured the soil from a couple of wide, flat stones, and as Henry sat and leaned back on his hands, he felt the warmth of the afternoon sun stored in the granite permeate his skin.

With a shock of recognition, he looked up into a maple above his head and saw a rotted old piece of rope tied around a branch. This was where he'd gone into the creek that December day, egged on by Michael Yoder and his brothers. The rope had broken and dropped him into the swimming hole right over there, and it had been a good thing they were having a green Christmas, or he might not have survived the experience.

Or so he'd thought at the time. Somehow it didn't look quite as deep and scary as it had when he was a boy.

The breeze and the whispering rush of the water calmed him the way the voice of a trusted friend might—a friend you could count on to be there no matter what the season or circumstance. The creek eddied and swirled, always in motion, always changing—yet still the same, all these years later.

Motion. Liquid motion.

Henry sat up and pulled his sketchbook out of the breast pocket of his shirt, along with a number eight Micro pen. He sketched in the outline of a batter bowl. Liquid poured from the spout, but if he treated the handle as the source and the motion went from here to here…

No, that wasn't right. Too obvious. Like giving the baker instructions on how to use his tools.

He tried again, the swirl and eddy of the creek in his mind—the stillness of the rocks—the sound of wind and the way it moved through trees—

Five bowls appeared on the page now, none of them quite right. Six.

Birds. The swoop and dive of the birds against the light as they sought to feed their families—the way a baker wanted to feed his or her family—sky, water, bird, light, all in motion—

That was it.

The seventh bowl came into being under his pen, a line at a time, a shadow here, a curve there, a swirl and a dive, light as air and brilliant as water. He could use one of the delicate shades of blue he'd already developed in his glaze recipe book, but there was more to it—the luminescence of water, a pearly, swirly effect—he had the ground minerals on hand to produce that, he was sure of it, somewhere in the boxes he hadn't yet unpacked.

It was unusual. It suggested light and movement, whether at rest or in use.

Down the margin of the page, he made notes. Oh, this was going to be good.

He had to get back to the barn right away.

Over the rush of the creek, he heard voices around the bend, and scrambled to his feet. But before he could get across the path and up the slope, three people came around the curve. He recognized Priscilla Mast's blond hair and glasses right away. But who were the two city kids with her?

“Hallo, Henry,” she called, relief in her voice.

“Hi, Priscilla.” Teenagers wouldn't expect him to stand there and visit. He'd be polite and then they could all be on their way.

“What are you doing down here?”

“Taking a walk. How are you?”

“I'm well, thanks.” Her gaze pleaded with him to do something.

And then he put one and two together. “You okay, Pris? These kids bugging you?”

“Hey,” the taller one said. “Way to make assumptions.”

He was a good-looking kid, maybe seventeen, with a cocky step and an “I own you” gaze. The younger one had the same hair color, but if they were related, the resemblance ended there. If he could have pulled his black hoodie over his head and rolled up like a hedgehog, Henry would bet he would have.

“Not much of an assumption,” he said calmly. “Two
Englisch
boys tailing an Amish girl—that never turns out well. Take some friendly advice and leave her alone.”

The kid took a deep breath, as if he was trying to keep his temper. “Who are you? She's got no problem with us. We're staying at the place where she works. You want her to lose her job?”

“I don't think Ginny will give you that much power.”

The kid deflated a little and Henry wondered when the last time was that someone had spiked his guns.

“Come on, Justin,” the younger one mumbled. “Knock it off.”

“Priscilla Rose?” Justin appealed to her.

“I'm going home now,” she said, and crossed to the track that led over the hill past Sarah Yoder's garden—the one that Henry himself had been about to take. “Nice to see you, Henry.”

Justin looked as though he might follow her, and probably would have, but the younger one's gaze reluctantly locked on Henry's sketchbook, which was sticking out of his pocket.

“Are you an artist?” Justin turned as if a rock had spoken, and while he was distracted, Priscilla disappeared over the top of the rise.

“I suppose you could say so. I'm a potter.” He held out a hand. “Henry Byler.”

The kid shook the hair out of his eyes and took Henry's hand as if he wasn't quite sure he was doing it right. “Eric,” he said reluctantly.

Henry gave it a firm shake, and the kid's fingers toughened up their grip, mimicking him. Had he never shaken a man's hand before?

“What are you doing out here?”

It was the same question Priscilla had asked, but with a different meaning. The kid had recognized a Moleskine sketchbook when he saw it. Maybe he was interested in art.

“Don't talk to strangers, Eric,” Justin said.

His brother—for they had to be brothers—ignored this hypocrisy as he waited for an answer.

“I'm making batter bowls, but I got stuck on a design for the glaze.” To his own amazement, he pulled the sketchbook out of his pocket. He never shared his process. But there was something in this kid's eyes—a hunger that he would never put into words for fear of being mocked—that Henry recognized with the accuracy of shared experience. “So I came down here for some inspiration.”